R. Salvatore - The Dame

Bannagran gave a curt bow and spun away, rushing to his chariot and motioning his nine to follow quickly.

“And do not fail me again,” King Yeslnik said to him.

Bannagran snapped his reins and sent his team charging away, hoping to be far from this place before the screams of terror and agony filled the air.

No such luck.

Bransen and Cadayle stood arm in arm by the prow of Lady Dreamer as she bounced and splashed her way through the springtime swells. The sky above loomed dark and foreboding, and some drizzle had filled the morning air, but Dawson McKeege had assured them and all the other nervous “stiffleggers” (as he called those who hadn’t spent much time on a boat) that it wasn’t much of a storm.

“Just a pall,” he had called it. “Worse on the spirits than on Lady Dreamer.” The couple knew his words to be sincere. After all, Dame Gwydre herself was aboard; Dawson would never take a chance with the life of his beloved Lady of Vanguard.

“Chapel Abelle,” Cadayle mumbled after a long while of silence. “What will you say to them when we arrive?”

“Nothing,” Bransen answered. “Unless they ask. Then I will ask them why they found the need to so torment my family. What threat was Brother Dynard, truly? Or are they afraid to learn, as Father De Guilbe was so fearful of the barbarians that he would kill them all before speaking with them honestly?”

“They will welcome you with open arms, then,” Cadayle replied sarcastically.

“They should hear the truth, if they ask.”

“You would not have waited for that invitation a few months ago.”

Bransen looked at his wife curiously before nodding in concession. “Father Premujon understands-and accepted Cormack despite great risk.” As he spoke, he glanced back across the deck, to the sails of the vessels trailing them. De Guilbe and his people were on one, with the notable exception of Brother Giavno. Giavno sailed on Lady Dreamer with Father Premujon and his closest advisors, including Brother Jond, and with Cormack and Milkeila, as well.

“Not so great a risk for the father,” Cadayle corrected. “Not with Dame Gwydre by his side.”

“This meeting at Chapel Abelle will be interesting, even for me, though I hardly care for the affairs of the Order of Abelle,” said Bransen.

“The Order of Blessed Abelle,” Cadayle corrected with a wry grin.

Bransen rolled his eyes.

“But you will still offer your opinion if asked,” Cadayle said with her unending playful sarcasm.

“Your own mother was thrown in a sack with venomous snakes, then hanged by her wrists and left to die,” Bransen reminded, stealing her giggle.

“Samhaist justice, not Abellican,” she said somberly.

“The brothers of Chapel Pryd sat silent at her trial, at her sentencing, and at her intended execution,” Bransen reminded. “And those brothers were more than passive in the death of Garibond Womak!”

Cadayle hugged him close. “I did not mean to upset you,” she said.

“It is the way of a difficult world,” Bransen replied, returning the hug.

“Where will we live?” Cadayle asked.

“If Dame Gwydre’s writ is accepted, anywhere we choose.”

“And where will that be?”

Bransen looked at her carefully, trying to weigh the wistfulness in her beautiful eyes-those same eyes that had steadied him and warmed him when the other children had tormented him in his youth. In looking into Cadayle’s eyes, Bransen could truly see her soul, her gentle and kind and loving soul. The wonderful view brought peace to him then, on Lady Dreamer’s damp deck, and reminded him how much he loved this woman and how fortunate he had been to find her.

“Pryd Town,” he said. Cadayle started in surprise, and then a telling grin spread across her beautiful face. “Home.”

“I would like that.”

“So would Callen, I think.”

“And Bransen, who offers it out of his boundless generosity?”

“It was my home on the lake. Although I am pained by the ending Garibond found, I think he would like it if we built our home there, in his memory. Also, if Yeslnik is laird, I will like it all the more simply because I know that Dame Gwydre’s writ will bring frustration to the dimwit every day.”

“And how many times will you rob him?”

Bransen laughed and hugged her tightly again. “No more,” he said, shaking his head. “Dame Gwydre says that all is forgiven: that is our freedom. Our time in flight from pursuing soldiers is ended.”

“Have you thought of becoming a father?” Cadayle asked. Something in her tone gave Bransen pause for a few heartbeats. His eyes popped open wide.

She looked up at him and smiled, then slowly nodded.

The next hug was the tightest yet, and the warmest.

He uses Laird Delaval’s own seal overlaid with a Y,” Father Artolivan observed as he held the rolled parchment to arm’s length so that his failing eyes could make out the insignia.

“He names himself Yeslnik Delaval, King of Honce,” Master Reandu, the courier, explained.

“He would, wouldn’t he?” Artolivan asked with a snort. “And before I read this, good Brother, would you desire to forewarn me of anything?”

Reandu looked at him curiously. “King Yeslnik is in a foul mood,” he admitted. “His beloved uncle was murdered, after all. Is there something you fear, Father?”

Artolivan chuckled and looked around at his attendant, Brother Pinower, who seemed equally as sadly amused.

“We had a bit of a disagreement with Prince Milwellis of Palmaristown regarding our role in the disposition of prisoners,” he explained. “I expect that the young man of hot humor complained to Yesl… to King Yeslnik, who no doubt wishes to chastise us for our impertinence.”

“If he could think past the gains of the next day, he would understand Milwellis’s posture to be one of disaster,” Brother Pinower added. “I have little affection for the coldhearted prince of Palmaristown, I must admit.”

“More than I,” Artolivan mumbled.

“The events in the south move quickly,” Reandu said. “Since the murder of Laird Delaval, Laird Ethelbert tried to assault Pryd Town. He was turned back by the brave men of Pryd and a great champion whom I name as a personal friend. The battle has turned vicious and furious. King Yeslnik will see this through, whatever the cost.”

Father Artolivan held up a hand for him to pause, then broke the seal, unrolled the parchment, and began reading. Almost immediately his jaw went slack, his eyes went wide, and he began to shake his head.

He passed it off to Pinower, who truly seemed as if he had been slapped in the face as he read it and gave a yelp of protest.

“King Yeslnik demands the release of all the Delaval prisoners held at Chapel Abelle and at any other chapels,” Father Artolivan explained to the concerned Reandu, taking the scroll back from Pinower. “And he wishes us to serve as executioners for those captives of Laird Ethelbert’s army.”

“Impossible,” Reandu started to argue, but Artolivan thrust the scroll into his hand, and he couldn’t deny the meaning of the words on the parchment.

“What are we to tell our brethren at Chapel Entel in Ethelbert? Or at any other of our chapels in holdings under the domain of Laird Ethelbert?” Master Reandu asked.

“To barricade their doors and pray,” Father Artolivan asked as much as stated, so ridiculous was the answer.

“This is insanity,” Brother Pinower dared declare.

“It is the unbridled vengeance of a man answerable to no one but himself,” Artolivan said. “The old graves of Honce are filled with the results of such folly.” He cast a sympathetic glance at the obviously uncomfortable Reandu. “Speak freely, brother from Pryd,” he bade. “What do you think of King Yeslnik’s designs?”