[Mkguild] Gazing Through a Barred Window (3/4)

[C. Matthias]

Part 3 in which I introduce some new Keepers!

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Metamor Keep: Gazing Through a Barred Window
by Charles Matthias



April 22, 708 CR


With a heave and a sigh, Jaime eased a thick 
chunk of mortar free from between the stones in 
the wall. It was thinner than his hand and nearly 
as long, leaving a sharp gash between the stones 
just above the floor. This he set aside next to 
his stone shard whose tip had worn down 
significantly in week since he'd found it. Still, 
he was making better progress than he'd expected, 
as the mortar around this block of stone had been 
scraped out an inch deep on every side. Now, with 
this crack, he had enough of a hole that he could 
begin to pry the rest of it loose.

Jaime slipped his fingers into the crack and 
pressed as deeply as they could go. The stone 
pushed tightly against his flesh and gripped at 
his knuckles painfully for a moment before he was 
able to pull them back out. He gritted his teeth 
and slipped the tips of his fingers inside the 
hole, feeling around the nearby mortar. He had 
hoped the stone blocks were not very deep, but 
this one was deeper than his hand could reach. It 
was going to take a good bit more scrapping 
before he had enough leverage to work the stone free.

He'd still have to carefully scrape the back of 
the stone away to have room for a cache, but it 
was a start. And ultimately, it was something to do.

He rubbed his fingers for a few minutes to work 
out the tension. He had torn one of his shirts to 
provide linen strips to wrap around his hands as 
he worked; it kept the calluses at bay so far, 
and he hadn't had any new blisters yet, but the 
linen was already starting to wear through. He 
would need to find more without ruining too many 
of his shirts. Perhaps he could charm one of the 
servants; there were enough girls the right age 
amongst the servants he'd seen; surely one of 
them might romantically fantasize about the mysterious stranger in the tower.

A bold caw interrupted his thoughts and made him 
turn and lift his head. Perched on the northern 
sill was the same black and gray-naped jackdaw 
that had visited him almost every day now in the 
last week. He wasn't the only bird of course who 
had decided that Jaime was a good place to obtain 
some scraps of bread, but he was certainly the 
bravest. Pale eyes studied him and from his black 
beak burst another impatient caw.

“Very well,” Jaime muttered, as he carefully put 
his shard and the long piece of mortar to one 
side where they would not be easily seen. He 
shifted the desk back into place, and then took 
the heel of bread and sat cross-legged in the 
middle of the room. The jackdaw watched him, 
leaning forward and back as if mimicking his steps.

He tossed the first scrap of bread at the base of 
the sill, and the bird was quick to jump down and 
snatch it up. A small bit of parchment floated 
down from the sill with him, as if he'd been 
carrying it in his claws. Jaime noted it 
curiously, but continued tossing little chunks of 
bread to his small friend, coaxing him closer and 
closer to his outstretched arm.

The jackdaw, to his surprise, kept on taking two 
hops closer to the prisoner, and then one hop 
back to eat the morsel of fresh bread. Jaime felt 
a small surge of delight in this, and so kept 
tossing each piece nearer to his hand than the 
last. The jackdaw's courage seemed to grow with 
each morsel, and so when he came to the very 
last, Jaime merely left it in his hand. The bird 
stood there, looking at it for a moment before 
glancing up at Jaime with a quizzical look in his 
pale eyes, before returning his attention to the last bit of bread.

“You'll have to take it from my hand,” Jaime beckoned in a soft whisper.

The jackdaw hesitated for nearly half a minute 
more before it took a tentative hop forward, and 
then darted it's beak between Jaime's fingers to 
snatch the bit of bread. Jaime felt a brief prick 
from the tip of the beak, but nothing more. 
Still, that brief contact made him feel a 
terrible longing. He watched the jackdaw as it 
devoured the bread, and then preen its wing 
feathers; it was so close he could reach out and 
grab the bird if he were quick enough.

“You know, little friend,” Jaime said without 
quite knowing why he said it, “I would gladly trade places with you.”

But the jackdaw did not appear to be interested 
in his offer, as he turned back to the window 
sill, cawed one last time, and then flew away. 
Jaime sighed and then stretched, reaching across 
the floor for the bit of paper that had fallen 
from his the bird's claws. It was a bit of stiff 
parchment no larger than his thumb, crumpled a 
little, but with even edges as if cut by a knife. 
Partial letters in black ink marred one side, but 
he couldn't make out what they were.

Curious, but unable to sate his curiosity, Jaime 
put the scrap of parchment on his desk, covered 
it with one of his prayer books, and then returned to chiseling.

----------

Duke Krisztov Otakar XII was enjoying the warm 
afternoon air as he reclined beneath an awning 
and watched his two youngest sons smack each 
other around with practice swords. Both were made 
from wood and would leave welts across their 
sides, legs, and arms, but it was much better to 
suffer a whole host of them rather than a single 
severed hand or sliced thigh. In another year 
both would be training with real swords, but for 
now his heart was warmed to see his sons still being children.

After the youngest, Ivan, slipped his blade 
beneath the slightly older Alexi's blade and 
managed to skewer his ribs, Otakar clapped his 
hands in approval and laughed heartily. “Very 
good! Very good! Alexi, you know you should not 
throw your arms quite so wide. Now come! Again! 
This time, keep your elbows close to your chest.”

