[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LVII

[C. Matthias]

And here we have Chapter 57!  I'm going to take a 
break from this and get some editting done on 
some other stories, so it'll be a while before the next part comes out.

Metamor Keep: The Last Tale of Yajakali
By Charles Matthias

Chapter LVII

A Corruption of Blood


         At first, the Åelfwood seemed no 
different from any other forest that Grastalko 
had ever seen.  The trees began intermittently as 
the grasses gave way first to scrub and low 
brush, and then finally all of it gave way to the 
wooden sentinels.  Hanaman spent a long time 
consulting with Dazheen before he entered the 
forest.  With the trees so tall and close 
together, he needed a path wide enough for them to pass through.
         But enter they finally did at about 
midday.  The Assingh brayed as they entered the 
wood, but their cries were quickly subdued once 
they had the canopy of trees overhead.  So late 
in the year, Grastalko was surprised to see that 
most of the trees still had their leaves.  Some 
were still green, though most were a rich blend of orange and maroon.
         And then there were the strange ones 
that bore needles.  Long and flimsy to sharp and 
short, he saw them all in just the first few 
minutes within the Åelfwood.  Grastalko couldn’t 
ever rememberer seeing such a rich variety of 
trees.  Back in the countryside around 
Stuthgansk, the only trees they ever saw had 
leaves that changed colour on a firm 
schedule.  They would rely on the leaves turning 
a bright yellow in the middle of May and then 
falling off by the middle of June.
         Not so here in this strange land.  The 
other Magyars became even more furtive than they 
had been before.  Grastalko knew that even if he 
wanted to try talking with any of them they would 
say but a few words and then clam up again.  How 
could they dare to speak in this enchanted land 
where all of them feared being captured by the 
forest spirits and turned into an animal?
         As was now accepted practice, Grastalko 
was asked to guide one of the wagons each 
day.  Normally he would have company from one of 
the older Magyars, but as many as could hid in 
the wagons now.  If they did not see the forest 
all around them then they were not vulnerable to 
the wiles of the spirits.  He wondered what it 
meant that Hanaman had assumed he would be willing to risk the spirits wrath.
         Grastalko sighed and let the Assingh 
follow the wagon in front of him.  They plodded 
along at an even slower pace now.  Dazheen’s 
foresight had brought them to a winding path 
through the woods mostly free of brush and also 
mostly level.  But still the Magyars had to hold 
on tight as the wagon wheels caught on roots and 
rocks and rolled over little hillocks on either 
side.  They rocked back and forth, and several 
times Grastalko could hear swearing from inside 
his wagon as the forest road jostled them about.
         Suddenly something else caught his 
ear.  A clatter arose in the branches overhead, 
raining down small twigs and leaves.  A flock of 
crows cawed and took flight, ringing about the 
trees through which the Magyars 
passed.  Grastalko held his bad arm overhead as 
the foliage fell.  A leaf landed on what remained 
of his hand and instantly caught flame.  He 
swallowed as he watched the yellow leaf shrivel 
and burn into black ash.  It was gone before he 
could even think to brush it free.
         The others made signs to ward off evil 
as they trembled and stared at the 
crows.  Grastalko made the sign of the yew with 
his good hand, then glanced from side to side to 
see if anything else would come upon them.  But 
apart from the crows, the forest was 
empty.  Trees waited all around, stones upthrust 
through their roots, brush clinging to their 
sides, mushrooms scaling them like stairwells, 
and their leaves a sombre raiment.  They and the 
crows, Grastalko thought, were both valediction 
and warning.  The forest knew they were there.
         The crows settled down and returned to 
their roosts once the Magyars and their wagons 
had passed them by.  Grastalko could see that his 
fellow Magyars held their breath, and he realized 
with some chagrin that he did too.  What was it 
that he feared in these woods?  To become a 
mindless beast, or a tree which could neither 
move nor think?  Would such a pain be worse than 
every day seeing the one he loved but could never have?
         He sighed and pondered that thought as 
the wagon lurched and bumped forward through the woods.

         Though the path they followed twisted, 
turned, and led them through shallow streams and 
over piles of rock and brush, it never completely 
disappeared.  Their progress was slow but it was 
also steady.  Because it jostled them so, Hanaman 
bade them with hand signals to take frequent 
breaks that they might recover from nausea before continuing on.
         He also bade them not to wander from the 
wagons.  In a forest as immense as this, it would 
be very easy to become lost and disoriented.  He 
didn’t even want them to leave the sides of the 
wagons let alone their sight.  Grastalko did not 
mean to disobey, but he felt weary and needed a 
solitude he could never have amongst the Magyars.
