The Bear

TWELVE

Master Reandu looked from the trio of robed "brothers" to the other observer, the Laird of Pryd, who scowled as they moved out the far side of the monk enclave of the wider army encampment.

"He knows," one of Chapel Pryd's lesser brothers remarked to Reandu in harsh and nervous tones.

Master Reandu took a deep breath, then walked slowly across the way, garnering Bannagran's attention as he approached.

"No word from Bransen," he said to the laird.

Bannagran didn't look at him, but kept staring at the departing monks who were not monks at all.

"They are fleeing?" Bannagran asked in a flat and even voice.

"I cannot ask them to go to war with their brethren."

"So you allow them to fight beside their brethren against us?"

"No, laird," Reandu said, patting his hands in the air to calm the volatile man. "No, never that. The battle is ended for them. They will find a chapel…"

"I am to trust that?"

"They joined the order."

Bannagran did turn on the monk then, scowling fiercely. "I allowed you to claim they had joined the order so that we did not have to follow King Yeslnik's demand that all of Ethelbert's prisoners be put to death," he reminded. "You repay my mercy by betraying me?"

"I did not betray-"

"They will flee to Laird Ethelbert's side at first opportunity. They will be given arms and will return to kill your fellow men of Pryd."

Reandu shook his head with every word. "I have their word. The war is over for them. All they want is to return to their families. Surely you cannot disagree with that!"

"You try my patience, monk."

"I recognize your humanity."

Bannagran scowled at him even more fiercely, but then the tension broke and the large and muscular man looked at him more curiously. Reandu found that expression far more unsettling. "Or is it that Master Reandu, too, is thinking of deserting the cause of King Yeslnik?" he asked bluntly.

Reandu rocked back on his heels, not blinking and not replying.

"It is true," Bannagran stated. "You chose to bring those three along and selected the other brothers among the flock of Chapel Pryd because these are the ones who wish to flee the cause of King Yeslnik. You would leave me-would leave your fellow men of Pryd Town-on the battlefield without gemstone healing?"

"No," the monk stated flatly. "No, we will stay throughout the fight to aid the men of Pryd and all the wounded who come to us."

"But you would deny King Yeslnik?"

"I serve the Order of Blessed Abelle, whose masters reside at St. Mere Abelle in the north of Honce," the monk dared to reply. "I have heard no good of this man, Father De Guilbe, whom King Yeslnik has determined to speak as the leader of this new Church of the Divine King. You cannot ask me to renounce my allegiance any more than Bannagran would have renounced his loyalty to Laird Prydae, were he still alive."

"A brave admission," replied Bannagran. "I could tie you to four horses and send them running to the points of the compass for merely speaking those treasonous words."

"I would rather that than renounce Father Artolivan."

Bannagran looked at him as if he had lost his mind but only for a few moments before the large and muscular laird began laughing. He continued to shake his head, then simply turned and started away.

"Laird Bannagran, not I or any of my brethren will desert you in the fight, should it come," Reandu called after him, a promise he intended to keep.

Bannagran didn't stop walking but looked back over his shoulder and said, "And after the fight?"

Master Reandu could only stare at him, letting the words hang empty in the air. He stood there for some time, watching Bannagran as the man receded among the tents and other soldiers. Strangely, Reandu found that he wasn't surprised by the laird's seeming indifference. Bannagran's heart wasn't in this campaign, wasn't for King Yeslnik. Reandu was certain that Bannagran fairly hated the foppish pretender. Still, Reandu had all but admitted that he would defect to Artolivan, who was now openly opposing Yeslnik. Actually witnessing Bannagran's nonchalance in the face of that was no small thing.

Reandu closed his eyes and reconsidered his course, not for the first time, and he doubted for the last. His loyalty was to Artolivan and the Order of Blessed Abelle-the real one and not the shadow church King Yeslnik was trying to create. The monks at Chapel Pryd agreed with that decision almost to a man as they had applauded Master Reandu for cleverly dodging the king's order to execute the prisoners held at Chapel Pryd.

But Reandu's heart was for Pryd Town most of all. Pryd was his home-his family had been there for as long as any could remember, many generations. And Reandu had grown to respect and admire Bannagran as well. How could he leave his home and his laird?

But how could he not, if remaining there meant a declaration of fealty to that awful Father De Guilbe and this new made-up church whose name elevated the wretched Yeslnik to "divine"?

"It will all work out," he whispered to himself, nodding and silently reminding himself that the issue between King Yeslnik and Father Artolivan was far from settled. Likely they would come to an accord since no army could possibly topple the great fortress that was St. Mere Abelle and since, when at last the war between the lairds was over, it would be in no one's best interest to continue a fight between church and state.

