R. Salvatore - The Bear

Gwydre and her force had left before the dawn, Bransen had exited the gates of St. Mere Abelle with the sun already low in the western sky, and still, his steps greatly exaggerated and elongated by the gemstone magic, he came in sight of Gwydre's camp before darkness fell.

The soldiers and the monks greeted him warmly, even by a round of cheering at one point, and it struck him in this moment, in this mood, with this plan, poignantly. A self-deprecating chuckle escaped him as he came in sight of Dame Gwydre-and no doubt, she viewed it as his typical humility in the face of public applause.

But Bransen wasn't thinking himself unworthy at that moment, he was laughing at his inability to accept the role such accolades had afforded him in all the weeks and months before. He was the Highwayman, a hero to the people, not because of his physical prowess, though that was surely a vehicle for his ascent, but because he had taken up their cause against the injustices of callous lairds. And he had not been able to bring himself to accept such accolades, not out of humility, but out of cowardice, for to admit them was to take responsibility for them. To admit the cheers was to accept responsibility for the man who was cheering.

"How fares Brother Giavno?" Brother Pinower asked him as he approached Gwydre.

"He is in there, fighting," Bransen replied. "I tried to unravel enough of his thoughts to allow him a grasp of identity. But the entanglements are vast, I fear, and only Brother Giavno can truly find his way through the knots.

"But I did garner much information from him," Bransen announced, turning his attention to Gwydre.

"Good news from the south?" she asked hopefully.

"Possibly," Bransen answered. "And certainly I learned of critical developments that teeter on the edge of victory and disaster. I have come for you," he added, holding out his hand.

"St. Mere Abelle?" she asked, obviously not understanding.

Bransen shook his head. "South."

"Dawson will dock in two days, my army behind him."

"There is no time for delay, and no need for your army at this time. Indeed, in this instance, bringing your army would likely do no more than ensure its destruction."

"What is this about, Bransen?" Brother Pinower asked.

"It is about Bannagran of Pryd and about Cormack and Milkeila and their valiant efforts to turn him from the side of King Yeslnik."

"Bannagran has turned?" Gwydre asked, and Pinower sucked in his breath in desperate hope.

"No," Bransen answered. "But I think he will."

Gwydre looked at him curiously.

"You would take our leader to Bannagran's court when he has not yet deserted the ranks of King Yeslnik?" Brother Pinower asked incredulously. "When he has not proclaimed a truce or allegiance to Dame Gwydre? A fine prize you would deliver!"

"Yes," Bransen answered. He turned to look directly into Gwydre's eyes. "Yes," he repeated. "I will protect you, there and back again. I know Laird Bannagran, and, for all of our battles, I know that he is a man of honor. He will accept our offer of parlay, honestly and honorably. And I believe that when he sees the truth of our cause and of our queen, he will recognize the folly that is Yeslnik. Now is our moment."

"She cannot go," Brother Pinower declared. "I have been charged with her safety and I will not allow it."

"I went to the glaciers of Alpinador to do battle with the most dangerous man in the world on your behalf," Bransen reminded Gwydre. "I delivered the head of Ancient Badden to you, for your sake and for that of your people. And I support your cause now-you know that."

"I do not question your loyalty."

"It is your judgment we question," Brother Pinower added.

Bransen flashed Gwydre a wry little smile. "I am correct in this. I know Bannagran. I have a message for him, and that message is you, and I will deliver it with a mirror."

"You speak in riddles!" Brother Pinower protested, but Dame Gwydre held up a hand to silence him.

"You trusted me to win your war," Bransen reminded her.

Dame Gwydre took his hand, and Brother Pinower protested loudly.

"How long will we be away?" Gwydre asked.

"A matter of days," Bransen promised.

"Pryd Town is a week's hard march from here!" the agitated monk argued. "At least!"

Bransen winked at him. "You should learn how to better manipulate your gemstones," he said, leading Gwydre away.

"Are you ready to fly, milady?"

"Fly?"

"Well, perhaps 'bounce' would be a better description."

"Bounce?" Gwydre repeated again, as Bransen fell into the malachite and transferred its levitation powers to her as well. Still holding fast to her hand, he leaped away, soaring ten strides from Brother Pinower, touching down lightly, and springing away once more, an even farther leap.

All witnessing the deerlike movements gasped, some giggled, and more than one, Pinower included, made the sign of the evergreen.

By the time Dame Gwydre caught her breath, the campfires of her forces were long out of sight. Bransen had asked her if she was ready to fly, and she thought that a perfect word for this experience. For she barely touched down at the end of each stride and felt weightless even then. Away they flew, another ten long strides in one great bound.

The moon rose in the east, a cloudless night, and still they ran on. It rose up above them, just south of their position, hanging in the air before them and dulling the multitude of stars with its glow, and still they bounded across the miles.

"How far have we come?" Gwydre asked Bransen when finally he stopped, along a line of thick pines that offered shelter.

"A long way," he replied.

"Are you not weary?"

"It is late, and I need to sleep, yes, but the effort is remarkably light. Blessed, indeed, are the gemstones of Abelle. Each step is easy… and far."

"I could move my armies across the miles, surround King Yeslnik," the Dame of Vanguard mused.

Bransen grinned at her. "Our movement is as much a matter of my Jhesta Tu training as the gemstone magic," he said. "I doubt you would find five brothers, nay two, who could so manipulate the malachite to travel as we have."

"Your humility is endearing," Gwydre said sarcastically, but she was smiling back at Bransen. He bowed.

"When will we arrive in Pryd Town?" Gwydre asked.

"Probably not tomorrow, but the next day, I expect."

Dame Gwydre nodded and chewed her lip.

"Bannagran will honor a flag of parlay," Bransen assured her. "As he did with Ethelbert."

"He refused Ethelbert, you said. He mocked the man and sent him away with a promise that he would soon tear down the walls of Ethelbert's beloved city."

"All true."

"He is going to dismiss me out of hand… if we are fortunate."

"It is possible," Bransen replied. Gwydre looked up at him curiously with obvious disappointment, letting Bransen know that she was hoping he would disagree with her. But he didn't. He just smiled and shrugged.

"You are irascible," Dame Gwydre said.

"Sleep well, milady," said Bransen. "We have a long… bounce tomorrow." He held up a low-hanging branch, inviting her into the cavelike hollow beneath it.

"Out here, under the moon and the stars," Gwydre said, waving him away and turning from the pine tree shelter. She moved to a grassy patch and lay down on her back. She folded her fingers behind her head and seemed so very much at ease.

Bransen just stared at her in admiration. There was so much simple truth about Dame Gwydre. He thought of Bannagran, he looked at Gwydre, and he was certain that the Laird of Pryd would have a harder time sending her away than he had Ethelbert.

They were out again soon after dawn, moving even faster than on the previous leg of the journey. For now, the sun bright in the sky above, Bransen didn't need to waste any of his magical energy on the cat's-eye agate, the gem which allowed him to run in the dark. He could plan his steps better and-even more important-plan his landings better. Also, Dame Gwydre was less a passenger this day and far more involved in coordinating her movements with Bransen's. She laughed to him that this journey reminded her of games she used to play as a young girl, skipping and dancing.