The Bear

SIX

He approached at night, for he wasn't certain if new residents had come to the house. He expected that some had, given what he had seen in the last miles of his trek. Only one year before, the hill upon which this house stood had been the outskirts of Pryd Town and afforded a view beyond the borders of civilization. But how the place had grown! Hundreds of new cottages had been constructed; an entire forest had been cleared away! And all for security reasons, Bransen realized. None had made a greater name for himself in the miserable war than Laird Bannagran of Pryd, whose garrison had chased Ethelbert's army from the field and rescued many towns from the crush of enemies.

When he had come through Pryd Town briefly with Jameston, Bransen had approached from the north and departed to the east, and in those places, though there were more cottages, the region seemed much the same. But here across the way, in the southwestern reaches of the holding, the explosion of residents was truly dramatic.

Bransen noted no candles burning in the house as he climbed the hill. So many memories followed him to the doorstep. The broken door and darkness beyond showed him to his surprise that the place had remained deserted, though whether out of respect for the former residents, fear of some curse because of their apparent fate, or simply because Pryd Town's traditional populace had been decimated in the many months of fighting, where so many of her men and women had marched off to battle, he could not tell.

This had been the home of Callen Duwornay and her daughter, Cadayle. Here Bransen, disguised as the Highwayman, had first courted Cadayle. Here on this very spot before the door marked where the Highwayman had killed his first enemy, a thug who had come here to do great harm to Cadayle and her mother.

Mixed emotions filled the young man as he stood staring at the spot where he had killed that young man. His actions had been justified-necessary even-for the sake of the women, and he felt no remorse for the thug. But in the larger reality of the world that had fallen like a boulder upon him, the sense of futility and ultimate despair colored his every thought. He couldn't escape the sense that the road he had begun that night at this door, the role he had taken on as a defender of some greater sense of justice, seemed the fool's errand.

Bransen walked away. He couldn't smooth the dissonance of his thoughts and feelings. He had done right in coming here to defend Cadayle and Callen on that long-ago night. Of course he had! But to what end? To what point?

He thought of Dame Gwydre as he walked across the rolling fields of Pryd Holding. The fighting had not come here, other than one small battle, and so the town itself appeared much as it had when Bransen had called it home only a year before.

Only a year, but it seemed like a lifetime to the young man. He could hardly believe the journey, physically and emotionally. He had walked from Pryd Town to great Delaval City and up the river to Palmaristown. From there, he had gone to Chapel Abelle and across the Gulf of Corona to Vanguard. Pressed in service to the Lady of Vanguard, he had traveled to the wild and frigid land of Alpinador.

And all the way back again, across the gulf to Chapel Abelle, south to Pryd Town and to the far eastern reaches of Honce to Ethelbert dos Entel. Despite the widening boundaries of its cottages and tents, how small Pryd Town looked to him now! Bransen had spent the entirety of his life here until that fateful night when, in rescuing Cadayle, he had also brought about the death of Laird Prydae. His road had begun with banishment, and in so short a time he had traversed the length and breadth of Honce and more. Was there a man alive more traveled than he?

That thought led him back to Jameston Sequin and reminded him of the man's tragic fate… and all for the crime of escorting Bransen to the east.

He paused on a hilltop, Castle Pryd and Chapel Pryd visible in the north, Cadayle's house behind him in the southwest, and the edges of a small lake visible across the way. There lay his first home, with Garibond Womak, before the ailing and aging man had put him in service to the brothers at Chapel Pryd.

So many memories flooded Bransen as he sat on that hill. He tried to put them in context with the new reality that he now understood. There had been very few pleasant times in the years of his youth, but those precious few struck him now. He thought of the many hours sitting by the lake with Garibond while the man fished for their dinner. He remembered as if it had occurred only the day before the first time he had opened the Book of Jhest, the tome copied by his father and protected from the outraged monks by Garibond.

He thought of Brother Reandu and his days at the chapel in a cellar hole. To keep his sanity then, Bransen had re-created the Book of Jhest, scratching the walls with a stone. His youth had been filled with long hours of grueling work, for even the simplest task had been brutally difficult to the boy known as the Stork, the boy whose muscles would not answer the demands of his mind. His youth had been filled with the torment of the other boys, often brutal and violent.

