R. Salvatore - The Dame

“I will not have this,” De Guilbe continued. “You will punish this brother severely. And I will have Cormack punished, as well.”

“He is in Dame Gwydre’s charge,” Father Premujon reminded.

“Then demand of the Dame,” said De Guilbe. “Cormack parades around in a powrie cap, arm-in-arm with a shaman of Alpinador. He mocks us openly and with impunity. You cannot allow this to stand. His mere presence will erode support for us here in Vanguard and will diminish respect for Blessed Abelle.”

“It was Father De Guilbe who demanded of Cormack that he always wear the cap,” Brother Jond remarked.

Father Premujon motioned to a pair of younger brothers to take the blind troublemaker out of the chapel.

“And she is a most lovely woman, this Milkeila of Yan Ossum,” Brother Jond said as the brothers helped him to his feet and began escorting him from the room. “Calm in temperament, generous in heart, and fierce in battle. I need not see with my eyes to know that she is most beautiful.”

“Brother, go in peace,” Father Premujon bade him, begged him.

“Our order would be enhanced greatly if we could coax her to us,” Jond managed to get in before the younger monks pulled him out of the chamber.

“No more so than if we purchased a mule,” Father De Guilbe muttered. “This Milkeila is rather like a domesticated animal, don’t you think? And with the appearance of one.”

No one but De Guilbe himself chuckled at his joke.

“I would ask you again to exact punishment upon Cormack,” De Guilbe stated flatly.

“He is not Brother Cormack any longer,” Father Premujon reminded. “He is not of our order.”

“He was of our order when he betrayed the emissaries of Abelle,” De Guilbe replied. “He was meant to die for his treason. Only through unfortunate circumstance does he still draw breath.”

“But he did not die, and so he was banished from your island,” said Premujon. “Appropriately so!” the father of Chapel Pellinor added with enthusiasm to erase De Guilbe’s growing scowl.

“It is different now,” De Guilbe said.

“What would you have me do?”

“Take him from Gwydre to be judged by his peers. Take him in chains as a heretic.”

Father Premujon looked around the room for support. He knew he was in a corner here: Father De Guilbe was no small player in the Order of Blessed Abelle and had been hand-picked by Father Artolivan, a personal friend, to lead the missionary team to Alpinador. The man’s obstinacy, so clearly on display, offered little room for compromise.

And the man’s power would demand of Father Premujon that he make a stand one way or the other.

He has suffered his entire life,” said Master Reandu. Into his thirties now, Reandu’s face showed the strain of the last couple of years. Father Jerak of Chapel Pryd had declined to a point of incoherent babbling, and Reandu had to take up the reins in these most trying times with all of the responsibilities but none of the imprimatur of the office. No small part of that burden came from the fact that Reandu’s actions had led to the death of Master Bathelais, who would have succeeded Father Jerak. No action had been taken against Reandu for that confused and tumultuous fight-even Bannagran, who had been battling the man Reandu had saved, had forgiven him.

“And he suffers to this day, I am sure. Every step comes with the grimace of the pained Stork,” Reandu finished.

“The Stork who killed Prydae,” Bannagran reminded.

Reandu smiled knowingly, sadly. The Stork hadn’t directly killed Prydae, after all, but had simply ducked Bannagran’s thrown axe, which had then struck down the laird. Bannagran’s anger as he spoke Bransen’s nickname was rooted in deep guilt, Reandu knew, much as his own guilt over Master Bathelais gnawed at him, and that was never a good thing.

“Bransen has moments of… surprise, I agree,” said the monk. “But you know his life story as well as any. The loss of his mother and father, of Garibond Womak…”

He stopped there, seeing Bannagran’s eyes narrow dangerously. The fate of Womak was not a good subject to bring up around Pryd Holding. For the sake of Prydae’s manhood, through some ridiculous Samhaist assertion of virility restored, the man had suffered castration. And for protecting the belongings of his friend, Stork’s father, Garibond had been burned at the stake.

“He carried chamber pots-it was all he could manage,” Reandu said, referring to Bransen’s stay at Chapel Pryd as a servant. “He lived in a hole.”

“I do not envy him his miserable existence,” Bannagran interrupted. He reached to his belt and pulled forth the broken blade of a fine sword. “Do you recognize this?”

“Is that Bransen’s blade?” Reandu asked.

Bannagran shrugged. “It would appear. How many like this could there be? This blade was pulled from the chest of King Delaval. How many like this one, Reandu?”

“In Behr?”

“In Honce!”

“We know that Ethelbert has many ties to Behr, where such blades-”

“Enough!” Bannagran commanded. “Our own Stork was a party to the group who murdered King Delaval. So says King Yeslnik, and so it is true.”

“I know,” Reandu admitted. “Yeslnik came to Chapel Pryd this morning.” He paused and shook his head. “King Yeslnik?” he said with obvious disdain.

“I would remind you that your tone will hold consequences, Master Reandu,” said Bannagran.

“You approve of his ascension?”

“It is not my place to approve or disapprove. It simply is. I am a subject of Pryd Holding, which is indebted to and in alliance with Delaval Holding. We threw our fealty to Laird Delaval, who proclaimed himself king, and his successor was his choice alone.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“There is no answer to such a foolish question,” said Bannagran. “Yeslnik is King of Honce, by Yeslnik’s word. Laird Ethelbert will try to foil him, but Laird Ethelbert will fail.”

“And since the King of Honce would see Bransen dead, so Bransen is condemned?” said Reandu.

“Yes.”

Master Reandu took a deep breath, saddened by the decision but with no recourse.

“What do you know of his whereabouts?” Bannagran asked.

Reandu shook his head and sighed.

“Brother, I insist,” said Bannagran.

“There is word that he traveled through Palmaristown, heading generally east, in the direction of Chapel Abelle. I do not know if he ever made it there, for there has been nothing more. I do not even know if he truly made it as far as Palmaristown, for that has never been confirmed by the Chapel of Precious Memories.”

“When was this?”

“Months?” Reandu said with little certainty, indeed with a shrug of his shoulders. “A couple at least. Not long after his departure from Pryd Town.”

Bannagran sighed, and Reandu studied him carefully. “Why do you care?” the monk asked.

“Because the king told me to care.”

“You’re charged with catching him and killing him,” Reandu accused.

“I should have done that long ago, for the death of Laird Prydae.”

“No,” Reandu replied. “No, you chose wisely. The people of Pryd love you all the more for the mercy you showed…”

His voice trailed off as Bannagran held up his hand, begging silence.

“Bransen is not an evil man,” Reandu finished.

“That is not my decision. He is complicit in the murder of the king, so he is guilty of treason against the throne. So says Yeslnik, and so it is.”

Reandu started to argue, but Bannagran interrupted with finality when he growled, “It simply is.”

Cadayle stiffened reflexively, her breath coming in gasps when she heard the horses rambling into town outside her door. The last time she had heard such a ruckus her husband had been taken from her.