R. Salvatore - The Bear

"Utmost, I say! A brother wandering lost in the forest on a freezing winter night was forbidden to exit his corporeal form through use of the gemstones, even at the cost of his own life."

"We've little time for church history, brother," said Harcourt, but Milwellis hushed him quickly, staring at De Guilbe with clear intrigue.

"King Yeslnik was correct in granting you his legions," the monk said. "Your march to Delaval City was tactically flawless, as the many dead powries can attest, and your work out here has followed that same course. I have spoken with your commanders, and not one finds a moment of doubt or a parcel of fault for the tactics you have employed these months. But still you have not caught the witch."

He held up the soul stone again, and Laird Milwellis's eyes went wide.

"The answer is that simple?" Milwellis asked incredulously. "Their monks have been floating about us, disembodied? Hearing our plans and intended movements?"

De Guilbe nodded. "It is the only possible answer."

"You just now came to this conclusion?" Milwellis asked. "How could you, or the other monks who have marched with me these weeks, not have solved the simple riddle? If they knew of this possibility, how could they remain quiet? And why did De Guilbe not send word of warning from Delaval City weeks ago?"

"Because I-and certainly these lesser monks!-did not entertain this possibility," the father answered with confidence and calm. "You cannot understand how extraordinary, how extreme this is… I did not expect Father Artolivan, for all of his obvious faults, to so quickly devolve to such madness."

"Madness? Can we doubt their effectiveness?"

"Madness," Father De Guilbe insisted. "In the saner church of yesteryear, brothers were instructed to refrain from this unholy and insidious practice. There was no exception."

"You just said that there were exceptions," Harcourt reminded.

"In the most extreme circumstances and with very specific and limited use. Now they abuse the practice beyond all comprehension."

"And in so doing, they survive," said Milwellis. "Your older church does not sound like a saner church. Without this cleverness, I would have slaughtered them weeks ago."

"Better that!" De Guilbe shouted. "For them, better that! For you do not understand the implications of spirit walking nor the temptations. A disembodied spirit desires, yea, even demands, a corporeal coil and will thus force a brother's spirit to engage in the evil and damning act of possession. I can only guess how many of Chapel Abelle's brothers are now dead or forever insane for these desperate and diabolical actions. Soulless and insane or dead for their evil efforts and answering now in the fires of the old ones."

"The old ones?" Harcourt asked, his eyes wide at the monk's reference to the Samhaist gods.

"They have their place," De Guilbe replied. "And it is no place a true follower of Abelle would wish to venture."

Harcourt started to respond again, but Milwellis cut him short. "If all that you say is true, then how do you come to believe that the witch Gwydre is using this spirit walking?"

"It is the only explanation," the monk replied with all confidence.

"And you can confirm it?"

De Guilbe nodded and held up his soul stone yet again. "Only in the most extreme circumstances," he said. "Such as this one."

A sly smile widened on Milwellis's face, white teeth showing behind the red of his beard, which had grown quite unkempt of late. He turned to Harcourt.

"Then we have them." He knows," Bransen assured Dame Gwydre, Dawson, Brother Pinower, and several other leaders at the same time Father De Guilbe was conveying his revelation to Laird Milwellis. "He was out there in spirit. Father De Guilbe recognized our spies."

"None of the brothers concur," said Pinower.

"They do not disagree with me," Bransen replied. "They only admit that they cannot confirm my report. I would not have expected any of them to have noted De Guilbe. He was careful and clever."

"But you recognized him?" There was doubt evident in Pinower's voice, but Bransen took no offense.

"I bring a dimension to the gemstone magic that you do not, Brother Pinower," Bransen said matter-of-factly. "They are a part of me now, more intimately than you could ever imagine."

"Because you're Jhesta Tu?" the monk asked, his voice growing sourer, as he obviously considered Bransen's remarks an attack on his beloved order.

"Because of my unique relationship with them, particularly the soul stone," Bransen corrected. "You might use the stone to heal another or occasionally to be free of your mortal body. I use it to sustain my very being. This stone"-he tapped the soul stone at the center of the brooch set on his forehead-"is set as the apex of my life energy, which the Jhesta Tu call ki-chi-kree. It is not a foreign or separate part of the Highwayman."

Dame Gwydre looked to Brother Pinower, but the monk had no more questions and no reason to doubt Bransen's claims about the stone or, more important, about Father De Guilbe.

"De Guilbe knows," Bransen assured them both. "Milwellis knows."

"Then the game's ended," Dawson McKeege remarked. A general look of despair ran through the gathering as the implications of De Guilbe's discovery, of the loss of their secret tactical information gathering, settled in upon them.

"Good," Dame Gwydre said, surprisingly. She walked past her gawking commanders and stared out to the southwest. "I grow tired of playing the mouse to Milwellis's cat. The summer nears its end, and I have many who need return to their families in Vanguard to prepare for the onslaught of winter."

"You will simply flee the field and leave Honce to Yeslnik?" asked an astonished Brother Pinower.

Gwydre's responding look was no less incredulous. "Hardly. We have wearied them, we have worn them, and we have broken their spirits. Now is the time to fight them, in a place of our choosing, and be done with this nonsense of war."

"Five to one," Dawson warned. "And that's just Milwellis. If Yeslnik comes forth, it'll be more than ten against our every one."

"Good," said Gwydre and all raised their eyebrows. "Then it will be finished in one place, at one time."

"What're ye saying?" Dawson replied, the salt coming back into his accent.

"Are we to run headlong to our slaughter?" Brother Pinower added.

Dame Gwydre smirked at both of them, silencing them. "Plot our run, twixt Milwellis and Pryd Town. Find a place not so far from Pryd that will favor us in the fight."

"Yeslnik's got fifteen thousand in Pryd," said Dawson.

"Does he?" was all that the smiling Gwydre would answer. She walked off then, motioning for Bransen to follow her.

"You take a great risk," Bransen said as soon as they were away. "You have no commitment from Bannagran."

"Father De Guilbe knows our advantage now, so you said. And so our advantage is no more."

"Honce is a wide land, and we can move more swiftly than-"

"To what end?" Gwydre asked.

"The people of town after village after town have come to love you," Bransen reminded. "They speak your name with hearts full and curse Milwellis… indeed, many curse King Yeslnik all the louder!"

"The people you speak of are not warriors and many have felt the painful consequences of their sympathy toward us. It occurs to me that this Laird Milwellis, whose brutal reputation is well earned, will grow even more frustrated and more angry if we continue to flee him and will raze every village that shows us a pittance of kindness or even those that do not rise up and fight against us as we approach. Would you have that dark stain on your heart, Bransen Garibond? Because I would not."

"You put great stock in Bannagran. Has he earned it?"

"Have I a choice?"

"We could flee to Vanguard straightaway. They will never get their warships in place and coordinated in time to stop our flight. If they follow, it would be to their utter ruin, with winter closing in. Few in Honce have felt the bite of a Vanguard winter."