[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter L

[C. Matthias]

Yay, another chapter!!  Now if I can just pick up 
my writing pace, I may finish this before another 
year passes!  I've been writing 'The Last Tale of 
Yajakali' since January of 2006 now (I had been 
plotting it for a lot longer, but we all know that!).

Metamor Keep: The Last Tale of Yajakali
By Charles Matthias

Chapter L

Shadows Passing Forward

         Elvmere climbed over the lintel and 
huddled behind a small statue as two white-robed 
acolytes walked past below him.  He tucked his 
tail in close, dexterous paws gripping the back 
of the robed figure’s leg.  The smooth stone held 
mild imperfections brought on by age, but was 
otherwise exquisite in design.  All this he could 
tell with his sensitive raccoon paws.  Despite 
the strange impulses he felt from time to time, 
he found his animal form very convenient for exploring without being seen.
         A year ago, he’d done this very same 
thing, exploring the Keep in Metamor Valley while 
an animal.  At the time, he’d been trying to 
decide when and how to reveal himself to the 
Keepers.  He’d worried what Yesulam would say 
when it learned he’d been subjected to the animal 
component of Metamor’s curses.  Had he become a 
child, as Father Hough had, there would have been 
no cause for worry.  Had he become a woman, the 
situation would have been doubly worse.  As it 
was, becoming an animal had proved to be the least of his concerns.
         Elvmere chittered angrily at himself, 
and then covered his muzzle with both 
paws.  Neither acolyte turned to see what had 
made the noise; they continued on down the hall 
and disappeared within a large doorway.
         He didn’t have time to dwell on old 
worries.  The present had enough to occupy him!
         Chief of which, the reason he explored 
now.  Priestess Nylene had set to writing brief 
notes to several people shortly after they’d 
finished their meal, and then left to speak with 
the Lothanas.  If she succeeded, Elvmere would 
soon leave this temple and return to 
Metamor.  Once there, he would come before those 
who knew him, and he would say things that he 
knew would surprise them.  He couldn’t even 
imagine the look on Lothanasa Raven hin’Elric’s 
face when he asked to serve in her temple!
         When he’d still been a man, the 
priestess Meria hin’Dana had shown him the 
Lothanasi temple in Metamor.  At the time, he’d 
noted everything, thought how heretical it all 
was, and tried to forget it as soon as they’d 
left.  Now, he savoured the little touches in 
each of the walls, and the intricate decorations 
painted on each menhir leading to the main 
doorway to the temple entrance.  He noted the 
symbols and pictures that were familiar, and catalogued the ones that were not.
         The basic temple layout was very 
different from Metamor’s.  But he noted several 
similarities that made it easy to find his way 
around.  The priests and priestesses all had 
their quarters on one side of the temple, while 
the altar sat in the centre, and the acolytes 
chambers lay on the other side.  His nose led him 
to the kitchen and its attendant storerooms on 
the lower floor, tucked away where the regular 
petitioners would not see them.  Up above lay 
access to the roof, where to his surprise he 
found several open-air prayer stations, each 
featuring a different crest, one for each member of the pantheon.
         But this, the inner temple and altar, 
this he had set aside for last.  It had been so 
long since he had set foot inside such a temple, 
and now he consigned himself to its embrace.
         Elvmere poked his snout out from behind 
the statue and stared down the passage.  Wide 
with pillars and a railing across the top – along 
which he scampered – there would on many days be 
a steady stream of people through the hall.  But 
not that day, or at least, not that hour.  Apart 
from the two acolytes he’d seen earlier, he saw no one.
         Slowly, Elvmere crept along the railing 
towards the double doors at the far end.  They 
stood open, and he could see that they were 
wooden with metal inlaid over top.  Intricate 
carvings that undoubtedly told stories of the 
pantheon’s past covered both faces, though he 
could make nothing of them from his angle.
         Clutching the stonework tight in his 
claws, Elvmere lowered his head and peered 
through the top of the doorway.  The worship area 
was large and strangely empty.  There were no 
pews inside, as he’d become used to seeing.  The 
floor stretched out empty, though the few who had 
come had brought small cushions on which to sit 
or kneel.  At the far end, the altar nestled 
beneath a tall window through which light 
streamed.  A twin cross surmounted the altar, and 
its shadow swept out in a circular arc across the 
floor.  Lines had been inscribed into the floor, 
and he saw that the tip of the shadow fell 
between two concentric rings.  Inscribed between 
the two rings were various marks, perhaps to tell 
the acolytes when to pray, and what to pray.
         Elvmere marvelled in delight at the 
ingenuity of the design; not only did the altar 
bring them together to worship, but it would tell 
them the time and season too.  He vaguely 
recalled that each of the gods had their feast 
days in separate months.  He had no doubt there 
were other intricacies to this astrological 
wonder that he could not divine hanging upside 
down from the main door’s transom.
         He scanned both the entrance hall and 
the sanctuary, but no one watched the doors.  He 
lowered himself onto the door, and then scrambled 
down the relief work on the interior face.  He 
hoped that his act of necessity would not be 
interpreted disrespectfully by the gods.  Elvmere 
felt a flush of irritation that he didn’t even 
know how to ask their pardon for his 
unintentional offence; if it were truly an 
offence.  This he would ask Nylene when he returned.
         Elvmere was grateful to see the 
clerestory railing inside the sanctuary.  He 
climbed the wall, and then ducked and wove back 
and forth through the legs of the statues 
overlooking the worshippers.  When he’d come 
halfway into the sanctuary, he stopped and sat on 
his haunches, tail curling around his front.
         He stared at the altar and pondered.  In 
some ways, it was no different from those of the 
Ecclesia.  Yet he felt every difference like a 
subtle bruise in his heart.  How could Akabaieth 
have wanted this for him?  And could he with a 
clear conscience embrace it and make it his faith too?
         Elvmere closed his eyes and clutched his 
paws before him in prayer.  No words came to him, 
nothing at all.  A faint hope lingered in his 
thoughts, one he could not give expression 
to.  No words seemed to fit that hope.  He 
offered it forth anyway, to whatever powers would 
hear him now.  The gods?  Indeed, all those who 
might respond to something so simple as hope.
         He lowered his snout and rubbed his paws 
over his face, feeling suddenly very 
tired.  Elvmere the raccoon cast one last look at 
the altar before scampering back along the rail towards the main doors.

