[Mkguild] Invigorating Faith (2/8)

[C. Matthias]

Here's Part 2

Metamor Keep: Invigorating Faith
By Charles Matthias

February 26, 708 CR

         Tyrion fingered the gold-painted yew 
that hung from his neck.  As a symbol of his new 
office of Bishop, it was effective and 
unmistakable.  It also gave new meaning to the 
words ‘non sum dignus’.  He smiled faintly, 
shifted his leg around in the carriage into yet 
another uncomfortable position, and turned his attention to the open window.
         They’d passed the boundary of the Curse 
early that morning and in that time he’d seen 
creatures walking, working, and riding that he’d 
never thought possible.  And that was in addition 
to the many female soldiers patrolling the main 
road north through the valley and children 
working like men.  He’d known to expect all of 
these things, but to see it was quite another.
         The valley was beautiful in a way that 
his home could never match.  While Kelewair was 
blessed with many nearby forests that would soon 
burst into brilliant white, pink, and yellow 
blossoms, many in Metamor Valley were green all 
year long.  He’d known that some trees bore 
needles instead of leaves but again, seeing it was altogether a new experience.
         And so it was with the mountains that 
rose up like insurmountable towers on either 
side.  Tyrion marvelled at them as much as 
anything else his eyes caught on the long journey 
north.  He absently massaged his deformed leg while his eyes took all of it in.
         “It is impressive,” one of his priests 
said.  This one had an accent and an appearance 
that marked him even more a foreigner in this 
land than Tyrion.  His skin was sun-baked dark 
but his eyes were bright if unreadable.  He bore 
a black cassock with a red cross emblazoned on 
the front; a sole mote of darkness in an 
otherwise bright and vibrant world.  At his feet 
curled a golden-furred dog who laconically wagged 
his tail and turned his ears to listen to his 
master’s voice. “Admire Eli’s handicraft but do 
not neglect the beauty He gives in your homeland.”
         The two junior priests riding with them 
were startled anew by the Questioner’s 
willingness to instruct their Bishop.  Tyrion 
didn’t mind.  He turned away from the window and 
met the Questioner’s gaze with an interested 
smile. “So tell us of your homeland.”
         The Questioner leaned back his head and 
closed his eyes. “The late rains would be falling 
about now and for the next few weeks.  It is a 
beautiful time in Yesulam and all the Holy 
Land.  Bright flowers everywhere covering once 
parched earth.  Blossoms of pink, violet, yellow, 
orange, and any other hue you can name.  The 
river sparkles with the morning sun before 
rippling with the afternoon rain.  Trees blossom 
along the riverbanks.  In a few months they will 
bear figs and fruits, dates will ripen, and 
though the flowers, so delicate and so fragile, 
will have withered, the grasses that came with 
them will feed the flocks through the hot 
summer.  The golden city will shine like a mirror 
to the sun, bright with the virtue of its people 
and the relief of a people who have seen an 
eclipse come to an end.” His lips turned in a 
slight smile. “That alone is as breathtaking as 
it is heartbreaking.  What grace, ah!  That is 
the beauty of my homeland, your grace.  A people 
freed from an evil they could not name but knew was there.”
         Tyrion pursed his lips to reply but 
found no words that could compare.  He turned to 
the window and gazed for another minute in 
complete silence.  A clattering of hooves spoke 
of the approach of riders coming from the 
north.  Tyrion shifted his poor leg then leaned 
his head out and watched as a pair of ponies and 
a pair of horses approached.  They slowed as they 
neared the carriage.  Tyrion’s lead knight, 
Captain Nikolai of the Wolf’s Claw — an 
imposition from his father he did not appreciate 
— bade the four riders to stop well in advance of the carriage.
         The riders were all beasts.  One 
appeared to be a variety of northern deer, with 
nubs for antlers growing just above his tufted 
ears.  Beside him dressed in drab colours was an 
ungulate like he’d never seen with long 
spiralling horns, a white and black face, and tan 
hide.  The two riding ponies were both rats, the 
lead one dressed in chain mail, while the latter, 
also in drab colours, had a black splotch over 
his right eye as if he’d been burned.  Two unusual knights and their squires.
         The deer knight lowered his head after 
coming to a stop and spoke to Captain Nikolai. “I 
am Sir Yacoub Egland and this is Sir Erick 
Saulius.” He gestured to the rat at his side. “We 
have been sent to escort his grace to the Keep 
where Father Hough awaits to receive him.”
         While Nikolai bantered briefly with the 
elk, the Questioner, completely unseen in the 
wagon from the knights, whispered, “Egland is one 
of the knights who accompanied Patriarch Akabaieth to Metamor.”
         “He probably asked to be our escort,” 
surmised one of the two newly made priests.  Both 
were young men of unremarkable complexion, the 
one thin and bookish and the other who’d spoken 
swarthy with a face as plain as buttered bread and hair the colour to match.
         “I suspect you are right, Father 
Purvis.” Tyrion drew his head back inside as the 
carriage started along the road again, now with 
the four Keepers leading them. “And did you 
chance to meet the rat knight, Sir Saulius?”
         The Questioner shook his head while one 
hand gently scratched behind the dog’s ears. 
“Nay.  From the sound of his name he is probably 
a Flatlander.  There have been other knights in 
Yesulam from the Saulius horse-clan.  I never knew any of them.”
         Tyrion glanced out the carriage window 
and was rewarded with a glimpse of a tall 
alabaster tower rising over the forest of pines 
flanking the road.  His lips twitched attempting 
a relieved smile. “It should not be long now.  I 
can see one of the towers.” He drew his prayer 
beads from around his gold-threaded sash and 
gestured for the other three priests to do the 
same. “Let us pray the None for a safe and 
successful time here in Metamor.  For each of us.”
         And for the next half hour, four men’s 
voices locked in almost harmonious chant echoed 
from the carriage, down the road, and through the 
trees still glistening with the last of winter’s snow.

