The Bear

EIGHT

"And so our young hero has found a cause," Master Reandu said to Bransen when the Highwayman ventured to Chapel Pryd later that same day.

Bransen eyed him curiously, not pleased by the sarcasm in his tone.

"Bransen will fight for… Bransen," Reandu said. "I am surprised that you did not bargain harder with Bannagran. Perhaps you might have added some gold to the purse for your services."

Bransen continued to stare at the man to try to take a measure of this sudden change. Hadn't Reandu begged him to "accept the deal" offered by Bannagran? And now he seemed quite perturbed that Bransen had done exactly that. They locked stares for some time.

"Are you angry with me, Brother Reandu?" he asked. "Or with yourself?"

"With both," the monk replied. "And with all the world."

"A few hours ago you bade me accept the deal and help be done with this war," Bransen reminded. "What has changed?"

Reandu rubbed his face, looking very weary indeed. "In helping Bannagran, you aid Yeslnik."

"Yeslnik or Ethelbert," said Bransen. "They are one and the same. Equally worthless."

But Reandu shook his head, slowly and deliberately.

"What has changed?" Bransen asked again.

"King Yeslnik's advance guard came in this day. The king is not far behind," said Reandu. He got up and moved about the room, peering out every exit to ensure that they were alone. "King Yeslnik has declared war against St. Mere Abelle."

"St. Mere Abelle?"

"Chapel Abelle," Reandu explained. "Abelle has been declared a saint by word of Father Artolivan and the masters, and so the chapel has been renamed in deference to Abelle's holy station. With the declaration has come a determination of defiance against King Yeslnik, and he, in turn, has declared the church outlaw. Do you know Father De Guilbe?"

Bransen scoffed at the mention of the unpleasant man.

"Then you do," said Reandu.

"He has brought trouble," Bransen reasoned. "That is no surprise."

"He will arrive here with King Yeslnik in the morning."

Reandu went quiet, and Bransen sat back and digested the bits of information. "So if King Yeslnik has declared the church outlawed and yet Father De Guilbe travels with him…" He paused and looked at Reandu, who was nodding slowly.

"Then De Guilbe is now outside the order," Bransen finished.

Reandu frowned. "The Church of the Divine King."

"No," Bransen corrected, "the order, your order, is now led by De Guilbe and not Artolivan."

The weary Master Reandu rubbed his face and looked away.

"So it does matter to you now which side proves victorious," Bransen said. "Before, you were interested merely in ending the war, but now the stakes have been raised. Now it has become a personal trial for Master Reandu."

The monk looked back at him, and there was no disagreement in his solemn expression.

"Do you wish to recant your advice to me, your humble servant?" Bransen asked, unable to resist a bit of smugness at that confusing moment. "Should I betray Bannagran and flee to Ethelbert's flag? Or should I simply surrender to Bannagran once more and go back to his chains and blades?"

"No, of course not," Reandu said. "No, Bransen. My advice to you would not have changed."

"But you do not wish Yeslnik to win," Bransen said bluntly.

Reandu's eyes widened, and he glanced all around nervously. Then he growled, angrily, and began breathing heavily, and Bransen could see that the man was torn here, was mad at himself. Did Reandu, perhaps, not like what he was learning about his own courage and convictions?

"When the war was merely about the torn flesh of peasants, Reandu cared less," Bransen stated. "But now, over some silly allegiance to a sainted dead man and a meaningless church, Reandu has come to care."

"I always cared, Bransen," Reandu replied, his voice showing the wound. "Always did I wish to alleviate the suffering…"

"If the war was declared over this very day, Yeslnik the victor, De Guilbe the new religious head of Honce, would Reandu accept the verdict?"

The clever question had the monk wincing in pain and embarrassment.

"I would not have advised you differently, even had I known the escalation of enmity between St. Mere Abelle and King Yeslnik," he said, strength returning to his voice. "My duty is to advise you to do that which is best for you and for your family. I would not have Bransen executed by Bannagran before King Yeslnik's throne, nor would I demand of you that you find in this war a higher context and mission."

"Even as you are faced with exactly that?"

