The Bear

  King Yeslnik was back on the road to the west soon after, leaving behind a tent city of soldiers now under the command of the Laird of Pryd. To Reandu’s great relief, Father De Guilbe departed with the king.

  “You’ll not kill Bransen,” Reandu said when he was alone with Bannagran.

  “We have a deal. Once he has dispatched Affwin Wi—”

  “King Yeslnik will still demand his execution.”

  “He will charge me with that, but alas, I will never quite catch up to the Highwayman.”

  “You told him that he could live in Pryd Town with his family.”

  Bannagran gave a little laugh. “What would you have me do, monk?”

  Reandu wanted to shout that Bannagran should defy Yeslnik, should demand that Bransen’s name be cleared, but he offered no more than a simple, frustrated sigh. For there was no answer to Bannagran’s question. King Yeslnik would not be persuaded by any sense of justice.

  With a curt bow the monk left the castle, but before he got out the door Bannagran called after him. “Tell Bransen to shadow our march in disguise and to speak only with you or with me directly. Three days from now, perhaps four.”

  Reandu paused and brightened a bit at the surprising defiance Bannagran was showing to the impatient young king. But he did not look back. With ten thousand of Yeslnik’s soldiers in the march and likely their own orders concerning the disposition of the Highwayman, Bannagran’s call for disguise seemed quite appropriate.

  It fits you well. It fit your father well,” Reandu said to Bransen after the young man put on the brown woolen robe the monk had offered. “Even in your days with us so long ago, I never imagined that I would see Bransen in the robes of an Abellican brother.”

  “They are as uncomfortable as they are impractical,” Bransen replied.

  “More uncomfortable to you because of what they represent, no doubt.”

  “As they will become to you when Father De Guilbe claims supremacy over your church.”

  The retort obviously stung Reandu, his shoulders slumping almost immediately. “Few will follow him,” he replied, but there was little strength or conviction in his tone.

  “Fewer will follow Reandu to King Yeslnik’s gallows,” said Bransen, refusing to let the monk get away so easily. “I am no longer amazed by how quickly a man will justify his change of heart when a spear is leveled his way.”

  “Your cynicism is inspiring,” the monk deadpanned.

  “Only because you know it to be well placed.”

  Reandu stood straighter suddenly. He moved to the small room’s single door and pushed it closed, then turned back on Bransen and asked, “Do I?”

  Bransen shrugged as if the answer should be clear.

  “I am afraid,” the monk admitted. “I fear that De Guilbe will win and those at St. Mere Abelle will pay for their courage with their lives.”

  “It seems a likely outcome. But not all, I promise you. Cadayle is there, and Yeslnik will not have her.”

  “Because she is something for which the Highwayman will fight.”

  Bransen narrowed his eyes.

  “But the rest of Honce be damned?” Reandu asked.

  Bransen snorted. “The rest of Honce is beyond my influence. . . .”

  “The women and children of Honce, the helpless elderly of Honce,” Reandu continued, his voice rising, his shoulders squared, “all of them can be trampled under Yeslnik’s armies or Ethelbert’s armies, and Bransen cares not. Those miserable peasants who suffer under the horrors of this war are not Bransen Garibond’s concern. The thousands of Garibond Womaks who try to simply live their lives without upset are not your problem.”

  “You cannot place that burden upon me,” Bransen replied sharply.

  “I should not have to,” said Reandu. “The Bransen I knew would take it upon himself.” He shook his head and opened the door, motioning for Bransen to leave.

  Bransen didn’t move immediately. He stood there, staring after Reandu, wanting to shout at the monk for his blindness to the obvious truth of the matter. There was nothing Bransen could do, that these events were beyond him, were beyond any man, and were, indeed, the wretched truth of mankind. What did it matter who won this foolish war? What did it matter which noble, be it Delaval or Ethelbert or even Gwydre, assumed the throne of a unified Honce? What did it even matter that Honce be unified? Certainly Gwydre would be the best choice, but to what end?