         Only a short time after their prayers 
were concluded the road opened out into a wide 
clearing with the river flowing briskly by on the 
left. Tyrion and the other priests peered out the 
carriage windows to see a large ridge surrounded 
by high walls and strong ramparts.  A solitary 
road led up one side of the hill, while the east 
and west slopes were too steep to mount any 
assault.  A town clustered at the base of the 
hill, and it too was surrounded by walls, the 
outer of which was still under construction, 
though the gaps were few and far 
between.  Already soldiers of various human and 
beastly varieties walked those new walls with spear and bow in hand or paw.
         Sir Egland rode back until he was 
alongside the carriage.  His dark cervine eyes 
and countenance fixed on the Bishop immediately. 
“Your grace, I am Sir Yacoub Egland.”
         “You once served Patriarch Akabaieth,” 
Tyrion noted with what he hoped was a fatherly 
smile. “Thank you for watching over us the last mile.”
         Egland’s ears flinched at the name of 
his late charge but he did not lose his bearing. 
“I now serve the Ecclesia here in whatever way I 
can.  We are almost upon Euper.  That is the 
small village you see before you.  We must pass 
through Euper before we can ascend to Keeptowne 
and Metamor proper.  Father Hough waits for you at the gates of the Keep.”
         “Lead on then, Sir Egland.”
         The deer knight nudged his steed who 
gave a snort before leaping forward to retake the head of the column.
         “Euper didn’t have an outer wall when I 
was here last,” the Questioner mused before 
settling back in his seat hidden within the 
shadows; even the red cross on his cassock was barely visible.
         “It looks like any other village I’ve 
seen,” Father Purvis opined, though not unkindly. 
“I do not see any churches though.”
         “Nor will you,” the Questioner added. 
“Metamor is the ancestral home to the 
Lothanasi.  Our creed is new to this land.”
         “Which makes our purpose here all the 
more important,” Tyrion added.  His eyes followed 
the wall as they passed through the town 
gate.  The buildings were poor, ramshackle, 
wooden things which hunched over the road or 
toward each other like a gaggle of drunks 
stumbling out of a tavern arm in arm.  Not unlike 
many of the poorer sections of Kelewair, Tyrion noted.
         “I have heard,” the wiry priest with 
pinched face said in a quiet voice, “that the 
Library of Metamor is one of the greatest in the world.”
         “I did not have a chance to peruse it 
when I was here,” the Questioner said in an 
equally soft voice. “But this city is known for 
producing literature for the amusement of the 
literate and the betterment of bards.” His lips 
attempted a smile but soon settled back into a 
thin line. “I cannot vouch for the quality of the 
tomes nor do I expect many will be of Follower 
origin.  But I am certain that many will be of interest.”
         “There will be no time to peruse the 
Library, Father Malvin,” Tyrion said kindly.  He 
well remembered how studious Malvin had been in 
his lessons these last five years.  Ordained a 
priest only three months and yet he knew more 
from his studies than many of Tyrion’s senior 
clergy. “At least not on this trip.  Later perhaps.”
         The carriage tilted back with a jolt and 
they began ascending the hill.  They proceeded in 
silence up the incline.  The road levelled out 
just as they passed through the massive gate in 
the outer wall.  A broad field bereft of homes 
but filled with building supplies and probably 
squatters greeted them.  All of them watched now, silent and curious.
         Guards armed with long bows lined the 
parapets of the inner wall and the short, stout 
towers flanking the main gates.  Beyond they both 
saw, heard, and smelled the city.  The main 
thoroughfare was wide and flanked by Inns and 
markets at first, before giving way to small 
shops and the occasional home.  Baked goods, 
fried and salted meats, scented oils and 
perfumes, and the crisp tang of leather and steel 
all mixed together with the abundant odour of a 
cornucopia of beasts and man and their waste to 
provide an olfactory tableaux that struck them 
all at once.  Only the Questioner did not 
recoil.  Even his dog lifted his snout to the 
window and began to growl under his breath.  The 
Questioner put forth his hand and pet the dog’s back to calm him.
         Many of the Keepers peered at them as 
they passed though few for very long.  Most 
looked at them, noted them, and then returned to 
their business.  The carriage they rode in was 
marked with the yew and colours of the Ecclesia 