         So after checking his Assingh for any 
cuts or scrapes after pushing through the 
undergrowth, he walked to the nearest tree and 
put his good hand on its rough bark.  It felt 
warm to his touch, but not uncomfortably so.  He 
set his feet on its gnarled roots and climbed 
around the trunk until he had the tree between 
him and the wagons.  Between two large roots he 
saw a hollow filled with soft, green moss.  He 
smiled to himself and sat between the roots, 
resting his arms upon them and imagining it a magnificent, upholstered throne.
         The forest beyond their little track was 
filled with soft light coloured yellow from all 
the leaves.  The sun shone through in patches as 
a light breeze moved the branches.  He watched 
those rays of light dance and shift from one spot 
to the next and could easily believe it was really fairies.
         He hadn’t had a moment truly to himself 
in so long now he almost forgot what it was 
like.  The Magyars were people he had grown to 
love and care about, but they were always 
there.  He knew it was their greatest strength 
that they would always be there for each 
other.  But no matter whether he was inside the 
wagon or on top, or even if he took a walk away 
from them while they camped, another Magyar was 
only a few feet away.  Even now all that 
separated him from his fellows was this large 
tree, a tree he couldn’t even name.
         But perhaps for a few minutes it would be enough.
         Grastalko leaned his head back and 
closed his eyes.  He heard only the soughing of 
the wind through the leaves and the quiet 
complaints of the Assingh.  He could feel 
everything around him, from the tough bark of the 
tree, to the tender cushion of moss beneath 
him.  Somewhere above a bird nested in the tree, 
as well as a family of squirrels.  He could sense 
their claws pricking at the bark and knew a mother’s compassion for them.
         The earth framed him around and he could 
feel his toes pushing into it, eager to find its 
life.  A great warmth filled him at each brush of 
the sun’s rays.  The wind pulled through his 
hair, clattering each strand against every 
other.  Nearby he felt a wagon wheel pressing 
down on him, and he felt dismay at it.  But 
understanding too, as well as a question.  It 
lurked at the back of his mind, and though he 
could not put it into words he knew the answer was very important.
         A hand grabbed him and shook 
him.  Grastalko blinked his eyes open, and 
brushed green leaves from his hair.  Adlemas 
stood next to him, a fearful look in his 
eyes.  With one hand he hauled Grastalko to his 
feet and dragged him back around the other side 
of the tree.  His eyes vacillated between fear 
and anger.  The young Magyar felt ashamed of 
causing such distress, and a sense of emptiness he couldn’t explain.
         After Adlemas forced him back up his 
wagon, he stared at the tree and tried to 
understand just what had happened.  Had it 
offered him a glimpse of what life as a tree was 
like?  Is that how Shapurji lived now, with such 
tender concern for the little creatures who made him a home?
         He pondered that with a smile as they 
continued through the forest.  Their path 
remained as unsteady as ever, but they never 
encountered anything the wagons couldn’t 
cross.  When the light began to fade, Hanaman 
stopped the wagons and instructed everyone to eat 
from their stores.  Nothing was to be cooked that 
night.  Grastalko munched on an apple, but had to 
do so inside his wagon with the others his 
age.  Neither Rabji nor Volay would say aught, 
and for once Grastalko was glad for their silence.
         He wondered what Bryone was doing.  Did 
Dazheen teach her how to find their way through 
the woods with her runes?  Did she think of 
him?  He growled at himself for such 
foolishness.  She could never be his.  Only a 
mage could wed a seer of the Magyars, and he was no mage.
         And without two good hands what was he 
for the Magyars?  An extra in their pageant?  Was 
he anything more except another body to them?  He 
should never have become a Magyar.  He’d been 
born to knighthood, but that was gone from 
him.  And with his hand destroyed and Bryone a 
seer, all that mattered to him as a Magyar was gone too.
         He lay awake thinking these very 
things.  Grastalko pondered what he could do, and 
the answer seemed obvious.  An offer had been 
made to him that day, and he knew how to 
accept.  Still, it took him several hours to work 
up the courage to crawl out of bed and take 
Rabji’s hatchet from its drawer.  And it took him 
several minutes once dressed only in his linens 
to open the door and crawl off his wagon.
         He could barely see anything in the 
woods.  A few Magyars stayed up to keep watch, 
but his wagon was not guarded.  If he was 
careful, he could slip off without anyone 
noticing.  Grastalko hunched by the door to his 
wagon and waited until his eyes adjusted to the 
darkness.  He could make out the silhouette of 
the trees, and very faintly he could see their 
roots along the ground.  From all around they 
heard the distant hooting of owls.
         Grastalko carefully eased himself off 
the wagon. He set one bare foot on the ground and 
waited a full minute before putting the second 
down.  He glanced from side to side to see if any 
one was watching.  He couldn’t see the Magyar 
ahead of him, but there was one sitting on the 
wagon behind his.  It was Adlemas.  Grastalko 
crouched as low as he could while Adlemas stared 
warily at the forest around them.
