[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LXXIV

[C. Matthias]

Almost done with this story. :-)

A big thanks to Ryx for his help with all the 
Whalish scenes.  He originally wrote these a 
couple months ago, but in that time the exact 
ordering of events changed just enough that I had 
to rework his scenes to make them fit.  I hope 
the splicing job I did isn't too obvious!

Metamor Keep: The Last Tale of Yajakali
By Charles Matthias

Chapter LXXIV

Faith Restored


         “Prince Phil!  Prince Phil, you are 
needed, highness!” The voice of a crewman shouted 
through the cabin door with muffled 
intensity.  Phil, having woken an hour before and 
unable to sleep though he firmly kept his eyes 
shut against the world, rose to the call of duty 
and ran his paws across his face, frowning at the 
unpleasant texture of his unwashed fur.  With 
precious little water, and no fresh uniforms due 
to the sinking of the Burning Spear, he’d been 
forced to don what could be found in the remnants 
of their fleet.  Malger, while taller, had proven 
to be the most close size match and thus Phil 
squirmed into an extra set of the archduke’s 
flashy raiment.  Rupert, who helped him into the 
outfit, was likewise limited in what he could use 
for a replacement uniform and so remained in the ragged remnants of his armour.
         “A moment!” He replied toward the 
door.  Beneath them the deck lifted with a 
brackish wave.  Phil’s ears flopped behind his 
head, even as Rupert crossed the cabin and opened 
the door.  Beyond stood one of the Whalish 
sailors, his face appearing white even beneath 
layers of grime. “What is the situation?” Phil 
asked, wondering what new devilry could have come 
upon them.  The Marzac fleet was broken and its 
remnants forced into retreat.  What more could that ill-omened place do?
         “A bright light on the horizon, highness!”
         Phil’s ears lifted. “Light?  Where?”
         “Toward Marzac, highness.  And...” the 
crewman swallowed and turned his head to one side 
staring across the lamp-lit deck. “Reishel lost contact with the mages.”
         Phil took a deep breath and hopped forward a step. “Take me to him.”
         The crewman led him onto the shadowed 
deck.  To the north a faint line of orange limned 
the horizon over the Iron King’s bow.  Phil 
plucked at the garish satin and silk of his new 
wardrobe while he followed the sailor.  Rupert 
stalked heavily at his side, the gorilla’s naked 
feet making little noise on the freshly scrubbed 
deck of the captured Pyralian warship.  To either 
side the shadows of Whalish ships, under oar and 
sail, spotted the gleaming black waves of the 
sea. “Is that the light you speak of?”
         “No,” the sailor replied. “It was bright 
and reached into the sky.  Over there.” The 
crewman, Chellar Phil remembered, pointed to 
nearly the centre of the orange smear.  It was 
hard to see, but it looked as if the entire sky 
was occluded by smoke.  Another wave smacked the 
side of the ship.  The smaller ships surrounding 
them bobbed and buckled but held.
         Phil grimaced and turned from side to 
side, “Where’s...” he broke off as Reishel, the 
chief mage reassigned to the King from the 
Singing Bird, came up the stair moving quickly 
enough to warrant a blocking shift of the guards 
stationed at its head.  The young mage was 
breathing heavily and sweating from some 
exertion.  Phil stood as tall as he could and 
said, “Reishel!  What is happening?”
         “After that flash of light from Marzac 
shortly after high hour, a powerful disturbance 
rushed past.  All of the mana flows have been 
shifted in ways I don’t understand.  My spells 
were disrupted, even ones that have been 
unchanged for years.  I’ve just finished checking 
on them, but they’re all gone.”
         “And your link to the other mages?”
         Reishel shook his head. “Broken.  It 
will take some time to reestablish.  But there’s more.  The Pyralians.”
         “What of them?” Phil asked as another wave rocked the ship.
         “They’re demanding parlay.”
         Phil twitched an ear and hopped a step 
closer, one paw securing his belt. “Finally 
speaking?” The deck pitched with the wave.  They 
were growing more frequent. “What have they 
said?  Have they asked for anyone in particular?”
         The man cast a glance over his shoulder, 
“They’re asking for whomever commands the ship, 
your highness.” Reishel turned his head and 
jerked his chin toward the forward cabins where 
the previous command crew of the King had been 
secured. “They have.  The ones down in the lower 
hold are asking questions too.  They’ve stopped 
all attempts to get out of the hold or breach the lower hull, at any rate.”
         A pair of sentries stood to either side 
of the narrow gangway leading to the forward 
quarters where the huge ship’s officers and 
visiting nobles normally slept.  The quintet of 
five cabins had been re-tasked as a makeshift 
brig to hold the surviving members of the Iron 
King’s Pyralian command staff and a few soldiers 
subdued during the securing of the main 
deck.  There were a few other night watch 
lingering nearby, confused and alarmed by the 
signs on the horizon and by the change in the 
behaviour of their captives.  As he approached, 
Phil saw the Sutthaivasse royal, Malger, emerging 
from a nearby companionway leading to the lower 
deck crew areas and first tier of oars.  Once 
more the man hid under the magical veil of his 
illusion amulet.  Spying Phil and his retinue 
Malger made his way over, only pausing to steady 
himself when another high wave buffeted the ship’s hull.
         Sketching a bow Malger did not smile, 
“It’s over, Phil.” He said quietly, so low over 
the noise of the boat and sea only Phil’s tall, 
acute ears could hear his voice.  Phil blinked at 
the enigmatic statement, both ears backing 
briefly before resuming their usual upright 
poise.  He ignored the sting from his recently 
battle-pierced ear. “Marzac may have fallen.”
         Whatever the captive Pyralians had to 
say was completely cast from Phil’s thoughts at 
the enigmatic mainlander’s statement.  He reached 
up a paw to Malger’s arm to draw him closer. “May 
have??  How come you to know this?” he hissed 
before another swell rocked the Iron 
King.  Shouts echoed from the smaller ships 
tossed by the waves.  Phil had to be steadied by 
Rupert’s gentle hand.  The rabbit nodded his 
thanks and then let the fop go before staring in 
horror at the churning sea. “Turn us into the 
waves!” he shouted.  Like a giant ripple, the 
waves rose and crashed time after time from the north.
         As the helmsman and oarsmen set to work, 
Phil turned to the mage. “Reishel, reestablish 
contact with the other ships.  Especially 
Aramaes.  I want to know what the last of the Marzac fleet is doing.”
         Reishel bowed his head. “At once, your 
highness.” He turned on his boots and walked toward the ship’s stern.
         “And tell the Pyralians I’ll parlay with 
them come the dawn!” Phil shouted at his 
back.  He spun to Malger and his ears folded back 
an inch. “And you, go back below deck.  Once this 
squall is past I will ask you what you mean.”
         Malger’s human visage twisted into a 
simple grin.  He inclined sinuously, betraying 
his musteline shape. “Of course, your 
highness.  I will speak with you again soon.” And 
with that he departed for his stateroom.
         Another heavy wave struck the hull, foam 
sloshing over the deck as the ship rocked in its 
turn.  Phil tensed, claws digging into the hard 
wood of the deck, then hopped toward the aft deck 
to aid the helmsmen.  On the horizon, the land of 
Marzac glowed a burnished bronze.

