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  “Give them a tent and food,” Bannagran called to his men, and to Laird Ethelbert he added, “You may remain as my guest while I confirm this tale. Perhaps you will find yet another unlikely reprieve, albeit a temporary one.”

  With Ethelbert’s and Bannagran’s permission, Cormack and Milkeila did not remain with Laird Ethelbert and his entourage, going instead with Bannagran and Master Reandu. Cormack did not surrender his notion of joining the forces together in common cause.

  “This could be our chance to end this miserable war,” he pleaded with Bannagran. “An opportunity for the men of Honce to remember that they are brothers and that there are enough enemies in the wider world without them battling each other.”

  “Who are you?” Bannagran asked dismissively, and he walked away.

  “It is not so misplaced a notion,” Reandu said when he was alone with Cormack and Milkeila. “I would welcome such a resolution.”

  “Your own resolution, that of the church, I mean, might be harder to discover,” Cormack replied. “You march with Yeslnik, thus with Father De Guilbe.”

  “You know him?”

  “He led my mission to Alpinador,” Cormack admitted. “Indeed, it was his fight with me, his determination that I be banished from the order—even executed for my crimes—that precipitated his wider argument with Father Premujon of Chapel Pellinor and ultimately with Father Artolivan, both of whom judged my cause and course correct.”

  Reandu stared at him and nodded, recalling all that Bransen had told him of the battle in Alpinador.

  “Father De Guilbe is no voice of a just god,” Milkeila dared to add.

  “I bid you to reconsider your course, Master Reandu,” Cormack said. “Father Artolivan and the brothers at St. Mere Abelle have spoken of you as a beacon of light in this dark night.”

  The skepticism on Reandu’s face was clear to see.

  “It is true,” Cormack insisted. “I was sent to Ethelbert dos Entel to forge the alliance with Laird Ethelbert, but that alone would not suffice. Nay, to Pryd Town I was to go, to speak to you and implore you to show Laird Bannagran the justice of our cause and the injustice of Yeslnik’s road. You are a man of honor, so claims Father Artolivan and Brother Pinower, and, as such, you would understand the truth of Dame Gwydre. Alas, but it saddens me to see you in the service of King Yeslnik and Father De Guilbe.”

  “I am no friend to De Guilbe,” Reandu heard himself replying, and he could hardly believe he was speaking the thought aloud. As telling to Cormack as the words themselves was his pointed omission of De Guilbe’s title, something a long-serving master of the order would never do by mistake.

  Reandu, so frustrated and teetering between fear and hope, pressed on. “I serve Laird Bannagran. I serve Pryd Town, my home. If they march to war, then my brethren and I are compelled to travel beside them and tend their wounds. But whatever the outcome of this campaign in the east, I deign not to return to Chapel Pryd. My road is to St. Mere Abelle, and how that new name rolls sweetly from my lips! My fealty and that of the monks who have joined me on this march—the whole of Chapel Pryd’s brothers—is to Artolivan, Father of the Order of Blessed Abelle.”

  Cormack and Milkeila both brightened at that surprising and welcomed revelation. “Then speak to Bannagran, your laird and your friend.”

  “He will not betray King Yeslnik for Laird Ethelbert,” Reandu replied, and when Cormack moved to argue, he added, “Or for your Dame Gwydre, whom he does not know.”

  “But will he allow Laird Ethelbert to bring forth his army to join in the fight against the powries?” asked Milkeila.

  “The word of a powrie force is true, then?” Reandu asked.

  “The courier was from King Yeslnik, yes,” said Cormack. “And by that man’s words and not just the letter from Yeslnik, the powries swarm the banks of the Masur Delaval.”

  “It is rumored that they assailed Palmaristown at the behest of Dame Gwydre,” Reandu warned, but Cormack was shaking his head with every word.

  “I see doubt on your face, brother,” Reandu added.

  “In Alpinador, a band of powries fought beside us in our struggle with Ancient Badden, for they, too, would have perished by his hand. It is possible that they are among this force, but by word of the courier it seems that the whole of the Weathered Isles have emptied onto the shores of Honce. This is not the doing of Dame Gwydre—never would she set such a scourge upon the land as that.”

