The Bear

  “Father Artolivan did not agree with you,” Jurgyen dared to reply. “You tried to make this argument with him, no doubt, and yet he did not assemble the brothers and hand them soul stones that they might go forth in spirit alone. The edicts of our order—”

  “And yet even as you argue with me, you would have sent the brothers forth in spirit to inform the other chapels of the passing of Father Artolivan.”

  “There are times for such risks,” Jurgyen admitted. “We sent word of the canonization of Blessed Abelle. We came to you in spirit in the far north of Vanguard with word of the war.”

  “And so you shall go to Vanguard again with news of the war and with words of rally,” Premujon explained. “And to gather information from the northern holding that Dame Gwydre can rest easy as she continues her battle with Yeslnik.”

  “You ask for more than a single, simple journey and for more than the communion with prepared brothers on the other end.”

  “I do.”

  “The risks are unprecedented! Many will die!”

  “I know.”

  “Yet you persist in this madness all so that Dame Gwydre can rest easy,” Jurgyen remarked.

  “He would,” came a voice from the door. The speaker, Dame Gwydre, entered the room.

  Brother Jurgyen closed his eyes and lowered his head.

  “For that and so that we might learn of events in the gulf,” Gwydre went on. “Events that may well determine our course here at St. Mere Abelle.” She looked to Father Premujon and nodded her chin toward the door. The monk caught the cue and promptly left them alone in the room.

  “Pray speak your mind,” Dame Gwydre said to the brother. “Bluntly.”

  Jurgyen looked at her skeptically.

  “I have been at war for more than a year, brother,” Gwydre said. “I have witnessed utter carnage in Vanguard villages, where every man, woman, and child was slaughtered by vile trolls. I stand here now amidst a rain of catapult throws. I promise you your words will not hurt me.”

  “We should not risk the spirit walking so casually as I was commanded,” Jurgyen said. “To send brothers out across the gulf on so regular a schedule is madness.”

  “It is necessary.”

  “And this is why you elevated Father Premujon to the leadership role,” Jurgyen accused.

  “Father Artolivan selected his replacement, as is acceptable in times when a formal Council of Masters cannot be convened.”

  “Father Artolivan acceded to your request,” Jurgyen accused. “Dame Gwydre asked him for Father Premujon.”

  “You heard such a thing?” she asked.

  “I deduced such a thing,” the monk admitted.

  Gwydre laughed helplessly. “Had you been in attendance, I admit you would have heard such a thing.”

  Jurgyen’s eyes went wide at the unexpected confession.

  “The choice was logical,” the woman explained. “None here have more experience than Father Premujon. None have served the order more loyally, and none have shown such nimbleness.”

  “Nimbleness?” Jurgyen asked, perplexed. Only for a moment, though, as he considered the history of Dame Gwydre and the Order of Blessed Abelle. Her war with the Samhaists hadn’t begun out of whole cloth, and one of the precipitating events to Ancient Badden’s turn against her was her intimate relationship with a monk. Gwydre had fallen in love with a brother of Chapel Pellinor, and Father Premujon had known about it from the beginning. “Nimble,” he said aloud with a little smile. He thought it a good word.

  “He understands me,” said Gwydre. “And he complements my decisions appropriately.”

  “And he follows your orders, obviously.”

  “Nay,” Gwydre replied without hesitation. “Not that stubborn one!”

  “He has ordered me to prepare rooms of meditation and to send many brothers to the corners of the world, particularly across the Gulf of Corona, to gather the information you desire.”

  “Because he knows it is the correct tactic. We are trapped in here, brother, as Ethelbert was trapped in his city. Our enemies run across the land and sail across the seas. We must know the result of their movements if we are to properly counter.”

  “And you must know of your beloved Vanguard.”

  “I want to know,” the woman admitted. “Wouldn’t you?”

  The simple honesty and logic hit Jurgyen hard and shamed him for his abstinence. Truly he felt the fool for having so accused this woman of nefarious plotting!

  “But you would not have us impart the word of Father Artolivan’s death?” he stammered, finding suddenly that he wanted to change the subject.

