The Dame

SEVENTEEN

Jameston Sequin was not a sound sleeper. Living most of his life alone in the wilds of Vanguard and southern Alpinador, the man had trained himself to react to the slightest of sounds or movements.

His eyes opened wide this dark night, and he was surprised indeed when he looked to the side to see that Bransen’s bedroll was empty. Jameston silently congratulated the young man; escaping Jameston unnoticed was no small feat!

The scout lay very still for a few moments, allowing his sensibilities to fully adjust to the darkness. He rolled silently to his side, tucked and set his foot under him, then just as silently rose up tall and gathered his bow and quiver. He heard another sound then, a slight shuffle, and followed it to a small clearing.

Bransen stood in the middle of the lea, working his fine sword furiously through a series of practice cuts and blocks, a brilliant dance of perfect balance, which again reminded Jameston of just how good a fighter this young man truly was. Jameston rested the tip of his bow on the ground beside him and leaned on it, enjoying the show.

Bransen turned in one mock attack to the side and then spun all the way around, looking right at Jameston.

Jameston knew that he had been seen, and that confused him and unnerved him more than a little. For the night was not bright-only a few stars twinkled above-and he was fully engulfed in the darker shadows of a stand of thick spruce. Bransen couldn’t have seen him from that distance, not viewing from the lighter open lea to the darker shadows.

But Bransen had seen him. Of that Jameston was certain.

The scout shook his head and continued to watch as Bransen finished with a flurry, moving from a series of defensive poses and blocks to a sudden and violent forward movement, sword thrusting. The young man ended by lifting that magnificent blade high to his right. To Jameston’s astonishment the blade erupted in a sudden burst of flames!

“How the…?” Jameston stuttered, compelled to walk forward. His surprise only heightened as Bransen, seeming as surprised as Jameston by the flaming sword, reached over with his free hand and felt the burning blade.

“They’re not hot flames, then,” Jameston reasoned as he walked up beside Bransen. He reached toward the fiery sword, snatching his hand back immediately. An all-too-real fire danced on the shining metal of that beautifully etched sword blade.

Bransen looked at him with puzzlement and shrugged.

“I never saw your sword do that before,” said Jameston. “I never heard of any sword doing that before!”

“It’s not the sword,” Bransen replied. He pointed to the star set on his forehead, three of the gems-ruby, serpentine, and the agate-twinkling. “The ruby gave me the fire. The serpentine shielded me from its heat.”

“Nice brooch.”

“I grew up among gemstone users in Chapel Pryd,” Bransen explained. “My connection to the stones and their powers is considerable.” He paused and smiled widely. “The cat’s eye let me see you as clearly as if you were standing in the midday sunlight.” He looked at his sword as he spoke, and with a thought, winked out the fires, leaving the silverel blade unscarred.

“Full of surprises,” Jameston remarked.

“Even to myself.”

“And what else can you do with that toy you’ve got stuck on your head?”

Again Bransen shrugged. “I don’t know-yet. But I will find out.”

Jameston stared at him for a few moments then headed to the campsite. “Long walk tomorrow,” he said without looking back. “And not many hours left before we start it.”

Bransen nodded, though Jameston wasn’t watching him. The young man didn’t immediately follow. Instead he stood under the stars, staring at his sword, trying to sort out the unexpected benefits the brooch had shown him, and wondering what more might yet come.

They were off early in the morning, Jameston setting a swift pace. Signs along the road indicated a village not too far in the distance, and Jameston wanted to get there before they set their next camp. “Maybe we can try out that writ of yours,” he said. “Or you can just wear the deerskin coat and pants and keep a hat on your head.”

“No,” said Bransen. “My clothing suits me. I am Bransen the Highwayman. I will not hide who I am. Dame Gwydre says I need not.”

“The man who calls himself King of Honce says you do.”

Bransen couldn’t help but snort at the reference to Yeslnik. “I expect that I will have to visit with the man who calls himself King of Honce, then.”

“To convince him?”

“To take his money. To make his wife swoon for no better reason than to see the anger on his face.”