As the two black-haired boys barely a year apart 
in age began trading blows anew, Otakar leaned 
back in the wooden chair and his eyes drifted to 
the half-finished letter to the weaver's guild 
accepting their request to settle a dispute 
between them and the clothmaker's guild; the 
letter also would discuss the venue and time, as 
well as the arrangements to be agreed upon by 
both guilds in order for him to judge their 
respective causes. It remained half-finished 
because he prized the hours he spent with his 
children above all else. But once they quit the 
field he would finish the letter without delay. 
Even as he watched Ivan and Alexi circle around 
each other as they swung their wooden staves, his 
mind reviewed the many possible approaches he 
could take, and even rehearsed whole sentences 
that he would use. But far more did his mind 
consider strike and counterstrike, parry and 
block, than it did the wit of the pen.

Only the sudden appearance of his Steward and the 
closest thing he had to a true friend since the 
death of his younger brother three years before 
could draw his mind completely from the mock 
combat of his children training. Pyotr Szeveny 
dressed in neatly trimmed black with the falcon 
crest stretching across his chest in white 
embroidery. A narrow poniard rested at his side, 
and one hand was ever near the hilt from long 
years of training and defending the honor of the 
Duke. His expression was both bemused and 
uncertain as he came through the door at the 
entrance to the practice field and walked straight for his liege.

“Pyotr,” Otakar addressed him with a smile, even 
as he tried to keep his children in sight. “What has you so perplexed?”

“A most curious delegation has just entered the 
gates of Salinon, your grace.” Pyotr kept his 
lips pressed tightly together even though his 
blue eyes remained wide in their confusion. “It is a delegation from Metamor.”

“Metamor?” Otakar blinked and then snorted and 
drummed his fingers against his belly. “Metamor? 
Why would they be sending a delegation here? How 
could they have sent a delegation here without us 
knowing they were coming until they were in our 
homes?” His patrols and spy network would have 
much to explain; a visit from Metamor was too important to have gone unnoticed.

“I do not know, your grace,” Pyotr replied with 
the candor that Otakar had always admired in the 
bald man. “But they are here now and in 
sufficient numbers that they cannot be ignored.”

Otakar climbed from his seat and waved to his 
boys. “Alexi, Ivan, that is enough for now. We 
have distinguished guests arriving; dress 
appropriately to give honor to your house.”

Both boys managed to swing one time more, their 
staves cracking loudly against each other before 
they turned and bowed their heads toward their 
father. “Aye, Father.” The two then ran off, with 
shouts of “I won! I got more hits on you!” and “No you didn't, I did!”

Otakar smiled as they left, before turning back 
to his Steward. “How many are arriving, do you know? Are any beastly in shape?”

“Perhaps two dozen to two-and-a-half. It is not 
certain how many are in their number because they 
have three large carriages as well as mounted 
escort, all flying the horse-head flag of Metamor 
and the House Hassan. All but one appear human.”

“Very interesting!” Otakar said, even as he 
rubbed at his jowls with his thick fingers. His 
tone grew circumspect. “Very interesting. Even 
before they were cursed they had not sent so 
large an official delegation since the days of our youth.”

Pyotr nodded, his lips pursed only so as to 
speak. “We should ponder why now and what their purpose is.”

“That we may never truly understand, but for now 
we should take them at their word. And we should 
make ready to welcome them. Arrange an escort to 
bring them safely to the castle, and a banquet 
for the gentry in the delegation. I will see to my sons.”

“And his grace, Jaime Verdane?”

Pyotr always used the proper honorific when 
speaking of Otakar's hostage. During the brief 
wedding between Jaime and Otakar's niece, the 
Verdane heir and Pyotr had forged a warm regard 
for one another. Coming from any other mouth in 
Otakar's household, the honorific would have 
become a title of derision. But Pyotr Szeveny 
spoke it with conviction, dignity, and respect. 
How he wished his sons would learn the importance 
of honoring the dignity even of their enemies; it protected them too.

“Provide him a place at the banquet as well, but 
do not seat him anywhere near the Metamor 
ambassador or his people. Let him be seen but not 
heard. Once the banquet is complete, return him to the donjon.”

Pyotr bowed his head and smiled lightly at the 
edge of his lips. “It will be done, your grace.”

----------

Sir Jon Kardair was used to stares, though they 
were usually from fellow Metamorians admiring his 
prowess in the saddle and with lance or 
broadsword; he'd nearly defeated Sir Egland in 
last Summer's jousts and so had quite a few loyal 
followers, especially in the part of Euper town 
that was his family's ancestral fief. But after 
having spent the last month and a half hiding 
within the carriages except at night when a heavy 
cloak sufficed to hide his beastly features, he 
was finally being seen again by those not in their company.

And the people of Salinon all gathered along the 
road to watch and gape at the over six-foot tall 
armored opossum riding horseback. His equally 
broad-shouldered and barrel-chested older brother 
received little attention in comparison because 
his brother had begun life as his sister and so 
was thus still human. Bearing the regalia and 
carrying the horse-head banners of Metamor and 
the Hassan family only offered an explanation for 
his strange appearance; it did not lessen the appeal of it.

“You cannot change your mind now,” his brother 
Tarkas reminded him with an amused glint in his 
bright blue eyes. Tarkas was dressed in azure 
courtly attire suited to riding and bore a blue 
cape over his shoulders that draped over the rump 
of his horse. The ring of their house graced his right hand.

