<html><head><style type="text/css"></style></head><body><div style="font-family:times new roman,new york,times,serif;font-size:12pt"><div><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///G:%5CUsers%5CRyx%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///G:%5CUsers%5CRyx%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///G:%5CUsers%5CRyx%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><style>  </style>             “Step aside.” He snorted furiously, “I will speak with him directly.”  Coe did not move from the door and blocked Egland’s reach for the latch with a return glare up at the elk.  Egland drew his hand back as if to deliver a forceful backhand blow to the healer but did not strike.<o:p></o:p>             Incensed Coe snarled and poked a single finger at the center of Egland’s chest.  The finger was tipped with a stout and sharp claw that dimpled both tabard and fur to dig with painful intensity at the muscle of the elk’s chest.  “Lower your hand, boy!” Coe snarled, his voice pitched in a low hiss, showing his sharp white teeth.  “You will raise no hand of violence in this house of healing, knight or no as some undisciplined child having a tantrum!” Coe’s finger drove another grinding poke into Egland’s chest forcing him back a step.  “This is my realm and I rule here, you will heed my word as the Duke’s own.”  Another poke and another grudging step back.  Egland’s hand fell to his side in ignominious defeat.  “If that does not suit your knightly self so be it.  You are free to remove yourself at any time.”<o:p></o:p>             Coe stopped in the center of the infirmary common room with his hands upon his hips glaring angrily at the elk a pace away.  Jutting from the back of his robes the raccoon’s thick tail lashed back and forth in his anger with the striped fur abush.<o:p></o:p>             Egland stood numbly, taken aback by his own unexpected burst of pointless anger and the master physician’s response.  His emotions were in complete turmoil that outpaced his ability to rein them in.  For several moments he stared dumbly at the irked raccoon wondering how fickle fate could ever be to throw his life athwart such tumultuous shores.  How it could bring him, a Holy Knight in the peak of his life and in the company of the most august of peoples of all the world, to such extremes that he would find himself arguing with an animal.  Or that he would be an animal, himself, as well.  It seemed like the most vile of dark nightmares.<o:p></o:p>             Unable to find his voice for fear of the sound that might escape his muzzle, be it helpless beastial bleat or blasphemous tirade, Egland at length nodded his head woodenly.  He turned away from the animal garbed in healers’ robes and walked slowly to the door.  The heavy iron-banded wooden portal closed behind him with a weighty thud of finality.<o:p></o:p> <o:p> </o:p>             Egland walked the corridors blindly, emotions and thoughts thrown into chaos by the sudden unexpected turn of fates.  Never would he have expected to be turned away by his own so callously, the last and only family he knew.  Then to be likewise repudiated and cast out by the healer was salt upon a fresh wound.  And upon that he had nearly lost himself by almost striking the unarmed healer for doing nothing more than holding to the well being of his patient.  Egland had heedlessly assaulted the hapless serving woman with harsh words and manner in a state of anger the likes of which he had not experienced off the battlefield in years.  Those two alone were crimes against his discipline and principal and frightened him greatly.<o:p></o:p>             What was this change sweeping over him eroding his self-discipline and careful balance of calm?  Was the fey magic of the curse affecting his mind as dramatically as his body or was the trauma of so many dire circumstances tearing at the foundations of his being?  Father Hough had tried to assure him that the Curse did not affect the mind; that sameness of self creating much of the problems faced by the physically changed.  Sir Saulius however, while also concurring with Hough’s assurances, cautioned that the Curse was fey and fickle in its touch; or that in some the spirit was weak and with change of body came a change of spirit.  Saulius explained that he had suffered something of that but in time recovered himself and came to accept what he had become.  But he had not done so alone, he’d had others changed in ways like him, rats all, to help him return.  The Whalish prince, Phil, had similar problems but, again, had many friends to help him.<o:p></o:p>             Who did Egland have?  Who to call truly friend as Bryonoth and his fellow knights had been?<o:p></o:p>             Father Hough?  The boy-priest had become his spiritual healer and confessor during Egland’s recovery, but was he a friend?  Egland had to ponder that as he crossed along a battlement wall ripped by cool autumn wind and felt that to not really be the case.  Hough was compassionate and wise but the young knight felt him to be his superior, both spiritually and in his position of rank within the local Diocese.  He would hear Egland’s confessions but as a Priest before a Friend.<o:p></o:p>             Sir Saulius?  Egland felt less of connection with the elder rodent knight than he did with the boy-priest.  Saulius was a Steppelander and had connected more with Bryonoth than Egland.  True to his sense of camaraderie and honor Saulius had come to the infirmary a couple of times to assure Egland that his mount, and Bryonoth’s, had survived and were well cared for in the Duke’s stables.  As well the elk knight’s now largely unusable armor, those parts not crushed in the tumble which shattered Egland’s legs, was in good hands.  But, good intentions aside, Saulius was a transitory companion acting with honor toward a fellow Knight.  Egland did not feel a connection of friendship there.<o:p></o:p>             He found himself in a small courtyard crowded with fancifully sculpted topiary so densely that it felt more forest than fortress.  Narrow paths wound through the artfully arranged living sculptures interspersed with small fountains.  From a gargoyle spout above a cascade of water tumbled onto a series of slate terraces into a pool in which lazy golden carp circled.  Egland, weary from his aimless wandering, settled on the stone lip of that largest pool to watch the fish.  Around him the green sentinels stood watch concealing all but the top of the surrounding wall and slate roof tops.  