[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LXI

[C. Matthias]

Metamor Keep: The Last Tale of Yajakali
By Charles Matthias

Chapter LXI

Desire’s Price

         “Yes, she is in, master.  Would you like 
me to summon her?” the acolyte said when Murikeer 
approached her asking about the Lightbringer 
Raven, the gray wolf morph cursed leader of the 
Lothanasi faith in Metamor Keep and much of the Duke’s overall demesne.
         “Please, mistress.”  Murikeer found a 
seat at one of the pews and relaxed for a short 
time while the acolyte went into the back of the 
temple.  In her all-encompassing white robes she 
seemed to float like a ghost until out of 
sight.  The skunk allowed his eyes to wander 
briefly, noting a vaguely familiar hawk perched 
in prayer in a pew closer to the altar.  Before 
he could remember the avian’s name, the acolyte 
returned a short time later and advised Murikeer 
that Raven would receive him in her offices 
through the audience door behind the altar.  With 
a nod of thanks Murikeer crossed to the indicated door and stepped through.
         The impressive lupine figure of the 
Lothanasi Raven hin’Elric was seated behind a 
broad desk in much better repair than the one in 
the infirmary.  Its dark oaken surface gleamed 
with many years of attentive polishing under the 
careful stacks of parchments, ink-pots, maps, and 
liturgical treatises.  She set aside her work of 
the moment and stood as Murikeer entered.
         “Hello again, master Murikeer.  It is 
nice to see you in much better health.”  She 
smiled but only wanly lest the full measure of 
her lupine smile be overbearing.  Something that 
many animal morphed keepers had to learn, 
especially predatory ones, was how much the 
expressions on their muzzles might be taken by 
those they addressed.  Murikeer smiled warmly in 
return.  He had never attended the Lightbringer 
services despite being a follower of the Pantheon 
himself, specifically of Artela.  Other than 
observing the naval interment of the Patriarch 
Akabaieth the previous year, to commit it to 
illusion for those unable to make the journey, he 
had not had the need or opportunity to find himself in her company.
         In fact, the last time he had been seen 
by Raven he’d been little more than a charred 
wreck barely clinging to life after his final 
battle with the mage Thorne.  Once his own 
student, Thorne was the caster of the bolt that 
had been intended for him but had blasted the 
first statue of Ovid I to shards and killed 
Llyn.  There had been only a thin thread of hope 
to bring the skunk back from the brink of 
oblivion and it had taken the combined efforts of 
many;  Raven herself and the other Lothanasi 
healers, the Bishop Vinsah, Coe, and any number 
of others who cared for him during the period of 
his coma and the lengthy recovery that followed.
         Murikeer bowed as he reached the 
desk,  “I’ve you, and so many others, to thank 
for my life, Lightbringer.  It’s a debt that has 
no equal.”  He set his satchel into one of the chairs.
         Raven waved a dismissive hand, “It’s not 
a debt, it’s a charge to do likewise, young 
Murikeer.  And call me Raven.  I am just pleased 
to see you returned to yourself.”
         Murikeer raised a hand to touch his left 
cheek with a fingertip, “Save for the last 
parting gift of the vanquished, anyway.  Are you 
familiar with the refugees that have been arriving during the last few months?”
         “The wretched survivors of 
Bradanes?  Yes.  They were done a truly vile 
turn.  One of them asked about you a few months 
ago, a young lady that had not yet undergone 
Metamor’s touch, swathed in veils and rags to 
hide what the dark magics had done to her.  For a 
time I feared you had been the cause, but through 
her inquiries I came to understand you were more 
a saviour.”  She tilted her head and motioned for 
him to sit in one of the chairs.
         “I encountered her during my travels and 
told her that Metamor might offer some manner of 
healing, if they were willing to accept its 
touch.”  He shrugged a little and shook his head 
at the offered seat.  “I came here looking for 
someone, Raven.  Two someone’s truly, but I 
cannot tarry overlong as there are others I would 
like to speak with before too long.”  After a 
pause he smiled and chuckled while his ears and 
whiskers backed in some slight degree of self 
consciousness, “And I’ve also to meet that 
veil-concealed young lady this evening.”
         Raven raised one eyebrow archly and 
pinned both tall alert lupine ears forward, 
“Oh?  She has been here some months now, how was 
she touched owing that she is still female?”  She 
smiled at Murikeer’s evident discomforture and 
leaned one hip against the end of the desk, arms 
crossed over the velvet robes covering her chest.
         “She became a skunk, like me, but entirely white.”
         Raven added her other eyebrow to the 
first in upraised surprise, “With green 
eyes.  Many have spoken of her.”  The wolf’s lush 
tail waved slowly behind her as her smile 
broadened.  “Favourably, on many different 
levels.  So, I won’t keep you.  Who is it you seek here?”
         “First, Rickkter.”
         Raven’s ears backed for a moment but did 
not flatten, eyebrows drawing down as she 
regarded him carefully for a moment.  “Your 
master, I take it?  He did not elucidate upon 
your relationship after Nasoj’s attack was thrown 
back, but attended your recovery more often than 
someone of mere passing acquaintance.  As did the 
Nocturna follower, Malger Sutt.”
         “I was his pupil, after a fashion.  He 
helped me raise to Master rank as a mage.  As for 
Malger, he was there for other reasons, but he 
had been Llyn Wanderer’s lover before I came 
along.  He was one of my companions on my 
travels, and is now Archduke of western Pyralia or some such title.”
         Raven’s lips pursed for a few seconds 
before she shifted away from the desk and crossed 
toward the door.  Murikeer picked up his satchel 
and followed.  “I knew of his family name, but he 
asked that I keep the exactitude of his noble 
birth unspoken.  Rickkter is in one of the 
recovery cells off the main temple where he can 
be kept closest to the altars, and the touch of the Gods.”
         “What is his ailment?”
         “His spirit has been stripped away.” 
Raven replied flatly.  Murikeer staggered in 
stride and nearly collided with one of the candle 
plinths before recovering his balance.
         “What?!!”
         “He joined battle with someone heavily 
tainted by the evil of Marzac supplemented by the 
Censer of Yajikali.  They ripped his soul out of 
him and imprisoned it in a magical focus; in this 
instance a card from a cursed deck.”  Drawing 
aside the curtain between two altars revealed an 
unmarked but well tended door behind which she 
pushed open.  Behind her Murikeer followed 
timidly, still stunned by the harsh news.
         “One of the magical items used against 
the Åelves by The Nine?  I thought they were but legend.”
         Raven growled a low chuff, “Hardly 
legend, one of them is still here within our own 
walls, the Censer.”  She waved a hand toward the 
single long bed, more a bier, that dominated the 
centre of the room with enough space on all sides 
for his caretakers to move.  Rickkter was laid 
out, currently turned onto his side to prevent 
bed sores from developing, as if freshly 
deceased.  There was no muscularity to his lying, 
like a lazy cat sprawled in the summer sun, arms tucked neatly to his chest.
         Murikeer had never seen him look so 
