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

[C. Matthias]

Part 4 and the end of this tale.  I hope you all enjoyed it!

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Metamor Keep: Gazing Through a Barred Window
by Charles Matthias


The Eyrie complex was an interconnected mass of 
buildings fashioned from a bright gray speckled 
granite. In the evening twilight the walls almost 
appeared to blush. Between the buildings were 
narrow staircases, small gardens, and a few wide 
courtyards that allowed for outdoor gatherings, 
though from their scent Kardair could tell that 
they had most recently been used for equestrian 
training. Probably for Otakar's sons.

Captain Raff led him past one such courtyard, 
down a set of stairs, and then to a wide terrace 
overlooking the western bluff. Above them 
stretched a building at least three levels high, 
the topmost level extending a good cubit out from 
those below it. Raff gestured to the doorway and 
said, “This is the Ducal residence. Your family 
has been lent the rooms at the rear until the 
Kestrel's Wing is made ready for you.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

The man frowned and with one hand tightly 
gripping the cape around his shoulders, he looked 
the opossum knight full in the face; he had to 
tilt his head back to do this, but he did not 
show any fear of him, only uncertainty. “Sir 
Kardair, if I may, the ways of your people are 
not the ways of mine. My master, his grace, is a 
man who prizes hospitality and the proper 
treatment of guests. The defense of the honor of 
his guests is his task and his alone. You brought 
shame to him with your display.”

Kardair felt a twinge of regret touch his heart. 
This man who he had only just met a few hours ago 
was being completely earnest. How he hated the 
subterfuge the games of politics had forced him to play!

“I know, and I am sorry for my actions. I will 
leave all such affairs to his grace's capable 
hands.” He turned and cast one glance out across 
the waist-high railing and the broad vista 
stretching toward the setting sun. A broad 
red-limned sky of clouds cloaked them from above, 
while the green swards of earth surrounding the 
lake and village at the base of the bluff 
stretched below them. Somewhere beyond the horizon was Metamor Keep, his home.

He blinked at the vista once, and then returned 
his focus to the captain. “I hope that my 
behavior has not jeopardized my brother's duties here.”

Raff shook his head. “I do not believe so, Sir 
Kardair. But it would be best if you keep the 
promise you just made to me. His grace's promise 
to send you back to Metamor in chains was not a vain one.”

He could say nothing to that and so gestured at 
the doorway which had been designed to appear 
like a pair of vast feathered wings. “Do you need 
to escort me to the chambers or will I be able to find my own way?”

Raff grunted and opened the door by lifting a 
handle that was carved in the shape of a talon. “This way.”

Kardair fell into step behind him as they passed 
into a large foyer. Rooms adorned either side for 
reclining, reading, and for study. They walked 
past several doors that were kept shut, before 
turning to the left to reveal a set of smaller 
rooms where a pair of Metamorian guards stood 
watch. “Here you are. And if you wish the chance 
to practice your sword arm, come to the northern 
practice fields. We've a good number of men who 
would like to see what Metamor has to offer.”

Raff smiled to him, inclined his head in respect, 
and then turned back the way he had come. Kardair 
smiled to himself and then turned back to the 
curious stares of his fellow Metamorians. 
“Chipping, Rolf,” he said to the two men from 
Midtown who did not know the touch of the Curses 
but nevertheless had Duke Thomas as their liege, “where is my family?”

“In the back room. Your squire is with them,” 
Chipping said with a faint laugh. “Where are Earl Tarkas and your Lady Deya?”

“Still feasting with Otakar. They will join us later.”

He found his three children in a small room with 
a quartet of beds, a washbasin inlaid with ivory, 
and several wooden toys designed to look like 
horses, soldiers, and a variety of other animals 
common to life in the broad plains and hills of 
the easternmost reaches of the Midlands. Playing 
with these toys were his two elder daughters and 
his young son. His squire and his nephew, Ned, 
watched over them; Ned also bore the dusty rad colors of his knight.

“Father!” his children echoed, rising to their 
feet to greet him as he had taught them. His 
eldest daughter Lucy, almost ten years of age, 
smiled beneath a bright head of auburn curls. His 
seven-year old Maria had her hair in pig tails 
and kept swinging her dress back and forth. His 
youngest and his boy Jon who at four still had a 
bright wide face, with golden blonde hair and 
adoring blue eyes that could never but be joyous when they saw him.

