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

[C. Matthias]

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

Pars V: Ascensum

(h)


Wednesday, June 23, 724 CR


Charlie and Bernadette went their separate ways 
after rejoining the crowd flocking the banquet 
tables spaced around the tournament field. The 
young rat found his noble friend Bryn unattached 
– the princess had apparently retired to the 
King's pavilion to refresh herself – and so they 
began to peruse the delicacies prepared by their 
guests together. Each exotic morsel was washed 
down by a quick sip of a fermented liquor that 
Bryn told him was blended with the cream skimmed 
from mare's milk; despite the odd look Bryn bore 
with each quaff, Charlie found it smooth, 
tantalizing, and savored the warmth that accompanied each drop.

Sig, accompanied by Justin the Mage Murikeer's 
eldest son, joined them after their first table 
and soon the quartet laughed as they watched some 
of their fellow Keepers tumbling over their own 
paws after even a little sip of the foreign 
brews. They joshed each other as well as both 
Maysin and Argamont who followed after them over 
how much each of them could handle. Charlie tried 
to make sure that he did not drink too much for 
fear he would not be able to keep awake long 
enough to hear the remainder of his sire's tale, 
while Bryn did the same for fear of embarrassing 
himself in front of their guests; Sig, an 
alligator who had still not come into his manly 
growth, only took a sip mindful of what his 
mother might say and confessed to find it 
revolting anyway, as did Justin who recoiled at 
the smell alone. Maysin had one small cup and 
demurred any more, but Argamont seemed to enjoy more than his fair share.

Charlie made an off-handed joke that it was a 
skunk who would find the scent repulsive, earning 
him a brief scowl before the young skunk joined 
their laughter. Or, perhaps, they were laghing 
because for a few moments Charlie found himself 
the same hue as the viscid concoction, and as 
redolent. Justin let the spell fade after the 
jape, however, after the laughter of Charlie's 
quip was redoubled at his sudden discomfiture.

Before the strawberry roan could completely 
scupper himself, servitors began to clear the 
tables in preparation for the arrival of both 
mages and musicians. Charlie and his friends 
moved to the end of the lists to watch where they 
would not be in the way of either the Keepers 
leaving the field after enjoying their fill of 
Steppe-bred delicacies or the laborers scuttling 
about with the purpose and chaos of ants. Food, 
drink, and the tables they waited upon were 
carried off leaving a trail of delectable flavors 
in the air. Tools to straighten the field out for 
the hundredth time emerged, and behind them came 
benches for the musicians and raised stands for the mages.

“Are you going to be playing, Charlie?” Sig asked 
, swinging his long jaws toward the rat. He 
gestured with a short, green arm at the 
semi-circle of benches being arranged in front of the High Box.

Charlie glanced there, saw the workers following 
the instructions of a familiar blue-robed 
raccoon, and then shook his head. “Not this year. 
I've had my hands full and don't know the music.”

“As if there were a tune you could not improve as 
you learned it!” Bryn admonished with a bemused snort.

“I'm not quite as good as my father,” Charlie 
noted with a faint chuckle at the rebuke. “Still, 
let the guild and temple musicians shine. And 
what of you, Sig? Are you going to help the mages with their grand show?”

The alligator bobbed his head and thumped the end 
of his tail on the dirt. “Master Murikeer did ask 
me to assist; but he asked all of his apprentices 
to assist.” Sig's yellow eyes narrowed. “I will 
only be holding a small part of it together.”

“And next year you will do even more,” Justin 
assured him with a smile, resting his 
monochromatic hand on the young alligator's 
shoulder. “You are proving to be as apt a pupil 
as I, Sig. Your talents go to waste as a House 
Steward.” As with Charlie and Bryn's theological 
sparring, the young skunk and alligator jibed 
each other about their expected respective 
professions, with the same lack of rancor that the young royals enjoyed.