----------

         “Dost they need anything Dazheen?” 
Hanaman asked as he gently laid her against the 
lumpy pillow on her bed.  He had led a group of 
Magyars who’d stayed up to watch for them into 
the place where Cenziga once stood and brought 
her and Grastalko back to the wagons.  Dazheen’s 
body ached in every corner.  Her ears throbbed 
with the stomping of boots and hooves.  The only 
thing on her body that did not hurt was her 
ruined eyes which felt nothing at all.
         “I dost need rest,” she replied with as 
much warmth as her exhaustion allowed.  She heard 
several of the men trundling out of the 
wagon.  Bryone’s dainty steps backed out of their 
way.  She reached for her quilts with one hand, 
and Hanaman drew them over her chest to snuggle 
at the nap of her neck.  She sighed and her 
wrinkled face stretched into a gap-toothed smile. “I thank thee.”
         She heard the men shuffle out, except 
for Hanaman who lingered over her side.  Was he 
staring at her?  Indecision had never been one of 
his faults, so she knew him to be carefully 
thinking.  When his momentary pause came to its 
end, his voice was muted that Bryone might not 
overhear. “The mountain be no more?”
         “Aye,” she replied. “‘Tis gone forever.”
         “And thy cards?”
         “Destroyed.”
         Hanaman took one deep breath and 
half-turned where he stood. “I wilt check on thee 
in the morning, Dazheen.  Rest well.” His boots 
retreated out the wagon and joined the milling of men and Assingh outside.
         Bryone stirred from her place and asked, 
“Art there anything thou needest of me?”
         “See that Grastalko art tended, then take thy rest.”
         Dazheen could hear the hopefulness in 
her aide’s breath as she wished her a good rest 
and departed.  The old seer let her smile fade as 
she sought the surcease of pleasant and 
well-deserved slumber.  She had not understood 
the nature of their enemy, the one that had 
thoroughly turned the lives of her fellow Magyars 
upside down and killed three of them.  But he was 
gone beyond the veil of death now, and that was solace enough.
         Her body trembled and her breath drew 
tight.  After the mountain had torn through the 
last of her cards, she’d no longer felt them the 
way she had since being blinded.  They’d been a 
presence in her mind, something tangible that 
mocked her.  Their absence had been a surprise, 
and then a comfort.  Yet now, she could feel it 
again, denuded and weak, but present.
         “Hello, Dazheen,” a quite voice 
intoned.  The voice she knew as well.  The man from the cards, the Marquis!
         She trembled beneath her quilt. “Do not 
be afraid,” he said, and for the first time, his 
voice did not mock or threat.  It was not humble 
but neither was it arrogant. “Even if I wished, I 
could do you no harm.  I am dead, and soon I will 
be taken to what awaits me in recompense for my 
deeds in this life.  Because of you, I have hope 
that perhaps I will not be judged so harshly as I might deserve.”
         “Why dost thee come to me?” Dazheen 
asked, feeling her fear of this man ebb.  Though 
she could hear his voice move about her 
bedchamber, she could hear the sound of no 
footfall.  Was he truly a bavol-engro now?
         “To thank you for not giving up no 
matter what I did.  If not for that, we would all 
have been destroyed.” His voice moved from near 
her head toward her feet.  The Marquis seemed to 
be turned away from her. “I wanted to make sure 
you knew that your sacrifices were never in vain.”
         Dazheen pursed her lips.  She was no 
longer afraid of this spirit.  It lacked the 
malice she’d come to expect.  There was, almost, 
a measure of kindness to it. “I dost know.  Art thou asking for forgiveness?”
         “I ask for nothing you are not willing 
to give.” The Marquis’s voice became even more 
remote. “And now I must go.  I am being called 
beyond.  Goodbye, Dazheen, my dear friend.” And 
with that, the presence left her.  Alone, Dazheen 
pondered his words in her heart.  She would miss him.

----------

         As was customary, Kashin prayed by 
himself.  He still bore the black tunic, 
breeches, and cloak that signalled his mourning 
for his master, the late Patriarch 
Akabaieth.  Though he was now in the service of 
the new Patriarch Geshter, the man he’d freed 
from the evil influence of Marzac with the use of 
the short ceremonial sword he kept buckled at his 
side, he could not yet take up the green of the Yeshuel.
         Before the blessed yew on which their 
saviour was slain, Kashin knelt and offered 
supplication for the man who he’d sworn to 
protect and failed.  His heart assured him that 
Akabaieth was with Eli in Paradise, but still he 
would pray; and it was prayer as much for his own soul as Akabaieth’s.
         Day was dawning in Yesulam, and soon he 
would need to attend the Questioners.  They had 
nearly finished their Questioning of the 
implicated Bishops and their allies in the 
city.  Not a one of them had been corrupted by 
Marzac, which meant their cooperation had been 
willing and thus far more culpable than 
Geshter’s.  The two Bishops most principally 
aligned with Jothay, Temasah of Abeaf and Rott of 
Marilyth, had already been stricken of their 
positions and sent to remote monasteries in 
Kitchlande to spend the remainder of their 
lives.  They had been assigned a strict regimen 
of penance and prayer and both had made vows of 
silence.  Rott, as old as he was, might not even 
survive the voyage across the world, but Temasah 
would have many long years to repent for his crime.
         It brought Kashin no solace.  Vengeance never could.
         He sighed, eyes firmly fixed on the yew, 
letting that thought drift away on the repeated 
words of prayer.  A strange white light glinted 
off the yew and his muscles tightened.  The sword 
was in his right hand, his only hand, a moment 
later, and he spun onto his feet facing the 
newcomer.  The visage was pearly white, glowing 
with a soft warmth.  The golden eyes met him with 
a grandfatherly regard.  Long pointed ears kept 
the white hair from spilling over ancient 
cheeks.  Kashin’s jaw dropped.  He had not seen 
this creature in nearly a year. “Qan-af-årael!”
         “Kashin of the Yeshuel,” the ancient one 
replied with only a slight nod. “Have you 
cleansed the Ecclesia of Marzac’s taint?”
         Kashin sucked in his breath and lowered 
the sword. “How did you come here, Qan-af-årael?  Why are you glowing?”
         “I have died in battle against the 
forces of Marzac.  But my death was not in 
vain.  The power in Marzac is no more.  What of the Ecclesia?”
         Kashin sucked in his breath.  Marzac was 
defeated?  Then the Patriarch’s killer must have 
been defeated too.  He lowered his eyes and 
sighed. “I am doing what I can.  The Patriarch is 
free, but we still scour the ranks of the priests 
to find any more allies of Marzac.”
         Qan-af-årael smiled to him and stepped 
closer, his footfall making no sound.  A long arm 
draped in white damask reached for his shoulder. 
“You have done all that I asked and more.  Know 
this and be at peace.  The hand that you lost to 
Marzac’s fire, did wield the blade that stayed Marzac’s author.”
         “The hand I lost?” Kashin frowned as he 
pondered the riddle.  His eyes widened and he 
laughed, a sharp sound that felt unnatural in the 
private chapel. “Nemgas!  You knew, didn’t you?  About Cenziga.”
         Qan-af-årael nodded. “I did not fully 
understand, but I knew you would be brought 
there.  I would have warned you if I could, but 
it was not my place to do so.  All the rest was up to you.”
         “But what am I to do now?” Kashin asked 
him.  He looked the spectre up and down and 
suppressed a shudder. “You are dead and can guide no man anymore.”
         The ancient Åelf’s smile faded, but did 
not disappear. “You will do as you have always 
done, Kashin.  You will protect that which 
matters most.” Qan-af-årael inclined his head 
once, and with almost a whisper, said, “I bid you 
farewell, Kashin of the Yeshuel.  My time is 
past.  This world is now in your hands.”
         And then he was gone.  Kashin stared for 
several seconds, running his tongue behind his 
teeth as he pondered those words.  Slowly, his 
gaze returned to the yew.  A lightness danced in 
his heart even though so much weighed it down. 
“What matters most.  Amen.” He knelt once, made 
the sign of the tree, and left to attend to his duties.