“I do not wish to,” Sir Jon Kardair replied, his 
long tongue neatly enunciating each word in the 
midst of the many narrow sharp fangs that lined 
his jaws. “It is better they see me now than that 
they whisper about the secret Keeper for days or weeks on end.”

“They are still going to whisper.”

His long tail twitched and nearly slid down along 
the flanks of his mare; his toe claws stretched 
in the stirrups. “They will, but at least they 
will whisper about what I look like rather than 
what they imagine some monster of Metamor looks like.”

Tarkas laughed and then patted him on the 
shoulder. “Very, very true, Jon. Very true.”

They rode nearly at the head of their caravan. 
Three carriages followed them, with two horsemen 
riding before them waving Metamor's banner, while 
another pair flanked them on either side. Sir 
Jon's wife Deya and their children remained 
hidden in the first carriage for safety with a 
trio of soldiers. A careful observer in the crowd 
might note the bright golden eyes peering out 
from between the slats of the carriage windows.

They no more ascended the first course of the 
city along the main street winding north of the 
castle and the bluff before turning south and 
then east, when they were met by a detachment of 
soldiers and knights bearing the black falcon 
crest of Salinon. The lead knight had a black 
cape over his shoulders, with a dark-haired 
complexion weathered by cold winters and browned 
by hot summers. He and the other soldiers stopped 
before them, while the soldiers pushed the onlookers back from the road.

“Welcome to Salinon, Ambassadors of Metamor. I am 
Captain Raff, knight of Salinon, and have been 
sent to escort you safely to the castle where his 
grace, Duke Krisztov Otakar XII awaits to greet 
you and to feast you.” He smiled as he spoke, his 
eyes trying to stay focused on the ambassador but 
always straying to glance at Kardair.

“Thank you, Captain Raff,” Kardair's brother 
replied in his heavy baritone. “I am Earl Tarkas 
of the house Kardair of Euper'o'ill. I, at the 
pleasure of his grace, Duke Thomas Hassan V of 
Metamor, am here as ambassador to Dûn Fennas. 
This,” he gestured with an open hand to his left, 
“is my brother, Sir Jon Kardair. We accept your 
offer of escort and look forward to meeting his grace, Duke Otakar.”

Captain Raff nodded with military precision and 
motioned to his men to fall into procession 
before and at the side of the carriages. “You 
will find Salinon a very welcoming city, your 
lordship. It is good to hear a foreigner use our land's proper name.”

“We have studied your land, its history, and its 
literature ere we arrived,” Tarkas replied with a 
warmth and sincerity that was both genuine and 
effusive, one long practiced and natural to him. 
Kardair had seen his brother use it many times 
both before he'd become a man and after to make 
would-be adversaries his friend and ally. “Dûn 
Fennas is an ancient land with a noble people, 
fierce warriors, devout priests and priestesses, 
beautiful poetry, and much, much more to be proud of.”

Raff could not help but smile as he rode a little 
nearer the two. “Thank you, your lordship.” His 
eyes cast to the opossum knight and he licked his 
lips a bit tentatively. “You will forgive us, 
noble knight, the way our eyes study your strange 
and beastly guise. Most of us have never seen your ilk before.”

“I am not offended,” Kardair said with another 
flick of his tail. He stretched one paw around 
the reins of his mare, white-tipped fingers and 
claws in the midst of otherwise black fur 
catching the captain's eye. Raff blinked and his 
face slackened in a shock that he tried to hide 
as if he hadn't expected the beast to be able to 
talk. “In time they will see that I am a man despite the fur and the fangs.”

“And the tail,” his brother helpfully added.

“And the tail,” Kardair agreed with a chortle.

Raff stammered a moment and then turned back in 
his saddle. The clop of hooves on smooth, dry 
stone, the orders of the soldiers, and the 
gawking of the people of Salinon all come to see 
the marvel from Metamor surrounded them with a 
din of activity that each of them knew would not 
abate for a long time no matter how long they stayed.

And as Raff took to describing the city of 
Salinon and what they could expect of Fennasi 
hospitality, Sir Kardair cast his eyes upward at 
the Eyrie castle that towered over the 
easternmost outpost in all of the Midlands. The 
Otakar family had chosen well in taking the 
falcon as their crest. The dense maze of towers 
ever climbing upward might even be close enough for a good jump.

The opossum knight was going to like it here, he knew it already.

----------

Otakar did not have as much trouble arranging his 
sons as he feared; the real challenge was finding 
all of his ministers on such short notice. But by 
the time the trio of carriages from Metamor were 
escorted into the outer bailey of the Eyrie 
complex overlooking the temple district of 
Salinon, all of his various ministers except for 
his minister of public works had been assembled 
to greet the Ambassador and his retinue. This was 
just as well because Minister Arnuyan had spent 
the morning inspecting the castle sewers and 
really wasn't fit company to welcome anyone.

He stood at the gates leading into the next 
bailey where they would be forced to climb a set 
of stairs to proceed; just one more reason that 
the Eyrie had never been taken in the long 
history of his land. It was already a climb of 
several steps just to reach the portal where he 
stood, which meant that his guests would be 
looking up at him when they arrived. His eldest 
son Ladislav was at his side, and on the next 
step down were his ministers of state and 
culture. The rest were standing on lower steps. 
Pyotr was busy arranging affairs inside the 
castle and would meet them further within.