----------

         Despite saving the Duke of Breckaris, 
they were kept in the castle where they wouldn’t 
be seen by any but the Duke’s most trusted 
men.  The accommodations were comfortable, and 
with the return of their weapons, they busied 
themselves with practice, but the waiting still nagged at them.
         Lindsey, James, and Kayla continued 
their sword-work; Jerome joined them from time to 
time, at other times he knelt down to meditate 
and focus his Sondeck.  Habakkuk sat in one 
corner, sheafs of paper arrayed before him and 
around his long tail trailing behind 
him.  Occasionally he would write something, and 
he would quickly shuffle those papers anytime anyone came near.
         Qan-af-årael and Andares-es-sebashou 
played some sort of game with ivory pieces.  None 
of the others had seen where the elder Åelf 
produced them, though apparently he’d brought 
them from Ava-shavåis.  Jessica had asked him the 
rules, but after ten minutes of explanation, she 
realized that she’d only heard the very beginning 
of the rules and politely declined to hear any 
more.  Instead, she turned to pacing and 
stretching her wings, and occasional intervals 
when she examined her blackened feathers.
         Abafouq busied himself with his things, 
going over and cleaning his many tools.  The 
Binoq remained eerily quiet as he worked, eyes 
intent, each motion precise, but almost 
mechanical.  He arrayed his climbing equipment 
first, equipment they had not needed in the last 
few months.  Once satisfied that each was in good 
working order, he placed them carefully back in 
his pack and then drew out his spare set of 
clothes, folded them and refolded them 
twice.  Finally he struck his tinder several 
times to make sure it worked.  He then repeated 
the entire process, proceeding more lugubriously each time.
         The Nauh-kaee watched him with great 
interest at first, then let his intense eyes 
wander about the room.  Finally, as the day wore 
on into the afternoon, he lowered his beak into his talons and closed his eyes.
         Charles twirled the Sondeshike in his 
paws, his now fleshy paws, and vacillated between 
delight and dismay.  He knew he should be 
ecstatic that his flesh had returned.  And he had 
admired the feel of his fur under his fingers, 
the nip of his claws, the warmth of the air, and 
the stubbly smoothness of his tail; even the 
familiar dull ache in his incisors in need of 
something to chew had excited him – he’d 
apologize later for the little mess he made on 
the rug chewing on a twig left by the hearth.
         But as the minutes of waiting had drawn 
into hours, Charles realized that there were many 
things about being stone he would miss.  The 
grumbling in his stomach reminded him how he 
hadn’t always needed to eat.  The cold stone 
floor only mostly covered by carpets reminded him 
of the many new friends he’d met along the way 
from Metamor.  Would he ever be able to speak to 
stone again, to know it as intimately as he knew his friends?
         Guernef had warned him not to think too 
much like stone.  He had to confess, the 
Nauh-kaee had good reason to do so; Charles had 
met at least one mountain that had wanted nothing 
more than to capture him and force Charles to 
become a mineral deposit!  But the smaller stones 
he’d communed with had all been eager to share 
his company for a short time.  A part of him 
yearned to continue to speak with them.
         Besides, being able to move through 
stone was a very powerful ability, one he’d 
rather not have to give up.  Charles knew that he 
could never abandon his flesh, and would never 
want to, but still his heart bemoaned his loss.
         Charles was about to try pushing his 
toes into the floor, despite the fact that he’d 
most likely only hurt himself, when the door to 
the chamber opened and Kurt entered with a scroll 
case in hand. “I’m sorry you all had to wait 
here.  I hope you haven’t been too bored.”
         Andares did not lift his eyes from the 
game he played. “Some Åelf seers are trained in 
the art of astronomy, and trace out the journey 
of the wandering stars by laying in one spot, 
staying awake, and watching the night sky from 
the set of sun to its rise.  They are only 
allowed to move one hand, to trace out the path 
of a single star upon a special slate.  This they 
do every night for ten years, until they have 
completed their catalogue of the night sky, each 
night choosing a different star.  When they are 
finished, they then spend another ten years of 
nights following the stars whose courses turn back on themselves.”
         A whimsical smile crossed his lips, and 
his dark eyes met the human youth. “When they 
have completed this task, they are allowed to be 
apprenticed to a master.” Kurt stared at him with 
jaw dropped in astonishment.  The Åelf waved his 
hand and turned back to the game.  It was the 
first time either he or Qan-af-årael had moved in 
nearly ten minutes. “So when you ask if we have 
been bored, for our part no, but I cannot speak 
for our companions whose sense of scale regarding 
time is somewhat different from our own.”
         Kurt blinked again, and asked, “What happens if they fall asleep?”
         “Then they are not fit to watch the 
stars,” Qan-af-årael replied in level tones.  He 
moved one of the pieces forward a space.
         “We haven’t been too bored,” Kayla said, 
rescuing the boy from his astonishment. “But we’d 
like to get out of this place.  When can we leave?”
         “My father is issuing his final orders, 
