[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter XLIV

[C. Matthias]

Let there be another Chapter to my MK 
novel!  Just finished this one.  The second scene 
features a character reading a letter.  If the 
transitions between the letter and his thoughts 
are difficult to follow, I can send an rtf with the original formatting intact.

Chapter XLIV

Entering a New Life

         Dawn had come, and still her son coughed 
up blood.  Kimberly spoon fed Ladero a medicinal 
broth which the boy swallowed.  Perhaps this 
batch he would manage to keep down.  The last two 
soups he’d retched almost as soon as he’d 
finished them.  The medicine would only work if 
he could keep it down.  Kimberly prayed with each 
swallow that this time her son would be able to hold it.
         Ladero’s eyes were weary, and they began 
to close as he lay in his crib, the stuffed dog 
Towseh clutched feverishly in his little 
arms.  The vixen Jo hovered nearby, occasionally 
digging into her bag of herbs and murmuring to 
herself.  Her motions were frantic, and she came 
up with more ideas on what could be done for the 
boy than were practical.  She first thought to 
sweat the poison from him, but rats only sweat 
through their tongues and paws, hardly enough to 
rid the body of a malady.  Then she thought he 
should try to get some rest, but he’d stopped 
breathing all together, and it had taken frantic 
efforts by all of them to resuscitate him.
         “Stay with Mama now, my little angel,” 
Kimberly said in a firm voice. “I’m here, and you need to be here with me.”
         Ladero’s eyes met hers, they recognized 
her, but he said nothing.  He opened his snout, 
and she filled it with another spoonful of the 
foul-smelling broth. “Jo, this candle is going out.”
         “One moment.” The vixen healer dug into 
her bag and produced another green candle.  She 
lit the wick with one already burning, and set it 
in the old one’s place. The aromas were supposed 
to help them stay awake and clear of 
mind.  Kimberly did not know if it was working, 
as she was so frightened she could not even close 
her eyes, let alone ponder sleep.
         They heard feet bounding up the stairs, 
and a moment later Garigan stuck his snout 
in.  The grey ferret bristled with anxiety and 
rage. “Forgive me, milday.  I would have come 
earlier had I but known.  My patrol took me far 
to the north last night.  How is Ladero?”
         “Garigan, help me!” Jo exclaimed. “He is 
not well, and I don’t know what I can do for 
him.  He is Sondecki, like you.  Is there some art you know?”
         Garigan frowned, crossing the space 
between the stairway and Ladero’s crib in four 
steps. “Nae.  I wish I knew something, but 
Charles hasn’t trained me in those arts.” He 
stared at the rat-child, eyes growing hard when 
they saw the blood stains on the front of 
Ladero’s bedsheets. “Baerle says it began around 
two o’clock.  It doesn’t look like he has lost too much blood.”
         “These are fresh sheets,” Kimberly 
admitted, chocking back the sob that lived in her 
throat.  It had been there for hours now, 
sometimes escaping, sometimes held at bay.  She 
could feel it threatening to explode again.
         “I see.” Garigan stroked Ladero’s head 
with the back of his fingers.  He closed his 
eyes, musteline face locked in 
concentration.  His muscles tensed and spasmed 
oddly.  After several seconds his eyes opened, 
and Kimberly saw a hopeless misery fill them. 
“His Sondeck has been torn.  I don’t know if it’s 
his illness that has done this, or if the illness 
is from his Sondeck, but this is very bad.”
         “Can you fix it?” Jo asked, paws rubbing nervously together.
         “I can try,” the ferret replied.  He 
drew his claws behind Ladero’s ears and began to 
press firmly into their base.  The boy’s eyes 
tried to stare at him; the little rat was afraid 
and confused, but he seemed to understand that Garigan was trying to help.
         Kimberly finished feeding her boy the 
last of the broth and set the bowl aside.  With 
nothing to do, her paws gripped her apron so 
tightly her claws put holes in it.  How she just 
wanted to hold Ladero in her arms, cradle him 
tight, and make his pain go away with her 
love.  But it was going to take more than her love to save her boy.
         Garigan’s countenance filled with agony, 
but he did not let go of the boy’s 
head.  Instead, he rubbed deeper against his ears 
and cheeks, and nearly down to his slender 
shoulders.  His tongue poked through the gap in 
his front teeth, and his fur rippled as if he 
were standing in a heavy wind.  Jo and Kimberly 
exchanged worried glanced, but said nothing.
         The voice that did break the silence 
surprised them. “Mama, Gargen’s bweeding.” Their 
eyes snapped to Ladero, who for the moment 
appeared alert.  There was blood on his snout, 
but it was not his.  Lifting their gaze, they saw 
blood dripping from Garigan’s muzzle.
         Kimberly reached out a paw and laid it on his shoulder. “Garigan?”
         The ferret let out a long sigh and his 
body relaxed.  He smoothed down the fur on 
Ladero’s head and smiled faintly at the boy. “I 
can pull the tear together but...” Ladero coughed 
again, more blood coming up.  Kimberly took the 
edge of the sheet and wiped his snout clean.
         “But?” Jo prompted.
         “But I don’t know how to mend the 
breach.  It takes all my concentration to hold it 
together, and it hurts like nothing I’ve ever 
felt.  What’s worse is that it was slipping away 
form me.” Garigan rubbed his jowl with the back 
of one arm and sighed. “The tear is getting bigger.”
         Kimberly gripped his paw tight. “Please, 
Garigan.  Do what you can to hold him in this 
life.  I don’t want... I don’t...” She could hold 
it back no more; the tears came, and with them 
the racking sobs.  Garigan put his arms around 
her, and for many long seconds said nothing.
         When she was able to bottle her agony, 
Garigan let go and nodded to her. “I will do 
what... who’s that?” His head turned to the 
stairwell at the sound of voices below.  A moment 
later Baerle appeared, her weary face flush with excitement.
         “Kevin just returned!  He says 
Lothanansa Raven is on her way and should be here 
in an hour or two.” Baerle smiled to them, but it 
was only a mask to cover her fear. “How is he?”
         “In need of her help,” Garigan replied, 
flexing his fingers as he leaned over the crib.
         “Mama?” Ladero wheezed. “Where’s Dada?”
         Kimberly stroked one paw over his chest. 
“He’ll be here soon, my little angel.”
         “I miss Dada.”
         “I do too.” Kimberly rubbed her eyes, 
hoping the tears would stay away this time.
         “I wuv Dada...” Ladero’s eyes fell shut, 
and his body grew still.  Garigan grabbed him and 
splayed his fingers over his chest and 
neck.  Muscles and tendons bulged on the ferret’s 
neck, and blood dripped from his gums.  Though 
only a few seconds passed before Ladero’s eyes 
popped open again, each one felt like an eternity.
         “Eli, please speed Raven to our 
side.  Please, for my son!” Kimberly prayed as 
she watched Garigan do whatever he could.  Both 
Jo and Baerle muttered their own prayers, knowing 
there was nothing else either of them could do anymore.