And all of their eyes, all eleven of his 
ministers, his soldiers, his son Ladislav, and 
his own, were fixed upon the entourage riding 
almost triumphantly and without fear through the 
outer bailey gates. Two riders held aloft the 
horse-head banner of the house Hassan, and behind 
them rode another two figures, one of whom looked 
like nothing Otakar had ever seen before in his 
life. No monster creeping out of the fungus-laden 
boughs of Elderwood had borne such a beastly 
guise with martial pride. Not only did he have a 
long snout covered in white fur, with a pink nose 
at its end, but he also had sharp claws at the 
end of each finger and a long pink tail that kept 
trying to slide off one side or the other of his 
horse's flanks. Yet he was armored like any other 
knight, with broad breastplate that gleamed in 
the afternoon sun, a tabard the color of rust, 
and a heavy broadsword slung across his back in 
whose pommel was affixed a milky red sardius.

Otakar didn't care if this knight had been born a 
slave; he was going to be at the banquet with the rest of them.

And to his surprise, the strange creature rode 
forward a few extra steps into the courtyard and 
bellowed in a voice that while hissing with a 
beastly churr, resonated with a commanding 
baritone. “In the name of Duke Thomas Hassan V of 
the Northern Midlands, I present Earl Tarkas of 
the house Kardair of Euper'o'ill, the duly 
appointed Ambassador of Metamor to the lands of 
Dûn Fennas.” He swept out a hand whose fingers 
were covered in white fur, but the back of which was black.

“Welcome to Salinon and to Dûn Fennas,” Otakar 
called from the top step. “I am Duke Krisztov 
Otakar XII and I welcome you to my land, 
Ambassador Tarkas. A banquet has been prepared in 
your honor for you and the gentry of your 
retinue. My men will see to your carriages and 
horses if you would care to join us.”

The human rider coaxed his horse forward a few 
paces into the bailey and he nodded his head, 
square jaw set in a respectful smile. “Thank you 
for your kindly welcome, your grace. As is the 
custom in your kingdom since the founding of your 
house, I request that my retinue be given use of the Kestrel's Wing.”

Otakar could not stop himself from blinking in 
surprise, even as the Minister of cartography 
began blabbering objections to this request as 
his staff had migrated to the long unused section 
of the castle overlooking the southeastern flank 
of the town (including a secret ladder that let 
outside the castle walls). But the request was 
not unfair, for the Kestrel's Wing had been built 
by the elves of Quenardya deliberately as a home 
for visiting foreigners that they might have some 
privacy to conduct their affairs. The collapse of 
the Siuelman Empire into Sathmore and the 
fractious Pyralian Kingdoms had left that wing 
empty for many generations until some of his 
bureaucratic staff had elected to claim it for 
their own purposes. And so it had been for the entirety of Otakar's rule.

Now that would have to change and the older ways 
reasserted. “It would be my great pleasure to 
allow your men the use of the Kestrel's Wing. Too 
long its halls have been left quiet without the 
strange speech of foreign dignitaries to grace 
it. But you must pardon Minister Denwyr for his 
outburst. His scribes have used its halls for 
many years now to do their work. If it would suit 
you, you and your gentry may stay in my halls 
until Minister Denwyr has moved his scribes 
elsewhere. Your soldiers will have billets 
prepared in the meantime. It will take no more than a few days, I promise you.”

“That would be sufficient. Thank you, your 
grace.” Earl Tarkas lowered his head in 
gratitude, though his eyes never left the dozen 
officials and the Duke whom they surrounded. He 
gestured to the beastly knight at his left and 
then back to the wagons. “There are three of us 
who are nobly born, your grace, within my 
retinue. We three shall join your banquet if you 
will provide an escort to bring the rest of my 
entourage to where they can find meals and rest. 
I assure you that they are all human and will draw no exceptional notice.”

Otakar nodded. “Captain Raff will see to it. If 
you will dismount and join me, I will introduce 
you to my Ministers and my sons.”

Both the broad-chested man and the beastly knight 
dismounted, handing their reins to the riders 
bearing the Hassan standard. The knight then 
walked to the first carriage and opened the door. 
 From within he escorted another very strange 
creature, this one garbed in an elegant damask 
gown with a necklace sparkling with rubies 
complimenting her neck. The neck was one covered 
in gray fur, while a long gray and black striped 
tail danced behind her head. Her face was 
dominated with large golden eyes framed by rings 
of black fur in a face otherwise filled with 
white fur. Despite similar fur colors, there 
could be no mistaking that the knight and this 
woman were two different types of beast.

And once again, every one, including Otakar 
himself, tried not to gawk at the bizarre Metamorian.

The Ambassador seemed to be enjoying their 
discomfiture. “May I introduce Sir Jon Kardair 
and his wife, Lady Deya Thores of Metamor. They 
are also very pleased at your warm hospitality.”

Otakar wasn't sure whether he was more horrified 
by the beastly woman or more captivated by her 
exotic beauty. The nearly leering stare his son 
offered her convinced him that he needed to do as 
the Ambassador suggested. He spread his arms 
wide, deliberately blocking his son's view of the 
two animal Metamorians. “I bid you both welcome 
to my home, Sir Jon Kardair, Lady Deya Thores. 
Now come, and join us in a feast to celebrate this momentous and happy day.”

