[Mkguild] Last Tale of Yajakali - Interlude II

[C. Matthias]

To celebrate the opening of the MK list, I am 
posting the second Interlude to my massive MK 
epic novel!  I'll start posting what I have of Book III soon.

Interlude II

         Laurence let a smile slowly creep across 
his muzzle as his arms began to descend from the 
air.  All around his feet the children had curled 
on the ground, tails to snouts, asleep.  Complete 
silence greeted him from his family and from all 
the other guests who had come to hear him tell 
his tale.  Even King Albert sat transfixed, 
waiting for the next words to be uttered from Lord Erick’s uncle.
         But the jongleur let his arms drop to 
his sides, and he lowered his eyes slowly.  In 
almost a whisper, after so many excruciating 
seconds of waiting, he said, “And that is where I 
shall end my tale for this day.”
         “Oh come now,” Timothy cried in protest. 
“Surely you cannot leave us on such a note!”
         Lise shot him a dirty look. “Keep your 
voice down!” she hissed through her teeth. “The children are sleeping.”
         Erick chuckled under his breath as he 
saw his cousin’s chagrin.  Still, the only reason 
he had not jumped to his feet to denounce his 
uncle for a knave was that his two year old son 
was curled into his lap, one paw gripping the 
edge of his tunic as if it were a blanket or favourite toy.
         It was well past dusk now, and if not 
for that exciting climax, Erick knew there would 
have been droopy eyes amongst the gentry too.
         King Albert nodded slowly, long ear 
turned to Laurence, as if expecting him to recant 
and continue his tale any moment. “Fair 
enough.  It is late and the children need to be put to bed.”
         “Robert,” Lise called over her 
shoulder.  The donkey was reclining in one corer, 
a shocked look on his snout. “Could you gather my 
servants?  We need to put the children to bed.”
         “Of course, milady,” he said 
dutifully.  He did give Laurence, who was 
carefully picking his way amidst the maze of 
sleeping forms towards the King, one last look of 
incredulity before slipping out to do as instructed.
         Erick worked his paws beneath his 
youngest and lifted the boy into his arms.  The 
child yawned, displaying his wide variety of 
teeth and long red tongue, but did not open his 
eyes.  Erick smiled and handed the boy to Lise. 
“Here you go.  I’ll see to the men.”
         Lise took the boy, and gently stroked 
one paw behind his soft ears. “Of course.  Do not stay up late drinking.”
         “Only a bit of wine, I promise.”
         With his lap free, Erick rose and walked 
over to his liege. “Your majesty,” he said in 
soft tones. “If it is your desire, we and the 
other men can adjourn to my study where we might 
interrogate this villain storyteller while we enjoy a libation.”
         Albert smirked and let one eye turn on 
Laurence. “Aye, that is a fine idea, your lordship.  Lead the way.”

