"Hold your sword like this," Czestadt advised as he studied the dark-skinned boar-like man. Owain did as instructed, keeping the blade point straight up, gripping the pommel tightly with his right hand while his left grasped a shield that he kept before his chest. The rest of Wolfram's troop watched, some eager for their turn against the southern knight, while Kindle and Burkhart hoped they would not have to mend any broken bones or worse.
As Father Hough had asked, Wolfram had moved his soldiers down one of the wide hallways near to the Cathedral entrance. They could still see the array of heavy oaken doors with the brass scroll work along the banding, but they were not so close that their antics would frighten any of the Followers who chose that day to come and pray. Many who had come were curious to see the foreigners and most of those sought the Patriarch's bodyguard Kashin. The Yeshuel had greeted all who had come and extended a message of love and blessing given to him from the Patriarch, but that left him no time to aid in the lessons and spectacle that Wolfram's troop hoped for. It seemed he had finally found time when a summons arrived from the Duchess and he was whisked off to yet another audience.
Which left only Sir Czestadt to entertain Wolfram's troops. But with such an enthusiastic group of soldiers, and ones whose very bodies gave them unique advantages and disadvantages, it was nothing but pleasure for the Yesbearn knight.
"That's right," Czestadt said with approval. The boar-like man grinned around his snout, his nostrils tightening in delight. "Do you feel the strength in your stance? From that position you can move to block almost any attack with ease. If you cannot defend yourself you will never be able to defeat your enemies."
"I know how to defend myself," Owain complained with narrowed eyes. "It's the first thing Jack taught me when I joined!"
Czestadt drew his broad-handled blade and rolled the hilt around in his meaty hand. "Is that so? Then you should have little difficulty blocking these attacks." And without warning he swung the blade in a wide arc toward the boar's right. He shifted to hold his sword out to take the blow and the clash of steel on steel reverberated like the chiming of bells in their ears. The knight drew back and struck at the boar's left but was met with the shield this time. He struck again to the right and then at the left again but was stopped by the boar's sword and shield with competent reflexes. The knight could only conclude that he had indeed learned to defend himself. The only question that remained was how well he had learned his lessons.
Czestadt swung overhanded from the left, forcing the boar to duck to miss the sharp edge of the blade. Still in mid-swing, he pulled back and drove forward, the point of his sword slipping into the opening between the shield and sword. Already ducked, Owain could do nothing other than jump backward swinging his sword down to deflect the thrust. Czestadt let him knock his sword away as he flipped his grip on the pommel, pushing forward with his downward blade as if it were a shield, bashing the boar in the snout with his fist. Owain tried to raise his shield in time, but the blow landed.
Owain's nose was soft, smooth, and somewhat damp. It crumpled back under his fist but only an inch before the boar swung his head, clipping Czestadt's hand with one of his tusks. It was only a small cut and would bleed for but a moment. Owain took several steps back, avoiding the wall as he did so, while giving his head a quick shake to get his snout back into shape. Czestadt flipped his blade back to its normal grip, and laughed. "You have good reflexes, Owain. You block my attacks in the right way, pushing my blade away without offering any openings. Nor do you overextend yourself. By the time my next attack comes, you are back to your ready posture. Very good. How is your snout?"
Owain rubbed it with his sword hand, and then took a deep breath, nostrils flaring for a moment as the many bristles along his arms and back thrummed. "Stings but I've had worse. You pulled your punch."
"Of course I did. We aren't using practice blades here. A good solid punch to the face can kill a man. And... I wasn't sure how much it would hurt you. I've never punched a boar in the face before."
"Peccary," Owain said. "That's what my species is called. I'm not really a boar."
Czestadt took a closer look at the boar-like head with its short triangular ears, long snout with flat nose, short tusks, beady black eyes, and pepper gray bristles along his face, with a brighter collar at his neck and over his shoulders just visible above his tunic and banded leather armor. The peccary was a creature that lived in the desert hills north of the Darkündlicht mountains and the forests on either side. He had only ever seen them in traveling carnivals but this Metamorian certainly resembled them.
"Aye, I see that now. How did you know of them? I did not think any lived in Galendor."
Owain laughed and swung his spun his sword in his thick two-fingered hand. "I'm the first! And you aren't the first southerner to come here."
"Very true." Czestadt glanced at his hand and saw that the scratch was not even bleeding. Even better.
Wolfram and his soldiers applauded Owain's performance with the youngest of the human men chuckling, "Go get him, Owain! You can take him!"
