The Dame sotfk-3

by R. A. Salvatore

  The guards looked at each other for a moment, then one backed away and started into the castle. He picked up his pace almost at once, which amused Jameston greatly.

  Soon after, Jameston found himself standing before Laird Bannagran.

  “Jameston Sequin at your service, good Laird of Pryd Town,” he said with a bow. “Come from Vanguard to your door.”

  “If you wish to ingratiate your Lady Gwydre to me you would have been wiser to come in to Pryd Town separate from the Highwayman.”

  Jameston laughed. “Wouldn’t even have found my way to your town.”

  “You find this amusing?” Bannagran asked grimly.

  “All of it, in a sad manner,” Jameston replied. “Guess that’s why I spend most of my time walking the forests of Vanguard and Alpinador.”

  “What do you want?”

  Jameston nodded at Bannagran’s short response. “I’m a good friend of Dame Gwydre and empowered to speak for her. I’d be a sorry emissary if I didn’t pay a visit to the laird.”

  “A visit? Should I set a banquet table?”

  “I’m not your enemy, nor is Dame Gwydre,” said Jameston.

  “The politics of the world are not my own to decide.”

  “Just yours to laugh at, helplessly,” Jameston quipped. “Oh, I see that in your eyes, Laird Bannagran of Pryd. Tired of war, tired of stupid lairds and stupider kings and stupider reasons for men killing men.”

  “You pretend to know more than you do,” Bannagran replied. “I have no time for your pointless banter. You came seeking audience, and, as you claim to be a spokesman for Dame Gwydre, I granted your request. Do you have anything of value to say, or are you just here to annoy me?”

  Jameston laughed at that.

  “Do not try my patience,” Bannagran warned. “Other men who have done so have lost their heads.”

  “That wouldn’t be a wise choice for you,” Jameston replied. “Gwydre’s got no fight with you, nor do I, and I doubt King Yeslnik would appreciate you starting a war with Vanguard.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to tell you of Bransen, the Highwayman,” Jameston replied. “He had nothing to do with the murder of King Delaval. He was in Vanguard, maybe even in Alpinador, at the time, and I’ve been with him every moment since he sailed south across the gulf with Dame Gwydre.”

  “Gwydre is in Honce proper?”

  “Left her at Chapel Abelle,” Jameston explained. “I’m not thinking she’s pleased with what she’s seeing here in the south.”

  “That is not my concern.”

  “But the Highwayman is.”

  “And?”

  “He had nothing to do with the murder of Delaval.”

  “So you believe that matters a whit?”

  “Not in your world,” Jameston replied with a snort. “But I think it does to you.”

  Bannagran stared at him hard.

  “He’s a fine fighter, that one,” Jameston said. Bannagran didn’t blink. “He could have killed you.”

  “Your insults do not serve Dame Gwydre here.”

  “No insult, just observation,” said Jameston. “You might have saved yourself when he had his blade at your chin, I suppose, but he had you when he went past you, and you know it.”

  Bannagran continued his unflinching stare.

  “But he didn’t stick you, did he? And he could have, in a fight you started.”

  “Do you have a point here, other than to insult?”

  “No insult intended,” Jameston said and bowed low. “I’m only saying so because I’m thinking you should take a closer look at this young man you call the Highwayman. There’s more to him than you think.”

  “Thank you for your advice. I will inform Dame Gwydre that her observant emissary is a wise man.”

  Jameston grinned at the unrelenting sarcasm, seeing it for what it was. “Bransen had nothing to do with Delaval’s death,” he repeated. “That doesn’t matter to King Yeslnik, but I believe it matters to you.”

  “Take care your words.”

  “Bransen’s not the reason you’re so mad right now,” Jameston dared to press on. “I see the twist in your face, Laird Bannagran of Pryd. You know what is right and what simply is. When what simply is doesn’t match with what is right, it sticks you harder than Bransen’s sword ever could.”

  “You presume a lot, emissary.”

  “I’ve seen a lot, good laird,” Jameston replied, bowing low again.

  “Is there anything more?”

  “I’ll pass along your well wishes to Dame Gwydre when I see her again.”

