[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LXXV

[C. Matthias]

That's it!  I'm freaking done!  Yeehaw!!!

For the record, I began writing Last Tale of Yajakali back in January of 2006.

Metamor Keep: The Last Tale of Yajakali
By Charles Matthias

Chapter LXXV

Going Home


         Guernef returned a few hours before the 
sun set on the day after they’d entered the 
Chateau Marzac.  Until then, Jerome, James, 
Andares, and Sir Autrefois busied themselves with 
arranging their supplies and erecting the tents 
so that they could sleep.  Some of their 
belongings were destroyed in the magical 
maelstrom, and apart from the Marquis’s servants 
who’d been bound on the Dais, all of their 
clothes had been ripped from their bodies.  As 
warm as it was on the peninsula, especially with 
the fire still burning to the north, those with 
fur or feathers endured their nudity, though 
James fashioned a loincloth for himself for modesty’s sake.
         Abafouq and Jessica spent their time 
creating a very large witchlight to act as a 
signal to the Whalish fleet.  They set it to 
hover fifty feet over their encampment, and made 
sure that the bottom did not shine as brightly as 
the rest to keep from blinding themselves.  They 
then cast what spells they knew to keep the air 
from choking with smoke and dust.  Abafouq 
lamented the necessity of sending Guernef off to 
look for help because such spells were the Nauh-kaee’s specialty.
         Once all was prepared, most of them 
collapsed inside the tents to sleep.  Andares and 
Kayla took the first watch.  The landscape, once 
lush and green with more trees, ferns, and brush 
than the skunk could name, was now a desolate 
wasteland.  Her paws sunk into the muddy ground 
only to bite into sticks and bits of mortar from 
the castle walls.  If not for the choking dust, 
they would have been able to see unimpeded for 
miles in every direction.  To the north the 
forest smoldered as the fires burned themselves 
out in the damp vegetation, while in every other 
direction darkness and the sea waited.
         It took some time before Kayla 
understood what bothered her most about the 
scene.  The scent was foul, but after travelling 
for weeks through the marshes, and after years 
spent in Metamor, she could endure the 
scent.  Even the sight, depressing and lifeless 
as it was, could only remind them of their 
victory over Marzac.  What upset her was that she 
could hear nothing but the snoring and whimpering 
of her friends as they slumbered in dream or 
suffered in nightmare.  So close to the sea, she 
expected to hear gulls or terns, or even the 
lapping of waves.  But there was nothing.
         Shortly after noon, they woke James and 
Jessica and bade them take watch.  It took Kayla 
only minutes to find sleep, and when she did, she 
dreamed of Rickkter.  She couldn’t remember her 
dreams when she woke that evening feeling 
somewhat stronger in body, but she did ponder 
what her raccoon lover might be doing now that 
he’d been freed from the Marquis’s cards.  Was he 
tearing down the Keep trying to come after 
her?  A part of her hoped so, but she knew it 
would be best if he waited and recovered his strength.
         While pondering her lover, Kayla 
searched through what they’d managed to save and 
thanked all the gods when she found her 
brush.  While Andares scoured their rations for 
something they eat without recourse to fire, she 
brushed the tangles out of her fur.  There were 
far more than she’d thought, and winced as the 
knots pulled several clumps of fur out.  When 
Andares offered her bread she ate it with one paw 
and continued brushing with the other.
         She was just starting on her tail when 
Jessica spotted the returning Nauh-kaee.  All of 
them breathed a sigh of relief when they saw him 
land.  Even Lindsey smiled.  The news of the 
Whalish fleet cheered them all.  But the 
exhaustion was too much, and after eating and 
grooming herself, Kayla climbed back into her 
tent and slept for many more hours.
         By the time she woke, it was only a few 
hours before dawn the next day.  They had 
continued to cycle the watch, and it was Sir 
Autrefois of all people who gently called her 
name bidding her rise.  The skunk smiled to him, 
a man who’d been a victim as much as she was, but 
this time found something to wear before leaving the tent.
         Jerome bore only a single layer of 
linens that did little to hide his strongly 
muscled chest.  He nodded once to her and then 
gestured to the south. “Charles and the fleet are 
somewhere down there.  How much longer will it take before we see them?”
         Kayla stretched and shook her head. “I 
don’t know.  But the ships won’t land here.  There’s no water.”
         Jerome nodded. “Once the dawn comes 
we’re going to need to head west.  It shouldn’t 
take more than a few hours to reach the shoreline.”
         “Over this ground?” Kayla asked. “It will take longer than that.”
         “We’ll find a way,” the Sondecki said 
confidently. “After all we’ve come through, we’ll find a way.”
         “Aye,” Kayla agreed, settling in to wait 
out the last few hours of night. “That we 
will.”  Above them the stars glistened in silent gratitude.

