"A better deal with Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan, then," said Kirren Howen.
Ethelbert nodded, looking very old. "More assurances, perhaps."
"King Ethelbert!" said Myrick the Bold.
The old laird laughed again but then steadied himself and straightened more fully than they had seen in many weeks. "It will not be," he replied, his voice strong. He held up his nearly empty glass. "Be of good cheer, my friends," he said, and he waited for them to return the toast. "For hope has come to us on a boat from Vanguard, and the fool Yeslnik has turned the church against his designs. No more do we fight alone!"
He drained his glass, then threw it against the stone wall, his old eyes sparkling as if reflecting the shattering and flying shards. "Go and retrieve our guests. Myrick, and Tyne, bring me Father Destros and Affwin Wi. Bid her to drag that angry Merwal Yahna along with her."
The two looked at each other in confusion, and Ethelbert said, "Go! Go!" and waved them away.
"Bid for better terms," Kirren Howen said when they were alone.
The old laird nodded, though he understood that he and Kirren Howen would not be in agreement over what those better terms might be. The wily old general was still thinking of Ethelbert as the King of Honce, as Ethelbert himself had been only a day before-assuming, of course, they managed to find some way to defeat Yeslnik of Delaval and his overwhelming garrison. With only oblivion or flight to Behr as the alternative to absolute victory, Ethelbert had held fast his dream of ruling the whole of the land. What would happen, after all, to his people, to Kirren Howen and poor Palfry, if anything other than that unlikely scenario came to fruition? No, losing to Yeslnik was simply unthinkable.
But now another possibility had rudely entered the equation, a third way, perhaps, and as if a great responsibility had been lifted from Ethelbert's tired old shoulders, the words of Dawson McKeege, crude and blunt as they had been, had invigorated his spirits.
At the same time, however, that new element had allowed Laird Ethelbert to physically slump. He could feel old again because the consequence of that inevitability was somehow not quite so dire.
Kirren Howen wanted him to bargain for greater power, a more prominent role, and perhaps even to fight for his well-earned right to the throne, should their alliance prove victorious, but Ethelbert, though he meant to play it out, was more concerned with those he would soon leave behind. A large part of him, the old and tired man, just wanted to agree to the terms the emissaries had brought and be done with it. But when he looked at Kirren Howen, so long his friend and companion, who had sailed with him and fought beside him for all these years, Laird Ethelbert had to nod his agreement.
He threw a wink to his general when the others began making their way into the room. "Better terms," he whispered so that only Kirren Howen could hear.
"Glad we are that you have arrived," Ethelbert said when all had gathered. "I admit to knowing little about your Dame Gwydre, though I am certain that you would regale me the day through with tales of her honor and strength were I to give you the chance."
"At least a day," Dawson said.
Kirren Howen and the other two generals grimaced at the interruption, but Ethelbert just laughed it off.
"I've not the time," he replied. "But pray do tell me, Dawson of Vanguard, is your lady as crass and irreverent as her emissary?"
For the first time it seemed as if Ethelbert had taken Dawson off his balance, as the old sea dog stumbled for a reply.
"Dame Gwydre is beloved by her people," Cormack dared say. "Her bloodline is long and true, good lairds all. Kind and generous."
"Not traits that will aid us against the wretched Yeslnik," said Ethelbert.
"But a demeanor that will endear many to her cause as we do battle," Cormack promised.
"Yes, you have already claimed as much," the old laird replied doubtfully. "I accept your… impatience as a call to action, but of course I cannot accept your terms as presented."
The three emissaries looked to each other nervously.
"You'd have us sail away?" Dawson said.
"If that is your choice. Did you really expect me to cede Honce to you before it is even won?"
"This is the choice of Father Artolivan, and if Honce is to be won it'll be no small part owed to his doing."
"And no small part to Dame Gwydre's, and no small part to the warriors of Ethelbert who have resisted the dominion of Yeslnik and Delaval before him for all these bloody months. More than ten thousand warriors from a multitude of holdings and fighting under my flag have given their lives for King Ethelbert. Am I to disrespect their loyalty and sacrifice?"