  Bannagran just sighed as Jameston took his leave.

  TWENTY

  Focusing Purpose

  Dame Gwydre sat on the balcony of her lavish room at St. Mere Abelle, looking across the expansive courtyard to the front wall and beyond, where the first flickers of evening campfires began to sprout among the ranks of Laird Panlamaris’s besieging force.

  “Second thoughts?” Dawson McKeege asked her from the middle of her room. She turned to regard the man, managing a slight smile.

  Dawson understood her dismay. News had come in a short while before of Prince Milwellis’s rampage along the populous region known as the inner coast, the western banks of Felidan Bay, with many villages burned to the ground and many, many people killed. Devastation was reported all along the coast, with too many bodies to bury, including many warriors who had come from the wilder reaches of the Mantis Arm.

  Yeslnik’s victory seemed assured in short order. His apparently overwhelming win did not bode well for St. Mere Abelle and Father Artolivan, nor for Dame Gwydre and her decision to throw in with the monks.

  “He says that he is the King of Honce, and so he may well soon be,” Gwydre replied.

  “We do not know how far south the prince managed to go,” Dawson reminded her. “And some of the monks here who’ve been to Ethelbert dos Entel say that it’s a formidable city.”

  “Let us hope. If Laird Ethelbert can hold back the tides of Yeslnik, then our chances here are greater indeed, but-”

  “But if he comes against us with all he’s got, then you’re wondering if you chose right in standing by the monks, because we’re sure to lose. But ye knew that, and didn’t we talk about the songs they’ll be singing when we’re long gone from the world?”

  “I know,” Gwydre admitted, turning her wistful gaze to distant fields where campfire after campfire flared to life now.

  “But now that it seems real, you’re wondering about what your choice will mean for them that follow you,” Dawson reasoned.

  “Perhaps we should sail for Vanguard. All of us, with the monks and the prisoners, too.”

  “That’d take a lot o’ boats.”

  “Or fast ships turning back.”

  “To what purpose?” Dawson asked. “He’ll come for ye. For all of us.”

  “We know the ways of Vanguard. Yeslnik does not.”

  “I’m thinking his armies will cut new ways.”

  “It may be the wiser course. Perhaps the people of Honce will have no will to pursue…”

  “We’ll not abandon St. Mere Abelle,” said Father Premujon, entering through Gwydre’s partially opened door with brothers Giavno and Jond beside him.

  “Not for Chapel Pellinor?” Dame Gwydre asked.

  Premujon shook his head. “Father Artolivan has made a bold stand, and we stand with him above all. Brother Fatuus has shown us the way.”

  “The way to die,” Dawson deadpanned, but no one laughed.

  “St. Mere Abelle is the most defensible structure in the world,” said Premujon. “Both in natural blessings and constructs. The brothers have built and fortified this place over the decades. The only approach by land is up a steep hill, and a slow-moving army… we all witnessed the fate of Laird Panlamaris’s charge. The small, narrow harbor is nearly unreachable by any who do not know the rocky reefs about it, and it, too, would be easily defended by merely a handful of brothers with the prop
er gemstones. A single sinking could prevent other sizable ships from even attempting the approach. And even if Yeslnik’s sailors somehow gained the wharf area, the tunnels are easily defended or, if need be, easily shut down.”

  “You inspire confidence, Father,” Dame Gwydre remarked.

  “Look again to that wall, milady,” Premujon went on. He, too, seemed to be gaining strength from his own words. “The wall of St. Mere Abelle is thicker and taller than any in Honce, and forget not that behind the wall wait scores of brothers well trained in the use of potent magic.”

  “I saw as much when Panlamaris dared approach,” Gwydre admitted.

  “Then we’re decided,” said Dawson. “St. Mere Abelle is part of Vanguard, if Father Artolivan agrees.”

  “He is on his way here this very moment,” said Premujon. “To do just that, as he indicated when first you proposed it.”

  “And this chapel will hold strong against King Yeslnik, a safe harbor for any who want no part of his Honce,” Dawson proclaimed, smiling widely at his beloved lady, knowing well that she needed his confidence in this dangerous hour.

