“Our order would be enhanced greatly if we could coax her to us,” Jond managed to get in before the younger monks pulled him out of the chamber.
“No more so than if we purchased a mule,” Father De Guilbe muttered. “This Milkeila is rather like a domesticated animal, don’t you think? And with the appearance of one.”
No one but De Guilbe himself chuckled at his joke.
“I would ask you again to exact punishment upon Cormack,” De Guilbe stated flatly.
“He is not Brother Cormack any longer,” Father Premujon reminded. “He is not of our order.”
“He was of our order when he betrayed the emissaries of Abelle,” De Guilbe replied. “He was meant to die for his treason. Only through unfortunate circumstance does he still draw breath.”
“But he did not die, and so he was banished from your island,” said Premujon. “Appropriately so!” the father of Chapel Pellinor added with enthusiasm to erase De Guilbe’s growing scowl.
“It is different now,” De Guilbe said.
“What would you have me do?”
“Take him from Gwydre to be judged by his peers. Take him in chains as a heretic.”
Father Premujon looked around the room for support. He knew he was in a corner here: Father De Guilbe was no small player in the Order of Blessed Abelle and had been hand-picked by Father Artolivan, a personal friend, to lead the missionary team to Alpinador. The man’s obstinacy, so clearly on display, offered little room for compromise.
And the man’s power would demand of Father Premujon that he make a stand one way or the other.
H
e has suffered his entire life,” said Master Reandu. Into his thirties now, Reandu’s face showed the strain of the last couple of years. Father Jerak of Chapel Pryd had declined to a point of incoherent babbling, and Reandu had to take up the reins in these most trying times with all of the responsibilities but none of the imprimatur of the office. No small part of that burden came from the fact that Reandu’s actions had led to the death of Master Bathelais, who would have succeeded Father Jerak. No action had been taken against Reandu for that confused and tumultuous fight—even Bannagran, who had been battling the man Reandu had saved, had forgiven him.
“And he suffers to this day, I am sure. Every step comes with the grimace of the pained Stork,” Reandu finished.
“The Stork who killed Prydae,” Bannagran reminded.
Reandu smiled knowingly, sadly. The Stork hadn’t directly killed Prydae, after all, but had simply ducked Bannagran’s thrown axe, which had then struck down the laird. Bannagran’s anger as he spoke Bransen’s nickname was rooted in deep guilt, Reandu knew, much as his own guilt over Master Bathelais gnawed at him, and that was never a good thing.
“Bransen has moments of . . . surprise, I agree,” said the monk. “But you know his life story as well as any. The loss of his mother and father, of Garibond Womak . . .”
He stopped there, seeing Bannagran’s eyes narrow dangerously. The fate of Womak was not a good subject to bring up around Pryd Holding. For the sake of Prydae’s manhood, through some ridiculous Samhaist assertion of virility restored, the man had suffered castration. And for protecting the belongings of his friend, Stork’s father, Garibond had been burned at the stake.
“He carried chamber pots—it was all he could manage,” Reandu said, referring to Bransen’s stay at Chapel Pryd as a servant. “He lived in a hole.”
“I do not envy him his miserable existence,” Bannagran interrupted. He reached to his belt and pulled forth the broken blade of a fine sword. “Do you recognize this?”
“Is that Bransen’s blade?” Reandu asked.
Bannagran shrugged. “It would appear. How many like this could there be? This blade was pulled from the chest of King Delaval. How many like this one, Reandu?”
“In Behr?”
“In Honce!”
“We know that Ethelbert has many ties to Behr, where such blades—”
“Enough!” Bannagran commanded. “Our own Stork was a party to the group who murdered King Delaval. So says King Yeslnik, and so it is true.”
“I know,” Reandu admitted. “Yeslnik came to Chapel Pryd this morning.” He paused and shook his head. “King Yeslnik?” he said with obvious disdain.
“I would remind you that your tone will hold consequences, Master Reandu,” said Bannagran.
“You approve of his ascension?”
