The Dame

EIGHT

The nearest Samhaist’s grove is empty, they say,” Cadayle said to her mother, Callen Duwornay. “How would they know, for who would go?” Callen replied.

“They went before the snows,” Cadayle insisted, struggling to bite back the desperation she heard in her own voice.

“So before the snows the Samhaist went away.”

“And he hasn’t returned.”

“They’re not knowing that,” said Callen.

“They’re whispering that the war is over.”

Callen moved a step away from the blazing hearth. “Every hope to hang on,” she said, a common criticism she had thrown her daughter’s way these last few weeks. Bransen had been taken from Cadayle to go and fight in Gwydre’s war, and each passing day had weighed more heavily on the poor young woman’s mind.

She knew that her mother was only looking out for her with her constant words of caution, and she knew, too, that all the people in this new town, Tanadoon, were hanging desperately onto any bit of hopeful information. They were all refugees here, all displaced from a place they had once called home, and all with family serving in Gwydre’s army against the terrifying onslaught of the monstrous minions of Ancient Badden.

A few weeks before, word had gone out that the local Samhaist had deserted his grove, and the people of Tanadoon had taken it as a sign that the war had ended. But new reports of goblin or troll incursions had continued to surface; the war had rolled along. Three of the families in Tanadoon had lost loved ones soon after the initial reports of the deserted grove had begun to raise the hopes.

But over the last three weeks, the reports of battle had slowed to a stop, and no news of further tragic losses had been delivered to Tanadoon. That lull had added life to the excited whispers that maybe, just maybe, the tide had turned.

“There’s been no smoke over the grove,” Cadayle said. “In the cold, even a Samhaist would need a fire.”

“So it might be that he’s not there,” said Callen. “Might be that he’s dead, and you won’t ever see Callen Duwornay crying over the death of a Samhaist!”

“They’re whispering that the war’s over,” Cadayle dared again.

“They’ve been whispering that since we got here,” said Callen. “And we’re all wanting it so bad that we’re listening to every word.”

“I miss him,” Cadayle said, her voice barely a whisper. She brushed back her long, wheat-colored hair, showing more clearly the redness and moisture rimming her large brown eyes, so much like her mother’s. “More and more each day. I know he’ll come home to me, but I fear he’s lying dead on a snowy field. And then I feel as if I’m betraying my love for doubting him! I don’t know-”

“I do,” Callen interrupted. “I know that what you’re feeling is what I’m feeling. Don’t you doubt that I love that husband of yours-he saved my life as his mother and father saved my life. And yours. Keep your faith in him. Bransen has overcome greater trials than most men, and it will take more than a goblin to kill him.”

Cadayle managed a smile at that, and a nod, and she turned from her mother to the cabin door, thinking to go out and retrieve more wood for the fire. She pulled her meager shawl about her as she went through the front door into the driving storm, her mother’s scolding voice echoing in her ears. For weeks, Callen had been telling Cadayle that she needed to eat more, to put some fat on her body for the coming winter. But Cadayle hadn’t found her appetite in a long while and had lost quite a bit of weight since Bransen had departed. She went to the wood pile on the side of her porch and bent to retrieve some, but as soon as she reached for the logs a gust of wind flapped the shawl back over her shoulder. She instinctively went to grab at the flap but froze in fear, feeling another hand at the shawl’s edge, pulling it back over her shoulder.

“A woman, poorly dressed and vulnerable,” came a whisper behind her in tones suggestive and even lewd.

Cadayle felt her heart pounding, felt her pulse thrumming in her temples. She considered grabbing a log and spinning about to thump the intruder across the head. She considered screaming, or running away.

Callen shouted for her, though, and the cry “Bransen!” almost sent the overwhelmed Cadayle spinning to the ground.

But the hand on her shoulder clasped more tightly and spun her about-spun her to face her husband, standing right behind her, grinning like a happy fool.

The most beautiful fool Cadayle had ever seen. She threw herself upon him, squeezing him to her and kissing him all over his face. She felt the moisture of her tears on her cheeks, felt as if her head would simply explode from excitement and joy.

Callen ran onto the porch and joined in the hug. Bransen extended an arm to bring her in closer and to loop his cape over her against the freezing wind.

“How? When?” Cadayle stammered, but Bransen hushed her by putting a finger over her lips, and he ushered both of the women back inside. He went out and retrieved a few logs, then came back in and closed the door tightly.

As soon as he placed the kindling down on the hearth, Cadayle wrapped him in another crushing hug. “Tell me that you’re home,” she whispered in his ear. “That you’re really home. That your days in the war-”

“Are over,” Bransen confirmed. Cadayle sobbed with joy and hugged him even tighter. Back in her seat at the side of the hearth, Callen put a hand over her mouth, her cheeks streaked with happy tears.

“I killed him,” Bransen said simply, pushing Cadayle back to arm’s length, and looking at both women as he explained. “Dame Gwydre knew that to win meant to cut off the head of the serpent. I did that. I killed Ancient Badden, who lead the Samhaists, who sent the hordes against Vanguard. He is dead by my hand, and there is hope throughout Pellinor that the war is dead with him.”

“Hope, but we do not know,” Cadayle said with some obvious doubt.

“It is over for me,” Bransen said. “By Gwydre’s own word.” He reached to his belt and pulled forth a rolled parchment. “She told me to kill Badden for the reward of my freedom to go wherever I would go with her Writ of Passage in hand.”