"You cannot win."
"I could take hostage emissaries from Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan and use them to barter with Yeslnik. I doubt that he would give to me any less than Dawson of Vanguard has offered." Ethelbert let that uncomfortable thought hang in the air for a few heartbeats before breaking the tension with a smile. "But you see, friends, I hate Yeslnik more than you do. I prefer the alliance."
"We're not to turn the other lairds to the hoped-for flag of a King Ethelbert," Dawson reminded. "There's too much blood on the ground."
"Tell them to fight for Dame Gwydre or for the monks and Chapel Abelle," said Ethelbert.
Father Destros shifted uncomfortably.
"Your pardon, Father. For St. Mere Abelle," the laird clarified.
The monk bowed to Ethelbert.
"I care not of the promises you give to the minor lairds," said Ethelbert. "But they are not binding to me or to my generals or to my holding. Where was Dame Gwydre when Delaval declared himself King of Honce?"
"Warring with Samhaists, trolls, goblins, and barbarians in the north!" said Dawson.
"Only I slowed Delaval's march," Ethelbert went on as if Vanguard's struggles hardly mattered. "Only Laird Ethelbert dared step forth to oppose the tyrant. You say that some of the lairds loyal to Yeslnik may turn to our cause, to Dame Gwydre's cause, but how many of the lairds now fighting for good Laird Ethelbert will then desert to the more apparent winner?
"So, please, good man Dawson, do not bluster and bluff. Your loyalty to your lady is commendable and speaks well of her and for her. We will need such conviction if we are to prevail over the dastardly Yeslnik. Let us join and complete that deed and then worry over the spoils that may remain."
"The other lairds-"
"Tell them whatever you would tell them to turn them against Yeslnik," Ethelbert replied sharply. "Most are not fools and likely hate the foppish pretender already. He is not half the man as his uncle, Laird Delaval. But I will not pledge fealty to your Dame Gwydre or to your church. I will, however, promise not to turn my armies against you once our common foe is defeated in exchange for your like promise."
Dawson, Cormack, and Milkeila exchanged concerned and confused glances.
"Perhaps you should sail back to St. Mere Abelle to deliver the terms," Laird Ethelbert said. "And then sail back here to tell me if they are agreeable to Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan."
Dawson sputtered to respond to that absurd notion.
"Then make a decision, Dawson of Vanguard," Laird Ethelbert demanded. "Here and now, or be gone from my docks."
Dawson's weather-beaten face scrunched up as he eyed the old man dangerously.
"Do you think that your Dame Gwydre will be pleased that her man let his wounded pride sever an alliance that we both need?" Ethelbert said simply. He paused for just a moment before adding, "Have we an agreement?"
"You're everything they said you'd be, old laird," Dawson replied, his face and posture relaxing. "And aye, we'll throw in with you to the death of Yeslnik."
"Palfry, my good lad," Ethelbert said to his attendant. "A feast is in order to celebrate this union. See to it."
The young page bowed and ran out of the room.
"Go and retrieve your crew," Ethelbert said. "A night of celebration and plentiful food will see them well on their way."
"I would stay, good Lair
d Ethelbert," Cormack said. "Along with Milkeila, my wife." He put his arm about the shaman.
"Your wife?" the old laird repeated with clear skepticism. How many times Ethelbert had witnessed such mixed marriages, although usually between one from Honce and one from Behr. Rarely had they succeeded.
"We will serve here, with your permission, as representatives of the Order of Blessed Abelle and of Dame Gwydre," Cormack offered.
"Well, indeed," said Ethelbert, and a sly smile spread across his face. "And given. But can you fight?"
"We can fight."
Ethelbert nodded and waved them away. Before they had even left the room he turned to Kirren Howen and to Myrick and Tyne, who drew very near. "Prepare a flotilla for Jacintha. I would advise my friends in Behr of the hopeful turn of events."
"Perhaps they will at last send us more warriors," said Myrick.