         It was another minute before Adlemas 
turned to stare behind him.  Grastalko crawled 
forward, climbing over a small rise and then down 
behind the line of trees framing their path.  He 
lay there on a tangled mob of roots to catch his 
breath and still his heart which pounded like a 
hammer.  Something dashed out of the underbrush 
at his feet and he had to catch the scream in his throat.
         Whatever it had been disappeared into 
the night.  A rabbit perhaps?  Grastalko closed 
his eyes and pressed the back of his head against 
the tree trunk.  He felt the stirring of leaves 
around him, and his fingers curled more tightly 
around the hatchet.  No, this was too close to 
the wagons.  They might suffer too.
         Grastalko turned onto his elbows and 
knees and crawled forward, doing his best not to 
rustle the fallen leaves.  As he climbed past 
first one tree and then a second, he kept 
wondering what he was doing.  Was there any sense 
in it?  Had it taken only a single day for the wood to drive him mad?
         But what other choice did he have now 
that his life as a Magyar was meaningless?
         Grastalko rose to a crouch after passing 
his third tree.  He glanced behind him but the 
line of wagons was lost in the darkness.  They 
would still be able to hear him, and doubtless 
the forest spirits knew where they were.  He 
crept along the forest floor, his one hand 
feeling along the roots and brambles that 
littered the ground.  He savoured the sweet 
blankets of moss that cushioned his knees.  He 
pressed his toes into the soil and shuddered at 
the tingling sensation that raced through them.
         When he could no longer hear the faint 
snorting of the Assingh behind him, he rose and 
walked at a steady pace, doing his best to keep 
moving straight.  He walked this way for several 
minutes, gaining confidence with each 
step.  Quite suddenly, the trees parted and he 
was in a very small clearing in which stood a 
single tree.  Its branches swept wide over the 
bed of moss and grass, and a gibbous moon shone 
silver on each nook and cranny of the gnarled bark.
         Grastalko stumbled into the clearing, 
digging his toes in the dirt, his whole body 
feeling as if it were ready to stretch upwards 
and claw at the sky.  His left hand throbbed, and 
he felt the fire there smoulder and hiss.  He 
wrapped his good hand around the hatchet and 
stepped closer to the tree.  His feet seemed 
unusually heavy, and he had to yank his knees 
upwards to take each step.  A part of him kept 
wondering if he shouldn’t just stand still and 
hold up his arms like this magnificent tree.
         And then for a moment, he froze.  A wind 
carried through the branches, cascading the 
leaves down around him and over his face.  He 
couldn’t see their colour, but they brushed by 
him with a misery he couldn’t describe.  He waved 
his right arm in front of his face, and winced 
when each leaf plucked free from his cheeks.
         The moon shone through the branches just 
right for a moment, and in that moment Grastalko 
saw something in the way the gnarled bark folded 
on itself.  There before him, impossible large 
and spanning the width of the trunk, gazed 
unseeing a face locked in repentance.
         He shook his head and took the last few 
steps.  He laid the flat of the hatchet against 
the tree’s bark, and whispered quietly. “If thou 
art Shapurji, I wilt take thy place rooted in 
these grounds.  Thou wert a much better Magyar 
than I couldst e’er hope to be.”  The wind moaned 
in the branches, and all around him the forest 
groaned.  Goose bumps ran down his flesh, he 
closed his eyes, and raised the hatchet to swing.
         And then he screamed when somebody 
grabbed his arm from behind.  He was spun about 
and stared face to face with Hanaman. “What by 
all the gods art thee doing?” he spat each 
whispered word, eyes livid.  The line of wagons 
rested behind him, one of the Assingh lazily 
grazing the grass at Hanaman’s feet.
         Grastalko stared, unable to speak.  How 
had he come here?  He’d just been in a clearing with Shapurji’s tree!
         Hanaman yanked him back a pace and then 
dragged him towards his wagon. “Get thee 
inside!  Give me that hatchet, fool 
boy!”  Grastlako let the Magyar leader take the 
hatchet away, and he stumbled as he climbed into 
Hanaman’s wagon.  His whole body trembled.
         Hanaman’s wagon was warm like all of 
them, with a single lantern set on the table next 
to a mirror.  The light reflected in a faint glow 
around the small room.  Curtains concealed the 
sleeping quarters Hanaman shared with his wife, 
Zhenava.  A pair of chairs sat next to a small 
table.  He could faintly smell one of Zhenava’s perfumes lingering in the air.
         “Sit!” Hanaman bit the word as he pulled 
the wagon door closed.  His haggard face glowered 
at the boy.  Grastalko slumped into the far chair 
and wished his heart would just stop.  Hanaman 
set the hatchet on the shelf and took a deep 
breath. “I didst warn all not to harm anything in 
this wood.  Thou hast heard the tale of Shapurji, hath thee not?”