----------

         After several days ride, Duke Titian 
Verdane was weary, but glad of heart to have 
returned to Kelewair.  The fields were filled 
with tents, horses, and the occasional siege 
weapon – all of which were controlled by his 
troops!  The markets were filled to overflowing 
with bored soldiers, but Verdane would soon see an end to that.
         He rode with Captain Nikolai of the 
Wolf’s Claw at his side, allowing this spectacle 
of victory.  It would boost morale, and further 
unite all of the armies under his banner.  If he 
was ever to end the strike in the Southern 
Midlands, he would need all people to see his 
pinions and know his will was to be obeyed.
         As the townsfolk and soldiers clamoured 
to welcome them home, Verdane turned to his 
trusted captain and said, “Your men proved once 
again why they are the most feared soldiers in 
the Southern Midlands.  I doubt we will hear of 
any more Lothanasi towns being razed.”
         Nikolai frowned but accepted the praise. 
“Thank you, your grace.  The Yesbearn are 
fighters to be feared and respected.  It is 
shameful men like Father Timas that turned them to such dishonourable battle.”
         Verdane glanced backwards along the line 
of troops and briefly glimpsed the first prison 
wagon.  Father Timas had proved very cooperative 
in the end, but he was too dangerous to let 
loose.  Verdane did not believe in executing 
priests, which meant he had to keep them 
prisoner.  But if word spread that he was gaoling 
Ecclesia priests, he could only imagine the chaos that would sow.
         “Bring him and the others to Sir 
Royce.  Then I want you and your men to ready for 
another battle.  If the raids on Lothanasi 
villages were done for Lord Dupré, then we’ll 
need to move against him sooner rather than later.”
         Nikolai raised an eyebrow. “Are you taking sides in this war?”
         “Aye, my own.” Nikolai grinned and 
nodded in understanding.  His eyes turned back to 
the throng of villagers heaping praises upon the 
Duke’s name.  Verdane waved to the crowed, 
smiling regally.  Yes, it was good to be home.

         “So Lord Dupré has had these Questioners 
butchering Lothanasi villages.” Lord Rukas 
Stoffels rubbed his chin thoughtfully for several 
seconds before asking, “Does that not work to 
your advantage?  We are Followers, and the more 
of us compared to them, the easier it will be to rule.”
         Verdane gave the Lord of Ralathe a bone 
cold glare. “Followers do not stand for 
slaughter, even of pagans.” Stoffels grimaced but 
said nothing.  The other lords at Verdane’s table 
shifted uncomfortably. “You forget also that many 
of the northern fiefs are still mostly 
Lothanansi.  If I allowed Dupré’s allies to 
continue, I would at the very least alienate 
those lands.  Worse, I might no longer have those 
lands!  No, this madness had to stop, and I have stopped it.”
         Stoffels allowed a small smile to grace 
his lips. “Of course, your grace.  My 
mistake.  But now what do you intend to do?”
         Verdane gestured to the map between 
them. “The immediate strife is no more, but both 
Dupré and Guilford are summoning allies.  Thrane, 
Grenholt, your forces at the road’s fork have 
kept the conflict from moving east.  I expect to 
hear word from Jaime soon, and then we’ll have 
cut Masyor off from the Angle.  We cannot stop 
him from bringing toops over the lake, and that 
he has done, but he cannot bring all he needs.”
         “So we have Guilford boxed in at 
Masyor?” Lord Marion Thrane asked, timid face 
beginning to blossom with excitement.
         “We will once we control the Angle,” 
Verdane declared.  He tapped his finger on the 
map and scowled. “But this leaves Mallow Horn 
free to act.  The Questioners have already 
eliminated most of the Lothanansi to his south 
and west.  His allies control the western 
Southbourne.  We are a buffer against his forces 
to the east, but he doesn’t want to go east.”
         “Masyor?” Lord Barruw Grenholt guessed. 
“You think Dupré will assault Masyor?”
         “What else can he do?” Verdane asked. 
“We’ve boxed in his enemy.  Guilford has nowhere to go.”
         Stoffels nodded, his smile widening. 
“Aye, you’re right.  Whether he likes it or not, 
Dupré has to attack Masyor.  And I think he will 
do it soon, before Weislyn troops can cross the 
lake to reinforce Guilford’s army.”
         “But he’d need to have some presence on 
the lake to stop ships from bringing in 
supplies,” Thrane pointed out. “A siege is 
foolish if they can still bring food inside the walls.”
         “Llarth controls the Southbourne,” 
Grenholt added. “I would be surprised if they 
weren’t reading ships for the lake.”
         Verdane nodded. “I have reports 
suggesting they already have several making their way downstream.”
         “But the Southbourne is full of 
cataracts,” Thrane objected. “They’ll never get ships to the lake.”
         Grenholt snorted. “With patience and 
many hands, you can portage any number of ships.”
         “He’s right,” Verdane said, running his 
fingers along the river to the lake. “But Dupré 
cannot assault Masyor from the sea.  He needs 
those ships in the lake to tie up Guilford’s 
supply lines, that is all.  Once he has that, he 
can march on Masyor, and Guilford would have no hope of defeating him.
         “Further, we have no presence on that 
lake.  But a portage is very dangerous.  I can 
send the Wolf’s Claw to the Southbourne and have 
them destroy Llarth’s ships before they reach the lake.”
         “I disagree, your grace,” Stoffels said 
with a shake of his head. “I say let Llarth put 
those ships into the lake.  We want Guilford tied 
down at Masyor, and we want Dupré to lay siege 
there.  Once Dupré has committed his forces, that 
is when we should attack..” All eyes turned to 
him and he smiled again. “Lord Guilford will be 
trapped inside the city walls.  Lord Dupré will 
be trapped between the city walls and our 
armies.  They will both gladly parlay with you 
then.  And if necessary, Dupré’s army could be 
easily crushed, and then we could siege Masyor 
without difficulty.  All we have to do is wait for Dupré to attack.”
         Slowly, Verdane began to nod. “Aye, but 
he knows we’re here.  He would suspect it.”
         “Perhaps.  Either way, when he does attack, I can see no better...”
         A loud knocking interrupted them.  In 
through the door came the spectacled Apollinar, 
Verdane’s Steward. “Forgive my intrusion, your 
grace, but a messenger just delivered this 
letter.  It bears Duke Otakar’s seal.  I was told it was urgent.”
         Verdane stepped away from the table to 
take the letter from Apollinar’s hands.  The trio 
of lords looked ready to disperse, but he waved 
them to their seats. “Thank you, Apollinar.  Wait 
here a moment while I see what his grace wants.”
         The seal was the familiar falcon crest 
of Salinon.  He’d used an ebony wax, a fact that 
gave Verdane pause.  Why not the traditional 
red?  Verdane hesitated only a moment before 
breaking the seal and unfolding the long 
letter.  He did not see the words for nearly a 
minute as he stared at the two wax marks upon the 
letter’s bottom.  The first was Otakar’s, but the 
second, a stylized wolf’s head, was his son Jaime’s.
         Verdane’s knees nearly buckled, but he 
regained his composure through force of will.  He 
would not show weakness before the likes of 
Stoffels or Thrane.  They were vultures who would 
just as happily eat from his corpse as from that of his enemies.
         When he finally was able to take his 
eyes from his elder son’s seal, he read the 
letter slowly, studying every facet of Otakar of Salinon’s missive.

