[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LXIX

[C. Matthias]

And here's the next Chapter.  I hope to have another done after Christmas.

Metamor Keep: The Last Tale of Yajakali
By Charles Matthias

Chapter LXIX

Watching from Cenziga

         While the hills of the Outer Midlands 
were cris-crossed by streams fed by runoff from 
mountains to both north and south, few of them 
were wide enough even during the Spring thaw to 
support anything larger than fishing 
trawlers.  There was plenty of water for both 
farming and pastureland which the Outer Midlands 
possessed in abundance, but without navigable 
rivers they were at a disadvantage in both commerce and war.
         To address this lack the elves fashioned 
many roads of tight fitting stone for their human 
subjects in centuries long past.  These roads 
passed many a town and city, but only one of 
their cities could still truly claim the heritage 
of their long-lived benefactors.  All the rest 
had been built over by the hand of man enough 
that the peculiar touch of the elves was 
disguised.  Only the ancient city of Salinon, to 
which these many roads led, still seemed to match the roads themselves.
         Riding in a caleche with chains binding 
his hands, Lord Mayor Jaime Verdane, son of Duke 
Titian Verdane of Kelewair, could not clearly see 
the outlines of the city as they neared.  Through 
the caleche window he could see the eastern sky 
was dark with storm clouds and the coming 
night.  Behind them a red dusk bathed the land in 
long crimson streaked shadows.  The pearlescent 
towers of Salinon, standing upon a tall bluff 
overlooking an ice-locked lake and clusters of 
houses owned by farmers and fishermen now covered 
in a layer of snow easily a foot deep, glowed 
with a sombre light like the burnt feathers of the falcon.
         Across from him a dark-haired, black 
clad man who bore on his chest the gilded falcon 
of the house Otakar smiled contemptuously at 
him.  Ladislav, the eldest living son of Duke 
Krisztov Otakar, could not take his eyes off his 
hostage.  Jaime had grown accustomed to the stare 
in the weeks since his capture in Bozojo.  He had 
hardly been out of Ladislav’s presence for more 
than a few minutes each day.  One thing was clear 
that the Otakar family would keep a very tight 
leash on the wolf they’d chained.
         Of his retinue he’d not heard a word 
since they’d been parted.  Ostensibly they’d been 
returned to his father along with news of 
Calladar’s treachery and his capture.  He 
suspected that only parts of them had been 
returned; enough to establish the truth of the 
letter at least.  He hadn’t even known all their 
names.  And now men who had sworn to protect him 
not only failed in their duty but their bodies 
were now most likely feeding dogs, crows, or 
fish.  And there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
         His eyes slipped from the many towers to 
the snow-covered fields around them.  The road 
went around both southern and northern flanks of 
the city, but their caravan turned down the 
southern fork.  The northern led through the 
greater part of the city so apparently Duke 
Otakar wasn’t interested in parading him before 
the people of Salinon just yet.  The southern 
branch passed by the fishing villages that 
clustered like barnacles to the city walls.  Once 
inside the heavily fortified walls, they would 
proceed by a series of locks, ladders, and gates 
up the steep incline until they passed into the castle itself.
         The main part of the castle was built 
upon the white bluff that had once jutted from 
the ground like a tombstone in an empty 
field.  Over the years as the first the elves and 
then man had come to live here, the western slope 
had been smoothed and blended into the 
surrounding landscape providing easy access to 
the summit.  The northern face had also been 
smoothed to some degree, but the southern face, 
especially nearest the cliffs, would still be 
impassible if not for what they’d built 
there.  All this and more Jaime knew of Salinon 
because his wife Valada had told it all to him in 
their all too brief marriage.  Her face, cloaked 
by raven hair, had bloomed with pride when she 
described the marvels of her home.  Yet still she 
had laughed with delight when she saw Jaime’s 
city of Kelewair, so much plainer for only having 
been built by men.  Ah, how he still missed her.
         The caleche crossed a slightly arched 
bridge spanning the river that flowed westward 
from the lake beneath the bluff.  The air 
practically bristled with the sound of hardening 
ice.  Jaime’s eyes stole out to those white 
fields marred by foot and hoof of farmer and 
beast.  A sigh escaped his throat and he turned 
to his gaoler. “Ladislav.  I will be spending 
many years in your father’s castle with no chance 
to leave.  Permit me if you will to walk for a few minutes in the open air.”
         Ladislav’s smile grew and a glint of 
malice briefly flickered through his blue 
eyes.  For a moment Jaime was certain his request 
would be met with derision and laughter.  But the 
smile faded after a second’s appraisal and he 
began to nod. “We will be in my father’s home 
soon enough.  There’s nowhere you can run.  Very 
well.  A few minutes in the open air.” He knocked 
on the panelling behind which sat the coachman. “Driver!  Stop!”
         The caleche drew to a stop as did the 
horsemen accompanying them on the bitter winter 
day.  Ladislav gestured to the door with a 
sweeping arm. “Enjoy your few minutes, Jaime.” He 
then leaned back in his seat and crossed his 
arms.  He was probably counting and begrudging him every second.
         Jaime pushed open the door and set one 
boot upon the smooth stone roadway.  Another 
strange gift of the elves; though snow fell upon 
the road, the wind always seemed to carry it 
away.  Jaime’s wonder at that ended with the 
clattering of the chains binding his wrists.  He 
was a prisoner, a noble prisoner, but a prisoner nonetheless.
         But beyond the road he saw a rolling 
field of snow marred by scattered clusters of 
trees and huddled together like cattle protecting 
their young.  A light wind brushed past his face, 
bringing with it the stinging bite of snow and 
ice.  He cared not for it was the last taste of 
freedom he would feel for many long years.  All 
the soldiers stared at him in their caravan, but 
for these few minutes he would pay them no mind.
         Jaime stepped into the snow which came 
up to the middle of his shins.  He walked a dozen 
paces up the gentle incline before he began to 
feel the cold through his tough leather 
boots.  Slowly he knelt down in the snow which 
crunched beneath him soft but firm.  He wrapped 
his fingers about the chair and dragged it 
through the snow until he’d drawn a passable 
yew.  Once satisfied, he tilted back his head, 
spread his arms wide, and truly prayed for the first time in years.
         The tears began freezing on his cheeks, 
but that was not what brought him out of his 
prayer.  Behind him Ladislav approached and said, 
“Your time is up.  If we do not hurry we will 
lose all light.”  Jaime cast a quick glance at 
the sun and saw that already it began to dip 
below the horizon.  He sighed and turned his gaze 
back on the yew in the snow.  The crimson light 
of dusk made it appear to bleed.
         Jaime stood and brushed the snow from 
his woolen leggings. “Then let us waste no more 
time.  Take me to your father.”  He turned and 
headed back to the waiting caleche.  Behind him 
he heard Ladislav kicking snow around.  He 
glanced behind him and saw his gaoler destroying 
his yew.  Jaime sighed, made the sign of the yew 
over his chest and stared at the castle now even 
more sombre as dusk faded into auburn 
twilight.  It was once his beloved wife’s 
home.  Whether he liked it or not, it would be 
the same for him for however long the Otakar family wished.