Charlie nodded agreement, casting another glance 
at the musicians starting to assemble. “Bryn, 
Sig, Justin, if you will excuse me, I want to go 
speak with Master Elvmere for a moment.”

Bryn patted him on the shoulder. “We'll be here or in the High Box.”

Charlie flashed him a rodent's smile and then 
started across the field to where the musicians 
were beginning to gather. The soft clop of 
Maysin's hooves followed him. Most of the Keepers 
who were not helping maintain the field had left 
not long after the remnants of food and drink had 
been carried away, so the rat was able to make a 
straight course for the blue-robed raccoon 
scrutinizing the benches, musicians, and their 
instruments. His triangular ears lifted at their 
approach, and with a half turn of his head, he saw them and smiled.

“Milord Sutt, I thought you were not going to be 
performing with us this year. Have you changed your mind?”

“Master Elvmere,” Charlie replied with a slight 
bow. “No, I have not changed my mind, I just 
wanted to take a moment of your time. First, 
congratulations on your appointment as Master of Temple musicians.”

The raccoon's ears backed, his tail flicked, and 
a look of sullen embarrassment seemed to cross 
his eyes. The position had been offered to the 
Lothanasi acolyte several times over the last few 
years but had, until a week ago, been refused 
each time. Rumor had it that Charlie's philosophy 
and history instructor had been ordered by the 
Lothanasa to accept the appointment; it was no 
secret that some of the raccoon's written musings 
on matters of the gods were causing some 
consternation in the Midlands and Sathmore. 
Charlie suspected even the rigors of managing the 
temple musicians and writing music for their 
performance would not dampen his theological inquiries.

“Thank you. I have your father to thank for this 
unexpected skill in music! And I have promised 
your mother that my duties will not impede your studies, young Charlie.”

Charlie's whiskers twitched uncertainly. Of all 
his instruction, Elvmere's was always the most 
taxing; not even Vidika's torture could make his 
brain hurt so much as philosophy. “There was one 
thing I hoped to ask you, Master. I have come 
across a couple of Åelvish words and I was 
wondering if you knew what they meant.”

Elvmere politely waved away an otter approaching 
him with a cornet in one paw, and then pulled 
Charlie a step away from the gathering 
performers. “It's been a year since I last 
reviewed the Åelvish language, but I can try. What words have you heard?”

“The first is Núrodur. I think it is a title of some sort.”

The raccoon lifted his eyes as if he were staring 
into a book only he could see. He scratched his 
chin with one claw. “Núrodur... I believe that it 
means a devoted servant. It is an honorable word. 
If you have pronounced it correctly, then it 
would also imply a degree of endearment between 
both master and servant. The Núrodur belongs to 
the master but is also treasured by the master.” 
Elvmere began nodding to himself. “Yes, yes, I 
believe that is correct. What is the other word you wish to know?”

Charlie thought a moment on his sire's tale. It 
had only been spoken once, but something in its 
use pierced him. He was not sure if it was the 
mystical quality of the Åelvish language or the 
emphasis his sire had placed on it that had 
impressed him so. He narrowed his eyes, 
concentrating on the last moments of the tale 
until the word came. “I believe... Nuruhuinë. Yes, that is it. Nuruhuinë.”

A frown darkened Elvmere's snout and after a 
moment he was forced to shake his head. “I fear I 
do not know that one. Some of the parts are 
familiar; I have probably seen them in other 
contexts, but as a word unto itself? No, that I 
have not seen.” Rising a gray and black striped 
paw Elvmere rubbed his jaw contemplatively, 
“Consider it as might master Rickkter when 
speaking of his written magical constructs, or 
Murikeer may. It seems to my recollection that 
there are distinct parts to the address, a triune 
that, individually, have small meanings and thus 
small potency. Yet, combined, form a greater and 
more weighty whole. Or, in the cases of those who practice magecraft, power.”

“What do the parts mean?”

