The Dame sotfk-3

by R. A. Salvatore

  “My prophet, my saint, oma tula mere!” Brother Fatuus cried in glory and passion.

  “Open the gate! The gate!” men shouted while others ran for the huge beam that sealed Chapel Abelle’s massive doors.

  When at last it opened, there knelt Brother Fatuus, a look of complete serenity on his pale face. “Oma tula mere,” he rasped.

  And then he died.

  Across the field Laird Panlamaris began his charge, hundreds of Palmaristown soldiers churning the ground beneath their running feet and the hooves of their mounts and chariot teams.

  The monks dragged Fatuus inside and scrambled to close and secure the gate. All eyes turned to Father Artolivan.

  “Turn them,” he grimly instructed. “With all the power of beloved Abelle-nay, of Saint Abelle, for we have seen now his miracle, turn them!”

  Grim-faced, the brothers began sorting their gemstones, holding back until Brother Pinower gave the call.

  A barrage of lightning reached out from Chapel Abelle the likes of which had never before been seen in Honce. When at last the flashes ceased and the ground stopped shaking and the spots no longer danced before their eyes, many men were down, crawling, writhing, burning. The charge had turned to retreat.

  “You are besieged!” Laird Panlamaris cried in outrage. “You shall never leave!”

  Old Father Artolivan, feeling strangely alive at that terrible moment, did not reply, silencing any responses from monk or Vanguardsman. He watched Panlamaris for only a moment before his reverent gaze shifted below to where brethren and prisoners from Ethelbert and Delaval alike knelt around Brother Fatuus in shared prayer.

  Your allegiance in the face of Laird Panlamaris has renewed my hope, Lady of Vanguard,” Father Artolivan said to Gwydre as the group of leaders made their way across the courtyard toward the main chapel. Across the field Panlamaris’s army was at work setting tents, though many, including the laird himself, had moved down to the small town of Weatherguard.

  “The inspiration for this day belongs to a monk I do not know,” Gwydre replied. She nodded her chin toward the courtyard, where Brother Fatuus lay wrapped in a decorative shroud of the type used for a church father.

  A large group had gathered on the far side of the courtyard. It seemed as if all the prisoners were there. Before them a pair of their ranks stood speaking with Brother Pinower.

  “I would ask one more thing of you, Dame Gwydre,” said Artolivan. “Laird Panlamaris will not be foolish enough to assail your ships, so your way home is all but assured. I ask you to take these men, Laird Ethelbert’s at least, so that they may be spared the fate King Yeslnik has decreed. They deserve better.”

  Dame Gwydre turned to stare directly at the old father. Everyone else stopped as well, hanging on her every word, confused by the wry smile she wore.

  “Good Father Artolivan, I would ask a favor of you,” she said. He looked at her curiously, which seemed to please her greatly, as if she wanted this to be a surprise.

  “Privately,” she added.

  “Of course.”

  The group moved toward the gathered prisoners and Brother Pinower.

  “What trouble, Brother?” Father Artolivan asked.

  “None, Father. This is Malcombe of Delaval City and Elefreth Pavu of Ethelbert dos Entel,” he said, indicating a sturdy man with piercing blue eyes and curly black hair, the classic Delaval specimen. The other was a swarthy man, no less striking or imposing, obviously of the south and perhaps with a bit of Behrenese blood in him.

  “Of course. Greetings to both of you this troubling day,” said Artolivan. “The events have unsettled you, no doubt.”

  “We know of King Yeslnik’s demands,” Malcombe said.

  “Yes.”

  Malcombe straightened his shoulders. “I was a knight in Laird Delaval’s army,” he said. “Among the elite warriors who rode with Delaval himself.”

  “This, too, is known to me,” said Artolivan. “I am not so old as to have forgotten your pomposity on the day you arrived here at Chapel Abelle, all broken and outraged.”

  That seemed to shrink the proud warrior a bit, but he managed a smile. “Broken and near death, and, save the work of your brothers, I would surely have gone to my grave.”

  “Praise Abelle that you did not.”

