[Mkguild] Divine Travails of Rats - Pars V. Ascensum (e)

[C. Matthias]

Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats
by Charles Matthias and Ryx

Pars V: Ascensum

(e)


Wednesday, June 23, 724 CR - Morning

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” Baerle said, sticking 
her narrow snout in through the heavy, cloth 
door, “but there is a gryphon here with a message for milord Charlie.”

Charlie smiled despite himself. “That would be 
Kurgael.” News of the chief messenger of the Sutt 
family always made him feel young. Though his 
mother had turned to face Baerle, his eyes noted 
the grimace touching her features at the 
interruption and so he forced the grin from his 
snout and lowered his whiskers. “I suspect I am being summoned.”

Kimberly nodded and stood, hands clasped at her 
waist and long tail trailing across the back of 
her chair. “If so, you should go, my son. There 
is not much more to tell of that night; at least 
not from what I saw. I spent the rest of the 
night praying. Somehow word reached James and 
Baerle who came to my aid and sat with Murikeer 
and I. And then...” She gasped and shook her 
head, relief and pain touching her cheeks and 
jowls. “And I will tell you the rest on the 
morrow if you wish. We will not be returning to 
the Narrows until the second day so there is time 
enough to ask any other questions you have.”

And, Charlie mused to himself, time to spend with 
his siblings and heal any wounds inflicted on 
their hearts as well as his own. A smile came to 
him at the thought of showing Erick, Bernadette, 
and his sister Baerle around Metamor as they 
often had shown him around the Narrows. “And if I 
do I shall ask. And if not I shall come see you all anyway.”

Kimberly smiled, lifting her whiskers as well as 
her jowls. She reached out a hand to grasp him on 
the shoulder. He stepped toward her and wrapped 
his arms around her back, resting his chin on her 
shoulder in a gentle yet firm embrace. “I love 
you, my son. You are almost fully grown. For your 
family's sake, both Sutt and Matthias, and for 
your own, your honor, your reputation, and your 
soul, do no ever again act the child you did 
yesterday.” Though her voice held steel that 
pierced him anew the warmth of her love tempered the thrust.

“I...” he caught the apology, uttered so many 
times already, before it left his throat. “I 
will. You have my word, mother.” He gripped her 
firmly once more and then stepped away, turning 
toward the doorway where Baerle's gray-pointed 
snout had appeared a moment before. He paused 
with one foot through the portal to turn his head 
back to Baroness Kimberly. “I love you too, mother.”

She waved him off with one last smile, her other 
hand clasping the amethyst medallion at her 
breast. A profound look of exhaustion pinched her 
eyes and sagged her cheeks. Charlie stepped back 
into the main part of the pavilion and then out 
into the day. The sun had just crested the 
mountains and everything was bath in long shadows 
and brilliant colors. Charlie narrowed his eyes 
and shielded them with one arm as he looked about.

Maysin remained where he had left her, her long 
equine face turning to him with a hopeful warmth. 
Reclining on his haunches next to her was the 
four-footed gryphon Kurgael. His father's chief 
messenger cocked his head to one side, cracking 
his beak in a familiar way. “Good morning, Lord 
Charlie. Your father and mother have arrived at 
the High Box and request your presence. Your 
sister adds, 'if you can sit down'. I'm not sure 
what she meant, but the rumors I have heard 
suggest you might deserve it if you have just visited the Matthias pavilion.”

Few were the Sutt servants allowed leeway to 
speak so about the household; Kurgael's length of 
service and closeness to the family allowed him 
that privilege. Had Charlie a ball of some sort 
he would have bounced it off the gryphon's head 
and then laughed. Lacking the ball to brain the 
beast he just laughed. “One of these days Suria 
is going to be the one in trouble. She'd better not...”

“Expect you to be anything less than chivalrous?” 
Maysin suggested with a flick of her tail.

Charlie nodded with a slight bow, the impish grin 
remaining. “Of course.” When he straightened, his 
smile and tone grew serious. “I should never be anything less.”

Maysin returned the smile and inclined her long 
head respectfully, the bright green gem in her 
ear sparkling in the first rays of the sun. 
“Where do you wish to go, milord Charlie?”

“Let us to the High Box, my friends.”

