“Our numbers double, and our importance multiplies many times over in such a situation,” he explained. “For not only will we be joining in the cause of Yeslnik or Gwydre, we will not be joining in the cause of their opponent. And so we will very likely be able to dictate terms favorable to our city in return.”
Smiles spread on the faces of the two younger generals, and both lifted their glasses in agreement.
“Take heart, my friends,” Kirren Howen proclaimed. “If the Highwayman’s confidence is at all justified, and King Yeslnik has reason to be worried, then we will profit. Let us assemble a swift and agile force. I’ll not have us caught outside our walls and not engage in any battle until and unless it is of our choosing.”
“For Ethelbert dos Entel!” Myrick the Bold said and lifted his glass once more.
“For Laird Ethelbert!” Tyne added and corrected, tapping his glass against that of his friend.
TWENTY-FIVE
De Guilbe’s Epiphany
“They are nowhere to be found, my laird,” the scout reported.
“Go away,” Milwellis said to him, and when the scout tried to further respond, the laird fixed him with a threatening glare. Bowing ridiculously, the scout ran away.
“Always the same,” said Harcourt. “She is a clever one.”
“Too clever,” said Milwellis. “Always too clever! How is this possible? How can the witch so anticipate our every move, our every ambush, and our every feint? Do we have spies among us?”
“Do continue,” came a third voice, and the pair turned to see Father De Guilbe walking over, nodding with every long stride.
Both men, particularly Harcourt, fixed him with a hard stare, for he wore a wry, little smile, as if he was enjoying their frustration. Given the inevitable growing rivalry within the court of Yeslnik, where several prominent figures, Milwellis and De Guilbe among them, would constantly vie for the king’s favors, the moment grew more tense with every stride the loud and arrogant monk took their way.
“It is a source of constant discussion in King Yeslnik’s court,” De Guilbe said, when neither man moved to speak. “You need not hide your folly here.”
“Do tell,” said Harcourt.
“Surely it is no secret that Dame Gwydre has run you all about the ways of Honce,” said De Guilbe. “When you departed Delaval City with so grand a force at your call, we had thought—we had all thought—your task to be a matter of days in completing, not weeks and surely not months, and yet the summer grows old and Gwydre runs free.”
Harcourt and Milwellis exchanged concerned looks.
“And, of course, that unfortunate situation forces King Yeslnik to hold fast his other force, Bannagran’s force, and offers comfort and reprieve to the defeated Ethelbert,” De Guilbe went on dramatically. “Your failure sends discontent across the kingdom.”
Harcourt glared at the man and seemed ready to spring upon him, but Milwellis caught something else here, some background motive to De Guilbe’s nattering.
“What do you want, monk?” the Laird of Palmaristown asked bluntly.
Harcourt looked at Milwellis curiously, while De Guilbe feigned surprise. “Want?”
Milwellis held up his hand to silence the monk immediately.
“You have come to fashion a report for King Yeslnik,” Milwellis reasoned.
“King Yeslnik’s patience thins.”
“And so will that report be favorable to Laird Milwellis or favorable to Laird Bannagran?” Milwellis asked.
“What has Bannagran to do with this matter?” Harcourt interjected, but his face lit up with revelation as he regarded the grin of Father De Guilbe.
“You would use us against each other to Father De Guilbe’s gain,” Milwellis stated.
“That is a harsh accusation, laird,” said De Guilbe.
“It is a logical assumption, for I would do the same, were I you,” said Milwellis, and De Guilbe grinned all the wider.
The monk’s expression grew grim almost immediately afterward, though. “I want Dame Gwydre defeated,” he said. “I want Father Artolivan thrown down into the mud and all his followers with him.”
“You want your seat at Chapel Abelle, no matter how grand the promise of a mother chapel in Delaval City,” said Milwellis. “Should King Yeslnik empty every quarry in Honce of stone and build you a chapel so huge as to dwarf the Belt-and-Buckle range, you would still prefer the seat at Chapel Abelle.”
