Authors: R.A. Salvatore
If they were trying to rattle the mystic, they did not succeed, for patience was
the true mark of any Jhesta Tu. Pagonel would allow them their vanity and superior attitude; it did not matter.
“Ah, so it is Pagonel himself,” Yatol Wadon said when at last Pagonel was escorted onto the eastern balcony setting. The place was a garden of great flowers and singing birds, and trees perfectly placed to create equal areas of shade and sun throughout the long daylight hours. A waterfall splashed into a small pond at the side, providing comfortable mist and a cool and welcome dampness to the air. Brightly colored fish, red and orange mostly, swam about in the pond.
Five men were seated about two small tables, including Abbot Olin and Mado Wadon, another Yatol whom Pagonel did not know, another Abellican monk, and a Honce-the-Bear soldier—of high rank, the mystic presumed, given his much-decorated uniform.
“Had we known that the Jhesta Tu who came knocking at our city was the emissary of Brynn Dharielle, we would have set another place for breakfast,” Yatol Wadon went on. “Please, sit and join us. I will have more food brought out at once.”
Pagonel held his arm out to block the servant even as the man started away. “I have little time. I have come swiftly from Dharyan-Dharielle,” the mystic explained. “From a city under siege.”
“You left before my—before our—emissaries arrived, then,” Abbot Olin put in. “With all apologies to Brynn Dharielle that the attack was a terrible mistake.”
“I was there when the emissary relayed your message,” said Pagonel, which brought curious looks from both the leaders, since that had occurred only the day before! “I come in response to the claim.”
“Brynn Dharielle does not believe our words?” Abbot Olin asked.
Pagonel paid more attention to the subtle notes in the man’s voice than to the actual words. He recognized something there, some truth in Abbot Olin’s heart, as if the man
were hoping
that his conclusion was correct.
“Following the actions of Yatol De Hamman, we thought it prudent to confirm those words before standing down,” Pagonel replied.
“Of course, of course,” Abbot Olin said, with unconvincing friendliness. “And where are our manners, Yatol Wadon? Pagonel of the Jhesta Tu—or are you of the To-gai-ru once more?—I give you Master Mackaront of St. Bondabruce, my trusted second, and Bretherford, the Duke of the Mirianic, commander of the mighty Ursal fleet.”
“And I am Yatol Sin-seran,” said the other man, when it became apparent that Abbot Olin had no intention of including him in the introductions—a point that Pagonel did not miss.
The mystic, though, kept his eyes on the duke of the Mirianic through it all, seeing something there. Disgust?
“You are a long way from home, good Duke,” Pagonel offered with a bow.
Pagonel noted that Duke Bretherford had offered no hint of disagreement to his words.
“The same could be said of a Jhesta Tu mystic,” Abbot Olin put in.
“I—and Brynn Dharielle—of course expect that Yatol De Hamman will be recalled with his legions to Jacintha,” Pagonel replied.
“I will see to it,” Yatol Wadon started to say, but Olin interrupted him with, “Is not Yatol De Hamman properly encamped upon Behrenese soil?”
Pagonel noted Yatol Wadon’s slight wince, and noted, too, that Bretherford obviously did not share the enthusiasm of his companions, even less so than did Mado Wadon.
“Their presence on the fields surrounding Dharyan-Dharielle forces the city into a state of war readiness,” Pagonel countered.
“Only if you do not trust us,” said the smug Abbot Olin.
“And we are in a state of siege, for all practicality,” the mystic went on. “Are we to allow our traders to wander down the eastern road through the lines of an army recently scarred by battle against us?”
“You seemed to get out easily enough,” Abbot Olin dryly replied.
“I had ways not available to others.”
“The mysterious Jhesta Tu,” Yatol Sin-seran said, his voice full of mystery and sarcasm.
“Will your army stand down?” Pagonel asked, ignoring the fool.
Yatol Wadon started to answer, but again, Abbot Olin cut him short. “That is the decision of Yatol De Hamman, as he is charged with securing the borders of Behren. He will go where he needs to go to accomplish his task in full, and so long as he remains on Behrenese sovereign soil, then he is well within his rights.
“And we were truly surprised to learn of the events that precipitated the unfortunate battle,” Olin went on. “Dharyan-Dharielle was to remain an open city, was it not? And yet, Yatol De Hamman has informed us that his decision to attack was based on the breaking of the treaty by Brynn Dharielle. Perhaps he was a bit rash in his judgment, but you should inform your leader that treaties are more than words on parchment. All parties to them are honor-bound or the treaties are worthless.”