         He closed his eyes as he climbed into 
the caleche and sat down.  The chains rattled between his knees.

         The ascent through the various baileys 
and locks on Salinon’s southern slopes took the 
better part of an hour.  Jaime was kept in chains 
the entire time with a pentecount of soldiers 
before and behind him.  Ladislav led them through 
the twisting maze and despite the chill and the 
ice on the steps showed no signs of consideration 
for his former cousin.  Jaime wouldn’t give him 
the satisfaction of seeing him fall or 
complain.  He kept to his feet and fixed his face to keep every wince hidden.
         Once all of the soldiers has ascended to 
the final lock overlooking the southern slope and 
abutting the castle face, Jaime chanced a look 
around.  The lock was surrounded by walls on 
three sides with a higher wall on the northern 
flank.  From there soldiers could rain arrows or 
pitch on invaders and they could do nothing but 
die.  Ladislav opened the single unremarkable 
door at the far end and revealed a dark ladder 
flanked by bright flambeaux.  Jaime glanced at 
the starry sky above and felt a slight wave of 
nausea.  The stars didn’t look quite right for some reason.
         One of the soldiers behind him shoved 
him forward and he nearly toppled to the icy 
stonework.  But he caught himself and lowered his 
gaze.  One by one the soldiers proceeded him up 
the ladder.  The room inside was pleasantly 
warm.  The ladder led up at least twenty feet 
before passing through a opening far too small 
for a fully armoured man to crawl through.  No 
wonder the guards only wore their winter gear.
         As the ice and snow still tucked into 
the corners of his clothing began to melt, Jaime 
climbed the ladder with the same steely demeanour 
he’d shown the entire forlorn journey from 
Bozojo.  He found himself in a small storage room 
with a single oaken door that swung outward.  It 
already stood open with Ladislav lingering 
beneath the arched transom.  He suspected that 
the door was usually barred from the inside and 
only with a certain password would the guards open it.
         The guards shucked their winter wear on 
racks along one side of the room.  A small gutter 
would let the melt drain away to some far off 
cistern.  Jaime made note of everything, fixing 
each detail in his mind as he watched the 
falcon-crested soldiers readjust their livery.
         “Come.  My father is ready to see you,” 
Ladislav beckoned and then turned off to the 
left.  Jaime and the soldiers followed.  The 
passages were tight and drafty and apart from 
where flambeaux burned he felt the familiar chill 
of the winter outside.  Every door he passed was 
closed and he saw no placards to betray their 
purpose.  Still, he memorized each turn, each stair, and each door.
         After a few minutes walk he arrived at a 
door bearing an imposing falcon crest above the 
arch.  Guards flanked the door but they stepped 
aside for Ladislav.  Jaime waited while Ladislav 
knocked.  A familiar man opened the door.  He was 
of medium build with a broad jaw and bald 
head.  He bore the black lively of the falcon, 
one hand resting on the pommel of a sword.  For a 
Steward, Pyotr Szeveny kept far more a martial 
appearance than any other Jaime knew.
         Pyotr smiled with something approaching 
true delight.  His blue eyes danced in the 
vermillion light of the flambeaux. “Ah, your 
graces.  His grace, Duke Krisztov Otakar the XII will see you now.”
         Ladislav gestured for Jaime to go first 
and so he did.  He nodded to Pyotr whose smile 
turned toa frown when he saw the manacles at his 
hand.  But the bald Steward ground his teeth and said nothing.
         The room was apparently Duke Otakar’s 
private study.  On either end crackled hearth 
fires over which hung the head of wolf and 
bear.  Between them was a set of shelves 
haphazardly stacked with scrolls and tomes.  The 
stone floor was completely covered in carpets of 
an intricate weave that would leave the 
Clothworker’s Guild in Kelewair green with 
envy.  Seated in an ornate alabaster chair to one 
side of the far hearth was the Duke.
         Krisztov was dressed in royal purple 
with the black falcon across his chest 
embroidered with gold.  He was a man of swarthy 
complexion and his belly distended with the gut 
of a noble  who no longer did his own 
hunting.  Meaty hands surrounded a goblet, and on 
every other finger a sparkled a ring set with 
rubies.  A long mustache graced his wide upper 
lip, and dark eyes peered out from his heavy 
brow.  A crowd of gold fashioned like a wreath of 
leaves obscured his balding head.  What remained 
of his black hair cascaded like a woman’s shawl 
down over his shoulders and back.
         He set the goblet on one knee and leaned 
forward in his chair.  His lips scowled far more 
than did his Steward. “Ladislav!  Why is my guest 
manacled?  Is this how we treat visiting nobility?”
         Ladislav tensed, his dark eyes narrowing 
as he looked between the Steward and his father. 
“No, it is not, father. Guards, unshackle his 
grace.”  Despite his obvious distaste for Jaime, 
he managed the command without any of his wounded pride showing.
         The guard captain came around and undid 
the shackles.  Jaime rubbed his wrists where 
they’d chaffed then nodded to Krisztof but did 
not thank him. “Your grace.  It has been some 
time since I last had the pleasure of your company.”
         Krisztof smiled again. “Come, Jaime!  My 
house has felt empty since your last visit.  I 
mean to enjoy your company while you are with us 
and for however long you are with us.  Please, 
sit and have something to drink.”
         Jaime stepped past Ladislav and Pyotr to 
take the other chair next to the fire.  The bald 
man poured him a goblet of something red from a 
carafe sitting near to the Duke.  Krisztof saw 
his uncertain look and laughed. “Oh fear not, 
Jaime.  I would not go to such lengths to bring 
you here only to poison you as some have said my 
niece Valada was.  You are a guest and will be 
treated as such.  Pyotr, tell him the vintage he is about to sample.”
         Pyotr offered him the goblet and 
smiled.  Jaime could well remember the fondness 
the Steward of the Otakar house had for him when 
he’d come for the hand of Valada.  The smile 
hadn’t changed which left him feeling 
uneasy.  The voice was the same too. “A tawny port of Fronham, 694 CR.”
         “A very good vintage then,” Jaime agreed.  The port was sweet and dry.
         Krisztof grinned broadly and then nodded 
to his son. “Ladislav, see to Jaime’s quarters 
and make sure that all is ready for his sojourn here in our beloved city.”
         Ladislav managed a twisted smile as he 
bowed. “Gladly, father.” He glanced once at Jaime 
and then left.  The door closed heavily in his wake.
         Krisztof leaned back in his cushioned 
chair and regarded Jaime with interest. “You’ll 
forgive my son, he still thinks your family is responsible for Valada’s death.”
         “And you don’t?” Jaime ventured.
         “I don’t believe you are,” he replied 
with an even regard.  His eyes stayed fixed on 
Jaime while Pyotr kept just within sight.  His 
hand rested on the pommel of his sword and Jaime 
had no doubt, despite Pyotr’s apparent fondness 
for him, should Jaime make any move to attack the 
Duke, that sword would strike him down without pity or regret.
         “And why not?  I was her husband for only a few weeks.”
         Krisztof sipped at his wine and smiled. 