“It is not my place to approve or disapprove. It simply is. I am a subject of Pryd Holding, which is indebted to and in alliance with Delaval Holding. We threw our fealty to Laird Delaval, who proclaimed himself king, and his successor was his choice alone.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“There is no answer to such a foolish question,” said Bannagran. “Yeslnik is King of Honce, by Yeslnik’s word. Laird Ethelbert will try to foil him, but Laird Ethelbert will fail.”
“And since the King of Honce would see Bransen dead, so Bransen is condemned?” said Reandu.
“Yes.”
Master Reandu took a deep breath, saddened by the decision but with no recourse.
“What do you know of his whereabouts?” Bannagran asked.
Reandu shook his head and sighed.
“Brother, I insist,” said Bannagran.
“There is word that he traveled through Palmaristown, heading generally east, in the direction of Chapel Abelle. I do not know if he ever made it there, for there has been nothing more. I do not even know if he truly made it as far as Palmaristown, for that has never been confirmed by the Chapel of Precious Memories.”
“When was this?”
“Months?” Reandu said with little certainty, indeed with a shrug of his shoulders. “A couple at least. Not long after his departure from Pryd Town.”
Bannagran sighed, and Reandu studied him carefully. “Why do you care?” the monk asked.
“Because the king told me to care.”
“You’re charged with catching him and killing him,” Reandu accused.
“I should have done that long ago, for the death of Laird Prydae.”
“No,” Reandu replied. “No, you chose wisely. The people of Pryd love you all the more for the mercy you showed . . .”
His voice trailed off as Bannagran held up his hand, begging silence.
“Bransen is not an evil man,” Reandu finished.
“That is not my decision. He is complicit in the murder of the king, so he is guilty of treason against the throne. So says Yeslnik, and so it is.”
Reandu started to argue, but Bannagran interrupted with finality when he growled, “It simply is.”
C
adayle stiffened reflexively, her breath coming in gasps when she heard the horses rambling into town outside her door. The last time she had heard such a ruckus her husband had been taken from her.
Bransen gave her a hug and assured her that all was well. They went to the window together, where Bransen pulled the curtain aside.
They recognized Dawson McKeege immediately, riding a horse with an escort of several grim-faced soldiers and a single, empty wagon.
“To take us where we wish to go,” Bransen insisted when they pulled up outside his door.
“With winter coming on strong?”
“Trust in Dame Gwydre,” said Bransen. “I have her word.”
Cadayle motioned toward the window then. Bransen turned to see Callen, who had gone across the road to borrow some spices, moving over to speak with Dawson, who smiled widely at the sight of her and tipped his floppy hat.
Cadayle started for the door, but Bransen held her back and bade her to watch the exchange—the undeniably pleasant exchange. Dawson hopped down from his horse and even kissed Callen’s hand. Suddenly the men around him didn’t seem quite so grim-faced any longer.
The young couple went onto their porch.
“Greetings!” Dawson said upon sighting them, his crooked smile still wide.
“Have you found another battle
to which to drag my husband?” Cadayle asked sarcastically.
Dawson paused as if confused, then said, emphatically, “Oh, no, no, good lady. Your husband’s heroics in the northland seem to have ended all that!”
“The war is truly over?” Bransen asked.
“What we’re hoping, at least,” Dawson replied. “No fighting, no goblins, no trolls, and no Samhaists that we can find. I’m thinking that Dame Gwydre’s gamble did its work, and wouldn’t that be a grand thing for all of Vanguard?”
“It would, indeed,” said Bransen. He paused and considered it all for a few moments, then added uncharacteristically, “I hope it’s true.”
“Then why have you come?” Cadayle asked.
Dawson stepped back as if slapped.
“I mean, you came here for us, didn’t you? For Bransen, at least, but it can’t be time to sail the gulf.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be putting my Lady Dreamer out now, so late in the season! Not if all the demon dactyls were chasing me!”
“But here you are, with an empty wagon.”