healthy due to the continual care his comatose 
body received.  Washed, groomed, and tended 
around the clock by Raven’s army of apprentices 
and acolytes he looked to be at the height of 
bodily health.  Murikeer passed Raven to approach 
the bed and circle around to Rickkter’s 
head.  “The Censer did this?”  He crouched and 
looked Rickkter over slowly as he set his satchel aside.
         Raven shook her head slowly as she 
watched Murikeer.  “No, the person who did it 
came through the Censer, summoned from some other 
location.  I was not present for that battle, but 
the result was very similar to the affects done 
by the sword that had Llyn in its thrall until you destroyed it.”
         “Destroying the Censer will not release 
him, then.”  Murikeer observed, reaching forward 
to take Rickkter’s head in his hand.  Closing his 
eyes briefly to marshal his concentration and 
push back the lingering ache of Coe’s 
ministrations and prepare for the pain to come he 
took a slow steadying breath.  When he opened his 
eye the brilliant background glow of Metamor, and 
the resident divine energies of the Temple, 
slammed into his left temple with the force of a 
blacksmith’s sledge.  He quickly delved past the 
surface magics and wove his way into the focussed 
energies of Rickkter’s manifestation of the 
curse, his life energies, and the startling 
number of personal persistent spells he had put 
upon himself over his many years.  None of the 
latter proved to be dangerous and he continued to 
slip beyond their intricate webs.  With each 
passing second the throbbing, crushing pain 
hammering at his left temple continued to grow but he pushed that, too, aside.
         Frustration built within him as he 
worked his way further and further into the 
webwork of personal spells, the hopelessly 
tangled wreckage that was the curse, following 
the subtle structures of life magic, those 
intrinsic paths of unused energies that bled into 
the world continually unless purposely withheld. 
But no matter how deeply he settled into the 
tenebrous veil between individual life energies 
and the energies of the world itself he could 
find nothing deeper; no threads to follow toward 
whatever prison held Rickkter’s soul, nor even 
any indication that the slightest shred of his 
soul continued to exist within the shell of his body.
         But there was something left behind that 
was no mere spell, something vast and dark 
residing past the spells, the curse, the 
intrinsic bodily magic of life itself. Murikeer 
paused upon sensing that vast dark entity that 
defied identity or understanding; a presence so 
vast and filled with such cold, incalculable 
dread Murikeer was sent fleeing before its regard came upon him.
         For it would snuff him as surely as a 
hurricane wind might a candle that caught its attention.
         With a growl he cast himself out, 
clutching his eyes tightly shut while he bowed 
his head and rested his elbows against the head 
of the bed. The pain refused to fade with his 
severance from the magic that caused it but that 
was, as always, the expected result of delving 
into any practice of power. He panted heavily as 
he recovered and pushed the pain back. Raven laid 
a hand upon his shoulder and he could hear her 
muttered prayers, as well as the slow warmth of a 
magic completely alien to anything he could ever 
grasp, flowing into him. The pain was forced into 
abeyance, pushed out of his skull by the brute 
force of the Lightbringer’s healing touch, but it 
refused to leave the ruin of his eye socket.
         “There was nothing there to find?” she 
asked gently, already knowing the answer.
         Murikeer peered at the gray wolf for 
several long seconds, his good eye shifting focus 
from one of her golden lupine irises to the 
other, wondering why she did not warn him of 
that
 dark immensity residing deep within the 
hidden corners of Rickkter’s mortal essence, an 
entity that was decidedly not his soul. After 
several long seconds during which he marshaled 
his swift breathing he shook his head. “Not a 
shred,” he lied, “nor even the slightest hint of 
what magic was used.” He sighed and levered 
himself to his paws with the strong she-wolf’s 
aid. “Thank you
 where can I look at this Censer?”
         “You can’t.  Kyia sealed the belfry and 
no one, not even the Duke himself, has convinced her to let anyone near it.”
         Murikeer retrieved his satchel and gave 
the somnolent form of the Rickkter-less raccoon 
upon the living bier of his coma, frowning at his 
inability to do more for his often irascible 
friend than frustrate himself.  “Wise, it keeps 
unskilled hacks like me away from it.”  Raven 
chuffed at his self deprecatory comment and shook her head.
         “He is in as good hands as could 
possibly be found considering his condition, in 
all the world.  It is for us to do what we can, and wait.”
         “And wait.”  Murikeer picked up his 
satchel and followed Raven toward the door.  “And hope.”
         The wolf nodded and closed the door 
softly behind them despite the fact that had she 
slammed it the sleeper within would not have 
wakened.  “Aye, indeed, and hope.” She lowered 
the tapestry, concealing the wooden portal from 
idle eyes. “What of this second you seek?”
         Murikeer sighed, fearing the news he 
would hear. “Matthias, or his statue at 
least.  His wife is a pupil of mine, and I feel 
that I should be the one to tell her the truth of her husband.”
         Raven’s countenance twisted in 
confusion, ears back, tail lowered. “His 
statue?  But the rat Charles has journeyed far to 
the south with many others this last Dedication’s Eve.”
         Murikeer stopped in surprise.  Raven 
continued an extra pace before noting that she 
was no longer being followed.  The skunk took a 
short breath and said, “I was told that Charles had been turned to stone.”
         “Yes, he was.  But it did not kill 
him.  A Binoq stone mage gave him the ability to 
move and to speak, but he could not restore him to flesh.”
         “A Binoq?  How many legends have come to 
life here at Metamor in my absence?”
         “More than anyone should ever wish,” 
Raven replied sombrely. “Charles submitted to the 
aid of the Pantheon and is now bound to destroy 
Marzac by both Akkala and Velena.  Should he succeed he will be flesh again.”
         Murikeer took another breath, wrapping 
his mind about this new information, and then 
resumed following the priestess from the main 
temple. “Thank you, Lothanasa.  It seems I will 
have quite a story for my aunts.  But why wasn’t 
Lady Kimberly told the truth about her husband?”
         “For the same reason you came asking, to 
prevent confusing her and to prevent hurting 
her.  She has enough of a burden.” Raven lowered 
her eyes as she returned to her office. “You know 
what has happened to her boy?”
         Murikeer nodded. “She told me also that you arrived too late.”
         “Even had I not, I do not believe I 
could have saved the child,” Raven said, her 
voice subdued. “Be sure to tell whoever has told 
you that Charles was turned to stone what really 
happened ere Kimberly hears of it and suffers fresh grief.”
         “I return to the Glen tomorrow.  They will know.”
         Raven smiled without much warmth. “Thank 
you, Murikeer.  Do not fret for your friends.  In time they will return to us.”
         “Aye,” Murikeer said softly.  That was 
the only hope any of them could cling to.  With a 
nod of his head, he bade Raven well and left the temple on his next errand.