         It took a few minutes to organize the 
rest of the men, but each of them found the idea 
of one last drink before bed appealing.  Though 
the Åelf ambassador was not a man, Erick still 
offered her a chance to join them.  He’d been 
rather awkward about it, despite his many years 
of experience treating with women who were once 
men.  And though Sinhåsa el-Abarei’s face was 
inscrutable, she seemed to recognize his 
embarrassment and politely declined the 
invitation.  Still, Erick was uncertain whether or not he should be relieved.
         Erick’s study proved to be a 
high-ceilinged room with large hearths at both 
ends.  Above each hearth, the stuffed heads of 
elk had been mounted. Tapestries dominated the 
walls, each describing some historical anecdote 
of the valley and especially of the Matthias 
line.  Between them were shelves of books, 
bottles of wine, swords, staves, crossbows, and 
even a few older muskets, including the one 
Kalder had presented to him as a gift 
yesterday.  Sturdy wooden chairs dominated the 
centre of the room, while the stone floor was 
covered with animal skin carpets except for one 
imported from Kelewair.  That one was patterned 
in with flowers and geometric shapes winding ever 
inward to a stylized crest bearing a rodent.
         Albert admired the musket case with a 
wry grin. “I see Ambassador Kalder has given you 
a gift for which he has asked me a mighty sum.”
         “And a weapon the Long Scouts resent,” Ryman added quietly.
         “‘Tis not meant for stealth,” Kalder 
admitted, “but power and penetration.  A musket 
of Vysehrad can pierce e’en a knight’s 
breastplate up close.  This musket,” he stepped 
to the case and spread his fingers wide, “‘twas 
given in gratitude for Master Laurence’s service to my King.”
         “A worthy gift indeed!” Albert agreed as 
he settled in a large damask chair. “For so fine a storyteller.”
         Laurence bowed his head, whiskers 
straight and proud. “Thank you, your majesty.”
         While Robert stoked the hearths, Erick 
poured the wine for his guests, a tut-tut upon 
his lips. “A fine storyteller indeed!  Now 
Laurence,” he chided, “you should know better 
than to end a tale in that way.  You have to at 
least tell us some of what comes next.”
         Laurence took the proffered glass and 
smiled at his nephew. “And you, nephew, should 
know better than to berate a 
storyteller.  Tomorrow I will tell you more.  Any 
questions you may have now will be answered then.”
         “Did Jothay really die?” Ryman asked as 
he accepted the goblet Erick held out for 
him.  The red panda turned the glass between dark 
claws and narrowed his eyes. “It sounded like he did, but I wasn’t sure.”
         Laurence smiled and sipped at the wine. 
“Ah, my good Prime Minister, the question is not 
whether he died, but whether or not you believe 
he died.” His whiskers twitched in mischievous 
delight as he settled onto one of the 
lounges.  In a rather shocking display, he 
propped his bare paws on the lounge’s arm, and 
stretched his long toes.   Ryman nearly dropped 
his goblet in surprise.  King Albert merely 
regarded him with a detached amusement.  Even 
Ambassador Kalder seemed more ill at ease than did Laurence’s King.
         For Erick, it was a familiar 
sight.  Laurence was a consummate showman, and 
right now, he knew that he could say or do 
anything he wished, because they each wanted to 
hear his tale more than to see him observe proper 
decorum.  Still, Erick mused, it wouldn’t hurt 
his uncle to be a tad bit more discreet and put 
his foot paws down on the carpet like the rest of them!
         The red panda managed to recover his 
wits with a quick drink and turned his eyes to 
one of the tapestries. “I’m not quite sure I see 
the distinction, master jongleur.  History should not be a matter of opinion.”
         “Ah, but it is,” a new voice 
said.  Standing in one corner wearing the scarlet 
of Kelewair was Count Floran.  About his neck was 
the charm that kept him free of the curses, and 
also the blue sash which marked him a member of 
the King’s Council.  In truth he was merely the 
representative from the Duke of Kelewair, and an 
often unruly and uncooperative representative at 
that; prone more to pretty speeches and posturing 
displays of bravado than he was to actual 
policy.  Erick had no idea why he’d been invited to hear Laurence’s tale.
         “History is very much a matter of 
opinion, Prime Minister,” Floran continued, now 
facing them fully.  His soft features were bit 
through with the faintest hint of sarcasm at the 
corner’s of his eyes.  As Erick set his goblet 
aside and drew out his pipe, he exchanged a 
worried glance with Albert.  But the King made no move to intervene.
         Floran glanced discreetly in Albert’s 
direction. “For instance, this matter of 
absolving your ancestor of any role in, if I am 
not mistaken, the treachery from Salinon that 
nearly destroyed the Kelewair Duchy.  That is 
what is about to happen, if I am not mistaken.”
         Laurence sat a little straighter on the 
lounge and regarded Floran with an odd measure of 
sympathy. “Not all tales have happy endings, 
