[Mkguild] Invigorating Faith (5/8)

[C. Matthias]

And Part 5

Metamor Keep: Invigorating Faith
By Charles Matthias

February 28, 708 CR

         A single candle provided all the 
illumination that the fruit bat Andwyn needed as 
he perused reports and assignment schedules for 
his network of spies throughout the Valley and 
the lands both north and south.  The work of a 
spymaster was never ended because there was no 
end of intrigue and plots that threatened Metamor 
and especially that threatened the Hassan 
household and those closest to them.  In the last 
six months his spies had learned of and thwarted 
no less than ten planned assassinations of Duke 
Thomas, and another dozen aimed at key defenders including himself.
         All but one of them had come from the 
lands still controlled by Nasoj.  And that other 
had been a personal grudge against the exiled 
Dupré from a minor house near Mallow Horn that 
had been despoiled of its holdings during the 
recent civil war in those lands.  Only a few of 
them had actually been competent.  But after so 
many years serving as a spy and an assassin 
himself, Andwyn was very adept at putting a stop to such threats.
         He did not boast of these 
accomplishments.  It was better for those he 
protected to remain ignorant of all but the 
serious threats to their lives, else they’d never 
be able to perform their duties.  But he did delight in them.
         The bat did his best work in the dark 
hours before dawn while all the rest of the 
Valley slept.  His body was naturally alert 
during the night and he took advantage of this, 
snatching what sleep he could during the day when 
he wasn’t needed by the Duke or was required to 
be otherwise available.  He slept again during 
the darkest part of the night unless events 
required his special attention.  With Bishop 
Tyrion’s arrival and inspection of the Ecclesia 
presence, this was one of those times.
         His ears heard the coming of his spy 
even though none else would.  He reached out one 
wing-hand and pulled a small lever, opening the 
shutters to his window casement.  Bone cold air 
met him and his candle fluttered before 
steadying.  Hanging from the ceiling, Andwyn 
tightened his grip with his toes and waited.
         Upon the casement landed a simple barn 
owl, white face and chest framed by dusty tan 
wings and back decorated with grey spots around 
his shoulders.  Dark eyes peered from squat 
almost flat faces with only a sharp beak 
protruding.  The owl shuddered, stretching its 
wings, and then all of its frame.  Heavy talons 
gripped either side of the casement, two toes for 
each side, while fingers emerged form the wings 
that almost formed real hands.  The face took on 
almost no greater definition, gaze intense and 
certain.  The eyes remained beastly but now 
intelligent that radiated a sense of duty.
         Andwyn folded his wings around his chest 
and said, “Alban, what have you to report?”
         The owl tilted his head to one side so 
far that had Andwyn not known better he would 
have thought certain Alban had broken his neck. 
“The Bishop is spending the night in 
Hareford.  Neither he nor his men have caused any 
trouble; although there was an altercation 
between one of Sir Dupré’s men and the Bishop.”
         “Which one?”
         “The dog, Alexander,” Alban replied 
quickly. “It ended peacefully and with the Bishop 
gaining the respect of even Sir 
Nestorius.  Shortly before they went to bed, I 
overheard the Bishop telling Nestorius that he 
had a letter from William Dupré’s son Jory that he would give to him.”
         “That is most peculiar,” Andwyn mused, 
“given that the terms of his exile prohibit him 
from having any contact with his family.  Why was the letter written?”
         Alban turned his head even farther, so 
that it was nearly upside down like the bat. “I 
think the boy wrote it of his own accord.  He 
made the Bishop promise to give it to William.”
         “Did you hear this from his grace?”
         “Yes.”
         Andwyn’s already small eyes narrowed. 
“Did you believe him?” From the tone of his spy’s 
voice, he already knew the answer.  But it was 
best not to let those he spoke with realize how 
much they told him from tone, scent, and body 
language alone, even his own people lest it be used against them.
         “I think I do,” Alban replied after a 
moment’s hesitation. “He became quite emotional 
about it.  I suspect there is something between his grace and Duke Verdane.”
         Andwyn nodded to himself.  He’d met 
Tyrion while still a seminarian during his time 
as a servant to Metamor’s ambassador to Kelewair 
before the days of the Curse.  It had been the 
best known secret that Duke Titian Verdane had 
made sure his son Tyrion knew that he did not 
want a cripple for an heir which many thought the 
reason the boy had joined the Ecclesia.  Andwyn 
always suspected there was more to it than that 
but had never been able to prove it.
         “Do not interfere.  Let the letter pass 
into William’s hands.  Inform our agents in 
Hareford to keep a close eye on William, and if 
at all possible, to learn what the letter says.”
         “Of course,” Alban straightened out his 
neck and then started turning it the other 
direction. “I’ve also been watching the Captain 
as you requested.  He appears to be observing 
everything with a keen eye.  I think he’s 
studying all of our villages and their defences.”
         “Truly?  That is interesting.” Andwyn 
loosened his grip on the grillwork attached to 
the ceiling and then tightened it again. 
“Whatever secrets he hopes to learn will avail 
Kelewair nothing.  They cannot send an army to conquer our lands.”
         Alban hooted. “But they could sell 
anything they learn to Nasoj and others in the 
north.  Lutins have no fear of the Curse.”
         “That is true.  We must keep a closer 
watch on this Captain Nikolai.  Is there anything 
else to report?” The owl gave a quick shake of 
his head. “Then pass my orders and what you know 
onto Lydia and she can continue the 
surveillance.  Thank you, Alban.  You’ve done 
well.  I’ll have your pay waiting for you in the usual place.”
         “Thank you, Master Andwyn.” The barn owl 
shrunk back in size and leapt from the 
casement.  Andwyn pulled the lever again and the 
shutters drew closed.  With troubled thoughts, the bat returned to his ledgers.