----------

         The sun had been only a few narrow 
degrees above the dawning horizon when first 
sight had been made and it was now a similar span 
of degrees above the west and they had never lost 
sight of their pursuit. Throughout the long day 
Phil’s fleet straggled ahead of the enemy in a 
careful mass of uncoordinated seeming ships 
sticking together only by a similarity of 
possible speed. It was all a careful sham, but 
Phil felt that even had they held to the rigid 
structure of an established formation the enemy 
would have been equally as dogged.
         The rag-tag conglomeration of 
Marzac-influenced ships spread out behind them in 
a long ragged line with the fastest oar driven 
vessels barely competent to manage any rough 
waters at the fore, heavier dromus and dromonai 
behind them escorting the ponderous Pyralian 
flagship that nonetheless managed to keep pace, 
and at the rear the far slower sailing vessels. 
Nearest were a dozen small, fast moving drom that 
had managed to close within less than a quarter league.
         “It feels like we’re hauling the whole 
damned armada along behind us on tow lines.” 
Aramaes groaned upon emerging from the cabin 
below the aft castle he shared with the four 
journeyman mages that made up his pentette. He 
joined Phil and Ptomamus at the slate table on 
the aft deck for a mug of watery ale and kebabs 
of salted fish warmed by the ship’s cook over an 
open brazier on the gangway of the main deck.
         “Have they used magic to do just that?” 
The captain asked while Phil nibbled a stalk of watercress.
         Aramaes shook his head, “Not that I can 
delve, but they’re getting a damn good bit of 
magic from somewhere. The sea would be a turmoil 
if we tried to push that many boats using ambient magic.”
         “Marzac.” Phil intoned with a frown.
         “My guess, but they are not using it to 
slow us. Probably too much work just keeping up.” 
Aramaes swept an arm toward their aft, “They’ve 
knotted up a tight weather push to keep their 
sturak and galleass within their group, but they 
cannot sustain that indefinitely.”
         “They’ve fewer mages, for a start.” Phil 
pointed out, “Pyralian ships disdain mages, 
pirates and merchants can’t afford them, leaving 
our own Whalish brethren and any the Sathmoran 
ships put on crew to manage that fleet.” He 
carefully picked up his shallow mazer between his 
handpaws and took a slow sip of watered ale. 
After a fortnight on the sea ale was almost the 
last of their beverage, plus whatever fresh water the mages could produce.
         “That is to our advantage, then.” 
Ptomamus smiled grimly as he cast a glance over 
his shoulder, past the steersman, to the drom 
skirmishers still close behind them. The light, 
narrow boats had put considerable distance 
between themselves and their armada to creep ever 
closer toward the retreating Whalish group. 
“Those rakers have left themselves dangerously 
exposed. If we invert our flying wedge we’ll 
surround and crush them before even the fastest of their support can close.”
         Phil shook his head, “Each ship damaged 
in that skirmish would be one less ship to lend 
its strength to the final engagement. If they 
close within projector range we’ll light a few, 
but we should let our archers wither their decks 
clean and not waste ourselves needlessly.”
         Ptomamus nodded, “They act heedlessly in 
closing without support, that worries me.”
         “After the carefully staged attack on 
Whales, I am inclined to agree, captain.” Phil 
set aside his food feeling very weak of appetite. 
“We should slow, else it will be after dark when 
they are close enough to trade blows.”
         “Aramaes, inform the other crews to slow 
that we might rake these fleas off our back.” The 
captain stood and set aside the white lace 
handkerchief after dabbing the corners of his mouth. “Archers make ready!”
         “Archers make ready!” Echoed the officer 
of the deck somewhere out of sight below. Aramaes 
bent forward over his knees, head bowed for a few 
moments while he muttered arcane babble once 
again. Ahead of them the loosely grouped Whalish 
dromon began a slow tightening inward course 
while the Burning Spear continued to drop back 
behind the overall group. Behind them the 
pursuing light skirmish ships continued to close. 
Phil wanted himself to be seen, a gleamingly 
white rabbit standing four feet tall in Whalish 
regalia aboard a Whalish fire ship would be near 
impossible to miss, a target that the enemy would 
be willing to risk careless assaults to vanquish or capture.
         Aramaes walked to the aft rail. “We can 
sink those fleas, captain.” He announced confidently.
         Ptomamus shook his head emphatically, 
“You mages just keep us moving, Ara. Let the 
fighting men deal with the fighting, we will 
scratch these parasites from our coats. Have you 
far-talked with the other fleets since the morning?”
         Aramaes looked crestfallen at being 
banished from the eminent skirmish. “Aye, sir. 
Stohshal is withdrawing the Wind Runners from the 
turn and are making for Whales. Pythoreaus is 
bringing his group around from the north, 
dividing his slower galleass contingent to join 
the Runners while his drom will attempt to 
rendezvous with us late tomorrow.” He ran a hand 
over his sweaty scalp, “If we can maintain this pace.”
         “We must.” Phil announced, “What will that give us in strength?”
         “On oar, twenty-three but only seven 
with fire to their possible seventeen. If we 
bring them into our trap and reinforce with the 
Runners we’ll have thirty five.”
         “Plus the dragons.” Phil pointed out.
         Ptomamus raised an eyebrow slightly, “If 
we can count on their support your highness.” He 
did not sound convinced. “My worry is about those missing boats.”
         “Which ones?” Phil glanced at the 
sprawling fleet arrayed out behind them without 
any apparent order beyond the Pyralian flagship and its immediate escorts.
         “Ours. There are only nine in that damn 
mob, and only three of those are equipped with 
projectors. Twelve fire boats struck us in port.” 
Ptomamus ticked off each point on his fingertips. 
“At last count seventeen fire ships were 
unaccounted for, and twenty others as well.
         “Added to what they’ve taken from 
Pyralia and the other kingdoms makes for a truly 
frightening naval force to consider, fire or no.”
         “And what’s more,” Aramaes interrupted 
with a frown, “The maeril seem to have gotten involved.” He muttered.
         Phil groaned inwardly at the new angle 
upon too many already. “How so?”
         “Pythoreaus’ group encountered a damaged 
merchant sturak attempting to make for Whales 
with her keel broken and severe hull damage 
because they were, apparently, rammed by a whale. 
After the ramming a dozen maeril attempted to 
board but were slain.” The mage looked from Phil 
to the captain and back with a helpless shrug. 
“The maeril are generally benign, they have 
little comport with man and are hardly dangerous 
out of water. What might drive them to attempt 
such a boarding I hazard to imagine, but I can guess.”
         Phil nodded. “Marzac, again and always 
it is Marzac. If the dark taint of that place has 
turned the maeril within its reach then it is 
far, far more pervasive than we ever imagined.” 
His ears backed and dropped flat. “And that 
leaves us fearing a whole new direction from which to expect an attack.”
         “We can withstand maeril, highness, they 
are awkward at best out of water.” Ptomamus paced 
to the aft rail and stood beside Aramaes to watch 
the ships swiftly overtaking them. Their own 
ships had drawn into a loose running line moving 
just a slight degree slower to let the enemy 
ships close. The Burning Spear’s shadow joined 
those of their companion ships stretching across 
the water as the sun neared the western horizon. 
As he watched the dozen ships that had been 
harrying their wake for the duration of the day 
raised their oars from the water and slowed swiftly. “What is this?”
         Phil hopped to the aft rail and leaned 
his hand-paws upon it to stare at the skirmish 
drom falling further aft with each passing stroke 
of the Spear’s oars. “They’re withdrawing? Why now?”
         “They may be falling back to await 
nightfall to fully close.” Ptomamus pondered 
aloud while his hands clutched at the rail. “Ara, 
can you give our night watch any better sight?”
         The bald mage shook his head. The enemy 
skirmishers began to dip oars once again but it 
was only to turn and make their way back toward 
their own formation. “That worries me.”
         “Aye,” Phil grunted, “Why withdraw your 
knife unless you’ve a mace ready to drop.” He 
looked around warily. “Aramaes, I’ve a request. 
Ask the captains of the other vessels to put 
someone wearing white upon their aft decks once the sun goes down.”
         “Wearing white?”
         Phil nodded. “Aye, white. Preferably someone small.”
         Aramaes smiled at the thought and 
nodded. “I will inform them, your highness. A 
good decoy.”