“Then he’ll want you dead even more.”

“Then I’ll have to kill him and hope his successor is more reasonable.”

Jameston stopped abruptly and stared at his companion, who was grinning and obviously enjoying the banter. “Took my advice, did you?”

In response, Bransen hopped and skipped lightly, landing in an exaggerated heroic pose. Jameston enjoyed the best laugh he had known in many years.

“I should thank you,” Bransen said.

“Oh?”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Dame Gwydre’s a friend, and she’s better served if you learn to keep your head on your shoulders.”

Bransen, smiling all the more widely, shook his head through every word. “This isn’t about Dame Gwydre. Not entirely, at least. So I thank you for teaching and most of all for reminding me.”

“You do have a way of talking in riddles, boy.”

“Reminding me to smile,” Bransen said. “And to enjoy this, as trying as it may be.”

“Well, what’s the point otherwise?”

“There is none!” Bransen gave a little laugh and dropped a hand comfortably (surprising to both) on Jameston’s shoulder. “And so I thank you, Jameston Sequin. Because of you I have remembered my past and what I have overcome to get to this point.”

Jameston gave an exaggerated deep bow.

“I’ve been in love with Cadayle since I was a boy, you know,” Bransen said.

“Good taste.”

“But I never, ever dared believe she could love me in return.”

“Because you were the broken boy, the Stork?”

Bransen stared at him and couldn’t respond past the lump in his throat.

“You figured she loved you after you found a way around that infirmity?” Jameston asked. Bransen’s tight expression turned into a perplexed look. “So now you doubt that she-”

“Never!” Bransen retorted. “I doubt nothing about Cadayle.”

Jameston’s smile relaxed him a bit. “And you shouldn’t,” the scout said. “Easy enough to see in her eyes. Cadayle loves Bransen, not the Highwayman. Cadayle’s always loved Bransen, but she probably wasn’t sure that he could ever love her. Could you?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you were the Stork, could you have loved Cadayle?”

“I did!”

“And you would have married her, even if you hadn’t found the answer to your problem in that gemstone you wear on your head?”

“Jameston, of course! I have loved her…” Bransen paused then and assumed a pensive pose, truly asking himself that question for the very first time. If he was still an infirm and unsteady creature and Cadayle professed her love for him, would he have accepted her proposal?

“No,” he answered at last. He looked at the scout, dumbfounded, and shook his head. “I would not have let her marry me.”

“I know. And I know that she wouldn’t have let your condition stop her from wanting to marry you. Don’t ever let yourself think that you weren’t good enough for her, boy. You’re still the Stork, and he’s still you, and Cadayle loves you.”

The two men stared at each other for a bit longer before Jameston complained about needing sleep. He patted Bransen on the shoulder and walked back to their camp, leaving Bransen with the realization that the Highwayman wasn’t the only one full of surprises this night.

Bransen was still considering the conversation of the previous night when they broke camp the next morning. His gratitude to Jameston Sequin had only grown as he had pondered the great gift the man had given him. Jameston had seen into his soul, it seemed, and had offered a salve to a wound that lay there, one that Bransen had never even openly acknowledged to himself.

There was a new spring in Bransen’s step. He was feeling quite good about himself, about the possibilities of the gemstone brooch, and about the woman he had left behind in Chapel Pryd. That step did slow as the sun lowered in the west, however, as he and Jameston moved down the cobblestones into the heart of Eskald.

They heard the whispers coming at them from every direction as they entered the town.

“The Highwayman!”

“That’s him!”

“The Highwayman has come!”

“You’ve made quite a name for yourself, boy,” Jameston said.

“We’re not far from Pryd Town,” Bransen whispered back. “And, yes, something important happened there of which I was more than a small part.”

“They appreciate it,” Jameston observed.