----------

         Bishop Tyrion and his entourage wasted 
no time in leaving Hareford.  The sky was only 
beginning to brighten when the clubfooted Bishop 
said a final blessing over the assembled 
Followers in the city’s main courtyard before 
climbing into his carriage and starting on the 
road south.  By the time the sun crested the 
Barrier Range they were passing Glen Avery and 
making very good time.  The day was cool but 
neither so cold to reveal their breath nor so warm as to turn the roads to mud.
         Their goal was to reach Ellingham in the 
afternoon and from there pass through Lorland and 
if the weather continued to be favourable reach 
the Iron Mine where they would stop for the 
night.  The next day they would sweep through the 
southernmost reaches of the Valley and its 
numerous farming communities before returning 
north to the Keep two day’s hence.  While the 
distances were generally longer south of the 
Keep, the roads were also in better condition, 
flatter, wider, and much safer.  If there was 
time after Tyrion hoped to head northeast to 
Mycransburg even though there were only a small 
cache of Followers living there.  But he admitted 
it was far more likely he would forgo that corner 
of the Valley and merely inform Hough and Duke 
Thomas of his ecclesiastical decision before returning to Kelewair.
         Ambitious plans driven by necessity, 
true, but Tyrion was committed to seeing them 
through.  His enthusiasm for them spilled over to 
the two priests he brought and to his knights, as 
well as to the four Keepers acting as honour 
guard for them.  Only the Questioner remained 
sedate and aloof.  He stayed as much of a shadow 
as his garments implied.  But one time he did speak with animation.
         To pass the hours more amiably, Bishop 
Tyrion chatted with the Metamorians on their 
journey.  He spent some time in discourse with 
Sir Egland about Yesulam and the elk knight’s 
memories of that city.  He asked Intoran of what 
Metamor had looked like before the Curses and his 
lift therein, a subject to which the oryx was 
more often than not circumspect.  To Sir Saulius 
he spoke of the Flatlands and his calling as a 
knight errant.  But to Charles he asked first 
after the hand-print scar over his right eye.
         “I received this blow last Summer 
Solstice while fighting a Shrieker, your 
grace.  He struck me and this scar remained.  The 
Shrieker was destroyed only moments later.  Eli spared me that day, I know it.”
         At this the Questioner stirred, leaning 
forward in his seat and peering at the rat who 
rode just alongside the carriage. “Did you say a Shrieker?”
         “Aye.  A creature of the Underworld.  It 
was unleashed because of the Censer of Yajakali 
which was at Metamor at the time.  All of them 
are now destroyed so we should never see their 
kind again.” The rat frowned. “How did you know of them?”
         Father Felsah smiled with almost as much 
delight as when Madog had approached him. “I have 
never seen one myself, but one was also fought 
and killed beneath Yesulam a little over five 
months ago.  That one was unleashed by the Sword 
of Yajakali.” Charles’s jaw dropped. “I never 
thought I would get to meet any of those also 
wrapped up in that horrible struggle.  Thank you 
for what you have done to destroy that evil.”
         Charles took a deep breath and shook his 
head, his jowls twitching over his incisors. “So 
that’s what that place was, that place of clay 
and stone.  An altar with nine columns rising, each with a vein of fulgurite?”
         Felsah was surprised anew. “How did you 
know?  That’s what Father Akaleth described.”
         “While we were at Marzac, Yajakali 
brought together all of the places the artifacts 
were tied.  I saw both Metamor and Yesulam in the 
same place at once.” Charles described what he 
saw in greater detail while Father Felsah 
listened with rapt attention.  Bishop Tyrion felt 
remarkably small as the words tumbled from the 
rat’s tongue.  Fathers Malvin and Purvis could 
not hide their enthusiasm and both seemed ready 
to bolt from their seats to grab a sword and run down this dead evil.
         As Charles described his companions in 