The assurance found little hold in Reandu's heart, though, for the master had more than enough personal experience with King Yeslnik to know that the man could not be trusted to do the right thing, particularly as far as the common folk were concerned.

Still, the monk could hope, he supposed.

He heard a call then for "Master!" and from the insistent tone, he realized that the younger brother had likely been shouting for him for some time. He glanced about, finally spotting the monk and others gathered on a knoll, pointing to the tree line. Reandu understood their excitement, and his own eyes widened indeed when he, too, spotted Bransen.

The young warrior looked haggard, indeed, and though no wound was evident upon him, Reandu had to think that he had suffered some type of physical trauma, for he held one hand up to his forehead and walked shakily, not quite Stork-like, but certainly not with the agile and balanced strides of the Highwayman.

Reandu rushed down to him, but Bransen didn't stop or glance at or acknowledge him in any way.

"What is it?" Reandu asked, and he noted that it was indeed a soul stone that Bransen was pressing against his forehead.

"I… I… I…" Bransen stammered in reply. He shook his head, spittle flying, and staggered past.

Master Reandu nearly gagged. The Stork had returned and persisted even though Bransen had a soul stone against his forehead! Reandu rushed to Bransen's side and took him by the arm. He wouldn't let the young warrior shake him away, though Bransen surely tried.

"Bransen, what has happened?" Reandu asked. Other monks came rushing down to help.

"I… I n… nee… need rest," he managed at last as he tried to pull away. But another monk grabbed him by his other arm, and that brother and Reandu ushered Bransen quickly to a tent and a cot and eased him down.

Bransen lay there for some time, staring off to the side, though he was surely looking at things within his own mind and not at Reandu or anything else in the tent. Reandu called to him repeatedly to try to get some explanation, but the young warrior wasn't talking.

Soon after, the exhausted Bransen fell fast asleep.

"A strip of cloth," Reandu instructed the other monk, who rushed from the tent and returned almost immediately with a small square of wool. Reandu rolled it up and tied it about Bransen's forehead, setting the soul stone underneath it to hold it in place, much as Bransen had typically done before Father Artolivan had given him the lost star brooch.

Reandu dismissed the other monks, but he didn't depart with them. He sat beside Bransen throughout the rest of the day, occasionally using a second soul stone to infuse the weary young warrior with warm waves of healing magic. Finally, as the night deepened, Master Reandu stood to take his leave, to gather some dinner before retiring.

"You were ri… right," Bransen said as the monk turned away. Reandu spun back to see the young warrior open his eyes. "Does that fill you with pride?" Bransen asked, and his voice seemed steady once more, though surely not nearly as strong as it had been when he had gone out the previous night.

"What do you mean?" Reandu asked, coming back and crouching low over the prone man.

Bransen looked away.

After a moment, Reandu understood. "You could not do it," he said, and a smile widened on his face. "You could not kill them."

Bransen looked back, and he wasn't returning that smile. With a great scowl he said, "Does that please you?"

"More than you can imagine, my friend."

Bransen's frown melted into a look of curiosity.

"Did you think I would cheer your fall from morality?" Reandu asked him. "Did you believe that I would be glad to learn that you, a wonderful and generous soul I have known since your childhood, were as crass and callous as so many of these supposed leaders?"

"Perhaps I am not as brave as I assumed."

"Brave?" Now Reandu couldn't suppress his chuckle. "You are no assassin, Bransen Garibond, nor is this other image of you that you name the Highwayman. You have never been an assassin."

"Ancient Badden would not agree with your assessment."

"In killing Ancient Badden you saved hundreds of innocents," Reandu answered without the slightest hesitation. "In that act you ended a war, and the man was deserving of his end. But this pact you forged with Bannagran… No, Bransen, that was not a just and moral agreement. You knew it, and in the moment of truth, when you could not continue your deception of your heart, when continuing would fundamentally and adversely change the man you are, you chose the correct road. I could not be happier."

Bransen stared at him hard. "I am afflicted once more," he said, and his voice remained unsteady.

"What happened? Did you suffer a wound?"

"No."

"When did it occur? Did you engage in a fight?"

"The fight was over, and I won and was not injured," Bransen explained. He lifted his hands before him and stared at them as if they were covered in blood. "I had her," he said, and he clenched his left hand. "Head back and helpless."

