“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 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.
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