“They could have many meanings, individual chords 
plucked from a bar of music. Alone, they define 
little. They may not mean the same thing as its 
own word and when used separately, but I believe 
that the first part speaks of loss. The 
inflection suggests loss of an intended, or was 
intended. I admit my Åelvish is not particularly 
polished. And the second half may be an image of 
some sort.” Elvmere wrinkled his snout and then 
shook his head again. “I cannot say exactly, but 
it does not seem like a good word to me.” The 
raccoon tilted his head curiously. “And again, it 
is a word, albeit one that does not sit well to 
my mind. A word taken from a greater context that 
would more clearly define its use.”

Charlie nodded slowly, chewing the inside of his 
lower lip as he let his whiskers droop. “And if 
someone were to be called Núrodur Nuruhuinë?”

“And therein lies the context,” Elvmere nodded. 
“It would seem, then, that they – the one being 
addressed by such words – would be a devoted 
servant by being whatever ill thing that strange 
word portends. And what being might such an ill 
thing serve with devotion? Young Lord Sutt, your 
question distresses me; I fear the moment I am 
free from my duties as Master of Temple musicians 
I will be seeking my books!” Despite his 
frightful words, the rat could see a twinkle of 
curiosity in the raccoon's eyes.

“I am eager to hear whatever you discover.” 
Charlie bowed his head and took a quick step 
back. “Now I'll leave you to your duties. I must find my friends again.”

Elvmere smiled and patted him on the shoulder. 
“Enjoy your Summer days, young Lord Sutt.” With a 
slight bow of respect, mirrored by the priest, 
Charlie withdrew. It was good that he did for the 
tournament field was beginning to grow crowded 
again. Not so tightly as it had during the feast, 
but with the addition of a mind-boggling assembly 
of instruments large and small, and with the 
requisite benches, tables, stands, and the 
central platform for whatever performers would be 
taking the focus it had become just as confining.

The throb and whine of instruments began to fill 
the air with a low, discordant susurrus as the 
musicians worked to tune their instruments. Brief 
chords lifted above the din as groups practiced. 
In the center, upon the platform, Murikeer stood 
with a group of guild mages before a crowded 
assemblage of apprentices. Charlie saw Sig and 
Justin standing with the greater group, mostly 
illusionists, who would be creating the spectacle 
which would entertain the crowds before the faire was officially ended.

Not, of course, that the end of the faire would 
be an end of festivities; it would only mark the 
beginning of very likely days of revelry before 
everyone trailed back to their homes and 
professions. For the world continued in its 
course; cows would need milking, crops tending, 
and mills grinding despite the midsummer pause.

To relax, if for a time, from the labors of simply living.

In due course, Charlie knew, he would be at the 
center of such things as Duke Thomas was now. 
Though an atmosphere of frivolity and revelry it 
was also – evidenced by the presence of the 
Steppes King and his sister – a time of intense 
politics. Thomas could not beg out to enjoy his 
own relaxation during the festivities, nor could 
Bryn, and Charlie could little escape it though 
his adoptive father was no longer on the throne 
that gave him his House. Even distant from the 
Western Pyralian kingdom that gave House Sutt its 
foundation Malger, and perforce Charlie, had to 
juggle politics and diplomacy, even within Metamor.

A narrow gate before the High Box allowed Charlie 
past the railing that defined the tourney field 
and let him through the cordon of alert 
Men-at-Arms from both Metamor and Pelaeth's 
retinue. Past the perimeter Charlie felt less 
crowded and relaxed a little, altering his path 
toward the table of refreshments laid out to one 
side. The stout fermented drink of the steppes 
was not distasteful to him; but it left a strong 
aftertaste as might a fine soft cheese; pungent 
and lingering, but not unpleasant. Nearing the 
table he saw a cluster of women, all of them 
human, garbed in various wardrobes from simple to 
fine. They parted smoothly, some of them with 
slightly frightened swiftness at being approached 
by a rat, while he made his way through them to the table.

