R. Salvatore - The Dame

“My men plucked from the water and cut open so that the vicious beasts could brighten their berets!” Captain Dunlevin Brosh cried.

“You are mad to think I would-”

But Panlamaris cut her off. “It’s a coincidence, then, that the ships of Vanguard were allowed to sail free while the ships of Palmaristown were sent to the bottom, all hands slaughtered? Am I to believe that a cruel trick of fate, Dame Gwydre? Or am I to call it what it is? You, and your church”-he added, poking his finger at both Premujon and Pinower- “have allied with powries against the men of Honce!”

“That is a lie!” Father Premujon leaped from his chair as did Brother Pinower, shouting with rage. For a moment it looked as if negotiations might turn physical.

But Gwydre calmed it all, standing tall between the brothers and her opponents. “Enough!” She turned a withering eye on Laird Panlamaris. “You requested a parlay. For no better reason than to offer this slander?”

Laird Panlamaris forced both De Guilbe and Brosh to sit quiet. “Is it slander, Dame of Vanguard?”

“I know nothing of any powries in the gulf. I know only that your warships gave chase to my ships, unlawfully and without provocation.”

“Without provocation?” Panlamaris howled, his voice thick with incredulity. “You have come here and stolen Honce land.”

“I have offered support to the autonomous Abellican Church, which chooses secession before giving in to the heinous demands of the one who calls himself king. To murder men taken honestly in honorable battle! Shame on him, and shame on you if you agree with such a thing! Laird Panlamaris was known throughout Vanguard as a man of honor, but I wonder if that is still true, if you would agree with this vile edict of King Yeslnik!”

She accompanied her strong words with a wary eye on Panlamaris’s every move. She’d clearly pricked his vanity when she mentioned his reputation throughout Vanguard, which was hardly true, given that few in Vanguard had ever heard the name before.

Panlamaris sat for many heartbeats in silence, never blinking as he looked across the table at his adversary.

“Reconsider your course,” he finally said. “Come back into the fold of a unified Honce. And you as well,” he added, addressing the monks. “Your Father Artolivan’s time is passed, but we can salvage the remnants of your order. All can be forgiven-even Father Artolivan’s reputation can be protected when he quietly retires-but only if you act quickly and wisely.”

“And if we do not, you will storm the walls of St. Mere Abelle once more?” Dame Gwydre asked with obvious sarcasm.

“Or perhaps I will cede Chapel Abelle to you,” he said, and beside him, Father De Guilbe winced. “And lock you in your walled prison. The waters of the gulf will be mine in short order despite your evil alliance with the dwarves.”

“There is no such alliance!” Gwydre insisted.

Panlamaris snorted derisively. “Whatever the case may be,” he said, “I will own the gulf. The Palmaristown fleet will find allies from Delaval City soon enough, and we will chase the vile dwarves from our waters. I will hold you in this prison of your making, your own little kingdom, while the armies of King Yeslnik debark in Port Vanguard and sweep your holding out from under you. How inviting will Chapel Abelle’s walls seem then, good lady?”

Dame Gwydre didn’t blink, though Panlamaris’s words had indeed shaken her, for she saw their prediction as a quite likely prospect. Suddenly, it was a staring contest between the two, across the table, and it became apparent quickly that Laird Panlamaris wasn’t nearly as confident as he sounded.

Still Dame Gwydre didn’t blink.

The six rode away soon in opposite directions.

“So now we know how Dawson escaped,” Brother Pinower dared say, walking his mount beside Gwydre’s on the way back. “Powries. Powries! I cannot declare them god-sent, though I surely am glad that they chose their targets well!”

“It is a minor victory,” Dame Gwydre warned. “As was our victory when we turned back Laird Panlamaris’s charge. Neither offer far-reaching consequences or relief if the outcome across Honce continues in favor of King Yeslnik and his brutal lairds.”

“And Father De Guilbe,” Father Premujon said grimly. “He will fight us to the death, and more than a few brothers, I fear, will follow his angry call.”

“It is going to be a long, dark summer,” said Dame Gwydre.

Send out couriers to my son,” Laird Panlamaris instructed Captain Dunlevin Brosh. “Runners across the land and a battle group of your fastest warships to run the coast in the hopes that he is near enough to see their pennants. Together Milwellis and I will drive the traitorous witch from her castle and right into the sea! And then we will win the waters of the gulf, as I promised, and will bring Vanguard under the rule of Palmaristown.”

“Palmaristown?” Dunlevin Brosh echoed with surprise. He immediately swallowed hard, tipping his hand that he did not mean to blurt out his thoughts so freely.

“King Yeslnik will be so grateful to us for putting the Order of Blessed Abelle back into his fold under the fine Father De Guilbe, so grateful that we crushed the insurgent Gwydre, that he will allow me to expand my holding to the north all the way to the borders of Alpinador.”

“Yes, my laird,” Brosh replied.

“And even if he does not,” Laird Panlamaris said with a snicker. “Simply killing Gwydre and Artolivan will be worth the war.”

He felt naked before her. She was slight of build, with dark hair and brown skin and dark, darting eyes full of energy and life that scrutinized and drank in every inch of Bransen. She moved with incredible grace, as if her slippers weren’t even disturbing the grass as she circled him. He wondered if she looked like his mother. Certainly she appeared similar to how Garibond had described Sen Wi. And her clothes were just like his, and thus, just like his mother’s.

Had she known his mother? Bransen’s eyes sparkled at the thought, but his smile didn’t last more than a moment as he realized that Affwin Wi could not be much older than he, perhaps not even as old.

Perhaps, then, he wondered, Affwin Wi had heard of his mother. How he wanted to ask her, but her command had been uncompromising: Stand still and stand straight, look straight ahead only and say nothing.

This went on for what seemed like ages. It occurred to Bransen that Affwin Wi was testing his patience. A true Jhesta Tu, in tune with his surroundings and comfortable in his own contemplations, could stand silently and unmoving for hours.

“You carry sword of Jhesta Tu,” Affwin Wi said suddenly from the side, just out of his line of sight and so somewhat startling him. Her heavy southern accent bit off every syllable, so it took Bransen a few moments simply to decipher her sentence.

“I do,” he answered, taking her extended silence as a prompt for him to finally speak.

“You dress in clothes of mystic warrior.”

“Yes,” said Bransen.

“You are Jhesta Tu?”

Bransen turned his head to regard her-or started to before her widening eyes and upturning snarl warned him to look back ahead. “My mother, Sen Wi, was Jhesta Tu.”

“Mother?” Affwin Wi echoed in surprise. Across the small clearing, Bransen saw the bald-headed warrior’s apparent relief in his chuckle.

“Sen Wi of the Walk of Clouds,” said Bransen.

“I do not know this name.”

“She left many years ago, twenty-one years ago,” Bransen explained. “She married my father and came to Honce with him.”

“You do not look of Behr. Not full.”