[Mkguild] Gazing Through a Barred Window (1/4)

[C. Matthias]

Well, at least this tale didn't take nearly as 
long as my last to complete!  Here is the next 
tale in my saga.  This one is very political, but 
I do hope that you all enjoy it!

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Metamor Keep: Gazing Through a Barred Window
by Charles Matthias


April 16, 708 CR

The donjon was more spacious than Jaime Verdane 
had expected when he'd first been brought to 
Salinon nearly four months ago to spend what 
might possibly be the rest of his life as a 
hostage. It was mostly circular except for the 
wall with the single door behind which hid the 
set of stairs that led down to the walled garden 
which was the limit of his freedom. Seven paces 
from one wall would carry him to the opposite 
side of the chamber; seven long paces, which 
meant that he had sufficient room for a 
comfortable bed with heavy quilts of thick 
Fennasi wool, a small but sufficient writing desk 
and a little shelf of prayer books that had been 
given to him by his captor, a hearth and bench 
for wood, as well as a kettle in which to boil 
water if he should want to make his own tea – 
there were sufficient herbs in the garden that he 
had already begun drying some to make leaves – 
two chests for his belongings, and two windows to 
provide a good clean breeze when he left them 
open. Neither window opened out to the west, but 
the northern and eastern windows provided 
spectacular views of the countryside around 
Salinon as well as the stars in the sky at night 
close to each horizon. He was even beginning to 
wonder how his captor might respond to a request 
for a far seer and tripod on which to rest it so 
he might bring those distant places close to his prison.

Winters in Salinon were usually brutal and this 
last had been no exception. The wind sweeping 
from the west had made the stones creak and he 
could feel the tower swaying under its constant 
assault. Ice formed everywhere and would coat the 
inside of his windows if he didn't keep a fire 
burning in the hearth at all hours. He'd spent 
every night bundled tight in his quilts, only to 
wake every few hours to throw more wood on the 
fire. His days had been spent in studying every 
nook and cranny of his tower cell, checking for 
loose stones or cracked mortar. He had no 
illusions of escape – the drop from the western 
side of the tower was several hundred feet onto 
the escarpment over the lake – but he did hope to 
find some place he could hide things from his 
captors; even a small cache would have been enough to begin.

But as the deep chill of Winter – much colder 
than anything he'd endured in Kelewair – began to 
thaw into a mostly dreary and rainy Spring, he 
admitted that if he wanted a cache he would have 
to build one himself. The first challenge was to 
smuggle a knife. His captor, Duke Krisztov 
Otakar, liked to have Jaime join him for the 
morning repast as well as for the evening meal a 
few days out of every week. He was treated by the 
Duke and by the Duke's staff with kindness and 
with the respect due his station, but also with a 
hardness that constantly reminded him that he was 
a prisoner. Otakar's eldest son, Ladislav, was 
not so kind to Jaime, sneering at him when his 
father couldn't see, as well as attempting to 
trip him or force him to walk into things when 
escorting him. Jaime bore it all without saying a word.

But on his many forced visits to eat, he was 
always presented with one spoon and one knife for 
the eating of his meal. These were dutifully 
collected by a servant as soon as he finished his 
food. He even tried to swipe something from the 
table as he took a tumble after Ladislav gave him 
a forceful nudge, but his duplicity had been seen 
and the knife was taken back a moment later.

Nevertheless, he was not watched as closely while 
in the garden. Once the snows had finally melted 
in the last week of March, he'd spent most of his 
time exploring the small garden. It abutted the 
western wing of the castle and its western wall, 
despite being a good eight feet in height, had 
window slits overlooking the escarpment. There 
was no way to get out but enough sunlight did 
come in that it was not long before the area was 
a profusion of color and odor. And in one corner 
behind a small shield of cherry trees whose 
brilliantly vivid pink blossoms enraptured the 
eyes he found a section of the stone wall that 
had been chipped. From this he was able, after 
much careful scraping and a few careful strikes 
with the heel of his boot, to extract a long 
jagged bit of stone that came to a sharp 
triangular point. This he carried back with him 
to the donjon, and it was this that he used to 
chip away at a section of the mortar around the 
blocks behind the writing desk.

The tower stairs were long enough that he would 
not hear somebody opening the door that led out 
to the garden, so he needed complete quiet in 
order to do his work. That way he would hear the 
sound of boots on the steps as they climbed with 
enough warning to carefully ease his writing desk 
back into place and to hide the stone shard 
within the mattress. But on that particular 
morning his efforts were blocked by the trilling 
of birds intent on building their rookeries on 
the donjon awnings. A few had even alighted on 
the window sills to watch him, brazen in their 
purpose to steal little trinkets for their nests.

