R. Salvatore - The Dame

“Mostly Ethelbert’s men,” Milwellis explained. “They will not enter the chapel courtyard until all of my men are fully attended. Every scratch.”

“Prince Milwellis, that is not the agreement of the church,” Father Artolivan reminded, but the man from Palmaristown was hearing none of it. He stepped forward and rose up tall, towering over the old Artolivan and making him seem small indeed in that moment-a realization that did not sit well on poor, shaken Brother Pinower!

“Here is the new agreement, old Father,” Milwellis calmly explained. “You are to immediately and fully tend to my men, the men who serve Laird Panlamaris, my father. The dogs that run to Ethelbert’s whistle will wait.”

“And if Ethelbert’s general brings in the wounded and the prisoners next time, are we to follow a reversed edict from him?” Artolivan shrewdly asked.

“No general of Laird Ethelbert will reach Chapel Abelle, unless as a prisoner,” Milwellis assured him. “You will do as I instruct.”

“And if we do not?”

The man smiled and lifted an eyebrow, a clear measure of threat in his posture. “That would not be wise.”

“Nor would your stubborn and determined effort to drive the Order of Abelle from the side of Laird Delaval, which is surely the end result of your insistence,” Father Artolivan replied with an evenness and strength in his voice that those around him had not heard in years, one that impressed and amazed Brother Pinower. “We have remained neutral, to the gain of both warring lairds and, more importantly, to the benefit of the people of Honce. If we are forced to break that neutral posture, I assure you that we will break against the laird applying that pressure. Rethink your position, Prince of Palmaristown, or I expect that Laird Delaval will come to blame Milwellis for the great loss of the brothers and their healing stones!”

The prince seemed almost to deflate at that, albeit slowly, as he gradually rolled back onto his heels. He kept his eyes narrow, though, and his teeth gritted, and he did not blink for many heartbeats.

“Brothers,” Father Artolivan went on, “go through our gates and retrieve the wounded Ethelbert soldiers. Prepare the triage in the courtyard, as according to our agreements with both of the warring lairds. And when you do, be sure that there are no indications, on clothing or jewelry, of those poor unfortunates to determine allegiance to either laird. Those most wounded are to be tended first, regardless of allegiance, as is our way.”

“These men are my prisoners!” Milwellis roared.

“And when you leave them here, they fall under the protection and responsibility of the Order of Abelle. As was agreed, Prince. Look around you at the nonclergy working on our walls and structures! Nine hundred and more have been sent here, and nearly half are men of Laird Delaval, captured by the forces of Ethelbert! Many came here wounded, many whole but as prisoners. They are out of the fight…” He paused as Milwellis whirled away and leaped back up onto his horse.

Without another word, the Prince of Palmaristown spun his mount around and galloped through the gate, his personal guard sweeping up in his wake.

“That one is trouble,” one of the brothers remarked.

“It will come to this in the end, I fear,” said Father Artolivan. “As the stalemate inevitably deepens and the common folk begin to grumble and stir in revolt, their families decimated by the continuing war, we will be forced into choosing a side.”

“And how will we choose?” Brother Pinower dared ask.

Father Artolivan had no answer.

“They break and turn!” came a cry from the wall.

Artolivan led his entourage to the open gate, to look down upon the field, where indeed Prince Milwellis and the bulk of his forces had turned away.

“Abelle save us,” Brother Pinower whispered as he sorted through it, for while one group of Palmaristown soldiers hustled the healthy Ethelbert prisoners toward Chapel Abelle, no doubt to hand them off and be rid of them, the main Palmaristown group led by Prince Milwellis took with them the wounded men loyal to their enemy, Laird Ethelbert! They were not going to allow the monks to heal those enemy wounded.

“The fool has just assured that there will never be peace in Honce, whether Ethelbert or Delaval proves victorious,” Father Artolivan remarked.

“What will they do to them?” Brother Pinower dared to ask.

“Nothing,” Father Artolivan said bitterly. “Prince Milwellis will simply let them die of their wounds.”

Pinower looked over to another of the brothers, who merely shook his head and shrugged, and in that moment, Brother Pinower came to know the dark truth of Father Artolivan’s prediction.

What do I owe?

To myself, to those I love, to my community around me and to the world, what do I owe? This is the essence of the question Dame Gwydre put to me when she insisted that I would not flee her beleaguered Holding of Vanguard in its time of darkness. Her contention, her belief in me-not in my fighting abilities but in the essence of who I am as a person-has shaken me profoundly.

Vaughna, Crait, Olconna… they’re all dead now. And Brother Jond has been horribly wounded, his eyes taken by the fine edge of the sword I carry as my own. We five traveled together, we fought together, and I am alive only because of their efforts. With my gemstone lost, they all but carried me the many miles to the glacier, where, if I had simply fallen to the ground along the way, our troll captives would have put a painful end to me. When Ancient Badden, that most vile creature, discovered the truth of my sword, Vaughna claimed the blade as her own and died horribly in the maw of Badden’s monstrous pet.

When Badden tried to kill me, Cormack and his powrie friends, who knew me not at all, rescued me. Cormack and Milkeila healed my wounds and gave to me a soul stone, that I might again become this alter-creature they name the Highwayman.

What do I owe?

I have been given a great gift from my parents, Abellican monk and Jhesta Tu mystic. I have seen both these respective transformative powers, the wisdom of the book my father penned and my mother practiced and the undeniable strength of the Abellican gemstone magic. Despite my infirmities-nay, because of them!-I have found a deeper truth and a more profound strength.

When I left Pryd Town those months ago, I could fight as well as Laird Prydae’s champion, the legendary Bannagran. Now I believe I have only grown stronger. Without the gemstones, I find moments of greater clarity than ever before; I can align my ki-chi-kree for short bursts of tremendous energy and power, as I did when Ancient Badden threw me from the edge of the high glacier. I do not know that any man alive, other than an Abellican monk with the proper stones or perhaps the greatest of the Jhesta Tu mystics, could have survived that fall, but I did, and did so without the crutch that is a soul stone.

I have found the alignment of life energy, the perfect harmony of mind-body union, for those short moments in that highest crisis.

And as I have grown stronger without the soul stone strapped firmly to my forehead, so too have I grown with the stone. We are as one now; I can hold it in my hand and seal the line of life energy in place almost as well as if I had it upon my forehead, the top point of ki-chi-kree. The transformation from Stork to Highwayman, from drooling and staggering cripple to fine warrior, is nearly instantaneous now, and without conscious thought. And that transformation is far deeper and far stronger. Every muscle movement, every swing of the blade, every anticipation of an opponent’s strike or parry crystallizes without a moment of consideration, and my appropriate response is launched before a thought need be given.