Part 3 in which I introduce some new Keepers!
--------
Metamor Keep: Gazing Through a Barred Window
by Charles Matthias
April 22, 708 CR
With a heave and a sigh, Jaime eased a thick
chunk of mortar free from between the stones in
the wall. It was thinner than his hand and nearly
as long, leaving a sharp gash between the stones
just above the floor. This he set aside next to
his stone shard whose tip had worn down
significantly in week since he'd found it. Still,
he was making better progress than he'd expected,
as the mortar around this block of stone had been
scraped out an inch deep on every side. Now, with
this crack, he had enough of a hole that he could
begin to pry the rest of it loose.
Jaime slipped his fingers into the crack and
pressed as deeply as they could go. The stone
pushed tightly against his flesh and gripped at
his knuckles painfully for a moment before he was
able to pull them back out. He gritted his teeth
and slipped the tips of his fingers inside the
hole, feeling around the nearby mortar. He had
hoped the stone blocks were not very deep, but
this one was deeper than his hand could reach. It
was going to take a good bit more scrapping
before he had enough leverage to work the stone free.
He'd still have to carefully scrape the back of
the stone away to have room for a cache, but it
was a start. And ultimately, it was something to do.
He rubbed his fingers for a few minutes to work
out the tension. He had torn one of his shirts to
provide linen strips to wrap around his hands as
he worked; it kept the calluses at bay so far,
and he hadn't had any new blisters yet, but the
linen was already starting to wear through. He
would need to find more without ruining too many
of his shirts. Perhaps he could charm one of the
servants; there were enough girls the right age
amongst the servants he'd seen; surely one of
them might romantically fantasize about the mysterious stranger in the tower.
A bold caw interrupted his thoughts and made him
turn and lift his head. Perched on the northern
sill was the same black and gray-naped jackdaw
that had visited him almost every day now in the
last week. He wasn't the only bird of course who
had decided that Jaime was a good place to obtain
some scraps of bread, but he was certainly the
bravest. Pale eyes studied him and from his black
beak burst another impatient caw.
Very well, Jaime muttered, as he carefully put
his shard and the long piece of mortar to one
side where they would not be easily seen. He
shifted the desk back into place, and then took
the heel of bread and sat cross-legged in the
middle of the room. The jackdaw watched him,
leaning forward and back as if mimicking his steps.
He tossed the first scrap of bread at the base of
the sill, and the bird was quick to jump down and
snatch it up. A small bit of parchment floated
down from the sill with him, as if he'd been
carrying it in his claws. Jaime noted it
curiously, but continued tossing little chunks of
bread to his small friend, coaxing him closer and
closer to his outstretched arm.
The jackdaw, to his surprise, kept on taking two
hops closer to the prisoner, and then one hop
back to eat the morsel of fresh bread. Jaime felt
a small surge of delight in this, and so kept
tossing each piece nearer to his hand than the
last. The jackdaw's courage seemed to grow with
each morsel, and so when he came to the very
last, Jaime merely left it in his hand. The bird
stood there, looking at it for a moment before
glancing up at Jaime with a quizzical look in his
pale eyes, before returning his attention to the last bit of bread.
You'll have to take it from my hand, Jaime beckoned in a soft whisper.
The jackdaw hesitated for nearly half a minute
more before it took a tentative hop forward, and
then darted it's beak between Jaime's fingers to
snatch the bit of bread. Jaime felt a brief prick
from the tip of the beak, but nothing more.
Still, that brief contact made him feel a
terrible longing. He watched the jackdaw as it
devoured the bread, and then preen its wing
feathers; it was so close he could reach out and
grab the bird if he were quick enough.
You know, little friend, Jaime said without
quite knowing why he said it, I would gladly trade places with you.
But the jackdaw did not appear to be interested
in his offer, as he turned back to the window
sill, cawed one last time, and then flew away.
Jaime sighed and then stretched, reaching across
the floor for the bit of paper that had fallen
from his the bird's claws. It was a bit of stiff
parchment no larger than his thumb, crumpled a
little, but with even edges as if cut by a knife.
Partial letters in black ink marred one side, but
he couldn't make out what they were.
Curious, but unable to sate his curiosity, Jaime
put the scrap of parchment on his desk, covered
it with one of his prayer books, and then returned to chiseling.
----------
Duke Krisztov Otakar XII was enjoying the warm
afternoon air as he reclined beneath an awning
and watched his two youngest sons smack each
other around with practice swords. Both were made
from wood and would leave welts across their
sides, legs, and arms, but it was much better to
suffer a whole host of them rather than a single
severed hand or sliced thigh. In another year
both would be training with real swords, but for
now his heart was warmed to see his sons still being children.
After the youngest, Ivan, slipped his blade
beneath the slightly older Alexi's blade and
managed to skewer his ribs, Otakar clapped his
hands in approval and laughed heartily. Very
good! Very good! Alexi, you know you should not
throw your arms quite so wide. Now come! Again!
This time, keep your elbows close to your chest.
