<html> <body> Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats by Charles Matthias and Ryx Pars V: Ascensum (h) Wednesday, June 23, 724 CR Charlie and Bernadette went their separate ways after rejoining the crowd flocking the banquet tables spaced around the tournament field. The young rat found his noble friend Bryn unattached – the princess had apparently retired to the King's pavilion to refresh herself – and so they began to peruse the delicacies prepared by their guests together. Each exotic morsel was washed down by a quick sip of a fermented liquor that Bryn told him was blended with the cream skimmed from mare's milk; despite the odd look Bryn bore with each quaff, Charlie found it smooth, tantalizing, and savored the warmth that accompanied each drop. Sig, accompanied by Justin the Mage Murikeer's eldest son, joined them after their first table and soon the quartet laughed as they watched some of their fellow Keepers tumbling over their own paws after even a little sip of the foreign brews. They joshed each other as well as both Maysin and Argamont who followed after them over how much each of them could handle. Charlie tried to make sure that he did not drink too much for fear he would not be able to keep awake long enough to hear the remainder of his sire's tale, while Bryn did the same for fear of embarrassing himself in front of their guests; Sig, an alligator who had still not come into his manly growth, only took a sip mindful of what his mother might say and confessed to find it revolting anyway, as did Justin who recoiled at the smell alone. Maysin had one small cup and demurred any more, but Argamont seemed to enjoy more than his fair share. Charlie made an off-handed joke that it was a skunk who would find the scent repulsive, earning him a brief scowl before the young skunk joined their laughter. Or, perhaps, they were laghing because for a few moments Charlie found himself the same hue as the viscid concoction, and as redolent. Justin let the spell fade after the jape, however, after the laughter of Charlie's quip was redoubled at his sudden discomfiture. Before the strawberry roan could completely scupper himself, servitors began to clear the tables in preparation for the arrival of both mages and musicians. Charlie and his friends moved to the end of the lists to watch where they would not be in the way of either the Keepers leaving the field after enjoying their fill of Steppe-bred delicacies or the laborers scuttling about with the purpose and chaos of ants. Food, drink, and the tables they waited upon were carried off leaving a trail of delectable flavors in the air. Tools to straighten the field out for the hundredth time emerged, and behind them came benches for the musicians and raised stands for the mages. “Are you going to be playing, Charlie?” Sig asked , swinging his long jaws toward the rat. He gestured with a short, green arm at the semi-circle of benches being arranged in front of the High Box. Charlie glanced there, saw the workers following the instructions of a familiar blue-robed raccoon, and then shook his head. “Not this year. I've had my hands full and don't know the music.” “As if there were a tune you could not improve as you learned it!” Bryn admonished with a bemused snort. “I'm not quite as good as my father,” Charlie noted with a faint chuckle at the rebuke. “Still, let the guild and temple musicians shine. And what of you, Sig? Are you going to help the mages with their grand show?” The alligator bobbed his head and thumped the end of his tail on the dirt. “Master Murikeer did ask me to assist; but he asked all of his apprentices to assist.” Sig's yellow eyes narrowed. “I will only be holding a small part of it together.” “And next year you will do even more,” Justin assured him with a smile, resting his monochromatic hand on the young alligator's shoulder. “You are proving to be as apt a pupil as I, Sig. Your talents go to waste as a House Steward.” As with Charlie and Bryn's theological sparring, the young skunk and alligator jibed each other about their expected respective professions, with the same lack of rancor that the young royals enjoyed. Charlie nodded agreement, casting another glance at the musicians starting to assemble. “Bryn, Sig, Justin, if you will excuse me, I want to go speak with Master Elvmere for a moment.” Bryn patted him on the shoulder. “We'll be here or in the High Box.” Charlie flashed him a rodent's smile and then started across the field to where the musicians were beginning to gather. The soft clop of Maysin's hooves followed him. Most of the Keepers who were not helping maintain the field had left not long after the remnants of food and drink had been carried away, so the rat was able to make a straight course for the blue-robed raccoon scrutinizing the benches, musicians, and their instruments. His triangular ears lifted at their approach, and with a half turn of his head, he saw them and smiled. “Milord Sutt, I thought you were not going to be performing with us this year. Have you changed your mind?” “Master Elvmere,” Charlie replied with a slight bow. “No, I have not changed my mind, I just wanted to take a moment of your time. First, congratulations