  “Oh no,” she replied. “We cannot do so. Not while Yeslnik holds so visible an advantage. Such news will strengthen the hand of Father De Guilbe in this dangerous time. If Father Artolivan is no more, then those brothers at the many chapels across the land may well turn De Guilbe’s way. He has King Yeslnik’s sword. He is the easier choice.”

  “You have little faith in the brothers,” Jurgyen scolded.

  “I understand human weakness, brother. I understand that even brave men may need a measure of hope to facilitate their course to battle. Now is a time of great uncertainty in the chapels of Honce, a time of confusion and difficult choices. Now is not the moment to herald the death of Father Artolivan, who has stood so bravely against the tyrant Yeslnik.”

  Jurgyen considered for a few moments, then nodded his agreement to all of it. “You would have most travel across the gulf even though the more immediate events lie to the south?” he asked.

  “This was not my fight, and I am unknown to many of the folk in the southern holdings of Honce,” Gwydre explained. “But it is my battle now, and by Father Artolivan’s own design I will be presented as a possible alternative ruler to both lairds, Yeslnik and Ethelbert. Is this not true?”

  “It is.”

  “And so our ultimate hope rests in the security of Vanguard, for if Yeslnik claimed that land in conquest, then with what title might I presume to climb the throne of Honce? I am Dame Gwydre only because that northern holding, Vanguard, is my domain. Without it, I am merely Gwydre.”

  Once more Jurgyen felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He had thought that he was correct in his arguments against Dame Gwydre’s course, mainly because he had presumed the woman had not thought through her plans.

  In a strange way, though, when his embarrassment wore away, Jurgyen was comforted by the forethought and calculation of Dame Gwydre. He even viewed the promotion of Father Premujon in a new light, more complimentary to this woman. Yes, Gwydre had manipulated Father Artolivan, had lobbied him hard for her preferred successor, but truly, given his experiences with the kind and wise father from Chapel Pellinor, Jurgyen could not disagree with Father Artolivan’s decision.

  The brother argued no more. He assembled the brethren of St. Mere Abelle that very night, choosing from their ranks those most powerful with the gemstones and most seasoned in the act of spirit walking. He delivered Father Premujon’s orders—Dame Gwydre’s orders—with all the zeal as if they were his own.

  “Information is power,” he told the brothers. “A weapon we will use to bludgeon this pretend King Yeslnik and the traitor De Guilbe.”

  They began assembling that weapon in the dark of night, insubstantial spirits moving through the shadows with not a whisper of sound.

  At Bannagran’s insistence Bransen stayed in Chapel Pryd and out of sight the next day when King Yeslnik and his grand entourage entered Pryd Town. Yeslnik rode in splendor in a coach befitted with sparkling jewels and leafed in gold. Trumpeters announced his arrival, their sharp notes rousing the townsfolk while guards filtered throughout the side avenues, demanding the villagers rush to the main thoroughfare and cheer for their king.

  The army of Delaval marched behind Yeslnik’s coach, eight abreast and stretching for miles down the road, more than twenty thousand strong. They kept their formations tight, their boots stomping the cobblestoned road in sharp cadence,
in time with the drummers set at intervals among their ranks.

  Master Reandu stood beside Bannagran before the gates of Castle Pryd. The monk stiffened. His discomfort was not lost on Bannagran as the glittering coach wheeled to a stop just outside the gates. Attendants scrambled to the door to pull it wide and place a short stairway before it to help King Yeslnik and then Queen Olym descend. Others carried the royal chairs, but Yeslnik waved his away and started toward the waiting laird even before Olym had taken her seat.

  “Laird Panlamaris and Prince Milwellis have besieged the traitors inside Chapel Abelle,” the king said before Bannagran could even offer a greeting. “Land and sea. The treacherous Artolivan and that beastly Dame Gwydre will sit in their hole and witness the birth of my kingdom all around them.”

  Bannagran respectfully bowed to acknowledge the important news, but he didn’t look down as he did, instead watching as four bearers—slaves captured from Ethelbert’s army—carried the powdered and vain Queen Olym. Behind her came a large monk, tall and wide, a giant of a man perhaps ten years Bannagran’s senior but showing little sign that he was past middle age in his steady and strong gait.