----------

         The last thing Grastalko remembered was 
watching the world spin in the hue of electric 
blue.  Groggily, feeling sore in every part of 
his body except for his left arm which felt warm 
but not uncomfortably sore, he stirred in his 
bed.  The familiar scent of the wagon he shared 
with some of the other teenage boys came to 
him.  Though he could smell candles, none of them 
were lit.  A lantern hung still from the middle 
of the wagon.  Everything was still apart from 
the shuffling stance of two men whose voices were 
quiet and tickled the inside of his ears.
         Grastalko opened his lips and tried to 
push the foul sticky taste of a long night’s 
slumber from his teeth. “Hanaman, he hath 
awoken,” a very familiar voice 
said.  Nemgas.  Hadn’t he been there at the 
mountain?  Did he know what happened?
         Two great shadows hovered over his 
bed.  Grastalko blinked in the light, shifting 
back on his elbows.  Hanaman’s voice was soft 
with the fatherly warmth he’d begun to hear in 
the month since he’d started taking many dinners 
with their leader’s family. “Grastalko.  Canst thee hear me?”
         He nodded, grimacing as he tried to work 
loose his tongue.  A dull throb lurched from his 
feet to his head and back again.
         “We wert worried for thee,” Hanaman 
said, his voice settling into its usual firmness. 
“Thou hast slept for more than a day.”
         “Wha... what happened?”
         “Thou didst burn thyself,” Hanaman 
replied.  Fingers gently traced over his left 
arm.  Grastalko felt it only as a bumpy journey 
over the folds of his ruined skin. “But thee 
didst kill the man whom Nemgas named 
Tournemire.  I dost not understand it myself, but I be proud of thee.”
         Grastalko blinked again and slowly the 
faces of Hanaman and Nemgas resolved 
themselves.  Both of them were smiling to 
him.  Their eyes were dark but eager as they 
stood between Grastalko and the lamp.  The young 
man looked up at them and shifted his legs in the 
bed. “‘Twas night when I struck.  Hath we left?”
         “‘Tis morning,” Nemgas said softly. “We 
hath not left, but we shalt today.  Today the 
Magyars return to the life they hath known and cherished for generations.”
         “‘Tis a day to rejoice, for we hath 
reunited and healed our wounds,” Hanaman added, 
resting his hand on Grastalko’s left 
shoulder.  The flesh there was wrinkled from fire 
too. “And thou art well.  Dost thee feel any pain?”
         He nodded. “I art sore all over.”
         “And in thy left arm?” Nemgas prompted.
         “No, it...” Grastalko blinked, and felt 
excitement flood him. “I hath no pain!  I hath no 
pain!  Eli be praised, I hath no pain!” He sat up 
in bed, all soreness forgotten, marvelling at his 
blackened and twisted skin, hard like leather, 
but completely free of pain.  The fingers of his 
left hands were no longer ashen curls, though 
they were still disfigured by the flames.  He 
flexed them several times, laughing in joy. He 
threaded the fingers of either hand together and 
then pulled them apart. “I canst move them again!”
         “Thou hast been scarred over much of the 
left side of thy body,” Hanaman told him in more 
level tones.  Thy face...” Hanaman lowered his 
eyes and took a deep breath. “Thy face too hast been marred.”
         Grastalko frowned, and realized that the 
left side of his face felt stiff.  He reached his 
right hand up and dragged his fingers across a 
pebbly, tough hide.  “Hast thee a mirror?”
         Hanaman turned to Nemgas, who walked to 
the set of drawers and rifled through them until 
he found a small looking glass.  Grastalko 
recognized it as Rabji’s.  Nemgas handed it to 
Hanaman, who held it up for Grastalko to see.  In 
the glass was his atypical light hair for a 
Magyar over a light-skinned face.  His blue eyes 
were vibrant, and his lips thin.  His nose flared at the end.
         But his left cheek was brown and tough 
like the hide of a bull.  His ear had partially 
melted, the tip leaned down like a pig’s.  He 
took a deep breath and then looked away. “I wilt 
do very well as a monster in the pageant.”
         Hanaman tightened his grip and closed 
his eyes. “Thou art thyself, Grastalko, and thou art always a son at my table.”
         Nemgas pursed his lips and thoughtfully 
regarded the deformed young man. “Dost not let 
thy wound trouble thee.  Thou hast suffered long 
for this.  I see that thou hast thy strength back in thy limb.”
         Grastalko nodded, moving the fingers of 
his left hand for the first time in six months. 
“I know.  But it ne’er touched my face before.  I 
wilt always be a monster now.” His voice remained 
empty, the delight of not having any more pain 
dampened by the hideous sight of his face.
         “Amongst the Magyar, thou art no 
different than the rest of us,” Hanaman asserted.
         “I hath but one arm,” Nemgas pointed 
out. “Chamag still bears the fangs of a 
beast.  We hath all been touched by these powers 
in different ways.  ‘Twere powers man shouldst 
ne’er hath touched.  But ‘tis done now.  Tell me, 
dost thee still possess thy flame?”
         Grastalko blinked, lifted his hand, and 
thought of the fire.  His fingers blossomed in 
bright orange flames.  But this time, there was 
no more pain, only the warmth.  He turned his 
hand over and watched the flames lick across 
their surface.  They brought him no more harm either. “It dost not hurt me!”
         “What of other things?” Nemgas asked. 
“Couldst thee light this candle from where thee dost recline?”
         The one-armed Magyar had picked up a 
candle and held it in his only 
hand.  Grastalko  stared at the wick and imagined 
a great heat filling it.  With a brilliant spark 
it burst into flame.  Nemgas nodded and put the 
candle back in its sconce. “I dost not know for 
certain, but thou dost seem more mage than monster to me.”
         Hanaman nodded, the smile returned to 
his lips as he glanced from Nemgas to the fiery 
youth. “Aye.  Grastalko, thou art a mage who hast 
mastered fire.  Zhenava wilt teach thee what she 
knows, but I believe thou wilt surpass here soon.”
         Grastalko blinked, eyes focussed on the 
lit candle.  He’d done that all with his 
mind.  He’d performed true magic.  A mage.  He 
looked at his ruined arm.  He snuffed the flame 
in his hand, then brought it back again.  He 
smiled and snuffed the flame one more time. “I 
art a mage.” He looked sharply at Hanaman. “Then dost that mean?”
         The leader of the Magyars nodded. “Aye, 
it dost.  Thou mayest pursue Bryone whom thou lovest.”
         Grastalko slid his legs out of the bed, 
his heart beating so fast his chest hurt. “I must see her!”
         “She hath spent the night tending 
Dazheen,” Hanaman said, tightening his grip on 
the youth’s shoulder. “Let her take her rest this 
day.  Tonight thou wilt see her.”
         Grastalko sighed but the smile would not 
leave his face. “How be Dazheen?”
         “She wilt recover,” Hanaman assured him 
while Nemgas blew on the candle.  The flame 
stubbornly refused to go out. “But ‘twill take 
many weeks.  I must leave thee now, Grastalko.  I 
must see to the others.  We must quit this place 
and resume our journey through the Steppe.  Wilt thee be well?”
         Grastalko slid the rest of the way off 
the bed.  He stared into Hanaman’s face with the 
love of a son to a father. “I wilt, Hanaman.  If Bryone dost accept me.”
         Nemgas spat on the candle flame which 
sizzled but endured.  Hanaman watched this out of 
the corner of his eye. “Hath no fear of Bryone, 
my child. ‘Twas only by our order that she left 
thy side to see to Dazheen.  Now, I leave thee 
with Nemgas.  Listen well to him as thee wouldst to me.”
         Grastalko nodded and the two of them 
hugged briefly.  Hanaman smiled at him the entire 
way to the door and out into the cool winter 
air.  After the door fell shut, Nemgas tapped his 
thumb to his chin and asked, “Wouldst thee care 
to meet my boy, Pelurji?  He hath awoken too.”
         “I wouldst very much like to meet thy boy!”
         Nemgas smiled and gestured with that 
thumb at the candle. “First, canst thee extinguish this obstinate flame?”
         Grastalko laughed, waved his fingers and 
the flame obediently winked out.  Nemgas roared 
with joy and the two of them left the wagon to 
greet the most beautiful winter day the Steppe had ever known.


----------

         It was strange to wake up and see stone 
walls on every side.  Though Kimberly had spent 
most of her first year at Metamor waking to such 
a sight, she’d spent the next waking to the 
warmth of wood.  To be back in the Keep, even 
just to visit for two days to attend Duke 
Thomas’s wedding, made her feel dreadfully out of 
place.  Her whiskers twitched in amusement as she 
shared a cup of tea with Baerle.  Only a year in 
a secluded woodland village and she felt more 
like a rustic commoner than the daughter of a 
noble house no matter how minor.  And it pleased her to feel that way.
         Baerle and her children had stared in 
awe at the towers of Metamor when they’d arrived 
yesterday morning.  Messengers from Metamor had 
come several hours before the sun’s rays broke 
the valley’s winter darkness to summon Misha for 
some crisis.  As they were in need of mages, 
Murikeer had volunteered to return as well.  A 
few minutes of preparation and Kimberly, Baerle, 
Kozaithy, and Sir Saulius had bundled themselves 
and the children into the wagons and all together they journeyed to Metamor
         Misha left them to attend to the Duke’s 
summons, Murikeer and Kozaithy joined Malisa’s 
band of mages in their urgent tasks, and so it 
was Sir Saulius who brought them to the Long 
House where rooms were waiting for them.  The rat 
knight had intended for them to get some sleep, 
but with the children too excited, they had 
deposited their things and went on a tour of the 
Keep.  He showed them the castle and then the 
sewers where they spent a few hours with the 
other rats who were all delighted to see 
them.  Goldmark showed them all the different 
forms he could assume, while Hector whittled 
little figurines for them with his incisors, and 
Elliot and Julian performed sleight of paw tricks to amuse them.
         At Kimberly’s request, they then went to 
the kitchens where she spent some time catching 
up with Bernadette the mouse.  Kimberly’s 
daughter whom she named after the mouse cuddled 
into her namesake’s arms and they squeaked at 
each other for some time.  Thalberg rushed in at 
one point and was about to shout at all the rats 
in his kitchens when he saw her.  He apologized 
for his temper, complained briefly about 
uncooperative nobles, and then departed to tend 
to his portion of whatever crisis was sweeping the Keep.
         They would have toured the city, but 
with so many gathered in Metamor for the wedding 
festivities, they decided to stay inside the 
castle.  Kimberly prayed in the Ecclesia 
Cathedral and tried to encourage her children to 
do so as well.  They mimicked her for a few 
minutes before their restless natures got the 
better of them.  Father Hough was pleased to see 
them and gave each child a special 
blessing.  They stared with wide eyes, stiff 
whiskers, and scalloped ears at the priest, who 
took great delight in making the sign of the yew on their expansive foreheads.
         But at last they retired for the evening 
in the chambers Kyia had prepared for them.  Long 
House was bustling in preparation for Misha’s 
annual party, but by the time it began, Kimberly, 
Baerle, and all four children were so exhausted 
that they slept through it.  And they never saw 
either Misha, Murikeer, or Kozaithy again that day.
         “I do wonder,” Baerle said as she sipped 
her tea.  The children were scampering around the 
room above them, squeaking as was their wont. 
“What has this crisis been about?”
         “I’m sure we’ll either learn soon, or 
not at all,” Kimberly replied with a gentle shrug 
of her shoulders.  Her round ears turned to catch 
the sound of little Erick shouting something 
about being ‘it’ followed by renewed scampering. 
“It is how things were with Charles.  He couldn’t 
tell me why he had to leave most of the time, 
only that it concerned Metamor’s safety.”
         “Lord Avery has never asked me to keep 
silent,” Baerle replied and cradled the freshly 
brewed tea in her paws. “But we rarely scouted beyond his lands.”
         “It had to be very important if they 
would summon him back in the middle of the 
night,” Kimberly mused and blew across the 
surface of the tea. “I do wonder what has become of him.”
         Baerle lowered her snout. “Misha or Charles?”
         “Misha, but yes, Charles too.”
         Baerle leaned forward and rested a paw 
on the rat’s knee. “He’ll be all right.  He’ll need you when he gets back.”
         Kimberly lifted her eyes to regard the taller opossum. “And you?”
         Baerle squeezed the rat’s knee. “That 
can wait, but I’ll be there for him too if he wants me.”
         Both of their heads turned when a faint 
squeaking came down the hall outside their 
door.  A knock and the voice of the fox sounded 
through. “Lady Kimberly?  It’s Misha.”
         “Oh, do come in!” Kimberly cried.
         The fox stepped through, looking a bit 
bedraggled, but otherwise in good spirits. “Sorry 
about yesterday, but it was a very long day.  I 
would have come sooner, but I needed the party 
last night to unwind.” He stepped inside the doorway but did not come further.
         “What happened?”
         “I needed to contact my 
sister.  Something happened through the Valley 
last night and they wanted her help.  Well, 
something else happened at Marigund that has her 
busy.  That didn’t please Malisa any, and it 
scares my fur off, but there’s nothing else to be 
done for it.  The first bit of good news is that 
the crisis is past and there’s nothing more to 
worry about.  Just don’t ask any of his grace’s 
vassals how their day was yesterday.”
         The squeaking above them stopped.  The 
children were listening to them.  In another 
moment they would rush down the steps to greet 
their Uncle Misha again.  Kimberly’s tail 
twitched in anticipation of the wonderful sight. 
“You said that was the first bit of good news?”
         Misha nodded, his exhaustion giving way 
to the warm vulpine smile he reserved for those 
he counted as family. “Duke Thomas received word 
that the power of Marzac has been 
defeated.  Charles and the rest have won their 
battle over that evil.  And!” He held up one claw 
to forestall Kimberly’s question, “I brought with 
me the two visitors who saw Charles in Breckaris.  Okay Kurt, one last shove.”
         A different sort of squeaking followed, 
and a beautiful woman sitting in a wheeled seat 
rolled in followed by an olive-skinned young man 
who appeared just old enough to wed.  He smiled 
as he saw her and Baerle.  The woman’s face was 
less certain, but the smile was genuine.  And 
while the young man wore the uniform of an 
officer of a Pyralian army, she was dressed in 
black with a white garment underneath that 
covered her hair but left her face exposed.
         Misha gestured to the two of them. “I’m 
pleased to introduce Kurt Schanalein, heir to the 
Duchy of Breckaris, and Tugal the postulant, who 
will be staying in Metamor with the nuns.”
         Kimberly leapt from her seat and wrapped 
her arms around the surprised Tugal.  She smiled, 
and without shifting in her seat, returned the 
hug. “You’re the ones who saw Charles.  Oh I’m so 
happy to meet you both.” She then disengaged and 
hugged Kurt, the top of her head coming up to his chin.
         Kurt stammered uncertainly, in his 
embarrassment failing to hug the rat back. “You 
are most certainly welcome, milady.” The scratchy 
sound of claws descending the stairs made all of 
them look up. “Their rats too!”
         And that was all he managed before the 
four children scampered to their feet and 
politely stopped and bowed. “We are honoured to 
meet you,” they chorused in high-pitched squeaks.
         Tugal’s face for a moment was 
unreadable, and then she smiled with a look of 
rapturous wonder. “I have never seen four little 
ones as adorable as you. My name is Tugal.  Who are you precious children?”
         Only Kimberly noticed Kurt shed a tear 
as he watched the postulant greet her 
children.  Quietly, Misha closed the door and 
left these new friends alone to hear the tale of 
Charles’s adventure in Breckaris.

