The Dame

FIFTEEN

They’ll not be any quicker because of your pacing,” Cadayle said to Bransen later the very same day that Lady Dreamer brought them to Chapel Abelle. Sitting beside her on the long bench in the antechamber, Callen gave a laugh.

“He’s blazing a fine trail across Father Artolivan’s rug,” she said.

Bransen did stop his pacing momentarily to regard the women. They had been waiting in the antechamber to Father Artolivan’s audience hall for more than an hour, expecting to be called in to speak on behalf of Cormack, who was in front of the Court of Chapel Abelle facing the impassioned appeals of Father De Guilbe.

“He’s got Father Premujon speaking for him, and Brother Giavno, even,” Cadayle reminded. “And Dame Gwydre herself. She had to preside neutrally over the court in Vanguard, but here she makes no secret of her support for Cormack and Milkeila.”

“I’ve seen too much of the likes of men akin to Father De Guil-” Bransen started to say, but he stopped fast as the door swung open and Father De Guilbe stormed from the audience chamber. Brother Giavno came close behind the large and angry man and tried to speak.

De Guilbe turned suddenly and snapped, “Do not follow me, Brother, else I will be spending my next days inside Chapel Abelle’s dungeon!”

At first, Giavno looked as if he had been slapped, but as De Guilbe stormed from the antechamber and across the open courtyard the monk just sighed and shrugged at the three witnesses.

“I’m guessing it went well for Cormack and Milkeila,” Cadayle said with a grin.

“Beyond anything I could have hoped,” said Cormack from the door. Arm in arm, he and Milkeila moved from the audience hall.

“Father Artolivan would like to sanction our marriage formally,” Cormack explained.

“Then you are forgiven,” said Bransen.

“And offered a return to the order,” Milkeila said.

Bransen’s face twisted uncomfortably at that. “You’ll not go back,” he said.

“I’ve made no decision,” said Cormack. “But it was good to be asked.”

From inside the audience hall Dame Gwydre called out, “Hurry along, then!”

“They would see you now,” said Milkeila.

Bransen and the two women exchanged surprised looks, for they thought they had been brought here solely to speak on Cormack’s behalf, which was apparently no longer required. With a shake of Cormack’s hand and a hug for Milkeila, Bransen entered the audience hall, his wife and Callen close behind.

“I had thought to be speaking for Cormack,” he said as he walked to the center of the carpet. He faced a long table, behind which sat Father Artolivan and Father Premujon, Dame Gwydre, several other monks Bransen did not know, and, surprisingly, Jameston Sequin and Dawson McKeege. He couldn’t help but feel as if he were standing before some kind of inquisition, though he took faith in the friends seated at that table.

“It was not necessary,” Father Artolivan replied. “Cormack’s character was well presented and represented.”

“We have heard news of you, young man,” Artolivan continued before Bransen could ask why he had been summoned if not for Cormack. “Information regarding the Highwayman.”

“It is good to be famous.” Bransen’s sarcasm didn’t brighten the grim faces staring back at him, which didn’t bother him so much concerning Artolivan, but Dame Gwydre seemed equally uneasy.

“You are hunted, friend,” Artolivan said, “accused of a crime against the throne of Honce.”

“I did not know that Honce had a throne,” Bransen replied, all glibness gone from his voice. “Just a bunch of petty lords with petty concerns and not a care at all of who they destroy to see their desires fulfilled.”

Father Artolivan smiled and glanced at Dame Gwydre.

“A notable exception to the rule,” Bransen quickly added, bowing deferentially to the Lady of Vanguard.

Dame Gwydre waved it off and seemed hardly to care, but Father Artolivan cleared his throat, bringing the conversation back on topic. “You are accused of a serious crime, Highwayman.”

“That I robbed that idiot Yeslnik in Delaval City?” Bransen replied. “Of that I admit my guilt. I robbed him as well in Pryd right after I rescued him from certain death at the hands of marauding powries. I have already admitted my past deeds, though in my heart I fear that my biggest error was in saving Yeslnik from the dwarves.” He bowed as he finished, and when he came up, he saw the principles at the table all exchanging somber and concerned looks. Bransen looked back to Cadayle and Callen, and then all three of them shared confused shrugs.

“Dame Gwydre’s Writ of Passage was offered with knowledge of those thefts,” Bransen said somewhat more defensively than he had intended.

“Laird Delaval-King Delaval-was murdered in the same tower where you robbed his nephew,” Father Artolivan said.

“At the same time?”