         Suddenly, his tongue came to life. “Adlemas told me.”
         “Then what wert thee doing?  Dost thou wish to be a tree too?”
         Grastalko stared at him for several 
seconds, trying to find the words to say to 
explain himself.  But Hanaman became blurry all 
of a sudden.  He wiped his eyes, and discovered 
that he’d begun crying.  How long had it been 
since he’d cried?  Neither the Driheli nor the 
Magyars had ever shown much tolerance for a man’s tears.
         Hanaman stood silent and watched as 
Grastalko tried in vain to dry his eyes.  There 
was no end to them!  Surely Hanaman would lock 
him in his wagon to keep others from seeing what a child he was.
         The leader of the Magyars opened a 
drawer and pulled something out.  Grastalko felt 
firm fingers grab his chin, and a cloth pressed 
over his cheeks. “Thou hast something on thy 
face, Grastalko.  I shalt clean it for thee.”
         There was something in those words that 
seemed so out of keeping with Hanaman.  Grastalko 
felt the misery in his heart lighten at that 
almost gentle tone.  He stared at the man and let 
him dry his tears.  Hanaman rubbed firmly a few 
more times then sat down in the other chair. 
“Thou art much better.  Now, tell me what thou wast doing this night.”
         “I canst be a Magyar,” he said.  There, 
the words had left his mouth.  If he expected 
Hanaman to grow angry again, he was 
disappointed.  Instead, the man nodded and 
gestured for him to continue. “I hath but one 
good hand, so I canst juggle or any of the other 
games.  I hath no skill with song, or with 
poetry.  I dost not wish to thief.  What be there 
for me to do?  Nothing!  And the one whom I wish 
to be with thou hast forbidden me from!”
         Grastalko felt the tears coming 
back.  He balled his one good hand into a fist 
and beat his thigh. “I art so alone!  I hath nothing to love or to be!”
         Hanaman offered him the handkerchief, 
but Grastalko waved it away.  He would not give 
into tears again.  He clawed at his leggings and 
wiggled his toes.  He could still feel the dirt 
lodged in his toenails.  Had he really been 
trying to turn them into tree roots?  His walk 
through the forest seemed almost a dream now, and 
it had only happened a few minutes ago!
         He tried to look at Hanaman, but his 
eyes kept sliding away from the Magyar’s stony 
countenance. “But what else can I be?  I wilt 
ne’er be a knight with only one good hand.  I 
know nothing in these lands apart from the 
Magyar’s ways.  I doth care for the other 
Magyars, but I can do nothing for any of them!  I 
be of no use to anyone, and no one understands it.”
         “Thou didst not know my son, Hanalko,” Hanaman said in a low voice.
         Grastalko shook his head.  The only 
thing he remembered about Hanalko was the day 
that Nemgas returned with the boy’s dead 
body.  That had been just before Nemgas had made 
him choose to be a Magyar and the jewelled blade 
had burned his left hand.  He couldn’t even 
summon a single memory of the boy when he’d been alive.
         Hanaman took a deep breath and then 
sighed. “He wast ne’er very gifted at juggling or 
tumbling.  Nor wast he good at poetry or 
storytelling.  But the other boys didst follow 
him.  Just as the younger men follow Nemgas and 
the older men look to me.  And I hath seen that 
the boys thy age dost follow thee, Grastalko.  Thou hast a place here.”
         “Then why doth I not feel it?”
         “Thou art young,” Hanaman replied. “We 
hath all felt out of place, strangers e’en in our 
own skin, at thy age.  And thou must put Bryone 
behind thee.  In time thou wilt find another to love.”
         “I dost not want another.  I want Bryone!”
         Hanaman sighed and put one hand on 
Grastalko’s knee. “Boy, thou art the one causing 
thee thy pain.  But I wouldst lie to thee if I 
told thee thy wound wouldst heal soon.  I know it 
wilt not.  But thou art ne’er alone as a 
Magyar.  Thou art welcome in my wagon whene’er 
thou needst to be a son to another.”
         Grastalko finally managed to meet 
Hanaman in the face. “Thou wouldst be as a father to me?”
         “Aye, but know that I am not thy 
father.  My true son hath died.  I wilt ne’er 
hath another.  But I wilt be as a father to thee, 
because thou dost need it almost as much as I 
dost need a son.” There was such warmth in his 
voice, that Grastalko could scarcely believe that 
it came from Hanaman.  Was he still dreaming?
         Hanaman stood, bent over him, and then 
kissed him on the forehead.  He smiled, a true 
smile that dispelled the cracks and finely 
chiselled cheeks.  There could be no mistaking 
it, a moment so rare that Grastalko felt himself 
nearly cry in thanksgiving.  He knew then that he was not alone after all.