"Perhaps," the monk said and shrugged. "I see no clear path before me, but I will seek the correct road for myself and for those who look to me for guidance."

"De Guilbe or Artolivan?" Bransen asked. "Hardly a difficult choice."

Reandu looked around once more as if he expected the royal guard to swoop down upon them at any moment. "What do you know?"

"De Guilbe is a wretch," Bransen said. "A merciless brute quick to punish any who disagree with him. You know of his history?"

"I know that he went to Alpinador at the request of Father Artolivan."

"Where he imprisoned those who would not bend to his demands of conversion and warred with those who came to rescue their imprisoned brethren," Bransen replied. "Murdering them at the base of his fortress walls. Do you think that a proper use of the holy gemstones? And when one of the brothers in his charge could not stand the needless bloodshed any longer and thus freed the captured Alpinadorans, bringing peace to the island, De Guilbe ordered the monk beaten unconscious and cast out in a boat to die. But he did not die-indeed, he rescued me in the cold north, and that man, that monk Cormack, is of great character and conscience, a man your order should revere and not torture!"

Bransen's own volume gave him pause, and he was surprised to realize how much he had emotionally invested in the fight between Cormack and the church. He couldn't help but give a little self-deprecating laugh at his own unexpected passion. "I was in the north at the demand of Dame Gwydre of Vanguard," he explained.

"Yes, to battle Ancient Badden. The details have come to Chapel Pryd. Your exploits were no small matter to the Order of Blessed Abelle, I assure you."

"And when I went to battle Ancient Badden, I went with many allies, including the monk De Guilbe had cast out to die. But De Guilbe was not beside me, nor were any of those under his command. Nay, he fled the field."

Reandu stared at him.

"And when Dame Gwydre pardoned the monk De Guilbe had banished, and when Father Premujon of Chapel Pellinor supported her edict, so began the battle between the church and Father De Guilbe. In Chapel-St. Mere Abelle, Father Artolivan, too, opposed De Guilbe, strongly."

"And you believe that his defection to Yeslnik is self-serving and not necessarily rooted in the call of his conscience," Reandu reasoned.

"It is rooted in his wounded pride," Bransen assured him. "And nothing more, unless it is his realization that his actions have cost him the succession of old Artolivan's seat."

Reandu took a moment to digest this information before stating the obvious, "You are not pleased with Yeslnik's choice of De Guilbe, and never were you pleased with Yeslnik himself, as I recall. Has this news given you pause over your agreement with Bannagran? Will you betray him and simply run away?"

"No," Bransen answered without hesitation. "For I have seen the alternative, Laird Ethelbert, and am no more impressed by him. My fight is personal with Affwin Wi; she stole my sword and the star brooch Father Artolivan entrusted with me. I ride with Bannagran but care nothing for the larger questions of the day. There is no right and wrong to be found there in my heart."

"I don't believe you," said Reandu.

Bransen started to rebut the monk but held his tongue. Something about the manner in which Reandu was looking at him told him the truth of the monk's accusation: Reandu didn't believe him because Reandu expected more of him.

That notion shamed Bransen. He wanted to deny that Master Reandu's opinion held any meaning to him. He reminded himself of his years living in the hole in the floor of Chapel Pryd, when Reandu and Bathelais and the other brothers had practically imprisoned him and had given him the most humiliating and filthy duties. He had carried chamber pots for this man, Reandu, and given the unsteady legs of the Stork, he had often worn their contents.

He brought back all of those unpleasant memories then in an attempt to defend against the pangs of guilt, but one truth kept peeking through the wall he was constructing: Reandu had cared about and for him, and in the critical moment when Master Bathelais was about to strike Bransen dead-as Bransen tried to rescue Cadayle from the rape of Laird Prydae-Reandu had stopped Bathelais.

"I'll not betray Bannagran," Bransen said. "My fight is with Affwin Wi. Your own choice is more important to the ways of the world."

"Many look to the Highwayman with hope."