He then half turned to his son and hissed between 
his teeth, “If you ever look at that woman that 
way again, I will be sure that your wife hears 
about it.” Ladislav paled and nodded. His wife 
had studied at Marigund and probably knew any 
number of spells to make a lecherous husband 
regret every unfortunate glint in his eyes!

Otakar then smiled as broadly as he could to 
welcome his unexpected and very strange guests.

----------

Sir Jon Kardair was impressed with the Eyrie's 
fortifications and concluded shortly after 
passing up the narrow stairs into the inner 
bailey that he would rather spend the next year 
hanging from his tail than to siege Salinon and 
its impregnable castle. He noted as many details 
as he could, not for planning any sort of attack, 
but for recommending them to Jack and George when 
he inevitably returned to Metamor. The mountains 
on either side of the valley offered several 
advantages that Salinon with its single bluff had already employed.

After passing through the inner bailey, Otakar 
with his train of ministers and with his eldest 
son at his side, led the trio of Keepers into a 
long hall in which a U-shaped set of tables were 
arrayed. The floor dropped a good cubit when it 
reached the walls, and the windows stretched from 
above their heads down beneath their feet, giving 
them the impression that they were floating above 
the city rather than perched at its apex. 
Tapestries of soft Spring colors, yellow, 
vermilion, violet, and indigo stretched between 
the windows so that at one moment they seemed to 
be striding through a vast forest, and the next 
strolling through an elegant garden. He could 
even hear the the soothing sound of water falling 
and pooling, though even with his large ears he couldn't tell where.

“Welcome to the Gyrkin Hall,” Otakar announced 
with a broad sweep of his arms. “Here, my family 
has feasted and feasted noble guests for 
centuries. And you three shall have places of honor at the head table with me.”

“We are honored by your hospitality,” his brother 
Tarkas said as he kept step with the somewhat 
corpulent Duke. This was not the sort of girth 
that came from a life of indolence. Sir Kardair 
had seen it in warriors too old to return to the 
field of battle; men who had fought, born sword 
and shield, bled, and claimed victory over their 
enemies. Age would wear on them, their muscles 
fading as the years pursued their relentless 
march toward the grave and what lay beyond. Fat 
Duke Otakar may have become, with rounded 
fingers, balding head, and puffy lips, but he was 
a man who knew a sword as a lover, and who would 
not flinch from battle joined. For that he would respect him.

There were seven seats at the head table, the 
center for Otakar himself. Otakar's eldest son 
Ladislav sat at his right, while Tarkas was 
invited to sit at his left. Kardair and Deya were 
offered chairs next to Tarkas. The chairs were 
finely wrought, carved from a sweet smelling wood 
with a deep red grain, flecked with whorls of 
brown. The backs were carved so that they seemed 
to be the sheltering wings of some vast bird of 
prey while the legs ended in splayed talons. 
Despite their beauty and obvious elegance, Sir 
Kardair put one paw on the top and turned to 
their host with a sibilant hiss slipping through his fangs.

“Your grace, these chairs are not suitable for us.”

Otakar had been boasting of the architecture to 
his brother and so his expression was somewhat 
sour at the interruption. “They are my chairs, 
Sir Kardair. Are not the chairs of the house of Otakar comfortable?”

Deya put a paw on his arm, little claws gently 
pressing into the exposed fur near his wrist. 
“What my husband means, your grace, is that your 
chairs, elegant and beautiful, and fit only for 
those of noble birth, were made in age when 
people such as us had not yet been. They have no 
room for our tails, your grace.”

By now everyone who hadn't already been 
surreptitiously staring at them was now openly 
gaping at them, their whispers and pretense 
silenced as the singular nature of the faux pas 
became apparent to everyone. Otakar's surprise 
lasted just long enough for Kardair to note the 
shock and embarrassment. “My sincerest apologies, 
Sir Kardair, Lady Thores. You are right. Those 
chairs will not do for you. I will have others 
brought immediately. Forgive me for this unfortunate offense.”

“There is no offense to give,” Deya added with 
her silken voice, wide golden eyes brimming with 
her good cheer and both disarming and sultry 
manner. “Until eight years ago none of us would 
have ever thought we'd need chairs suitable for 
tails. Why it would be considered the foulest of 
manners to invite your dog or your horse to sup 
at the table with you. Now in this new age, some 
of us bear more than a mere fanciful resemblance 
to the same. We are not offended, and we are 
immensely grateful for the offer of new chairs.”

Otakar merely had to glare at one of the nearby 
servers, and the chairs were hastily removed. 
Kardair put his other paw over his wife's and 
turned his head toward her, looking down into her 
wide face. She returned the longing gaze, her 
eyes fiery pools of molten light. Even after the 
many years of their marriage, and even after she 
had born him three children, how he still loved 
to savor and marvel at her beauty. His heart 
thumped in his chest with such pride over her 
glib tongue, her thoughtful and clever mind, her 
beastly charm, and of course, her devotion to him.

Men had always cast a covetous eye her way, and 
even in this land where their kind were 
heretofore unknown, they still did. Sir Kardair 
did not care if they looked, because her eyes were only for him.

