<html> <head> <style> .hmmessage P { margin:0px; padding:0px } body.hmmessage { FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY:Tahoma } </style> </head> <body class='hmmessage'>   Three days later, Misha exited the Questioners' interrogation room, sword in hand, and immediately fixed the Long House doors in his mind.  Dealing with those... people had put him in a foul mood, and he wanted a long string of drinks to deal with it.  Nonetheless, he paused, disturbed, when he passed by a familiar door.  He had to ponder it for a few moments before the dark smudge above the doorway and the empty sign hooks registered.  He thumped the door with a closed fist.  "Drift?  Are you there?"   "Who is it?" came a carefully guarded response.   Misha tried to open the door, but it refused to budge, as if there was something heavy leaned against it.  "What in heaven's name are you doing, you crazy mutt!  It's Misha!"  He threw his shoulder against the door, but it barely moved a hairsbreadth.  "Open this damn door!  I'm not in the mood for silly games!"   A short scraping sound came from behind the door, along with a faint hiss.  The door cracked open slightly, just enough for Drift to look through with one eye.  It glanced left, then right, as if checking to make sure the fox was alone.  "Hang on."  The door closed again, and Misha heard a metallic clink, followed a few seconds later by more scraping behind the door.  The door opened again, wider, just enough room for Drift to poke his head through for a more thorough check of the hallway before he beckoned the fox in.   Misha squeezed through the partially opened doorway, and stepped aside as Drift pushed a heavy oaken dresser back against the door.  The fox's one remaining ear, his right, flipped back in confusion as he watched the samoyed re-barricade the door.  He reached over to lift a fireplace poker from a hook on the wall, its iron tip glowing red hot and faintly hissing with heat.  "What is going on, Drift?  Why are you barricaded in here like you expect Nasoj himself to come pay you a visit?"   "Close enough," the samoyed replied, checking to make sure the door was secure before dusting his hands off on a forging apron he was wearing.  "I assume you've heard there are Questioners in the Keep."   The fox scowled darkly and he swore.  "There are, Drift, but those vermin are far from here and closely watched.  And if they do wander, I'll skewer them myself."  He held up the glowing poker with a questioning glance.   "That goes back in the forge, please.  I want it to -stay- red hot, thank you," Drift said, pointing.  "They tortured my great-uncle with one of those; I figure it's only fair that I return the favor if they come calling. You can hang that sword of yours on those hooks by the door, if you'd like."  After a moment's pause, he continued, "I finished up several of the gears you wanted.  They're by the anvil if you'd like to take them with you."   Misha paused in the midst of hanging up his sword.  "Wait, back up a minute.  They tortured your great-uncle?"   "They -killed- my great-uncle, Misha, along with all his family and the vast majority of the people in the town, all because he dared to publish a common translation of the Word that the Ecclesia hadn't authorized."   Misha shook his head in disgust, settling his sword on the hooks with a clink of metal on stone.  "And people wonder why we in Marigund kill Questioners on sight.  Even the Ecclesiasts there do."   "Sounds like a good idea to me," Drift replied, carefully banking the forge fires so that the poker remained heated while the rest of the forge cooled.  "Want to grab some food?  I've got a stash of wine and food that I've been nibbling my way through these past three days, which you're welcome to try."   The fox gave a short bark of a laugh.  "You, too, huh?  I always keep a stash, myself.  Been through a few too many sieges not to."  He followed as Drift led him into the samoyed's living quarters, where Drift opened a low chest and fished out a bottle of wine and some bread, cheese, and a few strips of jerky.   "Spending time as a refugee teaches you to do it, too," Drift said as he handed over the bottle.  "If you've been out and about in the Keep with -them- stinking up the place, you need this more than I do."  He pulled out one more bottle, then laid everything out on a nearby table.  He also tucked away a little black book that had been left out, and waved off inquiries about it.  "Maybe later.  First, food, drink, and a story."   "A story?" Misha asked, pulling over Drift's lone chair while the samoyed sat down on the bed, the table between them.  "I hope it's a good one."  Seeing that Drift hadn't bothered with cups or mugs, the fox took a swig directly from the wine bottle.  "Mmm," he grunted in approval, muffling a belch that followed.  "Good wine."   "I'd like to think so, but I'll let you be the judge," Drift replied, slicing the loaf of bread in half and offering Misha his choice of halves.  Once the fox had chosen, Drift sliced his own portion lengthwise into two equal halves, top and bottom, and layered on strips of jerky and slices of the cheese.  When he noticed Misha's quizzical look, he explained, "Something I came up with yesterday.  I don't know what to call it, but it's an interesting taste.  You should try it."   "Bored enough to start playing with your food, huh?" Misha asked with a smirk.  "Okay, I'll try it.  Now make with the storytelling."   While Misha copied Drift's creation, and between bites of food and swigs of wine, Drift told the tale.  "My family is not originally from Metamor, nor is Snow our original name.  Our real family name is Trendahl, and we fled here from Galador in the south Midlands back when my father was a child.  My grandfather's brother, my great-uncle, was named Weldon, and his life's work had been to create a common translation of the Word, so that people who could not read Old Sueil would not have to depend on the word of the Ecclesia priests.  That way everyone could read -all- of the Word, as was intended by Yahshua, not just what the priests or the royal courts felt was 'appropriate'."   Galador... Misha's brow furrowed as he chewed on the surprisingly tasty treat.  Where had he heard that name before?   "He made several trips to Yesulam, carefully seeking the oldest, most pure versions of the Word that he could find.  