----------

         The orange flame on the horizon faded 
within the hour, but the sea churned for another 
three before returning to a placid calm.  Phil 
battled his body’s call to sleep for the Iron 
King’s sake, shouting orders and keeping watch 
lest the smaller vessels be dashed against their 
hull by the larger swells.  No storm clouds 
besmirched the starry sky, but the sea heaved as if in the midst of a tempest.
         When it finally settled, Phil felt 
immense relief that no ship had been overwhelmed, 
though three of the smaller drom were now 
crippled and they spent a half hour moving crews to the sturdier dromonai.
         The source of the squall seemed to be 
Marzac, but the exact reason wasn’t 
clear.  Reishel had still not been able to 
establish his mind link to Aramaes, though the 
mages in the nearer vessels were all in 
communication again.  The prisoners remained 
quiet, and with the sea mimicking them, Phil 
decided it was time to return to the Sutt heir 
for their promised conversation.  But first to 
the senior officer, he said, “Captain of the 
watch, have your men prepare the galley board on 
the forecastle.  We’ll treat with the Pyralian 
captain and whomever he identifies as his first 
officer after the observance of dawn.”
         “At once, your highness,” the man 
replied, saluting him with practised regimen.
         Phil turned to ask Rupert to bring the 
foppish Malger to his cabin when he saw the 
archduke climb to the deck and stretch his 
limbs.  His eyes regarded the night dark sky 
limned by a faint line of blue on the eastern 
horizon.  They lowered to the rabbit hopping 
toward him and his lips curled into a smile. “I see the squall has passed.”
         Phil nodded and drew up to the marten 
disguised as a man. “It has indeed.  But there is 
much we still do not know.  Such as how you know 
that Marzac may have fallen.” The rabbit’s eyes 
spied the dim gleam of a pendant dangling form 
Malger’s neck.  The polished crescent seemed to 
drink in the light as if all the world were 
falling into it. “Does Nocturna tell you these things?”
         Malger did not even glance at the 
pendant draped over his neck. “She tells me many 
things, and I witness many things, Prince.  But 
the how of it is not for the ears of any and 
all.  Has the fall of Marzac had any effect on 
the tainted?”  With one hand the archduke swept a 
gesture toward the dark hallway a few paces 
away.  Phil glanced at the short passageway and 
chewed his lower lip thoughtfully.
         “I intend to treat with the Pyralian 
captain after dawn.”  Phil stretched slightly and 
scratched one of his ears, suddenly desperate for 
a proper bath.  “Malger, would you join us for 
this parlay?  As a Pyralian of royal status you 
may have considerable more weight in this discourse than I.”
         Malger sketched a brief bow, “As you 
wish, highness.”  He turned to pace Phil along 
the deck toward the aft castle.  “Whales and 
Pyralia have ever been on amicable terms.  You 
think to improve that through parlay?”
         Phil shook his head, “Not through parlay 
with a mere ship’s captain, Malger.  If, as you 
say, Marzac’s dark touch has been raised from 
these men then I will return them to their home without demands.”
         “If not?”
         “Return them to the brig or, if they try 
to fight, gift them to the Merai.”  Phil stopped 
and glanced aside at Malger.  “I saw Merai 
fighting Merai in that battle, but none of their 
kind attempted to contact us, nor did they course 
our shadow.  They arrived with your fleet.”
         The illusion-masked royal nodded, 
“Despite Pyralia’s very official denouncement of 
magecraft or any treating with the incorporeal it 
seems to be a rather strong cottage industry 
throughout the kingdom.  When I learned of your 
plight I sought what mages I could 
secure.  Having travelled with the young mage 
Murikeer, and lived in Metamor, I came to 
understand the powerful advantages of 
magecraft.”  Malger stroked his chin with his 
fingertips, “The response I received was quite 
surprising when I openly asked for 
practitioners.  One of them claimed to be 
descended from a Merai prince.”  He chuckled 
drily, “True or not, she did have communication 
with the Merai living in the coastal waters, and 
no little bit of social status.  She convinced 
them to aid us against the Marzac fleet attacking Whales.”
         Phil stopped at the door to his cabin 
and glanced eastward to where the sky was 
becoming ever more blue.  “Why?” he asked quietly, “Help, I mean?”
         Malger grasped Phil’s shoulder 
reassuringly and smiled, “I know you, 
Prince.  Not directly, no, but I saw a good bit 
of you over the years in Metamor.  You’re a good 
man, and Whales will be strong under your 
crown.  All I know of Marzac is its notorious 
history.  The Merai were having their own 
problems, and it was they who convinced me that 
some foul taint was why Marzac attacked, so I had 
my father’s firebreakers hauled out of their dry 
racks and put to sea.  That was three days before we found you embattled.”
         Phil chuffed in surprise and cocked an 
ear curiously, “Three days?  By oar, to cross 
that expanse of ocean?  And what are these firebreakers?”
         “Our Merai allies had their beasts, 
whales and monstrous cuttlefish, tow us.”  Malger 
glanced at the shadowed ships pacing them on the 
water, “As for the firebreakers, none survived 
that battle.  They had a spindle mangonel mounted 
amidships.  My father’s shipwrights designed them 
to strike devastating blows from beyond the range of your projectors.”
         Phil recalled seeing one of those ships 
shortly before it was destroyed by fire.  “My 
father always did expect that your sire would 
turn his attention westward one day.”
         “My sire always did expect that he would 
wear the crown of King, as well.”  Malger grunted 
with a shake of his head, “We saw where that folly led him.”
         “Aye.”  Phil touched Malger’s arm and 
drew him toward the captain’s cabin.  “Now, this 
thing with your patron goddess, I would like to 
learn more.”  He led toward the cabin and Malger 
followed while Rupert moved to place his 
considerable bulk outside the door.  “Such as, do 
all faithful receive such clear insight?"
         “No, we do not.  Often times we receive 
nothing more than riddles or other nebulous 
warnings and omens such as your dream about 
waves.” Malger explained as he closed the 
door.  Phil crossed to the captains’ desk and sat 
in the massive chair.  Malger leaned his hip against the edge of the desk.
         “Yes, my dream of waves.  And then a 
wave comes from the clear blue sea travelling 
toward a storm rather than away from it but some 
voice in my head warns me to turn into it.  What, 
by the mysteries of the deep, do you know about 
that?” Phil groused, scowling at the garishly 
clad royal son.  The man wore deep forest green 
silk today, trimmed with lace and decorated with mother-of-pearl.
         Malger chuckled, the light of the 
cabin’s single lamp gleaming in his all-too-human 
eyes, “I touched your dream, yes, and told you 
what the mages in my fleet intended to do.  That 
is what I do, one of the things that has kept me 
alive when every murderer with a guild coin is 
out to stop my heart, it is why Nocturna chose me to be one of her own.”
         “You comport directly with her?” Phil tilted his head dubiously.
         Malger’s gaze dropped to the desk and he 
traced a navigational line on one of the charts 
fastened down by clips.  “No.” Malger lied, “I am 
merely of her faith, owing to my rare ability to 
touch the dreams of others if I turn my effort to 
it.  That was how I knew you were among your fleets.”
         “I cannot say I find a lot of comfort in 
knowing that you can pick through my dreams.”
         “Not easily, Prince, rest assured.  If I 
am not already in another’s dreams, a creation of 
their own sleeping numen, then it is extremely 
difficult to find their dream and harder still to 
involve myself in it sufficiently enough to have 
any impact.  And then there is the need for you 
to be sleeping, and dreaming, for me to even have 
a chance to put my effort into communicating with 
you.  As with Nocturna, I cannot simply warn you 
flatly of impending danger, you would forget it within moments of waking.”
         “Thus that unpleasantly vivid dream?”
         Malger nodded slowly, “And, by narrow 
luck, the captain of the Dromon that limped into 
the port of Suttaivasse had been in some contact 
with you.  An inspection of the ranks you 
conducted left a few bits of your fur upon his 
uniform.  One of my mages used that, and the 
concerted effort of half a dozen others supporting him, to warn you.”
         “Who was that captain?”
         “Devashil was his name.  Currently he 
commands the Wrath of Ill Fortune, one of my 
longboats.  Our original intention was that he 
make contact with you before you engaged the Marzac host.”
         “Interesting name for a warship.” Phil 
said ruefully and smiled, “I wish to extend a 
commendation to him for bringing message of our 
plight to favourable ears.  As well all of your 
sailors and mages who aided us.”
         “They’re only escorts, highness, not 
intended for the tasks the Whalish Navy has held 
as its own demesne these last 
decades.  Sutthaivasse has no intentions that 
Whales fall in their charge.  Once we make the 
Marzac Isles and learn, for once and true, what 
has become of that accursed place I will have 
them return along the coast to safe harbor.”
         Phil rubbed his jaw and nodded at the 
archduke, “That would probably best be wise, as 
they’re hardly worthy of weathering any strong 
storms.  Only together did we keep as many afloat 
as we did during the squall.  Another and we will 
lose many more.  But the Marzac Isles have ever 
been a place of infractions peoples and safe 
harbor for pirates.  Perhaps Whales and 
Sutthaivasse can come to an agreement about who 
would be better at patrolling the dangerous waters there.”
         Malger moved across to sit upon the 
stool he had commandeered for himself, “We’ve a few moments before—”
         The archduke’s thought was interrupted 
by the shouting of Reishel outside.  Rupert 
opened the door, and the mage gasped for breath 
as he crossed the threshold.  It looked as if 
he’d just run the full length of the Iron King five times.
         “Reishel!” Phil said in his firmest voice. “What news?”
         “Word form Aramaes, your highness.” 
Reishel called when he caught his breath. “We 
just reestablished contact.  The fleeing ships 
have cut sail and heaved to!  They’re flying white pennants!”
         “When did they raise pennants?” Phil 
waved for him to approach.  Crossing quickly to 
the table, Reishel knuckled his brow and briefly 
dropped to one knee before standing.
         “In the night, Aramaes knows not when, 
but he reports there was a powerful disturbance 
shortly after the turning of the high hour.  He 
saw the same tower of light we did, only he 
reports that the land of Marzac was alight with fire.”
         “So we know it came from Marzac,” Phil 
mused.  He glanced at Malger briefly but did not 
share his sudden thought. “What other news of the Marzac fleet?”
         “The entire host has cast their sea 
anchors and cut sail, or shipped oars.  Stoshal’s 
line was among them before they realized 
it.  None have attacked, and signal surrender at discretion.”
         Phil nodded with a faint smile pulling 
at his muzzle, whiskers flicking forward briefly. 
“Very well, and thank you, Reishel.  Advise 
Aramaes to accept the terms of surrender and 
escort the remnants of Marzac northward, putting 
in at the nearest suitable harbour.”
         The mage lowered his head to Phil and 
departed to attend to his orders.  When the door 
shut behind him, Malger smiled in relief. “It 
seems that your prisoners are not the only ones 
who are having a change of heart.”
         “Let us hope that this truly means the 
taint of Marzac has been lifted from them.  Now, what were you saying?”
         Malger leaned in closer and spread his 
hands over the table. “Merely that we’ve a few 
moments before we need attend the observance of 
dawn.  We should not let this time go to 
waste.  Let us, Prince, play at the Game of 
Thrones and find a treaty favourable for all.”
         “One that will bring us peace for many 
years,” Phil replied, glad to know that at long 
last Whales had an ally for a neighbour.