----------

         Elvmere smiled at the sparrows as in 
their cages as he went about his chores.  Celine 
had assigned him the duty of cleaning their cages 
as well as seeing to their feed.  It was mean and 
humble work, which was precisely what he ought to 
be doing after so many years in authority.  The 
air stank with their droppings and echoed with 
their endless chirping.  His head hurt from so 
much noise and such foul odours that he had to 
endure, but he loved his feathered charges still.
         Every day one of them would be 
sacrificed on the altar, their blood an oblation 
to the gods he now prayed to.  While he was 
studious in following the prayers listed in 
Elsevier’s prayer book, the raccoon was afraid he 
often added unconventional verses to them.  Not 
only did he pray for the aid of the gods, but he 
prayed that their paths would be made straight 
and that they would lead their people into 
righteousness.  It was their task he felt sure, a 
conviction that his instruction to date had not corrected him of.
         How could they properly serve the 
All-Father Illuvatar if they did not lead men in 
the ways of righteousness?  He could not imagine 
it being any other way.  Not anymore.
         Most of the other acolytes did not know 
who he had been and so far the Lothanasa had kept 
it that way.  A few recognized him, but Celine 
bade them keep it to themselves.  Still, they all 
could discern that his situation was unusual and 
so gave him a wide berth.  That and he smelled 
like feces much of the time now, tending not only 
to the disposal of bird droppings but to the 
chamberpots of all who served the temple.
         And like any good stablehand, he knew in 
time he would get used to the scent too.  Perhaps 
he’d stink so badly Celine would make him sleep 
with the birds.  But at least he still had his 
Lady.  Nearly every night she came to him and 
held him close, petting behind his head and 
telling him how proud she was of him, and 
assuring him that he was doing the right 
thing.  Only one night she hadn’t visited, and 
that had been two nights ago, the night Rickkter 
had finally woken from his slumber.  Perhaps he 
should ask Raven permission to see his fellow raccoon.
         His thoughts were interrupted by a 
gentle knock on the door.  A very familiar voice 
that tugged at his heart sounded. “Elvmere?  May I see you?”
         Elvmere turned, long striped tail 
lashing behind him. “Priestess Nylene!  Please come in.”
         The Silvassan priestess entered, dressed 
in her simpler travel gear. “I see you are 
adjusting well to your service,” Nylene said with 
a warm smile.  Her nose wrinkled once but she 
made no more objection to the stink. “I have 
heard very good things about you these last few days.”
         Elvmere lowered his eyes respectfully to 
the priestess as an acolyte of their order 
should. “I am serving.  That alone gives me great joy.”
         Nylene took a few steps toward him and 
then turned to stare at the birds in their cages. 
“You are not the same man I met six months ago.”
         “No, I’m not.”
         “Yet you still are,” Nylene replied, 
gazing into his green eyes.  She sighed but did 
not break their rapport. “I am very grateful for 
the time we had together.  I may have taught 
Malger longer, but I never loved him as I do you, 
Elvmere.” The raccoon opened his muzzle but found 
no words to say. “I am leaving Metamor now.  It 
is a long journey back to Silvassa.  If I wait 
any longer, my caravan will be just one of many 
fleeing the Valley.  Now, before the Duke’s wedding, I can more easily travel.”
         “That is wise,” Elvmere admitted with a 
long sigh.  He took the remaining steps toward 
her and put his paw on her shoulder. “Journey 
safely.  May all the gods guide your steps and put wind beneath your feet.”
         “And may they one day bring us back 
together, even if only for an hour.” Nylene’s 
smile blossomed brightly on her weathered 
face.  She reached out one hand and cupped his 
furry chin. “You may look like a beast, but I see 
the most handsome of men.  Goodbye, Elvmere.”
         “Goodbye, Nylene hin’Lofwine.” His 
whiskers twitched as her hand trailed through his 
chin fur.  She turned and glided with solemn 
grace back out the door.  It shut quietly, the 
latch falling into place with a faint click.  The 
raccoon sighed, ears turning this way and that as 
they caught the song of the sparrows.
         A strange glow emanated from the far 
corner of the room.  Elvmere turned and saw a 
strange and familiar visage stepping out of a 
shimmering curtain of shadowed light.  Long feet 
preceded a long snout and ears, all of which was 
summed up with a thick dusty-brown tail that 
bounced up and down with each step.  He bore a 
travelling tunic and breeches with a yellow 
undershirt of a very tight weave.  His hazel eyes 
found the raccoon and he shook his head. “I would 
never have guessed it would be you.”
         Elvmere knew this figure, this 
kangaroo.  The name leapt to his tongue. “Zhypar 
Habakkuk.  What has happened to you?”
         Habakkuk chortled briefly and then 
gestured with one paw at the raccoon. “I should 
ask that question of you... Vin... no, you do not 
go by that name now.  Elvmere.  An acolyte of the 
Lothanasi no less.  And the answer to the last 
line of my progenitor’s final prophecy.  You are 
a surprise in more ways than one.”
         “I fear that surprise will not sit well 
with an ardent Patildor such as yourself.”
         “You even speak as the Lothanasi do,” 
Habakkuk observed. “I do not know why this came 
to pass, but I am certain that it is just one 
more mysterious turn in Eli’s holy plan.”
         Elvmere sucked in his breath as he noted 
the faint translucence to the kangaroo’s flesh. 
“You’re a spirit.  What happened?”
         “I died.  Do not fret for my soul.  I am 
going to se my family again.” He looked to one 
side and his ears lowered. “I fear for Lindsey 
and will pray for her.” His eyes returned to the 
white-smocked raccoon. “But as to why I am here 
visiting you, I wanted to know what has always 
been denied to me.  I knew one day the Felikaush 
would come to an end.  I hoped that it would not 
end with me.  A new prophet had to see a new 
page.  The new age has come to this world, and so 
the time has come for that new prophetic line.  I 
wished to meet its progenitor.  Here I am.”
         “I do not understand,” Elvmere admitted, 
shaking his head. “What of the others who accompanied you?”
         “All those from Metamor are well and 
will return.  But as for me, I must now 
leave.  Fare thee well, Elvmere.  I believe your 
journey will have a few more twists to it before your labours are over.”
         Habakkuk nodded his head, smiled, and 
then vanished into the curtain of light.  Elvmere 
stared long after the curtain was only an image 
burned in his eyes.  The shadows began to 
disperse when someone else came knocking on the 
door.  The raccoon shook his head, faintly 
disturbed by the apparition, and cried, “Please come in.”
         And his heart skipped a beat as a very 
familiar skunk stepped through, staring at him 
with jaw agape. “Your grace!” Murikeer stammered, 
paws spread wide. “What happened to bring you here?”
         Elvmere lowered his eyes and quickly 
wrapped the skunk into a tight embrace. 
“Murikeer!  Ah, lad, it is good to see you 
again!  Did you find your father and your master?”
         Murikeer hugged and nodded. “Aye, I 
found them.  They’ll be properly buried come the 
Spring.  But how came you to be here?  What happened at Yesulam?”
         The raccoon sighed and glanced at the 
chirping birds. “It is a long and sad tale.  I 
have much to do before the wedding, but if you 
can spare a few minutes I will tell you.”
         “Please,” Murikeer invited, shutting the 
door behind him.  The skunk did not appear 
offended by his stench. “It’s been so long since 
we parted ways in Silvassa.  I must know.”
         Elvmere nodded and lowered his arms, 
leaning back on his heels. “Six months.  Ah, I 
hope one day we can travel together again.  But 
for now I must serve here.  And how I came to be here, well...”

