[Mkguild] Dominion of the Hyacinth (5/10)

[C. Matthias]

Part 5 of Dominion of the Hyacinth!

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May 5, 708 CR


James woke early that morning with a smile 
stretched across his snout. His ears wouldn't 
stop bouncing from side to side as he gathered 
his scouting gear. In an hour he would meet up 
with Baerle the opossum for a quick two-day 
patrol of the relatively peaceful southern 
expanse of the Glen. She wasn't in love with him 
the way he was in love with her yet, but she was 
always so happy to see him. One day he hoped he 
would be as happy with her as Charles was with Kimberly.

A knock at his door roused him from the reverie 
he'd begun to enjoy of their last venture into 
the woods together. The donkey opened the door 
and saw the haggard cervine face of Jurmas. The 
deer already had velveted antlers gracing his 
brow, and a weariness in his face that spoke of 
the lack of sleep his two-month old twin 
daughters were providing him. He had a small letter in his hoof-like hand.

“This just came for you.” Jurmas offered the letter.

James took it in his two-fingered hands and 
turned it over. He saw the horsehead seal, but 
didn't recognize the handwriting with his name. “How are your girls?”

“They are all legs and bleats!” Jurmas said, his 
ears flicking from side to side as he shook his 
head to shake the weariness. “But they are my 
girls and I love them. Everyone says I'll get 
sleep again soon. I'm told they have a most 
interesting brew in Metamor to help me wake in the morning.”

“Next time I go I will ask for you,” James 
offered. “I suppose I should read this.”

Jurmas nodded and stepped back from the door. 
“I'll have something ready for you to eat when 
you come down. I hope your patrol is...” he 
didn't finish his words, only smiled and walked 
back down the corridor of the Inn.

James brayed a laugh to himself and swung the 
door shut. His hooves clopped on the wood as he 
walked toward his pallet and gear. He broke the 
seal and scanned the words. A moment later and 
the donkey sighed; he hoped Baerle wouldn't be too disappointed.

----------

Kayla had been surprised by the letter she 
received that morning. She recognized Andwyn's 
handwriting but also Rickkter's on the outer 
envelope. Despite the oddness this combination 
presented to her she followed the instructions 
without question. She gathered traveling gear and 
a sword that her raccoon had helped her choose 
that fit well in her paw and was light like the 
dragon swords she had once wielded, and then 
borrowed a horse from the stables and started the ride toward Lake Barnhardt.

And yet the biggest surprise was not a half-hour 
into her ride being overtaken by the very man who 
had written her name on the letter. The sun just 
rose over the edge of the mountains, and for a 
moment as she stared back down the winding road 
behind her she could only see a shadow chasing 
her. But then the road dipped between two hills 
and behind a stand of trees and the gray-and 
black furred figure emerged from the glare. 
“Rick!” she cried when his horse galloped 
alongside hers. She slowed down to a comfortable 
trot so they could talk. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm wondering the same thing myself,” Rickkter 
admitted with a shake of his head as he slowed 
his black steed. “First off, what are you doing here?”

“Well,” Kayla knew she wasn't supposed to tell 
anyone. But this was Rickkter and it was his 
handwriting that had specified her name on the 
outside of the letter. “I was ordered to go this way.”

“As was I. By myself apparently.”

Kayla had long since learned how to read the 
subtle changes in the raccoon's face. The way his 
triangular ears were lowered and his narrow snout 
curled ever so slightly showed his irritation and 
uncertainty. “You don't know why?”

“Which is never a good sign. There was only this 
note I left myself on my desk last night that said this was important.”

Kayla shook her head. “Well, if you did that, it must be very important.”

“We'll find out when we get there,” Rick said 
with a long sigh. “I hate not knowing what's happening.”

“Could it be a trick?”

“It would have to be a very, very good one. I 
apparently had something to do with this but for 
the life of me I cannot remember it.”

“But you wanted me here,” Kayla pointed out with 
a smile. She reached across the gap and put her 
paw on his arm. He looked down at it and smiled.

“It must not be so bad then, whatever it is. As long as I have you here.”

Kayla tightened her grip. “You always have me here, Rick.”

He reached over and patted her paw, a slight 
smile creasing the corners of his muzzle.