Bransen didn’t reply, but his smile showed that he was not so far above basking in the compliments. Jameston liked seeing that from the young and exotic man. Though he had been a loner, nearly a recluse in recent years, Jameston Sequin was no neophyte in recognizing and understanding the foibles of men and women. Bransen’s acceptance of the complimentary remarks with such inner satisfaction reinforced the depth of Bransen’s humanity in Jameston’s mind. No man or woman, not laird nor dame nor general nor cobbler nor blacksmith, could work for the betterment of others without some measure of personal pride. Many people viewed that as a failing, as hubris, but Jameston knew it to be a simple and acceptable truth of human nature. Charity came from the heart, and accepting the compliments only reinforced the notion that such charity was correctly given.

If Bransen had not been smiling, if Bransen had not quietly acknowledged the whispers of the villagers around him, Jameston would have worried that Bransen’s actions-the very actions which had inspired the awe-filled whispers-had not been taken for their benefit.

The pair made their way to the village’s common room, where all eyes turned upon them as they took seats at a small, round table. The serving girl began to move their way, but the tavern keeper, an older and severe-looking woman with short hair curling tightly to her rather square forehead and a small but tight frame, held the serving girl back and went to see to the guests herself.

“Ye got some belly for walking in here open,” she remarked.

“A fine day to you, too, good lady,” said Jameston.

“It could be,” she replied curtly.

“Would you prefer that we leave?” Bransen asked.

“Makes no nevermind to me. Go where ye want, but go looking over yer shoulder if ye got any sense between yer ears.”

“I have a Writ of Passage from a Honce laird… err, lady,” Bransen said, holding it up.

“One loyal to Ethelbert or Yeslnik?”

“I do not really know.”

“Best be hoping it’s Yeslnik and that he’s listening,” the tavern keeper said. “So are ye eating or drinking or both?”

“You would still serve us?” Jameston asked.

“Am I looking like a soldier to ye?”

“A little bit, yes.”

That brought a chuckle from the woman. She told Jameston of a fine stew and a finer brew, and that seemed like just the thing for the road-weary duo.

When she went to get their meal, Jameston kept up the small talk, chattering to Bransen about the weather and other nonsense. So out of character was the man of few words that Bransen looked at him strangely.

“I thought that squirrel was going to jump down and bite your neck,” Jameston said.

Bransen’s jaw hung open at the gibberish.

“What with them two by the door staring at us like that,” said Jameston. “More than a furry-tailed rat can take.”

Bransen’s mouth started to form the question “What?” when Jameston’s words began to register. He began laughing, a bit too much, and used the hopeful distraction to get a look at the men by the door.

That quick glance confirmed Jameston’s concern as valid: grim faces staring intently-too intently-at Bransen.

He turned back to Jameston and began talking about a squirrel chasing a skunk, the pair by the door enough in view out of the corner of his eye for Bransen to see them depart.

“Trouble,” Jameston said seriously.

“Do we eat or do we leave?”

“If you leave, I’ll just eat yours, too.”

Their meal went off quietly. One of the too-curious men who had left returned to his previous seat by the door and did a poor job pretending that he wasn’t staring at them.

“Try not to look too intimidating, and we’ll have a bit of fun,” Jameston remarked as they rose to leave.

The pair passed right near the spy as they exited the tavern. Jameston dipped the tip of his tricornered hat to the tavern keeper. Bransen tossed a mischievous wink at the seated man. Outside they found the street strangely empty, the long shadows stretching into a wider darkness as the sun fell below the western horizon.

“We should not remain here through the night,” said Bransen.

“Thought you wanted to test that writ Gwydre gave you.”

Bransen considered that for a moment but shook his head. “Not here in some village whose name I hardly know. Pryd Town is only a few days march south of here.”

“Got more friends there?”

“And probably more enemies,” Bransen admitted. He let his thoughts slip back to his last days in his hometown as he and Jameston set out, moving off the road as soon as they were out of sight of Eskald. He thought of Bannagran and Laird Prydae and the look on the warrior’s face when his thrown axe had spun right over the ducking Bransen to dive deep into the chest of Prydae, mortally wounding the nobleman. How Bannagran had wanted to kill Bransen for that!

But the people wouldn’t let him. They marched on the castle, demanding the release of the Highwayman.