and will be here shortly.  He does have a ship 
for you, and it should be ready to depart 
today.  I thought you might like to see the list 
of provisions my father is giving you.” Kurt held 
out the scroll case and Kayla took it in one paw. 
“He may not want you running around Breckaris, 
but he is not going to let you leave without showing his gratitude.”
         Kayla opened the scroll case and 
unrolled the parchment within.  Her eyes widened 
and her muzzle broke into a wide grin as she 
read. “Kurt, this is excellent news!  Thank you!” 
She hugged him, and the boy’s eyes widened in surprise.
         “Hey, that tickles a little!” he said, 
laughing as her whiskers brushed his ears.  She 
let go of him, and chagrined, Kurt straightened 
his uniform like a good soldier.
         “So what is it?” Lindsey asked as he 
sheathed his sword and straightened his axe.
         “Two months worth of provisions,” Kayla 
replied. “Judging by the food and water he’s 
giving, we won’t need to worry about either for 
the rest of the year.  And he’s supplying cloaks 
to keep us dry in the rain.” She narrowed her 
eyes and looked at Kurt. “Does it rain much this 
time of the year?  We’re used to seeing snow soon.”
         “Snow?” Kurt shook his head. “We see 
snow sometimes here in Breckaris, but we do see a 
lot of rain.  Down along the coast it can be very hard in November.”
         “Well,” Charles muttered, “I’m 
definitely glad I’m not stone anymore.” There was 
nothing worse for stone than a hard driving rain to wear it away.
         “Thank you, Kurt.  This will aid us in 
the hour we need it most,” Habakkuk repeated, as did the rest.
         The youth smiled to each of them and 
then turned faintly to one side. “I wanted to 
check on Tugal again.  She asked about you this morning...”
         Jessica strode forward and squawked, 
“We’d be happy to see her.  We owe her for her aid.  How does she fare?”
         Kurt smiled and stepped out the door, 
the quartet of soldiers behind him backing up in 
unison. “Come and see for yourself.  She is not far away.”
         Andares gestured to each of them. “We 
shall remain behind to wait for his grace.  Give 
unto Tugal our gratitude and undying esteem.  Her 
name will live forever in our tales.”
         Kurt stared at the Åelf in awe. “Do your tales last twenty years too?”
         Both of them smiled enigmatically, but neither replied.
         The rest of them followed Kurt down the 
hall.  As they were in Duke Schanalein’s 
residential wing, the decorations were less 
grandiose, and the corridors smaller.  The main 
hall led along the outer castle wall, with narrow 
windows looking down over the city.  Tapestries 
hung from the ceiling, these obviously family 
heirlooms, as each seemed to depict a different 
member of the Schanalein heritage.  Between them 
suits of armour stood, though these were lighter 
and more easily removed than those the Keepers 
were familiar with, as fitting a nation with such 
an extensive sea coast as Pyralis.
         The room Kurt brought them to, he 
explained, belonged to his mother.  She had left 
the city a few weeks prior to reside in the 
country away from the Marquis’s intrigue and the 
Duke’s aloofness.  Behind the door they found a 
tastefully apportioned sitting room, featuring 
several chairs and lounges, small tables with 
kettles for tea, as well as looms for lady’s 
needlework.  The air of femininity was strong, 
but none of that held their attention.
         Upon one of the lounges lay Tugal, her 
head resting upon a soft pillow, long hair drawn 
behind her and braided.  Three nuns knelt by her 
side, two of them praying over her while the 
third, and elderly woman with a soothing 
grandmotherly voice read from the Canticles.  A 
warm blanket draped over her, covering the wound.
         Tugal’s eyes flicked to them when they 
entered, and a smile hinted at the edges of her 
lips.  There was recognition in her eyes, and 
even a bit of warmth.  The elder nun stopped her 
recitation and turned to them. “Ah, your grace, 
you return with the others.” Her eyes widened as 
she saw them, but the folds in her wrinkled skin 
hid most of her surprise. “You have done us all a 
great favour.  His grace, Bishop Hockmann also 
extends his gracious thanks, though he apologizes 
that he cannot do so himself.  He says there are 
many offenses he must rectify before the stain of 
evil has been removed from our land.”
         “Mother Superior,” Kurt said 
respectfully.  Both nuns continued to pray over 
Tugal, but their eyes stole briefly to the 
Keepers. “I wanted to see Tugal again.”
         “Come and see her, your grace,” the 
elder nun rose stiffly and sat in the nearby 
chair.  She sighed, rubbing crooked hands over her knees.
         Kurt and the others slipped inside the 
room, smiling to the woman who lay unmoving on 
the bed.  Tugal opened her mouth to speak, but no 
words came. “Don’t try to speak.  You need to heal.”
         “Let me take a look,” Jessica 
admonished. “I may be able to do something.”
         Kurt stepped aside, and both nuns 
scooted on their knees to the end of the 
lounge.  Tugal watched her with an intent gaze, 
one almost as intent as the hawk’s own. “Kayla, 
Abafouq, can you help me?” The skunk and the 
Binoq came to her side, all eyes on the injured 
woman.  Jessica pointed at the blanket. “Could 
you remove that?  I need to be able to touch her wound.”
         “I am thinking there is not much more 
you can do,” Abafouq said regretfully. “She 