----------

         “I’m sorry I had you woken up, but this 
is too important,” Duke Thomas said as he stared 
at all around the circular table in his council 
chambers. “And most of you already know what’s 
happened.  At midnight, Kyia appeared to Master 
Lidaman and I and told us that those we sent six 
months ago have defeated Marzac and broken its 
power.  And then she left to defend Metamor from 
its power rolling back.  Lothanasa Raven says 
that Rickkter has woken, which means the Marquis 
is dead.  And from what I’ve heard my daughter 
tell me, that power Kyia warned us of has passed 
and done very frightening things.  Malisa?”
         Assembled around the table were his 
daughter, his Steward Thalberg, his spymaster 
Andwyn, Master Lidaman, and his attache 
Copernicus.  Malisa folded her hands around a cup 
of steaming tea. “All the charms I’ve cast were 
destroyed when the magical surge drove through 
the Valley.  It headed north faster than our eyes 
could follow.  I’ve confirmed with Rois, Pascal, 
and Saroth that all of their active spells have 
been broken as well.  Everything can be recast 
easily enough, but we depend on a great deal of 
defensive magic here.  I sent a messenger bird 
north to Nestorius instructing him to recast all 
of Outpost’s defences.  But the Keep and its 
peculiar properties appear to be unharmed.”
         “The old lion is going to be casting 
spells for days,” Copernicus pointed out.  The 
giant lizard was dressed very warmly and had very 
strong coffee simmering in front of him just to 
keep him awake. “I’ve seen how much we have at Outpost.”
         “After the reports we’ve had from the 
scouts,” Thomas pointed out, “I’m not very 
worried about an invasion.  I’m more worried 
about an exodus.  Thalberg, please explain.”
         The alligator sat nearest the hearth yet 
still huddled into his thick red robes. “Several 
of our guests declined to entrust themselves 
entirely to our protection.  What guards they 
left to the midnight watch all witnessed 
themselves being changed by the curse, and then 
changing back again.  The curse did not take 
anyone, but for a moment they all saw what it 
could do to them.  I’ve tried to keep this from 
your vassals, but already Lord Calephas of Giftum 
has learned, and I fear Baron Pedain of Komley 
has as well.  I’ve done what little I can to 
appease them, but I’m afraid if I don’t keep my 
thumb on them, and even if I do, they’re all 
going to flee Metamor before your wedding and set 
us back to where we were before the Assault.”
         Thomas nodded, letting the news sink in 
before returning his gaze to his adopted 
daughter. “Malisa, do you think they are more 
vulnerable to the curse now than they were before?”
         Malisa took a quick sip of her tea. 
“After meeting with Saroth, I also spoke with 
Kurt Schanalein.  He saw himself becoming a boy 
and all the nuns change too.  I studied him for a 
few minutes, but I couldn’t detect even a hint of the Curse on him.”
         “Round up all the mages who can be 
spared.” Thomas said, voice and mind moving 
quick.  The news of Marzac’s defeat was joyous, 
but this magical wave threatened to undo his 
kingdom. “I will pay them extra to spend some 
time this morning examining each of my vassals 
and their men to make sure of this.”
         “We’ll have to hurry,” Thalberg grunted. 
“Not everyone will wait.  It won’t be long before 
they all know.  Once one of them leaves, they all will.”
         “Lord Calephas is already instructing 
his men to ready his coach,” Andwyn added 
quietly. “But he will not be leaving for some time.”
         Copernicus narrowed his yellow eyes. “Why ever not?”
         The bat folded his wings against his 
side and sighed with an air of satisfaction. “I 
took the liberty of dosing his ale with a mild 
laxative once I learned he knew.”
         Thomas turned on the bat. “You poisoned one of my vassals!”
         “Not poisoned.  A laxative will cause 
him only mild discomfort for a few hours and keep 
him here.  Besides, he has a history of this 
malodorous ailment.  He will not suspect us.”
         Thomas glowered at the bat and shook a 
hoof-like hand at him. “Don’t ever do that again 
unless I give you authorization.”
         Andwyn nodded his head. “As you wish, 
your grace.  I will confirm what Thalberg 
says.  Only Baron Pedain knows.  He makes a 
lovely woman, although the guard who saw what he 
became didn’t have to heart to tell him the 
truth.  Thankfully, Pedain was asleep at the time.”
         “It won’t stay with just them,” Thalberg pointed out.
         “Yes, we know.  Malisa, can you gather enough mages?”
         She nodded. “In an hour I’ll have enough 
to examine all our non-cursed vassals and their retinues.”
         “Good.  Is there anything else we can do 
to keep them here,” he glared at the bat, “without medicinal aid?”
         Lidaman pursed his lips and said, “Give them lots of money.”
         “I don’t have lots of money,” Thomas 
replied, though a bit irritated because he knew 
bribery was probably his safest course of action. 
“And I don’t dare threaten them or they’ll break 
their vows to me.  Metamor is hated enough as is 
without being seen as a beastly band of tyrants.”
         But the youthful financier smiled. “You 
do have lots of money, your grace.  In fact, you 
have their money.  They pay you taxes every few months.  Forgive them some.”
         Thomas shook his head. “We need that money to pay our troops.”
         “If they leave before your wedding, you 
may not ever again have taxes from them,” Lidaman 
pointed out. The boy leaned forward and tapped 
his fingers into one palm. “A garret in the hand 
is better than three in the ledger, but not 
thirty.  Besides, you have other things to 
consider.  The merchants.  We don’t have many 
right now because it is winter.  Those who did 
come are mostly from the Valley and already 
cursed.  If your vassals flee, many of the merchants will too.”
         “I always thought merchants would go 
anywhere they thought they could turn a profit,” Thalberg groused.
         “Not if it means they can’t leave,” 
Lidaman pointed out. “I know many foreign 
merchants who were trapped here after Three 
Gates.  Most moved their families here in the 
end, but it was not an easy transition for any of 
them.  Your bride’s wedding gown is made from 
cloth bought from one such merchant.”
         “Urseil cloth, yes, I know,” Thomas 
snorted much like the horse he appeared to be. 
“What if money isn’t enough?  You just said that 
money wouldn’t be enough to bring merchants here 
if they’re afraid of the Curse.”
         Lidaman nodded and folded his hands 
together. “Offer the money after you’ve had your 
mages examine them and assured them that there is 
no danger.  They’ll be set somewhat at ease, and 
the money will mollify the rest.”
         “Or,” Andwyn suggested in a quiet voice, 
“perhaps not money, but more favourable 
agreements?  We could send more of our forces to protect their interests.”
         Thomas drummed his fingers on the table, 
long tail flicking back and forth irritably. “I 
don’t like either of these suggestions.  But I’m 
having trouble thinking of a better one.”
         “You could grant them pride of place at 
the wedding and banquet” Copernicus suggested. 
“Most of them love being shown honour.”
         “If I displace any of the cursed 
vassals, they’ll resent me,” the horse lord 
sighed, feeling strangely helpless.  He was 
trying to hold water in his hands, and with his 
thick hooflike fingers, it was even harder. “I 
don’t think any will betray me, but I do not need 
to create anymore divisions between my cursed and 
uncursed lands.  That will lead to civil war.”
         Malisa counted off her fingers. “We 
cannot hold them by force of arms.  We cannot 
grant them special honours without creating 
resentment here.  We cannot use chicanery to keep 
them here.  All we can do is examine them and 
assure them that the Curse will not claim them 
and offer them a short reprieve on their taxes in 
recompense for risk.  Can we even be sure that 
the Curse won’t claim them, or that the magical surge won’t happen again?”
         Thomas shrugged. “How would any of us 
know?  Only mages can tell us that.  What of 
Misha’s sister, Elizabeth?  She’s been of great help to us in the past.”
         “It took her two days to reach us last 
time she visited,” Thalberg pointed out, yellow 
eyes studying the Duke closely.  The one time 
Elizabeth Brightleaf had visited Metamor had been 
to free Thomas from the magical halter that had 
made him want to be nothing more than a normal 
horse.  The holes in his hooves and nails where 
she’d shod him were healing but still visible. 
“The wedding will be over by then.”
         “Can’t we contact her?”
         Andwyn shook his head. “Only Misha and 
Jessica can do that.  Jessica is a thousand 
leagues away, and Misha is currently at Glen 
Avery.  He’ll return today, but not until midday, 
and then he’ll be preparing for his annual party this evening.”
         “If we can send birds to Nestorius, we 
can send birds to Misha!” Thomas neighed. “Bring 
him here with all possible haste.  In the 
meantime, this is what we shall do.  Malisa, as 
soon as we finish, gather all the mages you can 
and offer your services to our 
vassals.  Thalberg, instruct your staff to be 
exceedingly courteous to them and make sure they 
have no other cause to complain.  Copernicus, 
find George and have him station extra guards in 
the diplomatic wing to keep fights from breaking 
out.  Andwyn, keep your ear to my vassals and 
inform Malisa and I if any of them begin readying 
to depart.  Master Lidaman, you will stay with 
me.  We need to discuss what financial 
inducements we can make.  I fear I may ask for your assistance in that regard.”
         “I am at your disposal, your grace,” 
Lidaman replied with an honest smile. “What is mine is yours.”
         Thomas took a deep breath and favoured 
his advisors and friends with an equine whinny. 
“Thank you all.  Together I know we’ll get 
through this.  Now, let’s do what we can to stop the bleeding.”
         As one, they nodded, bowed to their 
liege, and left to attend to assigned tasks.  It 
was going to be a very long morning.