on your appointment as Master of Temple musicians.” The raccoon's ears backed, his tail flicked, and a look of sullen embarrassment seemed to cross his eyes. The position had been offered to the Lothanasi acolyte several times over the last few years but had, until a week ago, been refused each time. Rumor had it that Charlie's philosophy and history instructor had been ordered by the Lothanasa to accept the appointment; it was no secret that some of the raccoon's written musings on matters of the gods were causing some consternation in the Midlands and Sathmore. Charlie suspected even the rigors of managing the temple musicians and writing music for their performance would not dampen his theological inquiries. “Thank you. I have your father to thank for this unexpected skill in music! And I have promised your mother that my duties will not impede your studies, young Charlie.” Charlie's whiskers twitched uncertainly. Of all his instruction, Elvmere's was always the most taxing; not even Vidika's torture could make his brain hurt so much as philosophy. “There was one thing I hoped to ask you, Master. I have come across a couple of Åelvish words and I was wondering if you knew what they meant.” Elvmere politely waved away an otter approaching him with a cornet in one paw, and then pulled Charlie a step away from the gathering performers. “It's been a year since I last reviewed the Åelvish language, but I can try. What words have you heard?” “The first is Núrodur. I think it is a title of some sort.” The raccoon lifted his eyes as if he were staring into a book only he could see. He scratched his chin with one claw. “Núrodur... I believe that it means a devoted servant. It is an honorable word. If you have pronounced it correctly, then it would also imply a degree of endearment between both master and servant. The Núrodur belongs to the master but is also treasured by the master.” Elvmere began nodding to himself. “Yes, yes, I believe that is correct. What is the other word you wish to know?” Charlie thought a moment on his sire's tale. It had only been spoken once, but something in its use pierced him. He was not sure if it was the mystical quality of the Åelvish language or the emphasis his sire had placed on it that had impressed him so. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the last moments of the tale until the word came. “I believe... Nuruhuinë. Yes, that is it. Nuruhuinë.” A frown darkened Elvmere's snout and after a moment he was forced to shake his head. “I fear I do not know that one. Some of the parts are familiar; I have probably seen them in other contexts, but as a word unto itself? No, that I have not seen.” Rising a gray and black striped paw Elvmere rubbed his jaw contemplatively, “Consider it as might master Rickkter when speaking of his written magical constructs, or Murikeer may. It seems to my recollection that there are distinct parts to the address, a triune that, individually, have small meanings and thus small potency. Yet, combined, form a greater and more weighty whole. Or, in the cases of those who practice magecraft, power.” “What do the parts mean?” “They could have many meanings, individual chords plucked from a bar of music. Alone, they define little. They may not mean the same thing as its own word and when used separately, but I believe that the first part speaks of loss. The inflection suggests loss of an intended, or was intended. I admit my Åelvish is not particularly polished. And the second half may be an image of some sort.” Elvmere wrinkled his snout and then shook his head again. “I cannot say exactly, but it does not seem like a good word to me.” The raccoon tilted his head curiously. “And again, it is a word, albeit one that does not sit well to my mind. A word taken from a greater context that would more clearly define its use.” Charlie nodded slowly, chewing the inside of his lower lip as he let his whiskers droop. “And if someone were to be called Núrodur Nuruhuinë?” “And therein lies the context,” Elvmere nodded. “It would seem, then, that they – the one being addressed by such words – would be a devoted servant by being whatever ill thing that strange word portends. And what being might such an ill thing serve with devotion? Young Lord Sutt, your question distresses me; I fear the moment I am free from my duties as Master of Temple musicians I will be seeking my books!” Despite his frightful words, the rat could see a twinkle of curiosity in the raccoon's eyes. “I am eager to hear whatever you discover.” Charlie bowed his head and took a quick step back. “Now I'll leave you to your duties. I must find my friends again.” Elvmere smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Enjoy your Summer days, young Lord Sutt.” With a slight bow of respect, mirrored by the priest, Charlie withdrew. It was good that he did for the tournament field was beginning to grow crowded again. Not so tightly as it had during the feast, but with the addition of a mind-boggling assembly of instruments large and small, and with the requisite benches, tables, stands, and the central platform for whatever performers would be taking the focus it had become just as confining. The throb and whine of