It wasn't hard for Master Reandu to piece the rest of it together. The Stork had manifested itself to save Bransen from his worst instincts, the monk master believed, and he was very glad for it. He grabbed Bransen's hands in his own and squeezed them gently.

"And now I am crippled once more," Bransen said, his voice barely a whisper.

"Was it not this Jhesta Tu training that you claimed had freed you of the Stork and of the need to use the soul stone?" Reandu asked.

Bransen looked at him, obviously intrigued and apparently unwilling to admit it.

"What would that discipline say to Bransen in that situation? Are the Jhesta Tu assassins?"

"No," the weary young warrior whispered.

"Is that not anathema to their beliefs?"

"It's all a lie," Bransen muttered and looked away.

He was ashamed of himself, Master Reandu knew. That, the monk believed, was a very good thing.

Reandu said not another word that night and stayed with Bransen for a long while, until the emotionally battered young man fell asleep once more.

Bransen burst from the tent the next morning with the soul stone strapped securely to his forehead and his black silk mask hanging loosely about his neck. He wasn't solid on his feet, though certainly more balanced than he had seemed the previous day.

"You slept well?" Master Reandu inquired, moving to join him.

Bransen nodded.

"That is good, because we have a long march before us by order of Laird Bannagran. If you intend to continue this road, I mean."

"I will retrieve my sword and the brooch Father Artolivan gave me," Bransen replied. "And then I will be gone, far from this place, far from Yeslnik's Honce."

Reandu cocked an eyebrow curiously at that. "You concede the land to him?"

"It is a foregone conclusion."

"So where will you run? Alpinador?" he asked. "To Behr, perhaps, the home of the Jhesta Tu?"

"Or to Vanguard," Bransen replied. "To the wilds of the north beyond the reach of Yeslnik's soldiers. I will gather Cadayle and Callen, and we will be gone across the gulf. To all the world the Highwayman will be dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes."

"That is how you want it?"

"Yes."

"And those who would benefit from the work of the Highwayman should be content with their miserable lot in life, because the Highwayman could not be bothered to champion them?"

"I care not," Bransen declared. "My road is my own to choose, and my responsibility is to myself and to my wife and family."

Reandu grinned just a bit, but did not let it widen to mock Bransen. But in truth, the monk didn't believe Bransen at all here, though he expected that Bransen was sincere about his own blather. Despite his protests to the contrary, Bransen cared for the common men and women of Honce.

Reandu saw no point to pressing the issue at that time, though. Bransen would have to work through this newest self-deception as he had the previous one.

With a curt bow, Bransen walked off to get some breakfast, leaving Reandu to stand alone in the middle of the monk enclave, for though he, too, was hungry, the monk decided that it would be better to give Bransen distance at that time. The young man needed to sort out what was truly in his heart and mind, and only Bransen could provide his own answers.

The army was on the march soon after, and it was a swift march indeed, as Reandu had promised. They continued east around the same ridgeline from which Bransen had levitated two nights previous, then turned southeast, a straight line for the still distant city of Ethelbert dos Entel. The sun disappearing in the west, they had just ended the march to settle in for the night when Bannagran's chariot rumbled into the midst of the monks.

Reandu rushed to greet him. Before the monk could even speak a word Bannagran told him to get into the chariot.

"There will be a parlay," the Laird of Pryd explained. "You will stand beside me."

"A parlay? With whom?"

"Climb up," Bannagran reiterated.

Reandu motioned to direct Bannagran's gaze to the side near a stretch of thick pines where Bransen loitered.

Bannagran flicked the reins to get his team moving, eight other chariots sweeping in his wake. He didn't continue through the monk enclave, nor did he turn back as Reandu had expected. Instead the chariot veered toward the young warrior standing alone by the pines.

"A parlay with Laird Ethelbert's representatives, perhaps including the ones you seek," Bannagran explained to Bransen.

Bransen rushed up, and Bannagran motioned to the next chariot in line, then set his team moving again, this time back the way he had come. Bransen had barely set his feet on the floorboards before the second chariot in line rumbled away.

The remaining seven came behind in a line, the ground shaking under the pounding hooves and rolling wheels. Cheers from the soldiers went up wherever they passed, all splendid in their shining bronze, the world trembling beneath them. Though he was not driving, Bransen felt nearly giddy with power up here. He had never done battle from such a perch, nor had he fought extensively against charioteers, but suddenly he understood why so many footmen fled before such a sight as the armored carts.

They crossed out of the vast encampment at its forward point, the intersection of the eastern and southern roads. To the south they went, Bannagran maintaining the lead.