----------

         Sir Czestadt leaned out the window in 
his office overlooking the practice fields for 
the Driheli in Stuthgansk.  The noonday sun 
stayed behind the clouds though still brought a 
hearty warmth to the air.  Several knights ran 
their horses about the course, but few wore 
anything more than the most basic of mail 
shirts.  Dust kicked up in their wake, dirty and 
brown.  Ostlers and squires were quick to attend to the droppings left behind.
         He’d thought returning home would heal 
his wounds.  The Driheli had been nothing but 
rapturous to see his return, and all were 
gathering for the Yule celebrations, even those 
in the lands at the very limit of the Driheli’s 
reach.  When not in prayer, Czestadt had watched 
the practices from his office and ridden those 
fields until his horse tired of it.  He couldn’t 
quite bring himself to use his Kankoran-gifted 
abilities to control swords, but he had practised with blades in both hands.
         Yet all of it only reminded him of what 
he’d lost because of Jothay’s evil blade.  And 
ironically, a dead visage of Jothay had given him 
the clue he’d needed to understand that and what 
he was doing now.  He heard footsteps come to his 
door.  With a long sigh the Knight Templar called, “Enter!”
         In stepped Sir Petriz of Vasks.  The man 
who’d once been Czestadt’s squire knelt and said, 
“You wished to speak with me, Master Templar?”
         “I am not well, Sir Petriz.  I haven’t 
been well since I entered Yesulam all those 
months ago.” He ran one finger down the pink scar 
that began under his right eye. “This is not 
cause.  I don’t feel anything here anymore.”
         “What Jothay did?” Petriz asked, eyes 
narrowing at his leader’s disquiet. “Does that still hurt?”
         “It’s over.” Czestadt turned to face his 
second and sighed. “Jothay visited me this morning.”
         Petriz’s face went white. “But he’s dead!”
         “And he still is.  But now the evil that bound him is also dead.”
         Petriz relaxed, nodded slowly, and 
sighed. “Good.  Eli’s will has been done.”
         “But my faith in the Ecclesia is still 
wounded, Sir Petriz.  The only ones I know I can 
trust are those three Questioners.  For now at 
least.  This is a wound that will take a long time to heal.”
         The younger knight put his hand on 
Czestadt’s shoulder. “We can see our way through 
this together, Master Templar.  But if the others 
should hear you speak thus, their faith will be shaken too.”
         Czestadt nodded and rested his hand on 
Petriz’s arm. “I know.  That is why I am going to 
announce my retirement from the Driheli with the advent of the new year.”
         “No!” Petriz snapped, eyes darkening 
with worry. “No, don’t do that!  We need you here.”
         “Sir Petriz, you know it is for the 
best.” Czestadt smiled sadly. “Until this wound 
heals, I will be a detriment to the Driheli.  Our 
enemies will know my weakness and strike.  Many 
more will die.  That I will not allow.  As I am 
the problem, I will remove myself.  I will seek 
to join the Yesbearn that I might protect the Questioners.”
         Petriz swallowed and lowered his eyes. 
“And what of the Driheli?  None of us can lead them as you can.”
         “True,” Czestadt said, favouring his 
former squire with a warm smile. “But we don’t 
need somebody to lead them as I can.  I cannot 
lead the Driheli as my predecessor did.  Nor 
should my successor be expected to lead them as I 
do.  He will lead them as his judgement 
directs.  And there is only one amongst my knights whose judgement I trust.”
         “Who is that?” Petriz asked, his voice 
quivering slightly as if he were afraid of the answer.
         Czestadt shook his head.  The answer was 
obvious to him, but Petriz was ever humble. “In 
this troubled and uncertain time, I could only 
ever appoint a knight who truly believes and 
lives the code of knighthood to which all Driheli 
are called.  That knight is you, Sir Petriz.  And 
on the new year, I will announce my decision.”
         Petriz lowered his head and his arm 
dropped to his side. “Me? But... very well, 
Master Templar.  I will trust your judgement in this, as I always have.”
         Czestadt’s smile widened. “And what was 
one of the first lessons I taught you?”
         “To look up.” Petriz lifted his eyes, 
took a deep breath that stretched the links in 
his mail shirt, and then returned the smile. “I 
will always remember it.  But what of your squire, Hevsky?”
         “He will be ready to take his place 
amongst the knights soon.  I entrust him to your 
care to complete his training.”
         Petriz nodded slowly and licked his 
lips. “I will not disappoint you, Sir Czestadt.”
         “You never have,” Sir Czestadt grabbed 
him by the shoulders and drew him into a tight 
embrace. “From the day I first saw you on the 
street until now, you have never once 
disappointed me, Sir Petriz.  I’ve never known a 
finer knight than you.  Would that I could have 
been your squire.  Karol and Hevsky and all who 
come after them will be blessed to have you as a 
teacher.  Now, go be with the others.  I must 
attend to a few things and then I shall join you 
on the practice field.  I want to race our steeds one last time.”
         Petriz laughed and hugged him back. “I 
will look for you.  No matter where you must go, 
it will always be a happy day when you come to Stuthgansk.”
         “That will not be my choice, but that is 
how I wish it.” They broke apart and Czestadt 
bowed to Petriz. “Now go.  I will be with you soon, you who will be Templar.”
         Sir Petriz stood taller, bowed in 
return, and departed.  It was done.  And for the 
first time in months, Sir Czestadt of Stuthgansk, 
the Volka wie Stuth, felt peace in his heart.

