R. Salvatore - The Bear

"I will not go if you deny me permission," Bransen interjected.

Both dame and laird turned to him, and both seemed almost surprised to find that he was still there.

"What do you intend to do?" Gwydre asked.

Bransen blew a deep breath and offered an almost sheepish shrug. "To speak with Ethelbert, to try reason with him again, both for his allegiance and for the return of those items wrongly taken from me."

"And if he denies you? Do you intend to do battle with the garrison of Ethelbert dos Entel to get to this assassin woman?"

Bransen shook his head-an honest answer-for he knew that it would never come to that. Affwin Wi would not need to be cornered to engage in a duel with him. She would welcome it. It was her way, the way of the warrior, the way of Hou-lei and of Jhesta Tu.

"You have earned my trust in your judgment," Gwydre said. "I owe you this, at least-and indeed, much more. Be temperate and be wise, my young friend. Honce cannot afford to lose the Highwayman at this time."

Bannagran snickered at that, but Bransen ignored him and offered a nod and an appreciative smile to Gwydre.

"Return to me as soon as is possible," Gwydre commanded. "I charge you with that task above all."

Bransen nodded again and took his leave, fully intending to adhere to that order. My dance about Honce impresses you?" Gwydre asked as soon as Bransen had left them alone.

Smiling, Bannagran rose from his seat and moved to stand before her. "So much about you impresses me," he said quietly, and they kissed.

But Bannagran pulled back from that embrace and, grinning wickedly, added, "But I still think that King Yeslnik is going to kill you."

Gwydre fell back as if slapped, but only for a moment. "Only if Bannagran is a coward," she retorted, and the mighty laird laughed all the louder.

Merwal Yahna stayed in the deepening shadows as the courier chattered excitedly to the guards escorting her in from the gate.

"From Behr," the woman said, her accent showing her to be from central Honce, likely Pryd Town itself. "And Laird Bannagran held one in his dungeon." She turned, wide-eyed, to the guard on the other side. "But the man escaped and tried to kill Laird Bannagran himself!"

"Laird Ethelbert will hear of this," that guard assured her. "And he will answer Bannagran's demand of accountability!"

Merwal Yahna glanced all around. The castle was in sight, just up the road. He drew out his weapon. He leaped from the shadows.

Just a few moments later, he dragged three bodies into the back of a storage shed and covered them with sacks of grain.

Sleep, my tired love," Affwin Wi whispered into Laird Ethelbert's ear, at the same time her index finger pressed expertly at the artery along the side of his neck.

The old man opened his eyes and tried to sort through this mystery. He had made love to her that night, the first time he had been able to perform such an act in a long, long while. Affwin Wi had given him a drink of powerful herbs to facilitate the act, and they had worked marvelously.

But now, afterward, Ethelbert lay in his bed, his body numb, his arms and legs not answering the call of his thoughts, unable even to speak, to question, to protest.

"Sleep, my tired old lover," Affwin Wi said, a wicked grin on her beautiful face.

Ethelbert stared at her, his expression asking the question he was unable to voice.

"Your day is past," the woman explained. "You have surrendered your ambition. There is nothing more for you." She pressed her finger in harder, and Ethelbert's vision blurred.

"I do this for you," Affwin Wi said.

Ethelbert stared at her for the few heartbeats he had remaining of consciousness.

When he lay still, Affwin Wi knelt, leaned back, and stared at him for a long, long while.

Finally she slipped off the side of the bed and slowly dressed. She was surprised at the heaviness in her heart, pointedly reminding herself that Ethelbert had been a tool for her gain and nothing more.

She had to be done with him now, she stubbornly told herself. He had indeed surrendered his ambition. However the greater war fell out, Laird Ethelbert was determined to be no more than a minor player.

"We should not have pursued the emissaries," Merwal Yahna said, entering from the shadows at the side of the room. He glanced from Affwin Wi to the naked form of dead Ethelbert upon the bed. "You made love to that wrinkled old beast?" he asked, scrunching up his face as if someone had dangled a hill skunk carcass in front of his nose.

"He was a great man, once," the woman replied. "He deserved as much before he died."

"He could have been a great man again had we let him join with Bannagran of Pryd."

Affwin Wi shook her head. They had been through this already, in the discussion that had led her to Ethelbert's chamber that night, aphrodisiac and paralyzing poison in hand.

The pair were running out of options. No doubt other guards at the gate had heard bits of the woman courier's claims.

"I do not wish to return to Behr," Affwin Wi stated.

"Then where? To Bannagran after our minion tried to kill him? To King Yeslnik? Does he know that your sword took the heart of his uncle?"

"Perhaps Kirren Howen will prove more ambitious than Ethelbert," Affwin Wi said. "Perhaps he will seek greater glories, and, if not him, then Myrick or Tyne."

"And when they find the bodies? And when they hear the tale of Ishat and Wahloon?"

"Your good cheer serves me well this night when a man I cared for lies dead before me," the woman sarcastically replied.

Merwal Yahna didn't reply, just stood staring, as did Affwin Wi. Had they truly wound themselves into a corner from which there was no gain to be found? Was the only road left to them a journey back to Behr?

Gradually, Merwal Yahna found himself looking to Affwin Wi for an answer, as he always did for guidance. When a wry smile at last spread upon her face, the man's expression grew anxious.

"The courier," Affwin Wi said. "Deliver her body to this room."

Merwal Yahna's smile was immediate, as the plan came clear to him, for it all made perfect sense. The treachery of Bannagran, sending an assassin in the guise of a courier, would serve them well with Kirren Howen, particularly if they wanted the man to go forth to seek greater glories. It would take a caravan longer to travel from Pryd Town to Ethelbert dos Entel than to St. Mere Abelle, but only because of a winding road through difficult terrain. For Bransen, freed of such impediments through use of the malachite magic, the journey was much easier. Long before dawn, he saw the distant lights of Laird Ethelbert's large seaport, smelled the Mirianic, and heard the crash of waves.

As he lay down to sleep, nestled in the mossy roots of a large tree, he reminded himself of how blessed he was to enjoy such freedom. He, the poor Stork who could barely escape the confines of Chapel Pryd's small courtyard, could now run the breadth of Honce in a matter of days! He, the awkward and unbalanced youth who could be knocked over by the slightest push of a bully, could now challenge the likes of Affwin Wi.

He put his hand into his pouch and felt the various gemstones, connecting with their magic just long enough to identify them, as he tried to sort through the tactics he would need to balance the fight against the woman. Even if Merwal Yahna did not join in-and Bransen believed that he would-Affwin Wi had the advantage here, in no small part because she was in possession of Bransen's own sword. And the brooch. How much had she learned of the gemstone powers? What level of mastery had she attained?

The magical aspect of their upcoming battle was his advantage, he told himself as he drifted off to much-needed sleep.