“To his grace, the Duke of Kelewair, ruler of the 
Southern Midlands, and Black Wolf of Cabadair Woods, Titian Verdane IV,”

         The excessive formality, and the use of 
the name he’d earned in a border skirmish in hs 
youth, could either be a sign of respect or 
malicious irony.  It was as if Otakar were 
throwing his titles in his face to show him how 
little they would help him stand against what was to come.  Verdane read on.

         “It has not escaped my notice that your 
land is filled with strife.  When two vassals 
disobey your commands and go to war, what choice 
have you but to take to the field to stop 
them?  But do not blame yourself; the murder of 
one child begets the murder of another.  It is the way of things.”

         Verdane narrowed his eyes and read the 
last two sentences again.  The murder of one 
child could mean Lucat Guilford, the boy flung 
from the Masyor castle towers six months ago, or 
it could refer to Valada, Otakar’s niece who’d 
died only two weeks after wedding Jaime.  Her 
death had been sudden and shocking, with Otakar 
claiming her murdered, Jaime claiming it was 
poison, while every chirurgeon considered her 
death the consequence of a weak heart.  What 
Otakar truly believed Verdane could only 
guess.  But even if he believed the chirurgeons, 
he would never publically admit that a member of his family had been frail.
         But if Otakar was speaking of Valada in 
this line, did that mean he intended to use the 
war in Verdane’s lands to seek revenge for her 
death?  Did he mean to kill Jaime, or had he done so already?

         “A curious facet of this civil war is 
its religious character.  Lord Guilford is 
Lothanasi and has sought the aid of other 
Lothanasi nobles.  Similarly, both Lord Dupré and 
you your grace have enlisted those who follow the 
Patildor like yourselves.  I have learned that 
many Lothanasi villages have been massacred, and 
I know of at least one instance of Patildor priests being slaughtered.”

         Verdane pondered that last phrase for a 
moment.  Surely he did not refer to their attack 
on the Questioners in Stonybrak!  The news of 
their success had barely reached Kelewair before 
Verdane did.  But if not Stonybrak, then what did Otakar mean?

         “But I understand how difficult it is to 
forge a nation from a people of competing 
religions.  Your challenge is greater still, for 
so many of your lands are still Lothanansi like 
mine.  Yet even there you insist they build 
temples to your god, the Patildor god.  Perhaps 
this is why you suffer strife, and why your 
attempts at wooing Giftum have failed.”

         No, Verdane thought, it was more likely 
Duke Hassan’s recent victory over the 
Giantdowns.  But Giftum’s reticence was galling, 
as he needed full control of the Marchbourne to 
bring his plans to fruition.  Without it, he’d 
never be able to assume control of all shipping 
lanes, and hence all trade in the Midlands.  It 
further irritated him that Otakar knew about it.

         “One thing that is for certain is that 
religion was a key motivator for Lord Calladar to 
swear fealty to me.  And with him, all the lands 
of Bozojo, and all the lands Bozojo protects.”

         So that was it!  Verdane’s chest swelled 
with rage, his cheeks flushed with fire.  With 
Bozojo, Otakar would control the headwaters of 
the Marchbourne, lake Bozojo, and he’d even have 
his hand in the management of the River’s 
Fork.  With Giftum in Metamor’s grasp, and Bozojo 
in Otakar’s, Verdane was almost completely cut 
off from the Marchbourne.  How long would it be 
before Metamor and Salinon began parcelling what 
was left of Verdane’s holdings north of the river?
         This would not stand.  Once he’d ended 
the feud to his west, he would crush Calladar’s 
forces and bring Bozojo to heel.  But surely 
Otakar knew this?  What more did he have planned?

         “I’m told that one of his first acts as 
a Lord of the Outer Midlands was order the arrest 
of the Patildor clery and the confiscation of all 
Patildor holdings.  And his second will be to 
levy new taxes on all trade from the 
Southbourne.  Without question you will divert 
some trade over land to Ellcaran – once the war 
in your land has ended of course – but you know 
as well as I that merchants will still ride the 
Southbourne to the River’s Fork; there is only 
one way to reach the Sea of Stars – the 
Marchbourne, and that means the River’s Fork, which Bozojo controls.”

         As he suspected, it was all about 
controlling the rivers and Bozojo was the 
linchpin.  If not for the feud, Verdane might 
have learned of Calladar’s traitorous intent.  He 
would surely die for this treachery, and for the 
treachery he now knew was about to be revealed.