----------

         Kashin waited outside Patriarch 
Geshter’s chambers as the afternoon sky warmed 
the land.  His sessions with the Questioners had 
taken him all day yesterday and most of the 
morning.  Only a handful of Bishops had been 
guilty of cooperating in Jothay’s scheme, and of 
them, only Rott and Temasah seemed to know about 
Akabaieth’s assassination.  He supposed he should 
be grateful that the vast majority of the Council 
were innocent, but far too many had willingly 
joined Jothay’s evil cause.  How could such men serve the Ecclesia?
         Once his duties to the Questioners were 
complete for the day — they’d retired early to 
prepare for Yule — he’d come here to wait.  Nor 
did he have to wait long.  Shortly after his 
midday preparations, Patriarch Geshter returned to take his midday meal.
         The Patriarch was dressed in purple 
vestments that he would change for white when he 
offered the Mass of Yahshua’s Birth that 
evening.  His thick face stretched into a pleased 
smile when he saw Kashin waiting for him.  The 
quartet of Yeshuel flanked him and all of them 
smiled to their former member.  Outside the long 
hall he could see several other priests who had 
accompanied Geshter in his prayers but who now 
left him to those few precious minutes he could have to himself.
         Kashin well remembered how Akabaieth 
treasured his time alone.  When he hadn’t spent 
it in prayer he was as likely to read Naval 
treatises as he was theological works.  Geshter 
appeared to prefer spending his time writing 
scholarly tracts.  That is, when Kashin didn’t keep him occupied.
         Geshter smiled and extended his right 
hand. “Ah, Kashin.  What brings you here on this beautiful Yule?”
         Kashin knelt and kissed the Patriarch’s 
ring. “Your Holiness.  I’ve come seeking you on a matter close to my heart.”
         “Then let us sit and discuss it,” 
Geshter gestured for him to enter his sitting 
room.  The four Yeshuel stayed close but did not 
follow him in.  Kashin they could trust.  Geshter 
smoothed his vestments over once he sat and 
favoured the black clad man with genuine warmth. “How go the deliberations?”
         “We should be complete by the New 
Year.  There is little more to report.  I don’t 
think we’ll uncover any other guilty parties at this point.”
         “Good.  Eli’s Ecclesia has been 
cleansed.  We have you to thank for this, Kashin.”
         He nodded but did not smile. “But what 
of Vinsah?  Will you lift his excommunication?  He was innocent.”
         Geshter’s smile fled. “Vinsah was 
innocent of Akabaieth’s murder.  But his mind was 
infected with pagan ideas.  Perhaps Marzac drove 
me to overreact and a better solution could have 
been found.  But it is done now.  I will send 
someone to investigate him in the coming year to 
see if we might lift his excommunication.  Until 
then, I can only pray for his soul.”
         “But you were under Marzac’s influence 
when you excommunicated him!” Kashin said in darker tones.
         “We do not know how far Marzac’s touch 
influenced my decisions as Patriarch.  It is why 
I am carefully examining these decisions now that 
I have full use of all my faculties again.  Were 
I too undo all of my decisions from that time, I 
would be asserting that the power of Marzac is 
greater than the promises of Yahshua.  I cannot do that.”
         Kashin simmered. “But Vinsah!  You gave 
him worse punishment than either Rott or Temasah face!”
         Geshter sighed and his shoulders 
slumped. “I know.  It is why I will send someone 
to Metamor to investigate all that he said.  His 
words still disturb me, Kashin.  This Lady of 
his, I do not trust her.  And his claims about 
magic and sorcery will have to be more thoroughly 
examined before we can render judgement.  If any 
are found, after investigation, to be heresy, and 
Vinsah still clings to them, then his excommunication must stand.”
         “But you will offer him no relief until then?”
         “I will undo nothing until I understand 
which of my decisions were corrupted by Marzac.” 
Geshter frowned and gestured at Kashin’s 
garments. “You still wear the black.  You cannot 
change that until you are certain that justice 
has been achieved.  To take the green before then 
would be to act rashly.  So too would it be for 
me to lift Vinsah’s excommunication until I know 
if it was deserved.  Believe me, I pray for his soul every night.”
         Kashin licked his lips, the anger that 
had flared in him fading.  He prayed for Vinsah 
every night too. “I will take the green again,” 
he said after several seconds silence. “Once our 
investigations are finished.  Who will you send to Metamor?”
         “A Questioner, but after what happened 
here, it will have to be one of the three they 
know.  And even then they may not let them in the 
gates.  I fear we have work to do there.” Geshter 
put his hands on his knees and stood. “But for 
now, I wish to pray.  But first, there is one 
thing I wish to say that is dear to my heart.”
         Kashin rose with the Patriarch and asked, “What is it, Your Holiness?”
         Geshter locked his tired blue eyes onto 
Kashin’s dark ones. “When you retake the green of 
the Yeshuel, I would like to appoint you as the 
head of their order.  None is more deserving than you.”
         Kashin kneeled and lowered his head. “If 
it means I may once more protect that which matters most, then I will accept.”
         Geshter laid his hands on Kashin’s head 
and his voice brimmed with warmth and fondness. 
“Kashin, once of the Yeshuel and soon to be 
again, you are Eli’s good servant, and I would 
have no other at my side aiding me in the 
monumental task of undoing all the evil Marzac committed against the Ecclesia.”
         “I will serve,” Kashin said, a light 
penetrating into a corner of his heart that had 
long been dark.  He smiled and accepted his 
Patriarch’s benediction.  Yes, very soon, he 
would be as he was born to be, a Yeshuel of the 
Ecclesia.  Though there were many he cared about 
whose troubles lingered, his terrible journey at 
least was coming to an end.  He would pray night 
and day while wearing the green that such grace 
of Eli would fall on his friends too.
         When Geshter removed his hands, Kashin 
rose, bowed, and left the Patriarch to his 
prayers.  He bounced on the balls of his feet as 
he strode the halls of the mighty cathedral.  It was time for his prayers too.