Despite his upright stature, fine clothes, and 
ability to speak the fears and superstitions of 
outlanders held them strongly. Many it simply 
confused, such as the guards who accompanied the 
King, who were accustomed to strangeness in 
foreign lands. The servants, however, were less 
hardened and more flighty in regards to the 
stunning variety of Metamor's non-human peoples.

At the table Charlie spied the Steppeland 
Princess, Brygitta, sipping from a tall silver 
chalice while she leaned one hip indecorously 
against the table and looked out across the 
field. Charlie followed her gaze and saw that she 
was looking at Bryn, who towered over those near 
him along with Argamont at his side. The two were 
tossing some story back and forth regaling 
someone Charlie could not see with its obvious humor.

Bringing his gaze back to the princess Charlie 
caught a moment of pensive contemplation on the 
woman's face. Her ladies-in-waiting did not hover 
too close, but also did not withdraw too far away 
to not serve her whims, but provided just enough 
of a screen that she did not immediately notice 
the young rat nearby. The fact that Charlie was 
almost two hands shorter did not make him any more noticeable for that, either.

“Frightening, is he not?” Charlie asked offhand, 
casting his gaze down to the goblet he secured 
from a tray of them and filled it with mulled 
cider. Brygitta blinked once before turning her 
head to see who spoke nearby, as well to know if 
she was the one to whom he spoke.

“Milord Charlie, I'm sorry.” She lowered her 
chalice quickly and curtsied, casting her gaze 
down momentarily. “I didst not see thee approach.”

“Understandable, your grace.” Charlie smiled, 
offering a bow. “There are much better things to 
capture your attention, I wager.” He turned his 
gaze briefly toward the young Duke's son holding 
forth a stone's throw away amid a crowd of 
admirers. His gaze was not so focused, however, 
that he caught the momentary downturn of her lips 
and wary flash of her eyes when she followed his gaze.

“So many,” she concurred softly, both hands 
turning the chalice in her grasp. “Thy land art 
so... amazing. I canst truthfully say a tome 
could not justly embrace the scope of variety.”

“Ahh, yes, milady. And, for all that, such 
variety is remarkably the same.” Charlie bobbed his head with a smile.

“The same, milord?”

“Man, hare, rat, horse... nature follows a single 
underlying schematic. There is little different 
between myself and, say, a dragon. Arms, legs, 
head, tail.” He flicked the length of his tail 
around to let it slide across his upturned palm. 
“The only true distinction is size.” He raised 
his head with a warm, but playfully 
knowledgeable, smile. “Yon dukeling is no 
warhorse, milady. He stands to a head with your 
brother, and yourself. Worry not that he is 
different than any man, despite the silly ears 
and long muzzle. His physique, like mine, may be 
different, but overall the size is appropriate to 
any man of such stature. Have no fear in that regard.”

The princess stared at him for several long 
seconds and then raised her eyes to look across 
at Bryn, then blushed brightly and cast her gaze 
down quickly. Charlie smiled brightly and waited 
for her to regain her composure. Eventually she 
looked up from the silver chalice clutched 
tightly in her hands and sighed. “But – but, he 
art a horse. As thou art a rat, and she a... an 
assingh, I dost believe.” Brygitta nodded her 
head toward Maysin who stood a short distance 
away among the other ladies, conversing with a 
couple about what appeared to be braining.

“A creature of the Kitchlande plains called a 
zebra, I believe, but yes. She, I, yon Bryn are 
all changed from the human nature that you 
retain. Myself and Bryn, however, were born as we 
are. Maysin was as human as you, until the curse 
took her into her adolescence.” Charlie tilted 
his head, “That is what most frightens you, your 
highness? Not that your brother consider an 
alliance by marriage to a horse-like man, but the curse that made him so?”

Brygitta nodded, but not with conviction. “Well, 
he art a horse...” Raising her gaze to the throng 
and stallions at its center she sighed. “But aye, 
in a degree. The nature of this change curse dost 
leave the blood chilled in its contemplation.”

