“Open the gates,” the soldier standing beside the horse called to the guards on the wall. He motioned to his companion, and the man put his sword away. “Be gone to your homes,” he scolded the excited and whispering onlookers, and then he and his companion flanked Roger and started toward the city, grim baggage in tow. They stopped when they got inside the gate, other guards shutting it behind them. Out of sight of the farmersfor they weren’t sure whether or not this stranger had any allies among those folkthey grabbed Roger roughly and slammed him up against the wall, frisking every inch of his body and removing anything that even resembled a weapon.
A third guard brought out blankets to cover the bodies, then took hold of the horse’s reins and led the beast, while the first two grabbed Roger roughly by the elbows and half carried, half dragged him through the city streets.
Roger spent a lot of time alone in Chasewind Manor, the palatial home of Baron Rochefort Bildeborough. He wasn’t physically alone, but the two grim-faced soldiers assigned to guard him seemed in no mood for conversation. So he sat and waited, sang songs to himself, even counted the boards of the hardwood floor three times, as the hours passed.
When the Baron finally entered, Roger understood the delay. The man’s face was puffy, his eyes sunken, the hollow look of grief all about him. The news of Connor’s death had hit him hard, very hard; apparently Connor had not been exaggerating when boasting of his standing with his uncle.
“Who killed my nephew?” Baron Bildeborough asked before he had even taken his seat in the chair opposite Roger.
“His killer has been delivered to you,” Roger replied.
“The monk,” Baron Bildeborough stated more than asked, as though that fact held little surprise.
“That man and one other of St.-Mere-Abelle attacked us,” Roger began.
“Us?”
“Connor, myself, and…” Roger hesitated.
“Go on with your tale about Connor,” Baron Bildeborough said impatiently. “The details will wait.”
“In the fight, the monk’s companion was killed,” Roger explained. “And this monk was captured. Connor and I were taking him to youwe were on the very outskirts of the citywhen he broke free and killed your nephew, a single thrust of his fingers to the throat.”
“My healer tells me that Connor has been dead longer than your story would suggest,” Baron Bildeborough put in, “if you then killed the monk, on the outskirts of my city.”
“It did not happen quite that way,” Roger stuttered. “Connor was dead immediately; I could see that, and so, being no match for the monk, I fled, taking Connor’s horse.”
“Greystone,” said Rochefort. “The name of the horse is Greystone.”
Roger nodded. “The monk would not give up his pursuit, and when Greystone threw a shoe, I knew that I would be caught. But I beat him with wits where my strength would not, and though I had only meant to capture him, that he might come back and stand open trial for his crimes, he was killed in the process.”
“I have been told that you are long on wits, Roger Billingsbury,” the Baron said. “Or do you prefer the name Lockless?”
The stunned young man had no reply.
“Fear not,” Baron Bildeborough reassured him. “I have spoken with a former companion of yours, a man who holds you in the highest regard and made no secret to me of your exploits against the powries in Caer Tinella.”
Still dumbstruck, Roger could only shake his head.
“By simple coincidence, I employ the daughter of a Mrs. Kelso on my staff,” Rochefort explained.
Roger relaxed and even managed a smile. If Baron Bildeborough trusted Mrs. Kelso, then he had nothing to fear from the man.
“I warned Connorwhat an impetuous and cocky young man he was!” Rochefort said quietly, lowering his head. “If the powries could get to Dobrinion, then none of us was safe, I told him. But this rogue monk,” he added, shaking his head. “How could he have expected such an assassin? It makes no sense to me.”
“No powries got to Abbot Dobrinion,” Roger replied firmly, drawing the man’s attention. “And this monk was no rogue.”
The Baron’s expression was caught somewhere between outrage and confusion as he looked directly at the surprising Roger.
“That is why Connor and I were coming fast to see you,” Roger explained. “Connor knew that the monks, and no powrie, murdered Abbot Dobrinion. With the captured monk in tow, he thought he had his proof.”
“A monk of the Abellican Order killed Dobrinion?” Rochefort asked skeptically.