“No. Recently,” said Artolivan.

“While you were in Vanguard,” Dame Gwydre added.

Bransen held up his hands, not quite understanding. “I am sorry?” he asked as much as stated.

“King Yeslnik-” Father Artolivan started, but Bransen interrupted with a cry.

“King?” he blurted.

“He proclaims himself King of Honce as the rightful heir of Delaval, who similarly demanded the title,” Artolivan explained.

Bransen snorted with obvious derision.

“He believes you complicit in the death of his uncle, King Delaval,” Artolivan explained.

“My arms are not that long,” Bransen quipped, but he saw Gwydre, grim-faced, shaking her head at him. “I did not know the man. Why would I want to kill him? And if I haven’t killed the loathsome Yeslnik, then why would I go out of my way to kill his uncle?”

“Your contempt for the new King of Honce is noted,” Artolivan said dryly. “As is your proclamation of innocence.”

“I have been in Vanguard throughout the winter,” Bransen replied, growing more animated with every word. “With him.” He pointed to Dawson. “And with Brother Jond, and Cormack after him. How could I have been involved in a murder in Delaval City?”

Father Artolivan held up his hands to calm the man. “We are not your judge and jury. We know that you could not have been involved in this tragedy. But King Yeslnik will not be so easily swayed, I fear, given all that I have heard of him.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that my Writ of Passage to you may not be enough,” Dame Gwydre answered. “It means that you and Cadayle and Callen should remain here or perhaps even sail back to Vanguard with me when I go.”

Bransen stared at her hard, angrily, suspiciously.

“I honor the Writ of Passage,” Father Artolivan was quick to say, “and will not detain you in any manner. You and your family are welcome at Chapel Abelle.”

Bransen never blinked and never stopped staring at Gwydre.

“Yeslnik claims that Bransen, the Highwayman, killed Delaval,” Gwydre said.

“We know otherwise,” said Bransen.

“We do,” Gwydre agreed. “But he does not. Nor do the lairds who do his bidding. It was Master Reandu of Chapel Pryd who delivered the news, only right before we arrived here.”

Bransen’s face brightened at the name.

“You know him?” Gwydre asked.

“Quite well, I am told,” said Artolivan. “And if it means anything to you, young man, I think that Master Reandu doubted in his heart the claims against you.”

At that moment the words meant nothing, for suddenly the weight of it all came clear to Bransen. He felt as if the walls were pressing in on him. He could hardly remember to draw breath. He had no response to this surprising news or to the involvement of Reandu, his old… what? Friend? Mentor?

“We will work to clear your reputation,” Dame Gwydre assured him.

“If Yeslnik is King of Honce, then your work will be in vain. Know that he will always hate the Highwayman,” Bransen finally replied. “As much because of his own failings as a husband and a man as because of the robberies.”

Behind him, Cadayle gave a little yelp of surprise.

“His wife was rather taken by a man who would fight against enemies instead of sniveling inside the coach,” Bransen explained to her and turned back to the table. “If Yeslnik is your king, then, as much as I would have thought it impossible, my estimation of the nobility and leadership of the Honce Holdings has sunk even lower. He is a fool and a fop, a vain and preposterous coward, and-”

“Enough, Bransen,” said Artolivan. “We will work to clear your name as Dame Gwydre insisted. We are interested in justice.”

“That is not my experience with laird or brother.”

“Enough,” Artolivan bade him. “We ask that you remain here for your own sake and the sake of your family until we can clear away all this confusion.”

“Or we will be sailed to Behr,” Bransen said, staring again directly at Gwydre, then sliding his gaze to take in Dawson McKeege, who was nodding his agreement.

“Give us time,” Gwydre said. After a stone-faced moment, Bransen nodded.

“And now you will excuse us,” Father Artolivan said. “For we have other matters to discuss.”

Before Bransen and the two women turned to go Dame Gwydre interjected, “No, I wish Bransen to sit with me as we discuss the situation.”

Father Artolivan looked at her with surprise and something less than enthusiasm.

“He has earned it,” Gwydre insisted. She turned to Bransen and motioned to an empty chair at the end of the table. “He may be quite important as this goes forward. The Highwayman is not unknown in Honce and not unloved by many of the people we seek to serve.”

After a moment Artolivan sighed. “Would the two of you please excuse us then?” he said, indicated Cadayle and Callen. Cadayle moved up and kissed Bransen on the cheek and squeezed his hand, then took her leave with her mother.