----------

         Anya Dupré brushed her red hair back 
over her ears as she walked unmolested through 
the ranks of Mallow Horn soldiers.  The evening 
was far spent and most retired to whatever patch 
of dirt on which they could find some sleep.  A 
few were lucky enough to have a tent to crawl 
into, but these were so low and cramped as to 
seem not much better.  The siege towers stood 
like hulking giants whose shoulders pressed into 
the night sky.  Had she any whimsy left, she 
would have imagined the ramparts dislodging stars 
as they passed overhead, but she wasn’t into the mood for such trivial fancies.
         She’d never seen her father so 
helplessly angry as he’d been that night.  There 
were days when he’d raged for hours about 
recalcitrant nobles or scheming magistrates that 
balked his plans.  When mother died after bearing 
her younger brother Tyrion, her father had put 
all of his hopes on her and Jaime.  Tyrion was 
always loved just as they were, but there had 
always been an understanding that he would not ascend the throne of Kelewair.
         So when he’d entered the Ecclesia his 
father uttered not a word of protest.  Jaime was 
to marry Duke Otakar of Salinon’s niece, while 
Anya had been wed to an influential noble in the 
centre of the Southern Midlands.  She’d known 
William Dupré from the court for several years 
before her father announced their 
engagement.  All arranged of course, but Anya had 
always known that was how it would be.
         William Dupré had always been a 
warrior.  He’d celebrated the morning after their 
wedding night with a good, long brawl in the mud 
with his soldiers.  They’d looked like nothing so 
much as a bunch of pigs wallowing in their 
sty.  She hadn’t been impressed by it, but she 
quietly tolerated it and his other shows of bravado.
         They weren’t married a year when she 
became heavy with child.  Their first, Jory, had 
changed William.  He’d become softer around her 
and the child, doing his best to be fatherly and 
dignified.  Gone were the brawls and the mud, 
though he still fought fiercely with the 
sword.  By the time their second child was born, 
little Nadia, she knew she loved her husband.
         Never before had she doubted that 
love.  Not until she’d seen him in her father’s 
tent vacillating from cold maliciousness to 
violent rage.  And the words he’d spoken, the 
total lack of remorse, all of it shocked her to 
her very core.  Surely she must be able to say 
something to her husband to bring him back from this madness.
         William Dupré’s tent was larger than the 
rest near it.  His captains would all be set near 
him to keep him abreast of the troops.  His tent 
sat back behind the lines with the cavalry 
further back to keep from being outflanked.  She 
could see in the torchlight the ram’s head silhouette on all the banners.
         The guards recognized her and held back 
the tent flap to let her in.  The battlefield had 
been cold with the final grasp of autumn 
deadening the air.  But this tent was warmed by a 
small fire set in a copper bowl in the 
centre.  William stood behind a table festooned 
with maps.  Captain Becket was with him.  The 
young captain was every bit as martial as his 
lord but had always looked up to him as more than 
just a noble.  Anya was never sure if it was good 
to have such a man in so important a 
position.  Just when she was certain it had been 
a mistake to promote him, Becket proved himself worthy.
         Now she hoped he understood enough to know that William was wrong.
         “So did your father send you to correct 
me?” William asked as she entered.  He did not 
look up from his table.  Becket did, noted her 
with guilty eyes as he assisted his lord in 
moving little figures across the map.
         “He may be my father, but you’re my 
husband, William.” Anya stepped closer, skirting 
the copper firepit, and reaching the table to 
stare at her husband’s dark hair.  He bent over 
the table, his broad shoulders hunched as he 
moved little figures of knights, pikemen, 
longbowmen, and siege engines through rolling 
hills towards castle walls perched near the sea. 
“And I am your wife.  And I cannot believe the things you’ve done.”
         William straightened and turned to 
Becket. “You’d best retire for the night, 
Captain.  I don’t think you should be here for this.”
         Becket nodded and swiftly made his way 
toward the entrance.  He gave Anya an apologetic look as he passed.
         “So, my beloved wife,” William said, an 
air of irritation clear in his voice, “you’ve 
come to convince me to apologize on bended knee 
before your father.  I don’t know what he’s 
convinced you I’m guilty of, but he should never 
have taken you from Mallow Horn.”
         “He didn’t need to convince me,” Anya 
replied, silently furious at her husband’s 
arrogant manner. “You didn’t tell me what you 
were doing.  I have been a bird in a cage for you 
these last months, pretty and a delight in your 
bed, but you have not taken me into your confidence.”
         William waved one hand. “You didn’t need 
to know all of the details of my plan.  Not even 
Becket knew all the details.  Only those who 
needed to know knew.  And don’t flatter yourself, 
Anya.  I don’t come to your bed because you’re 
there.  You’re there because it is my bed and you 
are my wife.  Where else would you be?”
         “At your side perhaps?” Anya 
suggested.  Her heart flinched with the sting of 
his words.  She’d never thought him capable of 
such venom.  A hard man yes, but this?
         “At my side!  Come then, Anya, see what 
your husband has won for you.  We are but a 
single city’s fall away from seeing the Lothanasi 
influence south of the Marchbourne swept 
away.  These lands will be safe for all 