  “Bransen the Highwayman will support our claims,” Milkeila added. “He was there with us when we battled Ancient Badden. The powries of Lake Mithranidoon were the ones who first rescued him after his fall from the glacier.”

  Reandu’s face screwed up incredulously at that strange information. “Bransen is gone,” he replied. “To the north, I expect, and his wife at St. Mere Abelle.” He paused, shaking his head. “He was there? Beside powries?”

  “Common enemies make for unexpected alliances,” said Cormack. “Perhaps now again, and with an alliance that will remind the folk of Honce that we are all brothers. Press your Laird Bannagran, I beg. Fate has given us a chance to heal the wounds of a land torn by war.”

  Reandu looked across the way toward the distant command tent of Bannagran. The monk made certain that he was in that tent with the laird when other couriers came up from along the long line of the marching army to confirm the news and order the recall of Bannagran’s forces.

  Reandu seized the moment, imploring Bannagran to take the offer of Laird Ethelbert to march beside Honce allies against their common foe.

  The Bear of Honce offered a simple and short answer: “Shut up.”

  Bannagran’s turn to the west was immediate, breaking camp that very afternoon.

  Laird Ethelbert’s troupe rode hard to the south, arriving in Ethelbert dos Entel only a few hours later. Ethelbert immediately convened his generals and explained the shifting situation.

  Myrick and Tyne took the same line as Affwin Wi, begging their laird to stay put, to let the powries aid their cause, but Kirren Howen stood quietly, doubt clear on his face.

  “You remember those skirmishes along the black rocks of the coast,” Ethelbert said.

  The old general nodded. “Laird Prydae and his champion Bannagran showed well in the fighting,” Kirren Howen replied. “Glad I was to be on their flank, for even then the men of Pryd Town fought better than any others—except our own, of course—Laird Delaval’s soldiers included. I am not surprised that Bannagran, the Bear of Honce, has risen to such prominence among the ranks.”

  “Powries striking all along the river, they claim,” said Ethelbert.

  “They need us,” Cormack dared interrupt. Several hard stares turned on him for speaking out of turn, but Ethelbert didn’t look his way and kept exchanging his glance with Kirren Howen.

  “Had Laird Bannagran agreed to secure our march, it might have been an opportunity to heal Honce,” the general remarked.

  “Indeed,” was all that tired old Laird Ethelbert could manage in reply. “It might have been.”

  The finality of his tone stopped the budding protests of Myrick and Tyne before they could begin to mount.

  “Then make it so,” Cormack tried one last time to press upon them.

  “If powries are climbing from the Masur Delaval, then the Mirianic Coast is not secure,” Kirren Howen pointed out.

  “And without the guarantee of Laird Bannagran, I would not risk a man of Ethelbert dos Entel,” Ethelbert added. “Even with Bannagran’s word of honor, which he did not grant, I would be a fool to put my garrison on the field near to the superior numbers of treacherous Yeslnik. You see the world with the optimism of a priest, truly, but I view it through the eyes of responsibility.”

  “If we do not go forth and aid against the powries, when they are defeated Yeslnik will send Bannagran and many thousands back against us,” Cormack reminded. “We cannot hope to win.”

  “Then mayhap we should hope that the miserable bloody caps will kill enough of Yeslnik�
��s men to deter him from that march. Or enough, perhaps, so that we can steal the advantage and destroy them all.”

  Cormack wanted to argue, and so obviously did he tense that Milkeila grasped his forearm and gently squeezed.

  “Your bargaining is not with me, young brother,” Ethelbert continued. “You wish to turn Laird Bannagran from the side of the fool Yeslnik. Go then, and quickly, and catch up to his march. If the ways of the world turn the Bear of Honce from the cause of the idiot king, he will ever have a potential ally here in Ethelbert dos Entel. We do not forget the days of yore when Bannagran and Laird Prydae fought on our flank.”

  He was looking at Kirren Howen as he finished, and the general nodded his complete agreement.

  It was something, at least, Cormack silently mused. With Ethelbert’s blessing, and that of Father Destros, he and Milkeila started out soon after, back to the northwest.

  Two others watched their departure. Affwin Wi and Merwal Yahna did not offer any such blessing or words of encouragement.

  “I do not trust this Bannagran,” Merwal Yahna remarked.