For all his bravado, Bransen felt quite unsure of himself as he moved to take the seat between Jameston and Gwydre. He sat quietly as the group began discussing Yeslnik’s new edict regarding disposition of prisoners. He wasn’t surprised by the foppish, self-proclaimed king’s lack of simple morality, of course.

“And you will react how?” Dame Gwydre asked after Artolivan had explained every detail regarding Yeslnik’s demands for the prisoners entrusted to the Order of Abelle and his further demand that the church declare allegiance to him in his struggles with Ethelbert.

“We must refuse this man who calls himself King of Honce,” Father Artolivan declared. All the monks around him nodded and whispered their agreement.

Bransen arched his eyebrows in pleasant surprise.

“And I will support you, of course,” said Dame Gwydre. “Let us hope that King Yeslnik will listen to reason on this matter.”

“He won’t,” Bransen interrupted, surprised at himself for saying that aloud. Everyone turned to him, so he continued, “He is stubborn and vain beyond description.”

“In that case we will be faced with more difficult decisions still,” said Father Artolivan. He sighed and seemed very old and tired at that moment. “But we will forge our way through the obstacles as they are presented to us. For now King Yeslnik awaits our further word on his edict regarding the prisoners. He will not be pleased, but we must follow that which is right and just and in concert with the teachings of Blessed Abelle.”

For some reason the decision and declaration of the father of the Order of Abelle unsettled Bransen even more than the unsurprising news of Yeslnik’s continuing and escalating stupidity. He left the meeting much later on, his thoughts spinning, both for himself and his family and their place in the world and for the larger issues of Honce and this new king who could be nothing more than a catastrophe.

The couriers went from Chapel Abelle soon after the meeting had adjourned. While watching them depart, still surprised by the continuing actions of the church, Bransen heard a familiar voice call to him.

“How do you fare with the new order of the world?” asked Cormack.

Bransen turned and greeted him as he approached. “I am not surprised by the actions of Yeslnik, to be sure. I have encountered the man a couple of times in the last months. Neither meeting has left me impressed with his wit or his wisdom.”

“I mean regarding Bransen,” Cormack clarified. Bransen stared at him curiously.

“You expected to walk Honce a free man,” said Cormack.

“And so I shall.”

“By your stubbornness and your sword? Is there not the matter of your wife and her mother to consider?”

“Dame Gwydre-”

“Is powerless against Yeslnik at this time. Her Writ of Passage will not be honored for a man believed to be the killer of King Delaval. And, honestly, it would be foolhardy to not rescind the order. If you go and present that document, then she, too, will be complicit in the killing of King Delaval.”

“I had nothing to do with that. I was beside you, was I not?”

“And you believe that matters?”

Bransen gave a helpless laugh. “No,” he admitted.

“So what will you do?”

“I don’t know. Dawson McKeege has pledged to sail me wherever I wish to go. Perhaps to Behr.”

“Jacintha?”

Bransen furrowed his brow in puzzlement.

“The principle city of the desert kingdom,” Cormack explained. “Just south of the city of Ethelbert dos Entel around the Belt-and-Buckle mountains, whose rocky spurs jut into the Mirianic as if god himself did not want the men of Honce and of Behr to mingle.”

“Jacintha, then.”

“It is a strange place with strange ways,” Cormack warned.

“A fine choice you offer,” Bransen replied.

“Father Artolivan will not expel you or your family, nor will he turn you over to Yeslnik’s soldiers if they come.”

“So you offer me imprisonment in a chapel of a faith I do not hold true or a journey to a strange and dangerous place,” Bransen reasoned. “Shall I thank you for creating great contentment within my tumultuous soul?”

Cormack couldn’t suppress a laugh at the deserved sarcasm. “Vanguard,” he said a moment later, and again he drew a puzzled look from Bransen.

“It is a wondrous place,” said Cormack. “Full of freedom and personal responsibility. It is the perfect location for one who wants no part of the politics and intrigue of Honce, or of Behr, I am told.”

“Will Cormack be there?”

“And Milkeila. Dame Gwydre speaks of dividing up her vast holding into smaller duchies and has hinted that she will offer one to me.”

“And you would like the Highwayman as a subject,” Bransen said dryly.

“Or as a neighboring duke.”

Bransen laughed all the more, and all the more helplessly. “I thought you just said…”

“I did, and I hold to it,” Cormack replied. “I only mean that if you wished more for yourself and Cadayle, then you will find an ally in Dame Gwydre, do not doubt. She expressed deep gratitude to me when we spoke quietly about a possible appointment, though she counseled me to consider Father Artolivan’s offer to return to the Order of Blessed Abelle.”

