“Every brother knows of this.”
“But do you know that the father of Cordon Roe brokered a deal with Laird Delaval to allow the brothers safe egress from the city?”
“I had not heard of that,” Giavno admitted.
“It is not common knowledge. The story goes that the Samhaists inspired the mob of the city to descend upon Cordon Roe, and the brothers of Abelle, refusing to use the gemstone magic to kill their attackers, were overrun and murdered.”
“Yes, all ten!”
“No, Brother. It did not happen like that. The brothers brokered a deal with Laird Delaval, but as they were preparing to leave he came to them with altered terms. They could leave or they could stay, but they must renounce Blessed Abelle and embrace the Samhaist creed. Under those conditions, no further penalty would be exacted upon them.”
Brother Giavno’s eyes widened with horror as he considered the awful price. He licked his suddenly dry lips and said, “And they refused, and so Laird Delaval’s forces overran them?”
“They refused, and unwilling to kill in the name of Abelle they killed themselves, all ten, and a hundred of their peasant followers committed suicide as well, robbing Laird Delaval and the Samhaists—most importantly, the Samhaists!—from claiming victory at Cordon Roe. Pity their fate not at all, Brother, for their action, their ultimate dedication to their faith, broke Laird Delaval’s heart. Within five years another contingent from Blessed Abelle arrived in Delaval City, this one invited by the laird himself, and with promises that they could practice their faith unhindered by him or by the Samhaists.”
Brother Giavno swallowed hard, trying to digest it all.
“They killed themselves rather than renounce Blessed Abelle,” Father De Guilbe explained. “And we name them as heroes. Now we face barbarians who do the same, and you would name them as foolish?”
“Your pardon—” Giavno started, but De Guilbe continued over him.
“The three downstairs are not so unlike our long-lost brethren, though of course they are misguided in their faith. Do not begrudge them their stubbornness, Brother, for if the roles were reversed I would expect of myself, and of you, no less dedication. Death is not our master. That is the promise of Abelle. Our … guests hold faith in a similar promise, no doubt, as do those who line up against us and throw themselves at our wall. There are many reasons to die, some good and some not so reasonable. This is a good one, I think, and so do the barbarians, and so we know they will come on again and again after that. I respect them for their dedication. I will respect them even as I kill them.”
“Of course, Father,” said a humbled Giavno, and he lowered his gaze to the floor.
“This is not Cordon Roe,” De Guilbe went on, his voice growing stronger and more deliberate. “And we of the Abellican Order have grown stronger and more secure in our faith. We will hold these walls, whatever the cost to our enemies. With the Covenant of God’s Year Thirty, there are no restrictions regarding our own defense placed upon us as were upon our lost brethren of Cordon Roe.”
“What do you mean?”
“You witnessed my lightning blast?”
“Yes.”
“When the barbarians come at us again, we will return their stones and arrows with a barrage of magic that will shake the waters of Mithranidoon!” Father De Guilbe asserted. “If we kill a dozen, a score, a hundred, so be it. Chapel Isle will not fall to the unbelievers. We are here and we are staying, and the men in our dungeon will remain there, will rot there, as the bodies of their kin will rot on the rocks before our walls. No quarter, Brother. Mercy is for the deserving, and unlike our lost brethren of Cordon Roe, we are not docile. We are warriors of Abelle, and woe to our enemies.”
Outside of Father De Guilbe’s door, Brother Cormack leaned back against the stone wall and put his head in his hands. The rousing speech had Giavno and the attendants in the room cheering, and that applause, that vicious affirmation of the elevation of the Brothers of Abelle above all others, tore a hole in Cormack’s heart.
He thought of Milkeila, and pictured her lying dead on the stones.
He left the bucket of water right there outside the door and rushed back to his own tiny room, where he prayed for guidance, all the while almost hoping that a spear would find his heart in the opening moments of the next attack.
FOURTEEN
No Choice to Be Found
After an uneventful and swift sail through the gulf, the growing late-summer westerlies filling her sails, Lady Dreamer slid into dock at Pireth Vanguard, the oldest Honce settlement in the land of the same name. Callen, Cadayle, and Bransen stood at the bow, watching the boat glide into place beside the long wharf.