"Your order is fractured and is choosing sides," Bransen reminded. "The Highwayman is but one man." He paused and lowered his eyes, closed them, and closed his heart. "The Highwayman is but one dead man, killed in the east by warriors from Behr." Brother, begin the process," Father Premujon ordered. "It is no small matter," Brother Jurgyen replied with obvious exasperation.

"It is necessary."

Jurgyen shook his head. "We cannot affect the fate of Vanguard's ports. Whatever information we may garner would be cursory and would not alter our course…"

Father Premujon closed his eyes, his face growing very tight, and Jurgyen wisely quieted.

"Brother," Premujon said after taking several deep breaths, "the gulf teems with Palmaristown warships-likely Delaval ships, as well. Lady Gwydre is cut off from her people, and those people may well prove critical in our battle with King Yeslnik."

"We cannot affect the fate of-"

"Information is power!" Premujon interrupted. He raised his voice for effect and not in anger, grabbing Jurgyen by the shoulders. "We have in our grasp the greatest weapon of all. We can see events far removed and know the outcomes weeks before our enemies can adjust accordingly. We will be the quicker!"

"Father Artolivan did not agree with you," Jurgyen dared to reply. "You tried to make this argument with him, no doubt, and yet he did not assemble the brothers and hand them soul stones that they might go forth in spirit alone. The edicts of our order-"

"And yet even as you argue with me, you would have sent the brothers forth in spirit to inform the other chapels of the passing of Father Artolivan."

"There are times for such risks," Jurgyen admitted. "We sent word of the canonization of Blessed Abelle. We came to you in spirit in the far north of Vanguard with word of the war."

"And so you shall go to Vanguard again with news of the war and with words of rally," Premujon explained. "And to gather information from the northern holding that Dame Gwydre can rest easy as she continues her battle with Yeslnik."

"You ask for more than a single, simple journey and for more than the communion with prepared brothers on the other end."

"I do."

"The risks are unprecedented! Many will die!"

"I know."

"Yet you persist in this madness all so that Dame Gwydre can rest easy," Jurgyen remarked.

"He would," came a voice from the door. The speaker, Dame Gwydre, entered the room.

Brother Jurgyen closed his eyes and lowered his head.

"For that and so that we might learn of events in the gulf," Gwydre went on. "Events that may well determine our course here at St. Mere Abelle." She looked to Father Premujon and nodded her chin toward the door. The monk caught the cue and promptly left them alone in the room.

"Pray speak your mind," Dame Gwydre said to the brother. "Bluntly."

Jurgyen looked at her skeptically.

"I have been at war for more than a year, brother," Gwydre said. "I have witnessed utter carnage in Vanguard villages, where every man, woman, and child was slaughtered by vile trolls. I stand here now amidst a rain of catapult throws. I promise you your words will not hurt me."

"We should not risk the spirit walking so casually as I was commanded," Jurgyen said. "To send brothers out across the gulf on so regular a schedule is madness."

"It is necessary."

"And this is why you elevated Father Premujon to the leadership role," Jurgyen accused.

"Father Artolivan selected his replacement, as is acceptable in times when a formal Council of Masters cannot be convened."

"Father Artolivan acceded to your request," Jurgyen accused. "Dame Gwydre asked him for Father Premujon."

"You heard such a thing?" she asked.

"I deduced such a thing," the monk admitted.

Gwydre laughed helplessly. "Had you been in attendance, I admit you would have heard such a thing."

Jurgyen's eyes went wide at the unexpected confession.

"The choice was logical," the woman explained. "None here have more experience than Father Premujon. None have served the order more loyally, and none have shown such nimbleness."

"Nimbleness?" Jurgyen asked, perplexed. Only for a moment, though, as he considered the history of Dame Gwydre and the Order of Blessed Abelle. Her war with the Samhaists hadn't begun out of whole cloth, and one of the precipitating events to Ancient Badden's turn against her was her intimate relationship with a monk. Gwydre had fallen in love with a brother of Chapel Pellinor, and Father Premujon had known about it from the beginning. "Nimble," he said aloud with a little smile. He thought it a good word.

"He understands me," said Gwydre. "And he complements my decisions appropriately."

"And he follows your orders, obviously."