Czestadt glanced at the young man out of the corner of one eye and decided he would put a stop to too much bravado right then and there. He smiled to the peccary and asked, "Are you prepared to defend against my true sword?"
"Your true sword? Do you have another than that one?"
"Oh, this blade is one I forged myself," Czestadt replied as he turned it over in his hands. The blade was solid metal about four feet in length with another foot in the handle with a crossbar hilt also a foot in length which meant it could serve as a cross if inverted. The tang did not appear remarkable in any way – Czestadt saw no need to adorn it with scrollwork or flashy decoration – but it was sharp at every edge, and the metal folded nearly a hundred times in the Kankoran forges, both heated and quenched by their magic that he might strike and shape it all the more. How well he recalled his masters amongst the Kankoran proclaiming it one of the greatest blades to have ever been forged by their clan and their irritation when he'd refused to give it a pretentious name. It was one of the few blades that he could touch with only his will without making it brittle. But none of that would be obvious to the Metamorians or even to many of his fellow Kankoran.
"But when I speak of my true blade, I do not mean the sword. I mean myself with sword. I have used against you and your fellow warriors the sorts of attacks you are most likely to see in battle. I promise you will not be harmed – your graciousness as a host would never let me bring you to harm – but would you like to try your blade against my own?"
Owain glanced at Wolfram but the ram just shrugged his shoulders. The peccary returned his gaze to Czestadt, eyes fixing on the pink scar on the side of the knight's face. He sucked in his breath, rubbed his snout one more time in hopes that it would stop stinging, and then nodded. "I know you are going to defeat me, Sir Czestadt. I am not ashamed at being beaten by you. But when will I ever have the chance to cross blades with a master swordsman like you again? That's why I'm agreeing. And that's why I'm going to give you everything I can."
Czestadt smiled and bowed to the peccary. "You are young and yet you have great honor and wisdom. I am deeply honored and will provide you what you seek."
He lifted his blade to his face and gently pressed his lips to the flat edge. Owain stood in his ready posture, beady eyes never leaving the knight's right shoulder. Czestadt gripped his blade in both hands and stepped forward slowly until they were just within reach of each others' swords. Owain bent his knees and dug his hooves into the carpeting. Wolfram's soldiers watched, eyes fixed on them and their breaths held tight in their throats.
The only sound was the shifting of his muscles and tunic as he swung the heavy sword hard at the peccary's left. He turned the shield to take the attack, but it was much harder this time, driving him back a pace, his hooves tearing into the carpeting as they were pushed back. A quick second strike at the bottom of his shield turned his arm down and opened his chest up. Owain realized his vulnerability and hopped back another pace, but Czestadt was already moving around to his right, bring his sword in from the other side. The peccary swung his sword back in time, but now his chest was completely exposed. Czestadt kicked forward, his boot planting firmly in the soldier's chest. One second later Owain was prone on his back a dozen feet down the hall staring at the ceiling. A second after that and he was staring down the full length of Czestadt's sword. And that's when he began gasping for breath.
"Damn!" Ross murmured in awe.
Czestadt casually knocked the peccary's sword away and then reached down and helped him back to his hooves. It took Owain a moment more to catch his breath, but when he did he started to laugh. "You hit hard. That... ah.... that was the fast... fastest I've eh... ever been put down."
"Never forget that in battle you are the weapon. I do not want to know how much pain I would endure were you to strike me with one of your hooves."
Owain lifted one of his legs and regarded the cloven hoof at its end with a new wonder in his small eyes. Wolfram applauded and stepped to Owain's other side to help him get back to the rest of their troop. "Care to learn what mine can do, Sir Czestadt?"
He regarded the ram with a delighted smile. "I have been hoping for the chance to see what you are capable of. You carry yourself like a man ready to spend your last breath protecting others. That is strength."
They had no sooner propped Owain against the wall where Burkhart began prodding his chest checking for broken ribs than Wolfram drew his sword with his left hand and began swinging it from side to side to loosen his muscles. Czestadt noted the ram's use of the off-hand and was glad of it; Wolfram was probably used to his opponents being unsure how to attack a left-handed warrior. But what really caught his attention was the age of his sword; it was much older than Czestadt's own and that always excited his blood.
"May I see your blade?" Czestadt asked.
Wolfram nodded and offered it with both hands. "Here, it is very precious to me. My grandfather once used it in battle."