  “Trust?” the woman asked as if the notion was ridiculous.

  “If Ethelbert and Bannagran, and thus Yeslnik, unite against the powries, then this young king will demand retribution for the death of Delaval,” Merwal Yahna clarified. “They will only find true alliance through the action of mock justice.”

  Affwin Wi laughed at him. “Fear not, for Ethelbert will not turn against me.”

  “He is a desperate man” Merwal Yahna said. “We should leave now. For Jacintha.”

  But Affwin Wi was shaking her head. “This work is lucrative and enjoyable. You fear these barbarians? We have Jhesta Tu hunting us back in Behr, and I would rather face the whole of Yeslnik’s army than hide again in the shadows of Jacintha’s streets. We will not leave.”

  “When a peace is brokered, we will be sacrificed to it,” Merwal Yahna warned.

  Affwin Wi wore a wicked smile. “Peace?”

  “So let there be no peace,” Merwal Yahna said, reading her perfectly.

  Affwin Wi and Merwal Yahna were called to Laird Ethelbert’s side again late that afternoon for a continued discussion of their options.

  The three remaining followers of Affwin Wi, led by Moh Li, a man sorely injured by Bransen in the fight that had driven the Highwayman from Affwin Wi’s gang, departed Ethelbert dos Entel soon after sunset, following the path of Cormack and Milkeila.

  FIFTEEN

  The Third Road

  Every step he took moved him farther from his sword, from the artwork, the legacy, of his mother, Sen Wi. That thought nagged at Bransen and pulled against him like an invisible rope, but he stubbornly kept going. He focused instead on what lay ahead, on Cadayle, his beloved, pregnant with his child.

  His thoughts were spinning, though. The sight of Cormack and Milkeila and their news of an alliance among Gwydre and Ethelbert and Father Artolivan had rattled him and brought him a level of discomfort more profound than he had expected or understood.

  “It is not my fight,” he told himself repeatedly, always trying to increase his pace. When crossing a forest he took to the trees, thinking to run across the branches as he had that night he had gone hunting for Ethelbert’s scouts.

  But he was not nearly as graceful; the gemstone magic was not flowing through him consistently or powerfully. And his line of ki-chi-kree shivered. Instances of the Stork pulsed through him, terrible moments when he feared that all of his coordination would flee, leaving him flailing and helpless upon the ground.

  Still he kept going. What he lacked in speed he made up for with endurance, walking long into the night and moving again at first light. He didn’t recognize the trails this far to the east, though, and so he kept his road straight to the north. To the gulf, he figured, then a turn to the west and St. Mere Abelle. He passed by several villages, not razed like those in the south or those closer to the coast where Milwellis had wound a path of destruction similar to that of King Yeslnik on their respective retreats from Ethelbert dos Entel.

  Bransen resisted the urge to go into any of those settlements. He was lonely, to be sure, but that was his way now, he reminded himself. He was walking the second road of Jameston Sequin—the correct road, he now believed, where his focus was himself and his needs, a little corner of the world where he could escape the greater madness of mankind. Unlike Jameston, he would have Cadayle and their child and Callen with him, and what else did they need? What more could the hectic and troubled world offer?

  Guided by such an attitude, Bransen felt little guilt on those nights when he did sneak into a village to pilfer food. On one such occasion, he happened upon a large pie cooling in the window of a small cottage. He took the whole thing. It was his, after all, because he wanted it, and what did he care for the desires of those in the house? That’s what he tried to tell himself, anyway, as he left, but soon after he had eaten a small slice of the delicious treat, Bransen returned the remainder to the windowsill.

  “It wasn’t very good,” he muttered as he walked away from the windowsill once more, trying to believe the silly justification.

  He came upon the coast one bright morning, and he eagerly turned for the west, hoping that he was not too far from St. Mere Abelle and Cadayle. He wanted nothing more than to be in her arms, to be back across the gulf into Vanguard, where he and his family could forget the rest of the world as Jameston had done for all those years.

  It had been Jameston’s tragic mistake to forsake that reclusive lifestyle, Bransen believed. The scout should have remained in the wilds of Vanguard, the forests he called his home, and let the petty wars of petty lairds solve themselves in blood.