So when her eyes flicked down across the long 
tables, the opossum knew something very 
interesting must have drawn them. He half turned, 
and saw that in addition to another pair of 
chairs behind carried in by a quartet of 
servants, these chairs having a stylistic gap 
between the back and the seat, another set of 
guards escorted into the hall a man roughly the 
same age as the Duke's eldest son who was dressed 
modestly but appropriately with a bright red 
shock of hair and an expression of limitless irritation.

Sir Kardair noted him for a moment, and then 
pretended as if he'd really been interested in 
the new chairs all along as he let his eyes and 
snout follow the servants bringing the chairs 
around behind the set of tables while Jaime 
Verdane was escorted to a seat at the end of the 
table furthest from them. “Thank you, good sirs, 
I will handle it from here,” he said to the four 
youths carefully managing the new chairs. They 
stared in wide-eyed horror and awe at the 
six-foot tall armored opossum walking toward them 
and were quick to set the chairs down and back off.

“For you, my lady,” he said as he took the first 
chair and positioned it behind his wife. Deya 
trilled under her breath, and glided her long 
tail through the gap as her languorous figure 
rested against the soft cushions. It was so easy 
for her to ignore the stares that her exotic 
feminine beauty elicited, or at least, make it 
appear as if she were ignoring them. Sir Kardair 
knew he was not as politically adroit as his wife 
or his brother, and so trusted her instincts in this as in so much else.

“Thank you, my knight,” she replied, turning to 
gaze at him with a sincerity that was not forced. 
Despite the lavish attention she had always 
received from men of position, she had married him!

After maneuvering his tail into the hole in the 
back of the chair, Sir Kardair noted that he was 
the last to be seated. Duke Otakar was already 
engrossed in a playful conversation with his 
brother inquiring after Duke Thomas's health and 
that of his new wife's as well. Servants were 
beginning to move around the tables bringing 
platters of various bread, both soft and hard, 
mixed with a variety of barley, oats, and the 
occasional dried fruit. A goblet decked in gold 
and inlaid with rubies at four corners was set 
before the Duke, while more modest goblets of 
silver were arrayed before the other guests and 
promptly filled with a dry tasting wine.

With his brother on one side, and his wife on the 
other, Sir Kardair was cut off from the 
conversations surrounding him; he preferred it 
that way as it allowed him the chance to listen 
and watch. He studied each of Otakar's six sons, 
from the intemperate oldest who was making jests 
and eying the opossum knight with some suspicion, 
to the young pair of boys further down the table 
busy trying to see how many bread crumbs they 
could throw at each other. The middle three 
children were on the other side of the table, and 
each of them showed some strength in their arms, 
a precision in their gaze, and a bit of jealousy 
toward their eldest brother. The second in line, 
Mikhail, a man just old enough to have spilled 
blood in battle, demonstrated a studied courtesy 
with the polite manner in which he spoke to Deya. 
They had been seated next to each other, and he 
had wasted no time in welcoming her to Salinon 
and in complimenting her on her beauty.

She smiled at his efforts and in between bites of 
bread replied, “Thank you, Mikhail. It is a great 
honor to be in your lovely country. Have you ever ever been to mine?”

The young man shook his head, his short-cropped 
black hair not even stirring. “No, I have never 
ventured beyond the borders of Dûn Fennas, or as 
your people call it, the Outer Midlands. But I 
have seen many wonders in this land. The wide 
plains and long, rolling hills, the horses, the 
flocks, the forests, the mountains, the people 
and cities. All of it is very precious and dear 
to us here. Will you be staying in Salinon while 
your husband's brother serves as Ambassador?”

“For now at least,” she admitted with a little 
laugh. Kardair could see her eyes taking the 
young man in with a deeper gaze than even he suspected. “You are betrothed?”

Mikhail nodded and rubbed one finger over the 
bracelet on his right arm. It was a circlet about 
a thumb's span across made of tough leather 
inlaid with golden runes. His cheeks dimpled a 
quick smile. “Yes, I am. She's of the house 
Rivers in Marigund and has become quite beautiful 
I am told, with long, brown hair that tightens 
into curls.” His eyes took on a faraway cast as 
he spoke of her and offered a few more details on her appearance.

“When did you last see her?” Deya asked as her 
claws very gently pierced the edges of a particularly hard bit of bread.

“Eight years ago when we were betrothed. Our wedding is to be later this year.”

There was an earnest nervousness in Mikhail's 
manner that reminded Sir Kardair of himself when 
he was not that much younger. Marriage should 
have a salubrious effect on the young man, 
provided his bride was of good character.

He turned toward his brother and smiled as he 
caught the beginning of a question he had 
wondered about himself. Tarkas set down his 
goblet and smacked his lips together once before 
saying, “Your grace, I have spent much time 
studying the Fennasi people, or at least, as much 
as we know of them in Metamor. One thing that has 
confused me for some time is that while there is 
a distinct inheritance from the elves in much of 
your society, your family name and many of the 
names of those closest to you seem to come from 
another source. I am curious how this came to be.”