“And will you?”

Cormack shrugged, and Bransen knew that the man was truly uncertain here, truly torn. “I would be a liar if I said that I was not intrigued. Great healing might be accomplished between the Order of Abelle and Milkeila’s shaman brethren and between Vanguard and the Alpinadoran tribes. Father De Guilbe did great damage on Chapel Isle. Our battle with the many tribes of Mithranidoon Lake-”

“And De Guilbe’s refusal to join in the common cause against Ancient Badden,” Bransen interrupted, and Cormack nodded solemnly.

“Perhaps I can do some good,” Cormack finished.

“As a monk or as a duke?”

“That is the question, is it not?”

“Why not as both?”

It was Cormack’s turn to wear an expression of surprise, which shifted to one of intrigue. He paused for a few moments, then took a deep and steadying breath and looked back to Bransen. “But what for you?”

Again, the young warrior shrugged. “I wish at some point to travel to Behr-I must. But Honce is my home, and I do not count that lightly. And there is another matter…” He stopped just short of telling Cormack of Cadayle’s pregnancy, deciding instead to remark, “Honce is Callen and Cadayle’s home, as well, and they should be free to remain here and wait for my return-particularly Callen, who long ago grew weary of the road.”

“You would trust Yeslnik to honor the Writ of Passage for them and not imprison them to use against you?”

“Of course I would not.”

“And so we are back where we began.”

“I will go to Pryd Town to test Dame Gwydre’s Writ of Passage,” Bransen decided then and there. “And if it is not to be honored, I will do what I need to clear my name and to demand the commute of any claims made against me. I served honorably under a bargain from a Honce Lair… Lady. I expect, when the truth is known that I could not have participated in the murder of King Delaval, that my covenant with Dame Gwydre will be respected.”

“You will march south and demand all that?”

“I will journey south more quietly, and learn and adapt,” said Bransen. “I am the Highwayman, have you not heard? And the Highwayman has many friends in Pryd Town.”

“And many enemies?”

“That is what I intend to learn.”

She knew.

That truth permeated Bransen’s thoughts as he navigated the corridors and courtyards of the sprawling complex of Chapel Abelle. He had tried to hide his decision from Cadayle for the time being-out of cowardice, he admitted to himself-but she had seen through him, and his tenuous and halting answers, stuttered even though he had the soul stone firmly tied against his forehead, had led Cadayle to more incisive and determined questioning.

By the time Bransen had managed an appropriate dodge to the larger question of his intentions, Cadayle had already confirmed her suspicions.

She knew, Bransen believed, that he was planning to leave her once again despite his promises to her in Vanguard.

The look on her face as he had walked out of their room that morning, a combination of resoluteness and sadness, had nearly made him change his mind, had nearly turned him toward a different course-perhaps back to Vanguard with Cormack.

But now, as he walked the ways of the great chapel complex, as he heard the familiar dialect of the many men hard at work, Bransen understood that he must go at once to Pryd Town, to confront Reandu with the hard evidence, the letters of proof from many reliable affiants. He had to believe that somewhere, somehow, even in the holdings of Yeslnik, the truth would ultimately win out and he would be exonerated and that Gwydre’s Writ of Passage for him and for his family would be honored.

If there was any justice in the world, this course would be the correct one to walk.

But Cadayle knew.

His inner tumult slowed his steps as he neared Father Artolivan’s chambers, and he slowed further as he came to hear loud arguing from behind the solid oaken door. Growing up as the Stork, where so many people had thought him an idiot and had spoken about him and about important matters right before him, it didn’t even occur to Bransen that he shouldn’t eavesdrop.

Right before the door, the words became clear, as did the voices of fathers Artolivan, Premujon, and De Guilbe.

“You would have me kill them,” Artolivan shouted, “these men who were given to Chapel Abelle and put under our care on condition that for them the war had ended?”

“We must choose between Yeslnik, who will win, and Ethelbert, who hides in the south,” De Guilbe argued. “The greater movement of the kingdom is beyond our control. Delaval won and gave his winnings to Yeslnik, and thus Yeslnik is the King of Honce.”

“That simply?” asked Premujon.

“Yes! Unless you know of some great army stirring to oppose him.”

“His victory over Laird Ethelbert seems assured, by last reports,” Father Artolivan unhappily agreed, speaking lower so that Bransen had to move right up and put his ear to the door to understand.