Followers.  But more importantly we’ll have 
removed that disgusting Guilford and his 
family.  We can have both Mallow Horn and Masyor, 
Anya.  Our fields united to the sea.  Think of 
it!  No ruling family in the Southern Midlands 
will have the power to thwart us.  Your father 
will be forced to give us our son back.”
         Anya felt sick to her stomach at the 
words.  Her husband hadn’t struck back in 
defence.  It had always been about defying 
Kelewair.  It hadn’t been about the Guilford 
family, but the Verdane family.  Her family.  She 
lowered her eyes and said, “We’ve all lost sons, William.  All of us.”
         William scoffed. “Who cares what happened to that Guilford brat!”
         “Not him.  Jaime.” Anya’s chest trembled 
at the mere thought of her brother captive in 
Salinon.  Was he in chains, shackled like a 
common prisoner in a lonely tower with only 
sparrows for company?  She’d always looked up to 
Jaime as the one who’d pick her up and brush the 
dirt off her blouse when she’d fallen chasing butterflies.
         “What of him?”
         “Have you not heard?  He was taken prisoner by Otakar of Salinon.”
         The haughtiness in William’s face gave 
way to genuine surprise at the news. “Truly?  When did this happen.”
         Anya’s heart brightened.  Perhaps if he 
knew her father’s sorrows too he would listen to 
reason. “Jaime journeyed to Bozojo to win Lord 
Calladar’s support.  My father wished Calladar to 
lead his knights down the Angle to prevent any of 
the northwestern fiefs from joining this 
war.  Calladar made a secret alliance with 
Otakar, swore fealty to him, and handed Jaime 
over to him as a hostage.  Now Otakar is using 
Jaime to win concessions from my father that will 
cripple the Southern Midlands for a generation.”
         William sucked on his lower lip as he 
listened, and then a grin spread across his face. 
“Ah, so the Ducal heir is held hostage by our 
enemies.  Calladar is just another traitorous 
Lothanasi.  Your father was a fool to trust 
him.  But this does present us with an 
interesting opportunity.  Nay, a compelling 
one!  Anya, forgive me for shutting you out these 
last few months.  I should have brought you into my confidence sooner.”
         There was a gleam in his eyes that 
unsettled her but she felt some solace in his 
words.  She smiled to her husband and took a step 
closer to rest her hand on his wrist. “Jaime is my brother.  I fear for him.”
         “He’ll never ascend the throne 
now.  Which means that it will fall to you dear 
wife.  And this is the perfect time.  The armies 
are already assembled.  After we destroy Masyor 
we can march up the river and sack Bozojo and put 
that weasel Calladar’s head on a pig-pole.”
         “But they’ll kill Jaime if we attack 
Bozojo!” Anya recoiled, her hand leaving her 
husband’s wrist and flying to her mouth.  A 
strand of red hair fell free from the pins and 
into her face. “My father will never attack it or Masyor!”
         “Your father won’t, but we will.” 
William’s grin broadened and he nodded. “Tonight, 
you will return to his tent.  I will give you 
something to add to his drink.  By morning he 
will be dead, and the Duchy yours, my sweet 
wife.  Our son Jory will ascend the throne in 
Kelewair when he is of age, and we will make all 
our enemies pay for what they’ve done to our 
families.  Think of it, Anya.  He trusts you and 
will let you get close.  The armies are 
here.  All you have to do is claim Guilford did 
it on orders from Salinon.  The others will line 
behind you and we can rid this word of two evils 
at once!” He patted his doublet, and then turned 
to one of the side rooms in his tent. “I know I 
have a perfect poison here.  He won’t even feel 
anything as he dies, as is fitting one of his station.  Anya?”
         But she still backed away from him, 
tears standing in her eyes.  The man who she 
loved was not the one speaking.  Whatever had 
become of her husband, this was not he, but a 
monster inhabiting his skin.  What hope she’d had 
in her heart of saving his life was gone. 
“No.  You can’t.  I won’t let you.  I have to go.  I have to stop you.”
         The delight in William’s fled even 
faster.  He stormed around the table furious, and 
grabbed at her arms. “You would betray me too!  You’re no wife of mine!”
         Anya screamed and turned to run, but he 
grabbed her blouse and yanked her to the 
ground.  She kicked and screamed, clawing at the 
grass to get away as she felt the heavy body 
crawl atop her.  Hands grasped her tender flesh 
and bruised as they pulled her back.  Her eyes 
locked on the tent flap and she screamed for 
help.  William’s hands wrapped about her neck and squeezed.
         A quartet of guards rushed into the tent 
with Becket at their head.  His face was ashen 
white at what he saw, but he was quick to 
act.  While William grunted and snarled like a 
boar, The soldiers grabbed him by the arms and 
drug him backwards.  Becket helped Anya to her 
feet and threw his cloak over her shoulders to 
cover her torn dress. “Are you alright, milady?”
         “No,” she said simply and with all 
emotion gone from her voice. “Take us to my father.  Put my husband in chains.”
         Becket flinched. “In chains?”
         “You heard me, Captain.  In chains.”
         “You are no wife of mine!  Traitor!” 
William raged and frothed at the lips.  He added 
a few other words for his wife that made his soldiers pale in horror.
         Anya drew the cloak about her like a 
regal mantle and stared down at her husband as 
the soldiers bound his hands behind his back.  He 
kicked and struggled in the dirt like a madman, 
but the soldiers kept him under control.  Her 
heart was rent in two but for now she built a 
wall of stone to seal it shut.  She would cry for her lost husband later.