----------

Captain Dallar led Weyden and his friends on 
patrol to Tarrelton that morning and they would 
be gone from Metamor for four days. Jessica had 
for a brief time joined them on patrol, but the 
importance of her studies had quickly brought her 
participation in something as pedestrian as a 
simple jaunt across the Valley looking for Lutins 
and brigands to an end. It was a great relief to 
the black-feathered hawk to know that her husband 
would be away that long. The ideas percolating in 
her mind and about which she dreamed would doubtless prove shocking to Weyden.

Four days would give Jessica the time to 
determine the best way to broach the subject on his return.

More importantly, it would give her ample 
opportunity to continue her experiments. So with 
a warm Spring day shining through her windows, 
casting rays of light across the slate floor of 
her workroom, the black-feathered hawk set to 
work. Outside she could hear the normal birds 
singing happy songs, their twittering and fluting 
voices cascading above the morning bustle of 
Metamor like the tinkling of bells on a washline 
hanging over a busy street. And from the window 
the hearty aroma of baked bread, the succulent 
flavor of tough-cooked jerky, the heady bouquet 
of the many perfumes humans used, and the slight 
miasma of refuse that hadn't washed down the 
gutters all rushed past her nostrils one after 
another. The taste of last night's meal still 
tickled the back of her throat and coated the inside of her beak.

Jessica allowed each of these sensations to 
occupy her mind for several long seconds before 
setting them aside, bringing more and more of her 
mind into focus upon the slate before her, and 
the trio of runes drawn upon it. First she put 
aside the delicious and disgusting blend of odors 
that pervaded Metamor's streets and which 
filtered into every crack of thought like a bit 
of rain water boring through an ancient stone. 
And then she silenced the cacophony of voices 
human and beast, dwelling not just in her chamber 
but deep within her own flesh. She recessed 
there, everything else, even the bookshelves 
choked with scrolls and loose parchment and her 
scrawling designs that were only a few feet from 
her, stretched away as if they were as far from 
her as the swamps of Marzac were from Metamor.

There, in the inner vaults of the self, she 
allowed the magic wellspring to blossom. A 
brilliant ribbon of purple endlessly twisting and 
shimmering like the dust on a butterfly's wing 
erupted from the hawk's essence like water 
burbling up from a deep well after a night of 
heavy rain. This was the deep, the unseen 
vibrancy that could not be named or labeled yet 
it animated Jessica's thought and being. Even as 
her physical form bent over, wings splayed in 
front of her so that each wing touched one rune 
and her beak the center rune, she sank into the 
maelstrom like a thousand millstones bound together with iron chains.

The ribbon of light wound around her, while the 
tendrils of magic flowed into the whirligig until 
they were stretched taut and balled tight inside 
with Jessica. Gone completely now was all that 
existed outside. She was within the magic in a 
way she had never conceived before. The ribbon of 
purple light shimmered as it stretched into a 
nearly perfect sphere, while the veins of magic 
flowed into a centrifuge pressing them tighter 
and tighter together until she could not longer distinguish individual strands.

Everything became a seamless whole through which 
no part of the Valley untouched by the hyacinth 
could remain closed to her. With a mere flicker 
of will she could see Rhena brushing the fur of 
her tail at the back of the Inn while casting 
coquettish smiles at a young tabby across the 
room. Another blink and she saw Kuna and the 
other urchin boys pilfering breakfast in the 
sleepy market still waking to a new day. But on 
these things the hawk did not linger long. There was much work to be done.

As if they were a set of tools, she arrayed her 
feathers before herself, dipping each one by one 
into the turbulent flow of magic. Whispered words 
trilled on her tongue, bouncing back and forth 
within her beak until they were shaped into 
power. The purple ribbon wound around each 
feather in turn, its texture as soft as silk but 
as warm as the heaviest quilt. A touch of that 
hue glinted from each feather so that they too 
shimmered with a vibrancy they'd never had even 
when they'd been red like Weyden's.

Four days, Jessica mused to herself as the 
transforming spells were bound to her feathers, 
ready to be released at her will on those who 
might bring her to harm. In four days there would 
not be a feather on her that could not reshape 
anyone in the world into a child, a beast, or 
even – the sweet and endearing smile of her 
husband filling her thoughts – into a woman or a man.

The ribbon blossomed with a new brightness and 
song. You will set all things right.

And with the hyacinth, Jessica knew she would.