"Nay," Gwydre replied without hesitation. "Not that stubborn one!"

"He has ordered me to prepare rooms of meditation and to send many brothers to the corners of the world, particularly across the Gulf of Corona, to gather the information you desire."

"Because he knows it is the correct tactic. We are trapped in here, brother, as Ethelbert was trapped in his city. Our enemies run across the land and sail across the seas. We must know the result of their movements if we are to properly counter."

"And you must know of your beloved Vanguard."

"I want to know," the woman admitted. "Wouldn't you?"

The simple honesty and logic hit Jurgyen hard and shamed him for his abstinence. Truly he felt the fool for having so accused this woman of nefarious plotting!

"But you would not have us impart the word of Father Artolivan's death?" he stammered, finding suddenly that he wanted to change the subject.

"Oh no," she replied. "We cannot do so. Not while Yeslnik holds so visible an advantage. Such news will strengthen the hand of Father De Guilbe in this dangerous time. If Father Artolivan is no more, then those brothers at the many chapels across the land may well turn De Guilbe's way. He has King Yeslnik's sword. He is the easier choice."

"You have little faith in the brothers," Jurgyen scolded.

"I understand human weakness, brother. I understand that even brave men may need a measure of hope to facilitate their course to battle. Now is a time of great uncertainty in the chapels of Honce, a time of confusion and difficult choices. Now is not the moment to herald the death of Father Artolivan, who has stood so bravely against the tyrant Yeslnik."

Jurgyen considered for a few moments, then nodded his agreement to all of it. "You would have most travel across the gulf even though the more immediate events lie to the south?" he asked.

"This was not my fight, and I am unknown to many of the folk in the southern holdings of Honce," Gwydre explained. "But it is my battle now, and by Father Artolivan's own design I will be presented as a possible alternative ruler to both lairds, Yeslnik and Ethelbert. Is this not true?"

"It is."

"And so our ultimate hope rests in the security of Vanguard, for if Yeslnik claimed that land in conquest, then with what title might I presume to climb the throne of Honce? I am Dame Gwydre only because that northern holding, Vanguard, is my domain. Without it, I am merely Gwydre."

Once more Jurgyen felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He had thought that he was correct in his arguments against Dame Gwydre's course, mainly because he had presumed the woman had not thought through her plans.

In a strange way, though, when his embarrassment wore away, Jurgyen was comforted by the forethought and calculation of Dame Gwydre. He even viewed the promotion of Father Premujon in a new light, more complimentary to this woman. Yes, Gwydre had manipulated Father Artolivan, had lobbied him hard for her preferred successor, but truly, given his experiences with the kind and wise father from Chapel Pellinor, Jurgyen could not disagree with Father Artolivan's decision.

The brother argued no more. He assembled the brethren of St. Mere Abelle that very night, choosing from their ranks those most powerful with the gemstones and most seasoned in the act of spirit walking. He delivered Father Premujon's orders-Dame Gwydre's orders-with all the zeal as if they were his own.

"Information is power," he told the brothers. "A weapon we will use to bludgeon this pretend King Yeslnik and the traitor De Guilbe."

They began assembling that weapon in the dark of night, insubstantial spirits moving through the shadows with not a whisper of sound. At Bannagran's insistence Bransen stayed in Chapel Pryd and out of sight the next day when King Yeslnik and his grand entourage entered Pryd Town. Yeslnik rode in splendor in a coach befitted with sparkling jewels and leafed in gold. Trumpeters announced his arrival, their sharp notes rousing the townsfolk while guards filtered throughout the side avenues, demanding the villagers rush to the main thoroughfare and cheer for their king.

The army of Delaval marched behind Yeslnik's coach, eight abreast and stretching for miles down the road, more than twenty thousand strong. They kept their formations tight, their boots stomping the cobblestoned road in sharp cadence, in time with the drummers set at intervals among their ranks.

Master Reandu stood beside Bannagran before the gates of Castle Pryd. The monk stiffened. His discomfort was not lost on Bannagran as the glittering coach wheeled to a stop just outside the gates. Attendants scrambled to the door to pull it wide and place a short stairway before it to help King Yeslnik and then Queen Olym descend. Others carried the royal chairs, but Yeslnik waved his away and started toward the waiting laird even before Olym had taken her seat.

