R. Salvatore - The Ancient

Cadayle told herself that she was being ridiculous, that the man, like everyone else, was simply intrigued by the abnormality of the Stork. She settled into her chair beside Bransen, facing Callen.

Callen’s glance over her shoulder was Cadyle’s first warning. Before she even turned, a strong hand patted her shoulder.

“Well seen and well to drink,” the man greeted, sliding up beside Cadayle near to the fourth chair at the table. He looked to her and then to it as if asking permission to sit down.

Cadayle glanced at her mother, who gave a quick nod.

“Do join us,” the younger woman said.

The man settled in heavily, staring at Bransen all the while. “You look as if you’ve a long road behind you.” He motioned to the bartender to bring a round of drinks.

“My husband cannot indulge,” Cadayle said quietly.

“Make him unsteady on his feet, will it?” the man asked, and Cadayle glowered at him.

“Apologies, good lady,” he said unconvincingly. He half stood and bowed toward Bransen. “Wounded in the war?” he asked, again too intently.

“In the South,” said Cadayle.

“A pity, that. The towns are full of torn men. Arms and legs missing. Brains all scattered so that they can hardly speak. An ugly business is this war.”

“One you seem to be avoiding,” Callen said across the table, and Cadayle was glad indeed for the diversion.

The man gave what seemed to be a helpless chuckle. “I’ve come from Vanguard to the north across the gulf.” He stood and tipped his heavy cap. “Dawson McKeege at your service, good ladies and yourself, good sir. Here on a brief-too brief!-respite. War’s no less up there, I tell you.”

“So you fled?” Cadayle asked.

The man laughed harder. “Nay, that wouldn’t do. I’ve sailed under Dame Gwydre’s banner to Chapel Abelle for supplies, you see? The gemstones of the Abellicans have proven well worth the journey. We’re taming a land as vast and great as Honce herself.”

“The brothers help you, then.”

“Oh, indeed!” Dawson replied. “We’ve several working our chapels. Good men, one and all, though I’ve no doubt that more than a few found themselves in the northland for reasons of discipline and not choice.”

Cadayle gave a pleasant and polite smile.

“Whenever the Church has one out of line, the road turns north, is my guess of it,” the clever Dawson went on. “And don’t be misunderstanding me! Pray no! We’re all too glad to have them.”

“Surely,” said Cadayle, sharing a glance with Callen.

“And why might you be at Chapel Abelle?” Dawson asked. “Seeking help for your man, there, from their gemstone magic?”

Cadayle nodded.

Dawson returned it. “If they’ve the time, perhaps you’ll find what you seek, though your man will likely find himself on a wagon heading back for the fighting if they manage the task.”

Cadayle clutched Bransen’s hand tightly. “He does not fear any battle,” she said.

“Surely,” Dawson replied. “Have you come far, then?”

“All the way from Pryd Hol…” Callen started.

“South of Pryd Holding,” Cadayle quickly corrected. “Closer to Entel, even.”

Dawson’s eyes widened. “A long and trying journey, to be sure, with one so impaired.” He paused as the barmaid came over and delivered a pair of pale ales.

“Don’t ye let Dawson here bother ye,” she said, exactly as Dawson had paid her to remark. “He’s the lout of the North, so goes his reputation.” She gave him a playful slap on the shoulder as she finished to diminish any real warning in her words, again, exactly as he had paid her to do. There was nothing like a charming rake to calm a stranger’s fears, Dawson knew.

“But he’s just harmless,” the barmaid said in Cadayle’s ear. “Always looking for a warm bed for his spike, don’t ye know? And he’s looking to yer friend there-yer ma, she is, I’m guessing, or yer older sister-and don’t she look so pretty? My, but ye’ll be a long time with yer charms following that one!”

Cadayle snickered despite herself. She lifted the ale to her lips and took a long and welcomed draw.

“Don’t you be showing my dice, Tauny Dentsen!” Dawson complained as the barmaid whirled away, giggling. He looked back at Cadayle to find a warm smile waiting for him.

“How long are you to stay, then?” Dawson asked.

Cadayle and Callen exchanged uncertain looks.

“If you’re to wait on the brothers, then some time, of course,” Dawson reasoned. “Chapel Abelle is full of activity, readying for the new class of brothers who will enter her gates in but a few days. I doubt you will get Father Artolivan or Brother Pinower to even hear your request before the week is through.”

“You know them?” Callen asked before Cadayle could.

“All of them, of course,” said Dawson. “I told you that my Dame Gwydre is on fine terms with the brothers of Blessed Abelle. They’ve eyes on Vanguard, to be sure, as would any far-seeing man.”

“And they have brothers up there,” Cadayle added. “As you said.”

“Aye, many have come for more than twenty years now.”

Cadayle glanced at Bransen, a perfectly natural movement, and one that would not have been telling to Dawson had he not already known the true reason the trio had ventured to Chapel Abelle.

“So you’re to seek the work of the brothers with their gemstones,” Dawson said. “A reasonable request, and one that would likely be met with some sympathy were it not for these times.”

Cadayle furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

“The brothers are exhausted,” Dawson explained. “Overworked, particularly with the gemstones, as they tend constantly to the wounded of both the warring lairds. As long as you have a writ, you have a chance, I expect.” He addressed Bransen directly. “You fought under Delaval’s flag, yes? And his commander offered you a Writ of Plea for the Brothers of Chapel Abelle? The higher his rank, the better your chances, of course. A Writ of Plea from Laird Delaval himself would likely get you into their healing chambers.”

“A Writ of Plea?” Cadayle asked, shaking her head.

“To be sure! A letter from a laird, or his commanders, begging special attention to a valiant warrior’s wounds. Without it, you’ll not get near to the leaders at Chapel Abelle, and they are the most powerful ones with the gemstones. They are not so-” Dawson stopped in a hush and sat staring sympathetically at Cadayle, then at Bransen. “So you do not possess a writ?”

A horrified expression came over the woman, and she looked to an equally surprised and upset Callen.

“All hope is not lost,” Dawson was quick to add. “Have you a friend or relative among the brothers, anything to elevate your needs above the maladies of so many other poor souls? Was your man there particularly valorous?”

Cadayle stared at him incredulously.

“I recant!” said Dawson. “Dear lady, forgive my foolishness. Of course he was, but what I mean is… well, is there a witness to his bravery? A letter of honor if not a Writ of Plea?”

Cadayle’s expression answered that clearly in the negative.

“Then a relative among the brothers?” asked Dawson. “Think hard, I pray you. A friend? An acquaintance, even? Anyone who can speak for your poor man there to elevate him from the throngs of wounded.”

“We have come in hopes of healing, to be sure,” Callen said, drawing the attention of both Cadayle and the man, and both looked equally surprised. “But also in search of one who might well speak for us.”

“A brother?”

Callen nodded. “From Chapel Pryd, far to the south. He traveled to Chapel Abelle many years ago, so it is rumored, and we came here specifically in the hopes that he would help my daughter’s poor husband.”