----------

It was still early morning by the time that 
Captain Dallar and his patrol arrived in 
Tarrelton to begin their patrol of the roads and 
forests near the small town an hour's walk north 
of the Keep. It was in Tarrelton that the 
northward road from Metamor forked with a road 
leading east to Mallen and a road leading west 
toward Lake Barnhardt. The northern road that 
branched shortly after the village was lost to 
sight around hills and trees, with the eastern 
fork heading to Mycransburg and the western 
angling northwest toward Glen Avery. There was a 
northbound road that lead directly to Hareford, 
but few merchants braved it even in the best of 
weather because of the strange rumors and 
frightful noises many had heard coming from the 
Haunted Woods that lay on its eastern flank like 
a growling dog resting one paw protectively over a bone.

Despite being the northern crossroads for the 
Metamor valley, Tarrelton remained a small 
village with a ten foot high wall surrounding an 
old Suielman tower and a dozen or so waddle and 
daub houses. Most who lived in the area pastured 
sheep on the rocky swards or grew potatoes and 
beets in the softer fields. A small hostel served 
travelers forced to remain overnight, but that 
was all. Why would a merchant stop in this place 
when for an hour or two more of travel they could 
reach the more prosperous markets of Lake 
Barnhardt, Mallen, or Mycransburg? And merchants 
from south of the valley had even less reason 
since their fortune would always be made or lost within the walls of Keeptowne.

But for the patrols, Tarrelton was an important 
vantage from which they could keep an eye on 
nearly all of the foot and hoof traffic in the 
northern reaches of the Valley. They were five: 
Dallar the ram, their captain and one time gaoler 
who led the squad and kept one hand on the pommel 
of his sword and pipe stem clutched between his 
flat teeth; Larssen the giraffe who walked at the 
rear at a leisured pace, his head and neck 
stretched high enough to see past the nearest 
shrubs and almost over the wall of Tarrelton 
itself; before him was Maud, his wife and now 
also a giraffe who led the packhorse with their 
gear; and between them on their other horse rode 
Van who was stuck in the body of a thirteen year 
old; flying high above as a normal hawk was 
Weyden watching over everything and noting every 
twitch of the Spring blossoms and coniferous 
branches for signs of brigands or Lutins.

At the base of the old tower a new house had been 
built from stone with a small second story with 
narrow windows that could peer over the edge of 
the guarding wall. After greeting the town guards 
at the small gate and being ushered inside onto a 
road that was no more than a muddy track that 
would have sucked at their hooves if the last few 
days hadn't been dry, Dallar led them straight 
past the wooden homes, a goose waddling along as 
if he owned the town, and a pair of barking dogs 
chasing each others' tails toward the tower in 
the center. The doorway to the house was too 
small for either Larssen or Maud, and so they 
remained just outside while Dallar and Van 
stepped through to let the soldiers stationed in 
Tarrelton know that they had arrived for their 
patrol. Weyden settled onto the lintel over the door and perched there.

“How was the sky?” Larssen asked as he turned his long head toward the hawk.

Weyden couldn't respond while still a full hawk 
so allowed himself to grow enough in size to make 
human speech possible. He stretched out his 
larger wings and then folded them along his back. “It tastes of rain.”

“But there's no clouds in the sky,” Maud noted as 
she craned her neck back. She lifted one hand to 
the two knobs on her forehead and peered upward, 
a blue tongue extending from her jaws to lick 
crumbs from the side of her snout. “Are you sure?”

Weyden nodded and then preened his shoulder a 
moment. When he looked up both giraffes were 
staring at him. “The wind is coming from the 
south. We should see the clouds start by noon. 
The rains might be here this afternoon, this 
evening, or perhaps tonight. It just... tastes like rain.”

“You would know,” Larssen conceded with a bleating laugh.

Van slipped back out the door with a blank 
expression followed by Dallar who had a sealed 
letter in his hands. The ram lifted his head, 
ears flicking against his curling horns, and 
said, “Wait here a moment. It looks like we might have new orders.”

The four of them did as instructed while Dallar 
stalked away a short distance, just enough to 
keep his body between them and the letter. The 
ram's short tail shifted from side to side as 
opened the letter. Larssen shrugged, turned to 
Maud, and stroked one hand down her long neck. 
She smiled back at him but pushed his hand away with a not-while-on-duty look.

Dallar took a deep breath and rolled his pipe 
around in his snout. “New orders. We're to go to 
Lake Barnhardt and meet somebody outside the 
gates there. They'll explain what we need to do.”