  “This is Master Reandu?” the large monk asked, his voice stern and loud.

  “It is,” Yeslnik answered, a wry smile on his face as he motioned the monk to take the lead in the conversation. The giant man didn’t hesitate moving right up to Reandu, standing tall and imposing over the man.

  “Father Artolivan has betrayed Honce,” he announced.

  Reandu didn’t blink. He knew enough of the story to realize that this was Father De Guilbe.

  “Chapel Abelle—”

  “St. Mere Abelle, they call it now,” Reandu corrected.

  De Guilbe fell back a step though hardly cowed and even looking as if he was winding up for a charge. “They shame Abelle with their exploitation of his name at this time.”

  “You do not think our founder worthy of sainthood, father?” Reandu asked innocently.

  “That is a process, master, and one ignored by Father Artolivan for no better reason than to separate himself from King Yeslnik. We both know why this time was chosen for Abelle’s ascent to sainthood. The cynicism of that premature proclamation shames the memory of Abelle.”

  “We should discuss this in private, father.”

  De Guilbe scoffed at him. “The business of the church is the business of Honce,” he replied. “All that we do, we do in the name of divine King Yeslnik.”

  Reandu didn’t even try to hide his shock. “Divine king?” he echoed.

  “It is providence that has brought this great victory and circumstance,” Father De Guilbe explained. “Abelle, great Abelle, started the process, and here, less than a century later, we find Honce soon to be united.” He turned and motioned to Yeslnik. “Under this man, this divine king. And we as ministers of the word must accept that truth and embrace it. Artolivan believed that it was time for the order to evolve, and he was right, though his direction was the past and not the future. It is time now for the Church of the Divine King to stand behind this man who has won Honce and united her. All the land will know peace if we stand strong.”

  “The Father of St. Mere Abelle and all the masters within would not agree with you, father,” Reandu said.

  “They have made themselves irrelevant by their obstinacy and their treason!”

  Reandu wanted to shout at the fool to be silent, but he held his words and looked to Bannagran for some support. But the Laird of Pryd slowly shook his head, urging Reandu to silence.

  Reandu took a deep breath to steady himself. He reminded himself that his words would affect all of the brothers under his guidance and the future of Chapel Pryd itself. His heart told him to fight De Guilbe’s assertions, to stand proud and strong on principle, but his mind easily calculated the ultimate cost of such a stand. To what gain?

  “So as with the lairds of Honce, the chapels, too, are pressed into choice,” said King Yeslnik, and he motioned for Father De Guilbe to move back beside him. “Where will Chapel Pryd stand when Bannagran leads my armies to the gates of Ethelbert dos Entel, this time to destroy the outlaw laird?”

  Reandu looked to Bannagran again, and the Bear of Honce stepped out before the king. “Master Reandu and his brethren will march beside me, of course,” he stated flatly. “Their gemstones will serve the men of Pryd as they have without question and without reservation these long months of trial.”

  “Indeed,” said Yeslnik, seeming hardly convinced. “And tell me, regarding my edict on the disposition of the prisoners—”

  “Those prisoners taken from the field who were once loyal to King Yeslnik serve in my ranks,” Bannagran assured him.

  “And those loyal to Ethelbert?”

  “Eliminated to a man,” Bannagran lied. “Your orders were explicit. There are none loyal to Laird Ethelbert in Chapel Pryd or in all of Pryd Town.”

  “That is good,” said Yeslnik. “Then the choice by Master Reandu has already been made and made correctly.”

  “We will march with Laird Bannagran, my king,” said Reandu, but he was staring at Father De Guilbe as he spoke the words. De Guilbe’s returned glare showed that he did not believe his fellow monk.

  “I add ten thousand to your ranks, Laird Bannagran,” Yeslnik said. “March east and not south. The southland has gone wild, and no supplies will be found there. I charge you with the defeat of Ethelbert. Claim his city for me, and I will widen your holding greatly.”