suffers from a magical wound.  Those be not easy to mend.”
         “Still, we must try,” Jessica pointed 
out.  The Binoq nodded, and drew back the 
blanket.  Beneath Tugal had been dressed in soft 
linen robes.  Bandages wound round her middle, 
and though they were not stained with blood, they 
held the foul odour of an open sore.  Her skin 
had the smooth sultry quality common to male 
Keepers who became women, but a great deal had 
been callused from exposure to the bitter cold of the Barrier mountains.
         Jessica poked at the bandage with her 
wing claws and shook her head. “Can we remove the bandage?”
         “We changed it an hour ago,” the Mother 
Superior said. “Please be gentle.”
         Kyla knelt next to her, and with 
Abafouq’s help, began to unwrap the 
bindings.  Charles and Jerome gingerly lifted 
Tugal so they could drag the bandages underneath 
her.  As each wrapping came undone, they began to 
see blackened tendrils cris-crossing her 
skin.  Charles ran one paw over his right eye, 
feeling where the Shrieker had touched him, and 
knew that the burns were the same.
         “There,” Kayla said, wrapping the 
bandages around the bracer on her wrist. “Oh 
my...” she whispered, her long tail fluttering 
behind her in agitation.  Along Tugal’s left side 
she bore a spider-like burn.  The skin had turned 
black, with paper-thin cracks coursing its 
breadth.  Jessica brushed one of the cracks with 
her wing claw, and blood began to well at its 
surface.  Tugal stiffened, closing her eyes in agony.
         “Forgive me,” Jessica said as softly as 
she was able. “I must touch the wound if I am to heal it.”
         “Let me,” Abafouq offered.  Jessica 
stared down at the little man. “My hands can be 
gentler than your claws,” he added, favouring her 
a humourless grin.  She nodded, and the Binoq set 
his palms over the black scar, but his fingers 
could not even stretch across its 
length.  Jessica set her wings on his shoulders, 
and let her mind slip free of her earthly senses.
         Tugal’s body pulsed with the darkness of 
Metamor’s curse, as did her own, and that of her 
friends.  In her years of study under Wessex, she 
had grown accustomed to ignoring it.  But the 
subtle fire that lingered in Tugal’s belly she 
couldn’t ignore.  Her body trembled as she 
recalled the gouges in Agathe’s face, gouges she 
had given energy to, driving them back into her 
mind to kill her.  Wessex had cast those spells, 
and they had stayed with her until she died.
         Agathe had cast the spell before her, 
and though her death had spared Tugal, it would 
never fully heal, if it healed at all.
         Jessica took a step back, spreading her 
wings wide to steady herself. “Oh... oh forgive 
me.  There is nothing I can do.”
         “Nothing?” Kurt asked, shocked.
         “The wound bears her touch.  I cannot 
undo that.  It will heal or it won’t.”
         “Will it heal?” the boy asked, hope fading from his eyes.
         “Agathe is dead, so perhaps.  Her death 
freed Charles from stone.  But I don’t know; 
magical wounds are fickle, and not so easily understood.”
         In a weak voice, Tugal groaned, “Let 
me...” Her body shuddered, lips trembling with 
effort.  Everyone turned to watch, and all three 
nuns neared, hands reaching out to comfort. “Let me... be.”
         “You should rest,” Abafouq said, his 
faint smile kind. “You’ll be regaining your strength better that way.”
         “Aye,” Tugal agreed, eyes closed in 
pain. “But... I... I never said... I was sorry.”
         “You have nothing to apologize for,” 
Kayla assured the woman, paws clasped tight 
before her. “You saved everyone here in 
Breckaris, and you saved us too.  We owe you, Tugal!”
         She shook her head. “I wanted... nothing 
more in... life than to kill... Keepers.” Tears 
formed at the edges of her eyes, and her breath 
came in ragged gasps. “I hated you for so 
long.  I hated...” she tensed as a spasm of pain 
clutched her.  The nuns began to pray softly, and 
the chant quality of their voices soothed 
Tugal.  A small smile played at the edge of her 
eyes. “I don’t hate you... anymore.  I want... I want...”
         “Don’t try to talk,” Kayla suggested. 
“Let the sisters see to your healing.”
         “Nae,” Tugal insisted, pushing herself 
on the lounge so that she very nearly sat 
upright. “They will, but ‘tis... ‘tis not what 
I... I mean.  I must... say... say this.” She 
took a long breath, her chest expanding and 
contracting with such measured control that even 
Charles and Jerome marvelled at her composure. “I 
want to be like you,” Tugal said, the conviction 
in her voice matched only by the pain it masked. “I want to be a Keeper.”
         None of them knew quite what to 
say.  Charles blinked and twitched his whiskers, 
James folded back his ears and scratched his 
mane, Jessica and Kayla exchanged confused 
glances, Lindsey twirled one finger through his 
braided beard, and even Habakkuk tapped his tail 
in surprise.  It was the Mother Superior who 
first found her voice, and in her gentle words 
she brought a smile to Tugal’s face, “I will do 
what I can, dear daughter, to see that you will 
be well enough to make so arduous a journey.  Nor 
will you go alone; I have a mind to send several sisters with you.”
         “They may not be sisters for long if 
they do,” Lindsey muttered under his breath.
         “Thank you, Reverend Mother,” Tugal 
said, and then let her eyes close in a ragged but peaceful sleep.
         “It will be days yet before she can 
