Chapter Twenty-Five
Julian often said the bravest thing he ever saw a man do was to turn and walk away from his own true love, as Ander walked away from Cecile, calling it an act so selfless, God himself must have wept. And then sixteen years later, Julian asked Ander to walk away from his own true friend. I am not sure about God, but I wept for us all.
– Rudolpho Benoit,
Steward to the de Guichen family
STEPHANO RELOADED HIS DRAGON PISTOL and stood guard over the stable yard while the young monk, who said his name was Brother Barnaby, tended to the wounds of the knight and the other monk. The battle was over, at least for the moment. The bodies of the demons had been magically consumed by some sort of unholy green fire, much to the dismay of Brother Barnaby. Stephano had to drag the young monk away from one of the blazing corpses.
“What is happening? Some of them are still alive,” Barnaby said. “I might have been able to save them.”
“Nothing you can do for them now,” said Stephano.
“I can at least pray for them,” said Brother Barnaby.
The other monk, Brother Paul, sat huddled in the grass, his robes torn, his back a bloody pulp from being whipped, his face battered. Brother Barnaby had a deep cut on one arm, a split lip, a bruise on his temple, and the marks of the scourge on his back. Stephano recalled what Droalfrig had told him about the horrible deaths of the nuns. He remembered Gythe, screaming in pain.
Stephano shook his head. “These fiends murdered innocent women. They beat Brother Paul and tortured you. Why are you praying for them?”
Brother Barnaby seemed astonished at the question. “We are all God’s creatures, sir.”
“Not if they are lost souls, Brother,” said Stephano.
“Do we abandon the little child lost in the forest, sir,” asked Brother Barnaby gently. “Or do we expend all our energy trying to reclaim her.”
Stephano knew better than to be trapped in some sort of religious tangle, especially one to which he had no answer. He left the monk to his prayers and his healing and made a thorough search of the stables and the stable yard, looking for demon stragglers or stray bats.
Satisfied that none of the enemy was still lurking about, Stephano went to check on the dragon brothers, Hroalfrig and Droalfrig. They had defeated their foes and were now resting in a nearby field. Hroal was bleeding from a deep gash in his chest. Dragons had remarkable powers of healing, however, and he would soon recover. The dragons were concerned about him and the others. Stephano assured the two brothers that all was well, at least for the time being. He thanked them both for their valiant service and asked if they could remain on guard. Droalfrig, looking pleased, flicked a wing in salute.
Stephano returned from his reconnaissance to find Brother Barnaby trying to examine Sir Ander’s head injury. The knight waved away the monk’s attention.
“A bump on the head, nothing more. My own damn fault. I should have been wearing my helm. We need to get back to Father Jacob,” Sir Ander said impatiently. “He’s been injured.”
“I will go to him immediately,” said Brother Barnaby, then he faltered, “But there is Brother Paul-”
“Do not let me deter you,” said the monk. He had managed to rise and was standing, though somewhat unsteadily. “You should go to Father Jacob. He needs you, Brother. I am in God’s care.”
“Bring Brother Paul along,” said Sir Ander, chafing at the delay.
“An excellent idea,” said Barnaby, relieved. “Come along, Brother. I have medicines at the Retribution to treat your wounds.”
Brother Paul at first demurred, protesting he did not want to be a burden, but he was too weak to put up much of an argument. He went on ahead with Brother Barnaby, leaving Sir Ander and Stephano to follow along behind, pistols reloaded and ready to fire.
The two men walked for a time in silence, both at a loss to know what to say to each other. Stephano had never met his godfather and Sir Ander had met Stephano only once and that when he was barely a week old. Stephano was confused and embarrassed. His feelings toward his godfather were complicated, not easy to sort out. He and the knight had carried on a correspondence through the years, exchanging letters that were warm on Sir Ander’s part and stiff and formal on Stephano’s.
Sir Ander had been Julian’s closest friend. Both Stephano’s father and his mother had always spoken well of the knight. His mother’s praise of Sir Ander was more damning than helpful, however. Stephano had never been able to forgive Sir Ander for his continued close friendship with the countess and for the fact that the knight had sided with the king during the rebellion that had cost Julian de Guichen his life.
At the end, facing execution, Julian had counseled his son to turn to his godfather if he ever needed anything. Stephano had refused to listen. Angry and grieving and bitter, Stephano was convinced Sir Ander had betrayed and abandoned his father. Stephano had torn up Sir Ander’s letter of condolence and then burned it to ashes. He would have destroyed the dragon pistol that had been his godfather’s gift, but he hadn’t been able to find it. Benoit, as it turned out, had hidden it away, restoring it years later, when Stephano had been granted his commission in the Dragon Brigade.
He was old enough then to admire the craftsmanship, recognize the quality, the value of such a gift. But when he looked at it, he saw only the man who had turned his back on his father.
“Put it back,” Stephano had said. “I don’t want it. Sir Ander betrayed my father.”
“He did no such thing,” Benoit had told him. “Your father wrote to him, urged him not to take up arms against his country. I know. I carried the letter to him myself.”
“But why would my father do that?” Stephano had asked, not believing. He eyed Benoit. “And how do you know what my father wrote?”
“Because I read the letter, of course,” Benoit had replied. “Keep the gun, you young fool. It was your father’s wish you should have it.”
Stephano had kept the dragon pistol. He often thought about what Benoit had said, wondered if it was true. Sir Ander had patiently continued to write to his godson over the years, giving the young man counsel as befitted a godfather, urging him to find solace in faith and relating stories about his father in the days of their youth, stories that spoke of his father’s courage and honor.
Stephano came to value the correspondence, though his own responses tended to be cool and impersonal. He even went so far as to take Sir Ander’s ’s advice and make a somewhat shaky peace with God. He never spoke of this to anyone.
As they walked together, the two soldiers unconsciously fell into cadence, strides equal and matching. When the silence grew uncomfortable, both men felt driven to speak and both spoke at once. Both looked even more uncomfortable.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Stephano, with a stiff bow. “Please continue.”
“I was only going to say that you are very like your father,” said Sir Ander and he added, with a smile, “Though you have your mother’s eyes.”
Stephano’s brow furrowed and the eyes that were like his mother’s eyes hardened and went steely gray, making the resemblance even stronger.
“I understand, sir, that you are a friend of my mother’s,” said Stephano in frozen tones.
“I have that honor,” Sir Ander replied gravely.
He was reloading the dragon pistol as he walked. Stephano looked at the knight’s pistol, then looked at his own, a gift from his godfather, a gift he had come to cherish. He was ashamed of his churlish response, but excused it by reminding himself he had good reason to be angry at this man.
““I held you in my arms the day you were baptized.” Sir Anders was saying. “You screamed bloody murder the entire time and lashed out with your little fists at the priest when he flicked the holy water in your face. Julian burst out laughing. He said it showed you had fighting spirit. The poor priest was so shocked, your father had to donate a pair of silver candlesticks to the saint to make reparation.”
Stephano gave a grudging half smile. “Benoit often tells that story, particularly when he wants to embarrass me.”