“My wife, who has been waiting for me on the 
other side for twelve years now, was chosen for 
me to cement relationships with one of the noble 
houses in Marigund. I never met her until our 
wedding day.  Yet, it was not until her last 
years when her illness came that I loved her so 
strongly as I saw that you loved my niece.  For a 
Verdane, your eyes have some honesty.  And when 
they saw my niece, I saw your love.  No, you 
didn’t kill Valada.  Your father or one of his 
subjects?  Perhaps.  It certainly destroyed any 
hopes we had of allying against Metamor or Sathmore.”
         Krisztof took another drink and then set 
his goblet aside.  Pyort moved forward to refill 
it but the Duke shook his head. “Which brings us 
to the present.  As a guest, it would be rude of 
me to lie to you about the reasons you are here.”
         Jaime didn’t feel like waiting for his 
unwilling host to come to the point. “I am your 
hostage to guarantee my father doesn’t try to reclaim Bozojo.”
         “Aye.  That you are.  Your quarters are 
in the donjon across my courtyard.  Forgive the 
bars on the door but it cannot be helped.  You 
will have every amenity you require.  Clothes, 
food, wine, quilts, books, writing materials, 
even a musical instrument should you desire 
it.  I will hold back nothing out of respect for 
the love my Valada had for you.  You will be 
restricted to only the donjon, the courtyard, and 
what few chambers my guards bring you too when I 
wish your company.  I will send for a Follower 
priest to attend the needs of your faith.  But 
you will be permitted no other visitors.  And I 
hardly need tell you that any letter you write or 
receive will be read first by me.”
         “No, you don’t,” Jaime replied.  He 
wondered about the priest.  Perhaps he could slip 
secret messages out through him.  He’d have to 
sound him out first. “How long should I expect to 
stay here as your hostage?” Though Krisztof may 
call him guest, he would never use that word for himself.
         “You are here to keep your father out of 
Bozojo.  Until I know it is irretrievably mine, you will stay.”
         “You may never be so certain.”
         “Then my heir will have your body 
brought back to whoever sits on your father’s 
seat after you die in your tower.” A frown 
crossed his face and he shook his head. “I mean 
you no ill will, Jaime.  But I must control those 
trade routes.  I will do everything I can to make 
your stay here as comfortable for a scion of 
noble blood as possible.  But aye, you are my 
hostage and you will come at my beck and 
call.  You are my wolf now and you will be domesticated until I release you.”
         Jaime finished the wine and turned his 
goblet over. “My father may grant you Bozojo, but 
do not think he will just wait for you to let me go.”
         “Oh he will.” Krisztof reached into his 
tunic and pulled out a bit of parchment.  Jaime 
could see his father’s wolf-head sigil in the 
broken wax. “He has written to say that he agrees 
to my terms.  You will be pleased to learn that 
the civil war in his lands has come to an end.  I 
think he should hear some good news as 
well.  Pyotr will take you to your new 
quarters.  There you will find quill and 
parchment as promised.  Write to your father that 
you have arrived safely and have been well 
treated — which you have been — and that you wish 
to put his fears for your safety to rest.  Tell 
him all I have promised you and that you are 
content to wait for the time when you will see each other again.”
         Jaime rose from his seat to follow 
Pyotr. “Very well, your grace, I will do as you 
ask.  But my signet ring was taken from me in 
Bozojo.  How will my father know it is me?”
         “He knows your handwriting.  If you 
must, tell him some memory of your youth that only he would know.”
         “And to seal the letter?”
         Krisztof waved a thick hand. “You 
shouldn’t worry about that.  As the letter comes 
from my castle, my seal shall be upon it.” The 
opulent Duke rose from his seat with a newly 
minted frown across his meaty lips. “It is very 
late tonight.  I have already supped, but I will 
have food from my table sent up for you.   Good night, Jaime Verdane.”
         He felt Pyotr’s bidding stare on his 
back but paused long enough to offer a curt bow 
to the Duke. “And good night to you, your 
grace.”  No matter how gracious his host, from 
henceforth, Jaime intended to be a most 
disagreeable guest.  The very thought of it 
sustained what smile he had all the way up the 
tower steps to his bejewelled prison.

----------

         On the shortest day of the year, with 
twilight already settling over the Valley, Misha 
Brightleaf and Sir Erick Saulius rode together 
along the northbound road from the Keep toward 
the forest village of Glen Avery.  They would 
have left the Keep sooner but it had taken most 
of the day for the fox to disentangle himself 
from his many responsibilities as Commander of 
the Long Scouts.  Once they had received the good 
news from Copernicus, both fox and rat agreed 
they would deliver it personally.  Each had a 
close friendship at stake, and neither wanted to 
let the other bring the news alone.
         Not that there was any animosity between 
them.  But both had different visions for their 
friend’s future and weren’t afraid to say so.
         “He’s a Long Scout, Erick,” Misha said 
for the third time that evening.  They both rode 
horseback to save time.  With the rat on a pony 
and the fox a little uncomfortable in the saddle 
they easily kept pace with one another. “It’s 
what he’s best at and you know it.”
         The knight rat was dressed in one of his 
tabards bearing the heraldry he’d chosen for 
himself, a rat clutching a bundle of Flatlander 
grass, overtop his winter tunic and breeches.  A 
cap of wool covered his head, ears and all. “‘Tis 
true that my squire hath excelled under thy 
tutelage.  He hath a keen eye, ear, and nose for 
the forest.  But I hath seen him a saddle.  Hast 
thou seen his eyes when he takes to the list?  He 
hath a fire kindled in his heart for knighthood.”
         Misha remembered well seeing Matthias 
compete in the annual joust.  Even if he was only 
serving as Sir Saulius’s squire, there was no 
question he enjoyed the attention.  But that 
didn’t change who he was. “And he’ll probably be 
in the joust every year, but that doesn’t mean 
he’s going to leave the Long Scouts.  We need him there.”
         “The Lady Kimberly and his children need 
him here.  He can be at their side better training as my squire.”
         “I have every intent to keep him close 
to home once he returns,” Misha replied, feeling 
the sting of the unsaid accusation.  Ever since 
being made a Long Scout a little over a year ago, 
Charles had spent far more time away from 
Kimberly than with her.  No matter how Charles 
protested, the fox had every intention of evening 
that out. “But he can do more good for Metamor as 
an already trained Long Scout than as a yet to be 
trained knight.  I know you know this, Erick.”
         Saulius lowered his eyes to the road 
ahead.  Being nocturnal animals, both could see 
well enough in the dark.  Their steeds could not, 
and so both carried lanterns to guide them down 
the northern road.  Wagons had passed back and 
forth breaking up most of the snow in the roadway 
so it was easy to follow.  But with the moon 
almost new, there wasn’t enough light to make the 
snow glimmer as it would on nights with full 
moon.  And with the forest now surrounding them, not even the stars aided them.
         “I hath always known he wouldst make a 
mighty knight,” Saulius said in a quieter 
voice.  He sighed and his whiskers drooped.
         “Aye,” Misha agreed somewhat 
reluctantly.  He could sense the rodent’s 
introspection and knew now was not the time for 
more confrontation. “With enough training he 
would at that.  But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.  They aren’t home yet.”
