<html> <body> Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats by Charles Matthias and Ryx Pars III: Descensum (d) Sunday, May 6, 708 CR The ground was muddy and the air felt heavy after the long night of rain. Thick clouds that seemed at times to only barely surmount the mountains flanking the valley promised more rain that day but the morning was clear if cool. They would all have enough time to return home before the skies decided to soak their fur with another deluge, but not if they dallied the morning away. Charles stretched and then checked his attire for dirt and stains. He brushed off the dirt from his breeches and was grateful not to find any stains. When he looked up, James was there with an intent gaze, offering the rat his buckler and sword. “Good morning, Sir Charles.” “Thank you, James,” he took the buckler and sword, and then leaned the sword against the wall. There were not many rooms for travelers to spend the night at the Kingfisher's Brew, the tavern that Christina and Lester operated overlooking the lake not far from the barracks, but they were comfortable and afforded them a measure of privacy that they could not have expected in the barracks. Charles and James had taken their room together, as had Rickkter and Kayla; Murikeer slept in a room by himself. Dallar's men stayed in the barracks where they were most comfortable. For a moment he wondered if he would see them again before they returned to the Glen. “Aren't you going to take your sword?” James asked, staring between the blade propped against the wall and the rat who'd put it there. There was a vague look of alarm in his eyes. “Not to Liturgy. It's Sunday and until we have a priest in the Glen, this is the best I can do.” The donkey lowered his ears and then bobbed his head up and down as understanding dawned. “Of course. I should have thought of that.” He began unbuckling his own sword. “I guess we won't be breaking our fast right away.” “No,” Charlies replied, feeling the donkey's eyes stay on him the entire time. He walked to the window and pushed the shutters out, letting the cool morning air, damp but fresh after the rains washed all of the streets clean. James was always attentive, but why so much that morning? Because you are the only one not yet touched by Marzac. They will all be watching you, convinced you are about to fall to the corruption. He nodded to himself and took a deep breath. “I asked Master Lester last night when Liturgy is held here. We'll know once they ring the tower bells.” “I hate bells,” James muttered under his breath. “Which tower?” “Baron Barnhardt's. They're still repairing the old church but it's in better shape than you'd expect after seven years without a priest and two sieges!” “That's right,” James nodded as he set his sword on the bed and then redid his belt buckle. “I'd forgotten you visited it with the Bishop just before the snowstorm and plague.” His knees felt weak at the sense of loss and barrenness that flooded his heart. So close... he had come so close to losing the rest of his family, crippled though it was already. He closed his eyes and whispered a quick prayer for strength. “Aye. Please don't mention the plague again.” “It's been gone a month.” “A month in which everyone manages to find some excuse to tear me from my family!” He could not hide the exasperation in his voice. “Misha, Malisa, Marzac, not to mention strangers with silly ideas that must be taught anew. Ah, forgive me. I think I'm still tired from last night.” “And sore?” James suggested. Charles gave him a cross look at which the donkey laughed. “Sorry! I won't mention that again either.” But the rat felt a lightness returning and a soft chuckle escaped his throat. “Rick and I probably deserved it. We...” Both of their heads turned when the clear ringing of the tower bells tolled, rolling through the air with an authoritative insistence as irresistible as the tide. Charles smiled and stretched his arms behind his back. “It's time for Liturgy.” ---------- The Cathedral in Metamor had been provided by the Keep itself, although given its many mysteries there were some who wondered whether it had been there all along but in wait for the time when it would be needed. Charles had worshiped there many times before his banishment to Glen Avery, and apart from the ancient and vast expanse of the affectionately named Sundial Cathedral in Sondeshara – so called because the shadow of the central spire swept out the hours of the day along concentric circles marked in the brick for each of the principal feast days of the year – he had never seen a church grander in scope or beautiful in glass, statue, and art. The church in Lake Barnhardt was large enough to accommodate the several hundred townsfolk, farmers, fisherman, and shepherds living in the surrounding countryside. Despite its vaulted ceiling and pillars to support the vault that divided the chamber into three ranks, with side altars at either side of the arms of the cross layout, and the addition of numerous tapestries to illustrate where once frescoes had been painted but since desecrated, Charles felt as if he were in a small, modest church. This made the Liturgy all the more intimate as he could clearly hear Father Malvin intoning the prayers, even the ones that were meant to be silent and which he could never hear Father Hough chant. That intimacy at some moments helped him feel a deeper draw to the wellspring of grace that was Yahshua his true lord and His blood spilled for the salvation of souls. But at the same time he felt somehow exposed in that smaller setting where everyone could see everyone else. Though he was known to the people of Lake Barnhardt he did not know them as well as they knew each other. He felt their eyes like fingers prodding him and their whispers like needles jabbing him as he passed. What were they studying? What was there to study? His eyes ever strayed to the yew on which Yahshua hung, face contorted in suffering, though no complaint left those precious lips. A prayer welled in his heart, eager to understand and eager for the sort of peace he had once known. But with so many watching him, he could not concentrate and the prayer remained hidden within. He bent as low as he could, kneeling not so much to worship but to hide from the regard of others. Even James at his side seemed to take more notice of him than he did the priest. Those eyes, those staring, probing, searching eyes, scrapped him raw like a knife across a fish's scales. What could they want from him? Some, your land. Others, your prestige. And the rest, to hound you until you break. Charles was so wound tight, so