         “Thus it will come as no surprise should 
you choose to reclaim it by force, or even wrest 
River’s Fork from Bozojo, that you will face 
me.  Bozojo is now part of the Outer Midlands, 
and I will defend what is mine.  But I am willing 
to offer you a way to regain some of these 
losses.  All I require are letters signed by your 
hand and affixed with your seal recognizing 
Salinon’s claim to Bozojo and all its 
holdings.  There will be several copies, one for 
myself, one for his grace Duke Thomas Hassan of 
Metamor, one for the Patriarch in Yesulam, ...”

         Verdane scanned the list of names and 
countries and his scowl deepened.  Though a 
treaty was only as good as long as it was 
advantageous for the signers, this would still 
hamper his ability to reclaim Bozojo, or to 
retain the trust of the other powers even if he 
did.  This was a very high price to ask.  It 
could be a decade or more before his banner flew in Bozojo again.

         “In return for writing these letters, I 
will instruct the Lord of Bozojo to reduce the 
levies on all ships travelling through the 
River’s Fork back to what they are now.  You will 
pay no more for what your traders ship; the only 
price is that your treasury will never see that money.”

         That was a remarkably even-handed 
gesture.  Likely it was meant to induce him to 
agree, as the immediate price would be very 
small.  If the merchant guilds learned of this 
offer, they would insist he accept it.  It 
mattered not to them where their taxes went, so 
long as they had to pay as little as 
possible.  And for that reason, it made Otakar’s 
offer almost palatable.  Almost.

         “There is one other, far more precious 
reward for your accord.  Your son, Jaime is 
currently my hostage.  He will not be harmed, and 
will be treated with the dignity afforded to one 
of his station.  He will eat from my table, sleep 
in my house, and enjoy every luxury that Salinon 
can offer.  He will continue to do so as long as 
you honour your accord and do not either by force 
or by deceit attempt to regain control of Bozojo or the River’s Fork.
         “And if, after a period of years of my 
choosing, I detect no duplicity in your motives, 
I will send him back to you whole and 
unharmed.  As a gesture of my magnanimous nature, 
I will even allow you to share correspondence 
with your son at your pleasure.  But he will stay 
in Salinon for as long as I wish it.  He will 
stay alive only as long as you abide by this: 
Bozojo and the River’s Fork are mine.  They are 
now part of the Outer Midlands.  Do not attempt 
by any means to regain those lands, for they will 
never again be part of your Duchy.

                                         – His 
grace Krisztov Otakar XII of Salinon

         Though there was more to the letter, 
Verdane could no longer stand what he saw.  All 
of his worst fears had come to pass.  He turned 
to his lords and took a deep breath. “The news is 
unfortunate.  I will tell you of it another 
time.  For now, I need to think.  See to your men.”
         They did not inquire, and after the 
usual courtesies were upheld, 
departed.  Apollinar remained only a moment 
longer, but recognized the glare in his master’s 
eye and quickly fled.  Once he was alone, Verdane 
crossed to the table, dropped the letter on the 
map, and collapsed in his seat.  He growled at 
the back of his throat, and beat the table with 
his fist repeatedly.  Thrane had left a goblet 
there, and it bounced off, sending a spray of wine across the old carpet.
         “Hyman Calladar, you will die for this 
treachery,” Verdane vowed through clenched teeth. 
“You’ve cost me my dreams and my son.  This I cannot forgive.”
         He picked up the letter again, and 
scanned the last few paragraphs.  He felt his 
heart skip a beat when he recognized Jaime’s handwriting.

         “Father, I am physically well, though I 
fear for the safety of my men.  I am presently in 
Bozojo under the watchful eye of Ladislav 
Otakar.  He has not forgiven me for Valada’s 
death, but he seems to tolerate my presence.  By 
the time you receive this message, I will have 
been taken across the river into the Outer 
Midlands for my trip to Salinon.  Ladislav 
corrects me and assures me I am in the Outer 
Midlands already, and given what has happened, I find I cannot argue.
         “I want you to know that I am willing to 
endure this hardship if it will keep the war from 
spreading.  I do not like it, but I am not 
afraid.  I am appalled at what the callow Lord 
Calladar has done.  He boasts of martyring our 
priests, Father.  He is not just a traitor but a 
cruel man, unfit to lead such an important city.
         “Please give my love to Anya and 
Tyrion.  And to Jory.  I did not know him very 
well, but I know he will grow into a fine 
man.  Do not fear for me, Father, I will be 
well.  I shall write to you again as soon as I am 
able.  It will be a few weeks before I arrive in 
Salinon, and I hope there will be time along the 
way to assure you that I am well.  But also that 
you may not worry, I will not receive any of your 
letters until I reach Salinon.
         “I will always remain your son, Father, 
and I will always remain a Verdane.

                                                                 – 
Jaime Verdane”


         Duke Titian Verdane ran his fingers over 
his son’s seal, and then closed the letter.  He 
couldn’t say it directly, but Verdane doubted 
Ladislav would have allowed Jaime to speak truly 
about Otakar’s new vassal if they didn’t mean for 
Verdane to act.  It was small solace, but it made 
him rethink Otakar’s motives.  This wasn’t about 
Valada at all, not even where Jaime was concerned.  It was only about trade.
         And to prove it, if Verdane wasn’t 
mistaken, Otakar had just given him permission to 
kill Lord Hyman Calladar.  It was a hideous 
bargain.  Revenge and safety for his son, just 
for giving up one of his greatest assets.
         Verdane bellowed with rage, grabbed one 
of the smaller chairs and hurled it across the 
room.  It splintered against the brick wall, and 
several vases toppled off their shelves to 
shatter on the floor.  The door opened and Sir 
Royce slipped inside. “Your grace, is something wrong?”
         The Black Wolf of Cabadair Woods turned 
on his Castellan and snarled his rage.  Sir Royce 
closed the door and crossed his arms over his 
chest, eyes lowered. “I have seen you in a rage 
such as this only twice before in my life, your 
grace.  Tell me who I need to kill, and they will die.”
         “Hyman Calladar.  But not yet.  No, his death will come soon.”
         “What has he done?”
         Verdane straightened, stilling the 
beastly rage within him.  He did not like letting 
it loose. “He has betrayed us, and handed Jaime 
over to Otakar.  If I cannot have my son, I will have his betrayer.”
         Sir Royce nodded slowly, his face 
darkening. “When would you like him dead?”
         “I will tell you when it is time.” He 
glanced down at the map, eyes passing between the 
cities of Masyor and Mallow Horn. “First, we must 
put an end to the madness on our 
doorstep.  Summon my vassals again.  I fear our plans have been changed.”
         “Yes, your grace.  I will have a page 
bring a new chair, and another remove this one before their lordships return.”
         Verdane’s smile was cold. “Thank you, 
Sir Royce.  Now leave me.” His Castellan did so 
without another word.  Verdane took the folded 
letter and slipped it inside his doublet.  He 
would write his son tonight.  Otakar could wait 
until he was finished with Guilford and Dupré.