milord.  It is not whether we win or lose a 
battle that is important.  It is how we face our 
adversities that determines what sort of man we 
are.  I think you will find some solace in 
that.  Wouldn’t you agree, your majesty?”
         King Albert nodded; slowly at first but 
with increasing confidence. “Indeed,” he sipped 
at his goblet. “One of the chief reasons that the 
race of men engages in war is because it cannot 
let go of the tragedies of the past.”
         “One cannot forget the mistakes of 
history,” Floran said.  He lifted his cup to his 
lips and added in a quieter voice, “Or you will make them again.”
         “I did not say we should forget the 
mistakes of the past,” Albert pointed out. “I said let go of the tragedies.”
         “Stories,” Laurence interjected.  He 
finally put his feet down, and leaned forward, 
his eyes intense, “It is in stories that we must 
face that which we cannot face over the 
bargaining table.  A story strips away all of our 
carefully crafted lies and leaves us only with 
the inescapable truth.  We see what the real 
character of men are in the tales that are told.  As you will, milord Count.”
         Floran nodded but said nothing 
more.  Erick was glad of that.  For a moment he 
had feared years of diplomacy may have gone up in 
smoke.  As if on queue, Father Rouse, who sat 
with his webbed fingers wrapped about the wide 
brimmed goblet more suited to his broad mouth, 
opened his lips and croaked, “Master jongleur, I 
know of Father Kehthaek, Felsah, and 
Akaleth.  All Questioners know of them now.  I 
myself was trained in the Akalene precepts of 
charity, clarity, and incomparability.  But I 
confess I had never known these things about 
those three.  Where did you hear of these things?”
         Laurence leaned back in the lounge, his 
smile returning to his snout. “Ah, yes.  This 
particular part of the Ecclesia’s history is one 
that it is not proud of.  Many documents of that 
time are held secret.  However, there are a few 
who strive to keep that memory alive, so as the 
good Count has pointed out, it will not happen again.”
         “And you happen to have access to them?” 
Rouse leaned forward, red eyes peering at the rat 
with an intensity that Erick knew unnerved the 
few who had been unfortunate to receive an 
official visit from the Questioner.  Rouse was 
certainly a kind priest, but he was also cagey 
and clever in a way that people did not expect.
         Laurence took a long sip from his wine, 
dark eyes never leaving the frog. “Why, Father, a 
Questioner of the Akalene order never asks a 
question they don’t already know the answer 
to.  I would not disappoint you by telling you otherwise.”
         Rouse croaked in laughter and shook his 
head. “Very well, keep the secret for now.  But 
you know I will want to learn more.”
         “And you will, you will.  Tomorrow.”
         Timothy chortled. “Aye, we’ll all learn 
tomorrow.  Or the next day.  Or the day after 
that.  Who knows how long this story will go 
on.  Have you invited anyone else, uncle?”
         Laurence winked. “A few more will show still.  I hope.”
         “Who?” Timothy pressed, whiskers twitching madly in anticipation.
         “Life is much more interesting when it 
still surprises us,” Laurence replied, his 
greying snout brimming with impish 
delight.  There could be no doubt he thoroughly 
enjoyed their frustration and need to know what came next.
         Erick shook his head and removed the 
savoury pipe from the side of his mouth. “You are 
enjoying this far too much, Uncle.” He tapped the 
side of his goblet with one claw.  A mischievous 
glint came into his eye. “One day you will have to write all of this down.”
         The older rat scoffed, grey brows 
furrowing. “A true storyteller does not need to 
write his stories down!  They live inside here 
and here.” He tapped his head and then his chest. 
“And you know I’ve said that many times before.”
         Erick feigned injury. “Ah, you have 
struck me to the quick with your words, dear 
Uncle.  But I fear for posterity’s sake.  If you 
do not write it down, then who shall ever know it 
for the future?  I doubt there is a storyteller 
alive who could master the words with such charm and wit as you.”
         “And don’t you start kissing my tail 
either, Lord Matthias!” Laurence snapped, 
waggling one finger at his nephew. “Don’t think I don’t know that trick.”
         Ryman Ertham coughed lightly, his 
frizzled tail flicking back and forth in 
agitation. “Hmm, your majesty, I think Lord 
Matthias makes an astute point.  This is precious 
history that we will want to preserve.  If 
perhaps Laurence Matthias spent a bit of time 
with the royal scribes or his old comrades from the Writer’s Guild...”
         Timothy was the first to laugh, but he 
was quickly joined by Erick, and the rest.  Even 
Albert found the look of disgust on Laurence’s 
face highly amusing.  Laurence made sure to shoot 
the red panda an especially dark look before he 
lifted his goblet high. “Then let us make a toast 
to a story that should never be forgot!”
         “Here here!” Albert bellowed in 
approval.  Erick and the rest did the same a moment later.