travel,” the elder nun added, even as the other 
two began wrapping Tugal in bandages again. “And 
I must speak with his grace the Bishop before we may accompany her.”
         “You would do that for her?” Kurt asked, 
an inexplicable frown on his lips.
         “That and more, my child,” she replied.
         “I’m sorry we could do nothing,” Jessica 
said as she backed away from the lounge.  Abafouq 
and Kayla did as well, their faces betraying their disappointment.
         “You came to see her, yes?” the elder 
nun asked, a grandmotherly laugh hidden behind 
her words. “That is more than many would do.”
         A messenger stepped through the door, 
and nervously stepped between the donkey and the 
rat as he made his way into the room. “Your 
grace?” he asked, and Kurt half-turned to address 
him.  But his eyes still lay upon Tugal, filled 
with worry. “His grace, your father, requests 
your presence and that of his guests in his chambers.”
         “Thank you, we’ll be there shortly,” 
Kurt replied.  As the messenger departed, again 
stepping carefully between the Keepers so as not 
to even risk touching them, Kurt took one last 
look at the injured woman, before sighing. “That 
should be your ship.  Let’s go.”
         Beneath his breath, Charles whispered a 
quick prayer for Tugal before following Kurt and 
his friends back into the main hall through the 
Duke’s wing.  The room they were brought to was 
the same room they had confronted him and the 
Bishop the night before.  The map of the Pyralian 
Kingdoms covered the table, and standing beside 
it were the Duke, both Åelf, and another man whom 
they did not recognize.  He was dressed in a 
white tunic with open cut sleeves, a leather vest 
with an anchor and a fish sewn into the left 
breast, and billowing pants with a rapier at his 
side.  A old scar cut through his right ear.  He 
sported a short pointed beard and mustache, 
peppered much like his coiffured hair.
         “Ah, Kurt, thank you,” Duke Schanalein 
said when he saw them enter.  The man next to him 
blanched when he saw the Keepers, but he quickly 
regained his composure. “I trust you are all well and ready for your journey?”
         Jerome nodded. “Our supplies are packed, 
or can be in a matter of minutes.  Your offer of 
supplies was most gracious; we are now in your debt!”
         “I doubt I shall ever repay the debt of 
my life,” Friedrich Schanalein replied with a 
sardonic grin. “This is Johann Tilly, Captain of 
the Tserclaes, one of the fastest ships in the Pyralian Navy.”
         Tilly smiled with the corners of his 
lips and bowed. “It is an honour to meet any who 
so valiantly have defended his grace, the most 
noble Protector of Breckaris.” When he rose, his 
eyes narrowed as he appraised them in turn. “I 
will be happy to sail you wherever you need to 
go, but I fear your appearance shall sow discord 
within my crew.  Sailors can be a superstitious 
lot, for there are strange marvels to behold upon 
the seas.  The sea is an unforgiving master, one 
who smites even the bravest of men upon a 
whim.  They will not like to sail with such 
fantastic passengers as yourselves, forgive me for saying so.”
         “They should be alarmed and filled with 
anxiety,” Andares said, an edge creeping into his 
voice. “Matters are dire, Captain.  They will all 
suffer far worse than the punishments of an angry 
squall if we do not succeed.  Will you not control your crew?”
         Johann Tilly nodded to the Åelf and 
curled his fingers around the middle of his vest. 
“I command my crew, not control them.  But I will 
do what I can to keep them from whispering foolishness.”
         “We will aid your crew when we can,” 
Jessica added. “How often have you a man who 
literally has the eyes of a hawk watching in the nest?”
         Tilly turned to her, stared her up and 
down, and then let out a boisterous laugh. “Aye, 
my lady, you do speak truly.  You will win the 
crew over ere we reach our destination, of that I 
am sure.” His face grew sombre and he gestured at 
the coastline on the map. “His grace informs me 
that you wish to go to Marzac.  You ask me to elude the Whalish blockade?”
         “I’m afraid so,” Jerome replied.
         Tilly smiled like a boy with a new toy. 
“Very good.  That will more than make up for any 
worries you may bring the crew!  What sailor 
wouldn’t enjoy an opportunity to embarrass the Whalish Navy!”
         Friedrich Schanalein grunted 
meaningfully. “This is no time for bravado, 
Captain.  This is a very serious matter.”
         “And I shall treat it, and my 
passengers, as such.” Tilly turned his gaze on 
the Keepers and said, “The supplies his grace has 
gifted you have already been put on board.  We’re 
having some trouble with your horses 
though.  Once they, and you and whatever other 
supplies you may have are on board, we may depart.”
         Charles shook his head, “You would sail this night?”
         Tilly smiled, “My dear... rat, of course 
I will sail this night.  I would sail without the 
moon or the stars in rocky shoals, and I promise 
you not a scratch would come to Tserclaes!  You 
may rest assured of that and more, for you sail 
with Captain Johann Tilly at the helm.”
         And as they noticed the confidence that 
came not only with his words, but every move he 
made, they felt like they just might believe 
Tilly’s boasts.  Even so, Charles glanced down at 
his paws to make sure they weren’t stone 
again.  No sense taking chances when it came to that much water.