  “I do,” said Malcombe with a simple sincerity that added great weight to the statement. He nodded at Artolivan, then turned to his fellow Delaval prisoners watching from afar. To a one they signaled their agreement with him, with whateverr pact had brought him to stand before Artolivan at this time.

  “I-we-ask that you do not turn over my friend Elefreth and the other good men of Laird Ethelbert,” Malcombe said.

  More than a few of those with Artolivan gasped.

  “Most of us have been here for more than a year, some for nearly two,” Malcombe explained. “We have been treated well by the brothers, and we have come to know one another as friends and companions, not as enemies.”

  “We will fight one another no longer,” said Elefreth with a heavy Entel accent.

  “I expected as much and am glad for you that you have found your way from the darkness,” Father Artolivan told them. “I was just now arranging with Dame Gwydre passage for all of you, or at least for those condemned by King Yeslnik’s wrongful order, to Vanguard and freedom.”

  Malcombe and Elefreth looked at each other, a flash of hope fast giving way to looks of grim determination.

  “I would let my men make that decision,” said Malcombe.

  “And I mine,” Elefreth agreed.

  “But this is my home, and I will not leave it now,” said Malcombe. “Particularly not now.”

  “What then?” asked Father Artolivan. “To return to your respective lairds that you may be once more pressed into battle?”

  “Nay, never that,” said Malcombe, Elefreth nodding with every word. “For too long we’ve been fighting and bleeding and dying for the wants of the lairds.”

  “And you are weary of the battle, understandably so,” said Artolivan. “But what, then? Do you ask to live out your lives here in Chapel Abelle?”

  Malcombe straightened again, as did Elefreth, and behind them, all the prisoners, hundreds of warriors, stood as one and at rigid attention.

  “Not weary of the battle,” Malcombe corrected. “Weary of the cause.”

  “There is no cause in their battle,” Elefreth agreed.

  “But we’re ready to fight if that’s what is needed,” said Malcombe.

  “To fight? For whom?”

  “For ourselves!” a man shouted from the ranks, and others cheered and agreed.

  “To fight for you!” said another. “And for those monks, and for that one, Fatuus, who just showed us a good way to die!”

  The cheering erupted at that, so sudden and heartfelt that Artolivan’s eyes, and those of all around him, grew wet with tears.

  “We are here at your call, trusting in your judgment,” said Malcombe. “If you arm us and send us forth, we will crack open Laird Panlamaris’s siege. Perhaps we could go out as if freed and chase them from the field as they naively welcome us into their ranks.”

  Father Artolivan was emphatically waving his hands to stop the line of thinking, for it was all too sudden for him and too overwhelming. He looked to Dame Gwydre for support.

  “You are men I would be proud to have in Vanguard,” she said. She and Artolivan retreated fast for his private quarters, with Dawson and Brother Jond in tow.

  It is all so unsettling,” Callen said as she sat with Cadayle, Cormack, and Milkeila. “This day, I mean.”

  “We have witnessed the depths of treachery, the horror of inhumanity, the miracle of faith, and the hope of men’s souls in the span of a single hour,” said Cormack.

  “I have seen it before, on a warm lake in the north,” Milkeila added, tossing a wink at her husband, who nodded his agreement. “I am no longer surprised by the potential and the depths of the hearts of men.”

  “
What will it all mean?” asked Cadayle. “How will it end?”

  Brother Pinower walked over as she spoke. He regarded the four before nodding his chin toward a small window in the tower of the large chapel. “They are seeking the answers to that question even as you speak,” he said.

  “You know Father Artolivan well,” said Cormack. “What will he do?”

  “You know Dame Gwydre. What of her?”

  Cormack smiled and pondered the question for a few moments, then smiled with confidence. “She will not abandon Father Artolivan to the whims of King Yeslnik. Of that I am sure.”

  “Perhaps the whole of our church will flock to Vanguard, and southern Honce be damned,” said Brother Giavno.

  “And what would you do, Brother, if it were up to you?” Cormack asked him pointedly. For a brief moment, all felt the tension in the air. This man, a disciple of Father De Guilbe, had whipped Cormack to within an inch of his life on De Guilbe’s command.