----------

         “All scholastic inquests must begin with 
a clear understanding of several principles.” The 
stolid, measured voice of Kehthaek carried 
through the vaulted chamber.  Sitting at writing 
desks were three dozen black-robed Questioners, 
the red cross on their chests catching the 
lamplight. All eyes focussed on the new Grand 
Questioner, ears attentive to his words, and pens 
furiously writing down his every thought.
         Kehthaek reclined on several pillows, a 
sop to his age more than luxury. “These 
principles reside in, as the great Eli is three, 
three sets of three.  First the virtues, faith, 
hope and charity.  Then the faculties, memory, 
intellect, and will.  And lastly the methods, 
question, arguments, and commentary.  A mastery 
of each is necessary for the true fulfilment of 
the office of Questioner for which Eli has called you.
         “In brief, we sketch them.  A fuller 
treatment will come once you possess a firm grasp 
of the basics.  Faith is the belief in things 
unseen and the assent to the truth of revealed 
knowledge.  Hope is the trust in Eli’s promises 
despite adversity in this life, and thus, it is 
also an acknowledgement of the divine power to 
overcome those adversities.  Charity is the 
ability to recognize Yahshua in each person you 
meet and to treat them as Eli commanded.”
         Kehthaek smiled as he warmed to his 
subject.  For now he stayed with topics that each 
Questioner would understand.  But from there he 
would build their minds and souls in the proper 
comportment for priests of their special 
vocation. “Memory is the repository of all 
experiential knowledge.  From this well, the 
intellect draws forth sensory objects for 
scrutiny.  It is from the intellect that we 
develop intellectual objects which we shall later 
classify under the headings of science or 
wisdom.  The Will is that part of our subjective 
self that directs the intellect to action.
         “The methods dictate how we are to 
fulfill our obligations as Questioners.  We must 
first Question that which we are presented with, 
making use of our memory and intellect to discern 
truth from falsehood.  This method of discernment 
we call Arguments, for we should not dismiss what 
we have been told until through the means of 
reason we can ascertain truth.  And this is 
Commentary, the intellectual action of presenting 
the reasons for which something is or is not true.”
         Ah, how he wished he’d been allowed to 
do this before.  Already he could see lines of 
consternation in the eyes of the older 
Questioners, and impatience in those of the 
younger.  He lowered his face, betraying none of 
his pleasure. “Before we begin to delve deeper 
into these concepts, let us meditate upon the 
virtues as we pray the noon office.”
         And with him, all heads bowed and 
tongues chanted in harmonious prayer.

         Though Felsah did not smile, his hand 
caressed Rakka.  The dog had once protected 
Mizrahek, the previous Grand Questioner who had 
already set sail for a monastery in the remote, 
high passes of the Darkündlicht mountains.  But 
now Rakka stayed with Felsah and adored him with canine eagerness.
         “You see,” Felsah said to the dozen 
Questioners sitting in a circle around him and 
the dog, “we can never forget that all creatures 
are loved by Eli.  Though Rakka here has no 
immortal soul to lose, he is still precious in 
Eli’s sight.  And Eli gave him and other animals 
to us to teach us valuable lessons.  These may be 
charity, humility, prudence, responsibility, or 
even simple austerity.  Now come, each of you, 
touch this gift of Eli, not just with your hands, but with your heart.”
         The twelve gathered around him 
neared.  Rakka lifted his ears, eyes widening and 
leaned his head forward to sniff at those in 
front of him.  Several Questioners drew back 
their hands, afraid, but some allowed the dog to 
sniff, and then to lick their fingers.  Felsah 
nodded and let his hand rest on the dog’s back, 
steadying him. “Good, good.  Now, I want each of 
you to go into the city this day.  There are many 
strays wandering the streets in the lower 
quarters. Find one and coax it to you.  Unless it 
is owned already, bring it back here and we shall find a place to kennel them.”
         One of the other priests, one only a few 
years his senior and obviously resentful for 
having been placed under Felsah’s tutelage, 
flinched back from Rakka’s dusty fur and scowled. 
“Why bring them back?  They’ll just foul the temple.”
         “And you will clean up after them as you 
would yourself,” Felsah replied with 
patience.  “Mizrahek often did such a kindness for this animal; so can you.”
         “But why do this at all?” another 
younger Questioner asked.  This one had a severe 
frown, much like the one Akaleth often wore.
         “Because kindness is one of the most 
powerful tools any can ever use.  A surprising 
kindness can do more to disarm those you 
Question, then any whip or screw.  A kindness 
like I have done to this dog changed a 
Rebuilder’s murderous hatred into respect, and 
did far more to loosen his tongue than anything 
else I could have done.  I am not asking you to 
adopt a dog for the sake of the dog, although 
they will be well cared for here, but for your 
own sakes.  Both to inflame the virtue of charity 
in your hearts, and to improve your abilities as Questioners.  Now go.”
         The twelve climbed to their feet and 
left the room.  Felsah watched them go as he pet 
the dog.  Rakka nudged at his other hand with his 
nose.  Felsah smiled freely and scratched the 
pleasant dog behind his ears.  He wondered how 
many of the twelve would think to bring some food 
for the strays they found.  He’d give them a 
couple nights of failure and getting bitten 
before telling them his secrets.  It was better 
they learn from a dog than from a man, even if he 
looked like a fox, with a very big axe.
         Felsah laughed and wondered what Madog was doing.

         “Do not lie to me,” the Questioner 
postulant declared to the other Questioner 
postulant who was pretending to be the subject of 
a Questioning.  Akaleth and the other postulants 
sat cross-legged on the floor in a circle around 
them and watched, carefully listening to the 
exchange.  Felsah had given both men a bit of 
information about the case and had instructed 
them to play their parts as authentically as 
possible.  It had taken a few days to convince 
them that they would not be sinning by doing so, 
but now that they believed him, he could teach 
them through experience how to better fulfill their role as Questioners.
         “I’m not lying!” the one being 
Questioned declared hotly. “I’m telling you the truth!”
         “We know that you have been making 
illicit translations of the Canticles and perverting their meaning!”
         “But I haven’t done that at all!”
         Akaleth held up one hand and 
coughed.  Both postulants turned to him, their 
faces still writ with anger.  If he didn’t put a 
stop to it sooner he feared both young hotheads 
would come to fisticuffs. “You have forgotten one of the lessons I told you.”
         “What is that, Father Akaleth?” the 
Questioning postulant asked.  Akaleth recalled 
his name to be Yonas, and the one being 
Questioned Mousuf.  Both had the bronzed skin and 
dark hair common to the Holy Land, just as Akaleth did.
         “Yonas, you must never forget that what 
you are told, or what you think before beginning 
a Questioning, may not be the truth.  Not that 
you were lied to, but that those who instructed 
you were mistaken, or had incomplete 
information.  That is the purpose behind a 
Questioning, to learn what is true.  If during 
your Questioning you discover that what you 
thought to be the case is inaccurate, discard it 
and accept what is true.  Otherwise you will 
never be able to Question properly.”
         Mousuf looked relieved, but Yonas’s face 
narrowed. “But how will I know the truth when everyone lies to Questioners?”
         “Be charitable,” Akaleth said, his face 
set in a thin line.  How long had it taken him to 
learn that lesson?  His wounds from Zagrosek’s 
torture had long since healed, though his back 
sported even more scars than his father had given 
him. “You Question them not because they are 
guilty, although you may learn that they are 
during your Questioning, but because they know 
things that you wish to learn.  It is your job to 
obtain that information.  Thus, you must be 
willing to be charitable.  They may be telling you the truth.”
         One of the other postulants raised his 
hand and at Akaleth’s nod asked, “But how are we 
to know when they speak truth and when they lie?”
         “First, you must have clarity.  Any 
prejudices you have will only prevent you from 
thinking dispassionately, which is fundamental in 
your task.  Once those are gone, you can compare 
what those you Question tell you, and what you 
have learned prior to Questioning.  What do we 
know about the truth?  It is incomparable.  If 
you have two conflicting accounts, then you know 
both of them cannot be true, or at least, they 
cannot both be accurate in every detail.  Compare 
them, and find what does not contrast.  What is 
incomparable?  Only the truth should fall out of the sieve of your minds.”
         “So you wish us to practice charity, 
clarity, and incomparability?” Yonas asked, the anger fading from his face.
         Akaleth nodded.  He rather liked the 
sound of those three together.  He’d have to 
think on them more. “Very good, Yonas.  Now, 
continue with the lesson, and remember them!”  As 
the postulants resumed, Akaleth reached his hand 
into his sleeve and rubbed around his wrist where 
once the whip had been.  He sighed, relieved that 
Eli had at long last taken it from him.