But in that youth, he had known the friendship and the courage of one young girl.

In the flailing hopelessness of Bransen Garibond, the image of Cadayle's hand, reaching down to help him to his feet, came to him again, reaching into the darkness of his heart and soul, the ache of his helplessness. Reaching for him and demanding that he take it.

He looked back to the southeast and envisioned the doorway at Cadayle's old house and thought again of that fateful fight when he, the fledgling Highwayman, had killed his first man. Bransen was not proud of that act, was not happy that it had been forced upon him, but he had done a good thing that day. He had acted for justice and for the defense of those who could not defend themselves.

"The call of the Highwayman," Bransen whispered into the predawn air, but he couldn't help but wince at the end of his only partly true proclamation.

Had it really been a selfless pursuit of wider justice? Bransen laughed softly, admitting to himself the truth of the Highwayman. Finding his power with his studies of Jhesta Tu and through the transformation offered by the soul stone-becoming the Highwayman-had been more a matter of personal satisfaction than any altruistic endeavor. He knew that and wasn't about to revise history for the sake of his pride. He had battled the tyranny of Laird Prydae because doing so afforded him a sense of control he had never experienced in his crippled youth. He was fueled and made powerful by the simmering rage that had flooded through him for all those years of torment, against the insults and the constant beatings of the bullies, against the softer but no less painful pity and disgust of the monks and many other condescending adults. How many times had Bransen heard the whispers that he would have been better off if they had just smothered him as a baby, when his infirmity had first been revealed? How many times had he heard the whispers that Laird Prydae or Father Jerak would do him a favor by putting him to swift death?

Anger, not altruism, had driven the Highwayman in those early days.

Bransen closed his eyes and pictured Cadayle's small hand reaching down to him, toward the Stork who lay in the mud after being decked by more ruffians. There, alone on the hill, he mentally took her outstretched hand and let it lift him once more from the darkness that had welled up inside of him since the disaster in Ethelbert, the murder of Jameston Sequin, the betrayal of Affwin Wi, the loss of his sword and gemstone brooch, and the horrors he had just witnessed in the ravaged southland.

He stood tall on the hill, tall and straight though he had no hematite, no soul stone, to support him. He felt his line of life energy, his ki-chi-kree, running solid and strong from his forehead to his groin. He was no more the Stork and would never again be the Stork. The world around him had gone mad, perhaps, and the terrible events and turmoil were beyond his control, but up there before the dawn, Bransen Garibond reminded himself that for most of his life this simple act of standing straight-of having a measure of discipline over his own body-was all that he wished in the world.

The notion brought a smile to his face, but only briefly. He was whole; it was not enough.

Because he was lost and he knew it. He had found a measure of senselessness to life's journey that mocked the very concept of purpose. He had walked the wider world and found it to be too wide, too uncontrollable, too much a cycle of inevitable misery and grief.

He started off the hillock heading for the lake, thinking to look in on the old stone house that had been his home for all of his youth. A small stumble, perhaps an honest trip, confused him and terrified him. He shook his head and started once more but veered almost immediately, turning toward the north, walking straight for Chapel Pryd. He needed to go there, needed to hear the counsel of Master Reandu. Bransen the agnostic sought some comfort.

Like all the communities of Honce proper in the summer season, the town of Pryd awakened before the dawn. Many people were out and about in the growing light as Bransen approached the large chapel, going about their chores before the hotter hours descended. Many sets of eyes fell upon him as he slowly and calmly walked the main road of Pryd Town, and he heard the whispers of "the Highwayman" following him. It was a more muted response than the one that had greeted him when he had come through here a month earlier beside Jameston Sequin. Bransen was glad of that. He didn't want any cheering; he couldn't bear the hopeful expressions that would inevitably come his way, as if he could do something to better the miserable reality of a peasant's existence.

Bransen didn't need that responsibility at this dark moment. He didn't want any responsibility for anything or anyone, even for himself.