  “I would not have left Mithranidoon, save to follow Cormack and Bransen to the glacier and Ancient Badden,” Giavno replied. “Or at least I pray that had the decision fallen to me I would have had the courage of Cormack and Milkeila.” Embarrassed by the reminder of his previous failures, he bowed then and started away.

  But Cormack called him back. “Sit with us,” he bade the man who had once been his mentor, who had once been his friend, who had nearly been his executioner. “Let us solve the problems of the world and muse on the miracle of Brother Fatuus.”

  A look reflecting both gratitude and great sadness flashed on Giavno’s face, and he did indeed join them for a discussion that nearly mirrored that taking place behind the window in the tower.

  I ask that you allow me to remain here at Chapel Abelle and that my ships can sail north and return, laden with soldiers,” Dame Gwydre said flatly, her tone indicating no sway in her position.

  “Soldiers? To what end?” asked Father Artolivan.

  “To the defense of Chapel Abelle,” Dame Gwydre replied. “To the support of your courage. I had not thought this war of southern Honce to be the affair of Vanguard, but I see now that I was wrong. This is no petty fight between warring lairds. It is a battle for the soul of Honce. And a fight whose victory or loss will determine the future of Vanguard, I do not doubt. For if he wins here, Yeslnik-a man who claims a throne that does not even exist-will turn his eyes and his armies north.”

  “Because you were here when Laird Panlamaris was humiliated, both by Brother Fatuus and by the complete rejection of his assault,” Father Artolivan reasoned.

  “It would not have mattered,” Gwydre said. “Unless I promised fealty to Yeslnik.”

  “There remains that option.”

  “At the cost of my soul. For how could I give credence and fealty to a man who would murder the men of Ethelbert you hold here? How could I keep my own soul if I were to ally with a man like Panlamaris after what he just did to the innocent brothers of the Chapel of Precious Memories? I will not abandon principle and what is right for political expediency, Father Artolivan. I did not do so when Ancient Badden demanded freedom to continue his reign of terror against the folk of Vanguard. A sorry and false woman I would be to turn my back on my fellows to the south.”

  “This is truly an unexpected day,” said Artolivan. Weary, he moved to his chair. “A day that will echo in the songs of the bards for lifetimes hence, perhaps. Or one that will quickly spell our utter doom. I do not know.”

  “Aye, and that’s where a measure of courage is needed,” said Dawson McKeege. “And without that measure-” he gave a snort to reflect complete disgust “-then what’s worth singing about, anyway?”

  Father Artolivan looked at the man incredulously, but then gave a much needed chuckle of agreement.

  “Do you understand now why I keep him around?” asked Gwydre.

  “Do you understand the magnitude of what you are proposing?”

  “I will annex Chapel Abelle for Vanguard, but fear not, for you will continue with all freedom to do as your heart instructs,” said Gwydre. “My action will be only to reinforce Vanguard’s commitment to you and your brothers.”

  “You will be declaring war with Delaval City and Palmaristown, both of which can muster a garrison much larger than Vanguard’s.”

  “Then we will fight better,” said Gwydre.

  “Or die better,” Dawson added. “Like Brother Fatuus. I’m not knowing how long they will be singing of our choices this day, but the grandsons of the grandsons of the grandsons will be singing of Brother Fatuus. Of that I am sure.”

  “For Brother Fatuus, then,” Gwydre proclaimed. “It is a good way to die!”

  After many nods and hopeful smiles, Father Artolivan said grimly, “There is one more thing that must be done this day. De Guilbe will no doubt begin a rival order in Palmaristown-it has already happened, I am certain, since many brothers were not among those executed on the field. Laird Panlamaris will seek to justify his stand here, in any case.”

  “Your reasoning is sound, I fear,” said Gwydre.

  “We have seen the miracle,” said Father Artolivan. “All of us. The strength of Brother Fatuus, the turning and bucking of the horse when Fatuus was surely doomed before he reached the gates of Chapel-” He paused there to smile.

  “You will finalize the beatification of Abelle!” Father Premujon cried in joy.

  “Blessed Abelle,” said Artolivan. He paused again, his mind still sharp, still weighing every possibility, working fast behind his sparkling eyes. “From this day forth let it be known that we are the Order of Blessed Abelle, the Abellican Church, and that this place will be named St. Abelle-no!” He paused again for effect, grinning so widely that it seemed as if he would explode into joyous laughter. “St. Mere Abelle!” he finished.