"Impressive. You may hold mine. I would love to hear what you think of it." Czestadt offered his blade in turn, and soon both of them were examining each others' swords. Wolfram grunted at the weight, but was soon tilting the Kankoran blade this way and that, swinging it in long, slow arcs as a smile quickly began to spread across his snout.
Czestadt put the ram's blade to his lips and closed his eyes for a moment as he felt through the metal ever so gently. He could feel the devotion with which it had been crafted, forged and folded two generations ago. The finest steel of the Midlands went into its shape, and he almost trembled with the impression of each hammer swing that had shaped it. He could feel the rush of air as it was swung in practice and then in battle. And he could hear the screams of those who had died from its edge. Words seemed to float from the blade, words rich and hearty as they gloried in victory after victory, words which could not be kept from his tongue: "Today we drink! Tonight we wench! Tomorrow... we win!"
Wolfram almost dropped the knight's sword as he spun on his hooves and stared slack-jawed. "What did you say?"
"Only what your blade knows. Those words... it heard them a great deal. They are... part of this blade. Something your grandfather said?"
Wolfram nodded, stepping over and holding out his hand. "Aye, those were my grandfather's words. How could you hear them? He's been dead many years now."
Czestadt handed the ram back his sword and then reclaimed his own. He bowed his head low. "Forgive me if I have intruded on something sacred to you. But as I have said, a blade will speak to one who loves them and knows them well. Your blade, such as it can, loves your grandfather and now you. It will not easily disappoint you in battle."
"It hasn't yet," Wolfram replied, running one hand down the blade before he lifted it to his left ear, the tip clanking against his horn. He listened for a moment and then lowered the sword, chuckling at himself. "I don't know why I thought it would speak like that. Can you do that with any sword?"
"Most swords are crude and fashioned with little real care. It is a shame, but that is the way of things." Czestadt rolled his sword back and forth between his hands. "What did you think of mine?"
"Well-balanced and smooth," Wolfram replied with a nod toward the blade. "A little too heavy for me, but... it felt very good in my hands. Shall we then? My true blade against yours?"
"With honor!"
The other soldiers all kept clear as they watched their captain and the Yesbearn salute with their swords, and then fall into fighting stances. They circled each other for several long seconds, before Czestadt darted back the way he'd come and swung hard at the ram's right. Wolfram blocked with his shield and then pressed right back into the attack, bashing forward with his shield, driving it into the knight with his shoulder and with both hooves firmly planted for leverage. Czestadt stepped to the ram's left where he was met with a sword thrust.
He slapped the point of the blade down just as the peccary had done to his thrust a few minutes earlier. The shield came forward to smack him again. Czestadt grabbed the side of the shield with his left hand and he yanked it away, leaving both of their chests exposed for a split second. Wolfram lowered his head and jabbed forward with his horn, a move impossible for anyone not a Metamorian. Czestadt had wondered if he would have to contend against the horn and was delighted by the opportunity. But he hadn't any idea how to avoid it except by stepping back and slashing.
They traded a few more blows most of which were attacks from the ram. Wolfram was far more aggressive than the peccary or any of his other soldiers had been, and he also had the strength and training to back it up. Czestadt saw no openings in his defense for nearly half a minute when Wolfram lunged at the knight's unprotected right side. Czestadt took a half step to the left and in mid-swing switched his sword from right to left hand. His sword sailed over top of the ram's, while his now free right hand was able to wrap itself about his opponent's left wrist. A moment later they were locked together, Czestadt's blade pressed gently against Wolfram's neck, the shield pinned ineffectually between their bodies, and his sword arm held completely out where it did no good.
Under any other circumstance the practice would have been over, but Wolfram thrust his shield forward, even as he kicked out with his right hoof, catching Czestadt behind his left knee. The combination threw the knight off balance and he toppled to one side, his blade flinging out of his grasp. But he did not let go of the ram who came crashing down beside him, his sword dropping to the carpet beside them. Czestadt's blade did not fall when it left the knight's hand, but remained in the air, the hilt lifting up even as the point followed the ram's neck down to the ground.
Wolfram wheezed in surprise and then stared out the side of his head at the blade hanging there ready to skewer him. He blinked and then laughed, "I'd say that's not a fair fight, but I don't think there is such a thing. How was my hoof?"
"Well used," Czestadt admitted as he climbed to his feet and plucked the sword from the air. He sheathed his blade and then bent down to offer the ram a hand. Wolfram clasped his arm at the wrist, and once again the knight experienced the strangeness of the beastly flesh touching his own. "But you should have been dead before you had a chance to use it."