He walked up the path through Chapel Pryd's gate. The front doors were open, a pair of brown-robed monks on the porch sweeping away the leaves. They stopped in unison and leaned on their brooms, watching Bransen's approach. One stepped toward the door and shouted inside for someone to get Master Reandu.

"You could just take me to his chambers," Bransen said as he neared.

"Better to meet him out here… at first, at least," the brother replied.

Bransen considered that for a moment, then glanced over at Castle Pryd and shook his head. "In case Bannagran comes running, you mean," he said, and the monk did not disagree.

"Well, it is a fine day anyway," Bransen said. "So better to speak out under the sun."

And so he wasn't surprised to see Bannagran rushing through the gates of the courtyard before Reandu even made his appearance. The man was not alone, flanked by a dozen warriors armored in bronze and with swords in hand.

Bannagran looked Bransen over dismissively. "I have received no word from King Yeslnik that you are pardoned," the Laird of Pryd warned.

Bransen didn't answer, seemed as if he did not care.

"I warned you about returning here."

"I had nothing to do with the death of King Delaval," Bransen said calmly. "I was in Alpinador and Vanguard and nowhere near to Delaval City."

"So you have claimed before."

"I know who killed him."

Bannagran stood up very straight and took in a deep breath, his massive and muscled chest straining the straps of his fabulously decorated bronze breastplate. He didn't blink as he held his penetrating stare over Bransen, who, caring about nothing in the world, was not intimidated in the least.

"Bransen," Master Reandu said suddenly from the chapel stoop behind them. Bransen turned about to see him. "What news brings you to Pryd? Evidence of your innocence?"

"No."

Reandu looked at him curiously.

"Where is your proof, boy?" Bannagran demanded.

"I didn't kill him. I was nowhere near Delaval City."

"Who killed him?"

"A woman-a woman from Behr."

"On what proof?"

"None but my word."

Bannagran paused for a few heartbeats, looked at Bransen, then to Reandu. He turned to his guards. "Take him."

"I came to speak with Master Reandu," Bransen said.

"If he resists at all, kill him on the spot," Bannagran ordered.

The soldiers fanned out around Bransen, iron swords in hand. They came at him with measured steps, each looking nervously to the man on his right and left, clearly intimidated, for some had witnessed the fighting prowess of the Highwayman and all had certainly heard the many stories of Bransen's martial exploits. Each step seemed a bit shorter than the one previous.

Bannagran growled, "Take him!" more ferociously. None of the soldiers needed a reminder of the power and severity of their laird. A soldier to Bransen's right lowered his shoulder behind his shield and rushed in suddenly, an obvious path and one that Bransen could have easily sidestepped.

But he didn't. He turned back to look plaintively at Master Reandu. "I need to talk with you," he said right before the shield slammed against him and sent him flying. He would have tumbled to the ground, but a second shield-rushing soldier hit him hard before he fell, jolting him upright. The man drove ahead as his companion from the other side continued to advance, pinning Bransen between them.

"With ease!" Master Reandu shouted. "He is not resisting!"

But the soldiers, as if considering the apparent submissiveness to be a dangerous ruse, came on in full. Several sheathed their swords as they huddled in, freeing up fists covered in metal gauntlets so that they could launch heavy punches at Bransen.

He curled up, protecting his most sensitive areas as the gang jostled him and slammed him, punched and kicked him.

"Bannagran!" he heard Reandu yell as he was smashed to the ground, but the monk's voice already seemed far, far away. Bransen curled up tight on his side, and a barrage of kicks battered him to semiconsciousness. He felt himself tugged over to his stomach, his hands wrenched behind his back and bound at the wrists with heavy, coarse rope. From that rope a second rope was strung, this one wrapping about the front of his waist, holding his hands fast and tight against his back. His captors slid a long pole under his elbows and across his back.

A man grabbed each end of the pole and roughly hoisted Bransen up from the ground. "Stand!" the guard leader called. Bransen stumbled to comply, but the man slugged him hard on the back of the head.