         “But we dost bring good news,” Saulius 
said with somewhat brighter tone. “And if my eyes 
dost not mistake me, we hath reached the Glen.”
         Misha glanced up into the trees for the 
scouts he knew would be there.  But he couldn’t 
see anything even with his excellent night 
eyes.  Still, as he studied the road and the 
trees he felt certain that the knight was 
correct.  The trees towered over them, as wide as 
a wagon and flanked by snow drifts so large that 
they looked like bright dressing gowns for a 
wedding.  They were clearly nearing the Glen if 
not there already.  Now they just had to find the turn into the clearing.
         Another minute of riding — his thighs 
and rear were going to be sore for a week after 
this, he should have just changed into a foxtaur 
and travelled that way — and they could see a 
series of lamps through the trees.  After making 
their way past the next set of colossal trunks, 
they spied the main clearing of the glen, 
surrounded on all sides by the lighted 
lamps.  Both fox and rat turned their steeds down 
the snow swept avenue into the wide clearing.  It 
had been cleared of snow as well, but a fresh 
dusting blanketed the hard ground.  Paw prints, 
hoof prints, and wheel tracks cris-crossed the 
clearing.  Toward the sides where the snow still 
lingered several snow men had been built by the 
Glen’s children.  Most of them had snouts, ears and tails.
         “‘Tis surprising that none hath come to 
greet us,” Saulius noted with a faint note of 
disappointment.  The rat lifted his shout, 
whiskers and ears alert, and sniffed the air. 
“E’en my nose dost not tell me who be on duty.”
         “Don’t forget, it has been a year since 
Nasoj attacked.  Everybody is on alert.  I just 
returned from a patrol north of the Giant’s Dike 
last night.  Almost all of the Long Scouts are still on patrol.”
         Saulius laughed, a bright chittering 
laugh. “I wast on patrol too not long 
before.  Methinks it has more to do with the 
Ducal groom than with the dastard grim.”
         Misha laughed at the bit of wit at 
Nasoj’s expense.  Things had been so quiet from 
Death Mountain in the last year the Long Scout 
was beginning to believe that they may one day be 
completely free of fear.  How he hoped it would 
be in their lifetimes!  He glanced through the 
pleasant light of the clearing and spotted the 
Matthias home nestled in the twisted roots of a 
massive redwood. “Well, we’re here now.  What are 
we going to do with the horses?”
         “I’ll take them,” a gruff voice said 
from behind them.  Both fox and rat spun their 
heads around to see a broad-shouldered badger 
standing with longsword wrapped in a meaty 
paw.  His muzzle split into a grin. “I told you I 
could sneak up on you, Misha.  You owe me five silver.”
         “Angus!” Misha laughed and swung his leg 
off the borrowed horse.  His paws landed in the 
thin layer of snow with a satisfying crunch. 
“It’s good to see you again.  How long have you been following us?”
         The badger shrugged his shoulders and 
clasped paws with the fox. “I’ve been shadowing 
you for a couple minutes.  Not long.” He looked 
the fox up and down and then over at the rat. 
“Always good to see you, Misha.  And you as well, 
Sir Saulius.  What brings you to Glen Avery?”
         “News of our friend, Charles,” the rat 
replied as he dismounted with far more grace than 
the vulpine.  “We hath come to deliver it to his wife and children.”
         Angus nodded and sheathed his sword. “I pray that it is good news?”
         “He’s alive,” Misha replied. “At least 
he was alive two months ago.  A messenger from 
some city in Pyralis arrived a day or so ago with the news.”
         “Well, you both are welcome guests 
then,” Angus said as he breathed a sigh of 
relief. “I’ll take your steeds to the Inn and 
I’ll tell Jurmas to ready rooms for you 
both.  You are staying the night aren’t you?”
         “‘Twould be an honour to spend a night 
in your distinguished Glen,” Saulius said with a 
theatrical flourish.  Sometimes the fox swore 
there was more jongleur to him than 
gentleman.  But that was one way in which 
knight’s fought; with their very presence.  And 
there was no question that this diminutive rat was one of the best.
         Angus grinned, all his fangs glistening 
in the lamplit as his lips drew back from them. 
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer then.  When 
you’re ready just come to the Inn.  Misha, I’ll 
get those silvers from you later.”
         The fox shook his head, laughed, and 
waved as the badger took the reins to both 
animals and led them toward the western edge of 
the village where the Inn nestled against a rocky 
slope.  Together, rat and fox walked toward the 
familiar Matthias home within the base of the towering pine.
         They could see warm light radiating 
through the circular windows set into the tree 
trunk on either side of the door nestled between 
two roots which spread out a good twenty 
feet.  The sound of several voices, most of them 
the high-pitched timbre of a rodent, carried 
through the door as did the scent of several 
animals and something cooking.  Saulius stood on 
the tips of his toes and gently rapped the back 
of his knuckled against the door.  Misha stood 
right behind him, being careful not to step on the rat’s long, scaly tail.
         To their pleasant surprise, a familiar 
grey-furred ferret met them at the door.  Garigan 
was dressed in a thick woolen tunic with a green 
vest on top all shoved into a pair of trousers 
that looked freshly sewn.  He blinked only once 
at the two of them and then smiled. “Sir 
Saulius!  Misha Brightleaf!  You two are very 
welcome in this home!  Come in!  Come in!  Lady Kimberly, look who’s appeared.”
         Garigan stepped back from the doorway 
and turned his sinuous body almost all the way 
around to look at the lady rat who perched on a 
tall stool in order to hang sprigs of some local 
leaf off the lintel between the main room and the 
kitchen.  Helping steady her was the opossum 
Baerle.  Sitting cross-legged next to a warmly 
crackling hearth with his long striped tail 
curled behind his head and a quartet of little 
rats clustered about his legs with eager faces 
was the skunk Murikeer.  A familiar white-furred 
skunk watched the mage turned storyteller from 
one of the couches.  Dancing merrily in the 
centre of the ceiling was a bright witchlight 
casting a silvery glow on everyone.
         Kimberly smiled as the rat and fox and 
waved with one paw, her long tail lashing back 
and forth and nearly smacking Baerle’s snout. 
“Misha!  Erick!  Please come in and warm 
yourselves!  I’m almost finished putting this 
up.” She stretched with all her might and then 
leaned back, the sprig in place. “There!”
         Baerle helped her down and the two 
smiled.  Kimberly then noted her four children 
still enraptured by Murikeer who was whispering 
to them some story all the while his one good eye 
appraised the two new guests.  He smiled to them 
both and kept on whispering.  But the mistress of 
the house would not tolerate rudeness in her children.
         She put her paws on her hips and 
snapped, 
“Charles!  Bernadette!  Erick!  Baerle!  Where 
are your manners!  We have guests!”
         The four rats jumped up and spun, 
scampering on all fours while trying to run just 
on their hind paws.  They got within four feet of 
the doorway, stopped, and stood. “Good evening 
and welcome!” they said in unison as if they’d 
been practising.  Their eyes stole to their 
mother, whiskers and tails trembling with childish delight.
