Well, at least this tale didn't take nearly as
long as my last to complete! Here is the next
tale in my saga. This one is very political, but
I do hope that you all enjoy it!
---------
Metamor Keep: Gazing Through a Barred Window
by Charles Matthias
April 16, 708 CR
The donjon was more spacious than Jaime Verdane
had expected when he'd first been brought to
Salinon nearly four months ago to spend what
might possibly be the rest of his life as a
hostage. It was mostly circular except for the
wall with the single door behind which hid the
set of stairs that led down to the walled garden
which was the limit of his freedom. Seven paces
from one wall would carry him to the opposite
side of the chamber; seven long paces, which
meant that he had sufficient room for a
comfortable bed with heavy quilts of thick
Fennasi wool, a small but sufficient writing desk
and a little shelf of prayer books that had been
given to him by his captor, a hearth and bench
for wood, as well as a kettle in which to boil
water if he should want to make his own tea
there were sufficient herbs in the garden that he
had already begun drying some to make leaves
two chests for his belongings, and two windows to
provide a good clean breeze when he left them
open. Neither window opened out to the west, but
the northern and eastern windows provided
spectacular views of the countryside around
Salinon as well as the stars in the sky at night
close to each horizon. He was even beginning to
wonder how his captor might respond to a request
for a far seer and tripod on which to rest it so
he might bring those distant places close to his prison.
Winters in Salinon were usually brutal and this
last had been no exception. The wind sweeping
from the west had made the stones creak and he
could feel the tower swaying under its constant
assault. Ice formed everywhere and would coat the
inside of his windows if he didn't keep a fire
burning in the hearth at all hours. He'd spent
every night bundled tight in his quilts, only to
wake every few hours to throw more wood on the
fire. His days had been spent in studying every
nook and cranny of his tower cell, checking for
loose stones or cracked mortar. He had no
illusions of escape the drop from the western
side of the tower was several hundred feet onto
the escarpment over the lake but he did hope to
find some place he could hide things from his
captors; even a small cache would have been enough to begin.
But as the deep chill of Winter much colder
than anything he'd endured in Kelewair began to
thaw into a mostly dreary and rainy Spring, he
admitted that if he wanted a cache he would have
to build one himself. The first challenge was to
smuggle a knife. His captor, Duke Krisztov
Otakar, liked to have Jaime join him for the
morning repast as well as for the evening meal a
few days out of every week. He was treated by the
Duke and by the Duke's staff with kindness and
with the respect due his station, but also with a
hardness that constantly reminded him that he was
a prisoner. Otakar's eldest son, Ladislav, was
not so kind to Jaime, sneering at him when his
father couldn't see, as well as attempting to
trip him or force him to walk into things when
escorting him. Jaime bore it all without saying a word.
But on his many forced visits to eat, he was
always presented with one spoon and one knife for
the eating of his meal. These were dutifully
collected by a servant as soon as he finished his
food. He even tried to swipe something from the
table as he took a tumble after Ladislav gave him
a forceful nudge, but his duplicity had been seen
and the knife was taken back a moment later.
Nevertheless, he was not watched as closely while
in the garden. Once the snows had finally melted
in the last week of March, he'd spent most of his
time exploring the small garden. It abutted the
western wing of the castle and its western wall,
despite being a good eight feet in height, had
window slits overlooking the escarpment. There
was no way to get out but enough sunlight did
come in that it was not long before the area was
a profusion of color and odor. And in one corner
behind a small shield of cherry trees whose
brilliantly vivid pink blossoms enraptured the
eyes he found a section of the stone wall that
had been chipped. From this he was able, after
much careful scraping and a few careful strikes
with the heel of his boot, to extract a long
jagged bit of stone that came to a sharp
triangular point. This he carried back with him
to the donjon, and it was this that he used to
chip away at a section of the mortar around the
blocks behind the writing desk.
The tower stairs were long enough that he would
not hear somebody opening the door that led out
to the garden, so he needed complete quiet in
order to do his work. That way he would hear the
sound of boots on the steps as they climbed with
enough warning to carefully ease his writing desk
back into place and to hide the stone shard
within the mattress. But on that particular
morning his efforts were blocked by the trilling
of birds intent on building their rookeries on
the donjon awnings. A few had even alighted on
the window sills to watch him, brazen in their
purpose to steal little trinkets for their nests.