By then a crowd had gathered outside of Chapel Pryd's gate, and they began wailing and calling out in protest at the treatment of the Highwayman, the man who had brought such hope and justice to them in times not so distant. More soldiers appeared, and Bannagran faced the peasants down with an awful stare.

"Clear the way!" he ordered his soldiers and warned the peasants all at once. He turned to the crew, handling Bransen very roughly, punching him and tugging him, keeping him off balance as if they feared he would suddenly burst into motion and slay them all.

"He is not resisting, Laird Bannagran!" Reandu pleaded, but his words fell on deaf ears. The soldiers dragged and carried Bransen away, past Bannagran, who fixed him with a hateful stare.

Reandu rushed from the porch. "Don't kill the boy. He is just a boy," Reandu begged.

Bannagran moved to intercept him. "He said he knows who killed Delaval," Bannagran replied. "That is his only possible salvation."

"You will spare him?"

"It's not my choice to make."

"The people of Pryd will not forgive you, Laird Bannagran."

Bannagran looked at him as if it were foolish for Reandu to even believe that Bannagran cared.

But Reandu hit the laird with a different truth, one less easy to brush aside. "And you won't forgive yourself," he said.

Bannagran blinked.

"I will attend to him personally with a soul stone," Reandu offered.

"Once he is secured, you will have your chance to heal the outlaw."

Reandu seemed satisfied with that until Bannagran added, "The more you heal him, the more we can hurt him without killing him." The ferocious Laird of Pryd, the Bear of Honce, spat on the ground and turned away. As he neared the gate, many peasants still clustered before it, he barked, "Move aside!" How they scattered!

Master Reandu stood on the chapel walkway, rubbing his face wearily and trying hard to keep his breathing steady. Several brothers crowded behind him, assaulting him with a barrage of questions about why Bransen had come or whether he would really be executed. Reandu didn't answer any of them but just looked toward Castle Pryd. The sounds of the crowd informed him of the moment when Bransen was dragged through the strong iron gates and to the dungeons soon after, Reandu knew.

The cold and wet, filthy dungeons that smelled of death. I trust that you are comfortable," Bannagran said to Bransen, a ridiculous question. The gaolers at Castle Pryd were well prepared to handle this dangerous man. They had the Highwayman chained by his wrists and ankles, the top chains lifting him a couple of feet from the floor by his arms, the bottom set securing his feet with just enough give to allow the ruffians to bow Bransen at the waist, wrapping him about a central beam. In deference to the man's inexplicable physical abilities, the gaolers had added a devious twist to the harness by cutting a ridge into the center of the beam where his belly rested. Into that ridge they slid a sword blade, edge out, then adjusted the chains to pull Bransen snugly into the beam, the blade tightly secured against his belly. Any struggling, indeed, even if he relaxed his weight onto the beam, would surely eviscerate the miserable prisoner. Hanging there, arms and legs locked at a forward angle, Bransen could only gain relief by sucking in his gut and turning back his shoulders so that the bottom of his rib cage hooked the edge of the beam and supported much of his weight. He couldn't hold that stressful position for very long, however, and the mere act of hanging there pushed Bransen to his limits of emotional and physical discipline.

The sun was nearing its high point in the day-lit world above, though Bransen was hardly aware of the time, when Bannagran at last entered the chamber. He walked around Bransen slowly, taking full measure. Bransen had been stripped to the waist. Bannagran nodded in apparent respect that the man had lasted this long without bloodying his belly.

"Have I thanked you for your hospitality?" Bransen asked, though he could do no more than whisper without inflicting pain.

"You appreciate your accommodations?"

"Eating will be difficult, but I have found some sleep already," the impertinent Highwayman replied.

Bannagran snorted and shook his head as he walked before the captive. He peered over the beam for a closer look at Bransen's midsection. "No blood yet," he said. "Impressive."

"You could always walk behind me and pretend I am one of your barnyard lovers," said Bransen.

Bannagran stared at him hatefully, then slapped him hard across the face. "This is no game, boy," he warned. "Your life's hanging by a rope."

"A chain, actually. Two!"

"And I hold the other end," Bannagran finished.

"Then let it go and be done with me."