         “I thank thee,” he managed to say, 
quivering in his seat. “But what am I to do?”
         “Tomorrow morning I wilt bring thee to 
Kisaiya.  She dost tend the Assingh, and wilt 
show thee what must be done.  Once a week thou 
wilt take thy meal with me and we shalt discuss 
thy place amongst the Magyars.  Thou hast to do but one thing in return.”
         Grastalko took a deep breath.  The pain 
still lingered, but it no longer seemed as sharp 
as before.  The fog of misery had lifted, and 
strangely, everything around him seemed brighter 
and clearer, as if he were seeing it for the 
first time. “What dost thee wish of me?”
         Hanaman’s smile faded from his cheeks, 
but it remained at the corners of his lips. 
“Return to thy wagon, sleep, and ne’er try to harm the wood again.”
         He laughed unsteadily but nodded. “I 
wilt do as thee say.  I thank thee, Hanaman.  Thou didst save me.”
         “Aye, this night.  But thou wilt learn 
to save thyself too.  Good night, 
Grastalko.  Thou art a Magyar, and thou wilt find thy place.”
         “I know.” He rose and let Hanaman see 
him out.  The Magyar leader said nothing more but 
watched him as he walked down the line of wagons 
to his own.  The ground felt hard and unwelcoming beneath his feet.

----------

         On the western edge of the Questioner 
temple was a common area with a garden in which 
the many vegetables they subsided on were 
grown.  A path moved in a circle from one wing of 
the temple to the other, and along that were 
fourteen statues, one for each station of the 
yew.  Against the western wall was a small 
platform of stone.  From there a single 
Questioner could address all of their order 
assembled in Yesulam.  Other than the chapel 
itself, it was the only place in their temple 
large enough that all could gather.
         That morning they had gathered and after 
singing the morning prayers, Father Felsah had 
addressed them and informed them of the choice 
that now came before them.  He’d spoken briefly 
about Grand Questioner Mizrahek’s decision to 
retire to a monastery in Sonngefilde, and managed 
to say nothing of the reason why.  Despite 
Mizrahek’s betrayal, not a one of them would utter a scornful word about him.
         But now the time had come for a new 
Grand Questioner.  Each of them were to spend the 
day meditating and listening to Eli’s voice as 
they decided whom to vote for as Mizrahek’s successor.
         When evening came, the Questioners 
gathered in the garden again, and this time, 
Father Akaleth stepped forward and led them in 
prayer.  Their voices rose into the heavens and 
reverberated from either wing of the Questioner 
temple, a sonorous thing that shaped their hearts 
and mind, all in praise and thanksgiving to Eli, 
His Son Yahshua, and His Most Holy Spirit.
         As the last echoes of the final chord 
faded with the dying sun, Father Akaleth bowed 
his head prayerfully and chanted, “This is the 
time of election.  Let your voices be heard.  And let the voice of Eli speak!”
         One by one, moving in the circle from 
left to right, each Questioner spoke a single 
name.  Father Akaleth noted it on a scroll with 
quick dashes to keep count.  This was the first 
such election that he had ever witnessed, having 
been journeying to Metamor while Mizrahek was 
being elected.  Several names were put forward 
after the first dozen had cast their lots, all of 
them elder Questioners.  But as the day began to 
darken and a lamp had to be brought that he might 
see the scroll, it became clear who would become the new Grand Questioner.
         Father Kehthaek received two votes for 
every vote another received.  Yet when it came to 
Father Kehthaek to cast his vote, he did not vote 
for himself, but another Questioner named 
Thekelsah whom Akaleth knew only by reputation as 
a level-headed priest who spoke little.  After 
Kehthaek had thrown his support to Thekelsah, 
many other Questioners began to support him 
too.  But it was not enough, and after an hour of 
collecting votes, Kehthaek had won.
         Father Akaleth lowered his head in 
prayer again and chanted, “This is the time of 
election.  The choice has been made.  Eli, great 
and merciful, full of justice, calls forth Father Kehthaek to serve.”
         The other Questioners parted to allow 
the white-haired Kehthaek to glide forward.  His 
black robe billowed around his feet, the red 
cross clear and unwrinkled on his front.  His 
face betrayed no emotion, and when he stood 
before Father Akaleth, he did not meet the 
younger priest’s gaze.  He bowed his head and 
clasped his hands before him as if in prayer. “I 
accept this calling from Eli with humble 
heart.  May His wisdom guide me all my days, and 
may Yahshua intercede for me when I fall 
astray.  May His Most Holy Spirit preserve me 
from sin.  May the Ecclesia correct me when I 
err.  And May the Most Holy Mother Yanlin lead me 
into the arms of her son when I die.”