“We’ll find him,” Bransen whispered quietly, his hand about the soul stone in his small belt pouch, his other hand clutching Cadayle’s. In response Cadayle gave a comforting squeeze.
“And you’ll get your answers, and some peace,” said Callen. “None are more deserving of that.”
“We will get off first, ahead of the commotion,” Cadayle decided.
“Begging your pardon, good lady … ladies and sir, but Captain McKeege would see you in his cabin,” came a voice behind them, turning them, all three (for Bransen, in his surprise, swung about, and not awkwardly), to face a young sailor they recognized as Lady Dreamer’s cabin boy, nicknamed Dungwalker by the uncouth crew.
“Shouldn’t he be out here directing the docking?” Callen asked.
Dungwalker shrugged. “Any on the boat can do it. Captain’s in his cabin, and he sent me to find you and tell you.”
“Lead on, then,” said Cadayle, and to her two companions she offered a dismissive shrug. “Meet with him here or out in the town. It’s all the same.”
They followed the cabin boy to the captain’s quarters, located under the flying bridge at the rear of the top deck. Dawson was alone inside waiting for them with an opened bottle of rum and four metal cups set out on his desk.
“Fair seas,” he said in greeting when they came in, the cabin boy taking his leave and closing the door behind them. “As fine a sail as we could have hoped for at any time of the year.”
He motioned for them to sit at the three chairs he had placed in front of his desk. As the two women helped Bransen, Cadayle noted a curious-looking smirk on Dawson’s face. She wasn’t sure what it might portend, but somehow it seemed out of place to her.
“I hoped you would join me for a drink,” Dawson explained when they had settled in. He poured some rum in his own cup, which already contained some, Cadayle noticed, and then in Callen’s and Cadayle’s. He paused, holding the bottle over the cup set before Bransen.
“Better that you don’t,” Callen remarked. Dawson nodded and pulled the bottle back, then dropped into his chair.
“To good friends,” he said, lifting his cup.
“To finding Brother Dynard,” Cadayle added before she tapped it.
“Dynard, yes,” Dawson agreed after he had sipped. “I’m not sure which chapel, but they’ll know at Pellinor.”
“A long journey?” asked Callen. “If it is, we should secure a wagon for Bransen.”
“A journey of two weeks, and one I’ll make with the others. We’ll take you three as far as Tanadoon, a small town just a few miles inland. They’ve many new houses waiting for folks, any folks, to take them. We will be putting the few families of our new soldiers there, too. So you’ll have neighbors among some of the folk you’ve met on our journey, and all of you with your own houses and large plots of land.” He gave a little laugh and explained, “Aye, we’ve got more wood for more houses than we’ve people to put in them! Here’s to hoping you come to love this land as I do. It’s a hard life, but one worth living, to be sure, and Vanguard would welcome the addition of such fine folk as yourselves.” He lifted his cup again in toast, but he was alone this time.
“I do not know that my husband could manage it,” Cadayle said.
“Of course,” Dawson replied, and again Cadayle caught
a flash of that strange, too-knowing smile. “I should be quick then in my search that we can get you three, and maybe Brother Dynard, back across the gulf before the winter snows.”
“That would be good, yes,” said Cadayle, drawing a poke from Callen.
“Don’t be so ungrateful, daughter,” Callen scolded.
“Everyone grows impatient when his grasp nears the goal,” Dawson said with a grin. “No steps as desperate as the last three to the gate, eh?”
The procession of more than a hundred people, including most of Dawson’s crew and a garrison from Pireth Vanguard, set out later that same day down the road, no more than a flattened trail, to the new town of Tanadoon.
New indeed! The smell of freshly cut wood greeted the caravan as they entered the southeastern gate of the wood-walled village. Neat and tidy houses all in a row greeted them inside, all looking very much the same. A few were occupied by families who had resettled from within Vanguard, but most sat empty and waiting.