“This is much bigger than Abbot Dobrinion,” Roger tried to explain. He knew he had to be careful not to give away too much information about his three companions. “It is about stolen gemstones and a struggle within the Church powers. It is all beyond me,” he admitted. “All too complicated concerning areas with which I have little knowledge. But the same two monks who attacked my friends and me in the northland killed Abbot Dobrinion. Connor was certain of that.”
“What was he doing in the northland?” Rochefort wanted to know. “Did you know him before this incident?”
“Not I, but one of my companions,” Roger admitted, and then he took a deep breath and took a chance. “She was married to Connor once, for a short time.”
“Jilly,” Rochefort breathed.
“I can say no more, and please, for her sake, for my sake, for all our sakes, do not ask,” said Roger. “Connor came to warn us, that is all you need to know. And in saving us, he forfeited his own life.”
Baron Bildeborough sat back in his chair, digesting all that he had heard, weighing it beside the recent disturbances at St. Precious concerning the Father Abbot and his fellows of St.-Mere-Abelle. After a long while he looked back to Roger, then patted an empty chair beside him. “Come and sit with me as a friend,” he said sincerely. “I want to know everything about Connor’s last days. And I want to know all about Roger Billingsbury, that we two might discern our best course of action.”
Roger tentatively shifted to the chair closer to the Baron, taking more than a little hope in the fact that Bildeborough had referred to them as a team.
“That is him,” Juraviel insisted, peering down from the hillock with his keen eyes. “I can tell by the awkward way he sits in the saddle.” The elf gave a snicker. “It amazes me that a human as agile as Roger can appear so clumsy on a horse.”
“He does not understand the animal,” Elbryan explained.
“Because he chooses not to,” the elf replied.
“Not everyone was trained by the Touel’alfar,” the ranger said with a grin.
“Nor is everyone blessed with a turquoise stone that they might learn the heart of their mount,” Pony added, giving Symphony a gentle stroke on the neck.
The horse nickered softly.
The three friends and Symphony went down from the hillock, moving at an angle to intercept Roger.
“It went well!” he called excitedly, delighted to have found them. He kicked his horse into a faster trot and pulled harder on the reins of the horse trailing behind him, a horse the companions had seen before.
“You saw Baron Bildeborough,” Elbryan reasoned.
“He gave me the horses,” Roger explained. “Including Fielder here,” he added, patting the horse that had been Rochefort’s favorite. It struck Roger then how generous the Baron had been, almost mentorlike.
“Greystone is for you,” Roger said to Pony, pulling Connor’s beautiful palomino ahead. “Baron Bildeborough insisted that Connor would want you to have him. And this,” he added, taking a sword, Connor’s magnificent blade, Defender, from the side of his saddle.
Pony turned her wide-eyed expression to Elbryan, who only shrugged and said quietly, “It seems fitting.”
“But then the Baron knows of us,” Juraviel reasoned in less content tones. “Or of Pony, at least.”
“I did not tell him much,” Roger replied. “I promise. But he needed answersConnor was as a son to him, and the sight of Connor dead nearly broke him.” He turned to Elbryan, whom he figured would judge his actions most critically of all. “I came to like the Baron,” he said. “And trust him. I do not think he is an enemy of ours, especially considering the identity of Connor’s killer.”
“It seems that the Baron came to like Roger Lockless, as well,” the ranger remarked. “And to trust him. These are no small gifts.”
“He understood the message,” Roger replied. “And the intent of the messenger. Baron Bildeborough knows that he is in dire straits when measuring his own strength against that of the Abellican Church. He needs allies as badly as we do.”
“How much did you tell him of us?” Juraviel interrupted, his voice still stern.
“He did not ask very much at all,” Roger calmly replied. “He did come to trust that I was a friend, and an enemy of his enemies. He asked nothing of your identities, other than what I offered about you,” he finished, motioning to Pony.
“You did well,” Elbryan decided after a few moments. “Where does it all stand now?”
Roger shrugged, fearing to face that question. “The Baron will not let the matter drop, of that I am sure,” he said. “He promised me that we would take it to the King, if need be, though I believe he fears to incite a war between crown and Church.”
” ‘We’ ?” Pony asked, picking up the cue.
“He wants me to bear witness,” Roger explained. “He bade me to come back to him presently, that we might plan a journey to Ursal, should his private conferences with some trusted monks of St. Precious fail to give him satisfaction.