The ram snorted as he stood, stomping his hooves on the carpet with a laugh. "I wasn't going to let you win that easy! What was my mistake?"
"I can move faster than you," Czestadt replied as he handed the ram his family sword. It still hummed from the battle, quietly singing its delight in the worthy challenge. "Your thrust was too far. You did better when you were keeping me at a distance with your shield and short jabs."
"I'll remember that move too," Wolfram replied with another laugh. "I still got you down."
Czestadt nodded and laughed in turn. "I was right to fear your hooves. Perhaps some lighter practice for now. There is much we could learn from each other."
"What could I teach you? You are a far better swordsman than I am."
A new voice echoed down the hall with a sardonic lilt, "How to avoid hooves and horns for starters."
All eyes turned toward the raccoon walking silently on the carpeting, arms crossed, with a blade sheathed on either hip. He wore a tunic and breeches, with the laces on his tunic tied loosely at his neck so the brown fur on his chest spilled through. His dark eyes regarded them all with faint amusement. Zachary, who had watched all in almost complete silence, stepped into the middle of the hallway and shook his head. "You will not threaten our guests again."
"Let him by, Zachary," Czestadt said with a shake of his head. The dragon-like lizard may be twice the raccoon's height and five times his girth, but he would still be reduced to ash if the raccoon so desired. "He is an old friend of mine. And he has come to rekindle that friendship. Have you not?"
The kharrakhaz glowered once at Rickkter before returning to his quiet repose by the wall. Rickkter stepped past him, arms crossed before his chest. "Of course I have. It is not every day that you meet somebody from your past half a world away." He then added in the tongue of Sonngefilde, "And I know I can trust you not to reveal my new home to our old clan."
"You may trust me in that," Czestadt replied in his native tongue, grateful to speak once more in a language that made sense to him, though he had gained a great deal of proficiency in the backwards grammar of Galendor. "Shall we reminisce on our travels in this tongue or theirs?"
"Perhaps later," Rickkter replied with a shake of his head. "Somewhere private where we won't be overheard." He glanced at Wolfram and his troops, none of whom appeared inclined to trust him. He returned to the northern tongue with a laugh. "If it is sparring that you wish to do, I would love the chance to duel swords with you again. You taught me much, and I have learned much since then."
"Good." Czestadt beckoned him closer with a wave. "It has been far too long since I have dueled a fellow Kankoran." He turned to Wolfram and nodded. "You had best keep back at the walls. Do not fret, we are old friends." Even as the ram backed away, the Yesbearn turned toward Rickkter and added, "Just swords and none of your spells then? First blood from the torso?"
"Fair enough," Rickkter replied with a nod, silently drawing both the katana and wakizashi from their scabbards. "As long as it will only be these swords against your sword."
"Also fair," Czestadt agreed with a grin. His chest swelled with a pair of deep breaths, and then he took position in the middle of the hallway a dozen paces from Rickkter. The raccoon stood with wrists crossed at his waist, both blades pointing at the floor, the bright afternoon light streaming through the narrow windows dancing in their silvery tang. Czestadt lifted his blade before his face and kissed the flat side. He gripped the pommel with both hands, knuckles tightening around the leather haft.
Each of them took a step forward. Czestadt crouched lower, holding the sword up and slightly to his right. Rickkter held the katana over his head and the wakizashi down at his waist, both of them with the tips pointing toward the Yesbearn's heart. And then very slowly they began to circle each other. Czestadt stepped in closer first, making a few feints which Rickkter easily batted away. The raccoon kept his posture as his green eyes noted every sinew in the man's body. His ring-tail flicked back and forth with each step, the only part of his body that seemed not to care that it was in a battle.
Czestadt did not look at the tail, keeping his focus ever on Rickkter's torso, from hips to shoulders and back again. Movement always began there and it would always be seen first there. And that torso, despite the coating of fur, was still human in shape and purpose. The shape of Rickkter's swords were not unusual for a Kankoran to use, nor was his stance unfamiliar. But the nature of those two swords, swords he could tell were not true swords, eluded him and that gave him some pause. He continued to circle and feint, trying to draw the raccoon into an attack. He needed to see what those blades could do.