the fight, Father Felsah laughed suddenly. “Of 
course!  I know who you are now.  You are Charles 
Matthias, once Head of the Writer’s Guild.  You 
were exiled from Metamor because you...” his tone 
became still and serious, “because you 
unwittingly harboured the man who killed the Patriarch.”
         The rat’s eyes flamed for a moment but 
then he lowered both these and his snout. “Aye, 
that I did.  At the time I didn’t believe he could be evil.”
         “He was your friend.”
         “Nay, he was not my friend.  He was my 
dearest friend and lifelong companion; even 
brother.” Charles looked away, his face catching 
the sunlight.  The black handprint on his eye 
seemed even darker. “The power of Marzac had 
corrupted him.  He did what he did against his will.”
         Felsah nodded. “I believe you.”
         “You do?”
         “I have seen the power of Marzac at 
work.  I will pray for your friend’s soul.  His 
name was Krenek Zagrosek was it not?”
         The rat swallowed, a distant look 
filling his eyes. “Aye.  Before he died he asked 
me to pray for Yonson and Agathe too.  They were 
other Southland mages who had been 
corrupted.  Not a day has gone by when I have 
failed in that.  If you pray for Krenek, pray for 
them too.  They will need it as much as he.”
         “I shall.  And can you add Bishop Jothay 
to your prayers?  It was he who was corrupted by 
the Sword.  It killed him in the end.”
         Charles blinked and twitched his 
whiskers. “A Bishop?” Tyrion did not appear too 
comfortable hearing those words. “Yes, I recall 
seeing a portly man with jocular, almost cherubic 
face amongst those Marzac had killed.”
         “That sounds like him,” Felsah admitted 
with a heavy sigh. “Pray for him as well.”
         The rat took a deep breath and then 
nodded. “That I shall.” He then glanced at the 
Questioner more closely. “What was your role in 
the affair?  And how did you know what you knew of me?”
         “I was one of three Questioners sent to 
Metamor to investigate Patriarch Akabaieth’s 
death.  We learned of your involvement during the 
course of our inquiry.  But we found the results 
of your trial credible and so did not pursue any 
deeper at the time.  When we returned to Yesulam 
we learned that the conspiracy traced back there 
and resumed our inquiry.” And then to the other’s 
amazement the Questioner recounted a story of 
betrayal within the Council, of strange Magyar 
allies, of Driheli knights, and of two swords, one evil and one good.
         By its end, Charles looked ready to leap 
into the carriage and kiss Felsah’s hands. “Oh 
would that you could stay long enough to dictate 
that to our scribes!  I know quite a few others 
who will want to meet you, Father.  I am not 
alone here in having faced Marzac.”
         Felsah blanched, his mask beginning to 
return. “I prefer not to be made a spectacle of, 
but in private I would enjoy meeting them and 
hearing their tales as well.” His eyes flicked 
once to the Bishop before returning to the rat. 
“But that is up to Eli.  For now I am grateful to have met you, Charles.”
         “And I you,” Charles replied with a 
faint smile. “I am very grieved to hear of Bishop 
Morean’s death.  I knew him once.” He shook his 
head to rid himself of some unpleasant memory. “I 
prefer not talking about my experiences of those days.”
         Tyrion smiled and shifted his bad leg. 
“That is fair.  I would rather talk of your 
struggle against Marzac.  I know only what I have 
heard from the two of you.  It is refreshing to 
hear of a direct confrontation against evil.  Far 
too much of our lives are spent contending with 
evils disguised as goods but whose true purpose 
is to destroy ourselves and those around 
us.  Marzac is a long journey from Metamor.  I am 
sure you have a wonderful story to tell of it.”
         “If you would care to hear I will tell.”
         “Please!” Father Malvin gasped 
excitedly. “Tell us!  I have never heard the like!”
         Bishop Tyrion smiled and nodded. “We 
have a few hours more before we reach 
Ellingham.  Tell us what you would of your journey, Charles Matthias.”
         The rat smiled, incisors exposed, and turned his tongue to the tale.

