<html> <body> Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats by Charles Matthias and Ryx Pars V: Ascensum (e) Wednesday, June 23, 724 CR - Morning “I'm sorry to interrupt,” Baerle said, sticking her narrow snout in through the heavy, cloth door, “but there is a gryphon here with a message for milord Charlie.” Charlie smiled despite himself. “That would be Kurgael.” News of the chief messenger of the Sutt family always made him feel young. Though his mother had turned to face Baerle, his eyes noted the grimace touching her features at the interruption and so he forced the grin from his snout and lowered his whiskers. “I suspect I am being summoned.” Kimberly nodded and stood, hands clasped at her waist and long tail trailing across the back of her chair. “If so, you should go, my son. There is not much more to tell of that night; at least not from what I saw. I spent the rest of the night praying. Somehow word reached James and Baerle who came to my aid and sat with Murikeer and I. And then...” She gasped and shook her head, relief and pain touching her cheeks and jowls. “And I will tell you the rest on the morrow if you wish. We will not be returning to the Narrows until the second day so there is time enough to ask any other questions you have.” And, Charlie mused to himself, time to spend with his siblings and heal any wounds inflicted on their hearts as well as his own. A smile came to him at the thought of showing Erick, Bernadette, and his sister Baerle around Metamor as they often had shown him around the Narrows. “And if I do I shall ask. And if not I shall come see you all anyway.” Kimberly smiled, lifting her whiskers as well as her jowls. She reached out a hand to grasp him on the shoulder. He stepped toward her and wrapped his arms around her back, resting his chin on her shoulder in a gentle yet firm embrace. “I love you, my son. You are almost fully grown. For your family's sake, both Sutt and Matthias, and for your own, your honor, your reputation, and your soul, do no ever again act the child you did yesterday.” Though her voice held steel that pierced him anew the warmth of her love tempered the thrust. “I...” he caught the apology, uttered so many times already, before it left his throat. “I will. You have my word, mother.” He gripped her firmly once more and then stepped away, turning toward the doorway where Baerle's gray-pointed snout had appeared a moment before. He paused with one foot through the portal to turn his head back to Baroness Kimberly. “I love you too, mother.” She waved him off with one last smile, her other hand clasping the amethyst medallion at her breast. A profound look of exhaustion pinched her eyes and sagged her cheeks. Charlie stepped back into the main part of the pavilion and then out into the day. The sun had just crested the mountains and everything was bath in long shadows and brilliant colors. Charlie narrowed his eyes and shielded them with one arm as he looked about. Maysin remained where he had left her, her long equine face turning to him with a hopeful warmth. Reclining on his haunches next to her was the four-footed gryphon Kurgael. His father's chief messenger cocked his head to one side, cracking his beak in a familiar way. “Good morning, Lord Charlie. Your father and mother have arrived at the High Box and request your presence. Your sister adds, 'if you can sit down'. I'm not sure what she meant, but the rumors I have heard suggest you might deserve it if you have just visited the Matthias pavilion.” Few were the Sutt servants allowed leeway to speak so about the household; Kurgael's length of service and closeness to the family allowed him that privilege. Had Charlie a ball of some sort he would have bounced it off the gryphon's head and then laughed. Lacking the ball to brain the beast he just laughed. “One of these days Suria is going to be the one in trouble. She'd better not...” “Expect you to be anything less than chivalrous?” Maysin suggested with a flick of her tail. Charlie nodded with a slight bow, the impish grin remaining. “Of course.” When he straightened, his smile and tone grew serious. “I should never be anything less.” Maysin returned the smile and inclined her long head respectfully, the bright green gem in her ear sparkling in the first rays of the sun. “Where do you wish to go, milord Charlie?” “Let us to the High Box, my friends.” It was not a long distance from the Matthias pavilion and what time they had Charlie spent listening to Kurgael describe what he'd done the last two days of the festival when he'd been given leave of his duties as a messenger. Maysin walked at his side, quiet and attentive, though her eyes and ears kept guard against interlopers as she'd been