Bransen nodded as he replayed it all, remembering that the final brokers in the standoff had been the monks of Chapel Pryd, mostly Reandu. Where would they stand now, and was Bransen acting the fool to begin to believe that they would do the right thing? Was he deluded, drunk with optimism, because of his unexpectedly positive experiences with Dame Gwydre and Chapel Pellinor and with the brothers at Chapel Abelle?

This was the church that had burned his beloved Garibond at the stake, he reminded himself.

“Best get your thoughts back to what’s around you,” Jameston whispered, drawing him from the inevitable memories inspired by being so near to Pryd. Bransen perked up immediately but gave no indication that he and Jameston were on to whomever might be watching them.

Bransen began using the techniques Jameston had shown him. If there were men in the area watching him, where would they be? And if they were watching the road and not the two men walking in the brush to the side of it, then where?

Bransen felt his blood pumping, felt the rush of adrenaline coursing his veins. The brooch on his head called to him then, a confusing jumble of possibilities.

And a pathway, he saw suddenly, an invitation. He grabbed Jameston’s shoulder and motioned for him to stop, then closed his eyes and let his spirit fly free of his corporeal form, sliding through the brooch into the open air. Invisible, propelled by will without constraint, the disembodied spirit of Bransen Garibond darted all about the area impossibly fast.

He passed near one would-be ambusher, crouched in a tree, and marked the spot, thinking to move along. He sensed the man’s thoughts completely and honestly; as expected, he was here hoping to catch or kill the Highwayman. The man was thinking of the bounty, of the glory, of how King Yeslnik and Bannagran would reward him when he brought in the Highwayman’s head.

Not surprised, Bransen again started to move along to will his spirit back.

But he couldn’t. Suddenly Bransen felt a compulsion he had not known before. Unable to mount a defense or argument against it, he found himself sliding into the ambusher’s body.

A wall of outrage and denial came up against him, the man instinctively battling against this awful intrusion, this invasion into his very being. He flailed mentally and physically, and the movement cost him his balance and he tumbled from the branch, crashing through the tree to land in a shocking jolt against the hard ground.

The jarring landing expelled Bransen’s spirit instantly. A wave of disorientation overwhelmed him and left him lost in the ether. He saw one spot of light, warm and inviting, and instinctively made for it, not realizing until he had passed through it that the brooch was showing him the way home.

Back in his own body, Bransen nearly swooned and fell over. He started to talk, but a hand slapped over his mouth and held him fast then pulled him to the ground. He realized where he was when he was finally able to open his eyes and see Jameston staring at him incredulously. Bransen could only shrug in response, since he wasn’t even really sure what had just happened.

Commotion began to grow around them. The fallen man howled in pain; Bransen had felt more than one of the poor fellow’s limbs breaking. Others nearby shifted in the branches and the brush, wondering if battle was upon them.

“They’re here to kill us,” Bransen silently mouthed.

“Well, yes,” Jameston replied, rolling his eyes.

Jameston held up four fingers and pointed toward the noise. Bransen somehow understood and nodded, slipped his mask down over his eyes, and started that way. The scout pulled and strung his bow in one fluid motion, then moved off the other way, disappearing into the brush.

Circling wide of the fallen man, keeping him between them and the road, Bransen noted more movement. After his spiritual flight he knew exactly where to look. He made out one man creeping toward the writhing victim, another in the tree, as well as a third.

Another man appeared along the road the way Bransen had come. The man started to call out, “He just fell-”

The whizzing sound of an arrow slicing through the tall grass cut him short and stole his breath as he suddenly lurched over.

“I’m shot!” he managed to cry, tumbling from Bransen’s view.

“Where?” called a man from across the road.

“What direction?” shouted another from the tree above the first to fall.

A second arrow cracked into the wood at that location, a perfect shot that pinned the speaker’s hand to the branch.

“Down! Down!” the man in the next tree yelled. “To the northwest!” He leaped to the ground beside his fallen friend.