Rickkter obliged him. After deflecting one of his feints, the raccoon lunged forward, driving both blades forward like a pair of scissors. Czestadt parried them with a sideways block and continued stepping around in an attempt to trip the coon. But Rickkter was faster than that, hopping forward an extra step to jab the wakizashi into his side as he passed. The blade missed by inches as Czestadt continued his turn, driving down with his sword to brush aside the stroke. But the raccoon was not yet done as he continued around with lithe step, ducking lower to sweep up along his backside with the katana. Czestadt had no choice but to tumble forward, flipping onto his feet four paces away, leveling his blade at his old student with a grim smile.
"Becoming a raccoon has made you faster than I recall."
"Either that or age has slowed your mind."
Ross sniggered and even Czestadt had to snort. "You win that one, Rick."
And even as he tongue uttered those words his legs propelled him forward, smashing forward with two sideways chops, knocking both of Rickkter's blades to the side. The raccoon dove to one side, rolling head over heels with either blade at his side until he was also on his feet. He did not waste a moment before swinging from either side with his blades, forcing Czestadt to duck even as he thrust his sword upward. Both of the eastern blades struck either side of the knight's at which he twisted it to one side and then spun his arms in the other direction, knocking them back the way they'd come.
Rickkter pulled his arms in quick, crossing the blades in front of him as Czestadt's sword came down. The force of the knight's blow nearly pushed those blades apart, but with a growl that quivered his jowls and revealed a row of little fangs, Rickkter pushed and forced Czestadt back.
They continued to trade blows in quick succession. Czestadt's sword was stronger than either of Rickkter's and with it he could drive the raccoon around the small little circle of carpet they had unconsciously declared their own. But Rickkter could dance with his swords and forced the knight to parry blows from either side and sometimes both together which kept him from pressing any advantage he could find. Wolfram and his men winced at the shriek of steel and the pounding blows back and forth faster and oftentimes subtler than they had ever seen on the practice fields.
But neither were they drawing blood from the torso nor anywhere else at all. After a long exchange of blows they stepped apart as smoothly as two dancers and resumed their ready postures. Rickkter licked his jowls and flicked his tail from side to side as he resumed stepping one paw over the other to the right. Czestadt smiled lightly, a growing sense of confidence about the fight filling him. The raccoon was lithe and fast and very skilled with the use of the eastern blades. His moves were inventive and unpredictable, but the blades were shorter and did not have the reach he needed to touch the knight. All he needed to do was force the raccoon to thrust with both again.
And the opportunity came moments later when the raccoon made a feint with the katana. Czestadt batted it away and then struck an underhanded below at Rickkter's stomach. The raccoon smacked it away with the hilt of his wakizashi and then danced to the knight's right where he swung both blades at his chest from opposite directions.
Czestadt raised his sword as if to block the blow, but he raised it too quickly, throwing the sword into the air between both blades. Rickkter's momentum carried him forward another step, while Czestadt grabbed his wrists and dived into the raccoon's chest. He gasped in surprise as the knight bent his arms behind him and then buckled his knees. Rickkter fell backward with his swords pointing behind him. As soon as they hit the ground, they popped from his paws and clattered to the side. Czestadt snatched his blade from the air where it had hung and slashed at the coon's exposed chest.
But Rickkter was faster still. After dropping his swords he rolled backward and kicked the knight in the chest with his feet as he rolled head over heels. With one final push with his hands, the raccoon flipped backward in the air and landed on his feet, unarmed but unhurt. The sword passed so close to his breast that a bit of shorn fur floated down his chest. Czestadt rubbed one hand across his chest to check for wounds but the raccoon's claws hadn't pierced his armor.
The brief respite lasted less than a second. Rickkter immediately dived to retrieve his nearest blade while Czestadt stepped in the same direction, swinging with his sword to make the raccoon back off. Rickkter ducked the swing and dived in the other direction, leaping with a powerful thrust of his legs. He bounced onto the wakizashi, rolled across it, and came up with it held backward in his right hand. He kept the blade aligned along his lower arm and waved it before his face, staring with a beast's angry eyes at the knight.
Gweir and Ross gasped in awe, while Owain and Wolfram both snorted. Kindle rubbed his paws together and then grasped his tail, only to let go of it and rub his paws some more. Burkhart kept his hoof-like hands clasped in front of his snout as he watched. Zachary found it next to impossible to follow their moves and so contented himself with savoring the brief pauses that marked their fight. A few other Keepers had even stopped to watch from either end of the hall; some were even cheering on the knight or the raccoon.
Neither Rickkter nor Czestadt paid them any heed as the raccoon began circling the knight, jabbing and feinting with the wakizashi while the knight kept him from reaching his katana. The raccoon's green eyes flicked toward Czestadt's left leg three times in quick succession, and then he ducked low. Czestadt swung his blade down so that it blocked him on the left, but he swung from the right in case it was a feint.