         “Very good,” Kimberly said with a nod of 
her head.  Garigan and Murikeer both stifled laughs.
         All four rats immediately jumped and 
climbed up both Misha and Erick’s legs shouting 
their joy at seeing them. “Unca Saulius!  Unca 
Misha!” “Come listen to Unca Muri’s story!” “You bring me anyfing?”
         Sir Saulius scooped Bernadette and 
little Erick into his arms and hugged them both 
close. “Ah, thou art such sweet delights!  Come 
hither and let us close the door.  ‘Tis warm inside and here we shall stay.”
         Misha scooped little Charles and Baerle 
into his arms.  Little Baerle reached up one paw 
and tugged hard on his wounded ear.  The fox 
yelped in surprise all the way to the couch where 
he was able to set them both down and free his 
wounded ear.  That little rat had quite a grip!
         “We didn’t expect to see either of you 
until after the new year,” Kimberly admitted as 
she pushed the stepping stool beneath a writing 
desk that did not look to have seen much use of 
late. “I can have some water steeping in a 
moment.  Would you care for some tea?”
         Misha smiled broadly as he settled onto 
the couch. “I’d love some, thank you.”
         The white skunk rose with fluid grace 
and churred, “I’ll get that for you, milady.”
         Kimberly’s whiskers bristled in 
exasperation but she let the skunk disappear into 
the kitchen to fetch a kettle for tea.  She 
followed after her a moment and then said, 
“Kozaithy!  Thank you, but you don’t need to do 
that!”  The rat disappeared around the corner to 
press her right to serve her guests.
         This was the first time Misha or Saulius 
had been here since Ladero’s funeral.  Both of 
them felt an immense relief at the sounds and 
scents of delight pervading the Matthias 
home.  Misha even felt his bones begin to 
relax.  That was until little Baerle, covered in 
tan fur like her mother, climbed up the fox’s 
shoulder and resumed tugging his ear in every 
possible direction.  Garigan settled in next to 
him and took the little girl in his lap and let 
her pull on his fingers.  He gave Misha an amused 
grin. “Just wait until you and Caroline have children.”
         Misha gave a short yipping laugh and 
shook his head. “Some day.  Some day.  Are we 
interrupting anything?”  He gestured at the sprig 
and several other Yule-themed decorations he saw 
on the mantle and about the room.  While not 
nearly as garish as the Long House was, it still 
gave this home which had seen too much sadness a look of joy.
         Murikeer settled into the opposite couch 
where the skunk with white fur had sat a moment 
ago.  Little Baerle’s large eyes watched his long 
tail curl over the back of the couch and then 
flick the tip from side to side.  Muri seemed to 
take no notice to her attention and kept his gaze 
on the fox and rat from Metamor. “Garigan and I 
were helping them set out their decorations.  You 
Patildor have some interesting traditions.  So 
what brings you all the way from Metamor?  Isn’t 
the Duke’s wedding in a few days?”
         “Aye,” Saulius said with a quick nod of 
his head.  He still carried the other two rats in 
his arms.  They pawed at his chest and squeaked 
questions at him that he answered with a couple 
words before looking back at the skunk. “‘Tis 
good news we bring of he who is beloved in this home.”
         Baerle’s scalloped ears perked. “News of Charles?”
         “Yes,” Misha replied. “We have some news.”
         Kimberly rushed in from the kitchen with 
a kettle of water in her paws.  The water sloshed 
over the rim in her eagerness to reach their 
sides. “Oh do tell me!  What have you heard?”
         The white-furred skunk Kozaithy 
triumphantly took the kettle from the pleading 
rat’s paws and carefully set it one a spit over 
the flame.  Her ears folded back, obviously eager to hear the news too.
         Misha covered Kimberly’s paws with one 
of his own and smiled. “He is alive.  A noble lad 
from a city in Pyralis arrived yesterday with 
news of Charles and the rest.  About two months 
ago they passed through Breckaris on their way to Marzac.”
         Kimberly breathed a sigh of relief and 
made the sign of the yew. “At least he is all 
right.” She glanced at the four little rats and 
smiled at them. “Did you hear that?  Your Father 
is still on his quest.  He’s far to the south 
now.  But he’ll be coming back soon.”
         “Where’s Dad!” little Charles cried with 
wide eyes.  He sat on his haunches with tail 
curled around his legs.  He rubbed his paws one 
over the other. “I wanna see Dad!”
         Kimberly leaned over and licked his 
triangular head between the ears in the best 
approximation she could make to a kiss. “You will.  Patience.”
         “Kayla is well too?” Murikeer asked. “And the others?”
         Saulius nodded. “All of them be 
well.  Not a one has taken ill or harm on their 
journey.  Kayla, Jessica, James, Lindsey, 
Habakkuk, and Charles art all well. And in good 
spirits as they dost undertake the last part of their quest.”
         Kimberly’s eyes brimmed with tears and 
she kissed both rat and fox on their foreheads 
too. “Oh thank you both!” She brushed the tears 
from her eyes even as Baerle the opossum brought 
a handkerchief to help clean her face fur. “I’ve 
waited so long to hear such news.” She wrapped 
both Misha and Saulius in firm hugs then managed 
to settle herself back on the couch next to 
Baerle and Murikeer.  Kozaithy smiled at them 
from the hearth where she kept watch over the steeping pot.
         “We’re going to return to Metamor 
tomorrow morning,” Misha said as he fended off 
another set of little paws trying to tug his ear. 
“You and your family have been invited to Duke 
Thomas’s wedding.  I’ll arrange for a carriage in 
the morning for you.  We have a place you can 
stay for a few days while at Metamor.” He thought 
of the apartment that Kyia had built for the 
Matthias family in the Long House.  How he wished 
he could convince her to stay there for good, but 
the rat loved her home in the woods too much to 
leave it.  Perhaps after Charles returned he could coax them back to the Keep.
         “And whilst thee stays there,” Saulius 
picked up the thread with a smiling twitch in his 
whiskers, “thou canst speak to the lad himself and here it from his own lips.”
         Kimberly blinked in confusion. “Which lad?”
         “Why, Kurt Schanalein.  The noble lad who met Charles.”
         Kimberly’s face flushed and her ears 
drew back again. “Oh!  Oh aye, I would like to 
meet him!  But will we have to leave tomorrow morning?”
         “With as many visitors arriving at 
Metamor, you’ll want to make haste.  It will 
probably take the carriage a few hours to get 
past the gates, and that’s with my pass!  Even if 
we leave by dawn tomorrow, it may be night by the 
time we have you and your family situated.”
         Kimberly’s whiskers drooped thoughtfully 
while Kozaithy began pouring tea for 
everyone.  She handed the first pair of cups to 
Misha and Saulius and then to Kimberly and the 
others.  Lastly she poured one for herself and 
set the pot on top of the hearth where it could 
safely cool.  She settled down next to Murikeer, 
her tail lazily brushing across his.
         Kimberly lapped up a tongue-full of tea 
and then nodded. “All right.  If you help out 
tonight, we can have everything ready for when we get back.”
         “Ready for what?”