         Though the men retired for the night 
only an hour later, Laurence made sure to fill 
some of that time with a few embarrassing tales 
of Erick’s youth.  Nothing scandalous of course, 
not in the presence of foreigners and potential 
political rivals; but enough to turn the Lord of 
the Narrow’s large ears a deeper shade of 
pink.  Erick supposed he deserved it though, 
after cleverly saddling his uncle with the 
monumental task of writing his tale down.  Even 
as he kept his muzzle firmly clamped around his 
pipe to hold back any embarrassed squeaks he 
might emit, he told himself it was a price well worth paying.
         After Laurence had his fun, the men 
continued to entertain themselves with drink, 
pipe, and attempting to trick the jongleur into 
giving away some morsel about what was to come in 
the tale.  But the elder rat cleverly rebuffed 
them all, either by turning the question back on 
them, or with an infuriating smile followed by a 
sip of wine.  After their questions were 
expended, all they had to show for it was an 
hour’s worth of good wine, camaraderie, and smoke.
         And then, without much fanfare, they all 
retired to their quarters to enjoy well-earned 
sleep.  Erick had found Lise sitting at his desk 
studying reports from the Commerce Guild.  Though 
her ears had turned towards his quiet entrance, 
she did not look up, allowing him a moment to 
admire her form.  Her cream-coloured fur had 
glowed orange in the witchlight, and her eyes 
shone with a ghostly radiance.  Erick had smiled 
and watched for a time, until she finally set the 
report down and turned to regard him.
         “Are you going to stand there or come 
with me to bed?” she had asked, her voice soft, 
eyes appraising as they studied him head to tail.
         Erick had chuckled lightly, ears 
blushing with chagrin. Moments later they were 
together in bed, and though it seemed unfair, it 
only seemed the blink of an eye before the 
morning sun shone through the high East 
windows.  Erick rubbed the sleep from his eyes 
and groaned.  Lise was already up, stirring 
something in the kettle on the fire.
         “Good morning,” Lisa called to him over 
one shoulder. “I don’t know how much you and the 
others drank last night, but if you want to be in 
good cheer to hear more of the story, you are going to drink some tea.”
         Erick bristled his whiskers and buried his face in his pillow.