Dawson laughed and bowed. “Guilty, my lady,” he said. “We came for you—all three with an invitation from Dame Gwydre for you to winter at Castle Pellinor.”
Cadayle looked at Callen, who nodded hopefully. Then Cadayle turned her confused expression to an equally confused Bransen.
“Back to Pellinor?” he asked. “Why?”
“It is more comfortable than here, of course. You’ve earned that at least,” Dawson answered, but Bransen knew better and shook his head in reply.
“There’s trouble,” Dawson admitted.
“He’s done fighting for you!” Cadayle insisted.
“Not that kind of trouble,” Dawson said hastily. “I weren’t lying to you when I said that all was at peace, good lady. No fighting to be found and none asked of Bransen. Nay, this trouble’s with the brothers of Blessed Abelle.”
“A group for which I care little,” said Bransen. “I put them not so far above the Samhaists, to be honest.”
“Brother Jond?” Dawson asked, and Bransen perked up at that. “He calls you his friend.”
“I am.”
“And Cormack?”
“He’s no longer of that order.”
“But the order isn’t letting him go so easily,” Dawson explained. “Father De Guilbe is a fiery one, full of anger, anger aimed at Cormack. Cormack’s been arrested.”
“Father Premujon put him in chains?” Bransen asked.
“Dame Gwydre took him,” said Dawson. Bransen gave a little hiss of disappointment and dismay.
“She had no choice in the matter,” Dawson continued. “Father De Guilbe demanded it of Father Premujon—the big idiot De Guilbe apparently has some power in the order and with Father Artolivan, who leads them all. He put Premujon in a tight corner to be sure. Dame Gwydre had no choice but to give in to De Guilbe’s demands and arrest Cormack for trial. She’s got him, but rest assured he’s comfortable and outside the influence of his former brothers.”
“To what end?” asked Bransen. “Is he to be sentenced? He risked everything for Vanguard and fought with courage and strength. Without him Ancient Badden would have won the day and your war . . .” He stopped when he noted that Dawson was nodding with his every word.
“There are rumors that he is to be tried before both court and church,” Dawson explained. “If it comes to that, it will be fair, I promise. Dame Gwydre will preside and will surely mitigate any demands of the brothers upon Cormack with her knowledge of his heroics in ending the war.”
“What of Milkeila?” Bransen asked. He turned to Cadayle and reminded her, “The barbarian woman, wife of Cormack.”
“She is well, and within Pellinor with Cormack. They are not ill-treated, I promise you. I came to relay all of this and to extend Dame Gwydre’s invitation. I hope you will agree to join us in Pellinor. Your presence would be a great boon to your friend Cormack.”
“I have already said everything on his behalf. What influence could I possibly bring to such a trial?”
Dawson glanced back at his men, and they all laughed at that.
“You still do not understand, do you?” Dawson asked. “You, who dropped the head of Ancient Badden at Dame Gwydre’s feet, do not understand the power of your mere presence. You’re a hero, boy! Your name is being whispered through every vale in Vanguard. To have you there, at Cormack’s side, will surely carry great weight. It will bolster Gwydre’s hand in this argument and diminish De Guilbe. You shame him, Highwayman, for you went where he would not, and you did what he could not. Cormack’s stature rises with the Highwayman beside him. I beg you to join me. You will find Pellinor comfortable for the winter, and you will do a great favor to this man you call a friend.”
Bransen turned to Cadayle, who nodded.
“My ma, too?” she asked suddenly of Dawson.
The man turned his smiling face to Callen Duwornay and gave her a playful wink. “Ah, but that I insist upon,” he answered.
Callen’s blush was not lost on Cadayle.
TEN
A Church on Trial
I
can go back, but it’s getting cold and I’m getting old,” Jameston Sequin said, starting the conversation on that note as Dame Gwydre walked into the room.
“Do you need to go back?” the woman asked.
Jameston shook his head. “It’s done and over.”
“You have met with Samhaists directly?”