It was not a long distance from the Matthias 
pavilion and what time they had Charlie spent 
listening to Kurgael describe what he'd done the 
last two days of the festival when he'd been 
given leave of his duties as a messenger. Maysin 
walked at his side, quiet and attentive, though 
her eyes and ears kept guard against interlopers 
as she'd been trained. But of the many revelers 
already up to enjoy the morning shows and 
displays none paid the richly adorned rat much 
notice. Or at least, their guarded glances and 
sudden whispers when they thought they were out 
of view of the rat's widely set eyes, suggested 
that they didn't want to pay him obvious attention.

It would not be the first time he had been the 
object of talk and it would not be the last.

They found Versyd and Argamont and several other 
servitors in the antechamber below the main part 
of the High Box playing a game of dice. Kurgael 
joined the two horses while Maysin followed Charlie up the stairs into the box.

While normally throughout the day the box would 
witness the coming and going of many who were 
close to Duke Thomas or Archduke Malger Sutt, it 
seemed unusually crowded that morning. Not only 
was King Pelaeth and his retinue in attendance, 
but several others who were not so closely 
attached to the Ducal household were present as 
well as some retainers rarely seen in the public eye.

Charlie found his father first. Malger Sutt was 
deep in an animated conversation with two others 
off in a corner of the box that was clearly 
visible to all on the field. Both of them stood 
on stools so that they could be readily seen. The 
first was the chief Exchequer for Metamor, 
Lidaman, whom the curses had reduced to a 
bright-haired boy of twelve. He spoke with rather 
exaggerated motions of his arms which made his 
voluminous green sleeves fall over his hands. 
Lidaman was a grandfather and in another five 
years likely to be a great-grandfather and 
preferred to tend to the affairs of his office in 
private away from the hustle and bustle of court life.

The second was far more enigmatic and almost 
never showed his face except in private 
conferences with the Duke. Charlie had only seen 
him a handful of times and had only once 
conversed with him. Disfigured by a series of 
crisscrossing bilious green scars down the left 
side of his face, chest, and wing, he offered a 
hideous appearance that made any who were 
unfortunate enough to treat with him distinctly 
uncomfortable. For this reason beyond even the 
rigors of his duties, Metamor's Spymaster, Andwyn the bat, kept out of sight.

And yet now he, Lidaman, and Charlie's father 
were engaging in a very public conversation that 
had the appearance of great weight. And even 
though his rodent ears heard them speak of the 
weather, the latest fashions from Kelewair, and 
in the bat's case, which visiting nobles were 
acquainting themselves with the seamier side of 
Metamor, anyone else looking at them would assume 
something very important was taking place.

Metamor's spymaster, the keeper of the treasury, 
and her chief diplomat recently returned from 
negotiations over a stolen bar of mithril – the 
conversation was a charade with one purpose in 
mind, to unnerve the true thief. Charlie caught 
his father's eye, smiled in approval, received a 
smile in return, and then turned to leave them to their task.

In the furthest corner of the High Box he saw the 
Magyar mage whose face was covered in burn scars 
kneeling down and speaking in a harsh tongue to 
the jerboa Father Felsah. The Questioner priest 
appeared to be laughing about something. Charlie 
wondered where his hulking reptilian knight 
protector was for the two were rarely separated, 
but doubted the High Box could have survived his weight.

Bryn was at the railing with his younger brother 
Philip and King Pelaeth helping the young colt 
see the early morning festivities. Pelaeth had 
hoisted Philip on his shoulders and was trying 
not to wince when the enthusiastic horse kicked 
him in the chest with his hooves. Seated a short 
distance behind them was Duchess Alberta with 
Princess Brygitta. The princess had one of Bryn's 
young sisters in his lap and was braiding her 
mane in the traditions of the Steppe. On the 
other side was his mother Misanthe and his sister 
Suria. The chief of the King's escort, First 
Hunter Horvig, sat awkwardly next to Suria with 
his bow in hand while pantomiming holding an 
arrow in the other for her instruction on Steppe techniques.

And standing around Duke Thomas were both 
Thalberg and Justicar Weyden. Thomas sat reading 
a letter with a look of years weighing down his 
brow. The hawk, chosen of Dokorath, practically 
beamed as he stood with wings barely held at his 
back. Thalberg had the appearance of a man 
relieved beyond measure. Charlie wondered what 
the letter could possibly be and why it concerned 
both the Steward of Metamor and the Justicar.

Before his attention returned to the seat 
provided for him on the Sutt side of the High 
Box, Thomas lowered the letter and let out a long 
sigh. Charlie's ears turned to hear. “That is 
good news. Thank you, Thalberg, Weyden. It's been 
too many years. I will write to Emily as soon as 
my duties will allow. You may tell the others the good news.”