"Laird Panlamaris and Prince Milwellis have besieged the traitors inside Chapel Abelle," the king said before Bannagran could even offer a greeting. "Land and sea. The treacherous Artolivan and that beastly Dame Gwydre will sit in their hole and witness the birth of my kingdom all around them."

Bannagran respectfully bowed to acknowledge the important news, but he didn't look down as he did, instead watching as four bearers-slaves captured from Ethelbert's army-carried the powdered and vain Queen Olym. Behind her came a large monk, tall and wide, a giant of a man perhaps ten years Bannagran's senior but showing little sign that he was past middle age in his steady and strong gait.

"This is Master Reandu?" the large monk asked, his voice stern and loud.

"It is," Yeslnik answered, a wry smile on his face as he motioned the monk to take the lead in the conversation. The giant man didn't hesitate moving right up to Reandu, standing tall and imposing over the man.

"Father Artolivan has betrayed Honce," he announced.

Reandu didn't blink. He knew enough of the story to realize that this was Father De Guilbe.

"Chapel Abelle-"

"St. Mere Abelle, they call it now," Reandu corrected.

De Guilbe fell back a step though hardly cowed and even looking as if he was winding up for a charge. "They shame Abelle with their exploitation of his name at this time."

"You do not think our founder worthy of sainthood, father?" Reandu asked innocently.

"That is a process, master, and one ignored by Father Artolivan for no better reason than to separate himself from King Yeslnik. We both know why this time was chosen for Abelle's ascent to sainthood. The cynicism of that premature proclamation shames the memory of Abelle."

"We should discuss this in private, father."

De Guilbe scoffed at him. "The business of the church is the business of Honce," he replied. "All that we do, we do in the name of divine King Yeslnik."

Reandu didn't even try to hide his shock. "Divine king?" he echoed.

"It is providence that has brought this great victory and circumstance," Father De Guilbe explained. "Abelle, great Abelle, started the process, and here, less than a century later, we find Honce soon to be united." He turned and motioned to Yeslnik. "Under this man, this divine king. And we as ministers of the word must accept that truth and embrace it. Artolivan believed that it was time for the order to evolve, and he was right, though his direction was the past and not the future. It is time now for the Church of the Divine King to stand behind this man who has won Honce and united her. All the land will know peace if we stand strong."

"The Father of St. Mere Abelle and all the masters within would not agree with you, father," Reandu said.

"They have made themselves irrelevant by their obstinacy and their treason!"

Reandu wanted to shout at the fool to be silent, but he held his words and looked to Bannagran for some support. But the Laird of Pryd slowly shook his head, urging Reandu to silence.

Reandu took a deep breath to steady himself. He reminded himself that his words would affect all of the brothers under his guidance and the future of Chapel Pryd itself. His heart told him to fight De Guilbe's assertions, to stand proud and strong on principle, but his mind easily calculated the ultimate cost of such a stand. To what gain?

"So as with the lairds of Honce, the chapels, too, are pressed into choice," said King Yeslnik, and he motioned for Father De Guilbe to move back beside him. "Where will Chapel Pryd stand when Bannagran leads my armies to the gates of Ethelbert dos Entel, this time to destroy the outlaw laird?"

Reandu looked to Bannagran again, and the Bear of Honce stepped out before the king. "Master Reandu and his brethren will march beside me, of course," he stated flatly. "Their gemstones will serve the men of Pryd as they have without question and without reservation these long months of trial."

"Indeed," said Yeslnik, seeming hardly convinced. "And tell me, regarding my edict on the disposition of the prisoners-"

"Those prisoners taken from the field who were once loyal to King Yeslnik serve in my ranks," Bannagran assured him.

"And those loyal to Ethelbert?"

"Eliminated to a man," Bannagran lied. "Your orders were explicit. There are none loyal to Laird Ethelbert in Chapel Pryd or in all of Pryd Town."

"That is good," said Yeslnik. "Then the choice by Master Reandu has already been made and made correctly."