----------

         After a month’s journey, the sound of 
Master Elsevier knocking on the door to their 
cabin was blessedly familiar to Elvmere’s 
ears.  His whiskers twitched at the sound, and 
his tail curled about the leg of his stool as he 
lifted his eyes from the meagre meal of bread and 
porridge.  Across from him the Lothanasi 
priestess Nylene hin’Lofwine turned her head and 
called out, “Come in, my friend.”
         Elsevier’s ruddy face was a pleasant 
sight.  His eyes never flinched when they saw the 
raccoon man.  In fact, they grew warm like a 
brother’s might after a long journey brought them 
together again. But when they settled on the 
priestess they glowed with keen admiration and 
dutiful submission.  Many days he invited her 
forth to lead the sailors in prayers.  Elvmere 
would listen to the chant of their voices through 
the deck and offer his own in contemplative unison.
         “Good evening, Priestess Nylene, Acolyte 
Elvmere.” Elvmere felt his fur twitch at the 
title.  Elsevier had begun calling him that 
shortly after they’d left Silvassa.  Though he 
was dressed in the white of a Lothanasi acolyte 
and had Nylene for his tutor, he was not yet an 
acolyte.  He was not yet anything except a 
defrocked Bishop of the Ecclesia who now prayed 
to the gods he’d once believed mere superstition 
— while still accepting that the fullness of 
revelation lay on the side of the Ecclesia though 
it were for a time closed to him.  He would 
faithfully follow the guiding hand he felt in his life, no matter where it led.
         “Good evening, Master Elsevier.  How are the men and the seas?”
         “The men are in good spirits and the 
seas are calm,” Elsevier replied with his usual 
aplomb. “But neither will be your concern soon, 
for the coast is in view and we can see the port 
of Menth.  By evenfall we will have 
docked.  Shall I see to arrangements for you in 
town, or would you like to attend to them yourselves?”
         Elvmere lowered his spoon and gestured 
at his face with one paw. “Whatever arrangements 
must be made will need to keep me secret.  If we 
arrive after evenfall, then I could sneak off in the dark.”
         “Or we can do as we did before, allow 
you to take on your little beastly form,” 
Elsevier pointed out. “Either way, what say you, Priestess?”
         Nylene glanced between the raccoon and 
the paper merchant. “You have led us ably thus 
far, Master Elsevier.  I will let you see to our 
arrangements.  We will spend tonight here on your 
ship, and tomorrow we would like to take a 
carriage to Metamor Keep.  The driver must have 
been to Metamor before, because I do not believe 
we can or should hide Elvmere anymore.”
         The thought of walking openly filled the 
raccoon with delight and a little fear.  The last 
time he had done so in a human city he’d been 
excommunicated.  Still, he let a little churr 
come to his throat and he said, “Thank you, Priestess.”
         Her lips curled in a wan smile, but 
Elsevier didn’t notice. “I will see to the 
arrangements then.  Would you like to watch from 
deck as we dock?  I can bring you out when we near the city.”
         Elvmere smiled. “I would like that.  If 
I wear a cloak I don’t think anyone on the wharves will see what I am.”
         Elsevier grinned broadly. “Then it is 
done!  I shall procure for you a cloak and summon 
you in an hour.” He nodded to him and then to Nylene. “Until then.”
         “Until then,” Nylene replied with a 
warmth in her voice that Elvmere loved to 
hear.  He lifted the spoon to his tongue and 
licked the porridge free as Elsevier closed the 
door. “That was more words than I’ve heard you 
speak in days, Elvmere.  Oh you pray — you pray 
very beautifully — but you do not speak.”
         It was true.  Ever since that night, his 
earlier liberality with tongue had faded into a 
more contemplative manner.  But what did he 
contemplate aside from the nature of the gods and 
their relationship to man?  He would not lie to 
himself even if the words had not yet passed his 
lips.  The object of his desire sat before him, 
the eyes that met his soft but certain.
         “May I ask you a question, Priestess?” 
She nodded.  He set the spoon atop his porridge 
and folded his paws in his lap. “Why have you never married?”
         Nylene’s cheeks dimpled amidst a faint 
blush. “But I have married.  You should 
understand that.  While marriage is not forbidden 
to priests and priestesses of the Lothanasi, I 
have always felt my vocation as one that required 
all of my heart.  Any who I married would have to 
understand that.  I have never met a man who I thought could.”
         Elvmere lowered his tail and did his 
best to calm himself. “If that is so, then why 
did you make me fall in love with you?  Why did you do what you did with me?”
         If the words surprised her she did not 
show it.  Her smile remained, a kind smile that 
nevertheless conveyed something deeper. “I did 
not make you fall in love with me, Elvmere.  That 
you did on your own.  Just as you did not make me 
love you.  You are not the first man I have had 
feelings for.  But you are the first to make me 
feel I could love a man as deeply as a woman ought.”
         “Even though I am a beast?”
         Nylene’s eyes wandered down his arms and 
over his chest.  They paused to observe the way 
