<html> <body> Here is the final section of Pars V! I will begin posting Pars VI after I get back from the TSA-Bash next weekend. Pars VI is the final part of this mammoth story that Ryx and I have been working on for the last two years. I really hope you have all been enjoying it! Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats by Charles Matthias and Ryx Pars V: Ascensum (o) Saturday, May 12, 708 CR The next terrace was all a road of stone rising upward at an angle even steeper than the last. The stone was shaped to offer little steps and landings on the way up around the mountain, and now Charles could see through his Master's eyes that the path definitely curved about it. The mountain itself was finally narrowing. Along the rock at the base of the cliff wall lay men in women in boundless number. They lay face down with their arms prostrate before them. Their lips moved to speak but no other part of their body seemed capable of motion. His Master walked well clear of each of them as they ascended the path. Charles could feel the edge brushing against the shadow and the depth beneath them should they fall. And yet he knew that they could not fall. Those who ran below had never tripped and hurtled downward. It was not possible for the souls here to ever go back; they could only go forward and so it was for Charles and his Master. As they slipped past the prone figures Charles felt their words touching the ground, and through the shadow felt their shape. It took some time for him to distinguish between the voices for they did not speak in rhythm. Rather each spoke at his or her own pace, which garbled the words into what seemed a senseless morass. But eventually, focusing his feelings on only parts of the shadow, he was able to make out what it was they each said. Adhaesit pavimento anima mea Adhaesit pavimento anima mea ... As he made himself listen to the words and try to make sense of them, an image other than what his Master showed him flowed into his mind. He peered into the deeps of a cave set in a desert hillside, where only a feeble lantern brought light. A cold night was without, the heavens sprinkled with stars. Within the warmth of animals and their stink pervaded. Straw rested upon the stone to give them a meager bed. Wooden slats had been arranged to keep them from escaping. A man and a woman reclined within, their faces filled with a rapturous joy. Something small stirred within the feed trough filled with bundles of coarse wool into which they gazed. In the distance song filled the air. Charles felt an ache in his heart and a fire in his flesh as the scene slipped away from him. He knew the story, and he knew he had loved the story. But it was gone and he held only scraps. Why could he not remember any of these things anymore? What had happened to him? The rat burrowed deep within himself to find whatever he had lost. And yet, just as there was a wall in his mind to keep the pain tearing his eyes apart from overwhelming him, there seemed only to be empty shelves were once his memories had been stored. His journey had been long, and each step had crowded out more and more of what had been there before. How far had he come? Where had he even begun? He knew he had not always been climbing the mountain. He knew he had seen friends in terrible anguish before this. Their names? Wes... no, it was gone too. But there was one thing he knew he could find. At the core of his being it still remained, a fist clenched tight and marked with a sword. Perhaps all that he had forgotten lay within its grip. False. He... The word came unbidden and startled Charles. It had not come from his Master. The voice was different and yet familiar. He scampered through the shadow, concentration destroyed, and stared out through his Master's eyes at row after row of people. Men and women of all shapes and sizes muttered their prayer into the ground. He could feel their want, their desire, their groping and grasping need for something, anything. It fixed them more firmly than any bindings could upon the ground, faces turned from the light that did not burn their backs. Charles pondered them for only a moment before sinking back within his own thoughts. He touched each of the empty shelves where memories had once been stored. Nothing had changed. The journey up the mountain was all he could find, and even then details were uncertain. How long had he been climbing? There were only three terraces more but how many had they already ascended? He felt his Master's presence filling him and with it the determined focus and purpose to which they had undertaken. Charles lowered his snout to the shadow and snorted hot steam against the stone as he crawled up the stone path. The cries of the people sounded now like moans through his paws and through the shadow film. The view of the path grew in clarity with that presence, but this time no words were shared. Charles wished he would hear some. Any words at all. They had once mattered so much to him, but now he did not know why. Does Núrodur need them for this? I... I do not know, Master. They will return. Be not afraid. Abide in my shadow and you will be safe, Núrodur Nuruhuinë. He remained on all fours and allowed himself no thoughts for a long time even after the presence of his Master receded from his mind. There was nothing in it to find anyway. Only the hand remained there for him to inspect. It seemed to him that it was sinking into a well where it could no longer be seen. The rat, turned his thoughts from the vision of the path and the people strewn across it and let his arms and legs move him forward but nothing more. The clenched hand. The sword. These he pondered. What were they? Why had