"We will march with Laird Bannagran, my king," said Reandu, but he was staring at Father De Guilbe as he spoke the words. De Guilbe's returned glare showed that he did not believe his fellow monk.

"I add ten thousand to your ranks, Laird Bannagran," Yeslnik said. "March east and not south. The southland has gone wild, and no supplies will be found there. I charge you with the defeat of Ethelbert. Claim his city for me, and I will widen your holding greatly."

Bannagran bowed and did well to hide the contempt on his face. This assault should have been accomplished months before when the combined armies of Yeslnik, Bannagran, and Milwellis had converged on Ethelbert dos Entel. Still, with ten thousand extra soldiers, Bannagran didn't doubt that he could win the day and the city.

"Beware Ethelbert's assassins," Yeslnik continued. "The Highwayman-"

"The Highwayman is not in Ethelbert's employ, nor has he ever been," Bannagran interrupted.

Yeslnik stared at him incredulously. "He killed King Delaval!"

"Nay, my king, we were mistaken."

"His blade broke off in my uncle's chest! I gave that very blade to you!"

"Nay, my king, it was not his blade," Bannagran continued. "It was the sword of Affwin Wi, a murderess hired by Laird Ethelbert."

"How can you know this?"

"I am closer to Laird Ethelbert's lines," Bannagran explained. "Affwin Wi's exploits and those of her mercenary band have been whispered all about, and I do not doubt them. The broken blade you gave me surely resembled the sword of the Highwayman, but the patterns carved into the silvery metal were wrong. On closer look Master Reandu informed me of this."

He looked to the monk as he finished, as did Yeslnik and De Guilbe and every man and woman near the castle gates.

"It is true," the monk reported. "We have confirmed it. The assassins who killed your uncle were in the employ of Laird Ethelbert, but Bransen Garibond, the man known as the Highwayman, was not among them."

Behind the gaping King Yeslnik, Queen Olym gasped and fanned herself with obvious relief. Yeslnik shot her a dangerous look, and she reached out and grabbed his arm for reassurance as he turned back to face Bannagran and Reandu.

"The Highwayman is still wanted for other crimes," he said. "You would do well to drag him to me or deliver his head, at least."

Reandu's eyes widened as Bannagran nodded.

"There are few in the world who understand this murderess from Behr," the monk blurted. "Perhaps the Highwayman-"

Bannagran cut him short with an upraised hand.

"The Highwayman is a blood enemy of this Affwin Wi creature," the laird explained. "She and her order are not in the favor of the cult he claims as his own. He will likely kill her and solve our problem for us."

King Yeslnik eyed him suspiciously. "You seem to know a lot about him."

"You charged me with finding him," Bannagran reminded. "To do that, I needed to learn all there is about him. Knowing one's enemy grants power. I know where he is and I know where he is going, and that path will lead him to do battle with Affwin Wi. Whatever the outcome of that fight, our position-your kingdom-is strengthened."

"You let him go once, and I forgave you," said Yeslnik. "I will not forgive you again if the Highwayman escapes."

Bannagran nodded.

"I grant you ten thousand of my soldiers to strengthen your own five thousand," Yeslnik said. "Secure every village between Pryd and Ethelbert and then lock the wretch in his city by the sea. I will join you at his gates, and we will push him into the sea and be done with him."

"It will be my pleasure, my king," Bannagran replied. "But I would ask of you a short respite for the soldiers."

Yeslnik's face screwed up with curiosity. "What do you mean?"

"A week of rest and plentiful food here in Pryd Town. We have been marching from coast to coast. Many have feet so swollen they cannot tie shoes upon them."

"A week? A week for that dastardly Ethelbert to strengthen his defenses! No, I say! Go and kill him! Go straightaway, I say!"

"The forward scouts will be out this very night," Bannagran promised.

"And the rest of you?"

"As soon as I can organize the forces appropriately."

"Tonight!" Yeslnik demanded. "Tomorrow morning!"

"That would be a disaster," Bannagran said coolly. "I know not your men or their leaders. To simply march off without the proper precautions would risk attrition and even skirmish within our own ranks."

