The Bear

SEVEN

"I beg you to forget it," Father Destros said to Cormack and Milkeila. "For the sake of the wider world, leave your personal inquiries aside."

"The man was a friend and an important part of Dame Gwydre's designs," Cormack argued. "Am I to simply believe that he is dead and care not for how that came about? Is there to be no value or justice or accountability to and for his death?"

Father Destros gave a long and weary sigh. "How many hundreds, thousands, have died as such?"

"But he was here," Milkeila said.

"Yes, this man Bransen, the man you call the Highwayman, was here in Ethelbert dos Entel, just a few weeks ago."

"And now Affwin Wi carries his sword," Cormack said.

"She had his sword when I was introduced to him, when she brought him before Laird Ethelbert," Destros replied. "He was very much alive and well at that time, and yet, Affwin Wi carried his sword as her own."

"And the brooch on his forehead?"

"That is why I and my brethren were brought to the meeting. We carried sunstones to counter any dangerous or devious magic the Highwayman might have tried to initiate at Laird Ethelbert. You must understand that we did not know his allegiance at that time, if he had any."

Milkeila put her hand on Cormack's arm. Affwin Wi wore that brooch, and neither of them could imagine Bransen trying to get along without it. They had both seen him in Alpinador on Mithranidoon without a gemstone assisting his movements. Absent a soul stone, the Bransen they knew was a helpless, stuttering creature.

"Might Affwin Wi have possessed another soul stone, Father?" Cormack asked quietly.

The monk shook his head. "None of which I am aware. Laird Ethelbert holds a few stones of varied powers, a soul stone among them, I believe. But again, I warn you not to ask him and not to bring this conversation beyond these sheltered walls."

Cormack let a few moments pass. "And Jameston Sequin?" he asked again. "A tall man with a great mustache who favored the bow and a tricornered hat?"

Father Destros shrugged and held his hands out helplessly. "Forget it," he advised again.

"If Affwin Wi played a role in Bransen's death-"

"Then you and Dame Gwydre," Destros cut in, "would be better off knowing nothing about it."

It seemed wrong to Cormack, against every measure of justice and truth that he wanted so desperately to cling to as a guide for his life. But there was merit to Father Destros's warnings. If he confronted Affwin Wi and his fears proved correct, she would likely attack him. Whichever proved victorious, Wi and her band or Cormack and Milkeila, the alliance he was working to forge between Dame Gwydre and Laird Ethelbert would be shattered.

"Laird Ethelbert loves the woman," Father Destros said, as he had declared at the beginning of their conversation. "He will support her, no matter her complicity in your friend's demise. And we do not even know that he is dead!" The monk continued hopefully, "More likely Affwin Wi, who claimed him as a subordinate in her warrior band, sent him on some mission. Her followers are among the few scouts leaving the city of late, the eyes and ears of Laird Ethelbert, a most vital role. She would probably demand much of the Highwayman before accepting him fully into her elite band."

Cormack and Milkeila could do little more than nod their agreement with the reasoning, whatever they suspected differently. They took their leave of Chapel Entel then, Destros smiling and waving to them every step as they exited his audience hall.

The father's expression turned much darker the minute they were out the door, however, for he hadn't told the couple everything. On the last day Bransen had been seen in the city, Destros had been summoned by Affwin Wi to use his gemstone magic on the grievous wounds of one of her warriors, wounds from which the man had succumbed. Across the room, obviously the scene of a terrific fight, another of the Hou-lei disciples lay dead. The Highwayman was nowhere to be found, but Affwin Wi had his sword and his brooch, and Destros didn't need to stretch his imagination far to imagine the likely scenario that had led to the devastation: Bransen had fought with Affwin Wi's followers and had subsequently been killed by the powerful woman and quietly disposed of.