"It is possible," said Ethelbert, but with obvious skepticism. He looked to Kirren Howen, who nodded to show that he understood the true purpose here: to secure an escape route, should one be necessary, and to bring another possible ally into the mix should Ethelbert and Dame Gwydre prove victorious over Yeslnik. True to Ethelbert's word, Dawson's crew ate well that night at a grand feast in the open market outside the doors of Castel Ethelbert. The laird and his generals attended, but only for a short time.
Long enough, though, for Cormack to finally get near to the woman warrior from Behr. He tried to strike up a conversation with her regarding her heritage and her sword, but she pretended not to understand him and just turned away.
In that turn, however, the former monk got a glimpse under the fold of her black silk blouse and was able to recognize a star-shaped, gem-studded brooch she had pinned to her chest. Perhaps there were more swords such as hers and Bransen's in the deserts to the south, but surely there were no other such distinctive magical brooches.
"It's Bransen's sword," Cormack later explained to Dawson on Lady Dreamer's deck long after the moon had set in the west.
"How do you know?"
"She wears his brooch," said Milkeila.
"He's dead, then," Dawson said, his voice full of regret. "Might be that he was killed by Ethelbert. You two should sail with me, then."
Cormack shook his head. "Milkeila, perhaps."
"Not without my husband."
"Then, no," said Cormack. "We will be safe here. Father Destros is a man of fine reputation within my order. A man loyal to Father Artolivan."
"And you want to find out about Bransen," Dawson reasoned.
"We owe him that much at least."
"You had best walk with care and question in whispers," Dawson advised. "If it was Ethelbert who killed him, those answers might get you two tossed into the sea."
Dawson patted Cormack on the shoulder and gave Milkeila a hug before heading belowdecks to plot his course.
"This is a magnificent city," Milkeila said to Cormack, following him to Lady Dreamer's rail.
Unexpectedly, a smile spread on Cormack's face, and Milkeila didn't quite understand until the man nodded his chin, prompting her to follow his gaze to the southeast. There, far, far across the dark waters of the great Mirianic Ocean, swirls of colors painted the sky, the legendary aurora that gave Corona its name, the heavenly ring of magical gemstones that God had shown to Blessed Abelle a century before. That gift had sustained the founder of Cormack's church on a distant deserted island and had returned Abelle to Honce, the blessed man walking on the ocean waters across the many miles. Cormack had heard of the equatorial aurora, of course, and had even seen hints of it from St. Mere Abelle on a couple of occasions, but never had he witnessed it so clearly. Never had its glory shone to him to so lift his heart as now.
"It is beautiful," Milkeila remarked with awe.
"The fruits of the ring did sustain Blessed Abelle," Cormack replied. "And so they will sustain us through these dark times."
He put his hand on the rail, and Milkeila put hers atop his. The lovers stared out at the aurora for a long while, then turned their eyes to each other and sealed the promise of the magic of God with a long and gentle kiss.
FOUR
Stark
He let the wind be his guide as he meandered across the lands devastated by war, paralleling the roads that had been viewed as a sign of hope and progress by the people of Honce. Those networks had been built to open trade, it was said, and to allow the lairds to move their armies to rid the land of powries. Few foresaw that those same roads would carry the engines of war to holding after holding as the two most prominent lairds, Delaval and Ethelbert, laid claim to a unified kingdom of Honce as their dominion.
Bransen avoided one battered village after another, having little desire to repeat the dialogue he had suffered with the widow from Hooplin Downs. Truly, after his encounter with the folk there, he didn't wish to speak with anyone, other than his wife, who remained so far, far away.
He did sneak into the clusters of farmhouses when he found them, though. In the dark of night the Highwayman made his way about the communities, pilfering food and drink where he could. With his great skill he was never seen or heard and was always well on his way long before the sun lightened the eastern sky. He tried to leave behind firewood or anything he could find to repay his unwitting hosts.