----------

         Several times while they flew through 
the smoke-filled air, Charles pondered whether he 
should revert to flesh.  Even in his two-legged 
form, he still weighed a few hundred pounds as 
granite.  Guernef’s thigh was scarred where the 
fiery wood had pierced it only two days before, 
and the rat could see that scar pulling and 
tearing as the great Nauh-kaee flew south to find 
the Whalish fleet.  If Charles were flesh, 
perhaps Guernef wouldn’t risk injuring himself.
         And then the rat remembered that as 
flesh, he needed to breath.  Guernef seemed to be 
able to keep a bubble of pure air around him as 
he flew, but smoke from the explosion still 
buffeted the rat from time to time.  He didn’t 
want to think what that could do to his fleshy 
form.  The few times those hot ashes had managed 
to strike Guernef’s flanks they’d smoldered his 
fur and feathers.  Better to stay granite and 
hope that his friend’s wound didn’t open again.
         But after a few hours of flight in which 
they watched the sea wash in and out of the inlet 
the collapse of Marzac had created, winds in the 
upper air began to break apart the smoke.  The 
rat lifted his eyes and marvelled at the stars, 
so still in their quiet but bright regard for 
mankind.  Hard to believe that only hours before 
they had spun like so much lace.  And now, with 
the eastern horizon brightening with the promise 
of a new dawn, the rat wondered how their friends fared.
         “Look,” Guernef chided him. “Ships.”
         Charles leaned forward and stared past 
the Nauh-kaee’s shoulder at te sea below.  The 
great wings spread on either side of him, while 
his tail bounced in the air next to 
Guernef’s.  But below them he could see a few 
dozen vessels.  They were a mixed group.  He 
recognized several Whalish dromonai as well as 
their support craft.  But there were others too, 
caravels, several galleass, and others he didn’t 
recognize.  Many of them were flying white 
pinions.  Was this the Marzac fleet Vigoreaux had spoken of?
         “Let’s move in closer.  Whalish vessels 
always have mages.  Can you contact them and warn them we’re coming?”
         Guernef’s head bobbed as he turned his 
wings.  The air rushed over his back.  He felt 
the vine burrowing its roots even deeper in his 
stony flesh. “I will let you hear our words in your mind.  Now hold tight.”
         The rat tightened his claws in the 
Nauh-kaee’s neck feathers and pressed his legs 
more closely around his middle.  Below them the 
ships slowly grew in size.  The rat felt delight 
stir inside when he could make out individuals 
moving across the decks.  And then several looked 
up and began to scatter or draw their 
bows.  Guernef beat his wings and circled them.
         Guernef’s voice resounded in the rat’s 
mind. {Men of Whales.  We come seeking your aid.}
         {Who are you?} A man’s voice called 
back.  The rat blinked, as the tone felt familiar to him.
         {We are Guernef of the Nauh-kaee, and 
Charles Matthias of Metamor, come to seek your 
assistance on behalf of our friends trapped in 
the desolation left by Marzac’s destruction.}
         {Charles Matthias of Metamor?} The voice 
seemed to ponder that for a moment. {Ah, the 
rat!  What by all the gods are you doing down 
here?  I have not heard from you since we escaped 
from Arabarb.} The rat’s ears lifted and he 
blinked. {You knew me then.  It is I, 
Aramaes!  Never mind how you came here.  Just 
land where I show you and we’ll discuss the rest face to face.}
         The rat laughed a bit.  He remembered 
the mage Aramaes.  A good man who’d been 
proficient in the creation of charms to keep rats 
off the ship.  He wondered if he still served 
under Captain Ptomamus, the man with the unfortunate allergy to rat fur.
         “You best return to your fleshy form ere we land,” Guernef advised.
         The rat nodded, seeing the wisdom in 
that.  As Guernef circled lower and lower toward 
the largest of the dromonai, the rat enjoy the 
feel of the cool sea air whipping through his fur.