trained. But of the many revelers already up to enjoy the morning shows and displays none paid the richly adorned rat much notice. Or at least, their guarded glances and sudden whispers when they thought they were out of view of the rat's widely set eyes, suggested that they didn't want to pay him obvious attention. It would not be the first time he had been the object of talk and it would not be the last. They found Versyd and Argamont and several other servitors in the antechamber below the main part of the High Box playing a game of dice. Kurgael joined the two horses while Maysin followed Charlie up the stairs into the box. While normally throughout the day the box would witness the coming and going of many who were close to Duke Thomas or Archduke Malger Sutt, it seemed unusually crowded that morning. Not only was King Pelaeth and his retinue in attendance, but several others who were not so closely attached to the Ducal household were present as well as some retainers rarely seen in the public eye. Charlie found his father first. Malger Sutt was deep in an animated conversation with two others off in a corner of the box that was clearly visible to all on the field. Both of them stood on stools so that they could be readily seen. The first was the chief Exchequer for Metamor, Lidaman, whom the curses had reduced to a bright-haired boy of twelve. He spoke with rather exaggerated motions of his arms which made his voluminous green sleeves fall over his hands. Lidaman was a grandfather and in another five years likely to be a great-grandfather and preferred to tend to the affairs of his office in private away from the hustle and bustle of court life. The second was far more enigmatic and almost never showed his face except in private conferences with the Duke. Charlie had only seen him a handful of times and had only once conversed with him. Disfigured by a series of crisscrossing bilious green scars down the left side of his face, chest, and wing, he offered a hideous appearance that made any who were unfortunate enough to treat with him distinctly uncomfortable. For this reason beyond even the rigors of his duties, Metamor's Spymaster, Andwyn the bat, kept out of sight. And yet now he, Lidaman, and Charlie's father were engaging in a very public conversation that had the appearance of great weight. And even though his rodent ears heard them speak of the weather, the latest fashions from Kelewair, and in the bat's case, which visiting nobles were acquainting themselves with the seamier side of Metamor, anyone else looking at them would assume something very important was taking place. Metamor's spymaster, the keeper of the treasury, and her chief diplomat recently returned from negotiations over a stolen bar of mithril – the conversation was a charade with one purpose in mind, to unnerve the true thief. Charlie caught his father's eye, smiled in approval, received a smile in return, and then turned to leave them to their task. In the furthest corner of the High Box he saw the Magyar mage whose face was covered in burn scars kneeling down and speaking in a harsh tongue to the jerboa Father Felsah. The Questioner priest appeared to be laughing about something. Charlie wondered where his hulking reptilian knight protector was for the two were rarely separated, but doubted the High Box could have survived his weight. Bryn was at the railing with his younger brother Philip and King Pelaeth helping the young colt see the early morning festivities. Pelaeth had hoisted Philip on his shoulders and was trying not to wince when the enthusiastic horse kicked him in the chest with his hooves. Seated a short distance behind them was Duchess Alberta with Princess Brygitta. The princess had one of Bryn's young sisters in his lap and was braiding her mane in the traditions of the Steppe. On the other side was his mother Misanthe and his sister Suria. The chief of the King's escort, First Hunter Horvig, sat awkwardly next to Suria with his bow in hand while pantomiming holding an arrow in the other for her instruction on Steppe techniques. And standing around Duke Thomas were both Thalberg and Justicar Weyden. Thomas sat reading a letter with a look of years weighing down his brow. The hawk, chosen of Dokorath, practically beamed as he stood with wings barely held at his back. Thalberg had the appearance of a man relieved beyond measure. Charlie wondered what the letter could possibly be and why it concerned both the Steward of Metamor and the Justicar. Before his attention returned to the seat provided for him on the Sutt side of the High Box, Thomas lowered the letter and let out a long sigh. Charlie's ears turned to hear. “That is good news. Thank you, Thalberg, Weyden. It's been