  Bannagran bowed and did well to hide the contempt on his face. This assault should have been accomplished months before when the combined armies of Yeslnik, Bannagran, and Milwellis had converged on Ethelbert dos Entel. Still, with ten thousand extra soldiers, Bannagran didn’t doubt that he could win the day and the city.

  “Beware Ethelbert’s assassins,” Yeslnik continued. “The Highwayman—”

  “The Highwayman is not in Ethelbert’s employ, nor has he ever been,” Bannagran interrupted.

  Yeslnik stared at him incredulously. “He killed King Delaval!”

  “Nay, my king, we were mistaken.”

  “His blade broke off in my uncle’s chest! I gave that very blade to you!”

  “Nay, my king, it was not his blade,” Bannagran continued. “It was the sword of Affwin Wi, a murderess hired by Laird Ethelbert.”

  “How can you know this?”

  “I am closer to Laird Ethelbert’s lines,” Bannagran explained. “Affwin Wi’s exploits and those of her mercenary band have been whispered all about, and I do not doubt them. The broken blade you gave me surely resembled the sword of the Highwayman, but the patterns carved into the silvery metal were wrong. On closer look Master Reandu informed me of this.”

  He looked to the monk as he finished, as did Yeslnik and De Guilbe and every man and woman near the castle gates.

  “It is true,” the monk reported. “We have confirmed it. The assassins who killed your uncle were in the employ of Laird Ethelbert, but Bransen Garibond, the man known as the Highwayman, was not among them.”

  Behind the gaping King Yeslnik, Queen Olym gasped and fanned herself with obvious relief. Yeslnik shot her a dangerous look, and she reached out and grabbed his arm for reassurance as he turned back to face Bannagran and Reandu.

  “The Highwayman is still wanted for other crimes,” he said. “You would do well to drag him to me or deliver his head, at least.”

  Reandu’s eyes widened as Bannagran nodded.

  “There are few in the world who understand this murderess from Behr,” the monk blurted. “Perhaps the Highwayman—”

  Bannagran cut him short with an upraised hand.

  “The Highwayman is a blood enemy of this Affwin Wi creature,” the laird explained. “She and her order are not in the favor of the cult he claims as his own. He will likely kill her and solve our problem for us.”

  King Yeslnik eyed him suspiciously. “You seem to know a lot about him.”

  “You charged me with finding him,??
? Bannagran reminded. “To do that, I needed to learn all there is about him. Knowing one’s enemy grants power. I know where he is and I know where he is going, and that path will lead him to do battle with Affwin Wi. Whatever the outcome of that fight, our position—your kingdom—is strengthened.”

  “You let him go once, and I forgave you,” said Yeslnik. “I will not forgive you again if the Highwayman escapes.”

  Bannagran nodded.

  “I grant you ten thousand of my soldiers to strengthen your own five thousand,” Yeslnik said. “Secure every village between Pryd and Ethelbert and then lock the wretch in his city by the sea. I will join you at his gates, and we will push him into the sea and be done with him.”

  “It will be my pleasure, my king,” Bannagran replied. “But I would ask of you a short respite for the soldiers.”

  Yeslnik’s face screwed up with curiosity. “What do you mean?”

  “A week of rest and plentiful food here in Pryd Town. We have been marching from coast to coast. Many have feet so swollen they cannot tie shoes upon them.”

  “A week? A week for that dastardly Ethelbert to strengthen his defenses! No, I say! Go and kill him! Go straightaway, I say!”

  “The forward scouts will be out this very night,” Bannagran promised.

  “And the rest of you?”

  “As soon as I can organize the forces appropriately.”

  “Tonight!” Yeslnik demanded. “Tomorrow morning!”

  “That would be a disaster,” Bannagran said coolly. “I know not your men or their leaders. To simply march off without the proper precautions would risk attrition and even skirmish within our own ranks.”

  “I would have Ethelbert,” Yeslnik demanded.

  “Indeed,” Bannagran agreed. “And with two days’ preparation, my march will be swift and strong.”

  Yeslnik looked as if he wanted to stamp his feet like an angry child, and he even crossed his arms over his chest. But Bannagran would not back down. In the end the warrior laird got his way.