  For what did it matter anyway? Whichever laird won; whichever religion, Samhaist or Abelle, had proven victorious in Vanguard; whichever kingdom, Honce or Behr or Alpinador, gained supremacy mattered not at all in the end. Even Dame Gwydre, far better to her people than a selfish fop like Yeslnik, would be only a very temporary reprieve, after all, in the long scheme of the world.

  Should Gwydre win, another Yeslnik or Prydae or Ethelbert would soon enough arise to seize the throne and quite likely, yet again, through the spilled blood of peasants.

  Bransen couldn’t escape his conclusion: It was all a sad, sad joke.

  Reports came in to Father Premujon’s command room nearly every hour. The spirit-walking brothers of St. Mere Abelle had reached the far shore of the Gulf of Corona and bid the Vanguardsmen to come forth. They had monitored Dawson’s progress and the continuing retreat of the Delaval and Palmaristown warships. They had followed Prince Milwellis’s hard march back to the Masur Delaval and paid keen attention to the remaining forces commanded by Panlamaris as the irate laird continued the siege and bombardment of the chapel.

  The spirit-walking brothers knew everything going on in this region of Honce—the placement of ships and warriors and even the beleaguered condition of Panlamaris’s overworked crews.

  “They will be more eager to break to the west and run for home,” Brother Giavno advised in the command room session that afternoon. “If we fill their eastern flank with the hard assault of gemstone magic and send them in flight, a larger, waiting force in the west will have little trouble in massacring them.”

  “Is that what you advise?” Dame Gwydre asked him rather pointedly.

  Giavno cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. “It would seem the prudent military option.”

  “But is it in your heart, brother?” the Dame of Vanguard pressed.

  Brother Giavno took a deep breath but then merely looked away.

  “You are a good man,” Gwydre said, and many in the room crinkled their brows in confusion.

  “I have little desire to massacre Panlamaris’s force or any men of Honce,” Gwydre explained. “Let us sweep them from the field and send them running, but all quarter will be offered, at all times.”

  “Lady, I remind you that we will be outnumbered more than two to one,” B
rother Jurgyen remarked.

  “They will be caught completely without their guard,” Gwydre assured him. “And every report shows them to be a haggard and exhausted bunch, worked to the point of collapse. Let our initial assault be full of lightning and fire, explosions and great noise and shouts of war. They will break and run.”

  “Laird Panlamaris will not run,” said Jurgyen.

  “Then we will kill him,” said Father Premujon, and the matter-of-fact answer from the father of the Order of Blessed Abelle, speaking of killing a man as casually as if he was referring to emptying a chamber pot, made more than one monk stare at Premujon with astonishment.

  “Let there be no doubt that we have entered the battle, that we now fight in the war,” said Premujon. “It is not our preference, surely, but neither was it our choice or doing. Bitter experience over many months has taught us of Vanguard that in such a struggle to the death, the lessening of violence does not lessen the misery. Nay, it is the truth of war that brutal and swift is oft the most merciful way.”

  “But with all offer of quarter,” said Giavno, and Premujon smiled and nodded.

  “Then let it begin,” said Gwydre. “At dawn tomorrow, the catapults of Laird Panlamaris will fall silent at last.”

  Every former prisoner residing at the chapel, nearly four hundred men and women, reaffirmed his or her allegiance to the Order of Blessed Abelle, and all were ready and eager to go out and fight under the banner of Dame Gwydre. All the day, they spoke of Brother Fatuus, who had walked from Laird Panlamaris’s line, who had suffered the spears of his enemy but had not relented until he had reached the gates of the chapel, whereupon he had gone happily to his just and everlasting reward. They would fight for the order, for Dame Gwydre, and, most of all, for the memory of Brother Fatuus.

  The ferrying began that night, two lines of water-walking monks escorting the warriors to the shoreline to the east and west of St. Mere Abelle. Brothers Pinower and Giavno personally escorted Dame Gwydre and promised to fight by her side until they drew their last breath. It went on all through the first hours of quiet darkness. Soon after midnight, the two hundred warriors and forty monks beside Dame Gwydre in the east sorted their ranks and recited their strategy, while in the west, across Panlamaris’s line, half of those numbers in warriors and monks dug in to strategic positions, quite confident of the route of retreat.