And it was.
Rickkter spun the wakizashi in his paw, and then drove the flat of the blade against his swing, forcing Czestadt's sword down even further. And then, he jumped forward over both blades, his arms outstretched and, to the knight's shock, shrinking. He flipped his blade up with his right hand while with his left he lifted his arm to block the sudden feral attack. But Rickkter sailed overtop of him, or at least, most of him did.
As the raccoon shrank his breeches came loose and did not follow him all the way over the knight. Instead Czestadt received a face full of raccoon trousers and their earthy musk, while over his shoulder dangled the now animal-sized Rickkter bouncing back and forth in his tunic. Blinded, Czestadt yanked the trousers from his face, and then felt the animal pounce over his shoulder to burrow its head beneath his collar and bite him.
Czestadt yowled in surprise, grabbed Rickkter by the tail and yanked him out of his shirt before swinging him over his head in a circle and tossing him down the hall. The raccoon sprawled across the floor and tumbled end over end before coming to a stop. But his jowls were red with fresh blood. He swelled in size, but kept himself low to the floor. The now mostly human raccoon grinned red and said, "I win."
"You..." he bellowed, and then he winced and checked the wound. He was bleeding inside his armor and he could feel it. "I said no spells!"
"None of my spells," Rickkter replied. "That one was all Nasoj. Consider it a bit of inspiration from your friend's rat." And then in a lower voice he muttered, "Mighty warrior indeed, hah!"
Wolfram and the others applauded them both, their expressions stunned and uncertain. Czestadt growled under his breath but he did grab the now empty pair of breeches and tunic, balled them up, and tossed them toward the naked man still sprawled on the floor for the sake of modesty. Some of the onlookers were whispering indiscreetly to one another. Rickkter glanced at them and growled, jowls still red with blood. The Keepers nearest him swallowed, and rather quickly returned to whatever tasks had brought them in sight of the little battle.
Once he had that modicum of privacy, Rickkter crawled back into his tunic and pulled his breeches back on. He laced them up with his back turned to Wolfram's company, and then stretched, wiping the blood off with his sleeve. "Ah, now that was refreshing! You almost had me there a few times, Sir Czestadt."
"And that," Czestadt added as he pressed one hand to his chest to staunch the blood, "was the most risky and ingenious thing I have seen a Keeper do yet! If you weren't as fast as you are, I could have skewered you before I knew what happened."
"I know," Rickkter replied with a nod. "And I know I could never get away with it again against you. Still, that was rather satisfying after all the times you utterly humiliated me all those years ago."
"You are much more skilled than you were in those days," Czestadt pointed out. He bent down and picked up both of the raccoon's swords and offered them. Rickkter took three quick steps forward to take them out of the knight's hands before they could linger more than a moment in his touch.
Rickkter spun each in his paws to sheathe them when another foreign voice behind them said, "Don't put those away just yet. I'd like a turn."
Kashin was escorted to a small balcony overlooking the practice fields north of the Keep. There was enough room between the northern curtain wall and the castle for a full joust, though there was too much grass for it to have ever seen that many hooves. His escorts, a pair of blue liveried men one of whom was a bull that towered over him, assured him that his host would be with him presently and then departed back the way they came. Arranged on the balcony was a small table and flanking wooden chairs. He sat in the left chair.
He heard the clopping of a pair of hooves first, and then the door opened and a woman dressed in riding gear stepped through. Kashin was quick to rise, surprised at the dress, but not at the smell of horses. For the woman was one herself, or at least, she was of equine stock having the girth and the appearance of one of the Assingh, the Steppelands donkeys that he had come to know so well while he traveled with the Magyars.
"Kashin!" the duchess exclaimed with delight at seeing him. She wrapped her arms about his neck and he with his one arm awkwardly returned the gesture. "I didst ne'er think to see thee again. Please, sit. I know thou dost not recognize me but I shalt explain. Sit!"
Kashin sat and so did the equine duchess. Her expression must have been a smile, but on a donkey it seemed very awkward with far too many flat teeth and curled lip. "Thou didst once know me when I wast human and a man, and at that time, I wast known as Sir Albert Bryonoth."
The Yeshuel stared and felt his heart skip a beat. "Sir Bryonoth? But... how? I thought the Curse didn't do all this. And how... how did you become Duke Thomas's wife?"
