R. Salvatore - The Bear

"Nimble," Jurgyen grumbled. "We can barely depart these gates."

Before Gwydre could reply, shouting from the hallway caught their attention and a moment later, an out-of-breath Brother Giavno rushed into the room. "Bass Cove," he said, gasping for air.

"Bass Cove?" Jurgyen echoed with confusion.

"Bass Cove of Vanguard?" Gwydre asked, coming out of her seat. "The fishing village?"

Giavno nodded and worked to catch his breath, and Gwydre wailed, thinking it had suffered a terrible fate at the swords of Palmaristown sailors.

"A victory," Giavno stammered.

Now Jurgyen, too, scrambled to stand.

"A great victory for us," Giavno said again, and finally he calmed enough to stop gasping. "Your warriors set a trap for the Palmaristown ships," he explained. "Many of Pireth Vanguard's refugees found their way to Bass Cove, and so they were prepared."

"How do you know this?" Brother Jurgyen asked, and he looked to Gwydre as he spoke.

"I was there," Giavno explained. "In spirit."

That brought a nod to Jurgyen from Gwydre.

"I told them of the coming of the Palmaristown fleet," Giavno said, barely able to contain his ecstatic giggling. "I-"

"By Saint Abelle," Brother Jurgyen said, and he made the sign of the evergreen.

"Three Palmaristown warships taken whole," Giavno elaborated. "Three Palmaristown crews killed or captured."

"This is fine news," said Gwydre, and when she looked to Jurgyen, she found him nodding his agreement with enthusiasm.

"There is more, lady," said Giavno. "The Vanguardsmen are organizing to sail south, a large armada full of warriors. To their lady's side, they believe."

"They will be sunk in the gulf!" Jurgyen exclaimed. "Even with the three Palmaristown warships at the tip of their flotilla."

"I tried to caution them," Giavno replied. "But I dared not engage too closely without returning to report on the turn of events."

Dame Gwydre nodded and looked to Jurgyen. The monk sucked in his breath, for he knew well the risk of Giavno's act. To walk in spirit form was dangerous enough, but imparting information in such a state would put a brother in close contact with another being-often too close to resist the almost irrepressible temptation of possession. Giavno had gotten away with it once, apparently, but he was risking his sanity in the act.

But Jurgyen couldn't deny the potential here for exactly that which Gwydre had claimed. He glanced at the floor, a smile of self-deprecation creasing his face.

"Go out again when you are able, brother," he told Giavno. "I beg of you. You and many others, myself included."

"You would venture forth in spirit?" Gwydre asked, and Jurgyen looked up at her and let her see his admission that he had been clearly wrong.

"With coordination, we brothers can guide this Vanguard fleet," he explained. "Perhaps they will avoid the warships of King Yeslnik."

"You are our strength," Dame Gwydre said to both monks. "The brothers of Blessed Abelle afford us a power that our enemy cannot know and cannot match. Go with honor, pride, and great care, I beg. We will know quickly what they will not fathom for days or weeks, and that will be our advantage."

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.