         An hour later and he was dressed in a 
light green open-sleeved doublet and hose.  He 
had settled in the Main Hall with many of the 
excited children and the others who had come to 
hear more of the tale. By the grumpy look on 
Timothy’s face, he could tell that Lise had 
forced his cousin to imbibe the foul tea as 
well.  That at least brought a grin to his snout.
         Timothy saw Erick’s glance and came 
over.  He shifted his cap between his ears with 
one paw and set the other over his belly.  He 
stuck his long red tongue out as if he were 
gagging. “Your wife’s hospitality never ceases to 
amaze me.  Reminds me of my mother.  Are all 
Matthias women trained in the art of ruining a man’s morning?”
         Erick laughed and patted Timothy on the 
shoulder. “I certainly think so.  But don’t ever 
say I said so.  I’ve had enough tea for one day.”
         “Tea?” Ryman said from behind them.  The 
red panda’s tail was even more frazzled than the 
night before.  With one paw he idly stroked the 
fur, attempting to smooth it out. “Lady Matthias 
slipped me something utterly foul this morning 
with my breakfast.  I still cannot get the taste off my tongue.”
         “Couldn’t you smell it?” Timothy asked, 
one eye following the tip of Ryman’s tail.
         “Well, after I’d already had a taste, 
yes!” He sighed and then smirked. “His majesty 
was clever enough to wait until after I took a 
sip.  I fear the ivy on your southern wall 
received an unwanted soaking shortly thereafter.”
         Both rats laughed for several 
seconds.  King Albert was sitting a short 
distance away upon the makeshift throne that 
Robert had erected the day before.  Though he 
could hear them, his attention was focussed on 
the ring of little rats circling his hooves.  The 
children stared up at him with big eyes and 
awestruck expressions.  Erick knew he should shoo 
them away from their majesty, but Albert appeared to be enjoying himself.
         “And there’s Uncle Laurence,” Timothy 
declared, gesturing to the front entrance. “I 
wonder if he’s had his tea today.”
         Erick turned and saw his Uncle standing 
with paws gripping either jamb.  He was wearing 
bright colours, with sleeves that hung a foot 
from his wrists.  His eyes were lucid, and when 
he opened his muzzle, there was no reek of Lise’s 
awful tea. “Good morning, friends, family, lords 
and ladies.  Good morning to all our guests.  It 
appears that everyone is here, and what is it you are here for, I wonder?”
         King Albert chuffed and leaned forward 
in his seat. “I think you know very well why we’re here, master storyteller.”
         “Uncle Laurence!” the children chimed, 
scampering from Albert’s legs over to the elder 
rat without any hesitation.  They grabbed at his 
sleeves and tugged eagerly, swarming his legs so 
quickly that for a moment even Laurence appeared 
in need of help! “Tell us a story, Uncle 
Laurence!!  We want to hear about grandpa Charles!!”
         He laughed merrily and patted them on 
their heads each in turn. “Aye, aye, a 
story!  That is why you have come!” He yanked one 
of his sleeves out of the paws of Erick’s eldest. 
“And if you would all take your seats, I will be 
glad to tell you more about Grandpa Charles and all the rest.”
         Lise was up at his side moments later, 
shooing the children away from him. “Could I get 
you something to drink, Uncle?” she asked 
politely.  It was so polite, completely lacking 
any hint of the malodorous concoction that was 
her intent, that Erick could only stare with 
muzzle agape at his wife’s chicanery.
         But the elder rat only smiled to her. 
“You wouldn’t be preparing tea for me, would 
you?” At her sudden blush, he chittered in 
amusement. “Thank you, dear niece, but no, I 
shall forgo your wondrous tea.  I have already 
enjoyed my repast with a bit of juice.”
         She grimaced but nodded, coming back to 
where her husband was busy snickering with 
Timothy and Ryman Ertham.  Once her back was to 
Laurence, she gave the three of them a scowl as 
of a mother to unruly children.  Ryman sucked in 
his breath and politely excused himself to stand 
at Albert’s side.  Timothy likewise left to find a corner he could hide in.
         Erick smiled and held out his arm. “My, 
you are looking lovely this morning,” he said as 
she slid her arm in his.  And she was, donning a 
gown of olive damask, with a jade pendant nestled just above her bodice.
         “And you, dear husband.” Lise’s anger 
could not stay for long, and soon she erupted 
into a spirited laugh that lasted but a 
moment.  When it was done, she shook her head and 
settled down on the steps next to Erick.
         Laurence moved to the centre of the room 
with practised grace.  He turned about and 
surveyed his audience with satisfaction. “Lords 
and ladies, strangers from afar, and all good 
folk who can hear my voice, welcome.  We have 
heard of events three hundred years past, when 
the founder of the Matthias line and many others 
from Metamor did travel through the Barrier Range 
and into cities forbidden to the race of 
men.  Through eldritch mountains and ancient 
forests they journeyed, and now they join in the 
company of he who was old when many of the 
dragons we know this day were young.
         “We learned also of a trio of 
Questioners, knights from Sonngefilde, and the 
Magyars of the Steppe, as they were all thrown 
together in one of the oldest human cities in 
Galendor.  We saw one of the great weapons of 
Yajakali, his sword, a blade of nine sides that 
craves human blood.  And we heard what happened 
that Autumnal Equinox beneath the city of 
Yesulam, when strange ritual brought an end to 
Bishop Jothay, one of the Marquis’s chief allies.”
         Laurence smiled faintly, eyes straying 
to one dark corner of the room. “But we also 
heard of unlikely heroes, great sacrifices, and 
surprises that we shall marvel upon for all 
time.” His smile broadened, and he looked away 
from the corner.  Curious, Erick glanced into the 
shadows and saw something he did not 
expect.  What he first took for a dog shone with 
a metallic hue, and bore the angular features of 
a fox.  It’s face was fixed upon Laurence with calm but keen regard.
         Erick opened his snout in surprise, and 
nearly said the creature’s name, but Laurence’s 
words brought his eyes back to the storyteller. 
“And now we continue this tale, and hear of 
sorrow and betrayal, of new ideas, of redemption 
and revenge, and of the most terrible loss.  But 
there is joy and hope too, awaiting you this 
day.  We near the final climax, but before the 
dawn shall come, we must first endure the blackest of nights.”
         Laurence took a deep breath, and spread 
his arms wide, paws lifted to the ceiling. “And 
now I bring you this, one more chapter in this 
great saga.  Let us hear more of this, the last tale of Yajakali!”

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

Charles Matthias