         A quartet of Yesbearn emerged from the 
temple.  One carried a decorative scroll case 
bearing the seal of the Questioner 
order.  Akaleth rolled the parchment up and slid 
it within, then sealed the case and handed it 
back to the Yesbearn.  The knights bowed and left 
the way they’d come.  They would take the results 
to the Patriarch, and in three days time, the 
ceremony of installation would take place.
         Akaleth folded his hands before him in 
prayer. “The time of election has passed.  Go forth and do Eli’s will.”
         “May His will be done forever,” the 
priests replied before slowly 
dispersing.  Kehthaek lifted his eyes and met 
Akaleth’s gaze meaningfully.  The younger priest 
followed that gaze as he climbed down from the rock slab.
         Ten minutes later he and Father Felsah 
knelt in Father Kehthaek’s cell.  The elder 
Questioner led them in a short prayer, and then 
said, “Thank you for assisting in the 
election.  You fulfilled your duties with dignity and with impeccability.”
         “Thank you, Father,” Felsah 
replied.  The dog Rakka that had once belonged to 
Grand Questioner Mizrahek now lay at Felsah’s 
side.  The Questioner drew his fingers through 
the golden furred animal’s back.  Mizrahek was 
not allowed to take the dog wit him when he set 
sail for Sonngefilde, and so Felsah had kept him 
in the order, not as his own pet as he 
steadfastly maintained, but as the friend to all 
who lived in the Questioner temple.
         Akaleth tapped his fingers together. 
“I’m curious why you voted for Father 
Thekelsah.  Surely you knew you would be the next Grand Questioner.”
         “Indeed I did.  But Father Thekelsah is 
a far better manager than I, and far less biassed 
by recent events than I.  I will employ him as he 
ought to be employed in the coming years, just as 
I hope to do with each of you.”
         “Is that why you asked us here?” Felsah asked.
         “It is.  Each of you can play key roles 
in the reform of our order.  That it needs reform 
should come as no surprise.” He turned his eyes 
to Father Akaleth. “How is your sleeve?”
         Akaleth laced his fingers together. “I 
do not reach for it as often as I once did.  But 
I take the meaning of your question.  You do not 
wish to see my old methods employed again.”
         “On the contrary,” Father Kehthaek 
replied, “I have no compunction against its 
sparing use.  It can effectively loosen tongues, 
but it can also make a person say whatever it is 
we want them to say.  That is not the purpose of 
our order.  We must restore it to finding the 
truth, not torturing supposed heretics.”
         “So what would you have of me?” Akaleth asked.
         “The same of both of 
you.  Instruction.  Your experiences can help the 
rest of us learn new ways of seeking truth, ways 
that do not lead us away from Yahshua.  Far too 
many Questioners savour the power they hold over 
those they question.  This must not be.  It is a 
duty, not an opportunity to boast of oneself.”
         “But how are we going to do that?” Felsah asked.
         “That is what we must discuss,” Father 
Kehthaek replied, a faint smiling at the corners 
of his lips. “Ideas.  At present, we Questioners 
are one of the reasons that the heretics cite in 
their rebellion against the Ecclesia.  I do not 
wish us to be a reason for their obstinacy.  Let 
us pray and consider the many ways we might unmask them.”
         Father Felsah nodded and stroked his 
hand down the dog’s back.  Rakka’s tail wagged. 
“Only send Questioners who engender trust into these lands?”
         “That is one,” Kehthaek replied. “Return 
here tomorrow with five such ideas; ideas we can 
implement.  And in a few days time we will begin.”
         Akaleth and Felsah rose and left the new 
Grand Questioner to his nightly prayers.  Rakka 
padded after Felsah with his long tongue dangling 
from his mouth.  Neither priest spoke to the 
other, but they both locked eyes several 
times.  Akaleth could see in Felsah’s eyes that 
his fellow Questioner thought Kehthaek’s newest 
quest would be harder still than all that they’d already accomplished.
         And Akaleth agreed with him.

----------

         For the last week, the Magyars had kept 
him pinned in bed and refused to let him 
outside.  One of them kept watch on him at all 
times, and they were constantly fretting over 
him.  They’d bleed him from his neck, mutter and 
moan over the quality of his blood, and then put 
foul smelling poultices over the wound.
         Kaspel was getting irritated by it 
all.  He just wanted to go outside and be with 
his friend — his master.  His heart ached at the 
thought of Berkon being out there playing his 
song, and Kaspel unable to listen.  He fidgeted 
in the bed, his flesh cold despite the wagon’s 
warmth.  Nemgas, who watched him that night, 
flicked his eyes closer and asked, “Art thee well, Kaspel?”
         Kaspel grunted and let his face droop 
against the pillow.  It was the surest way to 
lose their interest.  A moment later he heard 
Nemgas mutter to himself.  The one-armed man 
rested his hand on the hilt of the jewelled 
blade.  Kaspel’s eyes stared through half-closed 
lids at that blade.  His master wanted it.  But 
how could he ever hope to take it from this man, 
especially when his body felt so weak?