too many years. I will write to Emily as soon as my duties will allow. You may tell the others the good news.” “I shall,” Weyden squawked, unable to hold back his excitement. Charlie marveled seeing the otherwise stoic bird so flush with delight that he actually molted a feather or two. “And then we shall make ready for this afternoon. It will be Humphrey's first festival flight! He is so eager he can barely keep aground.” “Give him, your wife, and the rest of your family our love and pride,” Thomas said with a broad smile and confidant mien. “And tell Humphrey that we'll be watching for him.” Weyden cawed a laugh. “He'll make sure you see him. With your leave, your grace?” Thomas wished the hawk well once more and dismissed him, before turning to Thalberg and clasping the alligator on the shoulder and saying with a whicker that almost became a whinny. “That is a weight that has been on my heart and yours for too many years now. Now smile, my friend, I know you wish to!” “I fear that if I were to smile too broadly I might frighten our guests away, your grace.” Even as Thomas laughed, and Thalberg joined him in his reserved way, Charlie chuckled at the jest and started forward toward his seat, Maysin close behind and ever patient. A few moments and many faces were enough to remind him that his was not the only tale unfolding at the festival. Life at Metamor was full of these long-held pains and the healing that came at moments unexpected. He likely would never know what the letter had said to Thomas, or what Felsah said to the Magyar mage, or even what Pelaeth said to Bryn, and just as likely they would never know or understand what Charlie had seen and endured. Sometimes it was best to leave it that way and not intrude on these private joys and sorrows. He took his seat and asked Maysin to bring him something to eat and drink. Misanthe turned to him and smiled though the iron lingered in her eyes. “Did you have a good walk?” “And a good talk with my mother. I have apologized to her.” Maysin returned with a platter of fresh tidbits of meat, cheese, fruit, and some pasty sauce that smelled of cinnamon in one hand and a small glass of wine in the other. Charlie thanked her for both and proceeded to nibble at the cheese. Between bites he added, “She forgave me. I've been a fool. I should have trusted in their love for me.” “As well you should,” Misanthe agreed. “I will seek my sire out this evening after the festivities,” he announced while rolling a bit of cooked ham between two fingers. “They are planning to stay at Metamor tomorrow – to avoid the rush of foreigners trying to leave I expect – so I thought I'd spend the day with them.” Misanthe nodded and her vulpine snout offered him an approving smile. “That is very noble of you, Charlie. But do not forget your responsibilities.” “Maybe I can introduce Erick to Master Vidika.” He dipped the ham in the sauce and popped the morsel into his mouth before a glint of mischief could touch his cheeks. The reproof in his mother's glance was, for the first time in two days, filled with warmth and humor. “I shall not forget them,” he added after swallowing and deciding not to use as much of the potent sauce on his next bite, “but is not my true first responsibility to family?” Misanthe inclined her head in assent. “I expect most of your tutors will be recovering from the festivities anyway and so your absence will be, by many, appreciated. I have nothing for you tomorrow, so if your father has nothing either, you are free to spend the day as you wish.” He smiled, and breathed a long sigh,”Thank you, mother. I love you.” Her smile broadened into one of actual joy. She reached her arm across the empty seat where Malger would sit once his charade with spy and banker was at an end and patted him on the arm. “And I love you, my son.” No more was said between them and Charlie finished his platter and wine without further interruption. His eyes strayed to the field where various acrobats and dancers were hard at work showing their talents and hard-won techniques. He beheld a gaggle of jugglers, tumblers, and even some who were doing handstands on running horses – real horses and not animorphed Keepers. A few who were gifted with grasping tails were taking full advantage of these to juggle with 'three hands' or otherwise aid in tumbling or dancing. At some point, Felsah must have left the box as had the Magyar mage for the mage Grastalko appeared on the field and joined in the juggling and tumbling with a reckless abandon and vivacity that astonished the Keepers already performing. But like a seasoned troupe they welcomed the foreigner into their ranks and all of the King's men applauded him with fervor. And not long after that Malger