but no more.  If Father Hough had followed 
Tyrion’s instructions, only a handful would even 
know of his coming.  Word would spread quickly 
now that he was here, but that suited his purposes too.
         The carriage passed through another 
series of gates and entered a plaza before the 
mighty castle.  Elaborate gardens were spread out 
on either side of the terrazzo though only a few 
brave stems bore flowers so early in the 
year.  Shortly after they left the gardens behind 
the horses and carriage drew to a halt.  A series 
of steps led up to a high arched causeway 
festooned with ivy leading to an open doorway 
into the castle.  Standing at the base of the 
steps was a boy dressed in a black clerical 
robe.  Tyrion breathed a sigh of relief.
         Captain Nikolai opened the carriage door 
and offered a hand to help Tyrion climb out.  He 
accepted the hand only because it was offered and 
climbed out a little unsteadily on his 
clubfoot.  Behind him Father Purvis held out his 
crozier and miter.  The latter was quickly placed 
over his head almost covering his red hair while 
the former he took and turned with the crook 
facing outward.  Silently the three priests and dog filed out of the carriage.
         “Your grace,” the boy priest intoned as 
he genuflected.  Tyrion offered his right hand 
and the boy kissed the large ring. “I am Father 
Francis Hough.  Welcome to Metamor Keep.”
         “Thank you,” Tyrion replied. “Both for 
the welcome and for its modesty.  I am Bishop 
Tyrion Verdane.  With me are Father Purvis and 
Father Malvin, recently ordained priests who I 
selected to aid me on this journey.  And recently 
assigned to our Diocese is yon Questioner, Father—”
         He never was able to finish the 
statement.  From out of the Keep bolted a silver 
thing on four legs that vaulted down the steps 
with a heavy whump and came to a stop right 
before the black-clad priest.  Metallic frame 
quivered and its eyes beamed with what could only 
be canine delight.  Its jaws opened and with 
unbridled exuberance barked, “Father Felsah!  You’ve come back!”
         The Questioner’s stony expression melted 
into pure delight. “Hello Madog.” He bent down 
and hugged the creature around the 
neck.  Everyone gaped in astonishment.  The 
golden-furred dog began growling in sudden alarm, 
but Felsah turned and gently cupped one hand 
behind his ear. “It’s okay, Rakka.  Madog is a friend.”
         The metallic fox and Rakka looked at 
each other a moment, sniffing and then circling 
each other and doing so again.  Even after canine 
introductions Rakka appeared very uncertain and 
whined softly.  But Felsah pet him gently and stilled his anxiety.
         Hough’s gaze was inquisitive. “So you 
are the one who Madog befriended.”
         Felsah nodded as his smile began to fade. “That I am, Father.”
         Tyrion took a deep breath, and tried to 
stifle the irritation he felt. “I am sure that is 
only the first of many surprises yet to come in 
the next few days.” A cool wind bent the growing 
grass and curled around his neck. “I trust all 
arrangements have been made for our stay?”
         “Aye, they have, your grace.” Hough 
gestured toward the ivy festooned causeway with 
both arms. “If you would all follow me and I will 
show you the accommodations we’ve prepared.”
         Tyrion glanced at the afternoon sky and 
then shook his head. “There is time yet before 
Vespers.  I would like a tour of the convent 
first before we go to the Cathedral.”
         Hough frowned but tried to hide it. “It 
has barely begun to be built, but the Sisters 
have a roof over their heads at least.  There’s not much more than that.”
         “Nevertheless, I fear this may be the 
only time I will have to meet with them while I’m 
here.  Let us go there first, and then after 
Vespers, we can retire quietly to discuss matters of my visit.”
         “Of course, your grace. I’m sure the 
Sisters will be delighted to welcome you.” Hough 
gestured to the two knights and their squires. 
“Sir Egland, Sir Saulius.  Thank you for 
escorting his grace here.  Could you continue to 
serve as his escort while he stays with us?”
         The rat knight put one paw over his 
chest. “‘Twould be an honour to escort his grace, Father.”
         Hough smiled to them and then gestured 
to the carriage. “It is not a long walk, but I 
think it best if you ride in your carriage.  Our escort will guide us.”
         Tyrion looked between them and smiled. 
“Most efficient, Father.” One by one all five 
priests climbed into the wagon.  Madog nuzzled 
Felsah one last time before following along 
behind the carriage at a playful trot.