Kardair knelt down, long tail sweeping the stones 
behind him, and he stretched out his arms. “Come 
here.” They wasted no time, rushing into his arms 
and pressing their faces into his furry cheeks. 
He stroked the backs of their heads with his 
paws, little claws catching in Lucy's curls and 
Maria's pigtails. “Have you been well-behaved for your cousin?”

“Yes, Father,” his girls echoed. Little Jon 
lifted a wooden toy dog in his free arm – the 
other had a firm grip right through the opening 
in Kardair's tabard to the linen and chest fur 
beneath – “Look Fatha, it looks like you!”

The wooden dog did have white and black painted 
fur, but that was the extent of the resemblance. 
Jon smiled and churred. “Oh my, it does, doesn't 
it. Are there any that look like your mother?”

But his boy shook his head and waved the wooden 
dog about. “Just you, Fatha! Will you play knight with us?”

“Will you show us around the castle?” Maria 
begged as she almost pranced in her bright yellow dress.

“Is Mother going to be back soon?”

His heart swelled with delight but he spoke 
firmly and gently. “It is time for each of you to 
get some sleep. When your mother returns, she 
will come in and see each of you. Tomorrow we 
will see some more of the castle, yes. In a few 
days our new home will be ready for us. And I'm 
sure there will be other children that you can 
play with. Ned, can you help me get them ready?”

His nephew Ned had just turned thirteen and had 
narrowly avoided suffering the Curse. He had 
expressed a bit of disappointment that he had not 
yet changed, although he had long since ceased 
offering any complaints. In appearance he had the 
same bright complexion and build common to the 
Kardair family, but the brown eyes of his real 
father who had once served as an ambassador for 
Metamor before being slain during Three Gates. 
When his manly growth finally finished he would 
be nearly as tall as his knight and just as strong.

“Of course,” Ned replied as he picked Maria up in 
his arms and made her sit down on the bed. “Did 
you get yourself ejected from another banquet, Uncle?”

His jowls lifted, fangs glistening, though there 
was no anger in his snarl. Ned laughed and shook 
his head back and forth even as he helped Maria 
out of her sun dress. While his children eagerly 
tried to tell him about their adventures with the 
wooden figurines, Kardair did his best for them.


It was some hours later before his wife and 
brother finally retired for the evening. Once his 
children had been put in their beds, he prayed 
with them, and then joined Ned, and the few 
soldiers that were stationed with them in the 
Duke's residence. He inquired after the rest of 
their retinue, learned of the disposition of 
their supplies, horses, carriages, and the like, 
and then asked them their opinions on the Eyrie and the castle staff.

He spent a bit of time standing on the terrace 
overlooking the lake, with the stem of a pipe 
clutched between his fangs, jowls curled around 
the wood while thin trails of smoke rose from the 
bowl and from either side of his snout. He waited 
until the half-moon was at its highest in the sky 
before returning inside to offer his evening prayers to Eli.

By the time he had finished he heard the familiar 
voices of his wife and brother entering the area 
of the residence reserved for them. They found 
him crouched by a warm fire in a room with a few 
chairs (all of which made accommodations for 
tails) and several trophies mounted on the wall. 
“Good evening, brother,” he said to Tarkas, 
before gently kissing his wife with his snout. “I 
apologize again for my outburst at the feast.”

Tarkas sighed and slumped in the chair nearest 
the fire. “You really cannot help it, can you, 
little brother? Every offense, every little 
threat, you have to defeat then and there. You 
could have cost us greatly. Our duties for 
Metamor are more important than our pride.” 
Tarkas's blue eyes found the lemur and in a quiet 
voice asked, “Are they listening?”

The Lady Deya Thores was more than just a woman 
of delicate beauty and courtly charm. She was 
also gifted in many simple magical arts. While 
she could never summon a bolt of lightning or set 
stone (or even damp wood) aflame, she 
nevertheless could do many things that most men 
could only marvel at. She glanced briefly to the 
left and then returned her gaze to them both. 
“There were some charms, but they will not hear 
us now. I do not sense any spies listening in. You may speak freely.”