"You pray that I'll make it that easy for you."

"You assume that I anticipate justice or fairness. I have learned to expect differently from Laird Bannagran."

The Bear slapped him again, a stinging blow that nearly pushed him onto the blade.

"Why have you come back to Pryd?" Bannagran demanded. He paused and looked past Bransen to the cell door to ensure they were alone. "Why have you done this to me?"

"To you?"

"I warned you, publicly, that you could not return here until King Yeslnik determined your innocence," said Bannagran.

"But you know I am innocent."

"That matters not at all!" Bannagran growled. "And you know it!"

"But it should matter."

Bannagran growled again.

"And if it doesn't matter, then nothing does," Bransen went on. "Nothing. And nothing that you can do to me matters one bit."

"Do not be too assured of that," Bannagran warned.

Bransen stared at him in response, his eyes flaring with intensity. He exhaled and relaxed suddenly, allowing his weight to come forward onto his waist against the sword. A line of blood appeared on Bransen's naked belly almost immediately, the sharp blade digging in.

But Bransen's expression didn't change; if he felt any pain at all, he didn't show it.

"I am Jhesta Tu," he explained. "My mind and body are one. I can deny pain, however much you choose to inflict. You cannot hurt me, Bannagran. You can slay me, but you cannot hurt me. I'll not let you."

"You are mad," Bannagran retorted, his voice full of revulsion. "Ever were you a strange creature."

"I am the Stork, remember? My whole life has been spent in misery-or was, until I learned to dismiss the pain."

"That easily?"

"That easily."

"If you wish to rethink that challenge, then do so now. For I will succeed in making you cry out for mercy, I warn."

Bransen didn't blink.

"Fool," said Bannagran. He moved over to the wall where a table was set with various torture implements. Reviewing them carefully, he lifted a long, serrated blade.

"You know the truth of it," Bransen said. "You know that any torture you inflict upon me will harm you. Every cut to me will be a cut to Bannagran's soul."

"You believe that I care at all for-"

"Yes," Bransen interrupted. "What were your words when first you walked in here?"

Bannagran closed his eyes and rolled the blade over in his hands. Then he looked at Bransen, and the young man knew, without doubt, that the game was over. Bannagran turned to him and lifted the blade and advanced-to kill him and be done with it and be done with him, once and for all.

Bransen considered his options. He had already tested the strength of the chains and the fit about his wrists. If he was to resist and attempt an escape, the moment was upon him. But did he even really care enough to try?

He grimaced away that ridiculous question with the image of Cadayle, pregnant Cadayle. The world might be worth nothing to him at that time, but Cadayle was worth everything.

Before Bransen could begin his desperate move, though, a voice from the doorway behind him interrupted the scene.

"Laird Bannagran, I beg!" said Master Reandu, his tone and his frantic, flailing arms full of horror.

"It is not your begging I seek, Reandu!" Bannagran stared hatefully at Bransen.

"What is this horror?" Reandu asked, coming around to better examine Bransen and the devious contraption that held him.

"None of your affair," said Bannagran.

"I protest."

"Go back to your chapel."

"No!"

Bannagran looked at him threateningly.

"Bannagran, laird, I beg of you. This man has done nothing to deserve-"

"The same could be said of most men and women my age in all of Honce," Bransen interrupted. "Deserve?" he laughed. "Have you been to the south where all hint of society has been replaced by savagery? Where the weak are slaves to the strong, the women chattel to be taken by any man who so desires? Where every decency has been sublimated to every urge?" He laughed again. "Deserve? Do any of us deserve the hubris of Delaval, now the idiot Yeslnik, and of Ethelbert? Or do we all deserve it because it is naught but a sad joke?"

"Bransen," Reandu scolded.

"You really do not care, do you?" asked Bannagran. "Would you grin as you died if I cut open your throat now?" The Bear of Honce smiled wickedly as he asked the question, lifting the knife as he approached.

Bransen smiled back and made no move to resist or protest at all.

"Spare him," Reandu begged.

"He must tell me everything he has learned," Bannagran demanded. "He has been to Ethelbert. He claims he knows who killed King Delaval. I will have every word."