         It wasn’t that he didn’t care about his 
fellow Magyars.  They were his friends too.  But 
they didn’t understand what he needed 
anymore.  They were frightened of what Berkon had 
become, and whispered often of him.  They hadn’t 
seen him since that night, a fact that made 
Kaspel’s heart ache.  If they wanted to see 
Berkon, then they should have only one of them 
keep watch.  This he knew in his heart, but they did not heed his advice.
         Kaspel breathed slowly, stilling the 
anger he felt.  How could he serve his master 
like this? The other Magyars would never 
interfere if they understood.  He hoped that they 
too would give themselves to Berkon that they might all be together again.
         And the one thing that stood between 
them and their reunification was the 
sword.  Kaspel didn’t understand why, but somehow 
it balked Berkon and kept him at bay.  If only he 
could take it from Nemgas somehow, but the 
one-armed Magyar kept it on him at all 
times.  With nothing else to do, he let sleep 
come closer, knowing that one day the Magyars 
would let down their guard and Berkon would bring another under his control.
         Just as he felt himself drifting off, a 
faint snatch of melody caught his ear.  He 
listened to it, feeling the agony in his heart 
begin to fade.  Every touch of that song felt 
like a pleasant heat.  Just like every time he’d 
given himself to Berkon, he’d felt emptier and 
worse than before.  Kaspel latched onto that 
song, letting its tune wax across his spirit.
         And in those strange sounds, he heard 
Berkon’s voice beckon to him. /My friend, dost not reveal thy wakefulness./
         Kaspel kept still but inside he 
rejoiced.  His heart beat faster, and he felt the 
two bite marks on his neck puckering and 
swelling, ready to give more blood to his master.
         /I hath come for thee again, but I canst 
draw near,/ Berkon sung to him.  Kaspel wondered 
why the others couldn’t hear him.  His master’s 
song answered, /‘Tis a song meant only for thee, 
my friend.  I couldst not sing to thee until thy 
body wast prepared enough to hear it.  The others 
wilt ne’er hear it because their blood still 
flows red.  Thy blood art black enough for the music I dost sing./
         Kaspel knew that had to be why his body 
felt so cold.  Berkon was changing him, slowly, 
and carefully, and with loving attention, to 
become more like him.  Berkon’s flesh had always 
felt cold, and he could remember the black blood 
that Berkon had before they’d foolishly buried 
him.  Would Berkon have to do that to him too?
         /Nay, thou needest not rest beneath the 
earth to become whole.  Feel thy teeth and know it to be true./
         Kaspel opened one eye briefly and saw 
that Nemgas still kept watch.  But he kept still 
for his master, apart from his tongue which ran 
along the back of his teeth.  He didn’t feel 
anything at first, but as he listened to Berkon’s 
song, the points on his canines began to 
swell.  He breathed more deeply, almost 
exultantly as he felt his teeth press into his 
tongue.  Yes, that was how it should be.  Just like his master.
         Could he drink from Nemgas’s neck as 
Berkon drank from his?  He felt a hunger inside 
like a fire smouldering and in need of fuel.
         /Nay thou shouldst not drink of 
Nemgas.  Whilst he possesses the sword, thou 
shouldst ne’er attempt it.  And thy blood be not 
pure enough to do aught but wound thy friend.  Thou dost not wish that./
         Berkon was right.  His teeth had grown 
like Berkon’s, but the time was not yet.  But what then could he do to help?
         /The sword.  Bring the sword to me and 
they wilt join us in time.  Let Nemgas think thee asleep.  Go on./
         Kaspel slowed his breathing as he lay 
his cheek against the pillow.  He let his eyes 
close fully, sheltering himself in darkness.  The 
sound of Gelel snoring echoed from the front of 
the wagon.  He heard the creak of wood as Nemgas 
shifted on his stool.  Minutes dragged past as he 
waited, his body so still now that he feared 
Nemgas would think him dead.  But after what 
seemed an eternity of waiting, Berkon’s song returned.
         /Thou art ready now.  I wilt sing 
through thy tongue.  Let the song I sing trill 
from thy lips.  Quietly now.  ‘Tis a song for Nemgas’s ears alone./
         Into his mind flooded the melody, 
twisting and turning, ever sinking 
downwards.  Kaspel’s tongue formed the phrases, 
and the faintest brush of wind bubbled up form 
his throat to play across those notes.  His lips 
broke open in tiny pinpricks to let the notes 
free.  He expected Nemgas to turn and ask him 
what he sung, but the Magyar said 
nothing.  Kaspel’s heart swelled in excitement as 
his tongue danced with the song.