----------

         Though the convent was not much more 
than a single small building under repair in 
which the Sisters slept with a few suggestions of 
new walls and a sanctuary space yet to be 
constructed, the Sisters themselves proved to be 
a solid foundation on which more vocations would 
be built, or so surmised Bishop Tyrion after 
meeting them.  Though Mother Wilfrida had become 
a mallard with dull plumage and a voice accented 
by the occasional quack, she displayed a deep 
piety and at the same time canny understanding of 
the needs and motivations of others.  Tyrion felt 
more like a young child in her presence than he did with his own father.
         Father Purvis and Malvin absorbed all 
with mixed degrees of shock and wonder, both the 
odd appearance of the many Keepers they 
encountered and the stares they received back. 
Captain Nikolai, normally as expressive as a 
brick, was even disturbed and especially so by 
the few women soldiers they saw in passing.  Only 
Felsah appeared immune to the incongruity of the 
indigenous people.  He noted the convent and the 
Sisters with one careful eye while the other 
strayed to Rakka and Madog who in short order 
became friends and chased each other as dogs left to themselves are wont to do.
         After Mother Wilfrida finished 
explaining her intentions for the convent, all of 
them returned to the Keep with the two animal 
knights leading them.  The Sisters followed 
behind at a walk to attend Vespers.  Once at the 
Keep, Egland and Saulius led Nikolai and the 
other soldiers to one of the stables where space 
had been made available for their steeds.  Tyrion 
and his priests followed Hough into the Keep.
         Through lightly furnished passages they 
travelled for only a minute before reaching the 
Cathedral.  Tyrion had seen more impressive in 
his life, but not many.  What astounded him was 
that it had been discovered in Metamor, not 
built.  The Cathedral in Kelewair had been 
painstakingly constructed over the course of 
three generations of his family’s rule.  Over 
night Metamor had gone from no place to worship 
to an edifice of exquisite beauty rich in symbolism, art, and statuary.
         Hough took great pleasure in introducing 
his six seminarians who he’d begun training in 
the two years he’d been at Metamor.  They for 
their part were overwhelmed with honour at 
meeting him and each showed a strong sense of 
piety and devotion.  That two of them were like 
Hough and forever locked as lanky boy’s on the 
cusp of adolescence did not surprise him.  That 
two others were beasts, one a mouse and the other 
a goggle-eyed reptile called a chameleon, was odd 
but understandable at Metamor.
         What did take Tyrion by surprise was 
that the two young men who were studying to be 
priests had been born as women.  While back in 
Kelewair he’d studied what they knew of Metamor 
from the letters Father Hough had sent to the 
previous Bishop.  He’d intellectually known of 
this possibility, but the reality was far 
different.  How could they react to a curse that 
could change a man to a woman and vice 
versa?  There were some vocations particular to a 
man and some to a woman.  What was the proper 
response to such a substantial change as between man and woman?
         Tyrion did not have the leisure to 
consider those questions as the time for Vespers 
came upon them.  He led the prayers for the 
priests and Sisters and many others who had 
gathered.  Already, word of his arrival had 
spread amongst the Follower population of 
Metamor.  It was a strange congregation to have, 
but it was a hopeful sign in a pagan land.
         After Vespers, Hough had his seminarians 
show them the rooms behind the Cathedral where 
they could sleep the night.  But Tyrion and Hough 
went to the young priest’s quarters at the 
Bishop’s request.  Hough offered him cider which 
Tyrion gratefully accepted.  Even more 
gratefully, the clubfooted cleric accepted the 
upholstered chair and settled within its 
voluminous comfort with a pleased sigh.
         “You have a very unique parish, Father,” 
Tyrion said with a curious grin as the boyish 
priest settled himself in the opposite chair.  Both faced an empty hearth.
         “But a strong one.  Our unusual 
circumstances help keep us together.” Hough 
cradled his cup of steaming cider in his hands, 
legs dangling off the end of the chair and 
swinging freely. “We even regularly have some of the Rebuilders come to Mass.”
         Tyrion sniffed the cider and was 
rewarded with a rich apple flavour still a bit 
too hot to drink. “Have there been any conversions?”
         “Only a handful,” Hough replied. “I 
don’t have time enough as I wish to reach out to 
those who do not Follow the Way.” He lifted the 
cup to his lips and blew across the heady broth. 
“It is also a very large parish as I am the only 
priest in the entire Valley.  There are Followers 
living as far north as Hareford and as far south 