----------

         Although William Dupré had enjoyed his 
time in the tower, he nevertheless felt a slight 
measure of delight as he led the dozen men who’d 
come with him back through the gates of 
Hareford.  There did not appear to be anything 
out of the ordinary awaiting him on his return 
but his mind still pondered why the lion wanted him gone for a night.
         No sooner had he dismounted, the sharp 
clap of cloven hooves on stone sending a dull jar 
up his spine, then Captain Sobel approached from 
the grounds. “Welcome home, Sir Dupré.”
         “Thank you, Captain,” he replied as 
amicably as he could to the woman.  He may have 
been in Hareford for almost two months now but he 
wasn’t yet ready to call it home.
         “Sir Nestorius wishes to see you in his 
study immediately.  He asked me to make sure that 
you went there directly upon returning.”
         Sobel’s expression was candid but not 
forthcoming.  William bleated in amusement, a 
noise that he still wasn’t sure he liked coming 
from his throat, and nodded. “Probably wants my 
opinion on the tower and his handiwork 
there.  Thank you, Captain.” He turned to the 
boar Becket at his back. “Becket, see to our 
things.  I must talk with the lion.”
         Becket’s nostirls widened and he nodded. “As you wish, Sire.”
         Sobel accompanied him to Nestorius’s 
study but turned and left once they reached his 
door.  Within William found the lion gazing 
intently at a small envelope laying seal 
down.  It was unmarked.  There was a darkness in 
the lion’s yellow eyes that made the ram in 
William nervous.  He fought the beastly instincts 
down and rapped his hoof-like nails on the 
tabletop. “I have returned from the Eagle.”
         “Welcome home.” Nestorius’s voice was 
distant as if he wished he were elsewhere. “Did 
you find the tower to your liking?”
         “It is as well defended as it can be 
given that it is cut off by impassible mountains 
to the west and difficult terrain to the 
south.  A true road should be built through the 
woods to better transport supplies and soldiers 
to and from the tower.  Its isolation offers it a 
strategic defence but also means it can only 
serve to warn.  It has no ability to harass or 
delay the enemy.  As such, any man assigned to it 
is one less man defending Hareford and 
Metamor.  I would half the compliment of men you 
have stationed there until we can build a true 
road through the woods.  Anything more than what 
is sufficient to keep watch at all hours and light the signal is a waste.”
         Nestorius’s long tail flicked behind him 
but he did not seem upset at William’s criticism. 
“We have not built a road through the forest 
because we wish to keep the forest as a buffer against Lutin invaders.”
         “Folly,” William replied with a bit of 
acid. “Sheer folly.  The forest offers no buffer, 
only cover for them to slip through.  Even your 
Misha Brightleaf should know that.  And I know 
George knows that.  Real fortifications are 
needed.  The tower is a good start.  It has very 
clever defences that will make it a strong rally 
point, but only after we make the valley mouth 
defendable.  To that end we should build another tower in the east as well.”
         Nestorius nodded slowly, eyes 
lowering.  He placed both paws on the table and 
tapped the edges of the sealed letter with his 
thumb claws. “You were assigned here to Hareford 
to help improve the defences.  What do you recommend?”
         “First, cutting a path through the woods 
that we can use to make a road.  I suggest we do 
it on the southern side of this combe.” He drew a 
line across the map just south of the Dike. “That 
will provide some warning to any travellers.”