pummeled by glares, that he missed the Consecration and Elevation, and had to be nudged by the donkey at his side when it came time to come forward to receive the Host. For a moment, kneeling before the youthful priest – Malvin, though suffering the same curse as Hough and a hand shorter, managed to appear as if he were just old enough to be admitted to orders – he felt a simple peace and gratitude as his eyes lifted past his snout to Yahshua nailed to the Yew. By the time he left the altar railing and returned to his place, his unease returned. He could not help but notice everyone watching him as he moved, especially the ones who weren't even looking at him. He wasted no time in leaving the little church as soon as the recession was complete. You will not get far. “Sir Charles,” a warbling voice called to him from the front of the church. The rat turned and saw a brightly dressed newt flanked by a pair of ministers and a quartet of soldiers; one of the ministers was a snake with a flat, diamond-shaped head who appeared quite uncomfortable even in the relatively moderate May weather. A human man dressed in similar attire only a few paces behind the newt watched the lakeland lord with uncertain concern. The newt smiled, the effort stretching his mottled brown and green flesh. Everything about him had a damp look. “If you have a moment, there was a matter I wished to discuss with you.” James paused at his side and lifted his long ears. He was glad the donkey chose to wait with him. Still, they were but two in the face of eight. “I am at your service, milord.” Baron Robern Barnhardt smiled and with a wave of plump, sticky fingers, stepped past the soldiers and ministers on his way down the steps to the mostly stone road in the center of his lakeside city. Even the man who had been his wife before the curses had forced them into chastity did not move to follow them. Charles could not help but feel suspicious. Had he been wearing his vine he was sure it would have twisted to avoid the newt's slimy touch. But Baron Barnhardt made no move to touch him, merely gestured for him to walk alongside him down beside the church where there were fewer idle eyes. James started to follow but Charles waved him back. If the baron would leave his retinue behind, then he would give him the courtesy of treating with him as man to man. “Sir Charles,” Barnhardt added more softly in his croaking voice. Standing at his side, he could only look at the rat with one of his googly green eyes. “You have distinguished yourself as one of the finest warriors in the valley in the last two years. You are well deserving of your title.” “Thank you, milord.” “And it is most agreeable to see another Follower named a knight here in Metamor.” Barnhardt swept a bulbous arm toward the church wall and buttresses. “You are welcome here in my land as often as you wish to come. I hope we see you and your family more often.” His family. His heart ached to be with them again. All of them. Charles nodded and did his best to smile. “You are quite gracious, milord. This is a lovely city and I hope we will be able to spend more time here.” “I am glad to hear it! But,” the newt said, his wide head tilting toward him, “there is something distressing me about your knighthood.” “The fief of the Narrows, perhaps?” Barnhardt's green eyes and oblong pupils narrowed. “The Narrows, indeed. That land does not belong to Baron Avery to dispose of as he wishes. It belongs to my family. My people have used it for hunting and herding for generations. It is unfortunate that he would bring you into the middle of our dispute.” “I am not interested in your dispute.” Charles let the smile vanish from his countenance. In its place hardened a firm moue, with narrowed eyes. The scar over his right eye folded with menace. “I swore an oath of fidelity to Baron Avery and have accepted responsibility for that land. I will neither forsake nor shirk my duties to this fief. If you wish to discuss arrangements for your people to use this land, I am willing to discuss them. But I am not going to discuss whose family owns that land. As far as I am concerned it is now mine to manage and protect.” Barnhardt said nothing for several seconds as they continued to walk alongside the church, reaching the rear and turning the corner behind it. The church blocked even the impression of the sun through the clouds and so they were cast in a permanent gloom that clung to the narrow street like mold or rot. Charles felt a strange vulnerability. But the newt's voice was affable, if obviously disappointed. “You are frank and forthright and for that I commend you. And for that I am grateful. But my claims cannot be dismissed by your oath; I am confident that you understand that.” Charles took an extra step to hurry them to next corner. Barnhardt matched him a moment later, his wide face and oddly malleable lips souring for just a moment. “Do what you think is right and proper,” Charles suggested as they stepped back into the wan light on the other side. “I will do the same. But until the day that I learn that the Narrows are not my fief, I will defend them from all who would despoil them. That is my oath, Baron Barnhardt.” “I expect nothing less.” The newt flexed his fingers and his frown deepened. “But for now I fear you will have to excuse me; even on a day as damp as this my skin is drying out again.” He turned to face Charles with both eyes. “I sincerely hope that when next we speak we will have more pleasant things to say. For now we know where each other stands. I bid you a good day and a safe journey home. Eli's blessings be with you.” The tone was civil and genuine so Charles could only respond in kind. He waited for the Baron, his wife, soldiers, and ministers to leave the church yard together. The snake minister cast a look over his shoulder as he slithered across the tightly-fit stones, but Barnhardt paid him no more mind. Charles ground his incisors together and wished he had a chewstick with him. Instead he bit the corner of his sleeve and gnawed at the cloth, quickly tearing a gash in the cuff. James gave him a querulous glance when the rat returned. “It's nothing to worry about. The Baron wished to discuss my responsibilities as a knight on the border of his lands.” “You don't look like you enjoyed what the baron had to say.” Charles gave the donkey his best smile and gestured to the road that led to their Inn. “Let us talk of more pleasant things then, such as breaking our fast and heading home.” James offered him no objection. ---------- May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love, Charles Matthias </body> </html>