Otakar smiled and leaned forward in his seat, 
eyes noting the opossum knight's scalloped ears 
turning their way. “You are very astute, 
Ambassador. My family name and the given names of 
myself and my children do not come from the 
elves. Nor is my family originally Fennasi. 
Hundreds of years ago, the Otakar house was a 
clan of horsemen from the eastern reaches of the 
Steppe. One difficult winter we were driven 
westward from our ancestral lands, and then north 
out of the Steppe entirely. We came to Salinon 
and for a generation roamed the countryside 
thereabouts. Our military prowess was hailed and 
soon we had married into the noblest of families. 
But our name and our crest we kept, even as our 
power grew, and even as we were drawn from 
horseback to council chamber and to throne. And 
so it is that our family keeps to the traditional 
names of the clan, though in almost all other 
ways we adhere to the noble and exalted Fennasi traditions.”

“Truly,” Tarkas noted with a nod and a smile, 
“history provides an abundance of mysteries!”

“And as you have sought the mystery of my name,” 
Otakar replied with a canny laugh, even as he 
leaned back in his high seat, “you must reveal to 
me the mystery of your own. Tarkas is not any 
Midlander name that I have heard before.”

“Nay, it is not,” his brother admitted with a 
similar laugh. He took a sip of wine and picked 
up a small bit of bread, even as the servants 
began moving around the table with plates of 
fresh fruits. “I was born a woman, and I was 
named Tabitha. But eight years ago, when the 
curses were laid down, I was trying to hold off a 
band of Lutins who had broken into our chambers. 
They were dragging my maid and I by the hair, 
even as I swung everything within reach at them 
to get them off. And then the Curses were cast, 
and I became as you see me; I am much larger than 
I used to be. I managed to take one of their axes 
and hacked half of them to pieces, stomping 
through the corpses so that I was drenched in 
their blood. The rest ran screaming, 'Tarkas! 
Tarkas!' as they fled. I took that as my new name.”

Otakar stared at his brother for a moment before 
resuming his usual demeanor. There was both new 
respect and new caution in the Duke's appraisal 
of Metamor's ambassador. “I know of Lutins only 
by tales. They have never penetrated the expanse 
of the Barrier mountains bordering our lands, nor 
have they swept this far from Metamor Valley in a 
very, very long time. Why did they cry that name?”

“I wondered the same myself for a time. I asked 
the commander of one of our deep patrols in the 
north not long after the battle. He told me it 
meant 'crazed giant' in their tongue.”

“Truly? And here you are as diplomat, Earl 
Tarkas. There are no Lutins to fight here.”

“My liege does not believe Lutins are the only 
enemies of Metamor. Nor does he believe we should 
be without friends.” Tarkas sampled a cherry and 
smiled. “Oh, very good, very succulent. My 
compliments to your gardens, your grace.”

The usual verbal sparring of the nobility could 
never hold Sir Kardair's interest for very long. 
His eyes strayed, even as he idly ate of the 
sumptuous fruit, across the tables toward the 
only other person who seemed as much an outsider 
as he – Jaime Verdane. The red-haired man was 
moderately built though hampered by a slender 
physique. Still it was clear he was very used to 
swinging a sword and there was an air of reserve 
and dignity with the way he contemptuously 
ignored everyone around him. Jaime ate the food 
set before as if he were the only one at the 
table, going so far as to snatch the last morsel 
off a platter even while one of the ministers turned to reach for it.

Either Jaime Verdane did not care what his captor 
did with him, or he did not fear that anything 
worse would be done to him. Given the 
self-serving rules of the nobility that his 
brother and wife had often described to him, he 
had no doubt that it was a little bit of both.

But was Jaime the sort who would have rather been 
out riding down brigands and thieves and leading 
men against invading armies, or was he the sort 
who would prefer to be holding court over his subjects like Otakar?

One meeting would never answer the opossum 
knight's question, but it was a necessary 
beginning. He turned his white-furred snout 
toward the Duke, long pink tail wrapping itself 
around the opposite chair leg from habit, and 
hissed in a voice meant to be heard by those 
nearby. “Your grace, pardon my interruption, but I have a question for you.”

Otakar and Tarkas both turned to look at him. His 
brother's left eye twitched at the corner in a 
way that Kardair knew meant he was surprised. The 
Duke held his golden goblet in his right hand and 
he smiled expansively as he finished chewing on a 
tart meaty fruit that the knight had never tasted 
before. “What question do you have for me, Sir Kardair?”

He opened his left palm and extended it, short 
claws pointing directly at the red-haired 
hostage. “You have introduced all of your guests 
to us but this man. Who is he, and why did you 
not announce him as you have done the rest?”

Otakar glanced at the end of the table. At the 
question, Jaime looked up, but then returned his 
focus on the melon he had nearly devoured down to 
the rind. The smile on Otakar's lips veered 
between sardonic pleasure and innocent 
munificence. “Why that is his grace, Jaime 
Verdane, heir to the Duchy of Kelewair. He is a 
guest in my house and will be staying with us for 
quite some time. Oh, Jaime, these are Earl Tarkas 
of Eupor'o'ill, Sir Jon Kardair of Metamor, and 
the Lady Deya Thores his wife. Earl Tarkas is an 
ambassador from Metamor just newly arrived. Do welcome them.”

Jaime's face darkened as he openly studied them, 
lowering the melon rind to the table, letting the 
last of the juices soak into the thin cloth 
covering the marble. With a snort and shake of 
his head, he spoke in a voice as bitter and 
biting as myrrh. “I see that I am not a good 
enough dancing and prancing animal on a chain for 
you; you have brought the real thing.”