As the two black-haired boys barely a year apart
in age began trading blows anew, Otakar leaned
back in the wooden chair and his eyes drifted to
the half-finished letter to the weaver's guild
accepting their request to settle a dispute
between them and the clothmaker's guild; the
letter also would discuss the venue and time, as
well as the arrangements to be agreed upon by
both guilds in order for him to judge their
respective causes. It remained half-finished
because he prized the hours he spent with his
children above all else. But once they quit the
field he would finish the letter without delay.
Even as he watched Ivan and Alexi circle around
each other as they swung their wooden staves, his
mind reviewed the many possible approaches he
could take, and even rehearsed whole sentences
that he would use. But far more did his mind
consider strike and counterstrike, parry and
block, than it did the wit of the pen.
Only the sudden appearance of his Steward and the
closest thing he had to a true friend since the
death of his younger brother three years before
could draw his mind completely from the mock
combat of his children training. Pyotr Szeveny
dressed in neatly trimmed black with the falcon
crest stretching across his chest in white
embroidery. A narrow poniard rested at his side,
and one hand was ever near the hilt from long
years of training and defending the honor of the
Duke. His expression was both bemused and
uncertain as he came through the door at the
entrance to the practice field and walked straight for his liege.
Pyotr, Otakar addressed him with a smile, even
as he tried to keep his children in sight. What has you so perplexed?
A most curious delegation has just entered the
gates of Salinon, your grace. Pyotr kept his
lips pressed tightly together even though his
blue eyes remained wide in their confusion. It is a delegation from Metamor.
Metamor? Otakar blinked and then snorted and
drummed his fingers against his belly. Metamor?
Why would they be sending a delegation here? How
could they have sent a delegation here without us
knowing they were coming until they were in our
homes? His patrols and spy network would have
much to explain; a visit from Metamor was too important to have gone unnoticed.
I do not know, your grace, Pyotr replied with
the candor that Otakar had always admired in the
bald man. But they are here now and in
sufficient numbers that they cannot be ignored.
Otakar climbed from his seat and waved to his
boys. Alexi, Ivan, that is enough for now. We
have distinguished guests arriving; dress
appropriately to give honor to your house.
Both boys managed to swing one time more, their
staves cracking loudly against each other before
they turned and bowed their heads toward their
father. Aye, Father. The two then ran off, with
shouts of I won! I got more hits on you! and No you didn't, I did!
Otakar smiled as they left, before turning back
to his Steward. How many are arriving, do you know? Are any beastly in shape?
Perhaps two dozen to two-and-a-half. It is not
certain how many are in their number because they
have three large carriages as well as mounted
escort, all flying the horse-head flag of Metamor
and the House Hassan. All but one appear human.
Very interesting! Otakar said, even as he
rubbed at his jowls with his thick fingers. His
tone grew circumspect. Very interesting. Even
before they were cursed they had not sent so
large an official delegation since the days of our youth.
Pyotr nodded, his lips pursed only so as to
speak. We should ponder why now and what their purpose is.
That we may never truly understand, but for now
we should take them at their word. And we should
make ready to welcome them. Arrange an escort to
bring them safely to the castle, and a banquet
for the gentry in the delegation. I will see to my sons.
And his grace, Jaime Verdane?
Pyotr always used the proper honorific when
speaking of Otakar's hostage. During the brief
wedding between Jaime and Otakar's niece, the
Verdane heir and Pyotr had forged a warm regard
for one another. Coming from any other mouth in
Otakar's household, the honorific would have
become a title of derision. But Pyotr Szeveny
spoke it with conviction, dignity, and respect.
How he wished his sons would learn the importance
of honoring the dignity even of their enemies; it protected them too.
Provide him a place at the banquet as well, but
do not seat him anywhere near the Metamor
ambassador or his people. Let him be seen but not
heard. Once the banquet is complete, return him to the donjon.
Pyotr bowed his head and smiled lightly at the
edge of his lips. It will be done, your grace.
----------
Sir Jon Kardair was used to stares, though they
were usually from fellow Metamorians admiring his
prowess in the saddle and with lance or
broadsword; he'd nearly defeated Sir Egland in
last Summer's jousts and so had quite a few loyal
followers, especially in the part of Euper town
that was his family's ancestral fief. But after
having spent the last month and a half hiding
within the carriages except at night when a heavy
cloak sufficed to hide his beastly features, he
was finally being seen again by those not in their company.
And the people of Salinon all gathered along the
road to watch and gape at the over six-foot tall
armored opossum riding horseback. His equally
broad-shouldered and barrel-chested older brother
received little attention in comparison because
his brother had begun life as his sister and so
was thus still human. Bearing the regalia and
carrying the horse-head banners of Metamor and
the Hassan family only offered an explanation for
his strange appearance; it did not lessen the appeal of it.
You cannot change your mind now, his brother
Tarkas reminded him with an amused glint in his
bright blue eyes. Tarkas was dressed in azure
courtly attire suited to riding and bore a blue
cape over his shoulders that draped over the rump
of his horse. The ring of their house graced his right hand.