“Those seem like strange orders,” Larssen noted 
with narrowed eyes. He crossed his arms and 
tapped one hoof. “Who are we supposed to meet?”

“It doesn't say,” Dallar replied as he folded the 
letter closed and slipped it between his tunic 
and linens. “But it must be important. Duke 
Thomas's signet was used. Only his closest advisers have that.”

“I guess we go to Lake Barnhardt then,” Van mused with a boyish laugh.

“I like it there,” Maud said with a smile. “It 
will be good to be there again. I hope we'll have a chance to see our friends.”

“Well, our orders don't say one way or another, 
so I guess we'll just have to find out. Let's get 
moving. Break out a little of the bread and juice 
on the way. Weyden, back to the skies.”

The hawk nodded his head, his eyes ever fixed 
upon the bulge in Dallar's tunic where the letter was pressed.

----------

James was delighted when he was joined on the 
road south by a very familiar rat riding on a 
roan pony. The donkey was not surprised that 
Charles had also received a letter instructing 
him to journey to the gates of Lake Barnhardt to 
await instructions. Nor was he surprised that it 
took Charles much longer that morning to take his 
absence from his duties. James's duties had been 
a simple patrol and a message left with Jurmas 
was sure to get to the right people; he had 
stopped to let Baerle know personally but the 
opossum had only hurried him along once she understood.

For Charles there was the matter of his four 
children and his wife whose side he never liked 
leaving. Only a few days before when they had 
traveled to Metamor Keep together to gather with 
their friends it had taken the knight rat nearly 
two candlemarks to hug and kiss his children with 
repeated promises that he would be home in time 
for the evening meal and to give his children a 
ride either on Malicon or on his own back in taur 
form. That morning had been little different 
except this time Charles wasn't sure when they would be getting back.

“This is Andwyn's handwriting,” Charles groused 
from atop his pony. James walked along beside him 
and his long ears were nearly as high as the 
rat's. “At least inside the letter. I don't 
recognize who wrote my name. But I suspect... hmm...”

“What?”

“The calligraphy has a bit of a southeastern 
flair. It might be Rickkter's pen.”

James blinked a few times as his hooves carried 
him down the road through the hills as they 
sloped toward the lower-lying dells around the 
large lake. His frown deepened as he tried to 
understand what it meant for the names to have 
been written by Rickkter and the orders by 
Andwyn. But he couldn't think of any good reason 
why that would be so. “Are you sure it's from Rickkter?”

“Nae,” Charles admitted with a shrug. “I've never 
seen that... raccoon's handwriting. But he's the 
only person I know from that land here at 
Metamor. And it looks like the script of the people of southeast Sonngefilde.”

“They write differently there?”

“Every land has their own style of letters. Not 
every land has as many who can read let alone 
write as does Metamor. Still, I don't like the 
idea of Rickkter and Andwyn joining their 
resources together. It sounds very dangerous to me.”

James brayed a laugh but the rat wasn't amused. 
James hated seeing Charles upset and so turned 
their conversation to his new land, the 
anniversary of his children's birth which was in 
two days, and whether he planned to compete in 
the joust at the Summer festival. The last 
question caught his friend off-guard.

“I.. I don't really know. I hadn't even thought 
about it. I need a squire to joust and it is a 
little late to train someone so I suppose I will 
not. I'm not sure what Sir Saulius has planned. 
I'll have to ask him next time I see him.”

James was about to ask him how the other rat 
knight was when they both turned their ears as 
the sound of another set of hoofbeats came from 
the north, these much heavier than either 
Malicon's or James's. They stopped and waited at 
the side of the road where short birch trees 
provided shade and shielded them from a quick 
glance. They had to wait almost two minutes before they saw the rider.

The road from the Glen wound its way along mostly 
gentle downward slopes to avoid the rocky ledges 
nearer the western edge of the valley. The 
rolling hills leveled out for a good twenty 
minute walk before resuming their descent the 
rest of the way to the wrinkled plain and 
depression that formed Lake Barnhardt. That brief 
level stretch was commonly called the Narrows and 
it was this land that Lord Avery had given 
Charles as his fief. James realized as they 
stared back up the road this would be the first 
time that his friend had welcomed a traveler on his own land.