as Jetta whose needs are my affair.  I wrote to 
your predecessor asking for assistance several 
times, but he was reluctant to send us any more priests.”
         The question in those words could not 
have been more direct.  Tyrion blew on his cider 
a moment and then said, “You were rather 
diffident about coming here as well before you 
were Cursed, Father.  It is sad, but it is a very 
rare priest who will risk entering a field like 
yours.  To enter it is to never be able to leave.”
         “Surely there must be some willing,” 
Hough added in a slightly less demanding tone.
         “That is an inquiry I have been making.” 
He sipped the cider and was rewarded with a crisp 
flavour that warmed all the way down. “But I 
cannot offer you any answers as of this 
moment.  My purpose here is to ascertain the 
needs of the Valley.  Once I have done that, I 
will make what decisions seem prudent.  Whether 
worthy or not, I am Bishop, and I will appoint 
priests if I deem it necessary.  But in the case 
of Metamor, I must exercise caution to ensure 
that the priests I appoint have the proper disposition.”
         Hough’s expression relaxed some and he 
nodded in thanks.  Tyrion did not wait further 
before adding, “Your six seminarians are a good 
beginning, but it will be at least another year 
before any of them is ready for ordination, or so I gather.”
         “Ramad and Patric are the eldest and 
have been with me for a year a half.” Tyrion 
recalled that Ramad was one of the two who had 
once been a woman and Patric was the chameleon 
fellow. “Another year of study for both at 
least.  It would go faster if I was able to give more time to their formation.”
         Tyrion ignored the implied request. 
“Mother Wilfrida mentioned something about 
refugees when we spoke.  To what was she referring?”
         “That is the other blessing and 
challenge, your grace.” Hough appeared to slump 
in his chair like a man who’d spent day and night 
hacking at frozen earth to dig a trench. “The 
Curse heals ailments when it changes a man; it 
might even cure your clubfoot.  The refugees are 
the survivors from Bradanes who have decided it 
is better to be trapped here than to be treated as lepers.”
         The tragedy of Bradanes was known to 
Tyrion as those people had once belonged to his 
father.  That part of him loyal to his father was 
irked that they would find a home here at Metamor 
but the rest of him was relieved to know that 
they would not suffer anymore. “How many have come?”
         “A little over four thousand have come 
so far, counting children.  When Spring arrives 
we expect an equal number if not more to arrive 
seeking a new home.  Some will leave, those that 
are still human, but most will remain.  All of 
them are Followers and so far not a single priest 
among them.  I’d hoped one would come and share 
my burden but Eli has not provided that yet.”
         “It seems that my appointment as Bishop 
could not have come at a more opportune 
time.  For Metamor at least.” He took a longer 
sip and savoured the taste for several seconds. “And you made this yourself?”
         Hough nodded. “An old family recipe.  It 
is but one of the two indulgences I allow myself with what little time I have.”
         “And the other?”
         The boy priest actually blushed. 
“Playing with Madog.  He’s the metal fox who 
greeted Father Felsah.  He was one of the first 
to befriend me and he found the Cathedral within 
Metamor.” He lowered his eyes. “I know it seems 
frivolous, but because of the Curses, sometimes I 
just need to be a little boy with his dog.”
         Tyrion felt on somewhat stronger ground 
now that his host, who in truth was older than 
he, was more a boy in manner than a man. “If 
Madog can make even a Questioner smile and laugh, 
then he truly must be a blessing.  I’m glad of 
it.  Now,” his tone deepened, serious and 
commanding like his father often used. “Tomorrow 
is Sunday.  I wish to begin the day with prayers 
with your seminarians, some time for discussion 
and teaching, and then I will celebrate the Mass 
and would like you and the other priests to 
concelebrate.  Afterward, I intend to begin my 
travels through the Valley.  You know this 
land.  My intent is to see for myself the state 
of the Follower communities here.  Once done, I 
will make my decision regarding whether to 
appoint any other priests here.  I will do so 
before I leave the Valley so you will not need to be in any further anxiety.
         “But, I need you to teach me now what to 
expect and where to go so I can make the best of 
my time here.  I do not wish to be trapped here.”
         Hough nodded and turned the cup around 
in his hands. “You might be anyway.  If brigands 
or Lutins attack you, you may be trapped here.”
         “I am in Eli’s hands.  If that is His 
will, then it will come to pass.” Tyrion smiled. 
“But for now, tell me of the Valley, of its people, and of our people.”