“The city is open to scholars and travelers,” Pagonel replied. “We could not admit an entire army, one that outnumbers our own garrison by more than five to one. Above all other edicts, Brynn Dharielle is charged with the security of Dharyan-Dharielle and To-gai. Her people live there; she cannot expose them to mortal danger.”
“Interpret it as you will,” Abbot Olin warned. “But break the treaty at your own peril. Dharyan-Dharielle has not worn that name for long, and the city is, or always was, Behrenese at its roots, and those roots are within the memories of every soldier on the field.”
“You believe that Yatol De Hamman had the right to enter Dharyan-Dharielle with his army behind him?” Pagonel asked, pointedly turning to Yatol Wadon as he did.
“That is, perhaps, a point for discussion,” Abbot Olin answered anyway. “But certainly by treaty, Brynn Dharielle was given little right to refuse them entrance.”
“I agree that the words of a treaty are to be honored,” the mystic said, never taking
his eyes from Yatol Mado Wadon. “As is the intent behind the treaty.”
He did note a slight nod of agreement from the Chezru priest, but Yatol Wadon did not openly reply.
Pagonel turned to survey each of them in turn. Yatol Sin-seran was no ally, he recognized immediately, nor did Master Mackaront seem to him in any way of different heart than Abbot Olin. Once again, though, Duke Bretherford caught his attention. The mystic clearly saw a conflict behind the man’s tired eyes.
Pagonel quickly took his leave and wasted no time in the city, returning at once to Belli’mar Juraviel in the foothills to the north.
“Abbot Olin’s demeanor would agree with everything you have warned us of concerning young King Aydrian,” he reported. “He will find an excuse to retake Dharyan-Dharielle for Behren—his Behren.”
“Aydrian was nothing if not ambitious,” the elf replied.
“But when a leader reaches so far, he may leave untended business closer to home,” Pagonel said. “I did not note equal enthusiasm from one of the other Honce-the-Bear noblemen in attendance.”
“Bretherford, Duke of the Mirianic,” the surprising elf replied.
Pagonel shot him a curious look.
“I traveled down to the dock area, and recognize the flagship of the Ursal fleet,” Juraviel explained. “In the days of Elbryan, and then with Jilseponie, Aydrian’s mother, as queen, we of the Touel’alfar learned much of the personalities of those leading the armies of Honce-the-Bear. My Lady Dasslerond feared an attack from Jilseponie’s court, as she never truly understood the truth of the goodly woman.”
“So you know Duke Bretherford?”
“I know of him,” Juraviel explained. “He was a man loyal to King Danube.”
“And perhaps not so loyal to Aydrian.”
“A man caught in the web Aydrian has spun,” said Juraviel. “What choices were put before Duke Bretherford, or any of the others, if Aydrian assumed the throne with overpowering forces?”
Pagonel sat back against a boulder and considered the words for a long while, playing them against the reactions and expressions he had noted from the duke of the Mirianic. “Perhaps we could offer him an option?” the mystic asked more than stated.
“Stepping to his flagship would be no difficult task,” said Juraviel. “But what might you tell him in opposition to Aydrian? Would you reveal the conspiracy of Jilseponie and Prince Midalis?”
“Would I be telling him anything that King Aydrian does not already know?”
Now it was Juraviel’s turn to sit and consider the reasoning for a moment. “Let us go down to the rocks near to Jacintha’s gates,” the elf remarked, and he lifted the emerald stone and offered Pagonel his hand. “We can watch for Duke Bretherford’s skiff to return him to his flagship, then we can decide.”
T
winkling stars blanketed the sky and the quiet sea lapped softly against the
planking of the Honce-the-Bear warships. Most of Jacintha slept, as did most of the sailors on the ships, and so no one noticed when Juraviel and Pagonel stepped aboard
Rontlemore’s Dream
, the flagship of Duke Bretherford’s Mirianic fleet. Juraviel remained aft, easily hiding amidst the rigging and weapons’ lockers, while Pagonel calmly and openly strode toward the center of the deck.
So surprised was the poor watchman at the sight of the mystic that he nearly tumbled off the deck and into the dark water!
“Hold!” he cried. “Hold! Attack! Attack! To arms!” He stammered and stuttered, falling all over himself and trying to ready his bow.