The birds had been busy for a few days now, and
so Jaime had returned from his morning meal with
a heel of bread. He sat with his back to the wall
next to the wood pile and tore little chunks of
the bread free only to toss them across the room
toward the windows to see which of the birds
would be brave enough to swoop inside and claim
the morsels. That day he had the attention of a
quartet of birds, a brown and yellow striped rock
sparrow, a bright russet-feathered linnet, a
black-headed and yellow-feathered bunting, and a
pale-throated, white-eyed jackdaw. The jackdaw,
somewhat larger than the other four, had the
northern window sill all to himself, while the
other three jostled a bit on the eastern sill.
At first Jaime tossed the bread pieces only
half-way across the room, but though the linnet
hopped on his little legs, none of the others did
more than flick their eyes toward the morsel. So
Jaime was forced to begin throwing his crumbs
closer to the windows. But it wasn't until the
crumb fell beneath the window sills that any of
them would risk flying down to grab the bit of
bread in their beaks and then fly back up to the
relative safety of the sill. The three smaller
birds would frequently fight over the same
morsel, each trying to snatch it out of each
others' beaks. The jackdaw almost joined in the
fray, but kept to his own sill and his own morsels of bread.
But the heel could only last so long and soon he
had no more. He tried to reach forward and toss
them the few crumbs that had landed too far from
the windows, but all of the little birds flew off
as soon as he crawled closer. The jackdaw allowed
him to throw only one more piece before he too
leaped from the window back to his airy home.
Jaime sighed, collected the rest of the bread,
and then stood at the window listening to the
cries of the birds and watching them fly. He had
never envied birds so much as he did at that moment.
With a disgusted growl, he tossed the crumbs out
the window and returned to his writing desk. He
wrapped a bit of torn lined about his right hand,
grasped the stone shard, and resumed chipping
away at the mortar. With any luck in a month or
two he would be able to move the stone.
----------
Though the morning was still cool, the grip of
Winter had long since been banished. Wild
blossoms dotted the lawns and the gardens were
resplendent with yellow, orange, pink, lavender,
and violet flowers. Birds sang in the treetops
and from the rooftops. And near the kennels of
the Verdane castle, over a dozen dogs barked
their excitement as they ran back and forth
around a strong young boy celebrating the tenth anniversary of his birth.
Jory laughed as he felt the canines rush around
and bump into him in their excitement, eager
tongues lapping at his hands and fingers, noses
searching for some hidden treat hanging from his
belt. Not a one of the full grown dogs was
shorter than his waist at their shoulder, and a
few of the on their hind paws could easily put
their fore paws on his head. And yet, despite
their girth and strength, Jory was not worried.
None of these dogs who had been his near constant
companions in the year since he'd come to live
with his grandfather would ever hurt him.
You should not let them be so unruly, said his
grandfather who stood a short distance off
watching with a keen eye. His grandfather had set
aside this day to spend especially with him. He'd
been there at Jory's bedside carrying a platter
of bread, fruit, and a cool glass of freshly
squeezed milk just as he'd risen from slumber.
And he'd brought the most wonderful news! His
mother and his younger brother and sister would
be coming to Kelewair that day to visit with him!
He just wished his father could be here too. But
his father was now up in Metamor and looked very,
very different, if his uncle was to be believed.
Uncle Tyrion never lied about anything to him so
he knew it had to be a true. Jory often tried to
imagine what a walking, talking, and
sword-swinging ram might look like, because he
very much wanted to know what his father looked
like. He hoped it wasn't as awkward as his imagination made it seem.
Still, his grandfather had asked him what he
wished to do that morning after they had broken
their nightly fast together, and he had made no
objection when Jory immediately told him that he
wished to be with the dogs again. His grandfather
did insist that Jory only spend a little while
with them because they always got his clothes
filthy and he was going to need to be clean and
presentable when his mother and siblings arrived. He supposed that made sense.