“Then we are to recognize Yeslnik as King of Honce,” said De Guilbe. “What other choice is before us?”

“Recognition with precondition,” said Artolivan. “Perhaps. We can force King Yeslnik’s hand on this and other matters, promise our fealty, but only to a goodly king.”

De Guilbe snickered loudly. “You think yourself the king,” he accused.

“Father De Guilbe!” Premujon scolded.

“If Yeslnik is the King of Honce, then the decisions are his to make,” De Guilbe continued, undaunted. “We cannot say that we agree here and disagree, and therefore will not abide, there. Is he the King of Honce or is he not? And if he is, then we are bound to honor-”

“I will not murder unarmed prisoners!” Father Artolivan cried.

“Then you should not have involved our order in this secular business of war!” Father De Guilbe scolded.

“Father!” Premujon shouted again.

“It is true!” De Guilbe shouted right back at him. “We heal the wounded for both sides. That is a good thing, and all the chapels agreed. But then you agreed to turn our most holy and important monastery into a prison?”

“A prison that sent men to the aid of Vanguard!” Premujon reminded.

“That matters not at all! Father Artolivan took it upon himself to involve the order in matters where it did not belong. You cannot make such a stand and then decide at a later date that you don’t like the outcome.”

“We retained our neutrality,” Father Artolivan argued, and De Guilbe snorted as if the notion was absurd.

“Until one side or the other gained the advantage,” De Guilbe said. “For surely, had Ethelbert won the field, his demands upon you would be equally harsh and distasteful.”

“I do not believe that, nor do I believe that Laird Delaval would be possessed of such… cruelty.”

“Then you are a fool,” said De Guilbe. “And you have softened to the point where your leadership is a danger to the Order of Abelle.”

“Father!” Premujon shouted again, but De Guilbe shouted back at him to shut up.

“I demand a Council of Fathers,” De Guilbe said.

“Denied,” said Father Artolivan.

“You cannot deny it alone!”

“Denied,” echoed Premujon. “Two to one, then. Find more fathers of similar humor to yours and make your request at a later date.”

“And until then, know that I will not execute the men of Laird Ethelbert, taken under honor and sent here under promise of my protection,” Father Artolivan assured him.

“And the men of Laird Delaval?”

“Are here as agreed. King Yeslnik will not have them turned free to serve his cause until the war with Laird Ethelbert is settled.”

Father De Guilbe began to laugh, a chuckle that rang of little mirth in the ears of Bransen.

“Our order has gone soft,” he said. “As with Cormack, who betrayed us.”

“This was about Cormack all along,” Premujon accused.

“It is about a church that forgets the harsh lessons of the wider world,” De Guilbe replied, but calmly now-and that seemed far more imposing to Bransen than his fiery rant of a few seconds before. “A church so steeped in false hope and idealism and tolerance that it ensures its own inevitable collapse.”

“If I gave you a sword and the order from King Yeslnik, would you kill the prisoners with your own hand, Father De Guilbe?” Father Artolivan asked.

“Yes,” the man replied without the slightest hesitation.

Bransen did well to hide his own gasp as both Artolivan and Premujon issued theirs.

“Because I look beyond the lives of a few and the immediacy of our current situation,” De Guilbe clarified. “War is cruel, and need be, to end it swiftly and to make the mere thought of it cause men to piss in their breeches.”

“You sound like a Samhaist,” said Premujon, his voice subdued now as if De Guilbe’s stark admission had simply broken his will to argue.

“You are dangerously wrong in your decisions, Father Artolivan,” said De Guilbe.

“If you believe that, then find enough support among the brethren to force your council,” Father Artolivan wearily replied. “Truly you tire me. I sent a man of spirit and hopefulness to Alpinador those years ago, a mission that I thought De Guilbe might accomplish in bridging the differences between our ways and those of our northern brothers. This man who returns to me these years later hardly resembles the one I knew.”

“Because I am wiser.”

“Because you are hardened, and stubborn.”

De Guilbe snorted, and Bransen heard heavy footfalls coming his way. He managed to jump back a couple of steps and tried to appear as if he was just arriving when the door was flung open and the large monk rushed out. With only a cursory glance at Bransen and a dismissive shake of his head, De Guilbe stormed away.

“Greetings, Bransen Garibond,” Father Artolivan said-to Bransen’s back, since the Highwayman had turned to watch the angry De Guilbe’s departure. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit so early in the day?”

Bransen turned about. “Your pardon, Father,” he said with a bow. “I have made a decision and wished to inform you first of all.”