  For she could be no more than a temporary light to curb the darkness of human reality.

  But Bransen didn’t shout at Reandu. Silently, garbed as an Abellican monk, the Highwayman left the small room in Chapel Pryd, and three days later walked with the fifteen thousand whose boots shook the ground of Pryd Town on their march to the gates of Ethelbert dos Entel.

  Bannagran stared out the eastern window of his room in Castle Pryd overlooking the chapel. Once again the Highwayman had come into his life, and once again he had not killed the outlaw.

  Why would he show such mercy to this one? He could claim pragmatism in each instance, but he knew that doing so would only half answer the question. What was it about the Stork that had so often stayed Bannagran’s hand? Respect?

  Perhaps, for none could question that the resilient young man had overcome tremendous obstacles in his life, as none could question the prowess of the warrior. But it was more than simple respect, Bannagran believed, though he had never taken the time before this moment to actually sit back and try to sort it all out.

  The last candle went down in Chapel Pryd across the way, its small windows going dark. Reandu and the brothers had retired for their last night in Pryd Town, perhaps forever, Bannagran knew. He hadn’t actually lied to King Yeslnik when he had declared that Reandu would be by his side for the march to the east or that Reandu and the brothers would serve well the army of Pryd and Delaval.

  But neither had he told King Yeslnik the whole truth, for Bannagran knew Reandu well enough to understand that the monk would never betray the Order of Abelle for this new Church of the Divine King that the brutish De Guilbe had proclaimed. No, Reandu and most of the brothers (certainly those who had joined the chapel only to erase their status as prisoners doomed for execution) would not remain in Pryd Town under that option. They would flee to St. Mere Abelle or somewhere else beyond the immediate reach of Yeslnik.

  That thought troubled Bannagran deeply, and he was surprised to realize that truth as he mulled it over. He had no wife, no family, and, indeed, no friends other than Reandu. Yes, Reandu was his friend. Not a friend like the sycophantic and opportunistic young noblemen who followed him about his court, laughing at his every joke with too much enthusiasm. Not a friend like the many women Bannagran took to his bed, all eager to steal his heart and claim a place as the Dame of Pryd. Reandu wanted nothing from him, though in many ways, the brother demanded more of Bannagran than any other person alive. Yeslnik ordered Bannagran to follow his orders, but Reandu always reminded Bannagran to follow his heart, which was the more difficult course by far.

  The laird thought back to the scene in the dungeons the previous day. Would he have killed Bransen had not Reandu intervened? Certainly he was moving with that intent, and certainly he was angry enough with the Highwayman to do so. But no, he realized, he would not have killed Bransen. He did not want to kill Bransen.

  Why was this one so different from all the others who had errantly crossed Bannagran’s path and inspired his wrath? Why this man whose actions had led to the death of Bannagran’s dearest friend, Laird Prydae?

  A wistful look came over the face of the Bear of Honce. He felt a kinship to Bransen, for, like himself, the young man was a victim of his physicality. Bransen’s infirmity had trapped him as the Stork for most of his life, had determined his course in life. So it had been with Bannagran. At the age of fifteen, young Bannagran had been stronger than any man in Pryd, and his proficiency in the fighting arts had caught the attention of Laird Pryd. And so Pryd had summoned him to the castle and had enlisted him t
o befriend his son, Prydae.

  Thus had Bannagran’s life path been set in motion. He and Prydae had trained together, had ridden together, and, when they were still teenagers, had gone to battle together. Bannagran the bodyguard had become Bannagran the trusted friend, and so he had spent the whole of his adulthood in Castle Pryd beside the prince, who became the laird.

  He had achieved a great reputation through great exploits. He became known as the Bear of Honce, the champion of Pryd, and lairds from all around Honce had taken note of him in the powrie wars in the east.

  It had been a grand life, full of adventure, full of wine and women and rousing cheers.

  So why, now, did he feel so empty? So without purpose? He was the Laird of Pryd Town, a community flourishing under his control. He was the commander of King Yeslnik’s main force, and his men loved him and would follow him to the gates of the demon dactyl’s lair if he so asked them.