The dogs were running a bit wild, Jory had to
admit. And so he clapped his hands together and
with his index finger stretched, swung his right
arm against his left breast just as the
kennelmaster had shown him and just as he had
trained with these dogs. He did not have to
repeat the gesture as all of the dogs turned to
him and stood in a semi-circle in front of him, a
few tails wagging, but most perfectly still. He
then closed his hand in a fist and brought it
upward from his waist to his right breast. The
dogs all immediately sat on their haunches.
Good dogs, he said in delight, noting the broad
smile on his grandfather's face. He gently
touched each on their heads and giving them a
scratch behind their ears; most panted in
delight, dark eyes brimming with pleasure.
Very good, his grandfather said, taking a few
steps toward them until he was within reach of
the nearest of the dogs. His long fingers also
scratched the dog's floppy ear. You have these
dogs at your command. They trust you and obey
you, Jory. You have done well with them.
Thank you, Grandfather, Jory replied in real
delight. Oh how he wished his grandfather would
notice how good he was or these dogs more.
And as much as they bring you joy, as I know
that they do, you cannot spend all of your time
here with them. Jory felt the words like a stab
in his heart and his face fell. But I do think
you should always spend time with them. He felt
better at that and started to smile and nod
again. Two of the dogs began licking his fingers.
There is much else that you must learn about
being a man and being a Verdane. You have reached
ten years of age this day, Jory. Your family will
be here soon to celebrate and mark this day with
you. But I have my own gift for you this day, Jory.
He liked the idea of gifts and so half-turned
from the dogs to face his tall grandfather. Duke
Verdane was an imposing man with bright red hair,
a face weathered ad creased, dark eyes that saw
everything, and strong arms that could swing a
sword through a man's head just as easily as
comfort a child missing his father. Jory loved
him for he was his grandfather and for all the
little ways that he looked after Jory; but he
hated him too for taking him from his family and
then for exiling his father to Metamor.
On any given day, Jory didn't know whether he
should love or hate him, but today he decided he
should love his grandfather. What is it, Grandfather?
Verdane patted the dog on the head and nodded, a
small smile playing at the edges of his lips.
After you have returned the dogs to their
kennel, I want you to come with me and I will show you.
Duke Titian Verdane was glad to see his grandson
Jory obey his instructions without resistance or
even boyish impudence. With tensions finally
easing somewhat in his lands, he could devote the
time he yearned to give to his grandson's badly
needed education. In this case, it was the
education in being a man and being a Verdane. His
time with the dogs was good for healing his soul
and all the wounds he had suffered, but a kennel
boy was no good to Titian as a grandson.
And so once the dogs were secure in their kennel,
Titian led the boy across the yard. A quintet of
soldiers shadowed them, keeping close and ever
watchful of their liege lord. He had dismissed
the rest of his servants that day because these
were matters best seen to by himself. A ruling
family needed servants to see to their needs so
they could give their time to training and to the
hard decisions of a kingdom, but they also needed
to be a family. No servant could be a family.
The eager look in Jory's face as they walked the
ground of his castle, the city of Kelewair hidden
from view by the high walls and by the forest at
their northern boundary. It was one of the few
places that they had any sense of privacy. The
grounds were mostly grass kept short, though more
ornate gardens with bushes and hedges were
maintained closer to the main part of the castle.
At the northwestern edge of the castle was a long
building with a peaked roof of stone. Fencing was
arranged around one end, and the ground there was
muddy and in constant need of cleaning by the
ostlers. Practice fields stretched just to the
south in a small depression so that seating could
be arranged if Verdane wished to put on a
spectacle for visiting vassals and other dignitaries.
As they walked to the stables, Titian spoke in a
slow but assuring voice to his grandson. It is
all well and good to be a master of dogs. That
they obey you and that you can train them to your
will is a mark of a leader. But just as you
master their behavior, a true man must also
master his own. I have never seen you strike at
those dogs in anger, nor have I ever heard of you
doing any such thing. For that I am very proud of you, Jory.
Thank you, Grandfather, Jory replied in the
polite and gracious tones he'd obviously learned from his tutors.
But there is more you must learn. And you must
master more than just dogs. That is why, on your
tenth birthday, Jory, I bring you here. On this
day you begin the next step in becoming a man.
Today you will begin to master the horse. So
saying, he held open one of the wide doors
leading into the stables. Jory stepped inside,
the powerful scent of horseflesh clinging to
everything within and quickly to them. Titian put
one hand on the boy's shoulder and guided him
down a long hay-strewn hall past stone paddocks
with sable-dark stallions and chestnut bay mares.