----------

         It was still dark when they set out from 
the bank of the Silvassa.  After reaching the 
river, the Sondeckis had lashed driftwood 
together to make a raft.  Vinsah had been 
hesitant to climb aboard, but it proved 
surprisingly seaworthy.  Marius stayed behind to 
keep watch over the horses while Vinsah, Delius, 
and Brujon paddled the raft into the river’s current.
         Before night had fallen they’d turned 
east of the main road.  This brought them a few 
miles upstream of the city.  Now, with the 
southern bank receding in the darkness behind 
them, Vinsah understood the wisdom of their 
course.  The bridge was heavily patrolled, and 
without the illusion to hide his beastly 
features, Vinsah would never be allowed 
across.  But this far upstream, they could ride 
the current as they paddled north.  Though there 
was still the risk of being spotted near the city, the risk was far less.
         “Vinsah,” Delius whispered.  The raccoon 
shifted and regarded the Sondecki captain.  The 
night was overcast, so there was almost no light 
to see by, but he could still make out his 
protector. “We will need you to watch the river 
ahead and warn us of anything coming.”
         “Me?”
         “Aye.  A raccoon is a creature of the 
night.  You see better at night then we do.”
         “Of course.” Vinsah rolled onto his 
stomach, tail resting between his paws.  The raft 
was uncomfortable, but to his delight it was 
staying dry.  His fur would stink of pitch for a 
few days, but after living in the hold of the 
Sondesharan vessel for a month, he was used to the smell.
         The Silvassan river was quiet, but as 
the minutes passed, his ears learned its 
song.  The lapping of waves murmured gently 
beneath them, while all around he heard the 
popping of fish snatching a morsel from the 
surface, or some woodland creature slipping in to 
snatch a fish.  A few frogs croaked along the 
shore, and he could hear the soft beat of wings 
gliding over the river.  It was tranquil, and 
after the long journey, allowed him one last moment to think.
         A year ago, Patriach Akabaieth had been 
killed, and by his own choice, Vinsah had been 
taken to Mtamor, where the curses granted him the 
shape of a youthful raccoon-like man.  Nearly 
everything he’d ever believed in that time had 
been turned on its head.  After what he had seen 
and experienced, he knew that many would have 
lost their faith.  In a way, he had too.  He did 
not and would not cease believing in Yahshua and 
His Ecclesia.  But there was far more to the universe than he’d imagined.
         Vinsah would still serve, he was 
determined to serve, even if his beloved Ecclesia 
would nto countenance that service.  It was a 
price someone had to pay to bring peace between 
the Ecclesia and the Lothanasi.  How could he ask anybody else to pay it?
         Delius and Brujon paddled gently, their 
makeshift oards slipping so naturally into the 
water that Vinsah could not distinguish between 
it and the normal sounds of the river.  So far 
they had guided the raft into the middle of the 
river, and as the minutes passed, they drew 
nearer and nearer the northern shore.  In the 
still ness of the dark, he could almost imagine 
the Sondeckis were his two travelling companions, 
Murikeer and Malger.  He could hear the marten 
now, warning, “Don’t lean over, Elvmere, this 
river is moving too fast to catch you if you fall in.”
         A smile inched up his snout.  They were 
good friends, and he did look forward to seeing 
them again.  And he rather missed being called 
Elvmere by other men.  It was a good name, and felt right to his ears.
         He snapped out of his reverie when he 
caught sight of a faint light on the water 
ahead.  No, two lights, very close together.  He 
waved his paws and gestured as emphatically as he 
could.  Delius must have seen it too, as they began to angle back to the south.
         After a minute in which Vinsah could do 
nothing but watch with muscles tensed, they drew 
close enough that he could both see and hear who 
made those lights.  A single fishing boat rocked 
back and forth in an eddy, lanterns hanging from 
bow and stern.  Two men sat in the boat talking 
quietly.  Although Vinsah could not distinguish 
their words, the way the men laughed, he knew 
they must be telling each other jokes.
         The fishermen never looked their way, 
and soon the river carried them past.  Delius 
turned them towards the northern bank again as 
the voices receded behind them.  By the tie the 
raccoon had lost sight of the fishermen’s lamps, 
the lights of Silvassa came into view ahead of them.
         The raccoon stared at the city as it 
came around the corner in the river.  An arch of 
light crossed the river – the bridge – and that 
led to the city which was built at its 
end.  Lights shone from the corners of building, 
some inside building as men rose early to their 
day.  It looked so different from when he’d seen 
it four months ago, that apart from the bridge, he recognized none of it.
         Delius and Brujon guided the raft 
towards the northern shore.  There were two docks 
for the city, those on the east of the bridge, 
and those on the west.  The Silvassan river 
became unnavigable only ten miles upstream, and 
so only a few fishermen were docked at the 
eastern docks.  The merchant vessels were all 
west of the bridge, and that is where he recalled 
most of the guards standing watch.  But there 
were still a few lanterns keeping the eastern 
docks brightly lit, and several pairs of eyes 
watching those docks for intruders.
         Nevertheless, Delius and Brujon brought 
them in until they were nestled against several 
old boats, some of whom looked as if they were 
just in a storm.  Delius put a hand on the 
raccoon’s shoulder and with a quick shake of the 
head bade him wait.  Brujon climbed onto the 
pier, keeping low and staying to the shadows.  He 
moved without making a sound, and after a moment 
disappeared between a gap in the stone wall facing the docks.
         Brujon returned a moment later and 
motioned for them follow.  Delius grabbed the 
raccoon around the middle and put one finger over 
his muzzle, silencing him.  He sucked in his 
breath and said nothing.  Delius climbed onto the 
pier, and gave the raft a firm shove.  It drifted 
out into the current and began to glide towards 
the bridge.  The raccoon clutched his backpack 
with Akabaieth’s journals more tightly, grateful 
that he’d had them slung over his back 
already.  He then curled into as tight a ball as 
he could, allowing Delius to carry him quietly across the creaky rafters.
         Once they were beyond the stone wall and 
in the darkness of the narrow passage and stair 
leading up into the city, Delius set him 
down.  Straightening his tunic, he whispered, 
“What about the raft?  How will you get back?”
         “We can take the bridge after dawn has 
returned.  Where is the Lothanasi temple?  I’ve never been here before.”
         “In the centre of town.  Up these stairs 
and we should be able to see it.”
         “Good.  Quiet now.” Delius motioned for 
Brujon to lead the way, and for their charge to 
follow after him.  The raccoon did so, tail 
tucked close to his legs, and paws clutching the backpack’s straps firmly.
         The stairs wound up from the docks 
through masonry until they emerged in a narrow 
city street, surrounded by cramped houses that 
reeked of fish and human filth.  Walls rose to 
their south, blocking the view of the river.  But 
to their left they could see the rest of the city 
standing on the next bluff.  There they each 
could see the intricate architecture of the 
Lothanasi temple, festooned with symbols, and 
carvings too detailed to discern at this 
distance.  Lanterns were lit from its towers, and 
from the grounds around it, drawing all eyes in the city towards its radiance.
         Delius gave him a questioning glance, 