I do not wish to, Sir Jon Kardair replied, his
long tongue neatly enunciating each word in the
midst of the many narrow sharp fangs that lined
his jaws. It is better they see me now than that
they whisper about the secret Keeper for days or weeks on end.
They are still going to whisper.
His long tail twitched and nearly slid down along
the flanks of his mare; his toe claws stretched
in the stirrups. They will, but at least they
will whisper about what I look like rather than
what they imagine some monster of Metamor looks like.
Tarkas laughed and then patted him on the
shoulder. Very, very true, Jon. Very true.
They rode nearly at the head of their caravan.
Three carriages followed them, with two horsemen
riding before them waving Metamor's banner, while
another pair flanked them on either side. Sir
Jon's wife Deya and their children remained
hidden in the first carriage for safety with a
trio of soldiers. A careful observer in the crowd
might note the bright golden eyes peering out
from between the slats of the carriage windows.
They no more ascended the first course of the
city along the main street winding north of the
castle and the bluff before turning south and
then east, when they were met by a detachment of
soldiers and knights bearing the black falcon
crest of Salinon. The lead knight had a black
cape over his shoulders, with a dark-haired
complexion weathered by cold winters and browned
by hot summers. He and the other soldiers stopped
before them, while the soldiers pushed the onlookers back from the road.
Welcome to Salinon, Ambassadors of Metamor. I am
Captain Raff, knight of Salinon, and have been
sent to escort you safely to the castle where his
grace, Duke Krisztov Otakar XII awaits to greet
you and to feast you. He smiled as he spoke, his
eyes trying to stay focused on the ambassador but
always straying to glance at Kardair.
Thank you, Captain Raff, Kardair's brother
replied in his heavy baritone. I am Earl Tarkas
of the house Kardair of Euper'o'ill. I, at the
pleasure of his grace, Duke Thomas Hassan V of
Metamor, am here as ambassador to Dûn Fennas.
This, he gestured with an open hand to his left,
is my brother, Sir Jon Kardair. We accept your
offer of escort and look forward to meeting his grace, Duke Otakar.
Captain Raff nodded with military precision and
motioned to his men to fall into procession
before and at the side of the carriages. You
will find Salinon a very welcoming city, your
lordship. It is good to hear a foreigner use our land's proper name.
We have studied your land, its history, and its
literature ere we arrived, Tarkas replied with a
warmth and sincerity that was both genuine and
effusive, one long practiced and natural to him.
Kardair had seen his brother use it many times
both before he'd become a man and after to make
would-be adversaries his friend and ally. Dûn
Fennas is an ancient land with a noble people,
fierce warriors, devout priests and priestesses,
beautiful poetry, and much, much more to be proud of.
Raff could not help but smile as he rode a little
nearer the two. Thank you, your lordship. His
eyes cast to the opossum knight and he licked his
lips a bit tentatively. You will forgive us,
noble knight, the way our eyes study your strange
and beastly guise. Most of us have never seen your ilk before.
I am not offended, Kardair said with another
flick of his tail. He stretched one paw around
the reins of his mare, white-tipped fingers and
claws in the midst of otherwise black fur
catching the captain's eye. Raff blinked and his
face slackened in a shock that he tried to hide
as if he hadn't expected the beast to be able to
talk. In time they will see that I am a man despite the fur and the fangs.
And the tail, his brother helpfully added.
And the tail, Kardair agreed with a chortle.
Raff stammered a moment and then turned back in
his saddle. The clop of hooves on smooth, dry
stone, the orders of the soldiers, and the
gawking of the people of Salinon all come to see
the marvel from Metamor surrounded them with a
din of activity that each of them knew would not
abate for a long time no matter how long they stayed.
And as Raff took to describing the city of
Salinon and what they could expect of Fennasi
hospitality, Sir Kardair cast his eyes upward at
the Eyrie castle that towered over the
easternmost outpost in all of the Midlands. The
Otakar family had chosen well in taking the
falcon as their crest. The dense maze of towers
ever climbing upward might even be close enough for a good jump.
The opossum knight was going to like it here, he knew it already.
----------
Otakar did not have as much trouble arranging his
sons as he feared; the real challenge was finding
all of his ministers on such short notice. But by
the time the trio of carriages from Metamor were
escorted into the outer bailey of the Eyrie
complex overlooking the temple district of
Salinon, all of his various ministers except for
his minister of public works had been assembled
to greet the Ambassador and his retinue. This was
just as well because Minister Arnuyan had spent
the morning inspecting the castle sewers and
really wasn't fit company to welcome anyone.
He stood at the gates leading into the next
bailey where they would be forced to climb a set
of stairs to proceed; just one more reason that
the Eyrie had never been taken in the long
history of his land. It was already a climb of
several steps just to reach the portal where he
stood, which meant that his guests would be
looking up at him when they arrived. His eldest
son Ladislav was at his side, and on the next
step down were his ministers of state and
culture. The rest were standing on lower steps.