----------

         The stables were rich with the scent of 
horses, hay, manure, and the sweat and musk of 
the ostlers.  Even up in the hayloft overlooking 
the stalls of stamping and snorting horses, 
Charles and Saulius could not escape the earthy 
odour which permeated through their clothes and 
fur so that they smelled more like their ponies than they did rats.
         As Charles finished stacking hay bales 
on either side of a space big enough for the two 
of them to sleep he lowered his whiskers, curled 
his tail around one leg, and frowned. “Why are we 
sleeping up here again?  There were rooms in the 
Long House for us, or the cellars, or even with 
Sir Egland who offered.  It’s not that I mind the 
smell — I rather like it to be honest — and it 
isn’t even that cold, but it does seem the least 
comfortable accommodations you could have picked 
apart from sleeping in the street.”
         Sir Saulius spread a mat of loose hay on 
the wooden railing and grimaced when he found a 
tattered washcloth that reeked of things fouler 
than horse droppings.  He tossed that aside and 
snuffled a moment before replying. “Aye, we could 
have slept there.  But I hath two reasons for 
bringing us here.  The first, thou shouldst spend 
some nights sleeping close to thy steed.  ‘Twill 
bond thee tighter as it should be.”
         Charles glanced over the railing to 
Malicon his roan pony who looked so small next to 
the chargers in the adjacent stalls.  Much like 
he as a rat was smaller than most of his friends. 
“I love him already.  He’s a good friend.” He 
unrolled his blanket and a suspicious moue 
crossed his snout.  His vine tightened about his 
chest. “What is your other reason?”
         The knight set his rolled-up blanket 
down and leaned his elbows on it. “‘Twas nothing 
more sinister than a desire to provide you with 
privacy my good squire.  Charles, thou thinkest 
many things, I dost see it in thy eyes and in thy 
manners.  Had we spent the night anywhere else, 
other ears would hath gleaned thy words.  But 
here, ‘tis only the two of us.  Wouldst thee 
share thy thoughts with me?  Thou hast been of 
great help to me in my years here and I wouldst 
be of help to thee in thy troubles.”
         Charles straightened out a wrinkle in 
his blanket as his moue deepened. “I do not know 
what you wish me to say.  I am home after a long 
journey.  I have my wife and my children 
again.  You and Misha have already started 
squabbling over my allegiances — don’t think I 
haven’t noticed.  A darkness may loom before me 
that I must beware, one that has already struck 
Lindsey and Kayla.  And let us not forget that my 
youngest child died while I was off defeating 
that darkness in Marzac.  Truly, what is there for me to say?”
         Saulius did not flinch even when his 
friend’s acute words drew on him.  He lifted his 
mail shirt over his head and draped it over the 
makeshift armour tree he’d had Charles erect 
after climbing into the hayloft.  But his 
whiskers drooped. “Thou hast many pains in thy 
heart, Charles.  And thou hast numbered 
them.  ‘Tis never been my intent to cause thee 
anguish, only to provide thee with a duty and a 
calling suited to thy talents that wouldst keep thee close to thy family.”
         “My skills are more suited to being a 
Long Scout.” Charles removed his mail shirt and 
gazed at it as it dangled from his paws slick 
with oil. “This I know you know to be true.”
         The knight lay his sword and buckler at 
the base of the armour tree. “Aye.” He sighed 
heavily and shook his head. “But it shalt always 
take thee from thy loved ones.  Not for a day or 
two or three, but for a week, a month, perhaps 
longer.  ‘Tis a poor way to be a father.”
         “There are other Longs with children.” 
Charles hung his armour and took a long deep 
breath with his eyes closed. “A soldier will 
always have times when they must go into the 
field and leave loved ones behind.  You cannot 
change that, Erick.  I have always known 
that.  Falling in love, marrying, and having 
children has not changed that.  And Misha has 
been extremely gracious in allowing me time to be 
with Kimberly and the children since my 
return.  I have not had to leave them until you 
informed me of this duty to escort the Bishop!”
         Saulius lowered his ears, chagrined. 
“Charles... I... I hath a great love for thee and 
thy kin.  Of all I know in Metamor, there be none 
but thee that I dost wish one day to ride to 
battle side by side.  Perhaps I hath asked of 