“A decision? I did not know that you were faced with a question.”

“Concerning my destination and my place in the world.”

The monk nodded and waved for Bransen to enter the room.

“I will take my leave of Chapel Abelle this day,” Bransen explained. “With Dame Gwydre’s Writ of Passage in hand, I will go to clear the name of the Highwayman.”

“King Yeslnik will kill you,” Father Premujon remarked, but Bransen merely shrugged.

“Yeslnik seems not to be a reasonable man,” Father Artolivan added.

“I know him well,” Bransen assured them both. “And I do not disagree regarding his temperament. But there are others I know to be reasonable and just.”

“You will build support for your cause?”

“That is my hope,” said Bransen. “And I hope that Father Artolivan will lend that support.” To the side, Father Premujon shifted uncomfortably, as did Brother Pinower, who had walked into the room behind Bransen.

“I will speak truthfully to that which I know, of course,” Artolivan said. “What more would you have from me?”

“A second Writ of Passage.”

Artolivan looked at him incredulously, while Premujon and Pinower said no in unison.

“You cannot ask this of Chapel Abelle,” Premujon elaborated against Bransen’s obvious disappointment. “We are in difficult straits with King Yeslnik as it is.”

“And with some in your own ranks?” Bransen asked, and Premujon didn’t disagree.

“You appreciate the difficulty I have in openly defying King Yeslnik at this time, on this issue?” Father Artolivan asked.

“I do.”

“I cannot offer you any imprimatur that would serve you against the king’s men,” Father Artolivan said. “But perhaps I can fashion some writ to add my voice to Dame Gwydre’s, some imprimatur to ensure those favorable to your cause that I witnessed Dame Gwydre’s testimony on your behalf and found it credible.” He looked around as he finished and both Pinower, who had moved up to stand beside him, and Premujon nodded their agreement, albeit with some obvious reservations.

“That would be most helpful,” said Bransen.

“Your wife and her mother are welcome to remain here at Chapel Abelle,” Artolivan added. “I trust you will not be bringing them along on your undoubtedly perilous journey.”

Bransen sighed deeply; the thought of being away from Cadayle again after only a few short months together gnawed at him. Thoughts of traveling to Behr flickered through his mind once more, along with a nagging feeling that he should sail north again with Gwydre and Dawson and make his home in Vanguard. It had been a fine winter, the most peaceful and enjoyable Bransen had ever known. Beside Gwydre and Dawson and Cormack and Jond and even Premujon, Bransen and his family had felt as if they were truly among friends.

“Bransen?” he heard Artolivan remark, and realized that he had fallen deep within himself and had missed a question or two. He shook the doubts away and looked at the leader of the Order of Abelle.

“Your wife?” Artolivan asked.

“I have to go,” Bransen said, as much to himself as to the others. “If Yeslnik is to be King of Honce, then I have to clear my name and regain the freedom I earned from Dame Gwydre.”

“King Yeslnik is a stubborn one,” Father Artolivan warned. “He will not be easily swayed.”

Bransen, knowing Yeslnik better than any in the room, nodded, but he smiled as he did, and in a flash drew out his magnificent sword. “For the third time, I will put him at the tip of my sword,” he promised, and he didn’t fight that mischievous, almost reckless, smile from widening on his face as he went into a sudden slash and thrust move, ending up in a powerful pose, sword forward. “I suspect that while his eyes are seeing the sharpened edge, his heart will see the truth of Bransen.”

Brother Pinower looked horrified, and Father Premujon cleared his throat uncomfortably, but Father Artolivan let forth a great squeal of laughter and clapped his hands. “Brilliant!” he congratulated. “I only hope that Honce will forgive you for stopping short your deadly blade.”

“Father!” Pinower and Premujon said together, but Artolivan waved them away and walked up to Bransen, patting the young man on the shoulder.

“I would like for you to stay, Highwayman,” he said. “Though I know you cannot. Return to me, if you find the time.”

“To retrieve my family, of course.”

“And to sit with me! I have only heard small stretches of the history of Bransen Garibond and this hero known as the Highwayman.” He paused and looked at Bransen as if seeking permission, before finishing, “And of the Stork. I would like to hear the whole story.”

“Ask Cadayle,” Bransen replied. “She can tell it as well as I, since she was there for most of my steps, even the awkward ones of the Stork, that as often as not left me face down in the mud.”

“Sometimes in the mud of Chapel Pryd, with buckets in hand,” said Artolivan, and Bransen looked at him, surprised that he knew so much.