De Guilbe looked to Harcourt, his smile returned. “How can one so young show such insight?” he asked the general.
“What do you want?” Milwellis demanded.
“To press King Yeslnik’s favor to the side of Laird Milwellis?”
The laird didn’t respond at all, didn’t even blink.
“I want to know that you agree with me that Chapel Abelle must be defeated and that I must be installed there, not in Delaval or anywhere else, if the Church of the Divine King is to hold sway over the outland chapels,” the monk said, his voice very serious and even.
“Nothing would please me more than to enter the courtyard of Chapel Abelle and avenge my father.”
“I know,” said De Guilbe. “And that is why I have come to you at this time. Not as a spy for King Yeslnik but as a friend.”
“A friend?” Harcourt asked doubtfully.
“An ally,” De Guilbe corrected.
Milwellis nodded, figuring it all out. “When Dame Gwydre is defeated and Laird Ethelbert is pushed into the sea, the brothers in the fortress of Chapel Abelle will pursue diplomacy.”
“What choice will be left to them?” asked De Guilbe.
“And King Yeslnik will be advised to heed that call, his armies weary, the length and breadth of the land battered,” the laird went on.
“But would he be wise in heeding that call for peace?”
“For him, yes,” Milwellis admitted. “But for you, no.”
“And for you?”
“No.”
“Then we are agreed?” De Guilbe asked and extended his hand, which Milwellis accepted.
“Chapel Abelle and Palmaristown will be fine allies,” the monk remarked.
Very little surprised or shook Father De Guilbe. The man had traveled the world, had battled powries and barbarians, and had led his brothers through the harshest of climes. The Order of Abelle had never known a tougher man, often cruel and pragmatic, a man who would not spare the whip (as Cormack could surely attest!) and who accepted the death of soldiers, fellow monks, and innocent civilians with hardly a shrug of care, so long as the outcome of such conflict moved toward his vision of order.
More than a few of his colleagues through the years had remarked that he was more akin to the Samhaists in temperament than to the brothers of Abelle, and De Guilbe knew that in many ways they were surely correct. His split with Father Artolivan had been as philosophical as incidental; to De Guilbe, the church had grown soft under Artolivan’s gentle guidance, and that could only spell the ultimate doom of the order.
The order.
That was the key to it, after all. It was the duty of the church, whatever church stood dominant, to impart a sense of order and discipline upon the fearful rabble. When it had become obvious that Yeslnik would be King of Honce, that Delaval City would prevail over Ethelbert dos Entel, the Order of Abelle had to abandon its stance of neutrality and throw in with the winner.
Whether Yeslnik was a moral and good man was irrelevant, to De Guilbe’s thinking. Whether his order to execute the prisoners taken from Ethelbert was right and just was not important. Not in the long run. Not for the future of the church that would remain in the kingdom Yeslnik had claimed.
Still, for all the hardness that encrusted the character of Father De Guilbe, he found himself gasping for breath when at last he had unraveled Dame Gwydre’s awful secret.
“What do you know?” demanded Harcourt when the obviously shaken monk walked into the tent of Laird Milwellis that dark and rainy night.
His face ashen, shaking his
head with every word, De Guilbe announced, “They have thrown off all bounds of morality and decency. They have abandoned all caution in their desperation.”
Milwellis lifted his palms, his posture and expression showing him to be completely baffled.
De Guilbe held up a gray stone, a soul stone. “Spirit walking,” he explained. “It is—it was—a rare practice, a dangerous practice, an often immoral practice. In the more disciplined church before the rise of Artolivan, spirit walking was used only in cases of extreme emergency, when the mother chapel needed to impart some edict or warning of utmost importance.
“Utmost, I say! A brother wandering lost in the forest on a freezing winter night was forbidden to exit his corporeal form through use of the gemstones, even at the cost of his own life.”
“We’ve little time for church history, brother,” said Harcourt, but Milwellis hushed him quickly, staring at De Guilbe with clear intrigue.