and the raccoon nodded. “Priestess Nylene’s 
quarters are on the northeast.  There is a 
balcony we might be able to reach if we had some rope.”
         Brujon grinned, reached into his small 
travelling pack, and drew out a thin cord. “Is she guarded?”
         “Probably.  But I think the guards will 
be outside her door, not on her balcony.  There 
will be guards in the courtyard.”
         “Then we will move quickly,” Delius 
replied.  He studied the street.  There were no 
lights here in this part of the city, though each 
of them had the feeling that many of those dark 
windows hid a pair of eyes. “This way.”
         The raccoon frowned. “I thought you didn’t know this city?”
         “I know what places like this are like, 
and you do not want to attract attention at this 
hour.” He motioned them forward, and the trio 
went, almost running through the streets, winding 
their way between the close-knit houses in the 
labourers district.  At one point they heard a 
dog barking, and the raccoon’s hair stood on end, 
but otherwise they went unnoticed.
         They never reached a set of stairs – 
Delius wanted to avoid any road that might be 
guarded – but they did find a stand of trees 
whose branches reached over the western wall of 
the courtyard.  Delius scrambled up effortlessly, 
scanned the area, before inviting the others to 
follow.  The raccoon was pleased to discover that 
his claws made his own ascent nearly as quiet and 
as easy as that of his guards.
         On the other side of the wall he saw the 
courtyard.  A few guards patrolled near the gates 
to the north and the south.  None of them were 
inspecting the eastern wall, and so one by one 
they dropped to the wet grass.  The temple was a 
two story structure that rose up from the centre 
of the courtyard like a ship in a sea of 
flowers.  Delius pointed towards a rounded 
balcony the northeast corner and the raccoon nodded.
         “We’ll have to wait for the guards to go 
back the other way.  They’ll see us if we move 
now.” Delius pointed at a small troop of guards 
that was walking eastward along the northern 
wall.  The others nodded and they hunkered down 
behind a ling of bushes against the eastern wall to wait.
         Somewhere in the distance they could 
hear birds singing.  There was a perceptible 
brightening of the sky.  Dawn was nearly upon 
them.  The city would soon be waking up.
         “I do not suppose,” the raccoon began, 
“that I will ever see any of you again.  Thank 
you for helping me.  You have shown me kindness 
with no hope of reward.  For that I am truly 
grateful, and you will both be truly blessed.”
         Delius grunted, but there was a small 
smile at his lips. “No, we probably will not see 
each other, so no matter where you may go from here, Eli’s peace be with you.”
         “And with you.” They clasped hands 
briefly, and then Brujon frantically gestured 
over the line of bushes.  The guards were heading back west.
         Delius nodded and the three of them 
rushed out from the shadows towards the 
balcony.  Brujon uncoiled the rope and revealed a 
three pronged hook at the end.  He threw it over 
the balcony top and gave it a firm pull.  The 
hooks latched onto the stone and the rope 
held.  Without any further hesitation, Brujon 
leapt up the rope, scrambling over the balcony without a sound.
         The raccoon gripped the rope in his 
paws, and pulled himself up.  He was embarrassed 
to realize that he didn’t even come close to 
being as quick as Brujon.  But Delius gave him a 
shove from below, and Brujon pulled the rope from 
the balcony, so he too was scrambling over the 
marble balustrade after a few seconds.  Brujon 
pulled the rope up while Delius hid in the bushes 
around the base of the temple.  Handing the rope 
to the raccoon, Brujon waved for him to stay low and quiet.
         With nothing to do but wait, he curled 
his tail around his paws and watched Brujon 
gently open the doors to the priestess’s 
chamber.  When he had the doors open a 
handsbreath he slipped inside and pulled the door shut behind him.
         He returned a moment later and left the 
door standing open. “She’s alone,” he told the 
raccoon. “There are two guards standing outside 
her quarters, but you can probably greet her in 
her bedchambers without alerting them.  Eli’s 
blessing be with you.  I hope she can help you.”
         “Thank you, Brujon.  I wish you and the 
others a safe journey back to Sondeshara.”
         Brujon nodded, then leapt off the 
balcony.  He heard only a muffled whump, and then 
saw the two Sondecki return the way they’d 
come.  He took a deep breath and crawled over to 
the open door, squeezing through on his 
belly.  He set his backpack inside and slipped 
out of the straps as he turned on his 
backside.  Once his legs were through, he 
crouched and gently pulled the door shut.
         The room was obviously Nylen’s 
bedchambers.  He could smell the faint scent of 
incense permeating the room, but more close at 
hand was the scent of a woman.  It suffused 
everything around him.  He did not stand 
immediately, but studied the darkened 
interior.  It was not elegant, but it was 
tastefully apportioned with a large bed covered 
in soft satin quilts, framed by side tables upon 
which stood old books.  A lyre rested on a small 
cabinet in which he presumed she kept her 
clothes.  The entire floor was covered in thick 
carpets, in which he’d already managed to snag one of his toe claws.
         He gave it a good tug, and it popped 
free.  He fell back into a small table, and he 
turned quickly to steady the vase of flowers that 
perched there.  Behind him he heard the sheets 
stirring. “Who is it?” a woman’s voice, a very 
familiar woman’s voice, called out.  It was the 
same warm, matronly voice he remembered from so 
many months before.  Malger had introduced them 
when they’d finally reached Silvassa.  He’d known 
her from his youth, when he’d sought to learn the 
ways of the Lothanasi after running away form his father’s house.
         Irony some might say.  He preferred to regard it as the Hand of Eli.
         “It is I, Nylene hin’Lofwine,” he said, 
turning to face her.  She was fumbling with her 
sheets, trying to sit up and clean the sleep from 
her mind. “I have returned from my journey to 
Yesulam.  Returned here to the one person who 
could help me do what I must now do.”
         A warm glow grew in the room, and her 
eyes widened in surprise when she saw him.  He 
stared at her silvered hair, eyes whose corners 
had developed crow’s feet, and cheeks upon which 
still grew an endearing smile. “Elvmere!” she 
cried, her voice hushed, but no less shocked. 
“What are you doing here, Elvmere?”
         It hit the raccoon then. Elvmere was not 
just the name that his Lady had given him.  It 
was not some secret identity he was to use when 
travelling incognito.  Nor was it some bit 
of  scholastic etymology to be studied in light 
of history and folklore.  It was his name, the 
name of that which had long been within him, but 
had until now been kept hidden by all the 
prejudices and suppositions of his youth.
         “Yes, it is I, Elvmere,” the raccoon 
replied, knowing it was true.  It had been there 
all along, asleep inside of him, and kept asleep 
by the comfortable nature of his existence.  Now 
everything had changed, and it was that he needed 
most now.  Excommunicated, cast out of his faith, 
but still knowing the truth of Eli and of 
Yahshua, its time had come.  And so, at long last, the sleeper had awakened.
         He gestured at his haggard dress and 
smiled to her. “I have come back to you, Nylene, 
because I require instruction.”
         “Instruction?” She still stared at him, confused and uncertain.
         Elvmere nodded. “Instruction, as you 
once gave another, a close friend of mine.” Her 
eyes widened again, understanding dawning just as 
the day dawned outside. “Aye, instruction in the ways of the Lothanansi.”