         But the lion shook his head. “That will 
take you very close to the Haunted wood, and perhaps even into it.”
         William tensed, nostrils tightening and 
his tail flicking. “Then have your paladin 
appease whatever spirits are in there and assure 
them we will intrude no farther.  But the valley must be defended.”
         At this Nestorius’s voice rose in 
volume, almost vivacious. “The wood is not a 
matter of appeasing some spirits!  I have been 
there and it is not safe for any to enter 
unbidden!” William wanted to shout back but said 
nothing.  He waited, finger pointing at the 
narrow combe that cut east-west through the 
forest.  Finally, Nestorius sighed and he waved 
one paw. “If you wish to build a road, why not 
where our scouts travel now?” Nestorius gestured 
at the northern flank of the combe. “That will 
keep you well clear of the Haunted Wood and still south of the Dike.”
         “With no natural formations to defend 
us,” William replied. “It will be far more dangerous.”
         “You cannot go into the wood.”
         William crossed his arms and scowled, 
stomping one hoof stubbornly. “You would put your 
men’s lives at risk because of these spirits?”
         “They will be in more risk if they go 
through that wood.” Nestorius shook his heavy 
mane and set his jaw in a firm line.  He growled 
under his breath. “Abandon this plan, Sir 
William.  I forbid you from entering the Haunted Wood.”
         William wanted to tell the lion exactly 
what he thought of the danger of having a wood 
that stood in the way of Metamor’s defence but 
managed to get control of his sudden stubborn 
impulse.  It was the ram that wished to rush 
headlong into Haunted Wood and but its horns 
against something, not Dupré.  If he could not 
build his road on the southern side of the combe, 
and he dare not build it in the combe, he would 
do what he must.  “Then I require at least six 
squads of soldiers with three more on 
rotation.  I will be making a road to the tower 
and one to the east and I will need some to stand 
guard and patrol and others to clear the trees.”
         “Nine total squads?” Nestorius swelled 
as if he was going to object, and then he waved 
his paw again. “Very well.  But I want you to 
survey the land first and show me where these 
roads will be built and what defences they will 
have.  And we’ll discuss later what complement of 
soldiers you may take with you when you build 
your roads.  We do not wish to leave Hareford unprotected.”
         “No, we don’t.  Nor the Valley.”
         Nestorius stood at his full height and 
glared. “Sir William, I did not ask you here so 
that we might argue.  I asked you here to tell 
you something very important.  Do not make me regret this.”
         William’s ears lay flat and he could not 
help but bleat. “And what is it you wish to tell me?”
         Nestorious narrowed his eyes and seemed 
to settled a little in his mood.  But there was a 
tension peculiar to felines that could not 
escape. “I didn’t send you to the Tower merely to 
analyse its defences, although I am grateful for 
that.” William wanted to bleat that he knew that 
already but kept his tongue behind his blunt 
teeth. “The Bishop of Kelewair was here to 
inspect the Followers of Hareford last night.  He 
left this morning and will be inspecting the 
southern fiefs for the next two days.”
         “Bishop Ammodus?” William asked, feeling 
somewhat confused. “He and I were on good terms 
when last we spoke.  Why did you wish to hide his visit and why tell me now?”
         “I do not know who Ammodus was, but he 
is no longer the Bishop.  And I tell you because 
your man Alexander accosted the new Bishop.  You 
would learn of this anyway and I would rather it come from me.”
