R. Salvatore - The Bear

"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 mockingly. "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."