he born them in the center of his being all his life? Questions and questions circled his thoughts until even they were lost in a maelstrom of insensibility. Beware. The vision of the path receded to a single mote of light. All that existed was a plain of endless darkness surrounded by walls of stone that stretched to the heavens. In the midst of that plain was a single well with a single rope descending into its depths. A small, brown rat circled the rim of the well, gazing downward at the clenched hand marked by a white sword that rested at its base. The rat gripped the rope in its tail and claws and scrambled down into the damp well that stank with putrescence. A miserable sheen of slime coated the bottom of the well, and the rat rubbed its paws back and forth to rid itself of that muck. It scratched its ears with a hind paw, and brushed out it whiskers until it felt an acceptable measure of cleanliness restored. And then, curious at the brightness of the hand, it nibbled at the fingers and clawed with its little nails to pry up even a sliver of flesh. A light, warm and crimson exuded from beneath the fingers. A sound like a drum throbbed within. The rat pulled and bit with all its little strength until something slipped free. The sun-warmed man garbed in purple robe kept one eye on the boy as he spoke with the father. The father bore an unpleasant moue as he attempted to arrange his wares on the demonstration table for the people in the small fishing village south of Glazebrook. The boy tried not to look like he was paying attention to the affairs of grown-ups by staring at the mighty towers of Glazebrook and beyond them the southern reaches of the low-lying Amrigane mountains still green with mid-Summer trees. “How long, Master Matthias, has your son demonstrated such remarkable strength? He carried this table by himself. He should not be able to do so at his size and age.” The father grimaced, his brown mustache twitching and his arms trembling with the urge to rush the robed man away. “He's always been a precocious lad. Now if you'll excuse me I...” “Just a moment more, Master Matthias. I do not mean to be a burden to you. But I must ask, does your son have difficulty controlling his temper?” The boy scowled at the suggestion and then turned his head to watch the fishermen prepare their boats for the evening on the nearby wharf. The robed man, the Sondecki, had been watching him! The father scoffed, “He has a temper, but many boys his age do. No I must insist...” “Forgive me but I have another question. Does your son like to fight?” “Of course! Of course! He has silly dreams of being a knight one day. Now please!” The boy cast a quick glance back and saw that the man in the purple robe had lifted his hands in a calming gesture. “I will take up only a moment more of your time, Master Matthias. I would like to ask something of your son if you would permit me.” “Fine! Fine! But stay out of sight of the wares; you'll frighten my customers.” The robed man slipped behind the table and smiled to the boy. “Do you know what I am, young man?” He liked being called a man and so smiled. “You are one of the Sondeckis, Mern.” The last was a title of respect given in those lands when another was not known. The boy had never met a Sondeckis but he and all in those lands knew of them; they were warriors for justice and defenders of the down-trodden. “How right you are. Now, what is your name?” “My name is Charles!” The Sondecki took the boy's hand in his own and held it gently. “Well, Charles, I would like you to do one thing for me. Close your eyes and imagine your heart. Can you do that?” The boy nodded and closed his eyes, picturing his heart beating in his chest. “Now, put everything you know and love into your heart. Imagine everything filling it to the brim. Fill it up, leave nothing outside of it. Everything you are, everything you know, and everything you will should be inside this heart. “Now, enclose the heart with a single hand. Close it tight and let nothing escape. Can you do that?” Again, the boy nodded, willing everything he could think of, and everything he loved, his father and mother, their horses, their wares, the green trees, the grass, the mountains and rivers, and all the stories he yearned to hear about the evening fire when his family shared its nightly meal. Everything went into his heart. “Now I want you to put a mark on that hand. You choose the mark. Have you done that? Good. Do not tell me what it is just yet. Keep the secret just a moment longer. Now... open up the hand.” The boy did as he was told and a smile crossed his face. “Do you feel calm?” “I am, Mern. I feel calm!” For the first time in ages he felt no anger or frustration, no sense of disquiet to make him anxious or disagreeable. He was calm like a morning lake touched by fog. He was as still as the mountain rock. He did not even yearn to boast of this joy to his mother or father to whom he had always told every little triumph. “Very good. I am glad to hear it. Now, Charles, tell me... what mark did you choose for the hand about your heart?” “A sword! I chose a sword, Mern!” The robed man smiled and stood, patting the boy on the head. He turned back to the father and coughed to get his attention. The boy's father grimaced beneath his mustache. “You should be proud of your son, Master Matthias. He is of the Sondeckis!” Charles blinked and willed the hand to close tightly again. The well and plain were no more. The pinprick of light swelled back until he felt as if they were his own eyes. The walls pressed tight against his mind and he felt his limbs sloshing through the shadow as if wading in an ankle-deep pond. He blinked open his real eyes and