“As you were promised,” Dawson called out when all of the folk were inside. “Even you men who have no kinfolk with you can claim a home as your own—two men to each, if you’ve not family, please. Though you’ll not be staying beyond this one night. But know in your hearts that you’ve a place to return to when your debt to Dame Gwydre is paid.”
There was no cheer at that, which surprised Cadayle as she surveyed the dour bunch. Most of them were prisoners of Laird Delaval, a few from Laird Ethelbert, and none seemed overly pleased to be here.
The trio found a small home soon enough, settling in under the shadow of the northeastern corner. It was sparsely furnished, but had enough straw for them to make comfortable enough beds, and Dawson’s men brought a fair number of supplies—foodstuffs and barrels of water and even a rough map of the area that included directions to a nearby stream.
“It is not so bad,” Callen announced later that evening, the three sitting about a single candle, sharing a loaf of sweet cake. “All of it, I mean. The house and the food and the welcome of our hosts. A good and generous man is Dawson McKeege.”
“Too much so I fear,” said Cadayle, but Callen scoffed at her and waved the suspicions away.
The next morning, the men who had come to serve Dame Gwydre marched out of town for distant battles, a few leaving wives and children behind, totaling a score of folk or so to add to the like number already settled in Tanadoon and the handful of sentries patrolling the town’s wall. The village had been built to hold near to three hundred people easily, but there couldn’t have been a quarter of that number left after Dawson marched.
“I’ll return presently with word of Bran Dynard for you,” Dawson promised Bransen from atop his small chestnut stallion. He tipped his cap to Cadayle, then more assuredly and boldly to Callen (which made Cadayle blink more than once as she regarded her mother!), then cantered out to the head of the military line, and out through the same gate they had entered the afternoon before.
“I hate the waiting,” Bransen whispered.
“He’ll be back as soon as he can,” Callen assured him with surprising confidence, drawing another blink from Cadayle.
“Mother?” she asked.
“He’s a good man,” Callen answered. With that she spun away and practically skipped into their chosen house.
“She’s taken a liking to Vanguard,” Bransen said dryly.
“It is a difficult place for the Stork,” Cadayle replied, stealing his mirth.
Bransen turned on her. “Every place is difficult for the Stork,” he said, trying hard to keep his voice low so that he would not jeopardize his disguise. Clearly agitated, that was no easy chore!
“I know,” said Cadayle. “The sooner we are out of the reach of Ethelbert or Delaval or any of them, the better.”
“We should have found a way to Behr instead of coming north,” Bransen lamented, and turned away, feigning a stumble as a couple of other “townsfolk” walked by.
“We seek answers, so we go where the questions lead us,” Cadayle replied. “Now it is Vanguard, but perhaps we are not so far from Behr as you believe. Dawson has been there several times, to a city he called Jacintha. The sail takes the whole of a season, but it is one he’s made before and promises to make again.”
Bransen quieted at that and seemed to Cadayle to relax quite a bit. She helped him back into the house, where they would spend the next few days anxiously awaiting Dawson’s return with the word, as promised.
He came in with little fanfare but great commotion at the end of the next week, surrounded by a score and more of soldiers, including several of the men who had sailed north with Bransen, Cadayle, and Callen. Most of his entourage, though, was of longtime Vanguardsmen, all toughened by years of battle. The way they rode, the way they dismounted, the way their weapons came easily to their hands, spoke volumes of that.
“A fine morning made finer by the sight of you,” Dawson said when the trio came out to greet him. He stayed up on his horse, as did the armed and armored warriors flanking him, several to either side.
Bransen stuttered to say something, but lurched suddenly and appeared as if he would have fallen had not Callen and Cadayle grabbed him at the last minute (in a perfectly choreographed maneuver).
“You need not do that,” Dawson said.
“Well we’re not to let him fall on his face now, are we?” asked Callen.
“I meant that he did not need to do that,” Dawson explained, and all three looked at him curiously. “You, Bransen Garibond. There is no need to wear your mask of the cripple here.”
Bransen stuttered and drooled, and he wasn’t faking, for he had let go of the gemstone.