thee too much for my own sake.  I... I dost truly 
wish to ride with thee to battle, 
Charles.  Nothing wouldst e’er bring me greater 
joy than to have thee at my side, nay, rather, to 
be at thy side in defence of home and faith.”
         Charles’s anger cracked under those 
words, uttered with such reserved emotion, 
emotion held tightly back like a catapult.  How 
often had he underestimated the devotion the 
other rats treated him with.  In part he hated 
that devotion because he knew himself unworthy of 
it.  He had not spent his years starting his day 
in the cellars with them to be adored; all he’d 
ever hoped was that they would no longer hate 
being rats.  This he’d accomplished and it 
brought joy to his heart.  But in some ways, it 
ached to see that each of them in some small way still depended on him.
         And now for perhaps the first time, he 
saw that Sir Saulius depended on him too.  He 
turned away from the knight’s hopeful gaze and 
looked down at his pony.  Malicon was gratefully 
eating from the feed trough.  Slowly, the rat 
crouched over his blanket, the hay cracking 
beneath in a soft whisper. “One day we 
will.  Here at Metamor, it cannot but be a 
certainty.  Perhaps tomorrow we may be forced to 
test our mettle against brigands or Lutins come 
to despoil the Bishop.” He shook his head. “Don’t 
ask me to be a knight because you fear I will be 
less of a brother to thee as a scout or anything else.”
         Saulius turned away and 
brooded.  Charles took those moments to seek his 
Sondecki Calm, that blessed place in the desert 
beneath the stars that soothed all his agony and 
tamed all his anger.  Only for some reason it 
didn’t.  Something seemed wrong that he couldn’t 
place.  Some disturbance that lingered at the 
periphery of his awareness, like a shadow on the 
horizon that could be either silhouette or 
stone.  As a phantasm it did not menace, nor did 
it make him feel small or vulnerable.  It was 
more a thorn beneath his tunic, something that 
kept him from achieving his Calm.
         Before he could turn to investigate it 
further, his friend’s voice, quiet and pained 
though it was, cut through his meditation. “If 
thou dost wish no longer to serve as my squire, 
then I wilt release thee from thy duty.”
         Charles opened his eyes and shook his 
head. “Nay, Erick.  I do not wish to cease being 
thy squire.  Not as such.  I just... I don’t know 
what I want.  I... I want my son back.” He said 
the last so suddenly that he felt his heart catch 
in his throat.  It was now he that turned away 
and hid his face.  He gripped the vine through 
his linens and clutched tightly.  It responded by 
gently pulling closer against his flesh, soft 
leaves so velvety and tender that they could not help but sooth him.
         “He wast a sweet lad,” Saulius replied 
distantly, a heavy sadness in his voice where 
once he’d been restrained. “He always asked after thee.”
         “Kimberly has said as much... when she 
is willing to speak at all.” Charles took a deep 
breath and pushed back the wave of misery that 
threatened to consume him. “Please I do not wish 
to speak of this.  Please.  Let us say prayers 
for the night and sleep.  Tomorrow is gong to be 
a long enough day as it is.  If I start to speak 
of this now I will get no sleep and neither would 
you.  And what sort of squire would let his 
knight serve with so little sleep before such an important man as the Bishop?”
         Saulius opened his snout to say 
something more but nothing came.  He shook his 
head after a moment and let whatever reply he had 
remain in his heart.  He knelt, tail draping over 
his long fleshy paws.  Some of his toes lifted to 
cradle his tail. “Then let us pray, squire 
Charles.  I shalt pray for thy heart if thou wilt pray for mine.”
         “Agreed, Sir Erick.” He felt more at 
ease though the ragged pain still crouched just 
out of sight.  He knelt next to Saulius and the 
two of them bowed their heads in prayer, paws 
clasped before them.  Saulius led them and 
Charles intoned the responses.  They were prayers 
both had said many times before, prayers for 
protection, guidance, and deliverance in battle, 
but the words seemed weighted with significance 
unknown before.  When they finished, they both 
made the sign of the yew, each knowing a subtle 
lightening of air.  Without another word they 
crawled beneath their blankets.  Charles 
extinguished the lantern plunging them into true 
night.  Below them whickered horses and ponies in equine indifference.