Destros had never been comfortable with Affwin Wi and the other warriors from Behr. His was not a parochial prejudice, for Destros was far more knowledgeable and tolerant of the traditions-even religions-of the southern kingdom than his monk brethren. He had been to Jacintha, the teeming, colorful, vibrant city south of the Belt-and-Buckle, and truly loved the place and its loud and emotional citizens. The Order of Abelle, like most of the folk of Honce, considered the southerners to be unsophisticated, uncultured barbarians, the "Beasts of Behr." But like the more knowledgeable folk of Ethelbert dos Entel-and Laird Ethelbert himself-Father Destros knew better.

Still, he had little use and even less love for the ferocious Affwin Wi and her small band of mercenaries. He was fairly certain that she had killed the man known as the Highwayman and that it was likely not at the behest of-or even with the knowledge of-Laird Ethelbert.

But the pragmatic monk, who truly wanted this alliance among Ethelbert dos Entel, Vanguard, and his beloved St. Mere Abelle, had no intention of making his suspicions known to the laird or to anyone else. By the time King Yeslnik caught up with Prince Milwellis and the Palmaristown garrison in the small town of Weatherguard, down the long grassy hill from Chapel Abelle, the siege and assault preparations were already well under way. Lines of men bearing great logs streamed into the town, which now had far more invading soldiers living in tents than residents in more permanent structures. Huge piles of stones grew daily.

Milwellis stood in the command tent before a large topographical map spread wide on a table. On the map were lines of models of the catapults and small, carved markers to represent cavalry units and archer brigades.

"Do not begin your bombardment of the fools until the harbor is secure," Yeslnik instructed as he entered.

"My father's fleet will see to that presently," the prince replied.

"His warships are in the gulf, yes," said Yeslnik. "But beware, for if the monks determine that they must flee, they will go out in great numbers armed with their devilish gemstones. Before the weight of magical fire and lightning, even our greater ships will prove vulnerable."

Yeslnik and his wife, who stood just behind him, noted a wry smile on the ever prideful Milwellis's face.

"They will not get out of their harbor," the prince assured his liege. "They protect their docks with a narrow channel between high cliffs. There is but one approach between rocky reefs."

"Still, one boat armed by the great magicians of the order might break through that gauntlet," said Yeslnik.

"They waited too long," Milwellis replied with obvious confidence. "You will see the value of your loyal subjects of Palmaristown in the dawning light of tomorrow."

Yeslnik looked to Olym, who could only shrug.

"We awaited your arrival," Milwellis explained. "We did not feel it necessary to move with expedience since the monks and their visitors from Vanguard show no apparent haste to be free from their walled prison. They hold to the notion that their chapel will withstand all that we can offer, and they may be correct."

"But when the rest of the world, Vanguard included, bows to King Yeslnik, that security will seem as a prison," said the king, and the Prince of Palmaristown smiled and bowed respectfully.

"You will leave here for Ethelbert's city with all confidence that Palmaristown controls the gulf coast and that your enemies will not escape Chapel Abelle," Milwellis assured Yeslnik.

The king did not sleep well that night, but not for any lack of confidence that the plan was going along splendidly. He was agitated and excited by the surprise Milwellis had promised him, and so when the prince's man came to rouse him at first light, he was already awake and dressed. He and Queen Olym met with Milwellis on a bluff overlooking the dark gulf waters. A stiff wind blew in from the sea, but it was not cold, and lines of whitecaps crashed in against the rocks far below.

Milwellis nodded to the left, where a large ship was just coming into view. "An old cargo barge," the prince explained. "Refitted with many tall sails and with great posts running deep below her, far below her keel."

The ship turned, making straight for the narrow approach to the gap between the high cliffs, a thousand feet below the walls of the great chapel. Through that gap, unseen from this angle, sat the docks of Chapel Abelle, accessible to the chapel complex high above only through long tunnels.

"You are attacking by sea?" a confused Yeslnik asked, for the defensible nature of Chapel Abelle's docks had been made quite clear to him and it seemed impossible that any force could break through that way. "How many warriors are aboard that ship?"

"None," said Milwellis, smiling still. "And only a handful of crew."

Yeslnik looked at him curiously but said no more, instead watching as the large ship passed from sight into the cliff gap. Almost immediately there came the sharp retort of Abellican lightning, flashes of fire and bursts of thunderous magic as the monks defended their docks.