“Do not mock my husband!” Cadayle retorted.
“Your husband, the Highwayman?” asked Dawson.
“I know not what you mean,” Cadayle said, and she straightened Bransen, steadying him on his feet, before taking a resolute step toward Dawson. “Have you come here to mock us? You promised us news of Brother Bran Dynard….”
“He is dead.”
That stole Cadayle’s momentum, and Bransen let out a little squeal, as if he had been punched in the gut.
“I am sorry—truly,” said Dawson, and he seemed sincere despite the confusing atmosphere here. “Bran Dynard died on the road more than twenty years ago on his way to Chapel Abelle. He never made it. The brothers think it was a powrie attack, which seems likely as the Holdings were at relative peace in those times, but powries remained thick about the land.”
“Dead?” Bransen mumbled. He thought of the Book of Jhest, his salvation, and it seemed so incongruous to him that the man who had penned that magnificent work could have been killed so senselessly on the road so long ago. The man who had penned it, he mused, and he realized that he was referring to his father. He didn’t know how to feel, or what to feel; nothing made sense to him at that stunning moment of revelation. He wanted to deny Dawson’s claims, but wasn’t even sure if his desire to do so was because the man had penned the book and might have some answers for him, or because the man was his father.
His father! Dead! Bransen was not as surprised as he would have guessed. So long, no word. A man he had never known. Would never know.
“How did you discover this?” Cadayle demanded. Suddenly she seemed to be stuttering almost as much as her husband, and that fact alone drew Bransen from his emotional jumble.
“The brothers told me back at Chapel Abelle.”
“You lied to us!” said Cadayle. Next to her Callen let out a little shriek, covering her mouth in horror.
“I did and I admit it, but I did it for your own good,” Dawson calmly replied. “And stop your lurching and drooling, man! Did you really believe that you could travel the length and breadth of the land in such an obvious guise? Word was run to every chapel in Honce to beware the man they called the Stork, for he slew Laird Prydae and left Pryd Holding in turmoil.”
“That is a lie!” said Cadayle.
“Please, good lady, I am not yo
ur judge,” said Dawson, and now he did dismount, though several of the fearsome guards around him bristled at the movement. “Nor did the brothers of Chapel Abelle wish to pass judgment. But they would have had no choice—indeed, they thought they had no choice. But I offered them one of mutual benefit.”
“Liar!”
“And your husband’s alive because of it!”
“Enough!” Bransen said, startling them all with the sudden power in his voice.
For a few moments all held quiet, then Dawson bowed low and said, “Welcome, Highwayman. Your reputation precedes you.”
Bransen stared at him hard.
“If I had said nothing, if I had left you there, the brothers of Chapel Abelle would have taken you in chains and handed you to the nearest laird faithful to Laird Delaval. They wished no such thing, but they were bound, surely so. You can understand that.”
Bransen didn’t reply, didn’t move at all.
“You were passed on the road by Brother Fatuus from the Chapel of Precious Memories of Palmaristown,” Dawson explained. “He arrived bearing news of the Stork, the Highwayman. They watched your approach before you ever neared Weatherguard. I offered them a deal, for your sake, for my dame’s benefit, and to relieve the brothers of their regrettable duty.”
“To take me here to fight in your dame’s war,” Bransen reasoned.
Dawson shrugged sheepishly. “We are in desperate need of strong warriors, and as I said, your reputation preceded you. The acting steward of Pryd Holding warned all of your prowess with the blade. You are a deadly sort, I am told.”
“I want no part of your war,” said Bransen, and Cadayle grabbed his arm tightly.
“There is no choice to be found, I fear,” said Dawson. “You have nowhere to go, nor do your beautiful companions.”
“You threaten them?” Bransen growled. The soldiers stepped their mounts in closer.
“Our fight is a good one,” said Dawson. “Not like the meaningless slaughter in the South. We battle goblins and glacial trolls, evil little brutes, all. And heathen barbarian murderers, who steal in at night and slaughter our children in their sleep. We battle Samhaists, and I have heard you have no love for them, either.”
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