Pyotr was busy arranging affairs inside the
castle and would meet them further within.
And all of their eyes, all eleven of his
ministers, his soldiers, his son Ladislav, and
his own, were fixed upon the entourage riding
almost triumphantly and without fear through the
outer bailey gates. Two riders held aloft the
horse-head banner of the house Hassan, and behind
them rode another two figures, one of whom looked
like nothing Otakar had ever seen before in his
life. No monster creeping out of the fungus-laden
boughs of Elderwood had borne such a beastly
guise with martial pride. Not only did he have a
long snout covered in white fur, with a pink nose
at its end, but he also had sharp claws at the
end of each finger and a long pink tail that kept
trying to slide off one side or the other of his
horse's flanks. Yet he was armored like any other
knight, with broad breastplate that gleamed in
the afternoon sun, a tabard the color of rust,
and a heavy broadsword slung across his back in
whose pommel was affixed a milky red sardius.
Otakar didn't care if this knight had been born a
slave; he was going to be at the banquet with the rest of them.
And to his surprise, the strange creature rode
forward a few extra steps into the courtyard and
bellowed in a voice that while hissing with a
beastly churr, resonated with a commanding
baritone. In the name of Duke Thomas Hassan V of
the Northern Midlands, I present Earl Tarkas of
the house Kardair of Euper'o'ill, the duly
appointed Ambassador of Metamor to the lands of
Dûn Fennas. He swept out a hand whose fingers
were covered in white fur, but the back of which was black.
Welcome to Salinon and to Dûn Fennas, Otakar
called from the top step. I am Duke Krisztov
Otakar XII and I welcome you to my land,
Ambassador Tarkas. A banquet has been prepared in
your honor for you and the gentry of your
retinue. My men will see to your carriages and
horses if you would care to join us.
The human rider coaxed his horse forward a few
paces into the bailey and he nodded his head,
square jaw set in a respectful smile. Thank you
for your kindly welcome, your grace. As is the
custom in your kingdom since the founding of your
house, I request that my retinue be given use of the Kestrel's Wing.
Otakar could not stop himself from blinking in
surprise, even as the Minister of cartography
began blabbering objections to this request as
his staff had migrated to the long unused section
of the castle overlooking the southeastern flank
of the town (including a secret ladder that let
outside the castle walls). But the request was
not unfair, for the Kestrel's Wing had been built
by the elves of Quenardya deliberately as a home
for visiting foreigners that they might have some
privacy to conduct their affairs. The collapse of
the Siuelman Empire into Sathmore and the
fractious Pyralian Kingdoms had left that wing
empty for many generations until some of his
bureaucratic staff had elected to claim it for
their own purposes. And so it had been for the entirety of Otakar's rule.
Now that would have to change and the older ways
reasserted. It would be my great pleasure to
allow your men the use of the Kestrel's Wing. Too
long its halls have been left quiet without the
strange speech of foreign dignitaries to grace
it. But you must pardon Minister Denwyr for his
outburst. His scribes have used its halls for
many years now to do their work. If it would suit
you, you and your gentry may stay in my halls
until Minister Denwyr has moved his scribes
elsewhere. Your soldiers will have billets
prepared in the meantime. It will take no more than a few days, I promise you.
That would be sufficient. Thank you, your
grace. Earl Tarkas lowered his head in
gratitude, though his eyes never left the dozen
officials and the Duke whom they surrounded. He
gestured to the beastly knight at his left and
then back to the wagons. There are three of us
who are nobly born, your grace, within my
retinue. We three shall join your banquet if you
will provide an escort to bring the rest of my
entourage to where they can find meals and rest.
I assure you that they are all human and will draw no exceptional notice.
Otakar nodded. Captain Raff will see to it. If
you will dismount and join me, I will introduce
you to my Ministers and my sons.
Both the broad-chested man and the beastly knight
dismounted, handing their reins to the riders
bearing the Hassan standard. The knight then
walked to the first carriage and opened the door.
From within he escorted another very strange
creature, this one garbed in an elegant damask
gown with a necklace sparkling with rubies
complimenting her neck. The neck was one covered
in gray fur, while a long gray and black striped
tail danced behind her head. Her face was
dominated with large golden eyes framed by rings
of black fur in a face otherwise filled with
white fur. Despite similar fur colors, there
could be no mistaking that the knight and this
woman were two different types of beast.
And once again, every one, including Otakar
himself, tried not to gawk at the bizarre Metamorian.
The Ambassador seemed to be enjoying their
discomfiture. May I introduce Sir Jon Kardair
and his wife, Lady Deya Thores of Metamor. They
are also very pleased at your warm hospitality.
Otakar wasn't sure whether he was more horrified
by the beastly woman or more captivated by her
exotic beauty. The nearly leering stare his son
offered her convinced him that he needed to do as
the Ambassador suggested. He spread his arms
wide, deliberately blocking his son's view of the
two animal Metamorians. I bid you both welcome
to my home, Sir Jon Kardair, Lady Deya Thores.