"And then you will spare him?"

"If his words please me, perhaps," was all Bannagran would give. "But know that my patience is ended."

"Your blade will do no more than free me," Bransen said.

"Bransen!" Reandu scolded. "Tell him!"

Bransen looked at him incredulously.

"If you care not at all about anything as you claim, then what harm is there in telling Bannagran what he wishes to know?" Reandu reasoned. "What sense is there in offering your life? What are you protecting?"

The words gave Bransen pause, reflected clearly on his face, so clearly, in fact, that Bannagran lowered his blade and waited. Bransen thought again of Cadayle. He could not throw away his responsibilities to her!

"Laird Delaval was murdered by a woman," Bransen said. "Of Behr. She is Hou-lei and not Jhesta Tu."

Reandu and Bannagran looked to each other in confusion.

"Hou-lei, an older order than Jhesta Tu," Bransen explained. "With a philosophy that names a warrior as but an instrument, a mercenary. Her name is Affwin Wi. She leads a band of several followers. She broke her sword in King Delaval's chest and has claimed my sword as her own for replacement. If you fight her, Bannagran, she will kill you. So would Merwal Yahna, her escort, who is stronger but not as skilled."

Clouds of doubt crossed Bannagran's strong features.

"I have fought them both and have battled you more than once," Bransen said evenly. "Either would defeat you."

"These are Ethelbert's assassins?" Reandu asked, trying desperately to keep the conversation moving forward.

"Who came out of the city in the dark of night and turned back Prince Milwellis's army," Bransen said. Bannagran's eyes went wide, telling the young man that he had hit something important.

"Only a handful, though, you say?" Bannagran asked.

"One less, perhaps two less, by my hand," said Bransen.

"Why would you fight them?" Bannagran asked suspiciously. "Have you thrown in with King Yeslnik?"

"They disgust me," Bransen answered. "Ethelbert disgusts me. Yeslnik disgusts me, and you disgust me."

"Bransen!" said Reandu.

"You have ruined the world," Bransen continued, heedless of the frantic monk. "You trample children under your march and do not care. You have destroyed all expressions of civilized life in the south. You bring misery to every man and woman of Honce and care not at all."

"Bransen, please," Reandu begged.

Bransen didn't even glance at him, his steely gaze locked on the Laird of Pryd. "You ask me to fly a pennant from my sword tip. You, all of you, demand that I choose a side." He snorted derisively and did then look at Reandu. "When I was young and at Chapel Pryd, you might have asked me an equally relevant question, Master Reandu. You might have asked which chamber pot, which pail of shit and piss, I preferred: the one hanging from my right hand or the one hanging from my left."

Reandu put his hand over his mouth and fell back a step, turning to Bannagran as if he expected the ferocious laird to kill Bransen then and there. To his surprise, though (and to Bransen's as well), the young man's vicious words seemed to have a calming effect on Bannagran and even backed him off a step or two.

"So Bransen fights for no one except Bransen, then?" Bannagran asked.

"Bransen chooses not to fight at all," Bransen replied. "But should he have to, then yes."

"I will march to war soon," Bannagran said. "Bransen will march beside me."

The Highwayman looked at him as if the statement were preposterous, as if the Bear had lost his mind.

"Because if you do, I will ensure that you and your family will live in Pryd Town and live well. Callen Duwornay and her daughter will be welcomed back, and I will see to it that they are never in need again."

"I am Jhesta Tu, not Hou-lei," Bransen replied. "I am no mercenary."

"Why not?"

Bannagran's simple question struck him hard.

"You will be doing no more than emptying chamber pots by your own words," Bannagran continued.

"Nay, to do as you ask would be putting my skills against simple peasants pressed to service, who do not deserve my wrath."