"I would have Ethelbert," Yeslnik demanded.

"Indeed," Bannagran agreed. "And with two days' preparation, my march will be swift and strong."

Yeslnik looked as if he wanted to stamp his feet like an angry child, and he even crossed his arms over his chest. But Bannagran would not back down. In the end the warrior laird got his way.

King Yeslnik was back on the road to the west soon after, leaving behind a tent city of soldiers now under the command of the Laird of Pryd. To Reandu's great relief, Father De Guilbe departed with the king.

"You'll not kill Bransen," Reandu said when he was alone with Bannagran.

"We have a deal. Once he has dispatched Affwin Wi-"

"King Yeslnik will still demand his execution."

"He will charge me with that, but alas, I will never quite catch up to the Highwayman."

"You told him that he could live in Pryd Town with his family."

Bannagran gave a little laugh. "What would you have me do, monk?"

Reandu wanted to shout that Bannagran should defy Yeslnik, should demand that Bransen's name be cleared, but he offered no more than a simple, frustrated sigh. For there was no answer to Bannagran's question. King Yeslnik would not be persuaded by any sense of justice.

With a curt bow the monk left the castle, but before he got out the door Bannagran called after him. "Tell Bransen to shadow our march in disguise and to speak only with you or with me directly. Three days from now, perhaps four."

Reandu paused and brightened a bit at the surprising defiance Bannagran was showing to the impatient young king. But he did not look back. With ten thousand of Yeslnik's soldiers in the march and likely their own orders concerning the disposition of the Highwayman, Bannagran's call for disguise seemed quite appropriate. It fits you well. It fit your father well," Reandu said to Bransen after the young man put on the brown woolen robe the monk had offered. "Even in your days with us so long ago, I never imagined that I would see Bransen in the robes of an Abellican brother."

"They are as uncomfortable as they are impractical," Bransen replied.

"More uncomfortable to you because of what they represent, no doubt."

"As they will become to you when Father De Guilbe claims supremacy over your church."

The retort obviously stung Reandu, his shoulders slumping almost immediately. "Few will follow him," he replied, but there was little strength or conviction in his tone.

"Fewer will follow Reandu to King Yeslnik's gallows," said Bransen, refusing to let the monk get away so easily. "I am no longer amazed by how quickly a man will justify his change of heart when a spear is leveled his way."

"Your cynicism is inspiring," the monk deadpanned.

"Only because you know it to be well placed."

Reandu stood straighter suddenly. He moved to the small room's single door and pushed it closed, then turned back on Bransen and asked, "Do I?"

Bransen shrugged as if the answer should be clear.

"I am afraid," the monk admitted. "I fear that De Guilbe will win and those at St. Mere Abelle will pay for their courage with their lives."

"It seems a likely outcome. But not all, I promise you. Cadayle is there, and Yeslnik will not have her."

"Because she is something for which the Highwayman will fight."

Bransen narrowed his eyes.

"But the rest of Honce be damned?" Reandu asked.

Bransen snorted. "The rest of Honce is beyond my influence…"

"The women and children of Honce, the helpless elderly of Honce," Reandu continued, his voice rising, his shoulders squared, "all of them can be trampled under Yeslnik's armies or Ethelbert's armies, and Bransen cares not. Those miserable peasants who suffer under the horrors of this war are not Bransen Garibond's concern. The thousands of Garibond Womaks who try to simply live their lives without upset are not your problem."

"You cannot place that burden upon me," Bransen replied sharply.

"I should not have to," said Reandu. "The Bransen I knew would take it upon himself." He shook his head and opened the door, motioning for Bransen to leave.

Bransen didn't move immediately. He stood there, staring after Reandu, wanting to shout at the monk for his blindness to the obvious truth of the matter. There was nothing Bransen could do, that these events were beyond him, were beyond any man, and were, indeed, the wretched truth of mankind. What did it matter who won this foolish war? What did it matter which noble, be it Delaval or Ethelbert or even Gwydre, assumed the throne of a unified Honce? What did it even matter that Honce be unified? Certainly Gwydre would be the best choice, but to what end?