“I shall,” Weyden squawked, unable to hold back 
his excitement. Charlie marveled seeing the 
otherwise stoic bird so flush with delight that 
he actually molted a feather or two. “And then we 
shall make ready for this afternoon. It will be 
Humphrey's first festival flight! He is so eager he can barely keep aground.”

“Give him, your wife, and the rest of your family 
our love and pride,” Thomas said with a broad 
smile and confidant mien. “And tell Humphrey that we'll be watching for him.”

Weyden cawed a laugh. “He'll make sure you see 
him. With your leave, your grace?”

Thomas wished the hawk well once more and 
dismissed him, before turning to Thalberg and 
clasping the alligator on the shoulder and saying 
with a whicker that almost became a whinny. “That 
is a weight that has been on my heart and yours 
for too many years now. Now smile, my friend, I know you wish to!”

“I fear that if I were to smile too broadly I 
might frighten our guests away, your grace.”

Even as Thomas laughed, and Thalberg joined him 
in his reserved way, Charlie chuckled at the jest 
and started forward toward his seat, Maysin close 
behind and ever patient. A few moments and many 
faces were enough to remind him that his was not 
the only tale unfolding at the festival. Life at 
Metamor was full of these long-held pains and the 
healing that came at moments unexpected. He 
likely would never know what the letter had said 
to Thomas, or what Felsah said to the Magyar 
mage, or even what Pelaeth said to Bryn, and just 
as likely they would never know or understand 
what Charlie had seen and endured. Sometimes it 
was best to leave it that way and not intrude on 
these private joys and sorrows.

He took his seat and asked Maysin to bring him 
something to eat and drink. Misanthe turned to 
him and smiled though the iron lingered in her 
eyes. “Did you have a good walk?”

“And a good talk with my mother. I have apologized to her.”

Maysin returned with a platter of fresh tidbits 
of meat, cheese, fruit, and some pasty sauce that 
smelled of cinnamon in one hand and a small glass 
of wine in the other. Charlie thanked her for 
both and proceeded to nibble at the cheese. 
Between bites he added, “She forgave me. I've 
been a fool. I should have trusted in their love for me.”

“As well you should,” Misanthe agreed.

“I will seek my sire out this evening after the 
festivities,” he announced while rolling a bit of 
cooked ham between two fingers. “They are 
planning to stay at Metamor tomorrow – to avoid 
the rush of foreigners trying to leave I expect – 
so I thought I'd spend the day with them.”

Misanthe nodded and her vulpine snout offered him 
an approving smile. “That is very noble of you, 
Charlie. But do not forget your responsibilities.”

“Maybe I can introduce Erick to Master Vidika.” 
He dipped the ham in the sauce and popped the 
morsel into his mouth before a glint of mischief 
could touch his cheeks. The reproof in his 
mother's glance was, for the first time in two 
days, filled with warmth and humor. “I shall not 
forget them,” he added after swallowing and 
deciding not to use as much of the potent sauce 
on his next bite, “but is not my true first responsibility to family?”

Misanthe inclined her head in assent. “I expect 
most of your tutors will be recovering from the 
festivities anyway and so your absence will be, 
by many, appreciated. I have nothing for you 
tomorrow, so if your father has nothing either, 
you are free to spend the day as you wish.”

He smiled, and breathed a long sigh,”Thank you, mother. I love you.”

Her smile broadened into one of actual joy. She 
reached her arm across the empty seat where 
Malger would sit once his charade with spy and 
banker was at an end and patted him on the arm. “And I love you, my son.”

No more was said between them and Charlie 
finished his platter and wine without further 
interruption. His eyes strayed to the field where 
various acrobats and dancers were hard at work 
showing their talents and hard-won techniques. He 
beheld a gaggle of jugglers, tumblers, and even 
some who were doing handstands on running horses 
– real horses and not animorphed Keepers. A few 
who were gifted with grasping tails were taking 
full advantage of these to juggle with 'three 
hands' or otherwise aid in tumbling or dancing.

At some point, Felsah must have left the box as 
had the Magyar mage for the mage Grastalko 
appeared on the field and joined in the juggling 
and tumbling with a reckless abandon and vivacity 
that astonished the Keepers already performing. 
But like a seasoned troupe they welcomed the 
foreigner into their ranks and all of the King's men applauded him with fervor.

And not long after that Malger returned to his 
seat and gave Charlie a dignified smile. “Good 
morning, my son. How are you feeling today?”