----------

         The Iron King heaved under a full 
compliment of oars.  Over a hundred plied the 
waters driving the vessel north toward 
Marzac.  Phil had released the Pyralian sailors 
to complement his own men in order to fill every 
slot.  The Whalish blue sat next to the Pyralian 
green and together they strove against the sea.
         Prince Phil spent much time conversing 
with his fellow Keeper, the archduke of 
Sutthaivasse, Malger Sutt.  There was little more 
to learn of their common home in the north that 
he had not already heard from his agents in the 
Northern Midlands, but he did enjoy the tales of 
Malger’s adventures in Sathmore and how he came 
to reclaim his family’s house after so many years 
of disgrace.  Malger, ever the jongleur, could 
not resist their telling, but he did extract news 
of Whales and was relieved to hear that Phil’s 
father had recovered from his near fatal illness.
         Phil also spent time watching the 
progress of their ship as it chased Aramaes.  He 
was eager to see the rat whom he’d once shared a 
deep bond of friendship.  Their enemies in Marzac 
had nearly destroyed that friendship, turning 
Phil into the very monster he’d always 
loathed.  Phil shuddered as he recalled that 
time, his last spent at Metamor, as he’d fallen 
deeper and deeper under the sway of a magical 
portrait of Zagrosek.  He’d begun plotting 
assassinating his friends when news of his 
father’s illness had reached him and broken through to his heart.
         Yet in all this time, he’d never had to 
face Charles, the friend whose life he’d come so 
close to destroying.  What could they say after 
so many months and after parting in so painful a 
way?  He conceived of a hundred different things 
to say to the rat and hated all of them.  He 
paced back and forth with only the stolid 
presence of Rupert to comfort him.  The Great 
Ape, wordless as he was, understood his fear and 
offered what comfort he could by never offering 
even a suggestion of doubt to the rabbit prince.
         When night came, Phil managed only a few 
hours of restless sleep before he gave up and 
tried to spend his time attending to the reports 
he’d received from his commanders after the fall 
of the Marzac fleet.  The dragons who’d come to 
their aid had returned to Whales once their 
victory was sure, and Malger’s Merai had been 
seen only in fitful glances through the storm 
dark waters.  Far too many on both sides had lost 
their lives in the evil-begotten battle, and he 
pondered the final thoughts of men controlled by 
Marzac.  Were they able to pray to their gods for 
absolution?  Or did they gleefully plunge 
themselves into the abyss for a long dead Åelf’s nightmare?
         Rupert attended him patiently and 
without complaint as the midnight hour passed 
into the early hours before dawn.  The eastern 
sky brightened with a grayish blue line along the 
horizon.  And just as Phil’s heavy eyelids began 
to droop, cheers rose from the men in the 
galleys.  A moment later Captain Whiett knocked 
on his door.  While Rupert let the captain in, 
Phil glanced at the portholes but saw only the sea.
         “Your highness,” Whiett declared, a 
broad grin on his face, “we’ve caught sight of 
the Burning Hand.  They’re heaving to.  We’ll be abreast in ten minutes.”
         Phil nodded, all thoughts of returning 
to his bed gone. “Good.  Be ready to transfer 
Charles to our ship.  And have someone wake 
Malger.  He’ll want to be here for this.”

         And, with naval precision, only ten 
minutes later the Iron King slowed and retracted 
oars as it came alongside the dromonai the 
Burning Hand.  Aramaes stood on deck, his bald 
head and chiselled features visible even from 
afar.  But the most conspicuous figure was at his 
side, nearly two feet shorter, sporting fur, a 
muzzle, and a long scaly tail.  He was dressed in 
breeches hastily modified to allow for his tail 
and cut close to his hocks.  He wore nothing on 
his chest.  Two Lothanasi symbols glowed on his 
chest.  The right side of his face was marred by 
a black hand print burned into his flesh.
         Phil swallowed, ears upright, and their 
eyes met.  The rabbit tugged self-consciously at 
the finery he’d borrowed from Malger who stood 
beside him with his beastly countenance concealed 
beneath his human guise.  The rat’s whiskers 
twitched in the warm yellow light from the lamps 
around both decks.  His muzzle drew back into 
what the rabbit had long known was his 
smile.  Phil’s heart beat firmly in his chest, 
that same smile crossing his features.
         A ladder was lowered from the much 
higher deck of the Iron Hand, and the rat 
scrambled up with the alacrity his rodent nature 
blessed him.  He brushed the blue pantaloons with 
his paws as leapt onto the deck only feet from 
where Phil, Malger, Whiett, and Rupert awaited 
him.  He lowered his head respectfully to the 
rabbit, and then jumped forward so quickly the Great Ape snorted in alarm.
         But Charles, long lost friend that he 
was, wrapped his arms about the rabbit and held 
him tight. “Oh Phil!  I cannot tell you how 
grateful I am to see you!  Oh to see any of 
you!  It has been so long since I have seen another Metamorian!”
         Phil laughed and wrapped his forelegs 
around the rat as best he could.  A strange sort 
of ivy met his paws behind the rat’s back.  But 
Phil was too delighted to care. “And it is so 
very good to see you, Charles.  What in all creation are you doing here?”
         Charles leaned back, looking up at the 
startled Rupert with both warmth and apology in 
his gaze, and then quickly over the others before 
returning his eyes to the white rabbit. “Duke 
Thomas sent us to destroy Marzac six months 
ago.  We were fulfilling the prophecies that Habakkuk saw.”
         “Habakkuk?” Phil said with surprise.  He 
well remembered the kangaroo, and had been 
pleased to serve with him in the Writer’s 
Guild.  Very withdrawn most of the time, but always faithful to his duty.
         “He knew what had to be done,” Charles 
replied, a note of sadness filling him. “Sadly, 
his own life was lost in the battle two days 
ago.  He and one other, an ancient Åelf I knew, 
gave their lives to defeat Marzac.  The rest of 
us are well and safe, but we need help.  We have 
no more supplies and are trapped on the Marzac 
peninsula.  But now I know we shall be saved.”
         Phil nodded, saddened by news of 
Habakkuk’s death, but hardened to it after their 
long fight.  With one paw he reached up and drew 
his friend into another embrace.  All the worry 
in his heart over seeing the rat again was 
banished. “And they will.  Tell us where to go 
and we shall.  I will deliver you all back to Metamor myself!”
         Charles beamed brighter, his eyes 
catching the first rays of the dawning sun. 
“Thank you, Phil.  How is your father?”
         “Fully recovered,” Phil replied.  His 
tone lowered. “Can you forgive me for what I did to you?”
         Charles looked aghast and shook his 
head.  Phil’s ears dropped some. “Phil, I have 
seen what Marzac did to men.  And I felt what it 
tried to do to me. There is nothing to forgive.  I love you as a brother.”
         “And I you, Charles,” Phil stood 
straighter. “Now, let me introduce you to the 
others here.  And you must tell me how you came 
by that remarkable scar on your face.”
         The rat laughed. “A Shrieker touched 
me.  The journey to Metamor must be very 
long.  We will have much time for telling our 
tales.  Like how you came to commandeer a ship of 
Pyralis.  But first, introduce us, and then let us find our friends again.”
         “Perhaps we should do so in your 
chambers, your highness,” Malger suggested.
         Phil nodded. “We can strike for north 
along the coastline.  When we see them we’ll get 
in our boats and row to shore.”
         Charles stared at the many men of two 
nations watching them with keen interest. “Why do 
we need to hide there?  All have seen us for who we are.”
         Malger chuckled lightly. “Not quite, Charles.  I too am a Metamorian.”
         The rat glanced at him, eyes curious. “Born a woman then?”
         “Nay,” Malger replied. “My name is 
Malger Sutt.  You knew me as Dream Serpent the 
bard.  My shape is hidden beneath an illusion 
that it is best I maintain for the time being.”
         Charles’s dark eyes widened and his 
brown fur thrummed with his startled laugh. 
“Truly!  I will never cease marvelling at all 
that I’ve seen these last six months.  Then to 
your quarters, Phil.  There is much we need to say and see.”
         Phil wrapped one arm about his friend 
and together they walked the length of the Iron 
Hand toward the state rooms in the 
stern.  Captain Whiett remained behind to order 
the captured vessel north.  The rabbit hopped 
beside a friend he’d thought he’d lost, his heart 
lifting higher with each step.
         And, as they passed into those makeshift 
chambers, Phil realized that every sacrifice made 
against Marzac had been worth it.  There never 
was a price too high in the resistence of evil.

----------

         Duke Titian Verdane had been meeting 
with his advisors one last time before 
celebrating Yule when the letter arrived.  The 
message had been passed unstopped from rider to 
rider and horse to horse for many days to reach 
him.  It bore the falcon seal of Duke Krisztov 
Otakar XII of Salinon.  That could mean only one 
thing, and so Verdane dismissed his advisors 
apart from his son Tyrion.  The Prelate of 
Kelewair waited patiently while his father broke the seal and read the letter.
         Titian took a goblet of wine and sipped, 
fingers tensing as he recognized the careful letters of his eldest son, Jaime.