Because he knew he was treading in a living language rather than one that did not change, he wanted to be as accurate as he possibly, possibly could.  When he was finally done copying, he came home in a great excitement.  When Grandpa asked him why, all my great-uncle would say was that Eli had shown him the way to make his book available to the masses.  And he did.  A year went by, and soon after that he started buying as much paper and ink as he could afford, down to his last copper.   "Four more months went by, and suddenly he started announcing that he had many copies of his book available for sale, very cheap.  He even gave some away to the beggars in town!  People loved them!  Some people even took theirs out into the town square and started reading them aloud to passersby.   "Not surprisingly, this was not well received by the priests, and they got the Duke involved.  My great-uncle was called before the Duke and was asked to recant, to cease publishing 'for the sake of the realm'."  The samoyed scoffed, disbelief written large in his voice and in his expression.  "He refused, saying, 'Milord, I am on a mission given to me by Eli, and I will not be swayed from it for any reason.  My apologies, but I shall follow the path that has been set for me to its very end.'   "'That end may not be long in coming,' the Duke replied, and then sent him home with a warning to ponder matters carefully.  Meanwhile, the Duke turned to his contacts in the black market and had them buy up all of Great-uncle Weldon's canticles, to keep them from those who needed them more than he.  The joke was on the Duke, however, because Great-uncle Weldon had planned to sell those canticles -through- the black market when necessary, and he used the money he gained to buy still more ink and paper."  Drift paused in his story and leaned forward.  "And I swear this on my family honor...  he had four -thousand- new Canticles ready for sale in a single -month-."   Misha laughed.  "I bet the Duke didn't see that one coming," he said, picking up the knife and slicing another wedge of cheese.  "I wonder how many helpers he needed to get that many done, that fast."   "None.  He did it all himself."   The knife clattered noisily from Misha's hand onto the table.  "Four thousand books?  In a month?  -Alone-?  That's impossible!"   Drift nodded.  "Impossible, but true.  The Duke was just as stunned as you are.  And that's when he sent in the Questioners, hunting for a Rebuilder conspiracy.  Great-uncle Weldon had just enough time to send my grandfather the original copy of his translation, with a note to 'keep it as a keepsake of our childhood' before they arrested him.  They found him at his home, stirring ashes and coals in his fireplace, and they beat and burned him with that poker trying to get him to reveal his conspirators.  When he refused to name any names, they tortured his family, and then worked their way outward through the town.  My grandfather and his family barely escaped ahead of the Questioners' arrests, and made their way north to Metamor, where they went into hiding."   "Hmmm."  Misha frowned, pondering the story.  "What did his message to your grandfather mean?"   Drift shook his head.  "Nobody knows.  Grandpa was killed by bandits on the way."   Suddenly, Misha remembered what had bothered him earlier.  "Wait a minute... Galador?"  The entire town had been closed off from the outside world and burned to the ground.  "Do you mean to say-"   "Yes, Misha, I do.  My great-uncle was murdered in the worst Questioner massacre in recorded history.  It is only by the grace of Eli that we survived for me to tell you this today."   "And what became of the book?" Misha asked.   "You're sitting on it."   "What?"   "Stand up.  Now come sit on the bed and bring the chair with you."  Drift took the chair from Misha and flipped it over.  Despite having a wooden seat, it also had deep seat supports between the legs, braced with a bottom panel.  Taking hold of the seat supports, Drift slid the front support two inches to the right, the rear support two to the left, and the sides two inches up and down respectively.  Holding up a hand to forestall any questions, he then put a hand on the bottom panel and flipped the chair back over.   To Misha's surprise, the bottom panel came loose, dropping free as a small box, with grooves carved into the sides that corresponded with catches on the seat supports.  "Very clever."   "Thank you.  My mother came up with the idea.  This is her box of keepsakes."  Drift opened the lid, and revealed the treasure trove of a mother's heart: baby booties, a bit of jewelry, a yellowed letter, a small portrait of a goat Keeper and a human woman in a silver frame, a little wooden horse, a small top, a pair of wooden blocks with a baby's handprint in paint on each one.  Anything that could rattle inside that velvet-lined box was carefully wrapped and packed so that it wouldn't shift or make noise.  Drift took out each in turn, setting them on the table, and then carefully removed a false bottom.  Beneath that was a black, leatherbound book, slightly worn with age, 'The Canticle of Eli' written in common in gilt lettering across its cover, a yellowed bookmark of plain paper sticking out of the top.  Drift carefully, reverently lifted it out.  "Misha, I need to ask you a favor."   "Go ahead."   "If something ever happens to me, I want you to come and find this.  Thanks to Nasoj and the Ecclesia, I am the last son of an only child.  Take it and protect it.  Keep it safe."   "Me?" the fox asked, drawing back in surprise.  "You want me to look after it?"   Drift nodded.  "Absolutely.  I can't think of anyone I'd rather have in that duty."  He smiled slightly.  "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not long on brotherly companions here."   Misha's ear flicked back, his head ducking a little.  "I'm..." he stammered, momentarily at a loss for words.  "I'm honored."   Drift gave another nod.  "I'm glad."  He put the book back, replaced the false bottom and his mother's keepsakes, then put it back under the chair and re-secured it with four slides of the side panels.  "It is our family treasure, and it eases my heart to know that it will be carried on.  Thank you, brother." <hr />More photos; more messages; more whatever � Get MORE with Windows Live� Hotmail�. 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