Then came a tremendous explosion, and though Yeslnik did not know it, this one was self-inflicted on the ship, a blast calculated to take out her starboard hull just below the waterline.

Yeslnik looked at Milwellis curiously.

"The ship is sunk," the prince said, and he seemed quite pleased by that.

Yeslnik just stared at him for many heartbeats.

"In the shallowest and narrowest part of the approach," Milwellis explained. "Where her wreckage"-he held his hand up diagonally before him-"will block the entrance or egress of any sizable boat. We reinforced every corner of the barge with thick metal. It will take the monks weeks of difficult work to clear enough of the flotsam to have docks accessible to anything larger than a small, rowed craft."

"Brilliant!" Yeslnik exclaimed as the situation became clear. "You have just freed many of our warships from the duties of blockade so that they may run wild along the Vanguard coast. Or even all the way to Ethelbert dos Entel should I need them to finish that troublesome laird."

"You have entrusted us with the most important duty of all," said Milwellis, and in that moment of victory Yeslnik allowed him his exaggeration. "Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan will not escape Chapel Abelle. They will exit only under a flag of surrender to King Yeslnik of Honce."

King Yeslnik could hardly contain his elation. Behind him, Queen Olym clapped excitedly. Half of his plan for victory, the isolation and irrelevance of Dame Gwydre, Father Artolivan, and the forces of Chapel Abelle, seemed assured. Now all that he had to do was push Ethelbert into the sea. Bannagran would command a force that could accomplish the task.

Yeslnik merely had to stay alive to be assured the absolute and uncontested kingship of Honce.

It was a good morning.

Brother Pinower of St. Mere Abelle crawled from a vertical chute, climbing into the early-morning air on a small ledge halfway up a giant rocky cliff face, one of the guardian cliffs sheltering the bay that held the chapel's docks. The young brother noted his fellows on the cliff across the way who had crawled from similar tunnels. One of the first things the monks had done after the initial construction of the chapel more than half a century before was to catacomb these two cliffs to create lookout points and attack perches, and now, for the first time, it seemed as if they would need them.

Pinower could hardly believe his eyes as the huge ship glided into view, moving easily across the choppy water. The deck was not crowded with archers, nor were any ballistae or catapults evident. Did they think they could just sail in to the docks uncontested? Pinower looked back to the chapel walls looming in the distance more than two hundred feet above his perch. He pictured the four great catapults set behind them.

The warship executed her last turn around the reef and headed straight between the cliffs. Pinower could only imagine that the large craft's hold was full of warriors. They would try to weather the beating. Pinower squinted and tried to gauge the plating on the ship.

It seemed absurd. The Palmaristown sailors had to know that they could not withstand the power of St. Mere Abelle!

"Put up a flag of truce," Pinower quietly whispered to the unseen enemy sailors, thinking this had to be an attempt at parlay. How relieved would he, would any of them, be if such a deal could be struck!

The ship moved to the mouth of the cliffs.

St. Mere Abelle's catapults fired in rapid succession, four huge stones in the air at the same time. The catapults hadn't been used in years, though, and despite careful sighting, the stones splashed down into empty water, three in front of the approaching ship and one to the side.

Calls rang out across the cliffs, and Pinower reached his hand forward, grasping a graphite, the stone of lightning.

"Raise your flag of truce!" the monk demanded. Across the way the first lightning bolt thundered down at the sails, tearing one asunder. A second bolt from Pinower's cliff, just below the monk, thundered into the mainmast, and the top of the shaft began to burn.

Pinower heard the sound of the catapults again, and that prompted him to fall within his own graphite. He felt the energy building, his fingers tingling with power, and he let fly a considerable blast that blinded him as it flashed down upon the ship, lighting fires on the mainsail.

A boulder plopped into the water right before the ship, a second sailed over, but the remaining two both struck home, crashing through the deck.

Pinower winced, expecting to hear cries of pain and fear from below.