         He could hear more than just his own 
voice.  Berkon sung along with him, first in 
unison, then in harmony, and then in 
counterpoint.  He could hear so much now as the 
song hung over every drop of air.  Nemgas’s 
breathing slowed, and he slumped bit by bit in 
the chair.  From time to time he’d shake himself 
and blink the sleep from his eyes.  But Berkon 
and Kaspel only sung stronger then.
         As Nemgas’s eyes drooped, Kaspel’s 
widened.  For several minutes, Nemgas stared 
bewildered at him.  The Magyar’s lips moved as if 
trying to form words, but no words came.  Kaspel 
shifted in the bed, lips pulling back, eager to 
bring Nemgas into their union.  And then Nemgas 
fell forward, his heavy body pressing Kaspel back down into the bed.
         /Take the sword, my friend.  When thou 
hast brought it to me, I wilt finish thy change. 
Together we wilt claim our friends.  The darkness 
in our blood wilt be in theirs too./
         Kaspel slipped out from underneath 
Nemgas.  The Magyar’s legs were tangled in the 
stool keeping both of them from falling 
down.  Kaspel licked his fangs and stared for a 
moment at the Magyar’s bare neck.  A kiss of 
teeth and it could taste the joyous fire of the black blood.
         But his master had bade him wait.  His 
blood wasn’t pure enough yet to affect a 
transformation.  Kaspel drew his lips closed and 
instead slipped the jewelled blade free from 
Nemgas’s belt.  His hands burned at its touch, 
and he felt an ache in his heart.  It was as if 
something far in the distance wept a bitter lament.
         He bore only his linens, but he no 
longer needed warmth.  Berkon’s voice still 
singing in his mind, he quietly opened the back 
door to the wagon and stepped out into the 
darkness, being careful to close the door behind 
him.  The moon had risen and cast a silverly 
gleam over the Steppe.  On top of the wagon, he 
heard Gamran and Chamag’s voices trying to keep 
each other awake.  They did not sound as if they were succeeding.
         Kaspel took his steps carefully.  He 
could feel the draw of Berkon in the grasses 
ahead.  Even still his feet slowed as if laded 
with lead.  Another voice spoke to him in the 
darkness.  He remembered the bright pageants, the 
laughter, the stories, and the merriment of 
travel that he’d once enjoyed with the other 
Magyars.  It seemed so long ago now, like a dream of a story he’d heard before.
         /Dost not listen to it!/ Berkon’s voice 
cut into his thoughts, foul and oily against 
those beautiful memories.  But there was 
something enticing in the darkness too. /’Twill 
lead thee astray!  Bring me the sword now!/
         Kaspel stepped forward again, the dried 
grasses brushing across his shins.  He felt the 
cool touch of ice on some.  In his hand, the 
sword throbbed like the beating of drums.  He 
shivered, a tremble shuddering through his flesh 
with every beat of those mysterious 
drums.  Overtop of them Berkon’s song grew louder 
and more intense.  Kaspel’s tongue tried to sing 
with it, but every time the tip brushed his 
fangs, he felt his throat clamp shut.
         /Run to me, my friend!  ‘Tis evil and must be destroyed!/
         Kaspel stumbled forward, but the 
pounding shattered his thoughts.  He stumbled and 
fell to the ground.  He wanted to throw the sword 
away so he could crawl to his master and beg his 
forgiveness, but it wouldn’t leave his hand.  He 
swung wildly with his arm, digging gashes in the 
dirt and cleaving grass.  Behind him resounded a heavy crash.
         “Kaspel!” Gamran shouted from the wagon 
top, unhappily roused from his stupor.  H stomped 
on the roof while Chamag jumped to the ground. “Wake up!  ‘Tis Berkon!”
         Kaspel cried in agony as he struggled to 
his feet.  The sword spun its tip inwards and 
nicked his other wrist.  The blood flowed onto the blade tip a bright red.
         From the grasses ahead of him he saw his 
master rise.  His eyes were filled with fury and 
he strode towards him, the sung resounding from 
his throat.  Behind him, the door to the wagon 
burst open and Nemgas leapt towards them.
         Kaspel glanced between them, from the 
rage of his master and the fear and dedication he 
saw in the other Magyars.  He had but moments to 
act.  Both rushed toward him like wind upon grass.
         “Get thee from him!” Nemgas shouted with 
a power in his voice that Kaspel yearned to hearken to.
         The song in his mind, once so sweet and 
inviting, now hideous and dominating, sneered. 
/Thou art mine!  Thy change canst not be 
stopped.  Embrace it and bring me the sword!/ And 
his heart beat richly with the black blood, eager 
and needful of the corruption.
         Kaspel screamed, tears hot in his eyes, 
and drove the sword through his dead 
heart.  Berkon’s scream faded first.  As 
everything grew dim, the Magyar remembered only 
the weeping of his friends who cradled him.

----------

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

Charles Matthias