She laughed, a braying sound that was very familiar. An image of the Magyar Kisaiya who had tended the Assingh flashed in his mind, but he pushed it aside. That, like so many things, was a memory that belonged to Nemgas and not to him and he preferred not to intrude on his twin's precious moments. "That be a long tale that we hath not the time to tell. And there art many things that happened to bring Thomas and I together that I dare not tell for they art too tender for his soul."
"Fair enough," Kashin admitted, though he was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that the blustery Steppe knight that had accompanied the Patriarch on his journey to Metamor was the same creature as this Assingh lady and now Duchess of Metamor. "I didn't find your body when I scoured the camp. How did you survive that night?"
"I wast taken captive by that murderer. He and that witch woman who killed our Patriarch and our friends cast terrible spells upon me. I didst return to Metamor under their command and attempted something terrible. By Eli's grace I wast stopped and soon thereafter freed from their control. I became as thou dost see me a year ago and some months thereafter his grace asked for my hand in marriage."
Kashin felt a twinge of anger at the mention of the Patriarch's killer, but that man was now dead so he put the anger from his mind. Confusion over the duchess remained. "So the Curse that made you a woman has made you desire men as a woman does?"
"Some," Alberta admitted with the wave of a hoof-like hand. Her long ears lowered against her long neck and mane. "I didst cling to the man that I hadst been born as for a long time, and 'twas that grip that allowed the murderer to use me. The things I tried to do for that man..." She shook her head, and then her ears lifted upright and the smile returned. "When his evil wast stopped, I lost all that didst make me a man excepting the memories of that time. And then I didst become as you see me now, an Assingh but very much a woman."
"You lost what made you a man?" Kashin shook his head. "I do not understand all that you say, but I can see that it is true. I would never have guessed if given a thousand guesses for a thousand days that you were once Sir Albert Bryonoth, knight of Yesulam. But I can hear the Steppe in your voice, and see it in your guise. You still ride then?"
"I dost ride as often as I can, and I hath convinced my Thomas to ride as well. And I ride with Sir Egland when he canst join me. He hast become an elk and has now pledged his sword to Metamor as one of her knights. He wouldst hath come to thank thee for saving his life that night, but he hast gone on patrol and wilt not return for some days."
"I am glad to hear that he is well. Let him know that."
She nodded and then a braying laugh erupted from her throat. "Oh, thou shouldst hath seen my poor Thomas that first day in the saddle again. He felt awkward being a horse riding another horse, but I didst show him that he hath nothing to fear. And I dost continue to introduce him to the ways of the Steppe." She sighed and then put her hands on the table before her, eyes turning to the southeast and gazing with a strange longing. "My old home art so far away. But my new home hath its own charm and its own delights. As long as I am with my Thomas, I shalt bear peace in my heart." Her smile returned and with it her regard of the Yeshuel. "But I hath great joy to see thee again, Kashin! Thou must tell me of Yesulam, and of thy journeys."
The awkwardness persisted for a full candlemark as Kashin and Alberta discussed their respective trials and challenges in the days that followed the massacre at the Patriarch's camp. Despite the Steppelander accent and some shared memories, there didn't seem to be anything about this donkey woman to indicate that she was the knight of Yesulam he'd once known. But as they talked and as they shared their stories, he began to notice small things, certain gestures, certain phrases, and certain ever so slight cues that little by little the awkwardness began to abate.
By the time the second candlemark was burnt he knew in his heart that this very, very changed woman had definitely once been that knight of Yesulam whose body he'd searched for in vain on that rainy and terrible night. His smile came easily to his face and he felt that sense of camaraderie that only a long voyage together can build return to them.
Alberta did not seem capable of much other than smiling, at least until he described how he fell in with the Magyars and was almost one of them for good. She was born into the horse clans of the Steppe, and that meant she had a rather poor opinion of the Magyars. Tricksters and thieves was her first word, and she also mentioned the rather disreputable band that had brought the plague with them to Metamor a little over a month ago. But that anger softened when she described playing diplomat with them and how the Magyars one and all declared they would not leave Metamor until they were all under the touch of the Curses.
Kashin tried to imagine Nemgas, Gamran, Hanaman, and the other Magyars he'd come to know and call friend and brother as beasts but couldn't quite pick any forms that seemed right for them. He wondered for a moment if the Magyars who had come to Metamor were those same ones he had known and traveled with, but he knew that had to be impossible given the vast distances involved and the rather measured pace the Assingh set across the Steppe.