“It can. It does, I admit, yes.” Charlie nodded 
slowly. “It is a monumental change from what is 
known to something entirely unknown. Should you 
remain you could as likely become a man, like 
your brother but far better looking.”

“Or a child,” Brygitta replied with a slow nod. 
“Or as likely a swine, or – anything.”

“It is said, however, that the curse is not a 
completely fickle thing, milady.” The young rat 
offered reassuringly. “Master Murikeer postulates 
that the curse... listens, after a fashion. It 
responds to desire and belief. The Duchess 
Alberta, for instance, could have become a 
lioness, or once again a man, or a young girl. 
Yet she became an Assingh, a low beast in her – 
your – homeland; suited perfectly to the Duke 
with whom she had fallen in love. As with the 
sorceress Kozaithy, upon her arrival. She met her 
husband, Murikeer, during his travels south with 
my father, and learned that he was a skunk before 
ever coming to Metamor. Could it be that her 
burgeoning love for him led the curse to make her 
a skunk as he was, to suit the two of them so 
perfectly? And there is the champion of the 
lists, Sir William Dupré, exiled here nearly 
seventeen years ago; he and the son who followed 
him both became rams, the very symbol of their 
noble house!” Charlie quaffed the last of the 
mulled cider in his goblet, swirling about in his 
muzzle to banish the last lingering vestiges of 
the steppes drink from his palette.

The two flavors mixed most poorly, he noted.

“Would that 'twere true, milord, but I dare say 
it dost frighten me that I may become as the 
Duchess. Assingh are not highly regarded.”

Charlie nodded, slowly refilling his goblet, 
catch a glance of someone slipping beneath the 
stands at the front of the high box as he did, 
though the withdrawal was not furtive. “Such, she 
felt, was her penance for the many wrongs she had 
perpetrated against her would-be-husband. Thus, 
again, may the curse have known her heart? There 
are many in the lines equus as you of the steppes 
know so well. As like you could become Rheh, or 
of the mythical winged horses in the tales of 
Pyralia, or like my maiden Maysin there.”

Brygitta merely nodded, looking to her chalice. 
Nothing that the dregs were the same mulled cider 
that Charlie was drinking he raised the ewer with 
an inquiring tilt of his ears. She may not have 
been able to read the language of his body, but 
the offered ewer said as much and she accepted. 
“Fret not, your highness. The dance of diplomacy 
is long and involved, to say nothing of 
courtship, and we have not stepped beyond the 
entry hall of the ball in which this dance may be 
played out as of yet. Bryn dislikes you not, but 
has a lad's heart as do I. He is unsure if he is 
ready for matrimony and alliances any more than 
you may be. Years yet may cross the face of the 
world before fathers decide, or love does.”

The princess straightened her back and squared 
her shoulders after a moment, dipping her head to 
look down at him with a warm smile. “Thou art 
accurate in that, milord, and I thank thee most 
kindly for the words of wisdom beyond thy youth 
and mine.” With a regal curtsy she smiled. “I see 
that my brother the King and thy Duke have 
retired to the platform above, so perhaps we 
should join them?” Her eyes turned toward the 
field where Bryn's circle of admirers had finally 
begun to disperse. The musicians were beginning 
to assemble into a proper orchestra, signaling 
that the closing ceremonies would soon begin.

Picking up another goblet Charlie shook his head. 
“I must demur, your highness. Could you please 
kindly inform Bryn and the others that I will be 
below, admiring the fine golden beasts that came 
with you? I have seen sixteen summers of these 
ceremonies, and can see this one in the future at 
my leisure – one of the performers is an 
accomplished illusionist and my tutor, after all.”


----------

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

Charles Matthias
-------------- next part --------------
An HTML attachment was scrubbed...
URL: <http://lists.integral.org/archives/mkguild/attachments/20150529/f55ffc04/attachment-0001.html>