Each morning seemed to dawn a bit warmer as summer came on in full to this southernmost region of Honce. Still moving due west, Bransen kept expecting the road to turn north or to bend that way at least. But the towering mountains remained in clear view to his left, day after day. He was in lands unknown, for this was not the route that he and Jameston had taken from Pryd Town to Ethelbert dos Entel. In those first hours after fleeing the city, after his defeat at the hands of Affwin Wi, Bransen must have veered farther south than he had intended. Many times the battered young man considered backtracking to the coast and running due north until the coastline curved eastward, taking him to Chapel Abelle and Cadayle.
But Bransen found himself strangely transfixed by the scenes opening before him. He didn't know it, but he was following the route Yeslnik's army had taken when they had departed the field outside Ethelbert dos Entel's walls, the would-be king running from fear of Laird Ethelbert's strange Behr assassins. The same assassins who had murdered Laird Delaval and taken Bransen's sword and brooch. The same assassins who had taken from Bransen his hopes of a better Honce.
His travel became more difficult over the next few days, for there were no more farmhouses from which he could steal food-no standing ones, at least. And there were no chickens in any barnyard nor any living sheep or cattle or… anything. The crops had been burned and trampled, the ground torn and ruined. Bransen noted thousands of footprints and hoofprints and deep ruts caused by many passing chariots and wagons.
Bransen bent low to inspect the ground. Utterly, intentionally ruined, he realized to his horror. Most of it was simply black and red dirt common to the region, but Bransen also found white specks, as if someone had scattered something atop the trampled areas. He tapped his finger to one such speck and brought it up to sniff, then tasted it. Bransen's face crinkled, and he spat out the powerfully salty substance.
Some army had purposely done this. This was far more than the result of a march. One of the lairds-Ethelbert or Yeslnik-had devastated this region, had ruined the villages and the livelihood of the folk of southernmost Honce. Yeslnik, he figured, since the most recent tracks led to the west and since Ethelbert's army remained in his city on the eastern coast.
So Laird Yeslnik had crossed here in his retreat to Delaval City and had destroyed the farmland behind him. But where had all the residents gone?
Bransen's gaze went out to the north, toward where he approximated Pryd Town to be, and he imagined his former home overrun by bedraggled refugees, dirty and hungry and desperate. He sighed deeply at that probability but just shook his head and moved along.
Soon after, he came to a fork in the road, where one branch turned decidedly north and a broken signpost indicat
ed it to be the road to Pryd. The other branch, continuing to the west, was marked for Delaval City. The army's passage, still due west, was clear enough to see, but the north road showed no fresh signs of any substantial passage.
Bransen went north for the rest of that day, moving near to the road, left and right, and searching for wagon marks or hoofprints of the slow, scraping boot marks of refugees. He found nothing recent.
The next morning he intended to continue north, knowing he would still have several days of walking before he reached Pryd Town, but he kept turning his curious gaze to the south. Without ever really understanding why, without questioning his urge, Bransen reversed course and headed that way, his pace swift all the way back to the signpost on the east-west road. He went right across the path, jogging across the despoiled fields and past the husks of burned-out houses. He happened upon one sizable community, or what had been, and found the scene of a ferocious battle. A small ruined keep sat on a hill at the southernmost point of the former town, its walls battered and torn down in many places, gray smoke still wafting out of its hollowed-out walls.
Bransen had to turn away when he moved up to the keep, or he would have vomitted the meager food he had scavenged over the last few days. For unlike the many deserted communities he had crossed, this larger one revealed to him the fate of its inhabitants. Their bodies covered the ground inside those keep walls, dead of arrows, hacked down by swords, charred by flames. A flock of crows lifted away when Bransen stepped inside, and a stench of death more powerful than anything the young warrior had ever imagined washed over him. This time he could not resist the urge to throw up.
They were all in there, men and women, old and young-very young. In one corner, Bransen found a dozen children, the largest among them surely not more than eight years, huddled together. Even at this state of great decay, with the crows having taken much, Bransen could see that their innocent bodies had been violated by many brutal chops of sword and axe.
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