“Of course I told him that I could not,” Roger added, seeing the curious expressions.
Now Roger was confused, as those expressions turned from curious to disapproving.
“We are on to St.-Mere-Abelle, so I believed,” Roger said. “Baron Bildeborough wants to be in Ursal before the turn of the season, for he has learned that a College of Abbots is to be assembled in mid-Calember and he is determined to speak with the King before Abbot Je’howith of St. Honce journeys north. Yet there is no possible way that I can go all the way to St.-Mere-Abelle beside you, finish our business there, and then return to Palmaris in time for the Baron’s departure.”
Still their expressions remained doubting.
“You don’t want me to go!” a horrified Roger reasoned.
“Of course we do,” Pony replied.
“But if the greater good will be served by having you at Baron Bildeborough’s side, then there you should be,” Elbryan added, both Pony and Juraviel nodding their assent.
“I have earned my place beside you,” Roger protested, lapsing back into his childish nature once again, a prideful mindset which screamed at him that being left out was an affront. “We have learned to fight well together. It was I who killed Brother Justice!”
“Everything you say is true,” Pony answered, moving next to the young man and draping her arm about him. “Everything. You have earned your place, and we are glad and grateful to have you beside us, and surely we would be the better off for your particular abilities as we try to make our way into St.-Mere-Abelle.”
“But…” Roger prompted.
“But we do not think we can win,” Pony answered bluntly, her candor catching Roger by surprise.
“Yet still you go.”
“They are our friends,” said Elbryan. “We must go. We must try every means possible to get Bradwarden and the Chilichunks out of the Father Abbot’s clutches.”
“Every means,” Juraviel emphasized.
Roger started to argue, but stopped abruptly, closing both his eyes and his lips tightly as the point finally came through. “And if you cannot rescue them by force, then their only chance will come from an intervention by the King, or by those forces in the Church not under the Father Abbot’s wicked influence,” he reasoned.
“You may come with us if you desire,” Elbryan said sincerely. “And we will be glad to have you along. But only you have spoken with Baron Bildeborough, and thus only you can decide which course is the most important for Roger Lockless.”
“Only I can decide which course is the most important for Bradwarden and the Chilichunks,” Roger corrected. He went quiet then, and the others did, too, allowing him his private thoughts. He wanted to go to St.-Mere-Abelle, to take part in this grand adventure. Desperately.
But his reason overruled that desperation. Baron Bildeborough needed him more than did Elbryan, Pony, and Juraviel. Juraviel could more than fill his niche as scout, and between Elbryan’s sword and Pony’s magic, any contributions he might make should battle find them would be nominal at best.
“Promise me that you will find your way back to me when you again pass through Palmaris,” the young man said, choking up with every word.
Elbryan gave a laugh. “Could you doubt that?” he said lightheartedly. “Juraviel must come through or near to Palmaris on his road home.”
“As will Elbryan and I,” Pony added. “For when this is settled, when we again find peace, we will go back to Dundalis, our home, and Bradwarden’s. And on our way, I must take my family back to Fellowship Way in Palmaris.” Pony offered a quiet smile and hugged the man close, nearly pulling him from his saddle. “And even if our destination lay the opposite way, we would not leave Roger Lockless behind.” She kissed the man on the cheek, drawing a deep blush.
“We each have our duties spread clear before us,” Pony went on. “Two paths to defeat the one enemy. We will win out, and then we will celebratetogether.”
Roger nodded numbly, too overcome to verbally reply. Elbryan came over and patted him on the shoulder, and he looked past the ranger, to see Juraviel offering a confirming nod. He didn’t want to leave them! How could he go away from the first real friendsthe first friends who had bothered to point out his faults as well as praise his talentshe had ever known?
And yet, precisely because of that, because these real friends were in dire trouble with the powerful Abellican Church, he knew he had to go back to Baron Bildeborough. Roger had known many trials in his life, but never before had he been asked by his own conscience to willingly sacrifice so very much. This time, unlike his jaunt into Caer Tinella behind the raiding Elbryan, his decision was motivated by altruism, and not jealousy, not fear of being outdone by the ranger. This time Roger acted out of love for Pony and Elbryan, and for Juraviel, the most blunt friend of all.