R. Salvatore - The Dame

The old man looked skeptical. “But he’s looking like one o’ Ethelbert’s,” he said, pointing to Bransen.

The clothes, Bransen knew. He sucked in his breath at the reminder that there were Jhesta Tu about, that he was close to his goal, his last best hope.

“Not with Ethelbert-never met the man,” Jameston assured them. “But these soldiers were from Laird Ethelbert’s ranks?”

“This time,” the old man replied. The resignation in his voice was not hard to hear. “Next time it’ll be Delaval’s men.”

“Yeslnik’s,” a girl corrected, and the old man snorted as if that mattered not at all. It didn’t, from the perspective of the poor villagers caught in the middle of violent chaos.

“They be all about the land, roaming like animals,” another elderly man explained. “Prince Milwellis is fighting at the coast again, but in here there’s just pieces of the armies, scattered and finding food where they can.”

“And who do you serve, Ethelbert or Yeslnik?” Bransen asked to many a blank stare.

“Don’t think they care,” Jameston suggested in a whisper.

No camps, no food wagons, no one giving orders,” Jameston elaborated as he and Bransen made their way out of the small village. “Just a bunch of broken soldiers, hungry and scared and with nothing to believe in. I’ve seen it before.”

Bransen shook his head, not able to grasp it.

“They fell off the side of the armies-both armies,” Jameston explained. “Or they ran off the side. There’s a point where it’s too much fighting. Drives a man blood-crazy, takes the point of it all from him.”

“Was there ever a point to it?” Bransen asked. “More than the greed of a couple of selfish lairds, I mean?”

Jameston shrugged. “Pride of home, fear of not defending what’s yours. Starts that way, might still be that way for many in the ranks of both armies, but for some there comes a time when they can’t remember their home, at least not well enough to connect it to what they’re doing way out here. Maybe some just have nothing left to fight for.”

“So they slaughter defenseless villagers?”

Jameston shrugged again. “I’m not excusing it, boy. I’m telling you what is, not what should be.”

“And it will only continue to get worse,” said Bransen.

“Or so many will just be dead that there won’t be enough left to make it worse,” said Jameston.

“Your optimism inspires me.”

“You don’t care about it anyway, boy. Remember?”

Bransen shot him a cold look. “We should go straight to Ethelbert dos Entel,” Jameson said, his laugh a pitiful sound.

“We?” Bransen asked. “I should go. Where Jameston goes is for Jameston to decide.”

“Already told you I was following you.”

“Have I told you that you needn’t?”

“Every step.”

“Have I told you that I don’t want you to?”

“You’ll get to that eventually,” Jameston replied with a disarming grin. “But I’m here now, so I can tell you that you’d be quite the fool to walk into Ethelbert’s city.”

“How so? How am I to find the Jhesta Tu I seek? Should I just walk from village to village?”

“Going to Ethelbert’s city might get you to meet them, indeed, but not in the way you’re wanting.”

“What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying, boy, I’m saying. There’s a laird in Ethelbert dos Entel who might be thinking that it’s past time to negotiate a truce. We’re not far from his home, with nothing but the sea behind him. Wouldn’t he have a treasure to offer King Yeslnik if the Highwayman walked into his midst?”

“But he above all must know that I was not involved!” Bransen protested.

“You’re still believing that matters? After all this and all you’ve seen?”

Bransen considered it for a moment, then gave a helpless shake of his head. “No.”

“What do you want?” Jameston asked him. “You want to meet these assassins Ethelbert’s brought from Behr-”

“They are Jhesta Tu, not assassins.”

“King Delaval would disagree. If he were alive, I mean.”

“If they killed King Delaval…”

“You saw the sword.”

“It was because they believed in the cause against him,” Bransen stubbornly finished. “The code of Jhest is not mercenary, it is principle. If the Jhesta Tu have allied with Laird Ethelbert, then that speaks well of Laird Ethelbert.”

“And if I give you that, will you answer my question? What do you want, boy?”

“First, I want you to stop calling me boy.”

Jameston nodded. “What would be your perfect life? To live with Cadayle and your child, your children, and with Callen nearby? All in peace? To farm the land or hunt for food? To go to church and pray to Whatever gods you find?”

“Yes, and no.”

“What do you want?”

“I want…” Bransen took a deep breath and truly considered the question. “I want a home for my family, and peace, yes. I’m sick of smelling corpses.”

“Are you sick of battle? Even when it means battling someone like Badden or that priest Bernivvigar before him?”

Bransen looked at Jameston as if the man had just slapped him across the face.

“You spend your hours working that sword and working your body through practice-practice for fighting,” Jameston remarked. “You just found strength back there in that village that I’ve never seen before. Did you hate it, b… Bransen? Do you hate the fighting even when you’re thinking the fight to be just?”

“Just? For which laird? They are two sides of the same ugly stone!”

“Forget that!” Jameston scolded. “Forget the greed and the pride behind it all and make it personal, just for now. Just so you can answer-to yourself and not to me. What drove you to rescue Callen and Cadayle? What did you feel when Badden’s head flew from his shoulders? What do you want, Bransen Garibond? What do you want, Highwayman? Who is the Highwayman? Why is he the Highwayman?”

Every word stabbed at Bransen’s sensibilities profoundly. He wanted to shout at Jameston that Dame Gwydre had obviously put him up to that line of questioning, so much had it echoed her more gentle nudging over the winter in Pellinor.

He knew what he wanted regarding Cadayle and his coming child-and more children, he hoped. For them, with them, he wanted peace and security and enough comfort to give them the room to love and enjoy one another.

But Jameston was right, he knew, though he wouldn’t openly admit it at that strange moment. There was more to him than Bransen Garibond.

There was the Highwayman.

We might be able to get to smoother and deeper water,” the helmsman reported to Dawson as he ran back amidships. “I’m betting Lady Dreamer can run from them warships when the swells ain’t so tall.”

“Aye, and what o’ Shelligan’s, then? She’s not so fleet,” another crewman reminded.

“What of her, then?” the first replied angrily. “If we’re to fight beside her, then we’re to drown beside her!”

“Enough o’ that,” Dawson implored. He turned to Cormack and particularly to Milkeila. “You’ve got some magic, I’m hoping.”

Milkeila glanced at the vast and powerful ocean waters, then back at Dawson doubtfully.

“A few tricks?” asked Dawson.

Both the young fighters nodded reluctantly.

“And so we aren’t leaving Shelligan’s Run,” Dawson declared loudly. He focused his gaze on the helmsman. “A sorry group o’ friends we’d be and a sorrier commander by far for meself if we’d leave our friends to certain doom.”

“But it’s certain doom for them if we stay and fight, too,” the helmsman stubbornly reminded.