But there was nothing, just the damaged ship sailing in toward the docks, one sail burning and another hanging torn.

The monk noted movement then on the aft deck, a handful of men scrambling over the taffrail.

But they weren't running in terror; their movements were precise and practiced.

Pinower understood, and his eyes widened. He started to call to his brethren to hold their lightning and for the catapults to cease, but even as he started to yell the thunderous retort of a lightning bolt drowned his words. More ensued, a cascade of blue-white lightning reaching down from the cliffs and battering the craft with such brilliance that Pinower had to avert his eyes.

He looked back just as the starboard side of the great ship exploded, a great bubble of water and a flash of flames reaching forth.

"No, no, no," Brother Pinower mouthed, and he noted a small rowboat moving away from the warship, pulling out into the gulf. Almost directly below him, the warship listed and swirled to a stop.

Pinower scrambled back down the chute and rushed along the narrow tunnels to inform his superiors. He heard other monks in the tunnels cheering their victory, but he knew better.

The enemy had achieved their goal this morning.

He found all the principals gathered in Father Artolivan's quarters. The masters of St. Mere Abelle were there, along with Father Premujon of Vanguard's Chapel Pellinor, Dame Gwydre herself, and, of course, Father Artolivan.

Pinower slipped in quietly and took his seat off to the side of the leaders.

"Their boldness speaks of desperation," Artolivan remarked, his voice very shaky this day, his eyelids heavy and his every movement filled with obvious discomfort.

"Uncoordinated," one of the masters remarked. "They did not employ archers to keep our brothers low on their cliff perches, nor did any catapults of other warships send forth their missiles."

"The ship is stopped?" Dame Gwydre asked. She looked at Pinower as she spoke, as did many others.

"Exactly where our enemies wanted it to sink," the brother replied glumly.

Father Premujon started to question that, but he stopped short, catching on.

"It was no attack," Pinower explained. "But merely flotsam for a blockade."

"Clever," said Father Artolivan, but he did not seem overly concerned. "The strait is blocked?"

"It was a large ship and seems as if designed to sink at an angle," Pinower explained. "I doubt that any vessel of considerable size could cross in or out."

"They try to seal us into a place from which we have no intention of leaving," said Father Premujon. "And in doing so, they minimize their own avenues of attack."

"They mean a long and full siege, then," Artolivan reasoned, and again he did not seem bothered.

Why should he, Pinower realized, since the monks hadn't planned on breaking out of the chapel anyway and were very confident that they could withstand a siege indefinitely. Pinower did note, though, the very concerned expressions of Dame Gwydre and Father Premujon, their visitors from Vanguard, whose road home was across the gulf. Gwydre in particular seemed none too pleased with the events of the morning.

Artolivan noted that, too, apparently, for he looked right at the Lady of Vanguard when he declared, "Brothers will go out to the wreck under cover of night to determine how it might be cleared away. They will weaken seams and attach ropes so that if we choose we can pull the wreck apart at our convenience.

"This is not ill news," the old father said to the wider audience, raising his voice, though it hardly sounded strong. "We have known from the moment of our proclamation of disloyalty to the claims of Yeslnik that our success rested upon the work of our emissaries to Laird Ethelbert. St. Mere Abelle stands as a solid monument of defiance, but our influence is limited beyond our walls."

"I fear for the people of Vanguard," Dame Gwydre remarked. "Would that I could go home to lead them in this dark time."

"We will find a way," Father Artolivan promised even as Father Premujon began to reply. "As I am confident that your man Dawson will find a way to get back to us with word from the south."

Brother Pinower brought a hand to his mouth. He had an idea.

There was no moon that night, and under the cover of darkness a handful of monks gathered on the docks of St. Mere Abelle. They each carried a malachite, the stone of levitation, and a graphite, a serpentine, and a ruby. A pair also held curved iron bars two feet in length, one end of each set with potent lodestones, the stone of magnetism, which were useful in pulling metal nails.