Now come, and join us in a feast to celebrate this momentous and happy day.
He then half turned to his son and hissed between
his teeth, If you ever look at that woman that
way again, I will be sure that your wife hears
about it. Ladislav paled and nodded. His wife
had studied at Marigund and probably knew any
number of spells to make a lecherous husband
regret every unfortunate glint in his eyes!
Otakar then smiled as broadly as he could to
welcome his unexpected and very strange guests.
----------
Sir Jon Kardair was impressed with the Eyrie's
fortifications and concluded shortly after
passing up the narrow stairs into the inner
bailey that he would rather spend the next year
hanging from his tail than to siege Salinon and
its impregnable castle. He noted as many details
as he could, not for planning any sort of attack,
but for recommending them to Jack and George when
he inevitably returned to Metamor. The mountains
on either side of the valley offered several
advantages that Salinon with its single bluff had already employed.
After passing through the inner bailey, Otakar
with his train of ministers and with his eldest
son at his side, led the trio of Keepers into a
long hall in which a U-shaped set of tables were
arrayed. The floor dropped a good cubit when it
reached the walls, and the windows stretched from
above their heads down beneath their feet, giving
them the impression that they were floating above
the city rather than perched at its apex.
Tapestries of soft Spring colors, yellow,
vermilion, violet, and indigo stretched between
the windows so that at one moment they seemed to
be striding through a vast forest, and the next
strolling through an elegant garden. He could
even hear the the soothing sound of water falling
and pooling, though even with his large ears he couldn't tell where.
Welcome to the Gyrkin Hall, Otakar announced
with a broad sweep of his arms. Here, my family
has feasted and feasted noble guests for
centuries. And you three shall have places of honor at the head table with me.
We are honored by your hospitality, his brother
Tarkas said as he kept step with the somewhat
corpulent Duke. This was not the sort of girth
that came from a life of indolence. Sir Kardair
had seen it in warriors too old to return to the
field of battle; men who had fought, born sword
and shield, bled, and claimed victory over their
enemies. Age would wear on them, their muscles
fading as the years pursued their relentless
march toward the grave and what lay beyond. Fat
Duke Otakar may have become, with rounded
fingers, balding head, and puffy lips, but he was
a man who knew a sword as a lover, and who would
not flinch from battle joined. For that he would respect him.
There were seven seats at the head table, the
center for Otakar himself. Otakar's eldest son
Ladislav sat at his right, while Tarkas was
invited to sit at his left. Kardair and Deya were
offered chairs next to Tarkas. The chairs were
finely wrought, carved from a sweet smelling wood
with a deep red grain, flecked with whorls of
brown. The backs were carved so that they seemed
to be the sheltering wings of some vast bird of
prey while the legs ended in splayed talons.
Despite their beauty and obvious elegance, Sir
Kardair put one paw on the top and turned to
their host with a sibilant hiss slipping through his fangs.
Your grace, these chairs are not suitable for us.
Otakar had been boasting of the architecture to
his brother and so his expression was somewhat
sour at the interruption. They are my chairs,
Sir Kardair. Are not the chairs of the house of Otakar comfortable?
Deya put a paw on his arm, little claws gently
pressing into the exposed fur near his wrist.
What my husband means, your grace, is that your
chairs, elegant and beautiful, and fit only for
those of noble birth, were made in age when
people such as us had not yet been. They have no
room for our tails, your grace.
By now everyone who hadn't already been
surreptitiously staring at them was now openly
gaping at them, their whispers and pretense
silenced as the singular nature of the faux pas
became apparent to everyone. Otakar's surprise
lasted just long enough for Kardair to note the
shock and embarrassment. My sincerest apologies,
Sir Kardair, Lady Thores. You are right. Those
chairs will not do for you. I will have others
brought immediately. Forgive me for this unfortunate offense.
There is no offense to give, Deya added with
her silken voice, wide golden eyes brimming with
her good cheer and both disarming and sultry
manner. Until eight years ago none of us would
have ever thought we'd need chairs suitable for
tails. Why it would be considered the foulest of
manners to invite your dog or your horse to sup
at the table with you. Now in this new age, some
of us bear more than a mere fanciful resemblance
to the same. We are not offended, and we are
immensely grateful for the offer of new chairs.
Otakar merely had to glare at one of the nearby
servers, and the chairs were hastily removed.
Kardair put his other paw over his wife's and
turned his head toward her, looking down into her
wide face. She returned the longing gaze, her
eyes fiery pools of molten light. Even after the
many years of their marriage, and even after she
had born him three children, how he still loved
to savor and marvel at her beauty. His heart
thumped in his chest with such pride over her
glib tongue, her thoughtful and clever mind, her
beastly charm, and of course, her devotion to him.
Men had always cast a covetous eye her way, and
even in this land where their kind were
heretofore unknown, they still did. Sir Kardair
did not care if they looked, because her eyes were only for him.