for a moment saw light fill them. There was the mountain path and its parade of prone bodies all moaning their sins and their prayers into the rock. The shadow touched none of them. His Master stopped and turned to face him. Núrodur... are you all right? But Charles ignored the question for a moment, his eyes, his true sight, marred by the cloud of ash, nevertheless beckoned him toward the figures of men. One in particular called to him. The sound of the voice, rough and impatient, the blonde of the hair now gone white at the edges, the mustache filled with gray, the arms once thick from lifting and carting goods from village to village now weak and empty, all of it was known to him. “Father?” Charles called to him, turning in the shadow to stretch out a hand toward the man who he'd only known for seven years. “Father? It is I, Charles, your son! Father!” He does not hear you, Núrodur. Núrodur! The shadow! But Charles could not hold back. He jumped out of the shadow to where his father lay prone, eager to touch him one last time. Eager to tell him of his love one last time. And then writhed on the ground, his flesh a living flame and his scream echoing in his mind until all he could hear and think was the shattering of glass. Brilliant crimson plumes engulfed him and then everything went black and all went silent and only the flame abode in him. Núrodur? Flame! Pain! All is dark! Núrodur? You are safe again. Listen to my voice. He did not move so much as shift, awareness following the voice back through a maze of flaming walls on every side. But the flame gave off no light; it was too hot for even that to escape the burning. Núrodur Nuruhuinë. Follow my voice. Follow me. Abide in the shadow. You are safe there and only there. Come, Núrodur. And he did. Núrodur followed the voice, the command, the call that he received. He knew the path beneath him again. He knew the sensation of bodies prostrate against the cliff wall. He knew the pool of shadow beneath him. He knew the sound of his Master's voice. It is only a little further, Núrodur. Your son awaits. Yes. That he knew too. His son. He followed after, his touch scorching the stone black and sending up rivulets of smoke. His voice hissed and wheezed, his mouth hanging agape. All else had been effaced. Núrodur Nuruhuinë followed his Master. ---------- Wednesday, June 23, 724 CR, Early Evening To Charlie's astonishment, his father crumpled atop the saddle blanket and bale of hay, tears streaming from his eyes. The golden horse stabled behind him lowered its head and nudged him with its muzzle. Charlie set the empty goblet aside and took the few steps to where his father wept. He knelt and put a hand on his father's shoulder. “I... I'm sorry. You saw... you saw your father there...” Baron Charles Matthias let out another gasp and then shut his eyes tight. He rubbed his hands across them, fingers trailing through the scarred rent over his right eye. “I did. I saw my father.” Charles looked up slowly, anguish writ plain upon his rodent muzzle, whiskers backed and ears flat while the golden horse brushed its broad nose against the back of his neck. “Until that moment when I raised my eyes and saw him as he had become, I never realized that I had forgotten what he looked like! Charlie, I had forgotten!” With a shaky hand Charles rested the pad and claw of one finger against his temple. “But, to this day, I have only to close my eyes and I see him as I saw him in that moment. Not the man who stared with anger at the Sondeckis who took me from the market stalls, but the frail man of age and weariness. And I wonder; did he know what became of me, Charlie? What became of his son?” He lifted one arm to pat the horse on the snout and then pushed himself back up. He offered Charlie a feeble smile. “I had not seen him since I was seven years old. In the Southlands, when a child with the Sondeck is discovered, they are sent to Sondeshara for training. Some families will go with them, but mine did not. I never saw him again. Nor my mother.” Charlie had seen into the dreams of many a Keeper who had lost father or mother to war, accident, or illness. It was a misery that always drove him to find a good cup. He had never imagined his own sire suffering from so bitter a loss. “Have you never searched for her?” But his sire shook his head. “If she lives she is somewhere in Kitchlande. That country is vaster than the Steppe. It would take me years to search it and I have not the time. Nor can I leave family for it. I can merely hope and pray for her sake. And my father...” his voice choked up again but he took several deep breaths and stilled the tremor. “For my father I pray every day. I have Liturgy offered for him.” “Does the rest of the family know?” “Only your mother. Do you.. have any more of that wine?” Charlie glanced at the cup he'd left on the floor and shook his head. “I can fetch more for you, Father.” But Charles shook his head. “No, it is fine. There is not much left to tell. Let me compose myself and I will continue. Sit, my son. We're almost there.” Charles cast his gaze down, folding his hands upon his lap, and took a long breath. “When I was seven, Charlie, a man took me away from my family because of the power that was born to me.” Charles spoke without raising his gaze. “I have the Sondeck; you have the Dream. In that, are we – you and I – so very different?” Charlie ran his fingers along the golden horse's mane for a moment as he gazed at his father. He did not know what to feel anymore. With nothing else to do, he took out his chewstick and gnawed while he sat and listened. ---------- May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love, Charles Matthias </body> </html>