The birds had been busy for a few days now, and 
so Jaime had returned from his morning meal with 
a heel of bread. He sat with his back to the wall 
next to the wood pile and tore little chunks of 
the bread free only to toss them across the room 
toward the windows to see which of the birds 
would be brave enough to swoop inside and claim 
the morsels. That day he had the attention of a 
quartet of birds, a brown and yellow striped rock 
sparrow, a bright russet-feathered linnet, a 
black-headed and yellow-feathered bunting, and a 
pale-throated, white-eyed jackdaw. The jackdaw, 
somewhat larger than the other four, had the 
northern window sill all to himself, while the 
other three jostled a bit on the eastern sill.

At first Jaime tossed the bread pieces only 
half-way across the room, but though the linnet 
hopped on his little legs, none of the others did 
more than flick their eyes toward the morsel. So 
Jaime was forced to begin throwing his crumbs 
closer to the windows. But it wasn't until the 
crumb fell beneath the window sills that any of 
them would risk flying down to grab the bit of 
bread in their beaks and then fly back up to the 
relative safety of the sill. The three smaller 
birds would frequently fight over the same 
morsel, each trying to snatch it out of each 
others' beaks. The jackdaw almost joined in the 
fray, but kept to his own sill and his own morsels of bread.

But the heel could only last so long and soon he 
had no more. He tried to reach forward and toss 
them the few crumbs that had landed too far from 
the windows, but all of the little birds flew off 
as soon as he crawled closer. The jackdaw allowed 
him to throw only one more piece before he too 
leaped from the window back to his airy home. 
Jaime sighed, collected the rest of the bread, 
and then stood at the window listening to the 
cries of the birds and watching them fly. He had 
never envied birds so much as he did at that moment.

With a disgusted growl, he tossed the crumbs out 
the window and returned to his writing desk. He 
wrapped a bit of torn lined about his right hand, 
grasped the stone shard, and resumed chipping 
away at the mortar. With any luck in a month or 
two he would be able to move the stone.

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Though the morning was still cool, the grip of 
Winter had long since been banished. Wild 
blossoms dotted the lawns and the gardens were 
resplendent with yellow, orange, pink, lavender, 
and violet flowers. Birds sang in the treetops 
and from the rooftops. And near the kennels of 
the Verdane castle, over a dozen dogs barked 
their excitement as they ran back and forth 
around a strong young boy celebrating the tenth anniversary of his birth.

Jory laughed as he felt the canines rush around 
and bump into him in their excitement, eager 
tongues lapping at his hands and fingers, noses 
searching for some hidden treat hanging from his 
belt. Not a one of the full grown dogs was 
shorter than his waist at their shoulder, and a 
few of the on their hind paws could easily put 
their fore paws on his head. And yet, despite 
their girth and strength, Jory was not worried. 
None of these dogs who had been his near constant 
companions in the year since he'd come to live 
with his grandfather would ever hurt him.

“You should not let them be so unruly,” said his 
grandfather who stood a short distance off 
watching with a keen eye. His grandfather had set 
aside this day to spend especially with him. He'd 
been there at Jory's bedside carrying a platter 
of bread, fruit, and a cool glass of freshly 
squeezed milk just as he'd risen from slumber. 
And he'd brought the most wonderful news! His 
mother and his younger brother and sister would 
be coming to Kelewair that day to visit with him!

He just wished his father could be here too. But 
his father was now up in Metamor and looked very, 
very different, if his uncle was to be believed. 
Uncle Tyrion never lied about anything to him so 
he knew it had to be a true. Jory often tried to 
imagine what a walking, talking, and 
sword-swinging ram might look like, because he 
very much wanted to know what his father looked 
like. He hoped it wasn't as awkward as his imagination made it seem.

Still, his grandfather had asked him what he 
wished to do that morning after they had broken 
their nightly fast together, and he had made no 
objection when Jory immediately told him that he 
wished to be with the dogs again. His grandfather 
did insist that Jory only spend a little while 
with them because they always got his clothes 
filthy and he was going to need to be clean and 
presentable when his mother and siblings arrived. He supposed that made sense.