“Small stretches of your history,” Artolivan assured him. “And there is one more thing.” He reached up and touched the front of Bransen’s black bandanna, tapping right atop the soul stone hidden beneath it and secured to his forehead.

Artolivan turned to Pinower and pointed to the desk, and then pointed more emphatically when the younger monk hesitated.

“I have had a long discussion with Brother Cormack,” Artolivan said, and it took a moment before Bransen realized that Artolivan had added the church title to his friend’s name.

Pinower walked over with a small, decorated box. With obvious reverence, he handed it to Artolivan, who held it before Bransen as he slowly opened its hinged lid.

Bransen’s eyes widened as he stared at the contents: a small star-shaped brooch, no more than a fingertip across at its widest point, centered with a soul stone and containing in its five tips other stones of various colors. He recognized the ruby at its top point, flanked left and right by malachite and a particular type of agate known as cat’s eye. The striated stone set in the bottom left point he thought to be serpentine, and the other he knew as quartz, but a cloudy variety whose properties Bransen did not know.

“This was made for Laird Delaval’s grandfather, ironically,” Artolivan explained, “in the early days of the Order of Abelle. To Father Abelle’s surprise, the laird refused it, despite its obvious powers, since we were not as accepted back in those days, when the Samhaists dominated Honce.” He lifted the brooch and slowly turned it so that Bransen could better see its wondrous craftsmanship, including small hooks and pins on the backing. “It is fashioned of silverel, the same metal as your unusual sword, and edged in graphite, the stone of lightning.”

“What does it do?”

“Separately, the gems are each possessed of their own blessing.”

Bransen, who knew of the gemstones, of course, nodded. “They are all enchanted?”

“It is a fine item,” Artolivan confirmed. “It was crafted to be sewn to the chest, above the heart, but perhaps on your forehead…”

Bransen reached up and touched his bandanna. “To the cloth?”

“To the skin itself,” said Artolivan, and Bransen’s eyes widened in surprise and a bit of trepidation. He calmed quickly as he remembered the fight on the road with Dame Gwydre’s raiders, when his bandanna and stone had been knocked away and he had been helpless against the troll enemies.

“I have spoken about you at length with Brother Jond, as well,” Father Artolivan explained.

“Women in Behr wear gemstones in such a manner,” added Brother Pinower. “They call it tikka, and it is considered quite beautiful.”

“And those are simple and mundane jewels,” said Artolivan. “Magically speaking, I mean. You will find these stones useful in other ways.”

He handed the brooch to Bransen, who slowly lifted it to his forehead with one hand, slipping free the other soul stone as he slid the new one in place. He closed his eyes and fell within the flux of energy offered by the gems.

His ki-chi-kree, his line of life energy, remained straight and strong, as with the other soul stone. And other possibilities flitted through his thoughts, a jumble at first, but gradually sorting themselves out.

Possibilities.

“You would give this to me?” he asked, opening his eyes to stare hard at Father Artolivan.

“An extraordinary gift for an extraordinary man,” Artolivan replied. “It does my old heart good to see that brooch, so long in the coffer, upon your forehead.”

“And it looks quite good,” Father Premujon added with a smile.

Bransen left Artolivan’s quarters with his bandanna in his hand, and he walked with the sure gait of the Highwayman, not the awkward stumble of the Stork.

You hate me,” Bransen said solemnly after a long and uncomfortable pause.

Cadayle looked up at him; across the room, Callen laughed.

“For a hero, you’re sure for saying some stupid things,” the older woman remarked. “She’s no more for hating you than you are for her, and you should be able to see that clear enough in her eyes by now.”

“Of course I don’t,” Cadayle added, and she hugged Bransen close. “But I am afraid, and I’ll miss you dearly, as I did in Vanguard those weeks you were gone from me.”

Bransen hugged her back even more tightly. “I know. But I have to do this. My name is clear, as Dame Gwydre agreed.”

“We’d be free enough in Vanguard,” said Cadayle.

“I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure out how and where I belong,” Bransen replied. “Honce is our home-Pryd is our home. Even if we choose not to live there, we should be able to return at our leisure.”

“When we left, you left a dead laird behind,” Cadayle reminded him.

“But even that is forgiven by Gwydre.”

“By Bannagran?”

“I don’t know, but I will find out.” He paused, his next admission coming hard. “I want Brother Reandu-Master Reandu, I mean-to know the truth of it, to know that I am no criminal and that his order, at the very highest level, has deigned to honor and accept me.”