“And here!” Bransen added, springing into their midst. Swords rose against him, but he was already past their range, rushing between the men and turning as he went, cutting a downward stroke across the back of one man’s legs. The second man cried out and thrust at him, but Bransen’s powerful blade picked off that thrust with enough force to send the sword flying from the man’s hands.

He wouldn’t have been able to do anything with his weapon anyway, for Bransen, far too fast for him, sent his fine sword slashing across, but purposely high of the mark. The man yelped and instinctively ducked, and Bransen continued his sword’s movement, turning around and stepping forward. He threw his left arm up high as he spun, still coming forward. His elbow hit the man hard in the nose, shattering it and snapping his head back. Bransen planted as the man recoiled and hit him with a vicious right cross, pommel in hand.

This time the man’s head snapped to the side. He staggered only a step before falling face down with a groan.

Bransen paid him no heed, knowing the man to be out of the fight. He turned instead on the man he had slashed, still standing exactly as Bransen had left him, reaching back to grasp his torn leg. Two steps brought Bransen directly behind him. He stepped again to gain momentum, then leaped and laid flat out, his legs tucked tight.

His double kick sent the man flying to the ground. Bransen, too, fell flat, and a pair of arrows soared past above him. He landed lightly and sprang back up just as the man Jameston had shot in the hand dropped to the ground before him. His right hand bloody and tucked in tight, he brandished a dagger, waving it frantically at Bransen, grimacing in pain with every movement.

“You would make me kill you?” Bransen asked, punctuating his question with a sudden thrust that left the tip of his sword resting under the man’s chin.

The man gave a little squeal, and his dagger fell to the ground.

Bransen dove away, another arrow coming at his position. The knife man cried out and stumbled away. Bransen let him go, focusing instead on the two archers who had a bead on his position.

One archer, he corrected silently, as Jameston’s next arrow took one through the upper arm. He fell onto the branch and managed to hold tight. To Bransen’s relief, the second man turned and let fly to the northwest. He sent off another arrow, ducking as one cracked into the tree by his face.

Bransen let it go, leaving the man to Jameston, as three more men appeared directly across the road and coming hard for Bransen, two brandishing shields and swords, the third a shield and bronze-tipped spear.

“I arrest you, Highwayman!” one cried.

Bransen met their charge with one of his own and hit them with a barrage of thrusts and slashes, his Jhesta Tu sword slamming against bronze shields, slapping against one sword then the other, severing the spear tip when his opponent stubbornly brought it back to bear. He leaped and rushed left and right, sword working every step as he moved to defeat the integrity of their line, to push them apart enough so that he could get between them.

But these were not simple peasants seeking a bounty. They had obviously known battle and carried the scars of many fights. Still the Highwayman of fame kept all three on their heels with his speed and side-to-side movements, his sword finding any opening they presented or just slashing hard against a shield, digging deep grooves.

He slid to the right in fast steps, stabbing hard to make the man on that flank fall back, then went to the left, flipping the blade to his left hand and stabbing with equal precision and speed.

Bransen cut the second course short with a sudden stop and complete turn, tossing the sword to his right hand. The three men skidded to their own short stops. Bransen used the moment to heed the call of his brooch, though he knew not what it was saying. Driven by some subconscious thought, he thrust his arm and the blade high to his right and felt the ruby tip of the brooch tingle.

His opponents widened their eyes in obvious shock and fell back in unison.

Bransen heard the crackling and managed to glance up at his blade.

At the flames dancing about the carved silverel blade.

Grinning, he slashed the sword down and across. The defenders exaggerated their dodges, trying to stay far from the fiery weapon. Using those wild and erratic movements against them, Bransen slashed left at one man, then back at the man standing to his left. Both yelped and faded far from danger, opening the path the Highwayman sought.

Bransen jumped between them, his brooch screamed new possibilities. He grabbed the half spear of the man to his left, neutralizing any immediate attacks, and sent his sword in a down and around parry at the sword coming at him to his left. He caught the blade with his own and continued his movement, sending both weapons up high, then turned and snapped off a succession of quick elbow smashes above the off-balance man’s shield, cracking him one, two, three in the face.