instruments began to fill the air with a low, discordant susurrus as the musicians worked to tune their instruments. Brief chords lifted above the din as groups practiced. In the center, upon the platform, Murikeer stood with a group of guild mages before a crowded assemblage of apprentices. Charlie saw Sig and Justin standing with the greater group, mostly illusionists, who would be creating the spectacle which would entertain the crowds before the faire was officially ended. Not, of course, that the end of the faire would be an end of festivities; it would only mark the beginning of very likely days of revelry before everyone trailed back to their homes and professions. For the world continued in its course; cows would need milking, crops tending, and mills grinding despite the midsummer pause. To relax, if for a time, from the labors of simply living. In due course, Charlie knew, he would be at the center of such things as Duke Thomas was now. Though an atmosphere of frivolity and revelry it was also – evidenced by the presence of the Steppes King and his sister – a time of intense politics. Thomas could not beg out to enjoy his own relaxation during the festivities, nor could Bryn, and Charlie could little escape it though his adoptive father was no longer on the throne that gave him his House. Even distant from the Western Pyralian kingdom that gave House Sutt its foundation Malger, and perforce Charlie, had to juggle politics and diplomacy, even within Metamor. A narrow gate before the High Box allowed Charlie past the railing that defined the tourney field and let him through the cordon of alert Men-at-Arms from both Metamor and Pelaeth's retinue. Past the perimeter Charlie felt less crowded and relaxed a little, altering his path toward the table of refreshments laid out to one side. The stout fermented drink of the steppes was not distasteful to him; but it left a strong aftertaste as might a fine soft cheese; pungent and lingering, but not unpleasant. Nearing the table he saw a cluster of women, all of them human, garbed in various wardrobes from simple to fine. They parted smoothly, some of them with slightly frightened swiftness at being approached by a rat, while he made his way through them to the table. Despite his upright stature, fine clothes, and ability to speak the fears and superstitions of outlanders held them strongly. Many it simply confused, such as the guards who accompanied the King, who were accustomed to strangeness in foreign lands. The servants, however, were less hardened and more flighty in regards to the stunning variety of Metamor's non-human peoples. At the table Charlie spied the Steppeland Princess, Brygitta, sipping from a tall silver chalice while she leaned one hip indecorously against the table and looked out across the field. Charlie followed her gaze and saw that she was looking at Bryn, who towered over those near him along with Argamont at his side. The two were tossing some story back and forth regaling someone Charlie could not see with its obvious humor. Bringing his gaze back to the princess Charlie caught a moment of pensive contemplation on the woman's face. Her ladies-in-waiting did not hover too close, but also did not withdraw too far away to not serve her whims, but provided just enough of a screen that she did not immediately notice the young rat nearby. The fact that Charlie was almost two hands shorter did not make him any more noticeable for that, either. “Frightening, is he not?” Charlie asked offhand, casting his gaze down to the goblet he secured from a tray of them and filled it with mulled cider. Brygitta blinked once before turning her head to see who spoke nearby, as well to know if she was the one to whom he spoke. “Milord Charlie, I'm sorry.” She lowered her chalice quickly and curtsied, casting her gaze down momentarily. “I didst not see thee approach.” “Understandable, your grace.” Charlie smiled, offering a bow. “There are much better things to capture your attention, I wager.” He turned his gaze briefly toward the young Duke's son holding forth a stone's throw away amid a crowd of admirers. His gaze was not so focused, however, that he caught the momentary downturn of her lips and wary flash of her eyes when she followed his gaze. “So many,” she concurred softly, both hands turning the chalice in her grasp. “Thy land art so... amazing. I canst truthfully say a tome could not justly embrace the scope of variety.” “Ahh, yes, milady. And, for all that, such variety is remarkably the same.” Charlie bobbed his head with a smile. “The same, milord?” “Man, hare, rat, horse... nature follows a single underlying schematic. There is little different between myself and, say, a dragon. Arms, legs, head, tail.” He flicked the length of his tail around to let it slide across his upturned palm. “The only true distinction is size.” He raised his head with a warm, but playfully knowledgeable, smile. “Yon dukeling is no warhorse, milady. He stands to a head with your brother, and yourself. Worry not that he is different than any man, despite the silly ears and long muzzle. His physique, like mine, may be different, but overall the size is appropriate to any man of such stature. Have