"He is the laird," Bransen said to his driver, nearly shouting so that he could be overheard above the rumble of hoof and wheel. "Shouldn't he be in the middle or near the rear of the procession?"

"Not Laird Bannagran, nay!" the driver replied. "Never does he shield himself with his lessers. Laird Bannagran is the first to the battle and the last to leave the field."

And so you love him, Bransen thought but did not say. Despite his sour mood and their unpleasant history, he had to admit his own respect for Bannagran. He compared this laird's actions with those of the foppish Yeslnik, who no doubt would have sent others to parlay while he himself hid at the rear of his great army, surrounded by elite guards several ranks deep.

And surely Bannagran knew that truth about the fool king as well, and yet, unbelievably, the man showed such loyalty to the crown!

Bannagran pulled his chariot off the right-hand side of the road and onto a grassy lea shaded by the canopy of a line of large oak trees. Acorns of past seasons crackled under the press of the wheels, and dried leaves rustled and flew from the breeze. The three chariots immediately following with attendants turned with the laird, but with practiced precision the next three rumbled along the road right past the meeting point while the remaining two held far back to the north. As his chariot came to a stop, Bransen jumped down and moved out onto the road to watch the lead teams. They climbed a slight incline to the south to the highest point of the road, and there two pulled up while the third turned about to serve as relay for any information to the main encampment.

"Keep them tethered and ready," one of Bannagran's charioteers told the two attendants who had ridden with the third and fourth team. "If Laird Ethelbert has treachery planned we will turn it back upon him in swift manner."

Bransen noted that the man lifted his voice with that last promise to make sure that Bannagran heard, no doubt.

"Laird Ethelbert has no treachery planned," the laird replied with certainty and an obvious bit of annoyance.

The three charioteers began sorting out the proprieties of the planned meeting, while Master Reandu stayed near to Bannagran, who moved to the far side of the line of oaks and was staring off to the southwest. Bransen moved nearer to them, subtly hoping to overhear.

"It will be his surrender," Reandu was saying. "Ethelbert's men have little fight left in them. They know they cannot win."

"Laird Ethelbert is a proud man," Bannagran replied.

"Which is why he will come out to you. Never would he hand his sword to King Yeslnik. But there is no dishonor in surrendering to the Bear of Honce and the army of Pryd, not after the reputation you and your followers have rightly earned in the course of this war. Was it not Bannagran who sent Laird Ethelbert fleeing from Pryd when Ethelbert thought the field was surely won?"

Bannagran didn't respond, but Bransen knew that the sour look on his face was honest humility.

This was the man who had brought such misery to Garibond Womak, Bransen reminded himself. This was the man who came for Bransen to castrate him in some Samhaist nonsense ritual whereby Bransen's genitals would have been sacrificed so that Laird Prydae would be virile once more. And when Garibond had thrown himself down, pleading mercy for Bransen, who was still but a boy back then, Bannagran, this man before him now, had dragged Garibond away.

Later, when Father Jerak of Chapel Pryd had declared Garibond a heretic, Bransen's beloved adoptive father had been burned at the stake. And they were both complicit. Both of them! Reandu and Bannagran had been a part of that execution, if not a part of the decision itself.

Bransen had to keep reminding himself of that truth.

Bransen felt itchy, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. The world was too harsh, too vile, and even these men, to whom he had to admit some affinity, particularly to Reandu, were part of that hardness.

"Never forget that," he heard himself saying, though he hadn't meant to speak aloud, and when he did, both Bannagran and Reandu turned to regard him.

"Forget what?" the laird asked tersely.

"That you have a history of battle with Laird Ethelbert," Bransen stammered, his weakness of voice caused by desperate improvisation and not by the bubbling and babbling Stork. "Laird Ethelbert is an honorable man, perhaps, but he is one who has been bitten hard by the cold iron of Bannagran of Pryd."

"Perhaps? An honorable man, perhaps?" Bannagran pressed.

"His assassins," Master Reandu explained.

"Employing Hou-lei impugns his honor," Bransen declared.

The laird looked at Bransen curiously, then dismissively, before turning away. More interested was Master Reandu, who stared at Bransen and nodded and then, on sudden impulse it seemed, pointed up into the trees.

It took Bransen only a few heartbeats to understand his meaning, and the young warrior nodded and smiled slyly. As Bannagran turned back to regard him, Bransen used his malachite gem to lessen his weight and leaped high, landing nimbly on the lowest branch. He looked down to where the three charioteers were preparing a meeting area, brushing away the slippery bed of acorns. Bransen moved along the branches to a place of concealment just above where they were expecting Ethelbert's emissaries to stand.