The spearman bull-rushed from the right, or started to, but Bransen quickly let go of his spear, planted his hand against the leading shield, and let the power of the brooch flow through him. Before he even realized what he had done, he noted the spearman flying backward, as if he had been thrown from a catapult. The man landed hard on his feet but staggered back a couple of quick steps and fell to his bum, where he sat, scorched shield before him, hair dancing wildly at its ends, a confused and dazed look in his unfocused eyes.

Bransen spun fast to see the swordsman he had elbowed rolling on the ground, the one remaining foe coming in hard.

Again the Highwayman invoked the power of his new brooch, and the attacker stopped suddenly and turned, slashing with abandon. He kept on, fighting as if against some unseen demon.

Jameston walked up to Bransen and looked at the swordsman with puzzlement, then back to Bransen. The Highwayman merely shrugged, took a step forward to the side of the fighter, tapped him on the shoulder, and when the man finally glanced his way, smashed him hard in the nose with the pommel of his sword.

“What was that about?” Jameston asked.

Bransen pointed to the tip of the brooch holding the smoky quartz, the gemstone of illusion. “I guess his eyes were crossed,” he said somewhat sheepishly.

Jameston shook his head and sighed. “Gather them that aren’t dead and disarm them,” he instructed.

Bransen started to round up the rogues, slapping them up to the road with his sword, when he noticed the first man Jameston had shot in the gut curled on the ground, groaning softly.

“That one’s near dead,” Jameston explained, leading two more from across the way, one with an arrow halfway through his bicep, the other leaning on him and limping badly with two arrows stuck deep into the back of one leg.

“Watch them,” Bransen said, rushing past Jameston to the mortally wounded man. He eased the man onto his back, wincing at the gruesome sight, the arrow deep into the man’s belly, his guts all torn up.

“Shh,” Bransen soothed him, putting one hand up to his brooch and setting the other firmly on the man’s stomach, the arrow shaft tight against the crook between his thumb and forefinger.

“Shh,” he said again, sending waves of healing energy into the man, almost anesthetizing him with a blast of concentrated warmth.

Bransen yanked the arrow out, the man howling in agony. The others cried out in surprise. Bransen held the wounded man down and put his hand immediately back to the ghastly wound. Gradually, the injured rogue eased to lie flat and his breathing improved. Many heartbeats passed, Bransen holding the pose, continuing the flow of healing magic. He found the man’s line of ki-chi-kree fluctuating wildly; he used the connection of the soul stone to coax it back to straight. Drawing some of the man’s agony into himself, Bransen winced and clenched his jaw.

After many minutes, the man’s ki-chi-kree finally settled. Bransen leaned over him and whispered into his ear, “The Highwayman is not your enemy.” Repeating it a couple of times, Bransen straightened on his knees and turned to regard Jameston and the prisoners.

“The Highwayman is not your enemy!” he proclaimed. “Now be quick and get your friend to a warm bed. Care for him, and he will live.” Bransen leaped to his feet and walked back toward the group.

“Go on, then,” Jameston said above them. “And go fast, before I slip with this bowstring and put one of you down to the dirt!”

They scrambled at that, past Bransen, who seemed not to notice.

“Good choice,” Jameston said to him as he approached.

“I couldn’t let him die.”

“He tried to kill you.”

“He didn’t know any better. But now…”

“Now what? Now you don’t know, and the whole group might come back at us in a day or two.”

“You said it was a good choice,” Bransen protested.

Jameston grinned slyly. “Yep. And I think I figured out why that pretty Cadayle fell in love with you.”

Bransen just shook his head and, with a glance back at the group, followed Jameston into the brush.

“If you’re thinking this to be a clean war of minor wounds, then you’re the fool,” Jameston warned. “I hope you’ve got the stomach to kill a man when you need to.”

“I know a couple of former Samhaist priests, a young thug, and a former laird who would vouch for me on that point.”

Jameston nodded and held his knowing grin. “Glad you can do it,” he said. “And gladder still that you don’t prefer it that way.”

Bransen nodded.

So was he.