R. Salvatore - The Dame

It was… comforting. -BRANSEN GARIBOND

A calm spread over St. Mere Abelle. Panlamaris’s army remained entrenched across the field, but they would not come on. No monks were out to guide the many prisoners, who, suddenly, did not seem to be prisoners any longer. Their work was not diligent this day as they milled about, whispering about the grand changes that had come to the world and to their corner of it. Ethelbert man and woman and Delaval man and woman mingled effortlessly and without thought, their old boundaries and battles now, finally, fully left behind.

In every prayer room of the great chapel, the brothers did their work, those lesser monks assisting the more powerful as they used a soul stone to soar out from their bodies, to travel spiritually to every corner of Honce, to their brethren with the word of Father Artolivan.

Come gather in Chapel Abelle, the blessed St. Mere Abelle, their spirits implored their brethren. Or to Ethelbert dos Entel if you must, and pray for the mercy of Laird Ethelbert. Hide, brethren, from the fires and follies of King Yeslnik.

The finality of the decision, a frank admission that the Abellican Church had severed ties, had declared a complete and likely irrevocable break with King Yeslnik and thus the bulk of Honce itself, had weighed heavily on Father Artolivan and the others, but when Father Dennigan of Chapel Delaval had arrived, carrying the head of Brother Piastafan, what choice had been left?

“Let the word go forth,” Father Artolivan had told his brethren, his voice thick with regret and sad resignation. And so the brothers went to their work this calm morning, their spirits soaring from their corporeal bodies and from St. Mere Abelle, flying to the distant chapels to the limits of their power, then entreating the brothers of the outward chapels to spread the word to the wider corners of Honce.

“This ability of the monks to spread the word wide and far is an advantage for us,” Dame Gwydre said to Dawson, Cormack, and Milkeila at the windswept docks of St. Mere Abelle. “Should it come to war, our armies can remain in coordination. Our enemies might wait a week to hear word from a distant battlefield, but we can know…”

“You overestimate the power of spirit-walking,” Cormack dared to intervene. “This is a highly unusual event-we did not dare try it even in those hours when our situation in Alpinador grew desperate. This is most extraordinary for Father Artolivan to command it, or even allow it.”

“He did as much to relate to us the happenings in the southland when we were in Vanguard,” Dame Gwydre protested.

“And paid a dear price. One of the brothers who came spiritually to Vanguard-”

“One of? There was only the one.”

“Only the one who made it,” Cormack corrected. “Out of a dozen who made the attempt. Most fell short, weary before they ever managed to float their spirits across the Gulf of Corona. Another never even made the gulf, having fallen to possess a poor girl he saw along the road. He has recovered from the shock of that ill-fated meeting, but she remains a stuttering fool. And another brother did cross the gulf, only to be drawn into the corporeal form of a dockman on the wharves of Port Vanguard. He did not manage a possession and was driven mad in the attempt.”

“Why would they attempt such a thing as possession?” Milkeila had to ask, her eyes wide with shock.

“Aye, it seems an evil thing!” added Dawson.

Cormack nodded. “It is a compulsion that breaks the greatest of brothers, a temptation borne out of no rational thought and rarely controlled by rational thought. Spirit-walking is outlawed within the order, other than by specific exception. A brother trapped in the forest, freezing to death, would be violating church edict if he so used a soul stone to seek out aid.”

Dame Gwydre started to argue against that reasoning, but stopped and swallowed hard and glanced back at the long tunnels that would take her back to the cliff-top structures, only then truly appreciating the enormous weight that had bowed the shoulders of Father Artolivan.

“They use it now, as previously to inform you of the great events in Honce, because of the magnitude,” Cormack explained. “Even should a few brothers fail, even should a few bystanders be driven mad by an unintended possession, the cost is worth the gain, for Father Artolivan knows well that many of his brethren and the prisoners they shelter are in dire peril now, and he would not have them go to unwitting slaughter.”

“His brethren, or your own?” Dawson asked, drawing a sidelong glance from Cormack. “You sound like one who’s thinking the church a good place to be.”

Cormack glanced at Milkeila, who grinned knowingly, not disagreeing with Dawson’s assessment.

To that, Cormack merely shrugged.

“Sail swift and sail safe,” Gwydre said to them. “To Vanguard, one ship, to Ethelbert dos Entel the other.”

Dawson nodded, then stepped up and gave the woman a hug. “I’ll be for Entel,” he whispered. “So my journey’s the long one.”

“What will I do without Dawson beside me?” Gwydre whispered back.

“The right thing,” he replied and squeezed her tighter. “I lost me heart last night,” he whispered even more quietly. “And now I’m leaving her here under your own protection.”

“Callen?” said Gwydre, loudly enough so that Cormack and Milkeila caught it and looked at the hugging couple curiously. She pushed Dawson back to arm’s length. He didn’t answer, other than to smile.

And Gwydre’s own smile more than matched his own. How strange the fates could be! A deception to bring Bransen to Vanguard to serve in a war had brought Dawson together with a woman who stole his heart, an event that neither he nor Gwydre had ever expected would happen again.

“Sail swift and sail safe,” she said, her voice breaking. “And come back to your lady, who will be by my side.”

The good news carried Dame Gwydre back through the tunnels and stairs to the high ground of St. Mere Abelle. When she arrived, though late for a meeting, she did not go straight to Father Artolivan’s audience hall. Instead she climbed the ladder of the back wall, overlooking the narrow bay that sheltered St. Mere Abelle’s docks.

Lady Dreamer was just putting out, all lines away. A second ship was already out from the docks, awaiting Dawson’s craft. The two would travel together throughout the first couple of days, moving to the middle of the gulf, before Dawson turned east to run the coast all the way to Ethelbert dos Entel at the end of the Belt-and-Buckle and the other went north.

The tide brought Lady Dreamer out a short ways, and one sail dropped open, Dawson tacking hard and expertly to turn his bow out to open waters.

Gwydre took comfort in the great confidence she held in Dawson McKeege. If anyone could get to Laird Ethelbert and properly deliver her message, it was he. The comfort helped her to get past the great sadness that enveloped her as Lady Dreamer started away, for she missed her longtime companion already. He had become a true brother to her, a confidant and the one man who kept her focused on and honest to what was in her heart. How would she get through these trying days without him?

She made a mental note to look in on Callen and Cadayle. She was quite fond of the mother and daughter, and if Dawson saw so much in Callen, then Gwydre figured her positive impressions of the woman must be valid.

When she finally arrived at Father Artolivan’s gathering, she found the elderly church leader with Father Premujon, brothers Pinower, Jond, and Giavno, and several other monks she did not know by name engaged in a heated debate about their next moves.