He heard Reandu assure Bannagran that he would be safer now, heard the warrior laird scoff in reply.

Both would have scoffed all the more, Bransen realized, if they understood what was in his heart. For if it came to blows in the clearing below him, he doubted he would intervene, and if he did he had no idea on which side he would fight.

Whichever side best suited his own needs, he stubbornly and unconvincingly told himself.

Barely had Bransen settled when one of the forward scout chariots came roaring back down the road, swirling dust and twigs and acorns as it cut sharply onto the lea.

"Laird Ethelbert himself!" the driver shouted. "Laird Bannagran, it is Laird Ethelbert himself who comes to parlay!"

Bransen looked to see Bannagran and Reandu exchanging glances, both obviously impressed.

The chariot driver flung his reins to one of the attendants and sprinted to stand before his laird.

"How many with him?" Bannagran asked.

"A contingent of only a handful, but it was old Laird Ethelbert, to be sure, centering their ride."

"Be alert," Bannagran told all around and above him. To the driver specifically, he added, "Fetch the trailing chariots and move them closer, near enough to strike should treachery be shown."

"Aye, laird, but there are only a few with Ethelbert," the driver replied. "A pair of monks, a pair of women, and another man, of Behr, I believe, and dressed in the black silks of the Highwayman."

Above them in the tree, Bransen tensed. He crawled out and strained his eyes to the south road, arriving at his perch just in time to see the contingent cresting the hill and walking their horses slowly between the two remaining forward chariots. It was indeed Laird Ethelbert astride a large white stallion, holding the fiery beast with a sure hand. Bransen noted Affwin Wi and Merwal Yahna, as he had expected from the charioteer's description, trotting along easily beside their laird.

Of the other three, he could not be certain from this distance. A pair of monks, yes, and a woman dressed in the garb of the northland of Alpinador, a woman dressed in barbarian shamanistic clothing, all tooth necklaces and feathers, much as Milkeila had worn.

Bransen found that he could hardly draw breath. It was Milkeila, and one of the monks was surely Cormack. Milkeila and Cormack with Laird Ethelbert! Milkeila and Cormack walking their mounts beside the murderess, Affwin Wi, and her vile cohort, Merwal Yahna!

What could it mean?

Bransen searched for shackles upon them, for surely his friends must have been bound to allow themselves such company. But no, he saw, they were not chained, nor did either seem uncomfortable riding beside Laird Ethelbert. Bransen lost sight of them briefly in the maze of branches below, but he heard the horses stop at the edge of the lea and the four riders dismount. They walked over in a line, five holding back a few steps and only Laird Ethelbert stepping out to stand right before Bannagran.

"You look well, Laird of Pryd," he greeted. "And though we are-or were-enemies, know that I have watched you with continued admiration."

"You are too generous," Bannagran replied, his tone too severe for the words.

Laird Ethelbert chuckled at that. "Can we not enjoy the respite in some measure of civility and calm?" he asked, and Bannagran shuffled uncomfortably.

"True enough," Bannagran admitted. "I have not forgotten our journeys together along the Mantis Arm, chasing powries into the sea. Forgive me my sword's edge. I am weary of war."

"As are we all. There is nothing to forgive."

"Most generous," Bannagran said with a bow.

"You are surprised to see me here, of course," said Ethelbert. "And you are surprised, no doubt, that I called for a parlay. It would seem as if there is nothing left to say."

Bannagran nodded.

"But the situation has changed," Ethelbert said. He turned to the monk on his right. "This is Father Destros of Chapel Entel." The monk bowed.

"Beside me stands Master Reandu of Chapel Pryd," Bannagran replied.

"Who follows Father Artolivan?" asked Ethelbert.

Bransen focused on Reandu's reaction, noted the frown that momentarily crossed his face, and noticed, too, that Laird Ethelbert didn't miss that scowl.

"The order has broken with Laird Yeslnik," said Ethelbert.

"King Yeslnik," Bannagran corrected. "And only a faction of the church has turned from his certain victory. A foolish move."

"Or a move of principle. What say you, Brother Reandu?"

Ethelbert's discerning gaze made Reandu shrink away, more so when he saw Bannagran turning to scowl at him.

Laird Ethelbert continued, "I am told by both Father Destros here and my visitors from St. Mere Abelle that this alternative church Laird Yeslnik desires will hardly resemble the tenets and truths of the Order of Blessed Abelle. Surely it is more of a political alliance of convenience than any agreement rooted in faith."

"I know nothing of the spat, nor do I care," Bannagran interrupted.