his chest fur poked over the neck of his 
acolyte’s cassock.  And then they returned to his 
beastly green eyes. “In truth, I find you very 
handsome, Elvmere.  When I see you I do not see 
the animal, but the man who you truly are.”
         Elvmere touched the black around his 
eyes with either paw. “This mask was given to me 
to hide who I was.  But it is who I am.”
         “But it is still a mask.  You’re hiding 
something from me, or you’re trying.  Do you 
regret what has passed between us?”
         He drummed his toes on the floor being 
careful not to tap the wood with his claws. “I 
confess, I’ve never done it before.  Yes, until 
then I was a virgin.  My heart wants you again, 
but my spirit knows that to do so beyond the 
sanctity of marriage is an offense against 
Velena.  It would be the act of Suspira for us to 
desire each other’s flesh only.  In marriage, we 
give ourselves completely and hold nothing 
back.  Only then can the conjugal act be blessed.”
         “Though you use words of the Patildor 
faith to describe it, you speak truth.”
         “I know not the Lothanasi words, only 
the Patildor.” It still seemed odd to refer to 
the Ecclesia with the Lothanasi word, but he 
needed to train his tongue as well as his mind in the Lothanasi ways.
         She pursed her lips and then smiled 
again. “You love me as you say, Elvmere.  What do 
you wish to do about that love?”
         Elvmere closed his eyes, muttered a 
quick prayer, though to whom he wasn’t sure, then 
opened them again and said, “Marry me, 
Nylene.  Marry me and let us build our lives together.”
         “Elvmere,” she said, still smiling, but 
a coolness filling her eyes. “I do love you, but 
I cannot marry you.  I told you that before.  I 
have given myself to the temple.  And though I 
find you fetching, you cannot stay in 
Silvassa.  You would be discovered and you would be killed.”
         “Then stay with me in Metamor!”
         “I could become a man, what then of your love for me?”
         Elvmere blinked, his paws tightening 
into fists.  The thought hadn’t occurred to him. 
“There’s only one chance in three you’d be a man.”
         “And one chance in three I’d be a young 
girl.  Would you marry a child?  Could you be intimate with a child?”
         “Never!  No!” Elvmere shook the horrid 
thought from his mind.  He lowered his eyes and 
sighed. “I hope you would be like me, a raccoon.”
         She put one finger under his snout and 
lifted his face. “But there’s little chance of that, Elvmere.  You know this.”
         “Aye.”
         “Besides, I cannot leave my flock in 
Silvassa.  Even if I could marry you at Metamor I 
would not.” Nylene shook her head and then ran 
one hand behind his ear, fingers gently curling 
through his fur. “But it is not because I do not 
love you, Elvmere.  It is because I love 
something else more.  So it is with you the reason you cannot marry me.”
         Elvmere blinked in surprise, the wound 
to his heart pausing to reassess. “What do you mean?”
         “Part of the love you have for me is 
love for another.  I can feel it.  I can see it 
in your eyes.  I can hear it in your voice when 
you dream and call out to her.” Nylene’s smile 
faded some. “I admit I was disappointed when I 
realized I was not the Lady you seek in your 
sleep.”  She let her hand fall from his head and 
sighed. “And in me you see something of her.”
         For several minutes neither said 
anything.  Elvmere lowered his eyes to his 
porridge and resumed spooning the now cold gruel 
into his muzzle.  Nylene finished her bread then 
set her plate aside and turned towards the 
porthole to watch the sky and sea.  Elvmere cast 
a glance out as well.  The blue sky was 
darkening, and along the bottom of the clouds he 
saw the crimson touch of the setting sun.
         Elvmere pondered her words.  His Lady 
came oh so rarely to him anymore in his 
sleep.  Ever since they’d started this voyage 
he’d not seen her at all.  He’d felt her touch 
briefly in his dreams and he’d cried out for her 
to come and be with him.  But had he been trying 
to make Nylene into his Lady?  He doubted he’d ever know for sure.
         With a sigh he said, “You may be right, 
Nylene.  I don’t know.  But I know that I do love you for who you are.”
         “And I you, Elvmere,” she replied, 
though her eyes stayed upon the porthole. “But a 
marriage between us would be a lie.”
         He sighed again and nodded. “What you 
say seems true to me.  Permit me time to think on 
this myself before we speak of it again?”
         “You will have it.  I shall not press you again.”
         Elvmere nodded.  His heart hung heavily 
in his chest, but another part of him felt great 
relief.  That part of him had been scared that 
she might say yes to his foolhardy proposition. 
“Then let us think of other things.  We will be 
docking soon.  A prayer of thanksgiving perhaps for our safe voyage?”
         She nodded, her smile gone. “When we 
reach port, I will teach it to you.” She rose 
from her seat gracefully and crossed to the door. 
“I would like to watch from deck for now.  Say 
your evening prayers as I taught you, Elvmere.” She closed the door behind her.
         The raccoon man stared for a long time 
at the last of his bread.  Cursing himself for a 
fool, he beat the top of his head with his fists until he saw stars.