“Good,” Tarkas said with relief. “This is 
important, Jon. Do not bother yourself with any 
insult, with any disgrace, that whelp from 
Kelewair tries to bring on you, on Lady Deya, or 
on anyone else. If not for him we wouldn't have 
any chance here at all. With luck and with some 
dignified groveling, I think I can help the Duke 
see what a wonderful alliance he can forge with Metamor.”

“We don't need his help for anything,” Kardair replied in a grumbling manner.

“We need his help if we hope to push south. In 
another five to ten years we can control all the 
lands to the Sathmore border if we have Otakar's 
help. Trade today, territory tomorrow. Remember 
that.” Tarkas grunted and made a quick gesture 
with his figures; it was patrol-sign, something 
that even a spy would probably miss if any 
managed to listen in despite Deya's charms. 
Kardair read it in an instant, “Did he get the message?”

Kardair grunted and sat down, making the 
affirmative sign back as he did. “Very well, it 
will be easier with Otakar than without. I admit 
that. But I do not like sitting around talking. You know that.”

“I do,” Tarkas replied in the sort of 
understanding voice one uses to assure a child 
that they had, in fact, done wrong. “But if you 
are going to protect me, you are going to do 
exactly that. I will protect you too, brother, 
but you have to help me. And that means no more 
foolish stunts or shows of bravery. No more 
protecting your honor at each slight. And 
definitely, do not ever touch Jaime Verdane 
again. We need him right where he is.”

Kardair was already beginning to wonder if it was 
wise at all to have come to Salinon. It was hard 
to say no to a summons from the Duke, especially 
one so noble and wise as Duke Thomas Hassan. “I 
will do as you say. I apologize for the difficulty I have caused you.”

“Forgiven,” Tarkas replied as he leaned back in 
the chair and sighed, eyes closed and his hands 
crossed in his lap. “I am tired and I am full of 
food and wine. I think I will get my sleep. I 
shall see you both in the morning.”

“And we you,” Kardair rose, his wife's hand at 
his side. He wrapped an arm over her shoulders, 
lowering his hand to erst just beneath. Her tail 
brushed against his. Before he quite knew what 
was happening, she had kissed him on the cheek.

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Jaime paced in his tower cell , hands clenching 
and unclenching, as he seethed with indignation 
and confusion. Until that day he had never before 
seen a cursed Metamorian. It had taken all of his 
self-control to pretend as if he hadn't noticed 
them from the first moment he'd stepped into the 
Gyrkin hall. He normally held his tongue when 
meeting yet another of the Duke's guests, but 
before they had always been dignitaries from 
another part of Otakar's domain. Here he had the 
chance to meet a guest from afar and that gave 
him a chance to show foreigners just how 
inhospitable the Duke's hospitality could really be.

He had never thought the Metamorian knight – just 
what had he been anyway, some sort of rat? – 
would have actually challenged him to a duel of 
honor. That the beast knight had defeated him so 
quickly couldn't help but make him grind his teeth together in shame.

But the most perplexing of all had been those 
three words whispered into his ear, clearly meant 
for him alone. “Trust the bird.”

What were they doing here in Salinon? Had the 
Metamorians come to free him? That couldn't 
possible be the case because there was no love 
lost between the Verdane and the Hassan houses. A 
quiet war had been raging on their borders for 
almost a hundred years. The last siege of Metamor 
from their south had been led by a Verdane. That 
probably meant that they wanted to use him for 
some other purpose, something which may or may 
not be beneficial to him, but would certainly 
benefit the Metamorians. And if that was the 
case, they should have sent a vulture instead of a jackdaw then.

A caw at his left made him stop and turn in 
surprise and then anger. There perched on his 
sill, framed by the starlight in a window that 
didn't have bars but may as well have, was the 
jackdaw. It bobbed its head up and down as it looked at him expectantly.

“What do you want?” Jaime snapped, a little 
louder than he should have. More prudently, 
thought still snarling, he said in a quieter 
voice, “Do you understand me? What are you anyway? Bird? Pet? What?”

But the jackdaw merely sat there and cawed at him 
again with an irritating insistence that he knew 
he should expect. If not for that beast knight's 
hushed admonition, he would have already taken 
out the little bit of bread he'd stuffed in his 
tunic and begun tossing him pieces. “Nothing for 
you,” Jaime declared with crossed arms as he 
finally managed to stop his stalking. “Not until you speak for me.”