  Strangely, he didn’t care.

  PART TWO

  THE THREE ROADS OF JAMESTON SEQUIN

  Despair. It is a trap or it is the awful truth, the stark and undeniable realization of ultimate futility.

  My legs are now strong, but I stand on shifting flats of mud. I am straight now in posture but crooked in vision, for I have glimpsed the horizon, and it is a dark place. Not for any dactyl demon, not for any goblins or trolls or powries, but dark by the incessancy of mankind’s foibles.

  In Weakness . . .

  In Pride, they will call themselves god

  In Envy, they will kill their neighbor

  In Wrath, they will lay waste to the fields

  In Sloth, they will let their neighbors starve

  In Avarice, they will steal all unto themselves

  In Greed, they will horde excess

  In Lust, they will damn consequence.

  The Book of Jhest was my companion, words copied by my father, wisdom garnered by the generations of Jhesta Tu mystics over the centuries, their reflections of the simple truths of the world. The book, my companion, resides in me still with passages I had thought unraveled but which reveal to me new secrets as my experience grows. Once I read “In Weakness” and saw a world not worth redeeming, and then I was the Highwayman. Then, with Cadayle by my side, I considered the passage as a warning against my own limitations and darker potential.

  Now I fear it as inevitability.

  For I have come to profoundly fear that there is no lasting goodness, nor can there be. With great hope did my father return from Behr, the Book of Jhest in hand, the song of the Jhesta Tu on his lips, and Sen Wi beside him.

  They killed him for his optimism, for his idealism, for his hope that there was a better way.

  How many hours, how many days, how many weeks, how many months, did he toil to copy those words? How many times was a page discarded because a single symbol was penned wrong?

  The permanence of wisdom etched on fragile parchment so easily lost. And will the concerted effort of a future king collect them all and destroy them? And will all the followers, the Book of Jhest etched into their thoughts, be gathered and slain?

  Inevitably so.

  And what then is left?

  What worth art and the just swing of sword

  What small steps might man move forward

  When a single man of ill design

  Of lust and greed may just consign

  To the ashes the work of those before

  And halt their march forevermore?

  That is my despair, that the accumulation of justice and goodness is an illusion, a temporary stay. One King Yeslnik will erase the gains of Dame Gwydre; one Father De Guilbe will chase away the call of Cormack’s justice. A Gwydre or a Cormack might win, but eventually will a Yeslnik claim the throne or will a De Guilbe steal the church. And then the darkness settles, and justice is scattered, and the memory of Sen Wi dies with me, and the memory of Bran Dynard is lost in the ashes of Garibond Womak.

  Is it no more than a circular road? Can the work of good men do no more than stretch it to the shape of an ellipse? For so long I dared not believe so, but now I see no other possibility.

  In that case, then what is the point?

  I do not know. The mud shifts below my feet. In Pryd Town, the Highwayman was a selfish man. In the cold north, under the tempting optimism of Dame Gwydre, the Highwayman found wider purpose.

  But on a road in the east, in the death of Jameston Sequin and the betrayal by Affwin Wi, I was reminded all too clearly of the circle that is the fate of man.

  The mud shifts again.

  I know that I want my mother’s sword. For that I will fight. I know that I demand the brooch Father Artolivan entrusted to me. For that I will fight. These are my two immediate certainties, and my third, Cadayle, awaits. Would that I could fix the world!

  But another Yeslnik will claim the throne.

  And another De Guilbe will steal the church.

  And the flames of an Abellican ruby consume the Book of Jhest.

  Sometime, somewhere, out there just over the dark horizon.

  —BRANSEN GARIBOND

  NINE

  The Moment of Courage

  “Just piss yer pants,” Engren the soldier grumbled as his tent companion crawled over him on his way to the exit. “It’ll keep ye warm.”

  “It’s summer,” the third man in the tent argued. “And I don’t want him stinking worse than he’s already stinking!”