Father,

         I have just arrived in Salinon and have 
been placed in a well apportioned tower after 
meeting with my host, his grace Duke Otakar.  The 
weather is very cool with a foot of snow on the 
ground, and there is a draft that finds its way 
through the windows no matter what I do.  But for 
all that, I have been given sufficient clothing 
to keep warm.  They have even been so kind as to 
allow me to wear our wolf-head emblem.
         His grace has promised to treat me as an 
honoured guest, and so far has kept that 
promise.  I am not shackled, and have been given 
free reign of my tower and the large courtyard 
and garden it adjoins.  I have been told that I 
will be granted a priest to bring me the Host and 
to hear my confessions.  I have also been told 
that his grace will be throwing a banquet soon to 
celebrate the swearing of Lord Calladar’s 
allegiance to Salinon.  I will be in attendance 
and hope that Calladar chokes to death.
         I do not fear for my life, Father.  I am 
going to be treated well so long as Otakar 
controls Bozojo.  I am limited in what I can do, 
but it will leave me plenty of time for prayer 
and meditation.  Just being in this city brings 
back many memories of Valada.  Perhaps my time 
here will in some way repay the tragedy of her 
death and the hostility that has followed.
         Do not fear for me either, Father.  I 
know that you will do what is best for our 
land.  You always have.  Give my love to Anya and 
Tyrion.  And to Jory.  He will grow in time to be a strong leader of men.
         I am allowed to receive letters, and I 
eagerly await any news you have to offer 
me.  There is so much I yearn to hear and see, 
but I will wait until that time comes.  I do not 
believe I will die in this tower, but if I must, 
the view is lovely, and the countryside speaks to 
the soul.  Eli knows I am here, Father, and I 
will do my best to trust in His inscrutable ways.

                                                                 Your son,

                                                                 Jaime Verdane

         Titian Verdane lowered the letter to the 
desk and shook his head. “Anything I send Jaime 
will be read by Otakar first.  If this letter is 
to be believed, Jaime is being well-treated and 
will not suffer during his imprisonment.”
         Tyrion reached forward, shifting his 
club foot to one side, and snatched the 
letter.  He scanned the contents and sighed. 
“It’s Jaime’s handwriting.  What can we do for him?”
         “I fear he is offering himself as a 
sacrifice for the greater good of our land,” 
Verdane replied, a note of sadness filling his 
voice.  The cold air crept through the open 
casement and circled his flesh.  He huddled in 
his robes and forced the tears to stay behind his 
eyes. “Jaime, would you never learn?  What good 
is a kingdom without sons to inherit it?”
         Tyrion’s eyes passed over the letter and 
his shoulder slumped when he reached the end. “It 
seems he’s asking you to make Jory your heir.”
         “I know,” Verdane replied unhappily. “Where is the boy?”
         “Unless he’s snuck off to the kennels 
again, he is the Cathedral with his tutors 
receiving morning Mass.” Tyrion tapped the top of 
the letter to his chin. “Is there some way you 
can turn his love for dogs to nobler purpose?”
         Verdane rapped his knuckles on the table 
top. “Those dogs will be closer companions than 
men for him in the years ahead.  He can make the 
beast heel.  Now he needs to learn to make men 
heel.” With a long sigh he rose and gestured to 
the letter. “Leave that here with me.  It is time 
I took Jory’s instruction upon myself.  Unless a 
miracle occurs, I will listen to my lost son.  Jory will be my heir.”
         “Of course, Father,” Tyrion replied, 
rising with him.  He left the letter on the 
table.  The ends curled up and quivered in the 
light brush of wind. “I will bring him to you after Mass.”
         “Thank you, Tyrion. Now bring me quill, 
ink and parchment.  I must let your brother know of our love.”
         Tyrion quietly retrieved all three and 
then left his father, the Duke of what remained 
of the Southern Midlands, alone with his 
thoughts.  It was time for the priest to 
celebrate Yule even if there was no joy in his 
heart.  Like all his prayers of late, he prayed 
for Jaime’s safe return and the healing of his 
country.  Tyrion made the sign of the yew before 
his chest and hobbled the long walk to the Cathedral.

----------

         He’d known it would happen.  Everyone 
had warned him that on this day he would feel 
anxiety beyond description.  Even if Nasoj 
himself led a million Lutins into the valley and 
all hope seemed lost, he would not be as anxious 
as this.  No calamity could compare, no threat to 
his duchy could match it.  And, with his tail 
flicking, lips frothing, and ears twitching in 
nervous anticipation, Duke Thomas Hassan V knew that they had all been right.
         There was nothing that made a man so anxious as being married.
         He’d thought after the agony of cajoling 
his vassals into staying at Metamor with both 
magical assurance and promises of financial gain, 
the marriage itself would be a pleasant rest.  It 
was the one consoling thought through the many 
hours of tense negotiations and repeated reports 
from various mages that the Curse did not touch 
any of them.  It alone gave him hope as he 
promised away tax revenues and wealth to keep his 
duchy together.  At the end of the day, after 
successfully keeping his vassals at Metamor, when 
he’d rested his head on the soft pillows of his 
bed, he had realized that his bed would not be 
his alone anymore.  It was his last sleep as an unmarried man.
         And now, standing near the altar in the 
Lothanasi Temple, arrayed in his finest purple 
robes with the crown of Metamor perched 
uncomfortably atop his equine brow — it was the 
first time he’d worn it since his coronation — 
blue and gold tassels woven into his mane and 
tail, golden braces fitted over his hooves, and 
silken gloves covering his hoof-like hands — 
which made him look like a show horse, which was 
somewhat better than the plow horse his bride had 
wanted to make him last April — with his devoted 
Steward Thalberg at his side dressed in a rich 
woolen blue doublet and hose — for once eschewing 
his customary red robes — with a horse-head 
medallion about his thick, green-scaled neck, and 
a golden plume set between yellow eyes that kept 
constant watch over Thomas and the vast array of 
guests assembled in the pews to celebrate with 
them ranging from the assorted vassals both 
cursed and human all clustering in a mishmash in 
the first few rows, their dress garish with 
bright colours that banished the night and of 
accoutrements that only a Metamorian of beastly 
facade could wear to many of the Keep dignitaries 
reclining behind them such as Lidaman, the Urseil 
family, Will and Caroline Hardy, Misha Brightleaf 
— who held Caroline’s paw very tightly — and 
others who all wore dignified clothing befitting 
their station to the mages who dressed in a 
panoply of styles from alchemical mystery to 
austere modesty and finally to the Keep staff and 
other fortunate commoners who were able, through 
fortune or felicity, to obtain an invitation 
clustered in the pews furthest from the altar and 
thus in the darkest part of the temple, Thomas 
realized just what his marriage to Dame Alberta 
Artelanoth, once a son of the Steppe and a knight 
of Yesulam guarding the Patriarch, would mean not 
only to him but also to the people of Metamor and 
the Northern Midlands, and that made him even more nervous.
         For Thomas, it meant that the woman he’d 
fallen in love with would ever more share his 
bed, his table, and his life.  His duties as Duke 
had always included seeing to the defence of his 
domain, but now the reason for that defence was 
tightened from the many to the one.  He would 
protect Metamor to keep his bride safe.  But for 
the people of Metamor, a married Thomas meant 
continuity and stability for their land.  And it 
meant that he would have to become a father in 
his own right.  Their love for each other could 
never be for its own sake, but always with a mind for their land.
         The very depth of his responsibility 
humbled the horse lord.  Thomas glanced at 
Thalberg, who regarded him with passive 
confidence, the alligator long since resigning 
himself to seeing his Duke wed the woman who’d 
made him pull a wagon load of onions about 
town.  He leaned closer to his friend and said in 
a quiet voice, “It’s really happening isn’t it?”
         Thalberg nodded, long jaw cracking in a 
reptilian grin. “That it is, your grace.  Your 
people are ready to celebrate your good fortune this day.”
         “And their good fortune.”
         “Aye, their good fortune too.”
         Thomas shifted about on his hooves, the 
tassels in his tail flashing on either side as 
his tail tried to absorb some of his nervous 
tension.  At the rear of the temple he could see 
Raven standing just outside the doors while Merai 
and Malisa fussed over her robes one last 
time.  Somewhere behind them Alberta waited.
         “You’ll do fine,” Thalberg 
whispered.  Thomas took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
         By the time he exhaled and opened his 
eyes, Raven, Merai, and the acolytes in the 
procession began singing a joyful chant.  Thomas 
let his eyes pass over the white-robbed wolf and 
cat, the many acolytes in less refined attire, 
ever keeping his eye on the rear of the 
temple.  All in attendance stood, their gaze 
moving to the back to the awaited arrival of the 
bride.  Thomas’s heart pounded against his ribs.
         Malisa took up the rear of the 
procession, dressed also in the Hassan blue.  She 
wore attire that did not try to hide her 
femininity while still remaining masculine in 
appearance.  Her broad face beamed at Thomas, 
pride and hope filling her eyes.  She carried a 
damask purple pillow trimmed with gold tassels on 
which rested a slender crown.  The crown was 
fashioned from gold with a single sapphire of an 
exquisitely deep blue fixed into the apex.  It 
had been many years since this crown had been worn.
         Following her, a bouquet of flowers from 
the greenhouse in her hearty paws, was Jenn the 
wolverine and wife to Sir Andre Maugnard.  Thomas 
had wondered who Alberta would choose as a 
bridesmaid.  Jenn was an intimidating but good 
choice.  He glanced at the crowd but couldn’t 
find the Maugnard family, though he knew they had to be somewhere.
         His search was arrested as the joyful 
chant lowered to a prayerful beat, Raven and 
Merai taking their places before the altar.  The 
acolytes fanned out to attend to their 
duties.  Malisa stood just past Thalberg.  And 
once Jenn’s paws stepped from the gilded red 
carpet, into the temple processed two figures who 
moved with stately grace.  The first, with a full 
set of antlers only weeks from falling off, was 
dressed in the green tabard of Yesulam blended 
with the blue of the Metamorian crest.  The elk’s 
snout turned upward in pride, his sword bouncing 
against his thigh with each step.
         In the crook of Sir Yacoub Egland’s arm 
rested the hoof-like hand of the bride.  She was 
covered from long ears to hooves in a white gown 
overflowing with veils cascading from her head 
and shoulders like waterfalls of lace.  Her long 
snout was visible beneath the lace, but from a 
distance Thomas could only tell that it was his 
Alberta striding forward, her hooves muffled on 
the soft carpet.  He smiled like an idiot as he 
stared at her, his hide trembling as if dislodging a legion of flies.
         Before he knew it, the pair had reached 
the base of the altar.  Egland paused, stopping 
just before the steps, letting her hand slide 
into his.  His brown eyes met Alberta’s gaze for 
a moment, and a lifelong conversation passed 
between them in that moment.  The elk swallowed, 
nodded to Alberta, and let go of her hand.  She 
smiled back to him, inclined her head once, and 
then walked toward Thomas’s side.  Egland 
retreated to the front row seat prepared for him 
careful not to strike the badger Baron 
Christopher with his antlers and watched with the rest.
         Through the veil Thomas could see her 
eye gaze into his as they both turned to face the 
altar.  Their hands met, thick fingers brushing 
hard nails against each other.  Raven stood 
between them and the altar and offered 
supplication to the gods.  Alberta lowered her 
head and her lips moved with a prayer to 
Eli.  Thomas, like all the Lothanasi in 
attendance, lowered their heads to join their prayers to Raven’s.
         When the Lothanasa finished, she turned 
around and bade everyone sit.  She then, with 
Merai’s assistance, proceeded with the marriage 
ritual.  Thomas heard the words, the admonitions 
and advice, but found it impossible to remember 
anything.  He followed the rituals and so too did 
Alberta.  Raven had taken some time to tell her 
what would be done, but Thomas had been too busy 
to help her.  He hoped that would never be the case again.
         The minutes passed so quickly that 
before he knew what was happening, Raven was 
guiding him through his vows.  The words flowed 
from his tongue, shaped by his supple lips, 
resounding through the temple with the aid of a 
simple dweomer.  He stared deeply through the 
veil into Alberta’s eyes, every word a bolt of love from his heart into hers.
         And then, Alberta repeated the vows to 
him, and he felt himself growing in stature.  The 
weight of the crown no longer hurt his ears.  The 
watchful eyes of the crowd no longer bore into 
his dignity.  There was nothing other than Alberta and he in the chamber.
         Raven’s voice, full of warm delight, 
intruded upon their quiet interlude. “As a sign 
of your newfound union, you may now kiss.”
         Thomas stepped closer to his bride, his 
wife.  He lifted the veil from her face, draping 
it behind her ears and over her black mane.  Warm 
brown eyes met him, her grey hide fresh and 
clean.  Her nostrils flared with excitement and 
the two leaned closer, pressing their lips 
together, pushing away from their broad teeth to 
connect.  He gripped her shoulder, and then two 
slipped into a tight embrace.  Cheers ascended around them on all sides.
         When Thomas and Alberta broke the kiss, 
eyes still locked, Malisa stepped forward with 
the crown.  Thomas took it between his fingers 
and while Alberta lowered her head, he 
pronounced. “Alberta Artelanoth.  I wed thee and 
bring thee into my house, the house Hassan.  And 
with it, all the rights and privileges of my 
house are extended to thee.  As my wife, my 
throne thou shalt share.  And so I crown thee, 
Duchess Alberta Hassan of the Northern Midlands!” 
He lowered the crown until it nestled between her 
long ears.  She stood straighter, regal in 
bearing as all of their subjects applauded and cheered.
         Together, hand in hand, they passed in 
resplendent train through the temple, as Raven 
and the Lothanasi sang the final benediction for 
the newly married couple.  And then all the bells 
in Metamor rang to announce their great 
fortune.  Thomas tucked Alberta’s arm close in to 
his as they walked side by side, husband and 
wife, and knew that he had never seen a more glorious day than this.
         All the gods be praised, he exulted in 
his heart, and bless Metamor with their abundance 
as they had him.  He smiled to Alberta who smiled 
back.  As one they left the temple, forever more 
united in marriage and in love.