“Well enough,” he replied. “I have apologized to 
Maysin, Bryn, and then my mother, the Baroness. And then I came here.”

“Very good.” Malger nodded and then turned his 
eyes to the tourney field. Charlie shifted in his 
seat, tail curling beneath his toes, and tried to watch.

As the morning drifted past a variety of 
performers took the the field, performed to the 
delight of the Keepers and all their visitors, 
and departed to make room for the next group. 
Charlie found his mind wandering as the minutes 
turned into hours. He barely noticed the last 
bout in the archery contest, and by the time the 
last of the jousts between a heavily armored ram 
and elk he had little attention for their combat; his mind had turned inward.

Chin propped upon his fingers, Charlie ruminated 
on all that his sire had told him the night 
before, weighty and difficult to grasp, yet it 
seemed to the young rat to have absolutely no 
bearing on the deal that had been struck with Nocturna.

And about her Charlie did not wish to dwell. He 
had warded his dreams and studiously turned his 
nocturnal paths away from the Night Temple 
wherein he normally awakened to the Dream. In 
avoiding her, and the conflict that clawed at his 
heart, he knew he was ensuring that the reckoning 
between them could be extreme.

But She was a fey spirit, and held so little 
anger that Charlie was unsure how she would stand 
before him. When he was a child newly wandering 
the dreams she had come upon him in the fullness 
of her deific potency a time or thrice, when he 
had far overstepped himself or caused wrack in 
some hapless sleeper's dreams. That countenance 
had so frightened Charles that he learned those 
lessons mostly clearly and never stepped beyond the bounds she set afterward.

At least, until he had wandered into Baron 
Matthias' dark dreams, further so when he had pushed him to recall them.

She would, as the saying went, have his hide for 
that breach of faith and trust.

He watched the tournament field where Sir Egland, 
once more astride the Oryx Intoran as his mount, 
was tilting against Sir Dupré. The Steppelanders 
did not have the practice of mounted lance in 
their style of warfare, which was mounted and 
swift, so had not entered any of the tilts. A few 
from beyond Metamor's borders, and the Curse, had 
come to join the tournaments but none had lasted. 
One was even being hastily borne south with a 
broken leg for his errors, albeit a break that 
had been aided with the healing magic of Metamor's healers before he left.

A roar of the crowds louder than the rumbling 
susurrus of rising and falling cheers broke 
through Charlie's inner turmoil and he focused 
his eyes. Dupré was leaning from his horse with 
an arm outstretched to help the fallen Egland to 
his hooves. The elk knight was laughing loudly 
and spitting dirt from his helm much as Charlie 
had done the day before. Oh, how he knew that 
feeling, Charlie considered. Vidika's training 
and sparring with Bryn had often seen his muzzle 
in dirt, grass, or wood shavings rather often. 
Not that Bryn escaped a similar fate almost as often.

Dupré's shield was split in twain, and his last 
lance lay shattered upon the dirt, but he was 
still upon his blowing mount. Intoran, saddle 
canted wildly to one side of his barrel, ambled 
over to stand next to Egland within easy reach. 
Clapping the cuisse of Dupré's leg, Egland said a 
few words that Dupré found hilarious. With the 
help of squires the ram dismounted to walk beside 
Egland, offering a shoulder while Intoran walked 
on his opposite side. Charlie noted that Egland 
was limping but, if the jocularity of the 
conversation below was any indication, had not 
been terribly harmed by his unhorsing.

Despite the fact he had not been mounted on a horse to begin with.

Charlie dutifully stood with the rest in the High 
Box to applaud Dupré's victory in joust, the two 
knights coming to stand before the Duke's high 
vantage and bowed awkwardly in their dusty, dented armor.

“The final melee dost follow,” King Pelaeth 
rumbled once the applause had died down and the 
two combatants made their way to their respective 
ends of the list. “Unless the lad dost wish to 
return to his position on the list?” He turned 
his gaze to Charlie, dark brows raised.

Charlie smiled in his rodentine way, unsure how 
the visitors might read it since the expression 
was markedly different on a muzzle, and shook his 
head. “No, your majesty. I forfeited when I left 
the field yesterday.” He chuffed 
self-consciously, “Especially having not offered 
my liege even the slightest respect in doing so without his leave.”

“Ah, the forfeit 'twas not thine, lad,” The 
steppelands king offered, turning toward his 
bodyservant hovering nearby. “'Tis why they didst 
allow me to stand champion in thy stead for the 
last contest of foot yesterday. The other rat 
didst break the rules of the engagement, it appeared.”