The dogs were running a bit wild, Jory had to 
admit. And so he clapped his hands together and 
with his index finger stretched, swung his right 
arm against his left breast just as the 
kennelmaster had shown him and just as he had 
trained with these dogs. He did not have to 
repeat the gesture as all of the dogs turned to 
him and stood in a semi-circle in front of him, a 
few tails wagging, but most perfectly still. He 
then closed his hand in a fist and brought it 
upward from his waist to his right breast. The 
dogs all immediately sat on their haunches.

“Good dogs,” he said in delight, noting the broad 
smile on his grandfather's face. He gently 
touched each on their heads and giving them a 
scratch behind their ears; most panted in 
delight, dark eyes brimming with pleasure.

“Very good,” his grandfather said, taking a few 
steps toward them until he was within reach of 
the nearest of the dogs. His long fingers also 
scratched the dog's floppy ear. “You have these 
dogs at your command. They trust you and obey 
you, Jory. You have done well with them.”

“Thank you, Grandfather,” Jory replied in real 
delight. Oh how he wished his grandfather would 
notice how good he was or these dogs more.

“And as much as they bring you joy, as I know 
that they do, you cannot spend all of your time 
here with them.” Jory felt the words like a stab 
in his heart and his face fell. “But I do think 
you should always spend time with them.” He felt 
better at that and started to smile and nod 
again. Two of the dogs began licking his fingers. 
“There is much else that you must learn about 
being a man and being a Verdane. You have reached 
ten years of age this day, Jory. Your family will 
be here soon to celebrate and mark this day with 
you. But I have my own gift for you this day, Jory.”

He liked the idea of gifts and so half-turned 
from the dogs to face his tall grandfather. Duke 
Verdane was an imposing man with bright red hair, 
a face weathered ad creased, dark eyes that saw 
everything, and strong arms that could swing a 
sword through a man's head just as easily as 
comfort a child missing his father. Jory loved 
him for he was his grandfather and for all the 
little ways that he looked after Jory; but he 
hated him too for taking him from his family and 
then for exiling his father to Metamor.

On any given day, Jory didn't know whether he 
should love or hate him, but today he decided he 
should love his grandfather. “What is it, Grandfather?”

Verdane patted the dog on the head and nodded, a 
small smile playing at the edges of his lips. 
“After you have returned the dogs to their 
kennel, I want you to come with me and I will show you.”


Duke Titian Verdane was glad to see his grandson 
Jory obey his instructions without resistance or 
even boyish impudence. With tensions finally 
easing somewhat in his lands, he could devote the 
time he yearned to give to his grandson's badly 
needed education. In this case, it was the 
education in being a man and being a Verdane. His 
time with the dogs was good for healing his soul 
and all the wounds he had suffered, but a kennel 
boy was no good to Titian as a grandson.

And so once the dogs were secure in their kennel, 
Titian led the boy across the yard. A quintet of 
soldiers shadowed them, keeping close and ever 
watchful of their liege lord. He had dismissed 
the rest of his servants that day because these 
were matters best seen to by himself. A ruling 
family needed servants to see to their needs so 
they could give their time to training and to the 
hard decisions of a kingdom, but they also needed 
to be a family. No servant could be a family.

The eager look in Jory's face as they walked the 
ground of his castle, the city of Kelewair hidden 
from view by the high walls and by the forest at 
their northern boundary. It was one of the few 
places that they had any sense of privacy. The 
grounds were mostly grass kept short, though more 
ornate gardens with bushes and hedges were 
maintained closer to the main part of the castle. 
At the northwestern edge of the castle was a long 
building with a peaked roof of stone. Fencing was 
arranged around one end, and the ground there was 
muddy and in constant need of cleaning by the 
ostlers. Practice fields stretched just to the 
south in a small depression so that seating could 
be arranged if Verdane wished to put on a 
spectacle for visiting vassals and other dignitaries.

As they walked to the stables, Titian spoke in a 
slow but assuring voice to his grandson. “It is 
all well and good to be a master of dogs. That 
they obey you and that you can train them to your 
will is a mark of a leader. But just as you 
master their behavior, a true man must also 
master his own. I have never seen you strike at 
those dogs in anger, nor have I ever heard of you 
doing any such thing. For that I am very proud of you, Jory.”

“Thank you, Grandfather,” Jory replied in the 
polite and gracious tones he'd obviously learned from his tutors.