Cadayle looked at him, confused, then turned to Callen, who now had two hands over her mouth, as if afraid to make a sound and disturb these wonderful developments.

“We are free, all crimes forgiven,” Bransen said calmly when Cadayle turned back to him. “We can go wherever we want.”

Cadayle grabbed him again, one hand on either side of his face as she locked his gaze with her own. “Do not ever leave me again,” she said with intensity that widened Bransen’s eyes in surprise. “Promise me that you won’t ever leave me again.”

“I won’t-” Bransen started to say, but, surprisingly, Callen cut him off.

“Don’t make promises you cannot keep!”

“The war in Vanguard is no longer my affair,” he said evenly. “I am done here. I am done with war. I am done with running from guards. We’ll find peace now. We’ll live in peace, we three. I am at peace and in love,” he said directly to Cadayle, now reaching up to similarly place his hands on her soft face. “And happy with you beside me. The fighting is done.”

Cadayle could hardly keep her eyes open, so overjoyed was she with that proclamation. She didn’t resist when Bransen pulled her closer for another, deeper kiss, and at that moment, both of them felt as if everything in all the world was right.

I have scrubbed it and scrubbed it, and still I cannot remove all the bloodstains,” Yeslnik said with disgust. He held up the broken blade for Bannagran to view. “But enough so that we know this blade.”

“It looks like the Highwayman’s,” Bannagran admitted, slurring his words just a bit, for the side of his face was still swollen from a well-aimed and well-thrown rock during his daring and heroic charge that had sent Ethelbert fleeing.

“It is the Highwayman’s!” Yeslnik declared, and he ended with a strange sound that seemed a cross between a growl and a whimper and threw the sword blade to the floor. “I knew that beast would prove nothing but ill to Honce! I implored my uncle to hunt him down and kill him.”

Bannagran rubbed his face, fearing where this might be going.

“Oh, would that he had never been allowed to walk out of Pryd Town!” Yeslnik yelled. “With Laird Pryd’s blood on his hands!”

“It is not as simple as that,” Bannagran dared say.

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” said the champion of Pryd, the man who, indeed, could have executed the Highwayman quite legally. He chuckled helplessly as he thought back to that terrible time after the fall of his dear friend. The people of Pryd had verged on revolt; if Bannagran had not banished the Highwayman and had executed him instead, the streets of Pryd Town would have run red with blood.

Yeslnik growled again and shook his head forcefully, as if throwing all this turmoil to the side. “You have redeemed yourself in any case.”

Bannagran bowed.

“I am the Laird of Delaval now,” said Yeslnik, “and the King of Honce. All the holdings will accept that as soon as we are rid of the troublesome Ethelbert. He is on the run to the south-in no small part because of the exploits of Bannagran the hero, the Bear of Honce, I am told. You do smell like a bear, I am sure.” He gave a little derisive snort and chuckle.

“Laird Ethelbert backed us into a corner with his bold attack,” Bannagran explained, ignoring the insult and reminding himself that if Prince Yeslnik had ever actually been close enough to a bear to smell it, he would have then smelled of his own piss. “Truly, I did not expect that he would move so decisively.”

“But you turned him, broke his line and sent him fleeing.”

“We had no choice in the matter. Charge and win, or die. We chose to fight.”

“No, Bannagran chose to fight, and his choice dragged along the men of Pryd and those Delaval soldiers I left behind,” said Yeslnik. “That is the essence of a leader, and I intend to reward it.”

“As you will, my king.”

“I will name you Laird of Pryd,” said Yeslnik. “No more the steward, but the laird, who will pass the ownership and title down to his own children.”

“I have none.”

“Then make some, dolt!” Yeslnik retorted. “Or name a nephew as an heir, as did-as wisely did-King Delaval. I will see this done, as soon as we attend to pressing needs.”

“To finish off Ethelbert,” Bannagran reasoned.

“I will see to that. I have sent emissaries to Laird Panlamaris and his cowardly son Milwellis to dispatch his forces to the east and then south along the inner coast.”

Bannagran wisely hid his wince at the adjective Yeslnik had attached to Milwellis. To hear the foppish pretend warrior calling Milwellis a coward strained credulity to be sure!

“I doubt that any will stand against them, but neither shall Ethelbert find his escape in that direction. We will push him right back to his city on the sea this time, and there will be no escape. The lairds of the Mantis Arm will join with me now. Their ships will blockade Ethelbert. There will be no escape, and I will push the imbecile right into the Mirianic!”

“The men of Pryd will march with you, my lai…” Bannagran paused, somewhat confused at how to properly address Yeslnik now.

“King,” Yeslnik insisted. “The coronation is a mere formality. Honce is mine.”

“My king,” Bannagran finished.

“And Pryd is yours, Laird Bannagran,” he said. Bannagran bowed. “The men of Pryd will march with me indeed. But not all of them. Not Bannagran, the new Laird of Pryd.”

The Bear of Honce looked at him curiously.

King Yeslnik bent and retrieved the broken sword, then handed it to Bannagran. “Find him,” he ordered. “Find the Highwayman, Bannagran of Pryd. Find him and kill him. You can serve your king no better way than to serve me the Highwayman’s head on a banquet tray. Do that, and Pryd Holding is yours and your family’s forevermore, with borders we will expand.”

Bannagran eyed the sword more closely, remembering when he had done battle against the man who wielded this very blade.

“Find him and kill him,” King Yeslnik said again.

The Bear of Honce, champion of Pryd, nodded.