  “Would that it were that simple,” Gwydre replied, though she did flash her own smile to show her appreciation to her trusted friend. “When Yeslnik is through with Ethelbert he will likely reinforce Panlamaris’s siege.”

  “St. Mere Abelle can hold forever and longer,” Premujon assured her. “They have access to all the water and food they would ever need.”

  He continued on, but Gwydre, not disagreeing, finally managed to stop him with an upraised hand. “I do not doubt the might of this sacred place,” she assured the three monks. “When first I sighted Chapel… St. Mere Abelle from Dawson’s boat, my heart leaped in awe. I do not doubt the strength of this place or the resilience of those who reside here. Of all my holdings, this one on the front line of the expected war and under siege even now is the one for which I least fear.”

  “Lady?” an obviously confused Premujon asked.

  “While we are trapped here, what mischief will Yeslnik wreak behind us in Vanguard?” The others suddenly wore concerned expressions, as if that little matter had escaped them. “With a few of the great warships of Delaval or Palmaristown to blockade us, what might those still in Vanguard do against the approach of Yeslnik’s thousands should he choose that route? To whom will they look to lead them with Dame Gwydre, Father Premujon, and so many of our finest warriors here south of the gulf?”

  Beside Premujon, Brother Giavno gasped audibly, accurately reflecting the sudden trepidation of all in the room.

  “Never said it’d be easy,” Dawson muttered under his breath.

  Almost as if to accentuate Dawson’s point, Father Artolivan knocked on the partially opened door then and shuffled in, and old indeed did he appear. The great weight of the monumental events had taken a toll on him. It seemed that, as with Dame Gwydre, doubts had begun to surface.

  “We are part of Vanguard,” he announced without prompting. “St. Mere Abelle is within the domain of Dame Gwydre. That is my decision, though I do not come to it easily. Your generous offer is accepted, good lady, may Abelle watch over us all.” He bowed slightly as he turned to leave again. “You will forgive me, but I must retire early.”

  Father Premujon nodded to Brother Giavno, who rushed to catch up to Father Artolivan and help him back to his private quarters.

  “I worry for him,” Premujon said. “These are difficult times, all the more so because of the decline of Samhaists, making this a time that should be the golden age of our church.”

  “It will be,” Dame Gwydre assured him. “If good people stand strong.”

  “Stand strong and sail swift,” Dawson added.

  “That is indeed our plan and our need,” said Gwydre. “We can hold St. Mere Abelle-of that, I have no doubt. But you must lead my ships with cunning and skill. We cannot allow Palmaristown to seal off the sea routes and control the coast. You have been beside me for so long, my friend Dawson, and now what I ask of you is no less than that I asked of Bransen, Jond, and the others in sending them after Ancient Badden. We must be mobile, quick, and strong. The fewer options we offer to King Yeslnik, the more likely he will be to accept any terms or compromise.”

  “Fair winds and following seas,” Dawson replied with a wide grin and a look of sincere love for his dearest friend.

  Callen Duwornay moved tentatively toward her bedroom door, surprised by the knock. She expected it to be Cadayle, of course, and feared that something might be troubling her daughter at this late hour, for indeed, the night was past its midpoint.

  She flinched, her rich brown eyes going wide to see Dawson McKeege, his floppy cap in hand.

  “What trouble?” she started to ask, but Dawson hushed her gently.

  “No trouble, pretty lass,” he said. “Or might be for me, but nothing to get yerself upset about.”

  “It is very late,” Callen said, and she reflexively grasped the front of her loose nightshirt and slipped a bit farther behind the cracked door.

  “Begging your pardon.”

  “Given, but what is the matter?”

  “It’s about you and yours going to Pryd to live,” Dawson explained, his voice shakier than Callen had ever heard it. “That’s what I’m hearing.”

  “That is the plan if Bransen can manage it.”

  “No water near Pryd.”

  “No water?”

  “No sailing water-river or ocean, I mean.”

  Callen looked at him as if she did not understand.

  Dawson, clearly uncomfortable, rubbed his stubbly, weathered face. “I’m sailing in the morning. Not knowing when I’ll be back.”