----------

         Raven’s legs clutched the sides of the 
horse as he galloped down the road to Glen 
Avery.  She’d been riding hard for the last three 
hours, and expected to reach the Glen very 
soon.  When the sparrow Kevin had come to the 
temple and raised a ruckus, it had taken both her 
and Merai several minutes to get a coherent 
message from him.  But once tey’d understood, 
Raven had quickly made all the arrangements that 
would be needed if she could not return to 
Metamor in time for Daedra’kema.  After Merai’s 
experience last year, she expected the younger 
priestess to be far more alert for the dangers.
         It was terrible misfortune that both 
Cerulean and Saroth were away from Metamor.  None 
of the other flying creatures who called Metamor 
Keep their home were large enough to carry the 
Lothanasa to the Glen.  So she was forced to rely 
on the speed of a horse, a fact that dismayed 
her.  If what the sparrow said was true, there was little time to waste.
         Though Charles was Patildor, as was his 
family, he had helped her and the Lothanasi at 
Metamor many times.  The least she could do was 
see to his family in their time of need.
         It had been a long time since she’d had 
occasion to journey to the Glen.  It was not her 
first visit by far, as most of the Glenners were 
Lothanasi, but affairs at the Keep kept her too 
busy to make the journey.  Always she sent the 
senior acolytes to help them observe the seasonal 
rites.  It might do her some good to see the 
village in the trees and in the ground again.
         But her first thought was for the 
child.  He was coughing up blood, and no amount 
of medicine seemed to help.  A couple hours 
behind her rode Lady Angela Avery, who had been 
at the Keep assisting with the Duke’s wedding 
preparations.  Raven had sent word to her before 
leaving, knowing that she would want to be there 
regardless.  Lady Avery had helped the child be 
born, a rather difficult birth if the priestess recalled.
         And now he might die.  Raven willed the 
horse to run faster than the wind.  She would not be late!
         The trees rose high on either side of 
her, and the dawn’s early light did little to 
lift the night’s chill.  Winter was coming to 
Metamor.  In another few weeks the snows would 
come out of the North, and this journey would 
grow even more arduous.  As it was, leaves lined 
the road so thickly that she sometimes lost sight 
of it all together.  But then the oak and maple 
would give way to pine and redwood, and her path was clear again.
         Finally, after what seemed far too long, 
the road forked to the west, and she recognized 
the clearing beyond.  Raven turned her horse 
inside, drawing him to a slow canter.  The horse 
breathed heavily, his body slick with sweat.  The 
wolf priestess looked for familiar faces, but saw 
none.  And arctic fox with a bow slung over his shoulder ran to greet her.
         “Lothanasa?” he called, his voice broken.
         Raven dismounted and hefted her backpack 
containing her many holy instruments dedicated to 
Akkala, goddess of healing. “Aye, will you show me to the Matthias house?”
         The fox pointed. “It’s this way.”
         “Thank you...”
         “Anson, Lothanasa.”
         “Thank you, Anson.”
         The arctic fox dashed across the 
grounds, while another guard broke off to tend to 
the priestess’s very tired horse.  Raven followed 
Anson to a large tree.  The doorway was nestled 
between two large roots that stretched into the 
wide clearing, and there were several guards 
standing outside.  She recognized the chief man 
at arms for the Glen pacing back and forth.  The 
badger lifted his head at her approach. 
“Lothanasa!  Finally!  They’re expecting you.”
         Anson waited outside, while the badger 
Angus showed her to the stairs. “Is there anything you need?”
         “I will send word if there is 
anything.  Thank you.” Raven mounted the steps 
two at a time.  Beyond was a wide room with five 
cribs.  Around the furthest, she saw Kimberly, 
Jo, and Garigan perched.  Both women were 
crying.  Garigan stood with slumped shoulders 
over the crib, his paws gripping the fragile form within.
         “Lothanansa!” Jo shouted, gesturing for 
her to come near. “Please, we’re losing him!”
         Raven motioned for them to step back, 
but Garigan did not move. “I need to see him,” she told him in a firm voice.
         “He’s holding Ladero’s Sondeck 
together,” Jo replied. “If he lets go, the boy 
will die.” Kimberly was too far gone into tears 
to say anything, something Raven had seen far too many times before.
         Inside the crib a child in the shape of 
a rat lay, one arm clutching a stuffed 
dog.  Garigan’s paws were wrapped around his head 
so tight that she doubted the boy could open his 
mouth.  Raven put her hands on his chest and 
immediately wished she hadn’t.  She yelped in 
surprise and yanked them back.  She stared at her 
fingers, expecting to see gaping wounds, but her 
flesh was entire.  When she’d touched him, she 
could have sworn jaws had closed around her fingers, tearing to the bone.
         “Something is killing him,” she said, 
opening her travelling pack and pulling out the 
twin cross of Akkala. “Something 
supernatural.  This is no mere illness.” She set 
that upon his chest and blanched in horror as the 
white finish darkened and cracked. “By Akkala!” 
She snatched it off, and again felt the bite of phantom jaws.
         “It’s the Sondeck,” Garigan snarled 