----------

         The sky overhead was a deep shade of 
indigo splashed with dawning blue when Phil and 
Malger climbed onto the forecastle deck.  A large 
table, the galley board, was affixed to the deck 
and spread with a cloth of deep blue 
linen.  Pewter plates and cutlery were laid out 
and the last two bottles of Port from the 
captain’s liquor cabinet stood beside pewter 
chalices.   Folding chairs were scrounged from 
below deck and the Captain’s cabin and Phil sat 
upon one of the latter ornate constructs.  Malger 
sat to his right and Rupert stood behind them 
while the prisoners were brought up from the cabins below.
         In the lead was a man of aristocratic 
air and physique; well toned bordering on a 
slight softness given to one who issues orders 
and does not exert himself terribly often.  He 
was approaching middle age but the unshaven, 
unkempt scruff of beard covering his strong jaw 
did not show any graying.  Striking blue eyes 
took in Phil and Rupert at a glance and went wide 
in surprise causing the man to stop half way up 
the steep stair from the main deck.  The man 
behind him was likewise brought to a blind halt 
while on the deck below one of the Whalish 
sailors gave a curt order for them to keep climbing.
         “What devilry is this?” the leader 
grumbled irritably, moving again at the insistent 
poke from the butt of the soldier’s spear.  “Has 
the world gone wholly over to demons?”
         Phil bridled slightly but held his 
retort, only the backing of his tall ears 
indicating the degree of his irritation.  Rupert 
flexed the thick arms folded across his chest 
causing the poorly mended orange of his uniform 
to creak in protest.  Malger leaned forward without rising.
         “How many demons do you see?”  The 
illusion-clad marten asked sharply with a glance 
over the deck, “I see none but mortals who have 
sacrificed much to preserve your lives.   They 
are your conquerors, sailor, be their form 
perhaps different from any you have seen 
before.  You demand parlay, and he has shown the 
forbearance to hear your words, so speak wisely or swim.”
         The bearded men shuffled toward the 
chairs set across the table from Phil and after a 
few moments settled into him.  The second man was 
thin to the point of emaciation.  His gaze was 
intense and direct, full of wrath at being the 
captive instead of the captor.  Both looked, and 
smelled, as if they had not bathed since Marzac’s 
touch found them.  Phil steepled his paws before 
his nose, whiskers twitching and ears swiveling 
forward alertly.  “Please, we are all persons of 
station here, so let us conduct ourselves accordingly.  Who are you, sirs?”
         The speaker’s attention shifted from 
Malger to Phil with a beetling of his 
brow.  Despite being seated in the previous 
Captain’s own deck chair centred across the table 
from them, with Malger at his right and a 
bodyguard behind him the man had not expected 
Phil to speak, let alone command the parley.  The 
man’s jaw muscles jumped and clenched for several 
seconds while he came to grips with the oddness 
of being addressed by an animal.  “I am Darius, 
of Ershorn.”  He tilted his head to the man 
seated at his own side, “Gregor, of Brekaris.”
         “Of what houses, gentlemen?” Phil 
lowered his hands to the tabletop but did not 
make any reach for the unopened bottles sitting 
between them. “That we would know to whom we 
should send our couriers detailing your fates.”
         The one who named himself Darius rolled 
his shoulders in stubborn pride, “I would know 
with what beasts we treat, and under whose flag we now find ourselves.”
         Phil chuffed irritably, “As you 
demand.  I am Phillip Tenomides, Prince of Whales.”
         “I am Malger dae ross Sutt, Arch Duke of 
Western Pyralia.” Malger intoned blandly, 
worrying the tip of one finger lazily as if bored of the interview.
         “Sutt?  That line is broken.” The man 
named Gregor hissed angrily.  “Many paid with 
blood and gold to stop the disease that was Sutt, a decade gone now!”
         “Blood and gold invested wisely, Gregor 
of Brekaris.  I am not my sire, but it is to 
Prince Phil you owe the debt of your 
lives.”  Malger made a short wave toward Phil with one hand.
         Before Gregor could continue a hateful 
diatribe accounting the evils of Malger’s sire 
Darius raised a hand and forestalled him with a 
curt slicing motion.  “As it may, Duke.” He eyed 
Malger dubiously and then Phil, weighing their 
words.  “Regardless, this ship and its crew are 
in your hands.”  With a resigned sigh and a slump 
of weary shoulders Darius seemed to shrink upon 
himself slightly.  “Say on then.  I am of House Egland, and Gregor is of
”
         “House La’Dorine, last of my own line.” 
Gregor growled, never taking his eyes off of Malger.  “Falshon Sutt
”
         “Enough, Gregor!” Darius snapped, “Your 
grievances are not for this table, it is the 
lives of our crew we treat for, not past 
wrongs.”  Gregor’s mouth worked wordlessly for a 
few more seconds before he fell into a sullen 
silence.  Darius looked back to Phil, “What are your intentions for the crew?”
         “The taint upon you does seem to appear to be lifted, and if
”
         “Taint?” Darius interrupted with a scowl.
         Phil nodded, “You sailed too closely to 
the shores of Chateau Marzac.  A dark radiance 
has spread from that accursed place and captures 
the minds of those who venture too closely, 
turning them to its own dark ends.  Under that 
taint you commanded an armada of similarly turned 
vessels and sought to destroy Whales.”
         Darius shrank even further into himself, 
“I recall something of these crimes, but only in 
fitful flashes of poor memory.  My last clear 
recollection was
” he thought for a moment, “We 
encountered a Whalish Drom and a Tournemire 
carrack engaging a merchant vessel and pursued 
them toward the horn of Marzac.  After that, 
everything becomes a nightmarish fog.”  He rubbed 
his dirty face with both hands, torn with 
anguish.  “What crimes have we conducted under 
this taint you claim?  What other empires have we set ourselves against?”
         “You have committed no crimes of your 
own free will, Darius.  This is not a tribunal of 
judgment.” Phil waved a placating hand quickly to 
forestall the man’s spiralling descent into 
crushing guilt.  “As I said, the taint of Marzac 
did this to you.  Nor are you gentlemen alone in 
being liberated from Marzac’s dark touch.  The 
last of the fleet surrendered to our forces a few 
hours past and they too shall not be held account for the crimes committed.”
         Phil lowered his paws to the table and 
offered both men his firmest smile. “But for now, 
go below and attend to your men, let them know 
that they will receive pardons dependent upon 
their behavior until we make port in Whales.”
         Darius levered himself to his feet and 
saluted smartly, “Until you return us to Pyralian 
custody we are your men, Prince Phil of Whales, 
rabbit or man or
 whatever you are.  You still know honour.”
         “If your men accede to Whalish orders, 
Captain Darius, have them take oar alongside the 
men of Whales and make all due speed eastward.”
         “It shall be done.”  Darius, with Gregor 
close at his heels, made his way toward the 
stair.  Malger stood quickly and moved to join them.
         “Darius, if I might ask, do you have a brother?”
         Gregor gave Malger a hard glare but said 
nothing when Darius came to a stop at the head of 
the stair, skirting around the Pyralian captain 
and continuing to make his way toward the nearest 
companionway.  Members of the Whalish watch 
accompanied him.  “I did, Duke.  He perished when 
the Patriarch made an ill considered pilgrimage 
to the demon-touched kingdom of Metamor.”
         Malger came to stand at the railing and 
gave the man a level stare.  “Do you see any 
demons aboard this ship, Darius?  What of the 
white rabbit you just saluted and commended for honor?”
         Darius scowled and tipped his head, “I 
cannot say what is demon or not, I dare not trust 
what I see after
 what has happened.”
         “Whales sent a diplomatic envoy to 
Metamor years ago, to establish treaties of trade 
and knowledge.  When war came to Metamor that man 
stayed, fighting alongside people in a land 
foreign to his home.  He suffered the same fate 
as they.” Malger explained slowly, looking down 
to the deck a few steps down from the forecastle.
         Vexed, Darius sighed heavily and waited 
for Malger’s point to be made.  “Their fate?”
         “Cursed.  Changed, some becoming a 
mixture of man and animal, and suffering greatly for it.”
         “And yonder prince was that diplomat, and in that war he was changed?”
         “For the honor you complimented he has 
been forever changed.  Would you still label him as a demon?”
         Darius shook his head, clutching the top 
posts of the stair with both hands and leaning 
forward wearily.  “No, Duke, I cannot.”  He 
pushed himself back upright and turned to meet 
Malger’s gaze.  “Why do you ask of my brother?  He is deceased, as I said.”
         Malger shook his head slowly, never 
taking his eyes from the Darius’ gaze.  “He 
lives, though like Phil he has been changed by 
the curse that still lingers upon the kingdom.”
         Darius frowned, “You have seen 
him?  Seen him since the Patriarch’s murder?”  He 
paused and swallowed heavily, “He was not party to that, I pray?”
         “I have, I know him well.” Malger smiled 
reassuringly, “And he was not.  The death of the 
Patriarch weighed heavily upon him, and still 
does, but he has found a purpose to continue.  He 
can never return to Yesulam, because of Metamor’s 
touch, but he is still a person of honor and strength.”
         Darius scrutinized Malger closely for 
several seconds, “How be it you are not touched, if Phil and my brother were?”
         Raising a hand Malger grasped the 
sailor’s shoulder firmly, “I was, Captain Egland, 
I was.”  He dropped his hand and turned toward 
the table, “Your men will need your wisdom and 
leadership below, Darius.  When you have seen to 
their needs we can continue our 
conversation.”  He paused and looked back over 
his shoulder, “Oh, and have your men release the 
stores.  Many of us would sorely like to make use of some soap.”
         Darius’s confusion turned to mild 
laughter and he nodded. “It will be done.  I fear 
we may not have enough for all in its need.”
         As the brother to the elk Yacoub 
departed for the hold, Malger heard the mage 
Reishel accost Phil in frantic voice. “Your 
highness!  Word from Aramaes!  I scarcely believe 
what he told me, but he said you would know of whom he spoke.”
         Curious, Malger came behind the white 
rabbit who leaned back on his haunches to hear 
the harried and exhausted mage’s report. “What is it, Reishel?”
         “Only minutes ago, two creatures landed 
on board the Burning Hand.  One of them is a 
great white gryphon named Guernef.  The other 
says he knows you, your Highness.  A man in the 
shape of a brown rat calling himself Charles Matthias.”
         Malger blinked in surprise.  Not even 
Nocturna had warned him of this!  Prince Phil 
looked as if he’d been punched in the gut.  His 
ears folded behind his head and his speech came 
in ragged gasps. “Charles?  What is he doing here?”
         “Aramaes says that a group of 
Metamorians and their allies are trapped on what 
is left of the Marzac peninsula.  And he says 
that it is they who defeated Marzac.  They come seeking our aid.”
         Phil jumped a foot in the air in his 
excitement. “Then give it!  Captain 
Whiett!  Change our course!  We head north to 
Marzac.  North to Marzac!”  Malger smiled and 
shook his head.  Just how many Keepers were involved here anyway?

----------


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

Charles Matthias