"You do not care?" Ethelbert asked incredulously, almost mockingly. "A powerful faction has joined the ranks of your enemies. Surely that is cause of concern for Laird Bannagran. Nor is this defection just the church, although that defection alone should give you pause. Nay, Cormack and his lovely companion, Milkeila of Alpinador, sailed to Ethelbert dos Entel as emissaries not only of Father Artolivan, who rules the Abellicans at St. Mere Abelle, but of Dame Gwydre of Vanguard."

Bannagran tried not to appear impressed, Bransen saw clearly from above, but for Bransen, it was all he could do to hold his position and not fall out of the tree in the unsettling wake of such overwhelming news. Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan had allied with Laird Ethelbert? Did they not know that Ethelbert was every bit the scoundrel as Yeslnik? Did they not know that Ethelbert employed murderers and knaves and that Jameston Sequin, friend to Dame Gwydre, had been murdered by Ethelbert's assassins? Bransen had to breathe deeply to steady himself, but too late, he realized, as both Affwin Wi and Merwal Yahna suddenly tensed at Ethelbert's side, the woman drawing her sword-drawing Bransen's sword!-and lifting it his way.

"What?" Ethelbert stammered, fell back a step, and then followed Affwin Wi's pointing blade to see Bransen in the boughs above.

"What treachery is this, Laird Bannagran?" the old laird protested. "I had thought you an honorable-"

He stopped as Bransen dropped from the branches, landing lightly and unthreateningly at Bannagran's side.

"Bransen!" Milkeila and Cormack shouted together.

"No treachery," Bannagran assured his counterpart.

"I will have my mother's sword," Bransen demanded, his voice strong and steady.

Affwin Wi smiled at him so wickedly.

Bransen didn't back down and returned that smile. "I will have that sword and the brooch you stole from me."

"Took from you, you mean," said Affwin Wi. "By right of my superior rank and by right of my victory in battle against you, traitor."

Bransen saw the confused looks of both Bannagran and Ethelbert. At his side, Reandu began quietly imploring him to be silent and step back.

Of more concern, across the way, Cormack and Milkeila seemed at a loss, completely unnerved and unsure, and with such a mix of emotions twisting their features that Bransen could hardly sort them out.

"We feared you dead," Cormack said, "but were told-"

"Lies, no doubt," said Bransen, staring at Affwin Wi as he spoke. "For that is the way of the Hou-lei."

"Does this young man speak for you, Laird Bannagran?" Ethelbert demanded.

"Be silent, fool!" Bannagran scolded, turning threateningly toward Bransen.

"You come to parlay, as emissaries of Dame Gwydre," Bransen said past Bannagran, aiming his remarks at Cormack and Milkeila. "To ally with Ethelbert?"

"Control your man, Laird Bannagran," Ethelbert warned.

A much larger man, Bannagran grabbed Bransen hard by the upper arm and pulled him back.

"Would Dame Gwydre be so willing for such an alliance if she knew that Laird Ethelbert's assassins had murdered Jameston Sequin?" Bransen asked bluntly.

Cormack and Milkeila fell back at that, staring alternately from Affwin Wi and Merwal Yahna to Laird Ethelbert. More telling to Bransen was the reaction of the other monk, Father Destros, his face a mask of fear, as if he had known or at least had suspected the dark secret of Jameston's demise.

"This is not about you or your friend, boy," Bannagran said quietly to Bransen as he bulled the young warrior backward to only token resistance. "You were not invited to speak." He ended by shoving Bransen back several steps. Master Reandu rushed up to take Bransen by the arm, whispering desperately for him to be quiet.

"Murderer," Bransen said to Ethelbert, then added, "murderess!" aimed at Affwin Wi. "I will have my mother's sword if I have to pry it from your dying grasp."

Both Affwin Wi and Merwal Yahna started forward at the threat, but Laird Ethelbert bellowed, "Halt!" before they could go very far. With a ferocious scowl upon his old face, the laird motioned the pair back behind him and told Affwin Wi in no uncertain terms to put the sword away.

"These issues are beyond my knowledge," Ethelbert said to Bannagran, though he was obviously aiming his remark at Cormack and Milkeila as well as Bransen, for whatever that was worth. The old laird turned to directly address Cormack as he continued, "We will learn the truth of it all, I promise." His voice grew very old then. "In the confusion that is war many die needlessly."

"What do you want, Laird Ethelbert?" Bannagran interrupted. "You asked for parlay, and so I am here. I honor your flag of truce."

"And I, yours," Ethelbert assured him.