For she could be no more than a temporary light to curb the darkness of human reality.

But Bransen didn't shout at Reandu. Silently, garbed as an Abellican monk, the Highwayman left the small room in Chapel Pryd, and three days later walked with the fifteen thousand whose boots shook the ground of Pryd Town on their march to the gates of Ethelbert dos Entel.

Bannagran stared out the eastern window of his room in Castle Pryd overlooking the chapel. Once again the Highwayman had come into his life, and once again he had not killed the outlaw.

Why would he show such mercy to this one? He could claim pragmatism in each instance, but he knew that doing so would only half answer the question. What was it about the Stork that had so often stayed Bannagran's hand? Respect?

Perhaps, for none could question that the resilient young man had overcome tremendous obstacles in his life, as none could question the prowess of the warrior. But it was more than simple respect, Bannagran believed, though he had never taken the time before this moment to actually sit back and try to sort it all out.

The last candle went down in Chapel Pryd across the way, its small windows going dark. Reandu and the brothers had retired for their last night in Pryd Town, perhaps forever, Bannagran knew. He hadn't actually lied to King Yeslnik when he had declared that Reandu would be by his side for the march to the east or that Reandu and the brothers would serve well the army of Pryd and Delaval.

But neither had he told King Yeslnik the whole truth, for Bannagran knew Reandu well enough to understand that the monk would never betray the Order of Abelle for this new Church of the Divine King that the brutish De Guilbe had proclaimed. No, Reandu and most of the brothers (certainly those who had joined the chapel only to erase their status as prisoners doomed for execution) would not remain in Pryd Town under that option. They would flee to St. Mere Abelle or somewhere else beyond the immediate reach of Yeslnik.

That thought troubled Bannagran deeply, and he was surprised to realize that truth as he mulled it over. He had no wife, no family, and, indeed, no friends other than Reandu. Yes, Reandu was his friend. Not a friend like the sycophantic and opportunistic young noblemen who followed him about his court, laughing at his every joke with too much enthusiasm. Not a friend like the many women Bannagran took to his bed, all eager to steal his heart and claim a place as the Dame of Pryd. Reandu wanted nothing from him, though in many ways, the brother demanded more of Bannagran than any other person alive. Yeslnik ordered Bannagran to follow his orders, but Reandu always reminded Bannagran to follow his heart, which was the more difficult course by far.

The laird thought back to the scene in the dungeons the previous day. Would he have killed Bransen had not Reandu intervened? Certainly he was moving with that intent, and certainly he was angry enough with the Highwayman to do so. But no, he realized, he would not have killed Bransen. He did not want to kill Bransen.

Why was this one so different from all the others who had errantly crossed Bannagran's path and inspired his wrath? Why this man whose actions had led to the death of Bannagran's dearest friend, Laird Prydae?

A wistful look came over the face of the Bear of Honce. He felt a kinship to Bransen, for, like himself, the young man was a victim of his physicality. Bransen's infirmity had trapped him as the Stork for most of his life, had determined his course in life. So it had been with Bannagran. At the age of fifteen, young Bannagran had been stronger than any man in Pryd, and his proficiency in the fighting arts had caught the attention of Laird Pryd. And so Pryd had summoned him to the castle and had enlisted him to befriend his son, Prydae.

Thus had Bannagran's life path been set in motion. He and Prydae had trained together, had ridden together, and, when they were still teenagers, had gone to battle together. Bannagran the bodyguard had become Bannagran the trusted friend, and so he had spent the whole of his adulthood in Castle Pryd beside the prince, who became the laird.

He had achieved a great reputation through great exploits. He became known as the Bear of Honce, the champion of Pryd, and lairds from all around Honce had taken note of him in the powrie wars in the east.

It had been a grand life, full of adventure, full of wine and women and rousing cheers.

So why, now, did he feel so empty? So without purpose? He was the Laird of Pryd Town, a community flourishing under his control. He was the commander of King Yeslnik's main force, and his men loved him and would follow him to the gates of the demon dactyl's lair if he so asked them.

Strangely, he didn't care.