         “Yahshua’s Birth!” Kimberly exclaimed 
brightly. “You didn’t think I’d celebrate it anywhere but my home did you?”
         Misha and Saulius shook their heads and 
enjoyed their tea.  The others laughed and began 
pestering them with questions about their friends journeying in strange lands.

----------

         The sultry air inside Dazheen’s wagon 
made Nemgas’s whole body sweat.  From every pore 
salty tears drained.  The young girl Bryone who 
tended the elderly seer was also sweating.  She 
wiped her brow with the hem of her skirt and 
slicked back her dark hair as Nemgas entered 
bearing Chamag’s battered body on his left shoulder.
         “Nemgas!” There was a look of stunned surprise on her face.
         “Didst thee not hear of our return?”
         “Aye,” she replied, and then her eyes 
and face lowered into her more familiar 
mouse-like posture. “But thou art changed.”
         Nemgas frowned and pulled his right 
stump closer to his side. “‘Tis of no account for 
now.  Dazheen must see Chamag.”
         Bryone nodded and led him through the 
curtain into the even hotter central 
room.  Seated behind the small table which Nemgas 
remembered always having an array of cards spread 
across its top was Dazheen.  Wrapped about her 
head was a colourful handkerchief that obscured 
her eyes.  Her gnarled hands lay on the table 
like crow’s talons but her cards were 
conspicuously absent.  She turned her head at his 
entrance and her thin, cracked lips broke into a 
gap-toothed smile.  She alone of all of them was not sweating.
         “Welcome home, Nemgas.  What hast 
happened to Chamag?” Her voice carried a 
grandmotherly warmth that made him forget the head of the room for a moment.
         Bryone pulled a long table from out of 
the top of the cabinets opposite Dazheen.  Nemgas 
eased Chamag’s body down onto the wooden 
table.  The wood groaned from his weight but 
held.  Chamag lay on his back with one arm pinned 
beneath him an his head tilted so that his mouth hung agape.
         Nemgas straightened Chamag’s arms and 
then sighed. “A poison of undeath fouled his 
blood, Dazheen.  It hath already smote Berkon and 
Kaspel.  He didst run toward Cenziga and when he 
passed into the fog, the poison wast ripped from 
his body.  I fear for his life and so brought him to thee.”
         Dazheen shifted her lips to show that 
she understood.  With great deliberation, Dazheen 
forced herself to stand and totter to the long 
table.  Bryone rushed to her side and held her 
right arm to steady her.  The seer extended her 
left hand over Chamag’s body, her curled fingers 
flexing up and down through the air.
         Nemgas wiped sweat from his brow and 
kept a wary eye on his friend’s body.  He well 
remembered the many times they’d bled 
Berkon.  Each time they thought they’d rid him of 
the black blood, but each time it came 
back.  Would it be so too for Chamag?  The 
jewelled blade touched by Cenziga had destroyed 
Berkon in his undeath so he had some hope.  But 
as he watched the faint smile on Dazheen’s lips 
turn to a sullen frown his hope grew ever more tenuous.
         She lowered the hand and let it rest 
upon the man’s chest.  It rose and fell with 
Chamag’s slow breaths and Dazheen appeared to 
match her breathing to it.  Both Nemgas and 
Bryone had to dry their foreheads again before 
the seer finally spoke. “The poison hath left 
him.  I feel no evil in his body.  Yet he wilt 
need rest to recover.  Whate’er tried to claim him ate away his strength.”
         “I wilt take him to his wagon that he 
might sleep.” Though he didn’t say it, Nemgas 
meant to take Chamag back to the Bachelor’s wagon 
that they had once shared so long ago.  Perhaps 
being in a wagon full of joyful memories would help him recover faster.
         “Nae,” Dazheen said.  She pressed her 
arm into Chamag’s chest as if holding him down. 
“Not yet.  I wilt prepare draughts for him that 
will help.  And I wish to speak to thee, Nemgas.”
         “What about?”
         “Thy journey.  I wish thee to tell me 
all that thou didst see.  Especially of the 
enemy.  I must know all I can ere...” She turned 
away from him and leaned on Bryone for support. 
“Then thou wilt take Chamag to his wagon and 
return to me.  I wilt need thy help for what wilt come then.”
         “What art that?”
         The answer was several long moments in 
coming.  Her voice was muted and melancholy. “Thou wilt take me to Cenziga.”

         Dusk fell quickly and the once sombre 
sky became a thing bright with thousands of stars 
but otherwise bleak with an icy emptiness that 
made the Magyars huddle ever closer to their 
fires.  They pulled their cloaks tight about 
their necks and warmed their hands as their 
voices gave forth both delight and mist.  Despite 
the joy all of them felt at being reunited after 
six long months apart, the jay was muted not by 
the cold but by the fog-shrouded mountain that watched over them.
         Only one of them kept apart from the 
fires.  Grastalko sat a short distance away with 
his bucket of snow between his knees.  The pain 
in the burnt stump at the end of his left arm 
came in waves but never quite receded.   The only 
thing that brought him relief was his snow, and 
if he neared the fires it would melt even faster 
than it already was.  Grastalko sighed as he 
could feel a little bit of ice water at the bottom.
         “What art thee doing over here?” a 
familiar voice asked.  The young Magyar turned 
his head and smiled.  The little thief Gamran, 
the very first to befriend him, was making his 
way past the nearest of the fires toward him.  He 
had on the little cloth hat that Thelia had made 
him only a day before he’d had to leave the 
wagons as well as his thick coat and 
breeches.  He juggled a pair of balls back and 
forth.  With a flick of his wrist he tossed one of the balls at him.
         Grastalko snatched it out of the air 
with his good hand and then sent it back.  Gamran 
moved his hands quickly enough in the dim light 
that Grastalko didn’t see him catch it.  But he 
did have one more ball than before.
         “I hath to keep my hand in snow or it 
pains me,” Grastalko explained by nodding his 
chin to the bucket. “If I sit too close to the fire ‘twill all melt.”
         Gamran frowned a little which gave his 
face a tragic cast in the darkness. “What thou 
didst tell me of they hand... I wish there were aught I could do!”
         “There is naught anyone can do.  Dazheen 
hath done all she can for me.  The draughts she 
gives take away the pain for a time, and they 
dost help me sleep, but as we hath neared that,” 
he nodded toward the tower of fog, “the pain hath grown worse.”
         Gamran caught his balls and sat next to 
him on the barren ground.  The dirt was hard but 
not frozen. “Soon we shalt leave and the pain 
wilt go too.  I doubt thou wilt e’er see this 
place again.  And now thou wilt be able to see 
all the Steppe and visit all the cities and 
perform for them.  Think of all that thou wilt 
see in the weeks and months ahead.  Thou hast 
seen many great things already on thy journey.  Things e’en I hath ne’er seen!”
         “Aye, ‘tis true,” Grastalko admitted, 
but not with much joy. “But now all I shalt e’er see again is the Steppe.”
         Gamran shrugged his shoulders and 
glanced past him.  Grastalko turned and saw 
Pelgan walking over to them.  His smile was thin 
but sure.  Pelgan tossed his black brain over one 
shoulder and then began twirling one of his 
knives in his hand. “The Steppe ‘tis more than many shall e’er see.”