----------

         The place the Magyars chose to spend the 
night was covered in several inches of 
snow.  They were long used to clearing snow and 
before the sun kissed the western horizon with 
its red lips, they had swept the semicircular 
area between their wagons enough for the Assingh 
to feed on the stalks and for the men to arrange 
logs for the fires.  And being the first night 
reunited beyond the desolate land where Cenziga 
had once stood, all who were able came out to celebrate.
         Gamran danced with Thelia, Pelgan showed 
Pelurji how to throw a knife, Chamag demonstrated 
to the young boys the fierceness of his 
curse-begotten fangs by tearing through hard, 
salted mutton, Gelel impressed the girls coming 
of age with his mighty deeds in Yesulam, Nemgas 
and Kisaiya reclined together fashioning wedding 
links from dried reeds, Hanaman sang songs of 
past glory with the elder men, Zhenava led the 
women in a dance of their own, and across the 
encampment Grastalko and Bryone gazed at each other.
         It had taken all of Grastalko’s 
self-composure to keep from telling Bryone his 
good fortune the first moment he’d seen her come 
out to join the others in celebration.  But 
Nemgas had suggested to him a way to tell her and 
all why they should be together.  And so he 
waited, allowing her ample time to see his 
disfigured face.  He’d spent some time examining 
himself in Rabji’s small mirror that 
afternoon.  He truly did appear a monster caught 
transforming betwixt a human guise and its real 
form.  Though he knew they would never mean to 
hurt him, many of the Magyar’s had recoiled at 
first when they saw him.  But each was ashamed of 
it, and none did so twice.  That solace was 
enough for him to know that amongst his people, 
his fellow Magyars, he was no different.
         While he watched Varna and the cooks 
bring the cookpots and ingredients out, he 
realized that it was the Yule.  The Driheli would 
be celebrating in Stuthgansk with feasting, ale, 
songs and prayer.  He lowered his eyes and 
offered prayers for their health and Eli’s 
blessings.  They were good people, despite how 
they were used, and he would love them all his 
life.  But, he knew it in his heart, he truly was 
a Magyar and would be so until he took his last breath.
         “Grastalko!” Hanaman shouted, waving his 
arms and beckoning him toward the log 
piles.  Varna and the cooks erected a black 
cauldron over the largest. “‘Tis time.”
         He nodded, eyes finding Bryone in the 
crowd.  He walked past her and offered her a 
smile full of confidence.  She gazed back, 
longing, but eyes rich in melancholy.  He angled 
toward Hanaman, while Nemgas and his friends 
gathered, making sure to keep low so that all 
could see. “I hath come, Hanaman.” He stood tall, 
wrapping his hands before his waist, the ruined 
covering the hearty. “What wouldst thee have of me?”
         Hanaman gestured to the wood. “Wilt thee give us thy gift?  Show us.”
         Grastalko nodded. “‘Tis my greatest 
pleasure to give what I hath to my fellow 
Magyars.”  He lowered his eyes to the wood and 
extended his charred arm.  He spread the fingers 
wide.  The wrinkled hide of his left cheek drew 
taut.  All the blaze within him focussed on the 
logs.  They sizzled from dampness and then orange 
flames licked across their surfaces and tasted the cauldron’s base.
         Nemgas and his friends cheered.  Many 
gasped and then cheered their good 
fortune.  Another Magyar who didst possess 
magic!  Grastalko smiled and bowed his head to 
Hanaman who gazed at him with fatherly pride, and 
then turned back to Bryone.  The frail girl’s 
mouth hung open in hope, and then she rushed 
forward, throwing her arms around his shoulder and kissing his ruined cheek.
         Grastalko cried in joy and held her 
tight. “I dost love thee, my Bryone!”
         Tears streamed down her cheeks as she 
wet his face with her lips. “I love thee too, my Grastalko!”
         “Then consent to be my wife!”
         “I am already thine.  Command me and I wilt obey.”
         Grastalko stopped her form kissing him 
for a moment, holding her chin with his good 
hand.  Their eyes locked and he felt all the 
world vanish but for her. “Be thou as thou art 
now and forever.  I want thee and nothing more.”
         Bryone smiled, exhaling with joy. “Thou 
hast it!  And I hast thee and want thee ne’er to change.”
         His fellow Magyars roared their approval 
as he kissed her with equal ferocity.  At last, 
the hole in his heart was filled.
         Nemgas held Kisaiya close as he watched 
the two lovers embrace.  His eyes lifted to the 
sky as the sun set bright and crimson.  He looked 
to the west from whence they’d come that day, and 
yet no blue star came to mar the dusk.  The 
Steppe was theirs again.  He turned to Kisaiya 
and sighed peacefully. “‘Tis good to be 
home.”  She could only nod and rest her head against his breast.