“King Yeslnik was correct in granting you his legions,” the monk said. “Your march to Delaval City was tactically flawless, as the many dead powries can attest, and your work out here has followed that same course. I have spoken with your commanders, and not one finds a moment of doubt or a parcel of fault for the tactics you have employed these months. But still you have not caught the witch.”
He held up the soul stone again, and Laird Milwellis’s eyes went wide.
“The answer is that simple?” Milwellis asked incredulously. “Their monks have been floating about us, disembodied? Hearing our plans and intended movements?”
De Guilbe nodded. “It is the only possible answer.”
“You just now came to this conclusion?” Milwellis asked. “How could you, or the other monks who have marched with me these weeks, not have solved the simple riddle? If they knew of this possibility, how could they remain quiet? And why did De Guilbe not send word of warning from Delaval City weeks ago?”
“Because I—and certainly these lesser monks!—did not entertain this possibility,” the father answered with confidence and calm. “You cannot understand how extraordinary, how extreme this is. . . . I did not expect Father Artolivan, for all of his obvious faults, to so quickly devolve to such madness.”
“Madness? Can we doubt their effectiveness?”
“Madness,” Father De Guilbe insisted. “In the saner church of yesteryear, brothers were instructed to refrain from this unholy and insidious practice. There was no exception.”
“You just said that there were exceptions,” Harcourt reminded.
“In the most extreme circumstances and with very specific and limited use. Now they abuse the practice beyond all comprehension.”
“And in so doing, they survive,” said Milwellis. “Your older church does not sound like a saner church. Without this cleverness, I would have slaughtered them weeks ago.”
“Better that!” De Guilbe shouted. “For them, better that! For you do not understand the implications of spirit walking nor the temptations. A disembodied spirit desires, yea, even demands, a corporeal coil and will thus force a brother’s spirit to engage in the evil and damning act of possession. I can only guess how many of Chapel Abelle’s brothers are now dead or forever insane for these desperate and diabolical actions. Soulless and insane or dead for their evil efforts and answering now in the fires of the old ones.”
“The old ones?” Harcourt asked, his eyes wide at the monk’s reference to the Samhaist gods.
“They have their place,” De Guilbe replied. “And it is no place a true follower of Abelle would wish to venture.”
Harcourt started to respond again, but Milwellis cut him short. “If all that you say is true, then how do you come to believe that the witch Gwydre is using this spirit walking?”
“It is the only explanation,” the monk replied with all confidence.
“And you can confirm it?”
De Guilbe nodded and held up his soul stone yet again. “Only in the most extreme circumstances,” he said. “Such as this one.”
A sly smile widened on Milwellis’s face, white teeth showing behind the red of his beard, which had grown quite unkempt of late. He turned to Harcourt.
“Then we have them.”
He knows,” Bransen assured Dame Gwydre, Dawson, Brother Pinower, and several other leaders at the same time Father De Guilbe was conveying his revelation to Laird Milwellis. “He was out there in spirit. Father De Guilbe recognized our spies.”
“None of the brothers concur,” said Pinower.
“They do not disagree with me,” Bransen replied. “They only admit that they cannot confirm my report. I would not have expected any of them to have noted De Guilbe. He was careful and clever.”
“But you recognized him?” There was doubt evident in Pinower’s voice, but Bransen took no offense.
“I bring a dimension to the gemstone magic that you do not, Brother Pinower,” Bransen said matter-of-factly. “They are a part of me now, more intimately than you could ever imagine.”
“Because you’re Jhesta Tu?” the monk asked, his voice growing sourer, as he obviously considered Bransen’s remarks an attack on his beloved order.
“Because of my unique relationship with them, particularly the soul stone,” Bransen corrected. “You might use the stone to heal another or occasionally to be free of your mortal body. I use it to sustain my very being. This stone”—he tapped the soul stone at the center of the brooch set on his forehead—“is set as the apex of my life energy, which the Jhesta Tu call ki-chi-kree. It is not a foreign or separate part of the Highwayman.”
Dame Gwydre looked to Brother Pinower, but the monk had no more questions and no reason to doubt Bransen’s claims about the stone or, more important, about Father De Guilbe.