         Grastalko shrugged and let his eyes sink 
into the bucket.  He’d have to refill it ere the hour was out.
         “Art thou still unhappy?” Pelgan asked after several moments of quiet.
         “Aye,” he admitted. “Not for what I once 
wast.  ‘Tis gone I know and e’en shouldst I wish 
it back, I could ne’er have it.”
         “Dost thou wish it back?” Gamran asked 
as he leaned forward to keep their shoulders even.
         “Nae,” Grastalko replied with a long 
sigh.  It had been hard to admit to himself at 
first, but the life of a knight had always been a 
choice forced upon him.  He’d had an opportunity 
to choose between being a knight and a Magyar and 
he’d chosen the latter.  Like it or not he would 
always and ever more be a Magyar. “‘Tis not 
that.  Hanaman hath taken me in to help me find 
my place, but I dost not know if I e’er 
will.  What canst I do with but one hand?”
         Pelgan caught his knife by the blade 
between two fingers and held it steady. “Nemgas 
hath ne’er suffered from lack of an arm.”
         Grastalko forced the words through his teeth, “His dost not pain him!”
         “Oh aye,” Gamran said with a faint 
laugh. “But thy pain will leave when we dost 
leave this place.  Thou art limber, 
Grastalko.  E’en with only one hand thou wilt 
make a fine tumbler.  Together we couldst master 
new tricks of juggling.  Whate’er thou canst do 
wilt only amaze others the more because thou hast 
but one arm.  Thou art ne’er alone, 
Grastalko.  And now thy friends hath returned to 
thee!  Be of good cheer, I beseech thee!”
         Grastalko felt a little ashamed at his 
sudden anger.  He took a deep breath and did his 
best to ignore the throbbing pain aching his left 
arm.  With some effort he managed a faint smile 
and nodded to them both. “Thou art my 
friends.  Forgive me for being so poor in spirit 
at thy return.  ‘Tis the pain.  I hath no room to think!”
         Both nodded but it was the little thief 
who spoke. “Fear not.  All hath been forgiven 
e’en before thee asked!” An infectious grin 
spread across his face and Grastalko found his 
heart lifting with every passing moment.  How did 
the presence of these two who he once would have 
seen as rogues in need of justice bring him a 
sense of companionship beyond what he’d known as 
a squire?  He’d only ever spent a month in their 
presence, and most of that time had been as a prisoner!
         But when his smile grew with that of his 
friend’s, those questions disappeared and he 
began to feel a sense of hope again.  He believed 
them when they assured him that he would find a 
place amongst the Magyar and he looked forward to 
their tumbling.  But the thought of aiding Gamran 
on a thieving still left him with mixed 
feelings.  Though he knew stealing to be wrong, 
somehow he knew having Gamran lead him on that 
mischievous endeavour would make it seem a 
pleasant diversion.  And that only made him more unsure of himself!
         But that these were his friends he knew 
and the smile stayed on his face.
         He was about to saying something more 
when Pelgan’s eyes fixed on something behind 
them.  Grastalko shifted on his rear and saw the 
one-armed Nemgas approaching.  Buckled to his 
belt was the silver and black blade 
Caur-Merripen.  An inscrutable look was fixed on 
his face just as his eyes fixed upon 
Grastalko.  The newest of the Magyars swallowed 
heavily and pushed his left arm further into the bucket of half-melted snow.
         “Grastalko,” Nemgas said in a soft 
voice, “Dazheen needeth thee to come with us.”
         “Where art we to go?” he asked, though 
in his heart he knew the answer.  He remembered 
what the seer had told him after they’d left the Åelfwood.
         “To Cenziga. She hath said that thou art 
needed as art I.” His gaze swept past Grastalko 
to take in the other Magyars sitting 
nearby.  Both Gamran and Pelgan had shifted 
closer to their friend as if that could spare him 
the coming ordeal.  The others flinched at the 
name of the mountain under whose shadow they camped.
         Hanaman rose and stepped through the 
ring of Magyars around the fire and held up one 
hand.  His eyes narrowed with a look of concern 
that Grastalko knew was meant for him. “Art thee 
sure ‘tis wise to go there again, Nemgas?”
         The one-armed Magyar shrugged and then 
brushed the white lock of hair from his face. 
“Whether wise or no, ‘tis not my choice.  Dazheen 
hath foreseen this, and so we must.”
         The elder Magyar’s chiselled brow 
tightened as it always did once he’d made up his 
mind. “Then ja!  Aid Dazheen in whate’er she ask thee.”
         Grastalko stood, holding his bucket 
tight in his good hand.  He looked up at Hanaman 
but knew he could make no appeal.  Hanaman’s lips 
pressed tight, but he put one hand on the young 
Magyar’s shoulder and squeeze with what little 
affection he could show. “I wilt aid Dazheen,” he 
said with as much courage as he could muster.  He 
was rewarded by another firm squeeze from Hanaman’s powerful hand.
         “Ja!  I wilt see then when thou dost 
return.” Hanaman let go and gestured for him to follow Nemgas.
         Grastalko nodded, smiled once to Gamran 
and Pelgan who each gave him reassuring pats on 
the shoulder, and then followed Nemgas who walked 
back toward the wagons.  The bucket bounced off 
Grastalko’s middle as he walked, but he’d long 
grown used to it.  As they walked, Nemgas’s head 
turned to where the Assingh attempted to graze 
from the parched earth.  Kisaiya stood in their 
midst, her eyes meeting his for several long 
moments.  Grastalko licked his lips and lowered his eyes.
         The wagon they reached was, to 
Grastalko’s surprise, the Bachelor’s 
wagon.  Nemgas vaulted up to the seat and opened 
the door. His voice was gentle. “Dazheen.  We art ready.”
         “Help me down,” the seer’s warm words 
echoed from within.  Grastalko waited by the 
wheel while Nemgas disappeared in the doorway.  A 
moment later he emerged with Dazheen’s brittle 
form cradled in his left arm with his stump 
supporting her legs.  Behind them with head bowed 
walked Bryone.  Grastlako’s heart tightened at 
the sight of her withdrawn face and quiet 
eyes.  They flicked up to meet his gaze, then just as quickly darted away.
         Nemgas carried Dazheen until he’d left 
the wagon, then gingerly set her back on her 
feet.  Her usual colourful garb was supplemented 
by a long shawl draped across her neck and 
shoulders.  Talismans of bone, feather, fang, 
cloth, reed, and stone hung the shawl and bounced 
off her back.  Grastalko stared at one fashioned 
from twined reeds that twisted in every 
direction.  He tried to follow the path through 
the reeds but lost his place after only three turns.
         Dazheen turned a cowled face toward him 
despite that he’d not made a sound since 
arriving. “Grastalko, Bryone, lend me thy 
shoulders.” He nodded and stood at her left so 
she could rest her arm on his right 
shoulder.  Bryone took her place opposite him and 
wrapped her left arm about Dazheen’s 
middle.  Together they walked toward the pillar 
of fog with Nemgas at their heels.