But Bannagran was shaking his head. "Fight only this Affwin Wi creature, then," he said. "And her consort. Slay those who murdered King Delaval, and I am confident that King Yeslnik will forgive your every crime. He fears these assassins-it is why he fled the field before Ethelbert's gates. But now he is determined to return to the coastal city and be done with Ethelbert, and no doubt he will succeed. If in that process the Highwayman rids him of the assassins he most fears, then his gratitude will lead to pardon. And in return, I will let you and your family live in Pryd Town forevermore, as distinguished citizens in good standing. Choose your home among any standing, save Castle Pryd itself, and I will grant it."

Bransen made no move to answer, and his visage did not soften.

"Or, if you truly care not for anything," Bannagran added, "you can die here in this miserable dungeon." He seemed quite amused with his own cleverness as he continued, "Perhaps I will just let you starve and rot here in the mud, then leave you for the rats to devour. Or I'll have my most trusted guards drag your rotting body out into the woods, perhaps, to bury you where you'll never be found. Then I'll tell your lady that I know not what might have happened to you and let her live her life in misery, ever watching for your return."

"You would do exactly that, wouldn't you?" Bransen said with contempt.

"You claim that you do not care. But you know me, Highwayman, and you know that I care even less. I must go and face Ethelbert again. I plan to survive the journey, and if your blade helps me to do that then so be it. If you choose to be of no use to me, then you are of no use to me, and so I simply do not care for you."

"Accept the deal, Bransen," Reandu whispered breathlessly. "By Blessed Abelle, man, I came here seeing no hope for you. And now there is opportunity and hope. Perhaps you will help facilitate the end of this wretched war at the same time."

Bransen's thoughts were swirling; he had nothing to which he could attach them. No anchor, no reality. Bannagran had caught him completely off guard with the impromptu proposal. Was any of it possible? Was it possible that he would get his sword back? Or the brooch Father Artolivan had entrusted to him? And would Bannagran hold true to his promise? Would this action facilitate a better life for Callen and Cadayle and for his child?

His child.

Bransen found his anchor in that notion: his child.

He silently berated himself for this surrender, for this willingness to see the end of his life. How selfish had he become in his despair!

"How dare I?" he asked aloud.

"How dare you?" Bannagran echoed skeptically. "How dare you not? What wondrous gift have I just offered you, fool! I could kill you without question here and now-nay, I would be hailed as a hero to the throne for ending your life. And yet, I offer you another way."

Bransen's thoughts began to spin once more. The choice seemed obvious regarding the welfare of his wife and family, and, truly, what did he care if Yeslnik or Ethelbert won the day, so long as the miserable war found its end?

He tried to consider the implications to Dame Gwydre, the one leader he considered worthy of her domain. But what Bransen didn't know at that time was that Gwydre had thrown in with Ethelbert against Yeslnik, that she and Father Artolivan had repelled the attack of Laird Panlamaris and thus invoked the wrath of Yeslnik and of Palmaristown. He didn't know that Dawson McKeege had sailed to Ethelbert dos Entel or that Cormack and Milkeila were even then in Ethelbert's court.

"How do I know that you will be true to your word?" Bransen asked.

Bannagran smiled, obviously recognizing victory. "What do I have to gain by lying?" he asked. "If I cared whether you lived or died, you'd be long dead already."

"But if I succeed, you would have me living in Pryd Town."

"Expect no invitations to dine at Castle Pryd," the laird said dryly.

Bransen nodded. He felt as if he understood Bannagran fairly well. The man was callous and so ferocious as to be rightly considered vicious, but there was a measure of nobility there, a measure of honor. Bannagran had no reason to lie to him and no reason to fear him.

"I will kill Affwin Wi," the Highwayman declared. "And Merwal Yahna."

Bannagran smiled. "I will summon the gaoler to free you of your chains," he said. He walked up beside Bransen, hooked his hand under the band at the back of the man's trousers, and tugged him backward, forcing him away from the wicked blade. With his free hand, Bannagran slid that blade free of the beam and threw it forcefully to the side of the room.

"Yeslnik will not be pleased," Bransen warned as Bannagran moved behind him toward the cell door.

"Yeslnik is terrified of Ethelbert's assassins," the laird replied. "He will be thrilled."

"This brave and noble man you call king," Bransen quipped.

Bannagran paused before the door, even turned back in an initially angry reaction.

But what could he say?