----------

         “Though I see it with my own eyes,” Sir 
Yacoub Egland admitted as he leaned against one 
wall with arms crossed and head ducked forward to 
keep his antlers from scraping against the 
panelling, “I can scarcely believe what they show 
me.  My sterling companion of many a battle, 
tilt, and parade is being fitted for a wedding dress!”
         The donkey morph who stood with arms 
outstretched while a teenage boy busied himself 
with measuring her waist, brayed a faint laugh. 
“Could you please hold still,” the Duke’s tailor, 
Tobias Langar chided.  The boy tapped his pad of 
vellum against the palm of his hand while his 
apprentice grinned.  The teenager finally shook 
his head and moved the measuring tape while Dame Alberta settled herself.
         “An interesting turn of events,” the 
other child in the room, Falkirk Urseil, 
admitted.  Falkirk had been a merchant from 
Ellcaran trapped at Metamor during the Battle of 
Three Gates.  After becoming a child, he’d 
brought his entire family to live and continue 
their trade from Metamor.  No merchant could 
procure finer fabrics than Falkirk Urseil. “Even 
you have to admit that, Master Tobias.”
         The tailor frowned and asked, “Tell me 
again the measurements about her waist?” The 
teenage boy repeated what he saw, and Tobias 
grunted, “At least that hasn’t changed.”
         Egland exchanged an amused glance with 
his friend. Alberta smiled, her long ears leaning 
back across her spiky mane. “Thou mayest scarcely 
believe what thee sees, but ‘tis I who must wear 
the dress and marry the Duke!  Methinks I hath the finer part to play.”
         “No doubt,” Egland replied.  He felt a 
bit of his midday meal slide up his throat, so 
added quickly, “Still, it is hard to believe.”
         “A year past he hath ne’er seen my 
face.  A year past I wast a man and still human.”
         Egland chewed his cud and in between 
bites said, “I had already changed.  It was not 
an easy time.  Alone here without friends, both 
my legs broken, and in a strange body to boot!”
         “Did the curse not heal you?” asked the 
strange creature who hunched near 
Falkirk.  Egland regarded the merchant’s son, 
truly noting him for the first time.  His face 
was narrow, bereft of ears, with small eyes, and 
a russet colour.  His hands curled forward, his 
long digging claws almost larger than the hands 
themselves.  A long tail winded behind him, the 
end curling back, along which rose a tough scaly 
hide.  He’d never seen anything else like him at 
Metamor, but he’d already forgotten what he’d 
said he was.  Though small of stature, Egland 
realized that he could only be a few short years younger than he.
         “It did heal me, but it took its time 
about it,” Egland replied. “I had already been in 
the valley several days when my legs were crushed.”
         His small eyes widened, his voice 
brimming with sudden delight. “You were the 
knights who came with the Patriarch!  Oh tell me what was he like?”
         Egland cast a quick glance at the Duke’s 
bride, and she nodded.  While the tailor’s 
apprentice continued to recite measurements, 
Alberta told of Patriarch Akabaieth as if 
speaking of a dream. “He wast a great man of the 
Ecclesia.  He didst not speak much with either of 
us, but we wert knights, and not privy to his 
inner most thoughts.  He didst break bread with 
us many times on our journey from Yesulam; I 
recall his reverence for Yahshua and His mother, 
and wish I couldst bear it in my own life.  His 
wast the most inspiring of presences.  The world 
shalt grieve his loss for many years, good Kendrick.”
         That was the boy’s name!  Egland nodded 
and added, “Dame Alberta is right, 
Kendrick.  Patriarch Akabaieth was the greatest 
leader of our faith we could have had.  Many 
times I wish I could have given my life in his 
defence, but that is not what Eli had planned for me.”
         Kendrick made the sign of the yew with a 
precision surprising given his huge claws. “I 
heard that you were trying to start a capitular order here at Metamor.”
         The boy’s father gave him an arched 
stare, but Kendrick didn’t seem to notice.  Not 
that Egland would have been likely to consider 
him for even a squire.  Despite his prodigious 
claws, his body was not shaped for combat. “Aye, 
I would like to.  But our faith is not so 
prosperous here yet that we can find enough knights to join.”
         “Well,” Kendrick added, giving his 
father a quick glance, “if you do, consider the 
Urseil family when it comes time to fashion your 
tabards.  We have many cloths that will allow 
your flesh to breathe but will not tear at the 
first prick of a branch.”  Falkirk nodded 
approvingly, before busying himself with the many 
sample cloths that they’d brought with them to Egland’s house.
         Alberta smiled to him, and all Egland 
could do, so surprised had he been by the 
suggestion, was nod his head and scratch his 
antlers against the wall.  He took a step from 