"But my patience thins in light of these revelations and in the face of your warriors' threat."

"No threat," Ethelbert assured him. "I did not come to threaten but to offer."

"Then make your offer."

"Join us," Ethelbert said bluntly.

A few steps back from Bannagran, Reandu's continued quiet advice to the Highwayman stuck in his throat at that proclamation, and both he and Bransen turned blank stares at the surprising laird.

"I know you, Bannagran of Pryd," Laird Ethelbert continued. "I have witnessed you in battle, both as footman and as general, and I know that you cannot stomach the likes of that snot-nosed nephew of Laird Delaval."

"Beware your words of King Yeslnik," Bannagran warned.

"King Yeslnik," Ethelbert scoffed. "He is not prepared to lead a single small holding let alone the whole of Honce! Were he a farmer his crops would die and his chickens would starve. He could not throw a fishing line into the Mirianic without falling in behind it!"

Bannagran didn't seem to appreciate the mirth, for a smile did not crease his face. He stared hard at Laird Ethelbert, his expression unreadable.

"It is more than a matter of competence," Cormack interjected, stepping up beside Ethelbert. "It is a question of judgment and morality. Dame Gwydre has chosen to side with-"

"Do you speak for Dame Gwydre?" Bannagran asked.

"I do."

"And for Father Artolivan?"

"He does," Father Destros called from behind.

"I do," Laird Ethelbert corrected.

"We do," was all that Cormack would concede. He and Ethelbert exchanged a quick, but sharp, stare before Cormack stubbornly pressed forward. "It was not Dame Gwydre's intent to take sides in this conflict," Cormack explained. "She sailed south to deliver news of the defeat of Ancient Badden in Vanguard and the ascendance of the Order of Blessed Abelle in those northern reaches. She came to see if she could mediate in this terrible war, to help heal the wounds of Honce."

"A wiser course than the one you have ultimately chosen," Bannagran assured the former monk.

"It was the immorality of Yesl… King Yeslnik's proclamation," Cormack explained. "The dactyl-inspired demand that those prisoners who had served Laird Ethelbert be murdered. That foul edict demanded our course and the decision of Father Artolivan."

Bransen had stopped watching his friend Cormack, instead turning his eye to regard Reandu. The master didn't blink through Cormack's explanation, licking his lips as Cormack recounted the meetings that had brought Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan to the conclusion that the notion of Yeslnik, this young man with such careless disregard for the lives of others, becoming King of Honce was simply unacceptable.

Master Reandu wanted to cheer Cormack's bold stand, Bransen realized, and indeed he thought that Reandu might not be able to contain himself and might do just that! The implications of that obvious truth had the Highwayman screwing up his face with confusion.

"It was not only an affront to those men who had served my army," Ethelbert added, "but one to your own soldiers."

Bannagran didn't look very convinced.

"Would your warriors not face more difficult fights if they marched against an enemy who knew that to surrender was to be put to the sword?" Ethelbert asked. "Is not the offering of mercy and safe return a valuable parlay position to a general who has won the field and does not wish to inflict wholesale slaughter upon his enemy?"

"The winds have turned against Yeslnik," Cormack insisted. "All of Vanguard and the brothers of Abelle have thrown in with Laird Ethelbert."

"All of Vanguard?" Bannagran replied with a mocking chuckle. "Palmaristown alone puts more men on the field than your Dame Gwydre can manage, and not all of the brothers have run to the call of the traitor, Father Artolivan." As he finished, Bannagran turned to regard Reandu, who withered under the laird's imposing stare.

"Father Artolivan answers to a higher king than any mere mortal man," said Cormack.

"Does he indeed?" asked Bannagran. "Would Ancient Badden's deluded minions not say the same of him?"

That put Cormack back on his heels, Bransen noted, but the resourceful former monk squared his shoulders and insisted, "It is for the good of Honce, for the good of the common folk of Honce, that Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan have chosen to oppose Yeslnik."

"They will be buried side by side, then," came Bannagran's sarcastic reply.

"And not for any personal gain," Cormack managed to continue. "Laird Bannagran, I beseech you…"

But the Bear of Honce was laughing at him, so Cormack relented. "It is all for personal gain whether for Dame Gwydre or Laird Ethelbert or King Yeslnik," Bannagran admitted. "Whether for Father Artolivan or Father De Guilbe or Master Reandu there. For all of us, you fool. Spare me your words of greater imperative or nobler cause. A man thrusts his spear into the gut of another for the cause of personal gain and not out of nobility. A laird seeks alliance for personal gain or begins a war to expand his holding. No doubt your Dame Gwydre eyes a foothold on the civilized lands in recompense for her token support of Laird Ethelbert. She will soon come to regret that choice of ally, though." He turned and glanced back to the west. "You have no doubt heard of the scope of my force, and it is but one of King Yeslnik's three great armies. You are sorely outnumbered, outarmed, and outarmored."