----------

         It was no surprise to Felsah that he 
found it impossible to sleep.  He’d never been 
able to truly sleep while at Metamor, either when 
he’d come to investigate the Patriarch’s murder, 
or when he’d been brought to heal.  Now that he 
was here with the new Bishop for purposes that he 
suspected but could not confirm, his nighttime 
rest was haunted by both hope and dread.
         Bishop Tyrion Verdane might ask him to 
stay at Metamor.  Or he might be asked to return 
to Kelewair.  But which of these possibilities 
was it that he hoped for and which did he dread?
         So he as the night continued, he prayed 
his breviary and waited.  Rakka had no difficulty 
sleeping at least.  But when he did stir just as 
Felsah concluded the Divine Office, the priest 
knew that his expected nocturnal had arrived in a 
way as mysterious as his appearances always were.
         Felsah closed his breviary and smiled. “Hello, Madog.”
         From behind him gently yipped the 
metallic fox. “Hi, Father!  Hi, Rakka!” The 
golden-furred dog crept out from the foot of the 
simple bed and sniffed at the automaton again.  His tail started to wag.
         “Thank you again for rescuing me and 
taking me back.  I am in your debt.”
         Madog’s ears tilted as if he’d started 
speaking a different tongue mid-sentence. “No debt, Father.  You’re my friend.”
         Felsah sat cross-legged between the two 
canines, one golden of fur and the other silver 
of metal, and gently stroked down their 
backs.  Rakka leaned against him and wagged his 
tail, his body warm and his fur soft and 
pleasant.  Madog leaned against him too, though 
not so forcefully, and wagged his tail as 
well.  But his flesh was metal and felt no warmer than a sword.
         Despite the oddity of touching a machine 
that moved, it still warmed his heart just as 
much as the simple relationship he’d forged with 
Rakka since adopting him from former Grand 
Questioner Mizrahek.  The dog had such a sweet 
disposition yet nevertheless would fight to 
protect those he loved.  He was grateful that 
Rakka had quickly accepted Madog as a friend too.
         “Why did you come back to Metamor, Father?”
         Felsah let his hand rest on Madog’s back 
above his shoulder.  Blue eyes gazed at him from 
within that incunabulum of iron and mithril with 
the simplicity of a child. “I was ordered to come here by my superiors.”
         “But why?”
         “I do not know all the mysteries of 
their wisdom, but I know that they have been 
placed in authority over me by Eli.  If I am to 
obey Eli, then I must obey those He has given the 
task of shepherding His people.”
         Madog’s tail wagged twice. “I’m glad they sent you here, Father.”
         Felsah shook his head, his smile fading 
back into the familiar line of the Questioner 
face. “I have not yet been sent here.  I am 
accompanying his grace the Bishop for now.  If it 
is his will, I shall remain.  If he bids me 
return to Kelewair, then to Kelewair I will go.”
         If this disturbed the automaton, he did 
not show it.  Madog turned his head to one side 
as if considering the answer.  What conclusions 
he reached were not any more clear when he asked 
his next question. “Do you want to stay at Metamor?”
         “In part,” Felsah admitted with a hint 
of mirth. “In part I would like to stay for this 
is a wondrous land that can be a beacon of faith 
to the rest of the world and not just a bulwark 
against chaos.  Another part of me fears what the 
Curses would do; I have dearest companions who I 
might never see again should I stay here.” He 
thought of Kehthaek, Akaleth, even Kashin and Sir 
Czestadt.  The latter was ironic given that it 
was Sir Czestadt who’d nearly killed him and from 
whose blows Madog had brought him to Metamor to 
heal.  But redemption was greater than fear.
         He resumed petting Madog. “But both of 
these are held in check by my truest desire, to 
love and to serve Eli.  If it is His will I serve 
here, then I will and do so with joy.  But if it 
is otherwise, then I will go where I am needed 
and do so with joy.  Regardless, I shall carry 
the memory of your friendship with me wherever I go.”
         Madog wagged his tail and panted in 
canine delight. “I know you’ll be a bright light, 
Father.  I hope you stay, but I won’t forget you 
either if you have to go.” He rose and padded 
toward the small entrance through which he’d 
come, an entrance that had not been present an 
hour before. “Good Night, Father.  I’ll ask her 
to keep a place for you just in case!”
         “Thank you, Madog.” He laughed warmly as 
the automaton disappeared into the obscurity of 
the Keep.  When his friend was gone, he only 
needed to say one more short prayer before his soul could surrender to sleep.

----------

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

Charles Matthias


!DSPAM:4c0e0820181951075618241!