They dropped their woolen robes and moved to the very end of the wharf. "Remember, do not disassemble it," said the monk leading the group. "We are merely inspecting the wreck, weakening it so that we can be rid of it in short order should the need arise to clear the strait." The young brother was not the most senior monk of the group, for Brother Pinower, clad in only a loincloth, stood among them, malachite in hand and assorted other stones in a small pouch tied on one hip. He also carried a large backpack full of supplies and common clothing.

Enacting their gemstones, the brothers stepped down to the water and walked upon it in single file. They made the wreck without incident and went to work, letting those with engineering expertise thoroughly examine the craft. Pinower stayed with them for a short while, for he, the most versed in gemstones, knew the potential troubles of enacting magic underwater. A graphite, for example, might throw a line of lightning across a field, but underwater, it would more likely produce a globe of energy that could easily sting, stun, or even kill a careless user.

The team worked with typical monkish discipline, the engineers pointing out critical joints and support planks that could be removed, and the monks diving to the spots to loosen nails and pegs. Using clever teamwork, they managed to utilize a serpentine shield that allowed them to isolate areas of wood that could then be scorched with the magical fire of rubies.

"Are you certain that you should venture forth this night?" the leader asked Pinower as they stood together on the water near one of the protruding and angled masts. "Our flashes are muted by the waves, but some are visible nonetheless, and light carries far across dark waters."

"I will find my way safely," Brother Pinower assured him. "Now is the time for men to step forward bravely, as Father Artolivan has done in defying Yeslnik. He has chosen principle over expedience and has reminded us that there are bigger things than these corporeal, mortal bodies. On my first day at Chapel Abelle-St. Mere Abelle-those many years ago, the inducting brother bade us to consider our physical form as no more than a wagon carting us along a road much longer than this life span in this world. The secret, he said, is to leave this leg of our eternal journey with our hearts pure, integrity intact. Principle over expedience, brother, and let the consequences be accepted as they fall, as we can only control that which is in our hearts. Father De Guilbe chose expedience. Since Yeslnik appears so near to victory, he reasoned that the order should accede to his demands and offer fealty. To Father De Guilbe's thinking, we could thrive under King Yeslnik.

"But Father Artolivan knows better and understands the truth of who we are and why we are here. He chooses the way of principle. I have never been more proud of our order, and my only fear as I venture forth is not for me but for those I would leave behind should I fail in this task."

The other monk smiled at Pinower and nodded, his expression full of appreciation. "You'll not fail, brother," he said. "You walk with Blessed Abelle. Your steps are sure because you know they are upon the right road."

Pinower was glad for those words. He smiled in reply and patted the younger monk on the shoulder. Then he splashed his foot upon the water to accentuate his point as he quipped, "Even if that road is the surface of the sea!"

And with that, Brother Pinower jogged away from the brother and the shipwreck, straight for the southern coast of the Gulf of Corona, moving east of St. Mere Abelle. He knew that he would have to cover many miles before finding an accessible beach, and knew, too, that the distant beach would be only the beginning of his journey. He felt the great weight of responsibility on his shoulders as he jogged across the water, but that weight didn't drag him down. Quite the contrary, Brother Pinower kept putting one foot in front of the other, and his gemstone magic did not fail because he knew that so many depended upon him getting far to the east and finding Dawson McKeege's Lady Dreamer.

He tried not to think of the consequences should he be caught, for Brother Pinower had never been a brave man, never a warrior. He remembered the scene outside St. Mere Abelle, when Brother Fatuus and the other captured monks of Palmaristown's chapel had been brutally murdered because they would not renounce the church of Father Artolivan.

Brother Pinower fully expected that the same brutal fate would befall him.

But he ran on anyway, as Brother Fatuus had continued to the gates of St. Mere Abelle even dragging several spears behind him. He thought of that monk's ultimate courage, his refusal to break faith even in the moment of his death, and Brother Pinower drew strength.

He ran on across the waves, past the swells breaking on sharp rocks or thundering against the tall stone cliffs. With his malachite magic flowing strong and keeping him atop the water, the currents couldn't drag him in, but every wave lifted him up high and dropped him down behind it.

