R. Salvatore - The Bear

"You just said that it matters not."

"Because you are a mortal woman, after all, and so fleeting is life. The cycle of misery can be interrupted, but it cannot be stopped."

"I do not believe that."

Bransen shrugged. He did not care. How could this war-how could any war-be worth the cost for such a temporary gain?

"Our great and glorious cause is a fool's errand," he said quietly, and that defeated tone made it all the more profound and powerful. "Even should Bannagran turncoat against Yeslnik, even should we march to Delaval and seat you as Queen of Honce, there will always be another Ancient Badden or King Yeslnik or Laird Prydae or Father De Guilbe to take it back. I understand now why the Jhesta Tu dwell in a remote mountain fortress far from the politics of men. With their strength and knowledge, they could likely shape the world, but they, too, recognize the futility of it all. Jameston Sequin should have stayed in the northern woods."

"His cause was just," Dame Gwydre insisted.

"Just and hopeless. One good soul against a castle wall topped with unjust enemies."

"We can win the day for Honce," Gwydre said. "I believe that young Yeslnik has erred in his decree to the Order of Blessed Abelle. He has pushed the goodly brothers too far with his demands of execution and betrayal, and they…" She paused when she looked upon Bransen, shaking his head as if none of it mattered.

"What road for Bransen, then?" she asked. "I cannot force you to march with me, of course, and trust that you'll never support Yeslnik."

"That you can trust, yes," the young warrior assured her. "I am bound for St. Mere Abelle and the arms of my wife. By our agreement, you will sail me wherever I choose, and I choose Vanguard."

Gwydre started to respond, but Bransen cut her short. "Not to serve you," he explained. "To find a place where I and my family can live in peace, away from the stupidity of the wider world."

"You will run and hide in a forest?"

"It was good enough for Jameston Sequin."

"Cadayle's mother might now consider Dawson McKeege part of that family," Gwydre warned. "For they have fallen in love."

The news caught Bransen by surprise, obviously, but he merely gave his signature helpless chuckle yet again and moved on.

"I cannot get you to Vanguard," Dame Gwydre admitted. "And surely not with a pregnant Cadayle beside you!"

"I have your word."

"You have the Gulf of Corona swarming with Palmaristown and Delaval City warships," Gwydre explained. "There is no safe passage."

Bransen chewed his lip.

"So what then for Bransen?"

"To remain with Cadayle in St. Mere Abelle as long as Father Artolivan allows," he said quickly, not bothering to think it through, for all that he cared about at that moment was making it clear to Dame Gwydre that he had no intention of going to war.

"Father Artolivan is dead," Gwydre informed him, and he winced. "Peacefully and of natural cause. Father Premujon is seated at the head of the Order of Blessed Abelle now, a worthy successor to a fine man."

"And when that successor is not so worthy?" the unrelenting Bransen asked.

"You are running and hiding," Dame Gwydre dared remark, but in a light tone.

"You should be glad that I am and that I am not continuing my bargain with Bannagran to aid in his fight with Ethelbert."

"That is a fight we hope to avert."

Bransen shook his head and hardly cared-or made it seem as if he didn't care, at least. "When I learned of your alliance with Laird Ethelbert, out of deference to you I rescinded my agreement with Bannagran and departed," he lied, and Gwydre's smile showed that she saw right through him.

"And now you are again the same Bransen who first came to Vanguard," Gwydre said. "Full of cynicism."

"Accepting of reality," he corrected.

It was Dame Gwydre's turn to shake her head. "You had grown so much," she said. "Tell me, Highwayman, if we could go back to that time you first came into Vanguard but with all the knowledge you have gained these last months, would you join with me and go after Ancient Badden?"

The old question, Bransen realized. Dame Gwydre's measuring stick for Bransen Garibond's character. "No," he answered, flooding his voice with strength and not bothering to internally sort whether it was the strength of conviction or of simple stubbornness. He didn't blink when Dame Gwydre argued with him, telling him that she did not believe him. This was not the same conversation he had shared with the woman in Pellinor those months ago, when he had then proclaimed that he would have, indeed, enlisted in her cause against the Samhaists, and for the sake of his own peace of mind he could not allow her to believe that this was a replay of that discussion.

"Do you even care that Ethelbert murdered Jameston?" he asked bluntly.

"You do not know that to be true. You, yourself, said it was likely personal with Affwin Wi." Gwydre looked into his stubborn face with great sadness. "Of course I care. The death of Master Sequin wounds me profoundly. He was a great and accomplished man, and I was proud to call him a friend."

"But you would look past it for the sake of this alliance you so desperately need even if you discovered Ethelbert knew of his assassins' work?"

Dame Gwydre blew a weary and pained sigh, and Bransen knew that he was getting to her, wounding her, though to what end or for what purpose, he did not know. She started to respond several times, trying futilely to explain that the circumstances surrounding Jameston's death would indeed have consequence but, finally, admitting that the situation was much larger than the question of Jameston Sequin.

"I am responsible for the people of Vanguard, some fifty thousand souls, all weary of war," she said. "King Yeslnik has already begun his assault on my shores. Would you have me throw away Vanguard's only hope?"

"If Laird Ethelbert is your only hope, then you have already lost," Bransen said dryly.

"The alliance between Vanguard and Ethelbert and St. Mere Abelle purchases leverage," she explained, "to bring more lairds to our cause. Few would follow King Yeslnik if they came to believe in an alternative ruler who might defeat him on the field."

"If you wish to lessen the misery of all, then just surrender to Yeslnik," said Bransen. "Let the war end, let him go back to Delaval as you go home to Vanguard."

"And allow him to claim all of Honce as his domain?"

"Why would you care, if not for foolish pride? Do you believe that Yeslnik the idiot will know enough about the goings-on in your far-distant holding to truly interfere?"

"The people of Honce proper cry out in despair. I cannot ignore that plea!"

"Only those who crave their own power cry out," Bransen argued. "For the rest, be it Yeslnik or Ethelbert, Gwydre or Premujon now, they care not. They only want the war to end."

"And when King Yeslnik, secure in Honce, decides that Honce is not enough?" Gwydre asked. "When he sails an armada to Behr to wage a wider war? When he marches through Vanguard on his way to conquer the Alpinadoran tribes?"

"You do not know he will do that."

"I know that he is without mercy and that he is full of treachery. He would have the monks execute all the prisoners taken from Ethelbert's ranks."

"And all of your own actions are for the cause of the common man?" Bransen asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "None of this is for the gain of Dame Gwydre?"

The woman looked at him as if he had struck her.

"A pox on all your houses," Bransen snapped at her, but his voice quickly broke into a stutter as he continued, "If I cared at all which of you won the worthless throne, then perhaps I would fight, but since I do not…" It took every ounce of his concentration to even get the sentence out, dragging some syllables along painfully and biting off others as his jaw involuntarily clenched.