At Titian's request, the ostlers, after having
performed their morning chores of mucking stalls,
laying down fresh hay, and providing new oats,
had all ventured to the city to spend the extra
coin they'd been given. Titian and Jory were
alone with the horses who whickered as they
passed, a few bold enough to scratch their hooves
at the wooden doors to their stalls to get their attention.
Jory's eyes were wide as he looked at each of the
horses they passed, clearly wondering which one
was meant for him. Titian guided him past the
heavier destriers, the mounts for his senior
knights, and led him toward the end closest to
the castle itself. In the final stall was a young
roan mare, barely weaned her dam was only a few
stalls away and who stuck her head over the
door way with upright ears hoping for a carrot,
dark warm eyes fixed on them both.
Go ahead, Titian said as he stood several feet
back. She is to be your horse, Jory. She has
never felt whip nor saddle, and from this day
forward she will feel the touch of no man but
your own. You will come here every day, you will
feed her, you will clean her, you will brush her,
and you will tend even to her stall. It will be
you who leads her out to the pastures so she can
run, and it will be you who trains her to accept
a rider; and that rider will be you.
Jory lifted his hand and let the mare lip at his
fingers. On not finding a carrot waiting for her,
the mare snuffled but continued to lip at Jory's
fingers. He laughed and his eyes brightened as he
beheld the slender but strong horse. His other
hand reached for the latch on the door and he
cast a glance back at his grandfather. Titian
nodded and so the boy opened the latch and swung
the door outward. The mare was sleek in posture
with taut muscles rippling beneath her thin,
russet hide. Her hooves were a smoky gray and
dark socks climbed a full hand from their base up her legs.
The mare stepped out of the stall and looked
between the two humans, bumping her head against
Jory as he tried to stroke down her face and
neck. But I don't know how to do any of that!
Jory protested as he began to absorb his grandfather's words.
I will teach you, beginning today. Many of those
chores have already been done for you, so you may
begin by taking that comb there and working
through her hide. After you get her back in her
stall. Coax her gently. You have mastered the dog. You can master her.
Jory nodded and even as the mare continued to
nuzzle and run her lips through the hair on his
head as if searching them for some hidden treat,
the boy took the short-tined brush from off the
wall and motioned for the horse to follow him
back into the stall. Titian smiled as the mare
did not immediately obey, turning instead toward
the hall where she could go out int the fields if
she ran fast enough. But Titian stood in her way
and so she balked and stomped her hooves in confusion.
Jory reached up his fingers and wrapped them
around her neck, sliding through her mane as he
spoke sweetly to her, eyes wide in admiration for
her beauty and power, but also full of a dawning
sense of the awesomeness of his responsibility
toward her. How like his uncle Jaime had been
when Titian had done the same for him so many years ago.
The Duke of the Southern Midlands sighed at the
thought of his hostage son. How many times had
Jaime fallen from the saddle before he'd finally
convinced the mare Titian had presented him with
had accepted him as her rider? It was a good
thing Jory was used to the dogs covering him in
dirt, because he was now going to be covered in
filth for a year or more before these two were truly bonded.
Of course, anytime he thought on Jaime, his mind
inevitably turned to the punishment that the
traitorous Baron Calladar of Bozojo would have to
endure. Already he had loyal men positioned in
Calladar's court; one word from Titian and the
fish lord would discover that he couldn't breathe
water after all. Another set of reports on
Otakar's attempts to make that city more and more
like the cities of the Outer Midlands waited for
him in his private study. Tomorrow he would read
them. Today was Jory's birthday.
And that thought in mind, the Duke of the
Southern Midlands became Titian Verdane once
again. He smiled to his grandson as the mare
finally followed him back into the stall. Good
work. Now start from her neck and comb down her
chest and then across to her flanks.
Like this? Jory pressed the tines against the
mare's neck and ran the comb down to her fore
legs in a smooth arc. The mare continued to try to lip at Jory's hair.
That's right. She likes you already, Jory.
Thank you, Grandfather. I will be very good with her.
He smiled and heaved a long sigh. I know that you will.
----------
May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,
Charles Matthias
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