In the end the figure riding over the last hill 
proved to be a familiar face. He'd selected a 
common bay quarter horse which meant he towered 
over both of them as did his prodigious black and 
white tail. He didn't see them at first, but by 
the time he had, both James and Charles had eased 
out from under the protective awning of the stand of birch. This was a friend.

“Ho, Murikeer!” Charles called and waved his paw. 
“What brings you away from your homestead this day?”

Murikeer drew his steed beside them and inclined 
his head, keeping his tail pointed the other 
direction. “Sir Charles. James. We are well met 
on the road. But I'm afraid I cannot mention my purpose.”

“You received a letter too?” James asked in 
surprise. Charles gave him a sullen, reproving 
glare, and he chided himself. He needed to better 
learn how to obey the Duke's orders.

The skunk's surprise lasted only a moment before 
it was replaced with a calmer expression. James 
did not know Murikeer that well. He had seen the 
skunk only a handful of times and then usually in 
the company of his friends for their gatherings 
at the Deaf Mule. Despite both of them living in 
the Glen and the very good reputation the skunk 
had – not to mention the complimentary room and 
board that Jurmas the Innkeeper provided them 
both – they had never really gotten to know one another.

What mattered most to James when it came to 
people whose power was not apparent in their 
appearance like this master illusionist was the 
opinion of his friend Charles. Charles trusted 
Murikeer enough to allow him to tutor his wife in 
magical arts. That said more about the skunk's 
character than anything he had ever seen the 
fellow do or say. James admired him and was very glad to see him.

“Aye,” Murikeer admitted with a smirk. His only 
eye narrowed as he glanced past them at the stand 
of birch trees. “Were you expecting someone else?”

“We weren't sure who to expect,” Charles replied. 
He stroked one paw down Malicon's neck and 
shifted his long tail to keep it from dangling 
across the pony's flank. “There is still a ways 
to journey before we reach Lake Barnhardt. We 
would be honored by your company.”

“Since it seems we are going to the same place, then I am honored to join you.”

James felt good to be walking again as they 
continued southeast along the road. When the 
trees ahead of them thinned out he could see the 
mountains and the broad lake at their base as 
well as the towers of Lord Barnhardt's castle. He 
flecked his lips and turning back to the skunk 
asked, “Was your name written by Rickkter? That's 
who we think wrote our names.”

Murikeer frowned a bit while scratching just 
under his chin. “It was my mentor's handwriting. 
But I didn't recognize the script inside the 
letter. I was curious that the letter didn't have any scent.”

“It's Andwyn,” Charles noted as his eyes moved 
from side to side, taking in the rough country 
that was now his. “I'm not sure how he removes 
the stink of bat from his messages, but I've 
never received anything from him that had so much 
as a hint of fragrance on it.”

“A very curious message indeed,” Murikeer 
admitted as he leaned back in the saddle. Their 
pace was measured but a comfortable walk. James 
was grateful that the Curse had gifted him with 
hooves and long legs, even if his stomach wasn't 
always happy with him when he dined on roast. “I 
suppose this means that the person we are to meet 
outside the walls of Lake Barnhardt is none other than Rickkter himself.”

The rat's expression visibly soured. “Probably.”

Murikeer did not have a left eye anymore and so 
to better see them both had directed the bay to 
walk on the left side of the road. The skunk 
still turned his head to stare down the length of 
his short snout at the rat. “Do you still hate him?”

James noticed Charles tighten his grip on the 
reins. The knot-work buckler over his right wrist 
bulged with his veins. “I do not hate him 
anymore. He is... not the man I expected him to 
be. But he is, or was, Kankoran and that is hard to forget.”

“You left your order. What ties you to the feuds of your order?”

“History and habit I suppose. A group of us were 
hunted in the Darkündlicht mountains by Kankoran. 
I lost a few friends to their hands.”

Murikeer's snout wrinkled for a moment, the jowls 
lifting to reveal his short, sharp fangs. “I did 
not know that. I am sorry. But Kayla is right; 
you should let it go. You are not in those lands or those clans anymore.”

“Nay, we are not.” The rat sighed and nudged 
Malicon into a trot. James quickened his pace to 
keep up but Murikeer shook his head. The donkey 
waited a moment and saw that his friend slowed 
again after he'd put a dozen paces between them.

James kicked at a loose stone and it clattered 
across the hard earth before disappearing into 
the brush. In an unhappy silence they continued 
their way south following orders they did not understand.

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

Charles Matthias