Not far to the east of St. Mere Abelle, the night growing long, the eastern sky beginning to brighten, Brother Pinower saw the dark outlines of sails. Palmaristown warships, he feared, full of archers with longbows. He felt vulnerable then when the swells lifted him, knowing that his silhouette might be spotted against the solid cliffs, knowing that if he was spotted a rain of arrows would soar out at him.

But still Pinower ran, and when the morning light peeked over the eastern horizon, brightening the coast, he moved in tighter to the cliffs, darting behind the many rocks and continuing on whenever no enemies were nearby. Finally he found a place where he could move away from the water and onto a long, sloping field. Pinower wasted no time in dressing in his peasant's clothing. Only then did such a fit of great weariness, both from his long run and from his continued use of gemstone magic, overwhelm him that he found a sheltered nook among the tall rocks and settled in for a nap.

He awoke long after noon, rose, and looked back to the west and his chapel home. He prayed to Blessed Abelle for his mission's success. Not for himself but for all of those who were counting on him, and, truthfully, if someone had offered Brother Pinower a deal, the cost of his life in exchange for delivering the message to Dawson, he would have taken it.

Because this wasn't about him at all. It was about St. Mere Abelle, about the integrity of Father Artolivan's decrees, about the autonomy of the church, and about the defeat of several men who had shown themselves to be unworthy of the titles they had so recklessly claimed.

It was about the prisoners at St. Mere Abelle and in chapels all around Honce. It was about a higher plane of justice and of truth, and, without that place, then for what was life worth living, anyway?

He prayed to Blessed Abelle and he prayed to Brother Fatuus.

Brother Pinower would not fail. The first of Milwellis's catapults let fly the next morning, throwing a huge stone to the field just before the towering stone walls of St. Mere Abelle. Inside the chapel courtyard, the ground shook, and more than one man upon the wall cried out in alarm.

Dame Gwydre walked resolutely across the courtyard, a lone figure, tall and thin with her light brown hair cut short and fashionable and a smart but simple wrap pulled tight about her. Around her the monks and the attendants, who were mostly former prisoners of one side or the other in the ongoing war, rushed to and fro, calling out orders and crying for everyone to take cover.

Dame Gwydre ignored those shouts, and when the next rock soared in, this one clipping the top of the chapel's front wall, then skipping up and over with a line of debris behind it, the woman did not flinch in the least. The Dame of Vanguard was no stranger to war. Entire villages under her domain had been sacked, every person and animal within murdered by the hordes of goblins and trolls inspired by the vicious Ancient Badden. She had smelled the stench of death, had witnessed the mutilation, and had lived for years on the very edge of disaster. It would take more than a few haphazard catapult throws to rattle Dame Gwydre.

She walked to the parapet ladder and gathered her wrap to free her legs, calmly climbing even as shouts announced a third missile was on the way. The blast hit the wall not far from where Gwydre climbed, and her ladder bounced back dangerously before settling once more into place.

Again, the woman didn't flinch as she climbed to the parapet. She looked out over the long, sloping field toward Weatherguard, shielding her eyes so she could better discern the line of catapults.

"Dame, I beg of you, seek cover!" one monk exclaimed as he rushed to usher her away.

"Only a coward would throw from afar," she replied. A fourth stone rose into the air but fell far short, bouncing about the turf and rolling to within a few strides of the wall.

Dame Gwydre laughed at the pathetic shot. "I do not fear cowards, brother," she said to the monk and turned to face him directly to let him see her serene smile.

The man straightened his shoulders and returned her smile. From him emanated the same sense of calm that became infectious about the courtyard. The brothers and attendants went about their chores with rocks arching through the air, setting watchers along the wall, calling shots and yelling to those in an area of imminent peril. But the disruption had been minimized, as Gwydre had hoped, and morale had been fully restored to the point where a playful betting pool erupted about where each subsequent stone might hit.

Dame Gwydre spent most of the morning on the wall, even placing a few bets with the brothers, until Father Premujon scrambled up the ladder behind her.