Suddenly, Pagonel, moving with the speed and grace that only a Jhesta Tu mystic might know, was flanking him, with one arm up to hold tight to the bowstring.
“Be at ease,” the mystic started to say, but the man whirled and tried to stab his long knife into Pagonel’s belly.
Pagonel caught the hapless sailor by the wrist and easily halted his progress. “Be at ease,” he said again, and he gave a slight and deft twist, turning the man’s hand down over his wrist and taking the knife from him so smoothly that it would have seemed to an onlooker to have been willingly given over. “I am no enemy, but a man come to speak with Duke Bretherford.”
Other sailors were there, then, circling cautiously.
Pagonel handed the knife back to the stunned and overwhelmed watchman and moved a step to the side, showing his empty hands. “This is no attack, but a conversation long overdue,” he explained to them all. “Pray tell your Duke Bretherford that Pagonel, emissary of the Dragon of To-gai, has come to speak with him. He will understand.”
The men glanced all around at each other nervously, seeming unsure of how to react. They all held bows ready, and Pagonel was well aware that they could cut him down where he stood.
“If you shoot me, and I am sincere in my words, then your duke will not be pleased,” he told them. “If you rouse him, and he sees me as an enemy, you have lost nothing and have cost yourselves no more than the anger of a man awakened in the night. Less anger, I would think, than that of a man who has learned that a valuable friend had been killed by his frightened underlings.”
A nod from one of the archers had another of them running off to fetch Duke Bretherford.
A few minutes later, Pagonel stood in the duke’s private room, alone with the short, stout man.
Bretherford sipped rum and stared out the window, taken aback, but surely not surprised, by the mystic’s reports that Jilseponie and Midalis were in the north, gathering strength to oppose King Aydrian.
“How do you know such things?” Bretherford did question. “Vanguard is a long way from Behren, and a longer way from To-gai.”
“The opposition to the recent events of Honce-the-Bear’s throne is more widespread and coordinated than you might believe,” Pagonel replied. “And surely, being
of a kingdom that is rife with gemstone magic, you understand that distance is not always the truest measure of closeness.”
Bretherford turned to face him. “And perhaps you do not understand the power of King Aydrian, nor the loyalty of many of those who support him.”
“Many of those?” Pagonel echoed. “Would that include Duke Bretherford? You were once a friend to King Danube, I was told. And to his brother, perhaps?”
“You know nothing of what you speak, Jhesta Tu,” Bretherford spat back. “Do not presume—”
“I know that I am alive, and was granted a private audience with you,” Pagonel interrupted. “I would believe that you know enough of the Jhesta Tu to understand that I could have come in here and killed you quickly, yet you chose to meet with me.”
“To gather information for Abbot Olin and King Aydrian, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” Pagonel agreed with a bow.
Bretherford swallowed the last of the rum, then tossed his glass aside to clunk on the wooden floor. “What would you have me do?” he asked with helpless frustration.
“I would have you keep hope, wherever that hope might lead you,” Pagonel replied. “I would have you pay keen attention to the events that will shape the world. I would have you, in the end, choose with conscience and courage, and not cowardice. No more can ever be asked of any man.”
With that, Pagonel bowed again, and walked out the cabin door. He passed the many soldiers who had gathered on deck and walked to the bow, where Juraviel met him with an extended hand. Before the soldiers curiously following Pagonel ever got near enough to see, he and Juraviel took a giant, magical step back to the rocky shoreline north of the city of Jacintha.
“An ally?” Juraviel asked.
“I know not,” Pagonel admitted. “But continuing information may well lead him in that direction.” He looked at the elf directly. “This stone you carry, combined with the powers of the gemstone of the Doc’alfar, will prove to be our greatest advantage, perhaps. I beseech Belli’mar Juraviel to lead his people and his pale-skinned cousins more deeply into this conflict.”
“We are small in number, and no match for Aydrian and his charges.”
“But you are our eyes and ears and mouths,” Pagonel explained. “When Brynn Dharielle freed To-gai from Behren, she did so because she knew more of her enemy than they could understand of her. Mobility and cunning strikes won the day for To-gai.”
“That was a war for freedom,” Juraviel countered. “This is a struggle against the homeland of King Aydrian. Eventually, whatever we might, we will have to do battle with him and his great armies directly. No treaty and no minor victories will grant us what we desire. Not in Honce-the-Bear, at least, though there remains more hope for the kingdoms south of the mountains.”