         William felt a dark pall fall over the 
lion’s suggestions.  Ammodus no longer 
Bishop?  That was an ill sign. “Who is he?”
         The lion took a deep breath and said, “Tyrion Verdane.”
         William stomped one hoof and bleated in 
an anger he didn’t realize he’d kept in check. 
“That crippled whelp of the two-faced wolf?  By 
what insanity was he made Bishop, and what 
arrogance to come here!  That pup is nothing but a lackwit spy for his father.”
         Nestorius’s brow deepened. “Is he not your family?”
         William leaned his head back and let out 
a very sheep-like bah. “By marriage yes.  A wife 
that... that...” He could remember that night, 
still beneath the fog the man with the cards had 
swallowed him in, deep and burning with rage as 
if he were entombed in the belly of a mindless 
dragon, when he’d tried to kill Anya.  And then 
she ordered him brought in chains before her 
father.  He remembered the look in Titian 
Verdane’s eyes when he sentenced him to 
exile.  He knew William was under a spell.  He knew and didn’t care.
         He bleated again, grabbed a small chest 
nestled against the wall and hurled it through 
the window.  Glass shattered as the chest tumbled 
to the distant ground before smashing into a 
hundred pieces on the stone road.  A woman 
soldier danced out of the way as the contents sprayed everywhere.
         Nestorius gasped and ran to the window. 
“Are you mad!” He grabbed William by the collar 
with a heavy paw and lifted him off his hooves.
         William kicked the lion in the groin, 
slipped free, and then ducked beneath his arm and 
shoved him out of the way. “Mad?  I’m 
furious!  That man’s father destroyed my life, 
stole my children, turned my wife against me 
and... and... and it was all that damn Marquis’s 
fault!” He beat his fist against the table and 
looked for something else he could throw through 
the window but there was nothing in reach.
         The lion glared through his pain and 
lifted one paw to cast a spell.  William lowered 
his head, curled horns pointed at the lion, and 
snorted. “Don’t you ever think of casting a spell 
on me, Nest.  Don’t even think of it.”
         Nestorius paused and straightened 
himself out.  His eyes reeked with contempt.  He 
brushed his tunic off, glanced at the broken 
window, and then narrowed fierce yellow eyes at 
the ram. “If not for what’s happened to you, I 
would not hesitate in frying you and selling your 
flesh in the market as roast mutton.  Bishop 
Tyrion brought that letter for you.  I summoned you here to give it to you.”
         William snorted, eyes flicking to the 
letter very briefly. “Why should I care what that 
clubfooted cretinous cleric has to say?”
         Nestorius leaned his head back and 
arched his eyes. “It isn’t from him.  It’s from your son.”
         His knees buckled and if not for his one 
hand being on the table he might have stumbled. 
“My son?” Anger gone, a gasp and a bleat was all he had left. “My son?”
         “He made Tyrion promise to deliver it to 
you somehow.  I was given the impression that 
Tyrion took great personal risk in making sure you received this.”
         William looked at the letter, truly 
looked at it for the first time.  It was on 
simple parchment folded over and sealed with 
wax.  He picked it up and saw that the seal was 
unbroken and in the form of a wolf’s head. “This is the Verdane family seal.”
         “To ensure that if any found it in 
Tyrion’s possession they would think nothing of 
it.  Or so he claimed this morning when he gave it to me.  Open and read it.”
         William swallowed his breath and broke 
the seal.  His son Jory’s faltering handwriting greeted him inside.