the wall and glared at the gouge he’d made in the 
wooden panelling.  Alberta laughed politely.
         Turning back to the odd thing that was 
Kendrick, he did his best to smile. “We’d be 
happy to use your fine cloths for our 
tabards.  Now find us some more knights and we’d be even happier.”
         “I don’t think I can help you there, Sir 
Egland,” Kendrick admitted, his paws rubbing over 
one another so deftly that his claws never touched.
         “Well,” Tobias announced in a loud voice 
that threatened to jump an octave or two, “we 
have all of our measurements.  Perhaps you can 
decide on what fabric to use so I can begin?”
         Alberta nodded, stepping daintily on the 
threadbare carpet to the table at which Falkirk 
had arrayed his wares.  She did not bother 
donning any of her clothes either, a fact that 
made Egland twitch in embarrassment.  What would 
their liege Duke Thomas say when he learned that 
his bride had been thoroughly inspected by no 
less than half a dozen men prior to his wedding night?
         A brief flash of memory reminded him how 
exactly these two had courted, and he knew that 
Duke Thomas would not be concerned at 
all.  Alberta had already seen everything he had 
to offer as a man, and probably had already 
touched it and cleaned it as a master to a 
beast.  There love was more intimate than the mere confines of flesh.
         Egland watched as Falkirk and Kendrick 
held out bits of various different fabrics for 
Alberta’s inspection.  She dismissed a few as too 
chaffing on her body, but others she found 
pleasing and those they saved.  But the elk could 
not focus on the fabrics, the merchants, the 
tailor, or even on Alberta’s equine body.
         Just thinking about the love Alberta 
shared with the Duke reminded him of his squire, 
Intoran.  Intimate yes, they had intimacy, but 
there in it lay the sure knowledge that their 
love could only ever be for a time.  One day 
Intoran would be a knight as well, a knight with 
his own squire.  They would have their separate 
lives again, and while they would always be 
close, their love could never be the same.
         Nor could it ever be the same as that 
which Alberta and Duke Thomas shared.  He idly 
wondered if his backwardness was the curse he’d once thought it.
         “Yes, that’s a very fine selection,” 
Falkirk said at long last.  Alberta smiled 
warmly, and wrapped the short bit of cloth over 
her chest. “Ah, it is soft and so warm too!  This will be perfect.”
         “Master Tobias,” Falkirk said, “tell me 
how much you need, and my son will see it delivered to your shop.”
         The two age regressed men talked of 
their trade, while Alberta rushed to Egland’s 
side, a look of girlish delight in her features. 
“Is this not wonderful!  Master Tobias shalt make 
my wedding gown from this!” She held up the white 
section of cloth.  Egland brushed his fingers 
across it, and found the surface smooth with an 
easy give.  It reflected the light in a 
continuous sheen, so tightly wound were the threads.
         “That does seem very elegant.”
         Alberta hooked one arm under his and 
leaned in close, her thick lips nearly teasing 
his shoulder. “And I have a favour to ask thee, 
dear Ts’amut.  ‘Tis tradition for the bride’s 
father to see her down the aisle.  I hath no 
father to see me off, and so I ask thee.  Wilt 
thee see me down the aisle to my husband?”
         Egland blinked in sudden surprise.  He 
would give her away?  His heart beat faster and 
he nodded. “Of course, my Yisaada, I will give 
you to your husband.  In a way, I have been 
giving you away since we arrived at Metamor.”
         Her smile faded, but it still lurked in 
her eyes. “Aye, but we shalt ever be knightly 
companions.  Do not think that married life will 
take me from the saddle!  Perish the evil thought!”
         He couldn’t help himself; he laughed 
warmly and hugged her tight. “Ah, thank you for 
that, my Yisaada.  You will make him very happy, 
I know.”  He would give up more than a bride.  In 
his mind he saw the man whom Alberta had once 
been.  He could almost imagine him waving goodbye.
         “Then you too will need to be dressed as 
fine as can be.  Come, take off thy clothes, and 
allow Master Tobias to take thy measurements!” Alberta tugged on his arm.
         “But I have clothes!” Egland protested. “I cannot afford his prices.”
         “My husband hath promised to spare no 
expense, and neither shalt we.  Come, I dost 
insist that my Ts’amut shouldst look his finest 
at my wedding!” The merchant and tailor gave each 
other appraising looks and then chuckled to 
themselves.  Although Tobias ceased when he 
realized he’d have yet another garment to fashion in six week’s time.
         “Very well!  I shall indulge you, my 
Yisaada!” Egland conceded.  While Albeta watched 
with delight, the elk proceeded to remove his 
clothes.  He suddenly hoped that Intoran did not 
return too quickly from his daily chores.