  “Going home?” Callen asked.

  Dawson shook his head and rubbed his face again. “I’ll be on Lady Dreamer for all the season, until winter puts me in dock, either here or back in Port Vanguard. It’s not what I’m wanting, but Gwydre needs me, and that’s a call I’ve never let pass.”

  Callen smiled and nodded, though her expression drooped just a bit as she asked, “So you have come to me to say farewell?”

  Dawson seemed to Callen as if he might cry. He shook his head. “I’m not wanting to, pretty lady. Not since the first time I saw you.”

  “Dawson!” Callen said.

  “I know I’m not proper here, and I’m not knowing how to tell you otherwise, but I had to tell-”

  He stopped then. He had to, for Callen Duwornay came through her doorway and wrapped him in a great hug and a passionate kiss.

  She hadn’t even realized how much she had longed to hear words like that from this man, hadn’t realized the depth of her feelings for Dawson, so busy had she been in the teasing and lighthearted banter with him.

  So she kissed him with passion she hadn’t shown since the long-ago night when a wicked Samhaist and the people of Pryd Town had mutilated the one man she had ever dared to love and had thrown her in a sack with a snake for her crime of loving him.

  Clearly nervous, and clearly not knowing what he was supposed to do next when Callen broke off the kiss, Dawson stammered and glanced around.

  Callen tugged him into her room.

  Ma?” Cadayle asked, gently knocking on Callen’s door. It was long past breakfast, and it was typically Callen who awakened Cadayle for their morning meal. Cadayle knew Callen to be a prompt and responsible woman, and her unusual tardiness this morning brought real fears to her daughter.

  “Ma?” she asked again and pushed open the door.

  To come face-to-face with Dawson McKeege.

  “What?” she started to ask, when she noticed Callen, standing off to the side of the shade-darkened room, wrapped in a blanket and apparently nothing else.

  “Ma?” Cadayle stammered, and then, “Oh, oh, oh!”

  Callen started to call to her, but Cadayle didn’t wait and reflexively slapped Dawson across the face. Then, in horror, Cadayle sucked in her breath and threw her hand over her mouth, her eyes darting from Callen to Dawson to Callen to
Dawson.

  “Why’d you do that?” a surprised Dawson asked.

  “I don’t know!” Cadayle cried, and with a final look at her mother, she gave a sharp yelp and ran off down the hall.

  But by then she was laughing, giggling like a young girl.

  “Ye’ve got yerself a strange girl there, Callen,” Dawson muttered.

  “Have you met her husband, then?”

  “Can’t wait to see their kids,” Dawson said with a helpless chuckle. “Ye think the girl’s sensibilities scarred?”

  “I think her surprised,” Callen admitted, walking over and reaching with her blanket-gown to wrap Dawson next to her naked form. “And I think her happy, because she’s always happy when I’m happy.”

  “And ye are?” Dawson asked.

  “Fool,” Callen teased, kissing him, sealing his lateness for his meeting with Dame Gwydre.

  Bransen stood with Jameston in the forest to the east of Pryd Town. Jameston leaned on his bow, watching the young man, who seemed confused about his next steps.

  “You’ll not find an easy path to clearing your name,” Jameston remarked. “Back to the north and Chapel Abelle, then? Be good to see your family. Let Dame Gwydre take the lead in arguing your case with the idiotic Yeslnik. That’s my advice.”

  “You go and do that, with my gratitude,” said Bransen.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “My road is southeast. To find the other half of a broken sword.”

  “You’re thinking to kill the murderer and bring his head in to toss at Yeslnik’s feet? Much like you did with Badden?”

  Bransen shook his head through every word.

  “Bring him in alive, then, so he can speak the truth that you weren’t involved.”

  Still Bransen shook his head.

  “Say it, boy,” Jameston prompted.

  “I’m not going to fight with the one who killed Delaval.”

  “Then how’re you to clear your name?”

  Bransen turned and looked at the scout directly. “I’m not sure I care any longer,” he admitted. “So please tell Cadayle and Callen that they may have to remain at Chapel Abelle a bit longer.”