returned to his seat and gave Charlie a dignified smile. “Good morning, my son. How are you feeling today?” “Well enough,” he replied. “I have apologized to Maysin, Bryn, and then my mother, the Baroness. And then I came here.” “Very good.” Malger nodded and then turned his eyes to the tourney field. Charlie shifted in his seat, tail curling beneath his toes, and tried to watch. As the morning drifted past a variety of performers took the the field, performed to the delight of the Keepers and all their visitors, and departed to make room for the next group. Charlie found his mind wandering as the minutes turned into hours. He barely noticed the last bout in the archery contest, and by the time the last of the jousts between a heavily armored ram and elk he had little attention for their combat; his mind had turned inward. Chin propped upon his fingers, Charlie ruminated on all that his sire had told him the night before, weighty and difficult to grasp, yet it seemed to the young rat to have absolutely no bearing on the deal that had been struck with Nocturna. And about her Charlie did not wish to dwell. He had warded his dreams and studiously turned his nocturnal paths away from the Night Temple wherein he normally awakened to the Dream. In avoiding her, and the conflict that clawed at his heart, he knew he was ensuring that the reckoning between them could be extreme. But She was a fey spirit, and held so little anger that Charlie was unsure how she would stand before him. When he was a child newly wandering the dreams she had come upon him in the fullness of her deific potency a time or thrice, when he had far overstepped himself or caused wrack in some hapless sleeper's dreams. That countenance had so frightened Charles that he learned those lessons mostly clearly and never stepped beyond the bounds she set afterward. At least, until he had wandered into Baron Matthias' dark dreams, further so when he had pushed him to recall them. She would, as the saying went, have his hide for that breach of faith and trust. He watched the tournament field where Sir Egland, once more astride the Oryx Intoran as his mount, was tilting against Sir Dupré. The Steppelanders did not have the practice of mounted lance in their style of warfare, which was mounted and swift, so had not entered any of the tilts. A few from beyond Metamor's borders, and the Curse, had come to join the tournaments but none had lasted. One was even being hastily borne south with a broken leg for his errors, albeit a break that had been aided with the healing magic of Metamor's healers before he left. A roar of the crowds louder than the rumbling susurrus of rising and falling cheers broke through Charlie's inner turmoil and he focused his eyes. Dupré was leaning from his horse with an arm outstretched to help the fallen Egland to his hooves. The elk knight was laughing loudly and spitting dirt from his helm much as Charlie had done the day before. Oh, how he knew that feeling, Charlie considered. Vidika's training and sparring with Bryn had often seen his muzzle in dirt, grass, or wood shavings rather often. Not that Bryn escaped a similar fate almost as often. Dupré's shield was split in twain, and his last lance lay shattered upon the dirt, but he was still upon his blowing mount. Intoran, saddle canted wildly to one side of his barrel, ambled over to stand next to Egland within easy reach. Clapping the cuisse of Dupré's leg, Egland said a few words that Dupré found hilarious. With the help of squires the ram dismounted to walk beside Egland, offering a shoulder while Intoran walked on his opposite side. Charlie noted that Egland was limping but, if the jocularity of the conversation below was any indication, had not been terribly harmed by his unhorsing. Despite the fact he had not been mounted on a horse to begin with. Charlie dutifully stood with the rest in the High Box to applaud Dupré's victory in joust, the two knights coming to stand before the Duke's high vantage and bowed awkwardly in their dusty, dented armor. “The final melee dost follow,” King Pelaeth rumbled once the applause had died down and the two combatants made their way to their respective ends of the list. “Unless the lad dost wish to return to his position on the list?” He turned his gaze to Charlie, dark brows raised. Charlie smiled in his rodentine way, unsure how the visitors might read it since the expression was markedly different on a muzzle, and shook his head. “No, your majesty. I forfeited when I left the field yesterday.” He chuffed self-consciously, “Especially having not offered my liege even the slightest respect in doing so without his leave.” “Ah, the forfeit 'twas not thine, lad,” The steppelands king