"But if you were to join with us…" Cormack replied when all recognized that Laird Ethelbert, staring hard at Bannagran, was not about to say anything at that dangerous point.

"The outcome of the fight would be less assured?" Bannagran asked with a laugh.

"For the good of the common folk of Honce," said Cormack.

"For many more years of war, you mean," said Bannagran. "And for the same outcome for those who survive the march of armies, whether Ethelbert or Yeslnik claimed the throne."

Laird Ethelbert stiffened at that, a remark he clearly considered an insult, but again it was Cormack who spoke up.

"It will be neither!"

The force of his declaration did give Bannagran pause, after which he asked, showing only minimal intrigue, "Do tell."

"When the war is won, Honce will have no king, but a queen."

"A queen? Your Dame Gwydre?"

Cormack didn't blink, his shoulders straight and square, his jaw strong.

"Some huntress from the wilds of Vanguard will conquer Honce?" Bannagran asked, his voice filling with mocking incredulity. He turned to Ethelbert. "And you would agree with this?"

Ethelbert sputtered a bit, shaking his head, and started to explain that the details had not yet been agreed upon, but Bannagran's laughter had him too flustered to make any point.

"How desperate must you be, Laird Ethelbert," the Bear of Honce said. "It pains me to witness you as a broken man. You, who were once a leader among men, and for so long!" He shook his head and laughed again. "I will honor your flag of truce, though I would be doing you a favor to take your head and be done with this foolishness here and now."

Behind Ethelbert, Affwin Wi brought a hand to her sword hilt. Behind Affwin Wi, Bannagran's men similarly moved.

Ethelbert held up his hand to calm his volatile assassin.

"You have revealed your desperation, Laird Ethelbert," Bannagran went on. "Your wisest course-all of you-would be to surrender and accept Yeslnik as king and pray that he have mercy upon you."

Cormack began to respond again, but Ethelbert stepped nearer to him and reached across with his arm, driving the younger man back. "I know you, Laird Bannagran of Pryd. I have seen you in battle. I saved your life once and Laird Prydae's and the lives of many of your soldiers when the powries had you trapped in a gully."

"That was a long time ago."

"But not so long that I have forgotten the Bear of Honce, Prydae's champion," said Ethelbert. "I know your axe and so I know your heart, and that heart cannot suffer the fool Yeslnik who has never bloodied a blade against a man who could defend himself."

It was perfectly quiet then, with all eyes intent on Bannagran-except for those of Bransen, who studied all the others, particularly Reandu. The monk stood completely still, holding his breath.

"I remember that day in the east when Laird Ethelbert did not shy with fear but came on to secure the flank of Pryd," Bannagran replied after a long pause. "Out of respect for that day I allow you to leave now in peace and return to your city. For your own sake, reconsider your foolish course."

"Spend the night in contemplation," Ethelbert suggested. "This is an important decision, friend."

"A night will not change all that has gone before," Bannagran answered.

"As a personal favor to a man who once saved your life," said Ethelbert, "I will return in the morning under a flag of parlay."

Ethelbert and Bannagran stared at each other for a few heartbeats then. Ethelbert started away, his entourage turning in his wake.

All but Affwin Wi. "Highwayman," she called after Bannagran, too, had started off in the other direction.

Bransen stepped past Reandu to match her stare.

"Come and get your sword," the woman teased.

Bransen steeled his gaze and started forward, but Reandu rushed up to grab him. That alone would not have stopped the determined Bransen, but Bannagran veered to move right in front of him, scowling fiercely.

"They came holding a flag of truce," the Bear of Honce said. "Do not dare begin your vendetta under the banner of Pryd Town."

"She challenged-" Bransen stopped, seeing that he would get nowhere here. He looked past Bannagran to Affwin Wi, Merwal Yahna standing close behind her.

"Let it pass," Bannagran warned.

"She wants my sword because she broke her own in the chest of your beloved Delaval," Bransen said to unnerve him.

But Bannagran didn't blink, and Bransen turned back to regard Affwin Wi. She was smiling her wicked smile. Bransen knew that no matter the outcome of the war-whatever alliance or terms of surrender or conquest might occur-he and Affwin Wi would have their fight. And only one would survive it.