----------

         To the east, the jagged spires of the 
Vysehrad pierced into the sombre gold of an 
Autumn twilight.  But in every other direction, 
the gentle roll of the Steppe stretched beyond 
the reach of their eyes.  Snow topped several 
mountaintops and had ever since they’d journeyed 
far enough east to see them.  But now for the 
first time the Magyars felt the cool air of 
coming Winter in each touch of the steady breeze.
         Nemgas hunched forward in the carriage 
seat as the tired horses hauled them northwards a 
league or so from the hilly base of the 
mountains.  He pulled his brightly-coloured tunic 
tight around his chest, but the insistent wind 
teased his cheeks and neck, promising worse in 
the months to come.  The fingers of his left hand 
flexed around the reins, calluses rubbing against 
worn leather.  Amile had already cleverly removed 
the golden thread that had once decorated it and 
marked it as belonging to the Ecclesia.
         In fact, the entire carriage had been 
stripped of the many symbols of the Ecclesia 
after they’d left Yesulam.  It had once belonged 
to the now dead Bishop Jothay, the very Bishop 
who had sent the Driheli to kill them.
         Nemgas well remembered the day they 
learned the Driheli were chasing them.  They’d 
reached Barchumba on their way south, the great 
defile that afforded them entry to the upper 
reaches of the Vysehrad.  They ambushed a 
scouting party of two knights and their squires, 
one of whom would later become a Magyar and take 
the name Grastalko.  Into the Vysehrad they’d 
fled, all the way to the lost city Hanlo o 
Bavol-engro, known as Carethedor to its 
builders.  There, in the centre of the city, they 
found the grave of Pelain of the Suielman Empire; 
and he learned that Pelain had once climbed the 
terrible Cenziga, for he had also been cleft in twain, like Nemgas and Kashin.
         He looked down at the stump of his right 
arm, and beyond to the jewelled blade sheathed at 
his side.  Somehow the power of Cenziga had 
protected him against Jothay and that terrible 
Sword of Yajakali, though he still didn’t 
understand how.  But it had not protected, nor 
had it saved his boy, Pelurji.  Pelurji had been 
struck by the bones of the undead dragon when it 
had died, and he had never woken since.  Was he 
awake now, somewhere far away with the other 
Magyars in their wagons, wondering where his new father had gone?
         Nemgas sighed and stared at the horizon 
stretching far away into the distance.  Scrub and 
long grasses bent under the wind’s hand, lone 
trees rising up in protest, short and squat, 
their empty branches shaking angrily at the 
darkening sky.  They had passed Barchumba only a 
week past.  Soon they would near the city of 
Pelurji’s birth, Cheskych.  Of all the 
settlements nestled at the Vysehrad’s feet, 
Cheskych was the only one that could truly be 
called a city.  Tall cliffs rose up on either 
side, and from those cliffs Pelain had mounted 
tall mirrors to bring sunlight no matter the hour 
of the day.  A small waterfall just south of the 
city formed the river that supplied the city’s 
water, and around it sprang a modest forest and 
arable fields to provide them lumber and food.
         But it was more than the birth place of 
Pelurji his son.  Pelaeth, Pelurji’s elder 
brother lived there still.  Both of them had 
yearned to be named after Pelain, and only after 
meeting their true father, had Nemgas come to 
realize that naming them so had not been merely 
the work of convenience; they were Pelain’s 
descendants and heirs.  Nemgas possessed both 
sets of Pelain’s armour, and both copies of his 
great sword Caur-Merripen.  One set of these rightfully belonged to Pelaeth.
         Behind him, the door to the carriage 
opened and Gamran slid out and deposited himself 
on the bench next to Nemgas.  The little thief 
did not smile, though as always he worked his 
juggling balls in one hand.  Eager eyes met 
Nemgas, and then stared at the land around 
them.  He pulled his arms closer to his chest. 
“‘Tis chillier than I didst expect!  Where did the warmth go?”
         “‘Tis no colder than any autumn day upon 
the Steppe,” Nemgas replied. “We lingered too 
long ‘neath Yesulam’s sun.  ‘Tis a far warmer 
land than any Magyar hath need of.”
         Gamran shrugged and turned the balls 
around his fingers. “Nae, but ‘twould feel delightful upon my skin!”
         “‘Twould indeed!” Nemgas smiled faintly.  It hurt to do so.
         The little thief leaned back and nodded 
to the darkening sky. “Thou hast brought us far 
this day, Nemgas.  Didst thee intend to let the 
horses take their rest, or wast thy plan to see 
us all the way to the enchanted wood ere we stop?”
         “Nae,” Nemgas admitted.  He straightened 
and examined the land before them.  Thirty yards 
ahead he saw a promising hillock and nodded 
towards it. “That shouldst protect us from the wind.  What thinks thee?”
         Gamran tossed one of his balls in the 
air and it landed squarely on his flop hat. “I shalt start on the fire!”
         Only half an hour later, a meagre stew 
bubbled over the fire as the Magyars huddled 
beneath the hill’s lee.  Amile and Pelgan hunched 
over the stew pot taking turns stirring.  Chamag 
leaned against the hill sharpening his 
axe.  Kaspel sat on top of the wagon watching the 
horizon, his bow laying in his legs.  Gamran 
continued to juggle his balls, but now he tended 
the horses with Gelel, both following them as 
they grazed.  Nemgas stared at the mountains, rubbing absently at his stump.
         “What sayeth ye?” Chamag asked as he ran 
the whetstone across the axe blade.  The metal 
gave a shrill cry at each stroke. “We hath 
another month ere we see the others?”
         Everyone’s eyes turned to 
Nemgas.  Though each of them were just as 
familiar with the Steppe, it was to Nemgas that 
they all looked for answers.  He drummed his 
knuckles in the stubby grass and shook his head. 
“Cheskych lies yet to the North.  ‘Twill be six 
wees to reach Vysehrad’s tip, and for that we 
must traverse the enchanted wood.”
         “Couldst they hath come that way 
already?” Gelel asked, hands making signs to ward 
off evil. “Couldst they be coming south towards us now?”
         “Aye,” Nemgas replied. “We couldst see 
them soon.  But I dost not believe we shalt see them for a few weeks more.”
         Gelel’s face fell, which these days did 
not take much.  Not a one of them didn’t feel the 
emptiness brought on by Berkon’s death.  Nemgas 
cast a quick glance at Kaspel, but the archer and 
Berkon’s closest friend wasn’t paying 
attention.  He kept his eyes to the south, 
staring with a focus that befit the watchman.
         “We wilt need to steal more supplies to 
last that long,” Amile pointed out.  She gestured 
at the brimming stew, while Pelgan retrieved 
their small bowls.  The stew would not be much, 
but it would take the edge off their 
hunger.  Their stomachs had not ceased 
complaining since they left the Holy Land. 
“Cheskych hath vast stores, and we shouldst be able to take many things there.”
         Nemgas shook his head. “Nae, we shalt steal nothing from Cheskych.”
         Gamran dropped his balls. “What?  Why 
not?  We hath greater need than they!  Besides, 
we stole nothing when we sojourned there last.”
         Chamag grunted and set his axe and 
whetstone aside, “They didst pay us fair 
recompense for our performances last time.  We didst not need to steal.”
         “‘Tis a poor excuse!” Gamran declared.
         “We shalt not steal this time,” Nemgas 
announced, standing and stretching out his stump, 
“because I wish to enter the city myself.”
         “Why?” Pelgan asked as he gave Amile the 
bowls.  She began to spoon out a small portion of 
the stew in each.  All the Magyars apart from Kaspel came to get theirs.
         Nemgas waited for the others to have 
their food first. “I wish to speak to Pelaeth, 
and to give him one of the swords.”
         “Give him?  But he art not a Magyar!” Pelgan objected.
         “Nae, but he be a descendent of Pelain, 
and I wouldst err if I should keep it.” Nemgas 
saw the hurt looks in their faces, and shook his 
head. “I wilt see while I am there if I can 
procure some food, but I wilt not steal from 
them.  Nor am I asking thy permission to see Pelaeth.  I must do this.”
         Amile tapped the ladle on the side of 
the pot and stared at him.  Her eyes appraised 
him, sympathetic and soft. “Because of Pelurji?”
         “Aye,” Nemgas sighed and did his best to 
smile. “We hath a few days yet, but I wanted thee 
to know.  I must return to Cheskych.”
         “Why not,” Chamag grunted. “Thou hast 
not led us astray thus far.  Kaspel?” He handed a 
bowl of stew to the archer, but Kaspel did not 
turn, so intent was his gaze.  Chamag frowned and 
knocked his knee with the bowl. “Kaspel!  Thy stew!”
         Kaspel snapped around, his face pale. 
“Ah!  Thank thee!” Kaspel took it and began to 
eat rapaciously.  Nemgas stared at the southern 
horizon, curious what the archer had seen, other 
than the gentle hills, he glimpsed nothing at 
all.  Nevertheless, he and the others hunkered 
closer to the fire to ward off a sudden chill wind.

----------

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

Charles Matthias