Father,

         It has been a cruel winter here in 
Kelewair.  I miss you, Sasha, Lydia, and Timas 
very much.  I make sure every night to say 
prayers for you and when the Father here has me 
praying before the Sacred Host I offer them up 
for your safety.  Grandfather tries to teach me 
how to be a ruler but he is distant and I know 
there’s more bad things happening.
         I saw mother only once since Yuletide 
and she is very unhappy with Grandfather too.
         Grandfather keeps me on the castle 
grounds for now but at least he lets me keep 
company with the dogs.  The kennel dogs are my 
only friends here but they are true and they 
listen to my voice.  I am going to keep them 
close to me.  I know I’m a ram among wolves, Father.  I won’t forget that.
         Bishop Tyrion told me that the Metamor 
Curse has turned you into a ram too.  I wish I 
could be with you there.  I’d hold your sword for 
you and your shield as you ride into battle.  But I know it isn’t to be.
         I hope you get this, Father.  I am your 
dutiful son always and will make you proud I 
swear this.  I am writing this now because I’ve 
made the Bishop promise to get this to you.  He 
feels sorry for me.  I will learn all that I can 
so that I can find other ways to get messages to you, Father.
         I know Grandfather exiled you and that 
you will never be coming back.  But I will find a 
way to see you again, Father.  Please keep safe and protect your new home.

                                                                 Your son,

                                                                 Jory Dupré

         William, with all his self-control 
mustered, folded the letter back up, pressed it 
to his narrow, supple lips, and then held it to 
his chest.  He stood that way for several 
seconds.  When he looked up he saw the lion mage 
gazing down at him expectantly but without any sign of compassion or anger.
         Slowly, the ram moved his tongue. “I 
think... I think I will take two squads into the 
woods and begin marking trees for the road we 
discussed.  I may be gone several days.”
         Nestorius nodded. “I think that would be wise.”
         “Thank you.” William lowered his eyes 
and without another word shuffled past the lion 
to the door.  Nestorius did not move as he passed.
         But he did call out to him one last time 
as the ram stepped into the doorway. “Sir William.”
         He turned back, peering through the curl 
of his right horn at the black lion. “Aye?”
         “My offer to magically contact your 
family still stands.  We can discuss it when you return.”
         William nodded again and left.