“He did,” Charlie nodded, “because I forced him 
to.” With a shrug he settled back in his chair. 
“But I would ill grace myself taking the field 
after such crass behavior. I cede the battle to 
you, your Majesty, if that is your wish.”

“Hah, my wish, aye? A warm hearth, warm woman, 
fine family, and peace art my wish. Leave the 
clashing of swords to contests as this.” His 
calloused hand waved at the field being cleared, 
groomed, and prepared for the next event. “Let us 
play at war, not engage in its bloodiness, aye?”

“Indeed, o' wise King!” Charlie smiled with a 
nod, bowing from his seat. “And, that said, I 
would feel more confident that you could wear the 
Summer Crown more regally than I.”

Pelaeth laughed and clapped Charlie heartily on 
the shoulder, rocking the youth in his chair. “In 
sooth, lad! For I art a King!” His hand left 
Charlie's shoulder to thump his broad chest. 
“Regal wearing of crowns dost come to us by 
nature.” With a wave of his thick arm to his 
retinue he made for the stairs at the back of the 
high Box. “I shalt make ready my armor.”

When his heavy footfalls faded into the depths 
below Charlie glanced over at Bryn, who sat 
beside the King's sister, far more relaxed than 
yesterday though his hide still shuddered as if 
he would rather be elsewhere, making idle 
chatter. “I have paid little heed since I 
disgraced myself on the field, but I believe that 
it is the merchant Goldmark whom yon King shall face?”

Bryn smiled hugely and Thomas nickered a hearty 
laugh. “The rat, Goldmark, aye,” the Duke 
answered before his son could speak. Malger, 
holding a lute in one hand that he had been idly 
playing most of the morning, trailed his fingers 
across the strings in a quick trill. Lifted from 
a common comedy the brief chord was easily read 
as a musical punch-line. “He managed to get 
Keleficks to take himself out of the running 
yesterday evening. On his first parry he batted 
the poor Lutin's truncheon into his brow and he knocked himself unconscious.”

Though he'd heard the tale from Suria that 
morning, Charlie still shook his head and 
chortled softly. “The poor guy doesn't stand a 
chance.” He observed. “The wagers are going to be steep.”

Malger barked a laugh and played another musical 
stanza from comedy. “I've put ten garrets on Goldmark all the same.”

“Five,” Bryn whickered behind his hand, his 
discomfiture at the admission causing the visiting princess to laugh brightly.

Charlie gaped, “What, do you want to bankroll the wager keepers?”

“As much as bankrupt them,” Thomas admitted with a shrug and a smile.

Charlie could only shake his head, having placed 
no wagers on any of the events.

Bryn leaned ever so closer to Charlie as if he 
were sharing a confidence though everyone in the 
High Box could easily hear him. “No disrespect is 
meant to his Majesty, of course. He is a 
fantastic warrior; a figure from legend almost! 
You should have seen his bout against Sir Intoran 
last night. You would have thought our Oryx a 
wounded animal and the King not just a man but a pack of wolves!”

In a much quieter voice, one meant only for his 
friend, the rat replied, “It is no wonder then 
your mother wishes to bind such blood to your 
own.” He was rewarded with a scowl followed by 
another laugh as they both settled back in their 
seats to watch the field prepared for one final bout.

Across the tournament field Charlie could see the 
seats given to the Matthias House and, beyond the 
stands, something of their pavilion as well. He 
could see the rat in question, Goldmark, in his 
massive 'taur form being caparisoned for the 
upcoming battle. He stroked his whiskers while a 
troupe of musicians took to the field to 
entertain the waiting crowds. A handful of 
acrobats capered around the periphery to the 
laughter and cheers of the throngs as they 
pantomimed knights at joust on imaginary steeds.

After a few minutes he quaffed the last of his 
mead and stood. “Maysin, please stay here and 
attend the Lady Misanthe,” he said hastily, 
handing the cup off to a waiting servant before 
he trotted for the stairs. Surprised by Charlie's 
sudden exit, Maysin could only gape after him, 
obeying the request after only a couple of steps to follow him.

“Charlie?” Bryn called in surprise, afraid to be 
abandoned to the attentions of his mother and the 
princess. “Where are you going?”

“To find a better vantage!” He called back, 
quickly descending the stairs, tail whispering along the wood behind him.

----------

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

Charles Matthias
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