A few of the ministers openly gasped. Otakar 
winced and out of the corner of his eye, Sir 
Kardair could see the Duke grind his teeth to 
bite back whatever retort had leaped to his mind. 
The opossum knight was not sure if Jaime was 
impugning him and his wife merely to rankle the 
Salinon court, or if he really felt such disgust 
at the sight of beastly Keepers. Either way, the 
insult to his Deya and to himself could not go unanswered.

Sir Kardair bolted upright in his chair, tail 
yanking it off the floor for a moment before he 
uncurled it from around the back leg. He hissed 
through his numerous fangs, jowls drawn back in 
wrath. “How dare you, sir, say such things! You 
slander my honor and the honor of my wife, a lady 
of noble birth! I challenge you here and now to 
combat!” So saying, he smashed the bottom of his 
fist into the stone table, making several goblets and platters jump.

“I haven't had a chance to hunt in months!” Jaime 
exclaimed with the relief of a man who finally 
found something to interest him. He leaned back 
in his chair and rested one foot on the table's 
edge. “I accept your challenge, Sir Beast.”

Otakar jumped to his feet and bellowed. “There 
will be no challenges in my hall! Especially 
against my,” he wrinkled his lips and managed to 
sneer the word from his throat, “guest. And sit 
like the noble man you are! You disgrace yourself.”

“No prisoner is capable of it,” Jaime retorted. 
Still, he did lower his foot, but only in order 
to stand. The soldiers that stood watch over the 
hall along the walls near the sunken windows as 
if they were floating in the air, took a few 
steps forward, hands reaching for their weapons. 
Jaime ignored them as he walked into the middle 
of the set of tables. “And I am a guest; I have 
privileges of my own. Never let it be said that 
the hospitality of Salinon can be likened to cows at pasture.”

Sir Kardair did not wait for Otakar's next 
snarling demand. He put his left paw on the table 
and vaulted over, his tail tucking up into his 
legs to keep from smacking his brother in the 
back of the head. He could have jumped clear over 
the table and even further, but it was better 
that Otakar and his cronies did not know that just yet.

“Oh, let them fight,” Ladislav said with a laugh. 
“He did insult Sir Jon's honor.” The man's tone 
was so patronizing that the opossum knight 
desperately wished he could risk challenging him too.

“Guests do not fight in my house!” Otakar insisted. “Guards!”

All but the quartet standing near to Otakar's 
throne converged at a run toward the two 
combatants. Jaime snarled and leaped bare-handed 
for the opossum. Sir Kardair lifted his arms and 
stepped backward a few paces, grabbing the 
imprisoned noble by his wrists and forcing them 
forward. He then swung his tail around and 
wrapped it around Jaime's left knee, pulling 
toward him so that the man buckled backward. He 
gasped in surprise as Kardair pushed him 
effortlessly to the ground, his long, 
sharp-fanged snout inches from the side of his face.

Kardair hissed loudly, the fur along the back of 
his head swelling with his beastly anger. But it 
was an anger that he controlled. And while he 
hissed, he worked his tongue to form soft words 
in the captive scion's ear. “Trust the bird.”

Jaime blinked and the fight drained from his 
muscles, as his lips parted in a brief moment of 
shock quickly swallowed by a grunt of frustration 
and one last bout of struggle for show. Sir 
Kardair snarled in a louder voice, “Do you yield to me, Jaime Verdane?”

Jaime ground his teeth together, and then in 
sight of all of Otakar's sons and ministers, 
humiliated and crushed by a beast-man from 
Metamor, he nodded his head. “I yield.”

Kardair rose, dragging Jaime to his feet, and 
then with one paw smoothed out the man's tunic 
before giving him a curt nod. “Never speak so of my wife or I again.”

“I shall not,” Jaime replied, even as he stepped 
back a pace into the waiting arms of Otakar's 
guards. Two of them grabbed him by the upper arms 
while the rest closed ranks around him. The 
opossum knight walked calmly back around the 
tables to his seat, pointedly ignoring the 
procession that every other person in attendance 
watched. By the time he picked up his chair and 
settled himself back within, all eyes were upon 
him, including a livid Duke Krisztov Otakar.

“Sir Kardair,” the Duke managed, voice brimming 
with a hoary indignation, “you, a guest, violate 
the laws of my house and heap dishonor upon your 
head and think that you can once more so blithely sit at the head of my table?”

His jowls and whiskers twitched and his eyes 
blinked once, but Sir Jon Kardair made no 
objection to the Duke's reprimand. He stood and 
turned to face the Duke, even as Deya's paw 
slipped around his fingers and gripped them 
tightly. “Your grace, forgive me. That was 
impertinent of me as well as foolish and 
discourteous. I will excuse myself and retire to 
the chambers you have so generously provided 
where I will bring no more offense to you, your 
noble sons, your honorable ministers, and to my 
family. By your leave, of course.”

Otakar stared at him for one moment and then 
nodded, waving one hand and turning his face away 
from not only him, but his brother and wife. “You 
have my leave. Quit my table; if I hear word that 
you are involved in any altercations within my 
city – any altercations – I will have you sent 
back to Metamor in chains. Raff, escort the knight out.”

Relieved, Kardair turned to his wife, pressed the 
side of his head against hers for a moment, and 
then walked back the way he had came, the dutiful 
captain at his heels with a none too pleased curl to his lips.


----------


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

Charles Matthias