The fish clustered at the surface of the pool waiting for handouts he could not provide.  Golden bodies shimmered dully in the shadowed depths.  Even they had their companions, Egland observed ruefully, golden coins in a watery purse.<o:p></o:p>             What of the one person who had come unbidden to Egland’s bedside in the infirmary with nothing more than that one thing to offer; friendship.  Beyond an impromptu duet at a tavern weeks before the musician had no need to seek out the stricken knight but had done so out of his own accord.  And that was before either of them had known of their mutual connection through a shared love lost.  Such were the convolutions of cold fate that served naught but to confuse simple mortal minds.<o:p></o:p>             The odd minstrel, so different in outlook and manner than either Hough or Saulius, had come to him to share music and then to help him learn once more how to make his own music but they had shared more than Egland had expected.  In secluded darkness the minstrel’s compassion and simple offer of friendship had sundered the vaulted secrets of Egland’s innermost heart.  And he had listened and accepted them without rancor or judgment, had accepted those things about Egland that the young knight was not yet sure to accept about himself.  That voicing of the unvoiced depths had allowed Egland a freedom he had never thought possible since the loss of Namir.<o:p></o:p>             Like this minstrel Namir had been one who listened for the mere sake of listening, without judging. Egland sighed at the memories and felt the burn of tears kindled afresh in his eyes.<o:p></o:p>             Ahh, Namir, how I am falling apart, Egland thought morosely, I wish you were here.<o:p></o:p>             He could almost hear the laughter of his lost love.  But I am, D’ahshan.  Listen.  So Egland listened.  Wind moaned and topiary sentinels whispered sibilant secrets while water rushed and burbled merrily like gossips across a fence.  Interwoven with those sounds Egland began to hear music and realized that he had been hearing music all along.  It took the admonishment of memory to bring him to listen.<o:p></o:p>             The elk’s ears twitched seeking out the source of the quiet music.  It took him but a moment to understand both the instrument, a hammered dulcimer, and the type of music; a hymnus typical of Ecclesiastic services.  While he was hearing variations upon an underlying theme he was soon able to name the musical score as The Wedding at Kheni, typical to most Follower marriage ceremonies.<o:p></o:p>             Memory and grief seized Egland’s heart anew at the familiar music.  He used to play it upon his viola as it was one of Namir’s most favored musical compositions.  During Mass or at the occasional exchange of vows he would also sing it to Egland’s accompaniment.<o:p></o:p>             After Namir was sent to the distant east Egland had never again played that piece.<o:p></o:p>             The music stopped and after a brief pause began afresh.  Egland gathered up his cane and stood to follow that music.  He slowly wound his way through the labyrinthine convolutions of the topiary garden until he found himself standing before a door.  The solemn tempo of Yashua’s Wine came through the wood while the unseen musician continued to practice beyond.<o:p></o:p>             Instead of the typical iron-banded dark hardwood of which most doors were built at the Keep this door was pale ash and heavily worked with intricate carving where most were unadorned.  The carvings depicted forest trees and vines surrounding a clearing in which two figures stood frozen in mid-dance.  The frame and lintel were similarly carven pale white marble.  To either side stood artfully sculpted topiary dancers, both of which appeared to be animal-morphs due to tall ears and animal legs.  As to exactly what they were intended to depict Egland could not identify.<o:p></o:p>             The music faded away to silence while Egland regarded the door and contemplated disturbing the denizen given such an opulent entry.  Who did he expect to reside behind such opulence but some noble who would be wroth with the intrusion of a lowly elk garbed in nothing more than an ill fitting tabard, even if that tabard depicted the white-on-green heraldry of the Order of Yashua.  During his hesitation the music began once more from the opening movement, paused on a missed note and then started again.<o:p></o:p>             Where else had he to go, he thought, but here for whatever aid or ill became of it.  He raised his hand and rapped upon the second closed door presented to him that day.  The music trailed away at his knock and a few moments passed before Egland heard the bolt being drawn and the latch raised.  The door opened not a cautious crack but bravely wide to frame the interrupted musician in a spill of warm light.<o:p></o:p>             “Sir Egland?” Dream chuffed with a smile of pleased surprise.  “Come in, ts’amut, come in, if you please.  Jae kusae jhu kusae.”  He stepped back and bowed his head in a gesture of summons for Egland to enter.  He was wearing a light night-robe of black silk embroidered with white satin birds that shimmered in the afternoon light.  The robe had been hastily donned if the loose black sash and need to hold it about himself with one hand were any indicator.  At the ritual Steppes greeting, ‘my tent is your tent’ Egland bowed his antlered head solemnly.  He stepped through the doorway that Dream drew fully open.<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///G:%5CUsers%5CRyx%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///G:%5CUsers%5CRyx%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///G:%5CUsers%5CRyx%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><style>  </style>             Due to the angle of the afternoon sun and tall windows of Dream’s receiving room facing west it was brighter within than without.  Egland blinked at the sunlight shining brightly in his face and paused just within the threshold.  The door latch rattled as Dream closed it and then shot the bolt. <o:p></o:p>  “Welcome to my home within the Keep, Egland.  It’s not many who come to pay me audience here.” Egland felt the gentle touch at the small of his back urging him forward and guiding him toward the center of the opulent receiving room.  “Sit, ts’amut, make yourself at home.  My door is ever open to you.”</div> </div> !DSPAM:4c395992169461804284693! </body></html>