----------

         Dusk was fast approaching.  Kayla 
stretched her toes and reclined on a rock jutting 
into the sea.  It had taken nearly the whole of 
the day to walk from the ruins to the western 
edge of the Marzac peninsula.  Even with a full 
day of rest, all of them were exhausted from the 
trek.  They’d erected their tents, and she could 
hear James the donkey snoring loudly.  Less so, 
Vigoreaux and Lindsey who had said little during 
the day’s hike.  The rest remained more or less 
awake tending both to a makeshift fire and to the 
signal light shining above them.
         Everything had been destroyed in the 
cataclysm, and so the entire hike had been 
through mud caked ruins of stone and wood.  Roots 
and brambled clawed at their feet tripping them 
and catching in their fur.  Several times the mud 
sucked at them, swallowing them into captured air 
pockets beneath the surface.  If not for the 
strength of Jerome, Andares, and Sir Autrefois, 
or the magic of Guernef, Abafouq, and Jessica, 
both James and Kayla would have been suffocated in a prison of miserable earth.
         “Kayla?” Jerome said behind her. “Come 
on back.  Andares is going to cook something to eat.”
         Kayla twisted at the waist, her long 
tail swinging clear. “Andares’s is cooking?” She 
chuckled for a moment and shook her head. “There 
is a first time for everything.” The skunk 
lowered her eyes and stared across the sea.  Her 
voice became distant, introspective. “Jerome... 
do you think... do you think it was worth it?  So 
many had to die.  I never knew Habakkuk before, 
but he became a friend.  And Lindsey.  How long 
before she heals?  I’ll see Rickkter again when 
we return to Metamor. But she’ll never see him again.”
         Jerome crossed his hands behind his back 
and sucked on his lower lip. “Zagrosek was a 
friend since childhood.  And yet he had to 
die.  Charles and I helped the Marquis defeat the 
power hungry Handil Sutt ten years ago.  And 
though he’d never been a friend, I hated seeing 
him die too.  We’re in a fight against evil.  If 
all we seek to do is save ourselves we can never 
save others.  Zhypar understood that.  Lindsey 
does too.  She will heal and we will be here for her as long as she needs us.”
         Kayla scuffed her claws against the 
rock. “Will you stay in Metamor when we return.”
         The Sondecki shrugged. “I don’t 
know.  If I am needed, yes.  Charles and I will 
need to discuss returning to Sondeshara at some 
point in the near future.  We need to heal the 
rift within our clan and there can be no better 
time than now, but I know he has to see and spend time with his family first.”
         “True.  He’s told us so much about his 
children, I’m anxious to meet them.”
         “Me too.  Especially...” Jerome gasped 
and dashed the last few steps to reach Kayla’s 
side.  He stared hard to the southwest, and then 
jumped, laughing for joy.  Kayla stare with him, 
and there on the horizon, growing with each 
second, was a fleet of ships. “Praise Eli!  They’re here!”
         Kayla shouted for joy and beat her fists 
against her knees.  On her hips, the dragon swords thrummed with delight.

         Charles bounced from paw to paw as the 
row boats crossed the distance from the Iron Hand 
to the shore.  Phil and Malger were with him, 
while the lurking presence of Rupert blotted out 
the sun.  Whalish sailors pulled oars for three 
boats, furiously seeking the shore.
         The rat saw his friends clustering on 
the bank, and he waved to them, jumping up and 
down.  The Great Ape grunted at the rat; but he 
needn’t have worried about Charles tipping the 
boat.  He knew precisely where to step to keep it steady.
         And then, as the oars began to scrape 
the sandy bottom, Charles jumped from the boat 
and ran, his paws barely sinking beneath the 
water’s surface.  His friends who’d shared the 
last six months of their lives together all leapt 
from the edge of the land and ran toward 
him.  They met as the boats pulled close, and 
hugged tight, laughing with a delight they couldn’t describe.
         Andares found his voice first. “That is 
a mighty vessel you have brought for us, friend Charles.”
         “And mighty friends have come with it!” 
the rat declared.  As the row boat caught up to 
them, he gestured to its inhabitants. “May I 
present, Prince Phil of Whales, his aide Rupert, 
and Malger Sutt, once called Dream Serpent.”
         Phil stood in the boat, and his eyes 
brimmed with good cheer. “Kayla!” He did not leap 
into the water, but the skunk sloshed through the 
knee-high water and grabbed the rabbit out of the boat and hugged him tight.
         “Your highness!  I never thought to see you again!”
         Phil laughed and hugged her back. “And 
how did my favourite assistant come to be in so desolate a land as this?”
         “It’s a long story, Phil.  And once 
gain, you’ve come to save me when I’ve gotten in over my head!”
         He laughed as the rest clustered close. 
His eyes alighted upon the black hawk and he blinked. “Jessica?  Is that you?”
         The hawk nodded, bending at her waist to 
keep her tail feathers out of the water. “It is 
I, Phil.  I have a message for you from Wessex.”
         The rabbit’s ears folded back. “From 
Wessex?” His heart pounded from both excitement 
and anxiety.  But he mastered the lapine 
instincts and nodded. “Tell me over dinner.  Tonight we feast.”
         “And feast well,” Malger added, smiling 
as he gazed across the weary travellers. “I 
daresay that no tale I have ever spun can match what you have seen.”
         Abafouq, who stood with his armpits only 
inches above the lapping water, laughed and then 
sighed as he hugged to Guernef’s side.  The 
Nauh-kaee’s wings kept close to his back, his 
impassive eyes soft with relief. “There be much 
hardship and sadness in its telling.” But the 
smile could not stay banished from his face for long. “But much joy too.”
         Charles hugged James and helped the 
donkey climb into the first raft.  Lindsey 
followed, nearly capsizing the rowboat as she 
swung one hearty leg over the side.  The rat 
steadied her and said, “The fight is won, the 
evil has been vanquished, and now we return 
home.  What greater joy can we have in this life, 
so long as we share it together?”
         “There is none,” Andares replied with a 
long sigh.  He and Sir Autrefois helped Vigoreaux 
into one of the rowboats. “We shall feast to our 
departed friends, and to those who have come to our rescue.”
         Kayla hoisted Abafouq over the side of 
Phil’s vessel.  Rupert grabbed the Binoq and set 
him down dripping wet onto one of the seats.  He 
then hoisted Jessica on board and set the hawk 
next to him.  Malger aided Kayla as she climbed 
aboard.  Guernef walked back to the shore, spread 
his wings and leapt into the air.  A few moments 
more and all of them were in boats, and the sailors began turning them about.
         The two Lothanasi symbols that glowed on 
the rat’s uncovered chest brightened for a 
moment, casting everyone around him in a warm 
rose hue, and then faded until nothing of them 
remained.  Charles rubbed the fur with one paw, 
whiskers standing out straight in surprise. 
“They’re gone.  We defeated Marzac two days ago.  Why now?”
         “Perhaps,” Lindsey suggested in a quiet 
voice, “because for the first time in six months, 
we are heading not to Marzac, but to home.”
         All of them began to nod.  Andares 
rested a hand on the red-furred kangaroo’s 
shoulders.  The rat looked over their faces as 
the Iron King’s starboard hull neared. “We’ve 
been travelling this way so long,” Charles said, 
one paw reaching behind his back to stroke at the 
ivy that nestled above his tail, “it is strange 
to think that we will never come back this way again.”
         “Perhaps not,” Phil mused. “But now we are going someplace better.”
         “Home,” Malger intoned softly.  In that 
one word all their hearts rested.
         “Home,” Charles repeated. “I’m ready.”
         James glanced over his shoulder at the 
desolate land.  His ears lifted high and he waved 
one hand. “Goodbye, Marzac.  May you always rest.”
         Rupert, the Great Ape, surprised and 
joyed them all when his tongue loosed in a single bold word. “Amen!”

----------


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

Charles Matthias