         Grastalko wedged the bucket beneath his 
good arm while keeping Dazheen balanced.  His 
moved forward across that barren land only 
because they had to.  His heart trembled in his 
chest, pounding louder and louder.  Yet Dazheen 
at his side seemed unafraid.  He felt no 
trembling in her old bones, and as he fingers 
gripped his shoulder, they pinched in close and 
tight with a strength he hadn’t thought 
possible.  Even Bryone seemed resigned to braving the mysterious mountain.
         It wasn’t the stories he’d heard that 
made him afraid; his fellow Magyars were 
remarkably tight-lipped about this place so he’d 
only heard a few, and most of them about how 
Nemgas had scaled the peak almost a year 
ago.  Grastalko feared the pain.  With each step 
he could feel the fire in his left stump 
smouldering hotter and hotter.  He grit his teeth 
close and shifted the stump about until it was 
settled in an unmelted section of snow.  He could 
hear the water sloshing at the bottom of the 
bucket, and as his eyes glanced down, saw a wisp 
of steam curl beneath the wooden rim.
         If the pain grew too intense he’d fall 
over paralysed.  But if he fell, Dazheen would 
fall too and that would surely kill her.  He bit his lip and kept walking.
         The eyes of the other Magyars were upon 
them as they passed beyond the lines of their 
fires and onto the empty plain.  The fog rose up 
impenetrable and black.  The flames should have 
cast wild shadows across its textured surface, 
but they saw nothing in the darkness.  But he 
could hear something.  A faint thrumming that 
beat against the inside of his ears grew with each step as did his pain.
         And the others could hear it 
too.  Dazheen’s wrinkles grew taut and her step 
wary.  Bryone turned her head this way and that 
as if trying to find some way to position her 
ears so that she wouldn’t hear it.  Behind them, 
Nemgas’s voice was almost soothing. “‘Tis 
Cenziga.  Repeat thy name to thyself.  Hold to 
thy name no matter what thou dost feel or hear.  ‘Tis the only way to enter.”
         Grastalko nodded and with each throbbing 
in his hand muttered under his tongue, “I hight 
Grastalko.”  The ground crunched beneath his 
boots and each staccato pop of frozen earth 
propelled the beat of the mount deeper and deeper 
into his mind.  He repeated his name to himself 
as many times as he could between each beat, 
blinking tears from his eyes as he stared at the 
tower of fog.  It was so close now he could feel 
it like an army marching around a hill.
         He stifled the cry in his chest.  His 
hand felt like it would burst the bucket snow and 
all into flame at any second.  Even the tears 
streaming down his cheeks burned like a heated 
iron rod dragged across his flesh.  Still he 
cried his name to his mind and knew the truth of 
what the other Magyar had said — he could no 
longer remember anything but his name and the 
pain.  And he would not be the pain!
         His foot hit a loose stone and he 
skipped to stay on his feet.  He bucket tilted 
upward and he nearly knocked whatever was resting 
on his shoulder over.  Something steadied it, but 
the water in his bucket splashed across his legs 
and left his left stump exposed to the air.  The 
pain doubled so much that he fell to his knees 
cradling his arm and beating his head against the 
ground.  All he could do as the mountain beat on 
him with a hammer was cry, “I hight Grastalko!  I hight Grastalko!”
         Something grabbed him around the 
shoulder and dragged him.  A deep cold crawled 
over his flesh but did nothing to sate the 
infernal agony in his left stump.  And with each 
pounding blow of the mountain he felt other words 
pushing into his consciousness.  Cenziga.  Slowly 
it bubbled through the miasma of his 
disintegrating thoughts.  The one thread he had 
left that neither pain nor pound had severed was 
his name.  Not the name he’d had at his birth, 
that was gone like chaff swallowed by fire.  No, 
the name of his true self.  Grastalko.
         He was Grastalko.  A single strand of 
identity amidst a tempest of fire and forge.  It 
was so small and fragile but he would cling to it without fail.
         Cenziga.
         Grastalko.
         CENZIGA!
         Grastalko.
         And then, like a candle being snuffed, 
the pounding and the fire in his arm 
ceased.  Grastlako blinked and looked up at a 
tower of fog curving around them.  The bucket was 
gone from his arms, but his stump was dark and as 
free of pain as he could ever remember it 
being.  He blinked and wiped tears from his 
cheeks.  The air was cool but clear, and around 
him he saw three others dressed in the same 
colourful patchwork garments as did he.
         Because they were Magyars just like 
he.  The one armed man was Nemgas who had dragged 
him through the fog.  The elderly woman who 
crouched wearily was Dazheen.  And the young girl 
whose white face and hands trembled as she aided 
the seer was Bryone.  He was Grastalko.
         And then his lungs lost their breath as his eyes met Cenziga.
         It was and was not a mountain.  It 
towered over them like a mountain and had the 
same triangular shape from its base to its 
summit.  But its edge seemed more an interruption 
to the flat earth of the Steppe.  Replete with 
jagged crevices and spikes all across its many 
textured surface, it made the crags of the 
Vysehrad appear smooth as riverbed stones.  And 
he’d never before seen stone that bore the blue 
glow of lightning.  From the summit stretched a 
solitary spire of black that glistened in the 
starlight.  Grastalko narrowed his eyes as the 
stars began shifting overhead like a thousand 
fireflies dancing on a Summer night.
         “Be wary,” Nemgas said as he helped 
Grastalko back to his feet. “It let us in this 
far.  When I didst come here before it fought me 
all the way to the top.  It may return to strike at any moment.”
         “We shalt be safe.” They all turned to 
the seer whose voice seemed to come from the top 
of the mountain.  Her hands reached for the cloth 
over her face but she couldn’t reach the 
knot.  Bryone, still trembling from the passage 
through the fog, stepped behind her and managed to tease the knot loose.
         Dazheen’s ruined eyes glanced at the 
mountain, and then she eased herself with 
Bryone’s help to the ground.  Nemgas and 
Grastalko gathered close by as the seer took a 
pouch at her side and dumped the contents onto 
the ground.  Bryone gasped, and Grastalko 
tightened his right hand into a fist.  It was her cards.
         They fell one by one from the pouch, and 
then, to their surprise, every single call landed 
face up.  Dazheen spread them out with her hand, 
and then images on the cards blurred together 
like paint in the rain.  Bryone cried in horror 
as a man’s face emerged through the 
cards.  Dazheen stirred and the man turned to 
look back at them and smile.  He had light hair 
with high aquiline nose and aristocratic 
bearing.  He was dressed in a blue doublet and 
they could see that he stood in some dark chamber 
with intricate scroll work moulded into the walls.
         His lips moved, and the cards rustling 
together became a voice speaking with utmost 
contempt. “You’ve arrived.  Good.  Watch and 
tremble.  This is your last night alive, Dazheen.”
         Even as Bryone cried in horror and 
hugged the woman, Dazheen continued to stir the 
cards.  The face turned away from them and toward 
a set of stairs.  A pair of shadows descended 
those stairs as they all watched beneath the shadow of Cenziga.

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

Charles Matthias