  “Shut yer mouths, the both of ye,” Cawley Andadin scolded, and he pushed aside the tent flap and crawled outside. “Tired o’ being an animal, I am.”

  “It’s what we be,” said Engren. “Ye’re a soldier, a dog. Thrust yer spear and wear yer enemy’s blood and stink like piss and mud all the year long.”

  “We’ll be back to Comey Downs in a month,” Cawley replied, referring to their home village, just northeast of Delaval City. He was not a young man, and the ground was unforgiving to his old bones. He pulled himself up to one knee with great effort and then with a grunt heaved himself up to his feet. “Home, and with it all done. With Ethelbert done and Yeslnik the King of Honce and no more fighting. Me wife’s not liking the smell of piss much.”

  “A month, yeah,” said Engren in his typically dour tone. “A month, and we’ll be getting slaughtered outside Ethelbert’s gates. And if the Bear finds us a way to win, our reward will be a march to Chapel Abelle. Dodge the spears of Ethelbert. Dodge the lightning bolts o’ the monks. All’s the same and not to end. I’m thinking that dying might be th’only escape.”

  Cawley wasn’t listening any longer. He was miserable enough without letting Engren’s constant complaining weigh him down even further. He had spent a good few weeks in Comey Downs with his wife and five children. While going out on the road had been emotionally troubling, Cawley had mitigated his despair with a reminder that this was likely the last march. They were going for Ethelbert, King Yeslnik had told them, and would be under the guidance of the great Bannagran the Bear. All the way to Ethelbert dos Entel to end the war, with Cawley’s group and ten thousand Delaval soldiers backing the legendary five thousand veterans of Pryd. Given the reputation of Bannagran, whose name was whispered reverently by ally and enemy alike, Cawley believed that they would do just that, that this time, the thorn of Laird Ethelbert would be eliminated.

  And they had the monks with them, almost all of them, led by Master Reandu himself. Rumors also spoke of another ally, a small man many believed to be the Highwayman.

  This time the assault was for real, Cawley told himself, and not like that inexplicable retreat they had executed all the way back to Delaval. This time they would end it.

  He moved away from the dying campfires into the brush to relieve himself. He caught a movement out of the side of his eye a moment later and thought it must be another of the soldiers coming out for similar reasons.

  The man was fastening his pants when the hood went over his head, his legs kicked out from under him. A fine cord went around his throat, stopping his
breath, and preventing him from crying out. He tried to reach up and loosen the cord, but fingers knifed into one armpit, then the other, and for some reason that Cawley did not understand his arms seemed to simply die, all strength gone.

  He was down on his face in moments. He tried to kick and thrash, but someone fell atop him, and a soft, woman’s voice began whispering in his ear, “Sleep, sleep.”

  He felt the cord loosen some time later, felt the ground under him as he was dragged along. He stood on the edge of unconsciousness for a long time, too weak to call out but not quite escaping the sensations all around. His captors sat him up against a tree and tugged his arms hard behind him, his wrists bound around the other side of the tree trunk.

  The hood came off, and Cawley saw her in the moonlight right before his face. The second he realized she was a Beast of Behr, with her almond-shaped dark eyes and black hair, he knew he was doomed.

  Many whispers had spoken of Laird Ethelbert’s vicious assassins.

  She smiled at him, disarmingly, then slapped him hard across the face. He started to respond but went silent, feeling a clawlike implement, like the head of a garden rake, come up tight against his groin.

  “If you yell out, I will make your death hurt,” the woman promised in her odd accent.

  Cawley stared at her, his eyes wide, licking blood from his split lip.

  “Do you understand?”

  Cawley nodded, eyes wide.

  “Where is your army marching?”

  Cawley licked his lip again, and she slapped him even harder.

  “Where is your army marching?”

  “East!” he gasped.

  She slapped him again, and the world began to spin before Cawley. He could hardly believe this tiny creature could move so quickly and hit so hard! To make matters worse, she also pressed in with the claws against his scrotum.