----------

         Titian Verdane pushed aside the curtains 
to his private chambers within his tent at the 
sound of shouting.  He recognized William Dupré’s 
voice, though he raved like a lunatic.  Amidst 
the other shouts he heard something about a man 
of cards who would kill them all.  He pondered 
what that could mean as he fastened a leather 
jacket over his nightclothes.  Sir Royce waited 
in the main chamber, but at Verdane’s nod went to 
the entrance to see what was happening.
         By the time Duke Verdane felt properly 
dressed to receive, and kill if necessary, his 
guests, Sir Royce returned with a confused look 
in his eyes. “Lady Anya is leading a procession 
of Mallow Horn soldiers.  They have Lord Dupré in chains, your grace.”
         “Truly?  This is fortuitous news.” He 
grabbled his buckler and wound it around his 
waist. “Bring them in.  Leave Dupré in 
chains.  My daughter has begged me for her 
husband’s life.  She must have good reason to 
hand him over to me as a prisoner.”
         Sir Royce nodded and returned to the 
entrance.  Verdane glanced about the tent.  Apart 
from his soldiers they were alone.  His Steward 
Apollinar must be asleep already.  That was 
fine.  He wouldn’t be needed for this.
         Verdane stood in the centre of the 
chamber, the fabric overhead undulating with the 
night wind, as Sir Royce led his daughter and a 
quartet of Mallow Horn soldiers into the 
tent.  Between the soldiers stumbled William 
Dupré, his hands and legs bound in chains like a 
slave being carried away to the mines.  His face 
burned red with rage, but his tongue now lay silent behind his teeth.
         “What is the meaning of this?” Verdane 
asked.  He stared at his daughter.  She was 
dressed in a cloak over her evening gown.  Her 
arms and legs were smeared with dirt and he saw 
the gown’s fabric was torn around her neck.
         Anya gestured to her husband. “He has 
gone mad, father.  He has plotted to kill you 
this very night and invited me into his scheme.”
         As one all the guards in the tent drew 
their blades.  Verdane casually drew his own and 
walked across the grass to where Dupré stood 
bound.  The man’s eyes were bloodshot and his 
lips quivered as if he suffered palsy.  He 
gestured with the tip of his blade at the four 
Mallow Horn soldiers.  “You four, leave this tent 
and wait outside.  Sir Royce, hold the prisoner.”
         The soldiers glanced at each other, and 
then departed without a word of objection.  Sir 
Royce grabbed Dupré’s chains in one hand and 
pressed the tip of his broad blade against the 
nape of his neck.  Dupré glanced back at Sir 
Royce for moment, then turned his eyes on Verdane 
again.  Was this the same man who’d been so 
contemptuous in their meeting tent only hours before?
         Verdane kept his sword aloft.  He did 
not think his daughter would betray him, but he 
wouldn’t underestimate the foolishness of a heart 
in love either. “William,” he said as evenly as 
he could manage, “do you deny the charges brought against you?”
         William took a deep breath and then spat 
in his face.  With a wicked laugh he added, “You’re already dead!”
         Verdane wiped the spittle from his face 
while Sir Royce yanked back on the chains, 
driving Dupré to his knees.  The sword sliced 
against Dupré’s cheek and a thin line of blood 
welled.  Verdane sensed an opening and asked, 
“Will this man of cards come kill me?”
         “He has already done so,” William 
replied with another laugh. “Nothing can stop him now.”
         “Who is this man of cards?” Verdane 
asked.  And then he knew the answer.  A flash of 
memory to the Spring brought his true enemy’s 
identity to him. “No, don’t say it.  It is the 
Marquis Camille du Tournemire.  That conniving 
Pyralian did everything.  His mysterious servant 
killed Lucat and blamed it on you.  That way you 
could have your war.  What did he promise you, 
William?  Power and riches?  You will have none of that.”
         Dupré shook his head and cast his eyes 
full of malice upon the Duke. “He promised me nothing.  He only takes.”
         “Then why fight for him?” William 
laughed and giggled like an idiot.  Verdane 
slapped him across the cheek. “Tell me!”
         William lifted his eyes again. “Because 
he took me.” He took another deep breath and 
spat, but Verdane stepped aside this time.  And then he slapped the man again.
         “Sir Royce, take this man and lock him 
up.  Gag him that no one will hear his cries.  I 
will pronounce sentence on him tomorrow.” And 
that sentence would be death. “Anya?”
         She looked once to her husband, clutched 
the cloak tightly over her chest and nodded. “I 
trust any judgement you make.” The words were 
forced, and he could tell that she still loved 
her husband.  But she gave her consent anyway.  That would be enough.
         “Return to your tent.  Sir Royce, have 
messages delivered to all of my vassals.  They 
will gather in the meeting tent tomorrow morning 
where I will render my judgement on everyone involved.”
         “It will be done, your grace,” Sir Royce 
said.  He dragged Dupré from the tent.  The man 
continued to giggle and twitch but said nothing 
more.  Anya left without another word, her face 
stone cold and her eyes avoiding her 
father.  Verdane waited until they were gone 
before returning to his night chambers.
         The were sufficient and well 
protected.  His bed was in the middle of the 
room, with a few chairs set around it should he 
entertain guests.  A wash basin stood at one 
side, and it was to this he went.  He dipped his 
hands in the cold water and splashed it over his 
face, rubbing his stubbled cheeks firmly to slake 
his anger.  He gazed into the mirror above the 
wash basin and watched the water drip from his 
cheeks.  His eyes were cold and grey in the 
lamplight and his room wreathed in shadows.  He 
stared into those shadows for a full minute 
before he realized that there was a figure 
dressed in a fine dark blue cloak sitting in his guest chair.
         Verdane spun, the sword immediately in 
his hand. “Who are you?  Why have you violated the sanctity of my chambers?”
         The figure was so cloaked that he could 
see none of its features.  It drew a scroll-case 
from one sleeve and rested it on the small table 
next to his bed.  “Twice now this year I have 
been forced to use the tongues of man.  I have 
not done so in five hundred years.”  The voice 
was male and strangely inflected, but the words 
clear and better Galendish than many of his vassals used.
         Verdane felt his gorge rising. “What 
nonsense is that?  Who are you?  How did you get in here?  Guards!”
         “Your words will draw no one.  None 
outside this chamber will hear anything of what 
you say. You may put your sword away for I have 
not come to bring you to harm.  I am here to advise you.”
         “And I advise you to show yourself.” He 
lifted the sword higher. “And I will keep my own 
counsel about my sword and where it points.”
         The cloaked figure seemed to look down 
at the table.  His voice carried a sombre 
disinterest that irked Verdane.  But at the same 
time, it seemed light and airy like a flock of 
nightingales singing in the trees.  He was 
reminded of a troupe of musicians who’d performed 
in Kelewair years past.  They’d played on bowls 
fashioned from glass with only the tips of their 
fingers.  The notes they’d drawn forth had been 
light and sweet, much as this unwelcome guest’s words were.
         “You intend,” the figure resumed, “to 
execute that man on the morrow.  If you do so, 
you shall never see your son again.”
         Verdane took a step closer and tightened 
his grip on his blade. “And what would you know of that?”
         “What I have been told.  Read the letter 
I have brought and you will know it yourself.”
         “You have ensorceled my chambers and you 
expect me to do aught but run you through?”
         “You may do so if you wish,” the figure 
seemed faintly amused by the words. “I would 
prefer nothing other than leaving this foul camp 
you’ve erected.  Either under my own power or 
that of death’s, it matters not to me.  But as 
you saw neither how I came to be here nor how I 
sealed this room, what makes you believe you have 
the power to summon my death?”
         Verdane thrust the sword at the cloaked 
figure, but his hand was much faster.  The 
figure’s hand bore a glove that shone like silver 
and that glove grasped the end of Verdane’s sword 
and twisted it free from Verdane’s grip.  He 
lightly tossed the sword aside.  Verdane grabbed 
the knife at his belt and flicked it with one 
wrist at the figure.  Again the silver glove 
snatched the blade out of the air and let it fall to the grass.
         Verdane stumbled backwards and ran to 
tent flap.  The fabric, once so yielding, now 
stood unmoving as a wall of firmest brick.  He 
beat at it with his fists, heart beating with 
something he’d not felt in years, a fear that 
reduced him to a child.  For the first time since 
his youth he knew he was helpless.
         “You may cease your clawing at that 
which will not give,” the figure said.  Verdane 
spun on his heels, back against the unmoving 
fabric. “I told you.  I am not here to bring you 
to harm.  I am both messenger and counsellor this 
night.  I will not leave you until you have read 
this letter.  You will not leave until you have read this letter.”
         “Who are you?” Verdane asked, his voice 
cowed.  None of his subjects had ever heard him speak thus. “What are you?”
         “My name is Tyliå-nou.  In the language 
of my people, it means he who keeps the ways 
straight.” He drew back the hood of his cloak to 
reveal a stern face with high cheekbones beneath 
white hair streaked with silver.  His eyes were 
slanted and dark and his ears pointed.  His skin 
in the lamplight seemed a pearl grey that took in 
no colour.  Verdane trembled.  This was no man at 
all. “As to what I am, man-child, I am an Åelf.”
         Verdane fell to his knees and sobbed with fear.

----------


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

Charles Matthias