“Because of your life at Chapel Pryd. Because of the way Reandu and the others treated you.”

Bransen couldn’t deny the obvious truth of Cadayle’s observations, so he just slid back from her a bit and shrugged helplessly.

“If Bannagran or Yeslnik catches and kills you, I’ll never forgive you,” Cadayle said, ending with a spreading grin.

“Then you don’t hate me?”

Callen let out a great burst of laughter.

“I know you have to do this. I only wish I could go with you,” said Cadayle.

“Not now.”

“I know.”

“Here, you hero,” said Callen and she took a couple of steps toward Bransen and tossed him his bandanna, which she had been sewing. He caught it and examined it, then slipped the now thin eye-mask on.

“The dashing Highwayman,” said Callen.

“They know who I am,” Bransen replied. “And now I need not hold a gemstone in place. There is no point to the disguise.”

“Yes there is,” said Callen.

“The common folk of Pryd know the Highwayman more than they know Bransen Garibond,” Cadayle agreed. “Your reputation is your advantage against Bannagran.”

Bransen’s step was sure-footed but much less animated as he walked out of Chapel Abelle that afternoon. He was confident that his course was correct, and that he had justice on his side, but the thought of leaving Cadayle for an extended period yet again-even though he expected to be gone from Chapel Abelle for no more than a couple of weeks-wounded him. He glanced back to see Dame Gwydre and Dawson McKeege watching him from the wall, Gwydre nodding her approval.

Cadayle was not there, though, and Bransen was glad of it, for had his beautiful wife been watching, he would have turned and rushed back to her.

He sighed and laughed at himself for his own weakness, then adjusted his hat, brim low to cover the gem-studded star set in his forehead, and hoisted his pack higher on his shoulder and moved on his way. He stayed mostly to the side of the road, moving along the brush and trees, enjoying the solitude and the sounds of a world awakening in the full bloom of spring.

He let his guard down-who wouldn’t in so idyllic and peaceful a setting?-and so he was caught by surprise when a voice called out, “You’ve got a longer road before you if every step forward is taken with half a step backwards!”

Startled, Bransen jumped back, his hand going reflexively to the hilt of the sword set on his hip. He relaxed when the speaker, Jameston Sequin, walked out of the shadows.

Bransen glanced all around and back the way he had come, back toward Chapel Abelle, which was long out of sight by then.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked.

“Been a long time since I’ve walked the ways of Honce.”

“Vanguard is part of Honce,” Bransen said, but Jameston, like most Vanguardsmen, dismissed that notion with a snort and a wave of his hand.

“Haven’t been here in more years than you’ve been alive,” he continued. “Thought this’d be as good a time as any to reacquaint myself.”

“Heading where?” Bransen said suspiciously.

“You’d know that better than myself.”

“I am going to Pryd Town.”

“I am going to Pryd Town,” Jameston echoed.

Bransen put his hands on his hips and stared at the man. “Dame Gwydre believes I need a bodyguard?”

“Doubt that, since she sent you against Badden.”

“But she asked you to come with me on my journey.”

Jameston shook his head. “Was my idea.”

“One she thought wise.”

“I’ll give you that much. But I do want to walk the ways of Honce again, and I know more than a bit about staying out of sight and out of notice. I think you’ll find that helpful.”

“I am no novice.”

“Could’ve fooled me with the way you were dancing down the path. And if I was one of Yeslnik’s men, one with a bow, you’d be lying dead in the brush.”

Bransen just stared at him hard.

“Oh, but quit pretending,” said Jameston. “You know I’ll be helpful, you know I won’t slow you down, and you know you don’t want to walk alone. You also know, but you’re too proud to admit it, that you might learn from my long experiences. Sure, you know how to fight-you’re as good as any I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen many!-but you could learn a few things about when to fight and where to fight from, I’m thinking.”

Bransen didn’t reply, but his visage did soften.

“You know you don’t want to go alone,” Jameston said with a grin under that outrageously thick mustache of his.

Bransen couldn’t resist that smile, and returned it.

“Good thing we’ve got a long road ahead of us,” Jameston said, moving beside Bransen as he walked by. “Because you’ve got a lot to learn and I’ve got a lot to teach you.”

Bransen didn’t reply, other than to widen his smirk. He had spent his life in learning, from the Book of Jhest his father had penned, from the brothers of Chapel Pryd, and, more recently, from Dame Gwydre. He wasn’t about to let foolish pride get in the way now, not with the likes of Jameston Sequin offering him the lessons!