“A couple. One, I trust. The other . . . well, he’s a Samhaist, but I don’t see why he’d lie to me. The stories were consistent. This was Badden’s stand. He wanted to take Vanguard as his own since his order has lost southern Honce to both the warring lairds who just love those monks and their baubles.”
Dame Gwydre stiffened at that comment, a curious movement. Jameston looked at her quizzically.
“The brothers of Blessed Abelle have powerful magic, you know,” she said, and Jameston nodded. “They can deliver messages over far distances in a hurry, it would seem.”
“I’m no expert on Abelle gemstones,” Jameston admitted.
“They can,” Gwydre replied. “Not an easy task, apparently, and not without danger to the courier. So they reserve this practice for the most urgent messages alone.”
“Sounds like you have something important to tell me.”
“Laird Delaval is dead, murdered by Laird Ethelbert,” said Gwydre.
Jameston shrugged as if he hardly cared. “One of them had to go.”
“But while Laird Ethelbert’s assassins were killing him, Laird Delaval’s men were chasing Ethelbert’s army back to the south.”
“They’ll keep fighting without a laird leading them?”
“They’ve a new laird and not a promising one from what I could discern. The war rages, escalates even.”
“Idiots,” Jameston muttered.
“Beyond all reason, Father Premujon told me. This war is to the death.”
“Oh, it is,” Jameston agreed. “To the death of Honce.”
Both paused and sighed at that harsh reality. “Southern Honce,” Gwydre added at length. “Vanguard has found peace, it would seem.”
“It’s true,” Jameston assured her. “No goblins or trolls or barbarians to be found. Most of Badden’s priests weren’t too happy with his decision to employ mercenary monsters. The priests are split now and fighting among themselves, and that’s always a good thing. It’ll take them a year and more to put a new ancient in place. I expect before that time, you’ll be hearing from many Samhaist priests who want to make peace. They’ll be asking you to allow them to hold their groves and tend to their followers.”
“Do they think they will have any followers in Vanguard after the misery Badden has loosed upon us?”
Jameston shrugged. “Prideful bunch, and I never thought much of the intelligence of the average man or woman.”
Gwydre gave a little chuckle at that, a helpless one. “Vanguard knows peace on the battlefields,
perhaps, but not peace of mind.”
“I’ll go out on a thin trail of old turds here and guess that the Abelle crowd is causing you misery.”
Gwydre laughed again and held up her hands helplessly. “They wish to try Cormack for heresy. They demand it.”
“Cormack? The tall one who went to the glacier and helped kill Badden?”
“The same.”
Now it was Jameston’s turn to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. He stopped when he noted that Dame Gwydre was staring at him intently.
“How well do you know him?” she asked.
“Cormack? Don’t know him at all. Heard about him. Talked to him once.”
“How well do you know Bransen?”
“The Highwayman?”
Gwydre nodded. “He arrived in Pellinor this morning at my request.”
“I traveled with him for a short time,” said Jameston. “Good fighter, that much I know.”
“Not unlike Jameston in skill or in temperament.”
“I don’t think I ever fought like that,” the scout replied. “Not that well, but I hope I had better sense than that one even when I was a young man.”
“Not unlike Jameston in his disdain for the Samhaist and the brothers of Abelle—oh, and for the lairds of Honce.”
“I’m liking him all the more.”
“Spend some time with him,” Gwydre bade Jameston.
“That an order?”
“A request. I think that you might counsel him well.”
“Ah, you mean that you want me to make sure that he likes Dame Gwydre more than he likes the other lairds.”
Gwydre smirked at him, and Jameston couldn’t suppress a return smile.
“You’ve earned that much from me, at least,” the scout said. He took Gwydre’s hand and kissed it. “Since you’re th’only one worth a dactyl demon’s damn.”
“My husband was a good man.”
“You do well by his memory.”
“You loved my father,” Gwydre added.
“Hard man not to love,” Jameston admitted. “Were more lairds like him, were more people like him, I might spend less time in the forest.”
The Dame Page 12