----------

         By the time they arrived in Lorland the 
southwestern peaks were already threatening to 
pierce the afternoon sun.  The many fields were 
still covered in patches of snow and those that 
weren’t were choked with mud.  Plows waited to 
till the soil a month from now and the many 
people who lived in those lands were ready to begin the cycle again.
         Bishop Tyrion’s arrival was welcomed by 
a complement of guards and the leading citizens 
of Lorland headed by the donkey mayor, Macaban, 
one time steward to the dead Loriod house.  He 
greeted the young Bishop graciously and avoided 
the subject of Lorland’s dark history in the days 
since the Curse for as long as he 
could.  However, as Tyrion began meeting the 
subjects, they bewailed of their horrible 
treatment beneath the pudgy and monstrous fist of 
the late and not lamented Altera Loriod.  At 
first both his and the other priests listened 
with dumbstruck expressions, the tales they heard 
being too dehumanizing to believe, but as they 
continued to pour forth, Tyrion’s face became more and more furious.
         He listened to how men who’d become 
women were forced into marriages against their 
will and made to bear their new husbands 
children.  He heard of a weeping hen recount how 
she was forced to lay egg after egg day in and 
day out for Loriod’s consumption like a common 
farm animal.  There was a cow who was similarly 
forced into providing milk.  Any beast that was 
commonly used by man had been treated that way by 
the late Loriod.  And the rest had been crushed 
beneath his tyrannical need to have every whim fulfilled.
         One of the great sins of Metamor that 
they had looked the other way so long, merely 
because Lorland was the Valley’s breadbasket and they needed the food.
         Tyrion, on realizing the magnitude of 
the people’s suffering, informed his men that 
they would be spending the night in Lorland to 
see to the people’s needs.  Charles took the 
opportunity to wander about outside the castle 
grounds.  Sir Saulius accompanied him but the two 
said nothing, rather enjoying the songs of the 
first birds to make their nests in garden 
shrubberies.  They were still maintained and 
probably looked better now that they were not all 
built to satisfy Loriod’s whims.
         After a very long day riding both of 
them enjoyed the opportunity to walk and stretch 
their legs and try to work out the bow-legged 
cramp that they’d developed.  Charles, despite 
once being blackmailed into agreeing to come live 
under Loriod’s thumb, had never been to Lorland 
before.  It was a pretty place full of life and 
vigour, but that was only here because Loriod was 
dead.  He shivered at the sight of the fat, 
vulgar, noble in the vaults of Marzac.
         And then, as they came around a high 
hedge, he stopped and pushed Saulius back with 
one paw.  The knight obeyed, whiskers taut, eyes 
and ears alert.  One paw rested on the pommel of 
his sword.  Charles put a finger over his 
incisors for silence, and then peered around the 
hedge.  Standing a short distance away in an 
alcove of old stone walls and unused planters was 
the head of Tyrion’s knights, Nikolai.  He was 
sketching on a sheaf of parchment, occasionally 
glancing at the castle walls and then returning to his task.
         Charles narrowed his eyes as he watched 
for several seconds, not daring to interrupt 
him.  He wanted to see what was on the parchment, 
but Nikolai had it turned away from him.  The 
tall, stern man kept the quill close and moved 
rapidly across the page.  After only a few 
moment’s observation, Nikolai set aside his 
quill, blew across the parchment to dry the ink, 
and then slipped it within a nondescript leather saddle pack.
         The rat almost squeaked when he realized 
that the knight was making ready to leave his 
hiding spot.  Instead he turned about and 
gestured for Saulius to head back the way they’d 
come.  Keeping their heads low and their tails 
held close, the rats darted through the hedges 
until they were out of the gardens on the 
southern edge of the castle grounds.  Both 
breathed heavily for a moment and then Saulius 
gestured back the way they’d come. “What didst thee see?”
         “Nikolai, his grace’s captain.  He was 
sketching something, I couldn’t see what.”
         Saulius frowned and glanced back at the 
hedges and stone walls from which they’d escaped. 
“This Nikolai seems only a soldier.  ‘Twas not 
flowers he drew.  What was he looking at?”
         “The castle.  I think he might have been 
drawing the castle.” Charles shook his head and 
sighed. “I can only think of one reason he might do that.”
         “To spy, to learn our strengths and 
weaknesses, to plan how to defeat us.” Saulius 
nodded and then gripped him firmly on the 
shoulder.  Charles’s vine slipped from beneath 
his fellow rat’s paw and pulled closer to his 
neck, ruffling the longer fur there. “We hath no 
proof.  We dare not accuse without that.”
         “No we don’t,” Charles agreed, feeling a 
sullen excitement that he realized he missed. “I 
can try to steal his satchel after he stows it.  If it ever leaves his side.”
         “‘Tis not an honourable thing to do,” 
Saulius chided him. “And if it truly be what we 
fear, ‘twill never leave his side.”
         “Indeed.” He rubbed his paws together, 
then nibbled on his chewstick for a 
moment.  Saulius did the same.  Charles lowered 
his chewstick after a moment’s gnaw and said, “We 
have another full day to discover what he’s up 
to.  I will think on what we can do and when the 
opportunity comes, we’ll do it.  It will not be 
anything as dishonourable as stealing; even if we are rats!”
         The knight laughed and nodded. “Verily 
thou dost speak!  Let us tell Sir Egland and 
Intoran of our suspicious.  We may need their hands as well.”
         Charles agreed and the two rats returned 
to the castle to continue their conspiracy.

----------

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

Charles Matthias


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