“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 m
ockingly. “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 warr
iors 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.”