through clenched teeth.  She stared at him and 
saw that his lips were stained with blood. “It is 
turning in on itself.  I can only touch him 
because of my own.  You can see what it does to 
me.” One of his teeth pressed upwards, and she 
watched in horror as his gums gave way; the tooth 
spread out and hung by a thread before finally 
severing completely and falling into the 
crib.  It landed on Ladero’s chest and 
immediately darkened.  Garigan opened his eyes, 
both of them bloodshot. “Whatever you must do, must be done from a distance.”
         Raven nodded, set Akkala’s symbol upon 
the ground at the base of the crib, and began 
drawing a circle around it with white chalk.  She 
was careful to keep Garigan’s paws inside the 
circle; he was touching the child, and had to be 
included in the summoning.  He’d just chewed out 
one of his own teeth, and the image of it made 
Raven’s stomach churn in protest.
         Once finished, Raven quickly drew the 
symbols of protection, chanting the prayers to 
Akkala, and wishing that she’d been able to 
arrive sooner.  But there was nothing else she 
could do but try to save his life.  She focussed 
her mind on the symbols and the prayers, turning 
all of her attention to Akkala and the boy.
         “Garigan!” Jo shouted, and Ravne glanced 
up briefly.  Her incantations were almost done, 
and she could feel the warm presence of Akkala 
near.  But the sight of the ferret with blood 
dripping from his nose, ears, and eyes drove that 
warmth from her mind.  She shut her eyes and 
prayed fervently, feeling the faint blossoming of 
the goddess of healing’s arrival.
         “No!” Garigan screamed, and Raven opened 
her eyes again to see something even worse than 
she had faced a moment ago.  His skin was tearing 
apart over his face.  His tunic was staining with 
blood in crisscrossing lines.  He spat up blood, 
and fell backwards, collapsing on the floor and 
twitching like a newly dead corpse.
         The child spat up blood, his body 
arching once, before falling still.  Kimberly 
screamed in horror, falling to her knees, face 
streaming with tears.  Jo held her tightly, 
burying the rat’s snout against her chest.
         And into this midst, a pinkish light 
filled the chamber.  It brought warmth, and 
stilled the sobbing of the women, all eyes drawn 
to her. Raven stared up at the goddess, finding 
her voice raw.  Akkala’s eyes were filled with 
worry.  For the first time in a very long time, 
Raven did not feel the balm she brought.
         The blonde-haired woman standing in the 
light drew her had over Ladero’s still form. “I 
know why you have called me, daughter.  But this was not to be.”
         “What?” Raven asked, shocked.  She bit 
back her tongue before she said anything else 
disrespectful.  She took one deep breath, and 
lifted her gaze to Akkala’s.  The goddess was 
still staring down with loving eyes at the child. 
“Why was this not meant to be?  Is he dead?”
         “Yes, Ladero Matthais has gone to the 
next world.” Kimberly erupted into sobs again, 
and Jo looked as if she’d been smacked.  She 
wobbled, but stayed upright only because she leaned against Kimberly.
         “But why, Lady Akkala?”
         The goddess lowered her eyes and drew 
the sheets over Ladero’s still form. “It was not 
of my choice, but it is the only way to save the 
father.  She stepped over to where Garigan lay 
curled into a ball, still twitching. “This one 
sacrificed much to save the boy.  His love and 
devotion are greater than many.  A minute more 
and he too would be dead.” She rested her hands 
on his side, and Garigan’s trembling 
slowed.  After several seconds, he continued to 
lay there, but now he breathed slowly, and the cracks in his flesh were sealed.
         Raven watched as Akkala stepped to the 
two women.  She rested one hand on Jo’s shoulder 
and smiled. “You did everything you knew to save 
the boy.  You have done so much to help the 
people of this village live and heal.  Do not 
blame yourself for this one.  Only one man in 
Galendor could have saved his life, and he has a 
far more difficult task ahead of him.”
         Jo could find nothing to say, her eyes 
staring in awe at the goddess as if only now she 
had realized who it was who stood in the pink 
light.  Akkala knelt to Kimberly and put both 
hands on her shoulders, drawing her up and away 
from the vixen. “You have four children who love 
you very much, my daughter.  Know this, your son 
even now is being led into your Yahshua’s embrace by his namesake.”
         Kimberly stared, but still she 
cried.  Akkala rose from her and returned to 
Raven. “Stay as long as you must, but be 
warned.  The storm is coming.  Be ready for 
it.”  And then, just as suddenly as she appeared, she was gone.
         Raven gasped and stumbled to her 
feet.  Kimberly somehow reached the crib first, 
dipping her arms inside and pulling out the limp 
form of her child.  Somehow, Akkala had cleaned 
the blood from his body, for the sheets were 
white and smelled pure.  The scent of crushed 
roses came from the body, and a clear oil exuded 
from his snout.  Kimberly held the body to her 
chest, tears streaming down her face.  The 
stuffed dog fell from Ladero’s arms and landed in 
the crib, its paws spread wide.
         Raven hin’Elric, Lothanasa of Metamor, 
stared at that dog and found herself suddenly 
overcome by tears.  She, Jo, and Kimberly cried together for a long time.

----------

May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias
Ut Prosim