  Dame Gwydre and Dawson McKeege cheered, and Father Jond wept with overwhelming good spirit.

  NINETEEN

  The Impetulant

  Here, then,” Master Reandu said to Bannagran. He handed the man a long knife. “Do it yourself.” Beside him a pair of younger brothers stiffened.

  From the sill of a high window in Chapel Pryd, Bransen listened carefully to every word. A short while earlier, the monks had spoken of King Yeslnik’s edict that all prisoners of Delaval be released and all those taken from Ethelbert’s ranks be executed. Bransen was glad of their reaction, particularly the angry foot stomping of Reandu. For some reason he did not quite understand, Bransen needed to believe the best of this man. He remembered a day when Reandu had helped him finish his chore of lugging chamber pots to the dumping area, when Reandu had subsequently washed the filth from him. There had been tenderness there, once, though it had been suppressed under the orders of severe Bathelais and the even more severe Father Jerak.

  Bransen shrank back when Bannagran had stormed into the chapel, full of unfocused anger and agitation.

  “Do not try my patience,” Bannagran warned. “My road has been long and wearying. I’ve no tolerance for your stubbornness this day.”

  “I have released the Delaval prisoners,” Reandu calmly replied. “Against my better judgment but for your own sake.”

  “That was half the edict.”

  “You would have me murder helpless captives?”

  “King Yeslnik did not demand that of you.”

  “Of course. I am simply to turn them over to you so that you might employ some valorless and immoral cad to stab and beat them,” Reandu said, his voice thick with sarcasm that surely spelled defiance. “How easy it is for King Yeslnik to make such a demand, his own hands clean of the blood. How easy it is for Bannagran to follow such a command…”

  Up above, the Highwayman could hardly believe that Reandu was showing such independence, such… humanity. This was the man who had declared Garibond’s heresy, which had doomed the innocent man to the fire.

  “Silence!” Bannagran yelled.

  “Then bloody your own hands, warrior!” Reandu spat back in his face.

  “D
o you think these hands clean?” the Bear of Honce roared, holding his large, strong paws up before him. “In this war and a dozen before! Do you think I have not killed many men?”

  “These are helpless prisoners!”

  “Many men undeserving? Men whose only crime was to serve the losing laird? So stained are these hands that your own Abelle could not wash the blood from them! There is no place in your heaven for Bannagran!”

  “Then take this dagger and murder the five men of Ethelbert held within Chapel Pryd,” said Reandu. “Cut their throats or stab their hearts.” He held the dagger again, and Bannagran narrowed his eyes and stared at him angrily.

  “Because you cannot!” Reandu lectured and pulled the dagger away. “You are a warrior, not a murderer!”

  “This is an execution of the convicted, no murder,” Bannagran said.

  “Murder!” Reandu reiterated. “These men have committed no crimes.”

  Bannagran seemed to gasp for breath for a few moments before replying, “They are to be turned over. All loyal to Ethelbert are to be executed by order of King Yeslnik.”

  But Master Reandu was smiling by then, the Highwayman noted from far above. “You’ll not kill them,” he said with confidence.

  “Their loyalty to Laird Ethelbert dooms them,” Bannagran answered.

  “You cannot ask a man to exchange his loyalty to an opposing laird,” said Reandu. “You know as much.” Reandu paused, and it occurred to Bransen that both he and Bannagran had known all along where this conversation would lead, almost as if they had choreographed it beforehand.

  “But if they expressed loyalty to a third party, one neutral in the war, perhaps,” Reandu posited.

  “None who don the robes of the Order of Abelle fall under the edict of King Yeslnik, certainly,” Bannagran replied. His guards looked at him curiously, as did all the monks in the room, except Reandu standing before him.

  “Of course, because then they will serve the order and not Laird Ethelbert,” Reandu said. “It is curious that you mention that, new Laird of Pryd, for this very morning, all five of the remaining prisoners expressed just such an interest. I happen to have several extra robes that will fit them well.”