So when her eyes flicked down across the long
tables, the opossum knew something very
interesting must have drawn them. He half turned,
and saw that in addition to another pair of
chairs behind carried in by a quartet of
servants, these chairs having a stylistic gap
between the back and the seat, another set of
guards escorted into the hall a man roughly the
same age as the Duke's eldest son who was dressed
modestly but appropriately with a bright red
shock of hair and an expression of limitless irritation.
Sir Kardair noted him for a moment, and then
pretended as if he'd really been interested in
the new chairs all along as he let his eyes and
snout follow the servants bringing the chairs
around behind the set of tables while Jaime
Verdane was escorted to a seat at the end of the
table furthest from them. Thank you, good sirs,
I will handle it from here, he said to the four
youths carefully managing the new chairs. They
stared in wide-eyed horror and awe at the
six-foot tall armored opossum walking toward them
and were quick to set the chairs down and back off.
For you, my lady, he said as he took the first
chair and positioned it behind his wife. Deya
trilled under her breath, and glided her long
tail through the gap as her languorous figure
rested against the soft cushions. It was so easy
for her to ignore the stares that her exotic
feminine beauty elicited, or at least, make it
appear as if she were ignoring them. Sir Kardair
knew he was not as politically adroit as his wife
or his brother, and so trusted her instincts in this as in so much else.
Thank you, my knight, she replied, turning to
gaze at him with a sincerity that was not forced.
Despite the lavish attention she had always
received from men of position, she had married him!
After maneuvering his tail into the hole in the
back of the chair, Sir Kardair noted that he was
the last to be seated. Duke Otakar was already
engrossed in a playful conversation with his
brother inquiring after Duke Thomas's health and
that of his new wife's as well. Servants were
beginning to move around the tables bringing
platters of various bread, both soft and hard,
mixed with a variety of barley, oats, and the
occasional dried fruit. A goblet decked in gold
and inlaid with rubies at four corners was set
before the Duke, while more modest goblets of
silver were arrayed before the other guests and
promptly filled with a dry tasting wine.
With his brother on one side, and his wife on the
other, Sir Kardair was cut off from the
conversations surrounding him; he preferred it
that way as it allowed him the chance to listen
and watch. He studied each of Otakar's six sons,
from the intemperate oldest who was making jests
and eying the opossum knight with some suspicion,
to the young pair of boys further down the table
busy trying to see how many bread crumbs they
could throw at each other. The middle three
children were on the other side of the table, and
each of them showed some strength in their arms,
a precision in their gaze, and a bit of jealousy
toward their eldest brother. The second in line,
Mikhail, a man just old enough to have spilled
blood in battle, demonstrated a studied courtesy
with the polite manner in which he spoke to Deya.
They had been seated next to each other, and he
had wasted no time in welcoming her to Salinon
and in complimenting her on her beauty.
She smiled at his efforts and in between bites of
bread replied, Thank you, Mikhail. It is a great
honor to be in your lovely country. Have you ever ever been to mine?
The young man shook his head, his short-cropped
black hair not even stirring. No, I have never
ventured beyond the borders of Dûn Fennas, or as
your people call it, the Outer Midlands. But I
have seen many wonders in this land. The wide
plains and long, rolling hills, the horses, the
flocks, the forests, the mountains, the people
and cities. All of it is very precious and dear
to us here. Will you be staying in Salinon while
your husband's brother serves as Ambassador?
For now at least, she admitted with a little
laugh. Kardair could see her eyes taking the
young man in with a deeper gaze than even he suspected. You are betrothed?
Mikhail nodded and rubbed one finger over the
bracelet on his right arm. It was a circlet about
a thumb's span across made of tough leather
inlaid with golden runes. His cheeks dimpled a
quick smile. Yes, I am. She's of the house
Rivers in Marigund and has become quite beautiful
I am told, with long, brown hair that tightens
into curls. His eyes took on a faraway cast as
he spoke of her and offered a few more details on her appearance.
When did you last see her? Deya asked as her
claws very gently pierced the edges of a particularly hard bit of bread.
Eight years ago when we were betrothed. Our wedding is to be later this year.
There was an earnest nervousness in Mikhail's
manner that reminded Sir Kardair of himself when
he was not that much younger. Marriage should
have a salubrious effect on the young man,
provided his bride was of good character.
He turned toward his brother and smiled as he
caught the beginning of a question he had
wondered about himself. Tarkas set down his
goblet and smacked his lips together once before
saying, Your grace, I have spent much time
studying the Fennasi people, or at least, as much
as we know of them in Metamor. One thing that has
confused me for some time is that while there is
a distinct inheritance from the elves in much of
your society, your family name and many of the
names of those closest to you seem to come from
another source. I am curious how this came to be.
Otakar smiled and leaned forward in his seat,
eyes noting the opossum knight's scalloped ears
turning their way. You are very astute,
Ambassador. My family name and the given names of
myself and my children do not come from the
elves. Nor is my family originally Fennasi.
