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

[C. Matthias]

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

Pars V: Ascensum

(i)


Wednesday, June 23, 724 CR


He bowed, a full goblet held adroitly in each 
hand such that neither spilled a drop, and she 
curtsied in return. Turning away she was soon 
engulfed by her small circle of ladies and 
retainers as she went to meet Bryn at the tourney 
gate. Stepping around the table, Charlie cast a 
glance toward Maysin who excused herself from the 
company of the other steppe-born ladies. He 
waited for her and when the zebra reached his 
side he favored her with a warm smile. “Thank you 
for accompanying me this day, Maysin. I would 
like a little privacy for the nonce so you may 
enjoy the rest of the day as you wish.”

The zebra stopped and her ears fell flat against 
her mane. “Are you all right, Charlie?”

He nodded. “I think so. It is just... what I do now I must do alone.”

Her ears lifted again and Maysin's posture 
relaxed. “I leave you to it then, milord. Will 
you have need of my services tomorrow?”

He blinked and then laughed. “I have no idea. Surprise me!”

Her braying laugh echoed in his ears even after 
she had turned and headed for the main entrance 
to the High Box. Charlie slipped into the shadows 
beneath the box, still deftly carrying a full 
goblet in each hand, where the smell of hay and 
horse suffused his nose almost immediately.

It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to 
the dim light and the coolness of the shadows was 
a welcome respite from the growing mid-day heat. 
His whiskers and toes led him without error 
around the many pitfalls and stumbles in the dim 
light until his eyes adjusted, so it was not 
difficult for him to find the goal of his search.

Standing upon a bale of straw and leaning upon 
the topmost railing of a stall box, Baron 
Matthias was idly scratching the brow of a 
powerful golden steed that appeared well pleased 
with the attention. Charlie made his way over and 
leaned against the stable wall nearby.

“They truly are magnificent creatures,” the young 
rat observed. Charles turned his gave from the horse and down to his son.

“They are not truly the same as those upon whose 
backs we crossed half of Galendor, however. Their 
blood is mixed with that of the Tagendend 
chargers.” Charles observed, accepting the goblet 
that Charlie offered. They sipped in 
companionable silence for a few moments, Charles 
turning to lower himself down onto the bale upon 
which he had stood. A saddle blanket covered it, 
making for a comfortable seat without the scratch 
and poke of naked straw. “I saw you and Erick 
have words. Is all well between you?”

Charlie continue to lean against the side of the 
stable, the inquisitive snuffle of the horse 
within stirring the short fur of his head between 
the slats. “No,” he offered honestly. “He is 
still displeased with me for injuring you. As he has the right to be.”

Charles sighed and nodded before looking up. “His anger will pass.”

Charlie nodded, crossing to another blanket 
covered bale and sitting down to face his sire. 
“It always does. He believes I have done his 
house a grave injury, and humiliation. I admit 
that, but it will take time for my apology to 
make its way through to him. And still,” Charlie 
dropped a hand to pluck at the mithril crescent moon that hung at his breast.

“Matters of faith,” Charles nodded with a moue of displeasure.

“Will pass, as all things do, in time, Father.”

Charles raised his gaze, one eyebrow quirked. “Father, now? Not sire?”

Charlie laughed, warmly; ruefully. “On pain of 
applied switch, Father, from mother and Mother 
and even Father. They demand my acknowledgment of 
our relationship, and I admit my error.” From his 
seat he bowed across at the Baron before him. 
“And my anger, even were it fresh and burning 
within my breast, would have to admit the same. 
You are my father, and that I do not argue. 
It...” He sought the words, taking a long breath 
and letting it out with a gusty sigh. “And yet, 
it discomfited me for all the years of my life, 
calling you sire or father, yet having another to 
whom I turned when I needed to seek a Father.” 
Leaning forward he rested his elbows upon his 
knees and clasped the goblet between his slender 
fingers just as the princess had done minutes 
before. “And, you know, it was the wine that really did it.”

“The wine?” Charles raised a brow, incredulous.

Charlie nodded. “On my last visit, you brought 
out a fine Lorland vintage. One that must have 
cost a fine bit, and certainly one you would not 
have had at table otherwise but for myself and 
Bryn.” Releasing one hand from the goblet he 
waved in the general direction of the Keep. A 
distant, rolling note filtered through the walls 
of the stable, bringing a sudden hush to the 
rumble of the crowds beyond the dim horse-scented 
shadows below the Duke's box. “As we may have 
found at table here, as a daily norm. It said to 
me – I am different, I am apart. I am a Lord, and 
you a vassal.” The herdsmans' horns, high upon 
the slopes of the mountains around Metamor, 
filled the valley with their booming, solitary notes.

“You are my son, do you not deserve what my House 
can offer?” Charles asked, almost defensively, 
though still curious at the direction Charlie 
took. Beyond the stables the notes of the distant 
horns changed, becoming a coherent musical 
movement. Even the echoes harmonized with the overall piece.

