“I know,” said Cadayle. “The sooner we are out of the reach of Ethelbert or Delaval or any of them, the better.”
“We should have found a way to Behr instead of coming north,” Bransen lamented, and turned away, feigning a stumble as a couple of other “townsfolk” walked by.
“We seek answers, so we go where the questions lead us,” Cadayle replied. “Now it is Vanguard, but perhaps we are not so far from Behr as you believe. Dawson has been there several times, to a city he called Jacintha. The sail takes the whole of a season, but it is one he’s made before and promises to make again.”
Bransen quieted at that and seemed to Cadayle to relax quite a bit. She helped him back into the house, where they would spend the next few days anxiously awaiting Dawson’s return with the word, as promised.
He came in with little fanfare but great commotion at the end of the next week, surrounded by a score and more of soldiers, including several of the men who had sailed north with Bransen, Cadayle, and Callen. Most of his entourage, though, was of longtime Vanguardsmen, all toughened by years of battle. The way they rode, the way they dismounted, the way their weapons came easily to their hands, spoke volumes of that.
“A fine morning made finer by the sight of you,” Dawson said when the trio came out to greet him. He stayed up on his horse, as did the armed and armored warriors flanking him, several to either side.
Bransen stuttered to say something, but lurched suddenly and appeared as if he would have fallen had not Callen and Cadayle grabbed him at the last minute (in a perfectly choreographed maneuver).
“You need not do that,” Dawson said.
“Well we’re not to let him fall on his face now, are we?” asked Callen.
“I meant that he did not need to do that,” Dawson explained, and all three looked at him curiously. “You, Bransen Garibond. There is no need to wear your mask of the cripple here.”
Bransen stuttered and drooled, and he wasn’t faking, for he had let go of the gemstone.
“Do not mock my husband!” Cadayle retorted.
“Your husband, the Highwayman?” asked Dawson.
“I know not what you mean,” Cadayle said, and she straightened Bransen, steadying him on his feet, before taking a resolute step toward Dawson. “Have you come here to mock us? You promised us news of Brother Bran Dynard…”
“He is dead.”
That stole Cadayle’s momentum, and Bransen let out a little squeal, as if he had been punched in the gut.
“I am sorry-truly,” said Dawson, and he seemed sincere despite the confusing atmosphere here. “Bran Dynard died on the road more than twenty years ago on his way to Chapel Abelle. He never made it. The brothers think it was a powrie attack, which seems likely as the Holdings were at relative peace in those times, but powries remained thick about the land.”
“Dead?” Bransen mumbled. He thought of the Book of Jhest, his salvation, and it seemed so incongruous to him that the man who had penned that magnificent work could have been killed so senselessly on the road so long ago. The man who had penned it, he mused, and he realized that he was referring to his father. He didn’t know how to feel, or what to feel; nothing made sense to him at that stunning moment of revelation. He wanted to deny Dawson’s claims, but wasn’t even sure if his desire to do so was because the man had penned the book and might have some answers for him, or because the man was his father.
His father! Dead! Bransen was not as surprised as he would have guessed. So long, no word. A man he had never known. Would never know.
“How did you discover this?” Cadayle demanded. Suddenly she seemed to be stuttering almost as much as her husband, and that fact alone drew Bransen from his emotional jumble.
“The brothers told me back at Chapel Abelle.”
“You lied to us!” said Cadayle. Next to her Callen let out a little shriek, covering her mouth in horror.
“I did and I admit it, but I did it for your own good,” Dawson calmly replied. “And stop your lurching and drooling, man! Did you really believe that you could travel the length and breadth of the land in such an obvious guise? Word was run to every chapel in Honce to beware the man they called the Stork, for he slew Laird Prydae and left Pryd Holding in turmoil.”
“That is a lie!” said Cadayle.
“Please, good lady, I am not your judge,” said Dawson, and now he did dismount, though several of the fearsome guards around him bristled at the movement. “Nor did the brothers of Chapel Abelle wish to pass judgment. But they would have had no choice-indeed, they thought they had no choice. But I offered them one of mutual benefit.”
“Liar!”
“And your husband’s alive because of it!”
“Enough!” Bransen said, startling them all with the sudden power in his voice.
For a few moments all held quiet, then Dawson bowed low and said, “Welcome, Highwayman. Your reputation precedes you.”
Bransen stared at him hard.
“If I had said nothing, if I had left you there, the brothers of Chapel Abelle would have taken you in chains and handed you to the nearest laird faithful to Laird Delaval. They wished no such thing, but they were bound, surely so. You can understand that.”
Bransen didn’t reply, didn’t move at all.
“You were passed on the road by Brother Fatuus from the Chapel of Precious Memories of Palmaristown,” Dawson explained. “He arrived bearing news of the Stork, the Highwayman. They watched your approach before you ever neared Weatherguard. I offered them a deal, for your sake, for my dame’s benefit, and to relieve the brothers of their regrettable duty.”
“To take me here to fight in your dame’s war,” Bransen reasoned.
Dawson shrugged sheepishly. “We are in desperate need of strong warriors, and as I said, your reputation preceded you. The acting steward of Pryd Holding warned all of your prowess with the blade. You are a deadly sort, I am told.”
“I want no part of your war,” said Bransen, and Cadayle grabbed his arm tightly.
“There is no choice to be found, I fear,” said Dawson. “You have nowhere to go, nor do your beautiful companions.”
“You threaten them?” Bransen growled. The soldiers stepped their mounts in closer.
“Our fight is a good one,” said Dawson. “Not like the meaningless slaughter in the South. We battle goblins and glacial trolls, evil little brutes, all. And heathen barbarian murderers, who steal in at night and slaughter our children in their sleep. We battle Samhaists, and I have heard you have no love for them, either.”
“You seem to hear a lot.”
“True enough,” Dawson said, and he bowed, turning the sarcasm into a compliment. “I regret my lie, and I humbly apologize. Without it you would be long dead by now, your beautiful wife widowed, but still the need to so lie left a sour taste in my mouth. But that lie is irrelevant now, for the deed is done.”
“Just let us leave,” said Bransen.
“To go where?”
“Anywhere that is not here.”
“Will you swim across the gulf, then? Or run west all the way around it, through wild lands where monsters and hungry hunting cats and bears are thicker than the trees? Be reasonable. There is no choice to be found.”
“We will find a boat sailing south to Honce. Or to Behr, even.”
“None will leave before the winter’s end.”
“Then we will wai…”
“Enough!” said Dawson, his visage suddenly hardening. He quickly mounted his steed. “Enough, Highwayman. You are fairly caught, and already convicted in the South, where the sentence would be death. I offer you this alternative. You will march with Dame Gwydre’s forces-many of the same men who shared your boat ride to Pireth Vanguard-in a goodly campaign. We are desperate here. I am not asking you for this service.”