Hundreds of years ago, the Otakar house was a
clan of horsemen from the eastern reaches of the
Steppe. One difficult winter we were driven
westward from our ancestral lands, and then north
out of the Steppe entirely. We came to Salinon
and for a generation roamed the countryside
thereabouts. Our military prowess was hailed and
soon we had married into the noblest of families.
But our name and our crest we kept, even as our
power grew, and even as we were drawn from
horseback to council chamber and to throne. And
so it is that our family keeps to the traditional
names of the clan, though in almost all other
ways we adhere to the noble and exalted Fennasi traditions.
Truly, Tarkas noted with a nod and a smile,
history provides an abundance of mysteries!
And as you have sought the mystery of my name,
Otakar replied with a canny laugh, even as he
leaned back in his high seat, you must reveal to
me the mystery of your own. Tarkas is not any
Midlander name that I have heard before.
Nay, it is not, his brother admitted with a
similar laugh. He took a sip of wine and picked
up a small bit of bread, even as the servants
began moving around the table with plates of
fresh fruits. I was born a woman, and I was
named Tabitha. But eight years ago, when the
curses were laid down, I was trying to hold off a
band of Lutins who had broken into our chambers.
They were dragging my maid and I by the hair,
even as I swung everything within reach at them
to get them off. And then the Curses were cast,
and I became as you see me; I am much larger than
I used to be. I managed to take one of their axes
and hacked half of them to pieces, stomping
through the corpses so that I was drenched in
their blood. The rest ran screaming, 'Tarkas!
Tarkas!' as they fled. I took that as my new name.
Otakar stared at his brother for a moment before
resuming his usual demeanor. There was both new
respect and new caution in the Duke's appraisal
of Metamor's ambassador. I know of Lutins only
by tales. They have never penetrated the expanse
of the Barrier mountains bordering our lands, nor
have they swept this far from Metamor Valley in a
very, very long time. Why did they cry that name?
I wondered the same myself for a time. I asked
the commander of one of our deep patrols in the
north not long after the battle. He told me it
meant 'crazed giant' in their tongue.
Truly? And here you are as diplomat, Earl
Tarkas. There are no Lutins to fight here.
My liege does not believe Lutins are the only
enemies of Metamor. Nor does he believe we should
be without friends. Tarkas sampled a cherry and
smiled. Oh, very good, very succulent. My
compliments to your gardens, your grace.
The usual verbal sparring of the nobility could
never hold Sir Kardair's interest for very long.
His eyes strayed, even as he idly ate of the
sumptuous fruit, across the tables toward the
only other person who seemed as much an outsider
as he Jaime Verdane. The red-haired man was
moderately built though hampered by a slender
physique. Still it was clear he was very used to
swinging a sword and there was an air of reserve
and dignity with the way he contemptuously
ignored everyone around him. Jaime ate the food
set before as if he were the only one at the
table, going so far as to snatch the last morsel
off a platter even while one of the ministers turned to reach for it.
Either Jaime Verdane did not care what his captor
did with him, or he did not fear that anything
worse would be done to him. Given the
self-serving rules of the nobility that his
brother and wife had often described to him, he
had no doubt that it was a little bit of both.
But was Jaime the sort who would have rather been
out riding down brigands and thieves and leading
men against invading armies, or was he the sort
who would prefer to be holding court over his subjects like Otakar?
One meeting would never answer the opossum
knight's question, but it was a necessary
beginning. He turned his white-furred snout
toward the Duke, long pink tail wrapping itself
around the opposite chair leg from habit, and
hissed in a voice meant to be heard by those
nearby. Your grace, pardon my interruption, but I have a question for you.
Otakar and Tarkas both turned to look at him. His
brother's left eye twitched at the corner in a
way that Kardair knew meant he was surprised. The
Duke held his golden goblet in his right hand and
he smiled expansively as he finished chewing on a
tart meaty fruit that the knight had never tasted
before. What question do you have for me, Sir Kardair?
He opened his left palm and extended it, short
claws pointing directly at the red-haired
hostage. You have introduced all of your guests
to us but this man. Who is he, and why did you
not announce him as you have done the rest?
Otakar glanced at the end of the table. At the
question, Jaime looked up, but then returned his
focus on the melon he had nearly devoured down to
the rind. The smile on Otakar's lips veered
between sardonic pleasure and innocent
munificence. Why that is his grace, Jaime
Verdane, heir to the Duchy of Kelewair. He is a
guest in my house and will be staying with us for
quite some time. Oh, Jaime, these are Earl Tarkas
of Eupor'o'ill, Sir Jon Kardair of Metamor, and
the Lady Deya Thores his wife. Earl Tarkas is an
ambassador from Metamor just newly arrived. Do welcome them.
Jaime's face darkened as he openly studied them,
lowering the melon rind to the table, letting the
last of the juices soak into the thin cloth
covering the marble. With a snort and shake of
his head, he spoke in a voice as bitter and
biting as myrrh. I see that I am not a good
enough dancing and prancing animal on a chain for
you; you have brought the real thing.