Charlie shook his head, “No, Father, I do not. I 
am your son, and I deserve what your son 
deserves. Erick, Baerle, Bernadette – my 
siblings; brothers and sisters of your House – do 
not sup so grandly save on Holy Days, and my 
visits.” Leaning forward, Charlie reached out a 
hand that was quickly grasped by his sire. 
“Father, I am your son, not a Lord to you. To act 
otherwise...” He sighed, releasing his father's 
hand and leaning back. Somewhere closer than the 
rolling throb of the distant horns a bell tolled. 
Once, deeply, a lingering tone that faded slowly 
before the same bell rang again. Charlie's ears 
told him that it was vaguely from the direction 
of the Keep; likely the largest of the bronze 
bells in Metamor's Follower Cathedral.

 From somewhere in the opposite direction another 
bell answered the third ring of the first, its 
note slightly higher. Another chapel bell. The 
two harmonized almost immediately, slipping into 
the underlying theme of the horns smoothly.

“To act otherwise stands me apart, and reinforces 
that distance from you.” A third bell pealed into 
the growing chorus of wood and brass, from a 
different direction, another new note. Closer, 
however, within Keeptowne where the second bell rang from somewhere in Euper.

Charles tipped his head slightly, his goblet held 
lightly upon one knee. “Had you thought that it 
was brought to table for Bryn's sake?”

“No, for he would not – he did not – notice the 
distinction between a House vintage or one of 
Lorland's best. Any such are available to him on 
a whim, he does not think upon the burden of cost 
it would place on a House.” Charlie shook his 
head slowly. “He is a royal, and it has made him 
complacent to some things. But Malger has taken 
me upon his travels; I have been feted at the 
finest tables of the south as often as a mean 
trencher of whatever a roadside inn could scoop 
from its stewpot. He has purposely traveled as 
nothing more than a wandering minstrel, because 
he wanted me to understand the low as much as the high.

“That is why that wine cut so keenly, Father.” 
Charlie looked into his goblet for a moment 
before taking a swallow. “And then I found your 
dream, and that wrecked things entirely.”

Charles stroked a paw across his chest with a 
snort and a nod. “I noticed. But you should know 
one thing, my son; that wine was not brought out 
for either you or Bryn. It was brought out for 
us, to celebrate having you with us so unexpectedly.”

Charlie blinked and then lowered his eyes, claws 
scratching against the goblet resting in his 
fingers. “I... I had not considered that.” He 
shook his head back and forth, sighing in regret. “I had not thought of that.”

Both of their heads lifted, ears perked, as 
dozens of bells, booming from temple and chapel 
clerestories to the bright, brassy dinner 
triangles suspended from Inn doors, filled the 
air despite the muffling stacks of hay and wooden 
walls of the stands. The crowds had fallen 
deathly silent, caught in awe as the city around 
them sang as it never had before. Charlie found 
himself smiling; Malger had spent five years 
working with the peasants, priests, herdsmen, and 
craftsmen through Metamor in careful secrecy to 
prepare for just that moment. He almost regretted 
missing out, though he had witnessed the Singing 
City more than a few times during their travels. 
Malger made it a tradition to pass through 
Silvassa during their festival of music whenever he could.

An electric shiver raced up his spine as the 
first crisp, sharp note of a silver flute cut 
through the underlying theme like the blade of a 
fishwife's filleting knife. He saw his father 
shudder as well, whiskers back and ears up, his 
eyes closed. The first was soon joined by other 
winds; clarinet, recorder, more flutes in a 
rising rill. At the crescendo the music seemed to 
hover, the bells abruptly silent, everything 
fading into the throbbing echo of the distant 
horns. A cello began the descant; a slow 
dirge-like note into which the sibilant whisper 
of other strings slipped in and darted about, 
each improvising on that basic tone, distinct and 
individual bit in perfect harmony. Somewhere a 
tom thrummed a short tattoo for several seconds, 
following the sift darting theme of a single 
viola. Another drum, basso and deep, rolled in like a charging steed.

Piping, swift, sharp, playfully rising and 
falling the winds returned, each finding a theme 
among the many strings, undercut by the rolling 
rattles of tom and tambour and the heavy thump of 
bass drum and, washing across the entirety of the 
orchestral movement, the ringing of bells.

“Such was the raven and the rat,” Charlie said at 
length, during a long pall in the music where 
only wind and string sand a single sonorous note. 
He could only imagine what stupendous illusions 
were being crafted to accompany and accentuate 
what he heard. “A dark nightmare, weighing a 
single soul.” He leaned forward, his dark rodent 
eyes gleaming in the diffuse light of the stable. 
“What more can you tell me of it?”

Charles closed his eyes, thumbs tapping his nose 
even as one of the golden horses leaned its head 
over the wooden slats and lipped at the curve of 
his ear. “What can I tell you? I will tell you of 
what lies Beyond the reach of Daedra. Listen 
well, my son, for I will never tell this story again.”

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

Charles Matthias
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