“But there is more you must learn. And you must 
master more than just dogs. That is why, on your 
tenth birthday, Jory, I bring you here. On this 
day you begin the next step in becoming a man. 
Today you will begin to master the horse.” So 
saying, he held open one of the wide doors 
leading into the stables. Jory stepped inside, 
the powerful scent of horseflesh clinging to 
everything within and quickly to them. Titian put 
one hand on the boy's shoulder and guided him 
down a long hay-strewn hall past stone paddocks 
with sable-dark stallions and chestnut bay mares. 
At Titian's request, the ostlers, after having 
performed their morning chores of mucking stalls, 
laying down fresh hay, and providing new oats, 
had all ventured to the city to spend the extra 
coin they'd been given. Titian and Jory were 
alone with the horses who whickered as they 
passed, a few bold enough to scratch their hooves 
at the wooden doors to their stalls to get their attention.

Jory's eyes were wide as he looked at each of the 
horses they passed, clearly wondering which one 
was meant for him. Titian guided him past the 
heavier destriers, the mounts for his senior 
knights, and led him toward the end closest to 
the castle itself. In the final stall was a young 
roan mare, barely weaned – her dam was only a few 
stalls away – and who stuck her head over the 
door way with upright ears hoping for a carrot, 
dark warm eyes fixed on them both.

“Go ahead,” Titian said as he stood several feet 
back. “She is to be your horse, Jory. She has 
never felt whip nor saddle, and from this day 
forward she will feel the touch of no man but 
your own. You will come here every day, you will 
feed her, you will clean her, you will brush her, 
and you will tend even to her stall. It will be 
you who leads her out to the pastures so she can 
run, and it will be you who trains her to accept 
a rider; and that rider will be you.”

Jory lifted his hand and let the mare lip at his 
fingers. On not finding a carrot waiting for her, 
the mare snuffled but continued to lip at Jory's 
fingers. He laughed and his eyes brightened as he 
beheld the slender but strong horse. His other 
hand reached for the latch on the door and he 
cast a glance back at his grandfather. Titian 
nodded and so the boy opened the latch and swung 
the door outward. The mare was sleek in posture 
with taut muscles rippling beneath her thin, 
russet hide. Her hooves were a smoky gray and 
dark socks climbed a full hand from their base up her legs.

The mare stepped out of the stall and looked 
between the two humans, bumping her head against 
Jory as he tried to stroke down her face and 
neck. “But I don't know how to do any of that!” 
Jory protested as he began to absorb his grandfather's words.

“I will teach you, beginning today. Many of those 
chores have already been done for you, so you may 
begin by taking that comb there and working 
through her hide. After you get her back in her 
stall. Coax her gently. You have mastered the dog. You can master her.”

Jory nodded and even as the mare continued to 
nuzzle and run her lips through the hair on his 
head as if searching them for some hidden treat, 
the boy took the short-tined brush from off the 
wall and motioned for the horse to follow him 
back into the stall. Titian smiled as the mare 
did not immediately obey, turning instead toward 
the hall where she could go out int the fields if 
she ran fast enough. But Titian stood in her way 
and so she balked and stomped her hooves in confusion.

Jory reached up his fingers and wrapped them 
around her neck, sliding through her mane as he 
spoke sweetly to her, eyes wide in admiration for 
her beauty and power, but also full of a dawning 
sense of the awesomeness of his responsibility 
toward her. How like his uncle Jaime had been 
when Titian had done the same for him so many years ago.

The Duke of the Southern Midlands sighed at the 
thought of his hostage son. How many times had 
Jaime fallen from the saddle before he'd finally 
convinced the mare Titian had presented him with 
had accepted him as her rider? It was a good 
thing Jory was used to the dogs covering him in 
dirt, because he was now going to be covered in 
filth for a year or more before these two were truly bonded.

Of course, anytime he thought on Jaime, his mind 
inevitably turned to the punishment that the 
traitorous Baron Calladar of Bozojo would have to 
endure. Already he had loyal men positioned in 
Calladar's court; one word from Titian and the 
fish lord would discover that he couldn't breathe 
water after all. Another set of reports on 
Otakar's attempts to make that city more and more 
like the cities of the Outer Midlands waited for 
him in his private study. Tomorrow he would read 
them. Today was Jory's birthday.

And that thought in mind, the Duke of the 
Southern Midlands became Titian Verdane once 
again. He smiled to his grandson as the mare 
finally followed him back into the stall. “Good 
work. Now start from her neck and comb down her 
chest and then across to her flanks.”

“Like this?” Jory pressed the tines against the 
mare's neck and ran the comb down to her fore 
legs in a smooth arc. The mare continued to try to lip at Jory's hair.

“That's right. She likes you already, Jory.”

“Thank you, Grandfather. I will be very good with her.”

He smiled and heaved a long sigh. “I know that you will.”

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

Charles Matthias