A few of the ministers openly gasped. Otakar
winced and out of the corner of his eye, Sir
Kardair could see the Duke grind his teeth to
bite back whatever retort had leaped to his mind.
The opossum knight was not sure if Jaime was
impugning him and his wife merely to rankle the
Salinon court, or if he really felt such disgust
at the sight of beastly Keepers. Either way, the
insult to his Deya and to himself could not go unanswered.
Sir Kardair bolted upright in his chair, tail
yanking it off the floor for a moment before he
uncurled it from around the back leg. He hissed
through his numerous fangs, jowls drawn back in
wrath. How dare you, sir, say such things! You
slander my honor and the honor of my wife, a lady
of noble birth! I challenge you here and now to
combat! So saying, he smashed the bottom of his
fist into the stone table, making several goblets and platters jump.
I haven't had a chance to hunt in months! Jaime
exclaimed with the relief of a man who finally
found something to interest him. He leaned back
in his chair and rested one foot on the table's
edge. I accept your challenge, Sir Beast.
Otakar jumped to his feet and bellowed. There
will be no challenges in my hall! Especially
against my, he wrinkled his lips and managed to
sneer the word from his throat, guest. And sit
like the noble man you are! You disgrace yourself.
No prisoner is capable of it, Jaime retorted.
Still, he did lower his foot, but only in order
to stand. The soldiers that stood watch over the
hall along the walls near the sunken windows as
if they were floating in the air, took a few
steps forward, hands reaching for their weapons.
Jaime ignored them as he walked into the middle
of the set of tables. And I am a guest; I have
privileges of my own. Never let it be said that
the hospitality of Salinon can be likened to cows at pasture.
Sir Kardair did not wait for Otakar's next
snarling demand. He put his left paw on the table
and vaulted over, his tail tucking up into his
legs to keep from smacking his brother in the
back of the head. He could have jumped clear over
the table and even further, but it was better
that Otakar and his cronies did not know that just yet.
Oh, let them fight, Ladislav said with a laugh.
He did insult Sir Jon's honor. The man's tone
was so patronizing that the opossum knight
desperately wished he could risk challenging him too.
Guests do not fight in my house! Otakar insisted. Guards!
All but the quartet standing near to Otakar's
throne converged at a run toward the two
combatants. Jaime snarled and leaped bare-handed
for the opossum. Sir Kardair lifted his arms and
stepped backward a few paces, grabbing the
imprisoned noble by his wrists and forcing them
forward. He then swung his tail around and
wrapped it around Jaime's left knee, pulling
toward him so that the man buckled backward. He
gasped in surprise as Kardair pushed him
effortlessly to the ground, his long,
sharp-fanged snout inches from the side of his face.
Kardair hissed loudly, the fur along the back of
his head swelling with his beastly anger. But it
was an anger that he controlled. And while he
hissed, he worked his tongue to form soft words
in the captive scion's ear. Trust the bird.
Jaime blinked and the fight drained from his
muscles, as his lips parted in a brief moment of
shock quickly swallowed by a grunt of frustration
and one last bout of struggle for show. Sir
Kardair snarled in a louder voice, Do you yield to me, Jaime Verdane?
Jaime ground his teeth together, and then in
sight of all of Otakar's sons and ministers,
humiliated and crushed by a beast-man from
Metamor, he nodded his head. I yield.
Kardair rose, dragging Jaime to his feet, and
then with one paw smoothed out the man's tunic
before giving him a curt nod. Never speak so of my wife or I again.
I shall not, Jaime replied, even as he stepped
back a pace into the waiting arms of Otakar's
guards. Two of them grabbed him by the upper arms
while the rest closed ranks around him. The
opossum knight walked calmly back around the
tables to his seat, pointedly ignoring the
procession that every other person in attendance
watched. By the time he picked up his chair and
settled himself back within, all eyes were upon
him, including a livid Duke Krisztov Otakar.
Sir Kardair, the Duke managed, voice brimming
with a hoary indignation, you, a guest, violate
the laws of my house and heap dishonor upon your
head and think that you can once more so blithely sit at the head of my table?
His jowls and whiskers twitched and his eyes
blinked once, but Sir Jon Kardair made no
objection to the Duke's reprimand. He stood and
turned to face the Duke, even as Deya's paw
slipped around his fingers and gripped them
tightly. Your grace, forgive me. That was
impertinent of me as well as foolish and
discourteous. I will excuse myself and retire to
the chambers you have so generously provided
where I will bring no more offense to you, your
noble sons, your honorable ministers, and to my
family. By your leave, of course.
Otakar stared at him for one moment and then
nodded, waving one hand and turning his face away
from not only him, but his brother and wife. You
have my leave. Quit my table; if I hear word that
you are involved in any altercations within my
city any altercations I will have you sent
back to Metamor in chains. Raff, escort the knight out.
Relieved, Kardair turned to his wife, pressed the
side of his head against hers for a moment, and
then walked back the way he had came, the dutiful
captain at his heels with a none too pleased curl to his lips.
----------
May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,
Charles Matthias
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