The jackdaw stared at him with his bright eyes, 
almost two little stars in the midst of his black 
and gray feathers. He cawed again.

Jaime put his hands to his face and then stomped 
toward the bird who promptly flew away, only to 
appear again at the other window with another 
angry caw. Gasping in frustration, Jaime pulled 
out the small loaf of bread and tore off a little 
chunk. The bird's eyes followed the bread, from 
the man's fingers, and then to the spot he threw 
it. The jackdaw leaped down to the ground, 
snatched up the bread in his beak, gobbled it 
down, and then stared up at the man waiting for more.

Jaime slumped against the wall, his heart aching 
in the misery of his prison. No tears moistened 
his eyes, but he felt very close to weeping. 
Through this misery he mindlessly tore at the 
bread, tossing each piece to the bird who 
greedily scarfed them until there was nothing 
left. A few more caws were offered his way, but 
at some point the bird understood it was not 
going to get anymore and it flew away.

For several minutes Jaime sat there against the 
cold stone walls, the numbness beginning to seep 
into his back as the night air sucked away the 
meager warmth his fire provided. His eyes 
remained fixed upon the spot where the bird had 
been enjoying his meal but he could see nothing 
of it. He would have given up nearly anything 
right then to become a bird, even the ability to change back if it came to it.

When his Verdane practicality forced him to climb 
to his feet, he realized that there was a little 
scrap of parchment nestled in between the stones 
where the jackdaw had waited for its treats. 
Jaime frowned and bent down to pick it up. Like 
the piece the bird had brought him earlier that 
day, it had little marks on it that looked very 
much like letters. Curious, Jaime stepped over to 
his desk and found the other piece beneath his 
prayer book. Both pieces appeared to have been 
cut by a knife along all of their edges.

Jaime spent a minute placing one edge against 
another to see if the marks made any sense. He 
was about to give up when suddenly he found that 
by not lining up the shorter ends he could see a 
single word jump out of the scraps – 'free'.

He stared at that word for several minutes, mind 
numb but still present. Eventually he took each 
piece and stuck them between the pages of his 
prayer book. He then shut all the windows, put a 
few more logs in the fire, enjoyed the feeling of 
the flames as they warmed his face and hands, and 
then retired to his bed where he lay staring at 
the ceiling as wild orange shadows danced back and forth.

Whatever Metamor truly wanted with him, it was 
clear they were going to dangle the idea of being 
set free to obtain his cooperation. They would 
have it. Maybe, just maybe, no matter what they 
intended, he might actually be able to use them 
to win his freedom. He was finished being a disagreeable guest.

Although no matter what happened, it was sure to 
frustrate Otakar to no end. That thought alone 
brought him a cold, miserly satisfaction.

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It was very late that evening when a man in his 
thirties with already balding head quietly 
entered Otakar's private study. Otakar was 
enjoying a last glass of wine before he retired 
for the night. A pleasant fire warmed him and the 
ticking of a clock marked off the seconds. All 
else was silent. Otakar read from a book he'd 
obtained from Metamor, a strange collection of 
fanciful tales that seemed at times very 
different from the stories spun by bards or 
passed down through family lore. He lifted his 
eyes from the pages and smiled to his guest.

“Velar, thank you for coming.”

“It is my pleasure, your grace,” the young man 
said as he stepped within the room and shut the 
door behind him. “As you requested, I have news about your guests.”

“Which ones?”

“All of them,” Velar replied with a smirk.

Otakar's lips tightened, but his chief mage had 
earned the right to be a bit sarcastic. He 
gestured with a wave of a ringed hand at the seat 
opposite him. “Tell me of them. Let us begin with 
our newest guests. What have you learned of them?”

Velar settled himself in the damask chair and 
shifted his voluminous sleeves until they dangled 
unimpeded from the chair's arms. “They do appear 
to be what they claim to be. None of the 
soldiers, scribes, or servants that accompanied 
them seems to believe differently. Although the 
Lady Deya Thores did not tell you all that there is to know of her.”

Otakar nodded thoughtfully as he brought her 
beastly appearance to mind. “The strange lady 
with the large golden eyes. What was it the 
ambassador said she was... a lemur? Yes, that's 
it. A lemur. Some animal from the Isle of Manzona I believe.”