"Artolivan is not well this day," he informed her. "He will likely not rise from his bed."

"Has he named anyone to speak in his stead?" Gwydre replied.

"Brother Pinower is out to the east. Brother Jurgyen, perhaps?"

"Has Artolivan named a successor?"

"Dame, he is not dying!"

"We are all dying, father," she calmly replied. "He should name a successor."

"Fathers of the order are selected by committee, not as an inheritance," Premujon explained.

"I know, and I know, too, that such a gathering of leaders could not be brought about easily." She turned to look over the field, for the monks were calling to her of danger. She spotted the boulder immediately where it arced and spun end over end, almost as if it were flying slowly, as if all the world were moving in half time.

"Dame!" Father Premujon cried. He grabbed her and tried to pull her aside.

Gwydre resisted his tug. The enormous rock plummeted at the last and hit the wall below; the shock wave nearly knocked them both from their feet.

"I win!" Gwydre cried in elation, and a great cheer went up about the courtyard. She winked at Father Premujon. "I do make such an inviting target."

"Lady?" the monk gasped.

Dame Gwydre walked by him to the ladder and started down. "Gather the masters," she bade the father. "Let us dine together this day."

"Where are you going?"

"To speak with Father Artolivan."

The dame caught up with Premujon and the other monks, all the masters of St. Mere Abelle, as the meal was being set out in the chapel complex's great dining hall. She waited for the attendants to finish bringing the food and drink before standing at the center of the long table and lifting her flagon in toast.

The others stood and lifted their cups in reply, but all were glancing around with confusion, not quite sure what to make of this impromptu gathering. The rocks had been flying at St. Mere Abelle all morning long, and a couple of men had been injured, though, thankfully, none seriously.

"I have spoken with Father Artolivan," Dame Gwydre explained. "He is well. Let us toast to his continued health."

"Huzzah!" the monks cheered and drank, and more than a few started to sit once more. But Dame Gwydre remained standing and kept her flagon high.

"But in the event that his health should worsen," she said, "Father Artolivan has named a successor, a steward to the leadership of the Order of Blessed Abelle."

Now the whispers began, some soft, some loud, as the brothers all began chattering with surprise.

"Should God take him from us, Father Premujon of Vanguard will steward the chapel and the order," Gwydre said.

"This is unprecedented," one monk remarked. He looked to Jurgyen, whom many considered Father Artolivan's most trusted advisor. Many other gazes also fell upon Jurgyen as the brothers took their seats.

"Father Artolivan has decreed this?" Jurgyen asked.

"He has, and I trust you will go and confirm it presently," Dame Gwydre replied.

But Jurgyen surprised her, showing the strength of his character. "No need, good lady!" he said with great exuberance. "We all trust the messenger." At that, Jurgyen stood and lifted his mug, and everyone followed suit. "And who can disagree with the wisdom of Father Artolivan's choice?"

There was nothing but sincerity in the young man's voice, and almost everyone in the room was nodding in agreement. There would be no argument here; the brothers had decided to work toward the common and most important goal, their personal pride put aside.

Dame Gwydre looked to Father Premujon. The man fidgeted and seemed quite out of sorts. But in the end, he smiled back at her and joined in her toast. Dame Gwydre had facilitated this. They all knew it. She had gone from the wall to Father Artolivan's bedroom and had demanded that he name a successor and that the successor be the man of her choosing, the father from Vanguard whom she had known and trusted for many years.

When Father Premujon asked-accused, actually-Gwydre of this after the dinner, the woman didn't deny her role in the least.

"He needed the responsibility lifted from his old shoulders," she explained. "And I needed someone in place who would remain strong through the trying days ahead. I needed you, Premujon, a fellow of Vanguard, who has known great hardship and who will not flinch when King Yeslnik comes calling."

Father Artolivan, confident in Gwydre and their mutual selection of Premujon, rested very well that night, sleeping more peacefully than he had in years, since the war between Ethelbert and Delaval had commenced.

He died quietly the next morning.