no fear in that regard.” The princess stared at him for several long seconds and then raised her eyes to look across at Bryn, then blushed brightly and cast her gaze down quickly. Charlie smiled brightly and waited for her to regain her composure. Eventually she looked up from the silver chalice clutched tightly in her hands and sighed. “But – but, he art a horse. As thou art a rat, and she a... an assingh, I dost believe.” Brygitta nodded her head toward Maysin who stood a short distance away among the other ladies, conversing with a couple about what appeared to be braining. “A creature of the Kitchlande plains called a zebra, I believe, but yes. She, I, yon Bryn are all changed from the human nature that you retain. Myself and Bryn, however, were born as we are. Maysin was as human as you, until the curse took her into her adolescence.” Charlie tilted his head, “That is what most frightens you, your highness? Not that your brother consider an alliance by marriage to a horse-like man, but the curse that made him so?” Brygitta nodded, but not with conviction. “Well, he art a horse...” Raising her gaze to the throng and stallions at its center she sighed. “But aye, in a degree. The nature of this change curse dost leave the blood chilled in its contemplation.” “It can. It does, I admit, yes.” Charlie nodded slowly. “It is a monumental change from what is known to something entirely unknown. Should you remain you could as likely become a man, like your brother but far better looking.” “Or a child,” Brygitta replied with a slow nod. “Or as likely a swine, or – anything.” “It is said, however, that the curse is not a completely fickle thing, milady.” The young rat offered reassuringly. “Master Murikeer postulates that the curse... listens, after a fashion. It responds to desire and belief. The Duchess Alberta, for instance, could have become a lioness, or once again a man, or a young girl. Yet she became an Assingh, a low beast in her – your – homeland; suited perfectly to the Duke with whom she had fallen in love. As with the sorceress Kozaithy, upon her arrival. She met her husband, Murikeer, during his travels south with my father, and learned that he was a skunk before ever coming to Metamor. Could it be that her burgeoning love for him led the curse to make her a skunk as he was, to suit the two of them so perfectly? And there is the champion of the lists, Sir William Dupré, exiled here nearly seventeen years ago; he and the son who followed him both became rams, the very symbol of their noble house!” Charlie quaffed the last of the mulled cider in his goblet, swirling about in his muzzle to banish the last lingering vestiges of the steppes drink from his palette. The two flavors mixed most poorly, he noted. “Would that 'twere true, milord, but I dare say it dost frighten me that I may become as the Duchess. Assingh are not highly regarded.” Charlie nodded, slowly refilling his goblet, catch a glance of someone slipping beneath the stands at the front of the high box as he did, though the withdrawal was not furtive. “Such, she felt, was her penance for the many wrongs she had perpetrated against her would-be-husband. Thus, again, may the curse have known her heart? There are many in the lines equus as you of the steppes know so well. As like you could become Rheh, or of the mythical winged horses in the tales of Pyralia, or like my maiden Maysin there.” Brygitta merely nodded, looking to her chalice. Nothing that the dregs were the same mulled cider that Charlie was drinking he raised the ewer with an inquiring tilt of his ears. She may not have been able to read the language of his body, but the offered ewer said as much and she accepted. “Fret not, your highness. The dance of diplomacy is long and involved, to say nothing of courtship, and we have not stepped beyond the entry hall of the ball in which this dance may be played out as of yet. Bryn dislikes you not, but has a lad's heart as do I. He is unsure if he is ready for matrimony and alliances any more than you may be. Years yet may cross the face of the world before fathers decide, or love does.” The princess straightened her back and squared her shoulders after a moment, dipping her head to look down at him with a warm smile. “Thou art accurate in that, milord, and I thank thee most kindly for the words of wisdom beyond thy youth and mine.” With a regal curtsy she smiled. “I see that my brother the King and thy Duke have retired to the platform above, so perhaps we should join them?” Her eyes turned toward the field where Bryn's circle of admirers had finally begun to disperse. The musicians were beginning to assemble into a proper orchestra, signaling that the closing ceremonies would soon begin. Picking up another goblet Charlie shook his head. “I must demur, your highness. Could you please kindly inform Bryn and the others that I will be below, admiring the fine golden beasts that came with you? I have seen sixteen summers of these ceremonies, and can see this one in the future at my leisure – one of the performers is an accomplished illusionist and my tutor, after all.” ---------- May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love, Charles Matthias </body> </html>