“A traveling circus brought one with them to 
Marigund when I was a boy; I recognized what 
Metamor's Curses did to her,” Velar replied with 
the smirk of self-satisfaction. “But what she did 
not say of herself, your grace, is that she too has magical talent.”

Otakar's eyebrows lifted and he took a slow 
breath. It was not unheard of for diplomats to 
bring a mage with them for protection or for 
ferreting out secrets. That one noble born and 
whose beauty, regardless of its exotic nature, 
was likely sufficient to bring any number of 
secrets to the lips of men also employed the 
arcane arts made the Metamorians all the more 
dangerous. “How do you know this, Velar?”

“She disabled all of the listening cantrips I 
placed in those suites within moments of entering.”

“All of your cantrips?” Otakar said as if the 
news really dismayed him. “She must be quite powerful then.”

“She has some skill,” Velar admitted as if he 
were surveying the work of a student. “But she 
does not see everything. I was able to listen in 
to their conversation this evening regardless of 
her efforts. In between excoriating that knight 
for his discourteous behavior, the ambassador let 
slip that his intentions here are to gain your 
help in pushing Metamor's borders south. He wants 
to take advantage of your capture of Jaime 
Verdane to carve up the Southern Midlands, or so he claims.”

“Truly?” Otakar wouldn't be surprised if that 
were true. The Southern Midlands had just endured 
a bitter civil war that had given him the 
opportunity to swing Bozojo to his side. He now 
controlled a good deal of the trade along the 
Marchbourne and that had already swelled his 
coffers and brought a great deal of joy to the 
merchant class and even to the farmers and 
various guilds in Salinon who saw a greater 
demand for their wares. Metamor had solidified 
its control over the city of Giftum at the mouth 
of the Marchbourne, but had not otherwise pressed its advantage.

“They did think that no one was listening,” Velar 
insisted. Otakar only stared impassively at him. 
He would judge the Metamorians intents for 
himself. “I will use stronger cantrips in the 
Kestrel's Wing now that I know of the Lady Thores's gifts.”

“Very good. I take it then that you have nothing 
else of note to report on the Metamorians?”

“Nothing yet, but it is early. I will learn more.”

“I am confident you will. What of Jaime? Has he had any more flying visitors?”

Velar nodded and his smile regained its usual 
confidence. “That crow I mentioned just visited 
him again. And I noticed something about him this 
time that I had missed before.”

Otakar sipped at his wine and narrowed his eyes. “What is that?”

“I mentioned that there seemed to be something 
magical about him, but that I couldn't tell 
what.” He waited a moment as if expecting Otakar 
to actually prompt him. But the Duke only waited 
and eventually Velar continued. “Today I figured 
it out. The magic on this crow looks exactly like 
the magic touching our guests from Metamor.”

That did give Otakar pause. “The crow is a 
Metamorian? What could they possibly want with 
Jaime? Has the crow revealed himself?”

“No,” Velar replied and then his expression 
soured. “And I have not been able to determine 
where this bird goes when he leaves the donjon. I 
still think a well-shot arrow would be the best solution to this mystery.”

“Thank you, Velar. Do you have anything else to report?”

Velar pressed his lips tight at the rebuff. “No, I do not, your grace.”

“You have done well. Cast your cantrips in the 
Kestrel's Wing, and continue to listen and 
observe. Do not let your hand be noticed. Now go; I have much to think about.”

Velar rose from the seat, placed his hands inside 
his large sleeves, and bowed his head. “Good 
evening, your grace.” With that he excused 
himself and left Otakar alone in his study.

The Duke leaned back his head and smiled. He 
didn't know what the Metamorians were up to but 
it was going to be very entertaining to find out. 
Perhaps even a good learning experience for his 
eldest. And despite his pet mage's complaints, it 
was best to let them think their subterfuge 
remained undetected for now. Let them gain 
confidence and let them have their hope of 
success. When the time was right, when he knew 
enough that the advantage would be his, he could 
let his mage feather that bird with arrows, or 
his guards bind in chains that over-zealous knight.

And of course, if he was really lucky, he could 
instigate war between Metamor and Kelewair.

Mind awash with possibilities, the Duke of 
Salinon sighed in contentment. He would sleep well tonight.

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

Charles Matthias