offered, turning toward his bodyservant hovering nearby. “'Tis why they didst allow me to stand champion in thy stead for the last contest of foot yesterday. The other rat didst break the rules of the engagement, it appeared.” “He did,” Charlie nodded, “because I forced him to.” With a shrug he settled back in his chair. “But I would ill grace myself taking the field after such crass behavior. I cede the battle to you, your Majesty, if that is your wish.” “Hah, my wish, aye? A warm hearth, warm woman, fine family, and peace art my wish. Leave the clashing of swords to contests as this.” His calloused hand waved at the field being cleared, groomed, and prepared for the next event. “Let us play at war, not engage in its bloodiness, aye?” “Indeed, o' wise King!” Charlie smiled with a nod, bowing from his seat. “And, that said, I would feel more confident that you could wear the Summer Crown more regally than I.” Pelaeth laughed and clapped Charlie heartily on the shoulder, rocking the youth in his chair. “In sooth, lad! For I art a King!” His hand left Charlie's shoulder to thump his broad chest. “Regal wearing of crowns dost come to us by nature.” With a wave of his thick arm to his retinue he made for the stairs at the back of the high Box. “I shalt make ready my armor.” When his heavy footfalls faded into the depths below Charlie glanced over at Bryn, who sat beside the King's sister, far more relaxed than yesterday though his hide still shuddered as if he would rather be elsewhere, making idle chatter. “I have paid little heed since I disgraced myself on the field, but I believe that it is the merchant Goldmark whom yon King shall face?” Bryn smiled hugely and Thomas nickered a hearty laugh. “The rat, Goldmark, aye,” the Duke answered before his son could speak. Malger, holding a lute in one hand that he had been idly playing most of the morning, trailed his fingers across the strings in a quick trill. Lifted from a common comedy the brief chord was easily read as a musical punch-line. “He managed to get Keleficks to take himself out of the running yesterday evening. On his first parry he batted the poor Lutin's truncheon into his brow and he knocked himself unconscious.” Though he'd heard the tale from Suria that morning, Charlie still shook his head and chortled softly. “The poor guy doesn't stand a chance.” He observed. “The wagers are going to be steep.” Malger barked a laugh and played another musical stanza from comedy. “I've put ten garrets on Goldmark all the same.” “Five,” Bryn whickered behind his hand, his discomfiture at the admission causing the visiting princess to laugh brightly. Charlie gaped, “What, do you want to bankroll the wager keepers?” “As much as bankrupt them,” Thomas admitted with a shrug and a smile. Charlie could only shake his head, having placed no wagers on any of the events. Bryn leaned ever so closer to Charlie as if he were sharing a confidence though everyone in the High Box could easily hear him. “No disrespect is meant to his Majesty, of course. He is a fantastic warrior; a figure from legend almost! You should have seen his bout against Sir Intoran last night. You would have thought our Oryx a wounded animal and the King not just a man but a pack of wolves!” In a much quieter voice, one meant only for his friend, the rat replied, “It is no wonder then your mother wishes to bind such blood to your own.” He was rewarded with a scowl followed by another laugh as they both settled back in their seats to watch the field prepared for one final bout. Across the tournament field Charlie could see the seats given to the Matthias House and, beyond the stands, something of their pavilion as well. He could see the rat in question, Goldmark, in his massive 'taur form being caparisoned for the upcoming battle. He stroked his whiskers while a troupe of musicians took to the field to entertain the waiting crowds. A handful of acrobats capered around the periphery to the laughter and cheers of the throngs as they pantomimed knights at joust on imaginary steeds. After a few minutes he quaffed the last of his mead and stood. “Maysin, please stay here and attend the Lady Misanthe,” he said hastily, handing the cup off to a waiting servant before he trotted for the stairs. Surprised by Charlie's sudden exit, Maysin could only gape after him, obeying the request after only a couple of steps to follow him. “Charlie?” Bryn called in surprise, afraid to be abandoned to the attentions of his mother and the princess. “Where are you going?” “To find a better vantage!” He called back, quickly descending the stairs, tail whispering along the wood behind him. ---------- May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love, Charles Matthias </body> </html>