“De Guilbe knows,” Bransen assured them both. “Milwellis knows.”
“Then the game’s ended,” Dawson McKeege remarked. A general look of despair ran through the gathering as the implications of De Guilbe’s discovery, of the loss of their secret tactical information gathering, settled in upon them.
“Good,” Dame Gwydre said, surprisingly. She walked past her gawking commanders and stared out to the southwest. “I grow tired of playing the mouse to Milwellis’s cat. The summer nears its end, and I have many who need return to their families in Vanguard to prepare for the onslaught of winter.”
“You will simply flee the field and leave Honce to Yeslnik?” asked an astonished Brother Pinower.
Gwydre’s responding look was no less incredulous. “Hardly. We have wearied them, we have worn them, and we have broken their spirits. Now is the time to fight them, in a place of our choosing, and be done with this nonsense of war.”
“Five to one,” Dawson warned. “And that’s just Milwellis. If Yeslnik comes forth, it’ll be more than ten against our every one.”
“Good,” said Gwydre and all raised their eyebrows. “Then it will be finished in one place, at one time.”
“What’re ye saying?” Dawson replied, the salt coming back into his accent.
“Are we to run headlong to our slaughter?” Brother Pinower added.
Dame Gwydre smirked at both of them, silencing them. “Plot our run, twixt Milwellis and Pryd Town. Find a place not so far from Pryd that will favor us in the fight.”
“Yeslnik’s got fifteen thousand in Pryd,” said Dawson.
“Does he?” was all that the smiling Gwydre would answer. She walked off then, motioning for Bransen to follow her.
“You take a great risk,” Bransen said as soon as they were away. “You have no commitment from Bannagran.”
“Father De Guilbe knows our advantage now, so you said. And so our advantage is no more.”
“Honce is a wide land, and we can move more swiftly than—”
“To what end?” Gwydre asked.
“The people of town after village after town have come to love you,” Bransen reminded. “They speak your name with hearts full and curse Milwellis . . . indeed, many curse King Yeslnik all the louder!
”
“The people you speak of are not warriors and many have felt the painful consequences of their sympathy toward us. It occurs to me that this Laird Milwellis, whose brutal reputation is well earned, will grow even more frustrated and more angry if we continue to flee him and will raze every village that shows us a pittance of kindness or even those that do not rise up and fight against us as we approach. Would you have that dark stain on your heart, Bransen Garibond? Because I would not.”
“You put great stock in Bannagran. Has he earned it?”
“Have I a choice?”
“We could flee to Vanguard straightaway. They will never get their warships in place and coordinated in time to stop our flight. If they follow, it would be to their utter ruin, with winter closing in. Few in Honce have felt the bite of a Vanguard winter.”
“Yeslnik is a fool, but Milwellis is not. Were we to take sail, he would align his warships to protect the mouth of the Masur Delaval and march his army to besiege St. Mere Abelle and urge King Yeslnik to send another army to be rid of Laird Ethelbert. And in that event, how could I expect the courage of Bannagran . . . ?” She paused and sighed.
“Twixt Milwellis and Pryd Town,” Bransen replied with a grin and a sly wink.
Deliver that,” Bannagran bade the captain of the Delaval forces under his command.
The man, tall and lean, looked down at the rolled parchment suspiciously.
“I seek to put an end to this miserable war,” the Laird of Pryd explained.
“So does King Yeslnik,” replied the captain. “So does Dame Gwydre, I would expect!”
“Do you think my army wishes to march all the way back to Ethelbert dos Entel?”
“If King Yeslnik demands it of us!”
Bannagran snorted and waved the man away, growling, “Deliver it.”
But the captain stood resolute. “You must tell me what it is, specifically.”
“Why?” Bannagran asked with a knowing grin. “Because you fear that if it is not what your precious King Yeslnik wishes to hear, he will cut off your head?”
The captain tried to remain stoic, but his blink and a slight slump of his shoulders betrayed him.
The Bear Page 40