"It is remarkable how much this place has changed each of us," Kashin mused after Alberta had finally started smiling again. "And not just in the obvious way by making you a woman and giving you a hide and hooves. I mean in the way it has changed each of our hearts."
Alberta nodded, her tail lashing the back of the chair behind her. "I dost see it in thy countenance, Kashin. Thou wert a man of easy smile and simple confidence in all things when I didst first meet thee. Now thou dost appear a man who hath suffered much and found a power even greater. Thou hast found virtue, Kashin, and thy face dost shine with it."
"And you have gained a great deal of wisdom if you can see it for what it is," Kashin replied. "I have spent most of the last year and a half clad in black or the bright colors of the Magyars. I've seen things I still do not understand. I've lost my left arm. And for seven months last year I didn't exist except as a tiny presence watching the world unfold from the mind of Nemgas. I would have none of that if not for what happened here that one night outside Metamor. That one night."
"It dost pain thee still."
She did not speak the words as a question. It could never be a question. "Aye, it does. But that time is past and the world is turning to a new age. Patriarch Geshter very much wants to mend the wounds that the Ecclesia has suffered, and that others have suffered at the hands of those who claimed to act in the name of the Ecclesia. There are so many wounds, so much injustice, so much suffering. All of it is vain and hopeless if not for Yahshua. And that's what I think on when I turn to prayer. Everything I suffered and endured since that night is worthwhile only because of Yahshua and His glory. I think I have been a better hand for Him now that I have just the one."
Alberta smiled and lowered her long head as she leaned closer to him. "We knights didst admire thee and thy fellow Yeshuel. I admire thee e'en more now than I didst then, Kashin of the Yeshuel. Thou art a noble servant of the servant of Eli!"
"Through no fault of my own," he murmured and then laughed, hugging Alberta around her thick neck. The equine scent was rich but pleasant as they embraced as old friends must. Together they remained for a time laughing and braying before Alberta finally was forced to apologize.
"I hath agreed to spend this afternoon with my husband; there art many affairs of state that weigh heavily on his shoulders and he dost need me to help strengthen those shoulders. How long wilt thee be staying in Metamor?"
"As long as Father Akaleth needs. I expect we will leave either tomorrow or the day after. This was always going to be a short visit."
Alberta's ears turned to his voice, and then lowered along the back of her head. "'Tis unfortunate that thou canst not tarry here a few days more. My husband wouldst prefer to have honored thee and thy companions, but we hath no time for it. Shalt I escort thee back to the Cathedral?"
"Thank you, but nay, you should see to your husband. I will return quietly. I prefer a quiet entrance and a quiet exit if I can have them. Thank your husband, his grace, for his hospitality, even if we did not see as much of it as he would have liked."
She gestured with one arm as she stood, a warm afternoon breeze ruffling through her mane. "Thou must at least allow me the honor of accompanying thee back inside."
Kashin laughed and nodded, rising to his feet and straightening his green tunic with his only hand. "That I will allow. Lead me on, Duchess."
They parted ways only a few minutes later after walking down more of the hall together, Alberta delaying that final goodbye as long as she could before her duties forced her. Kashin assured her that they would not leave without morning Liturgy so there would be another chance. No matter how much joy Alberta took in her new life, Kashin could see that there was a part of her that missed the life of a Yesulam knight. There was nothing that could be done now, although Kashin wondered if the Patriarch might consider writing some special blessing for her in recognition of her service. He would have to remember to mention it to him when they returned to Yesulam.
His walk back to the Cathedral was uneventful. The few Keepers he passed in the gray, stone halls either did not recognize him, or were in too much of a hurry to stop. Those few that did pause, were often overcome with awe so that all they could do was bow to him and offer some praise of Eli for men like him before continuing on their way. Nobody even seemed to worry about an army of Questioners come to drag them all to fiery pits or the headsman's axe. Father Felsah's gentle presence was already bearing good fruit.
When he neared the Cathedral his muscles tensed with the sound of sword fighting. He moved quickly, feet padding silently along the soft carpeting until he turned the final corner and saw the source of the commotion. He chortled and relaxed. Czestadt had assured him that the raccoon was likely to come by and request a bout. Several Keepers had gathered to watch as the Yesbearn knight and Kankoran raccoon danced around each other with flying swords and acrobatic legerdemain.
Kashin enjoyed the bout, though he was a little disappointed to see his friend Sir Czestadt narrowly lose. The raccoon was crafty and very skilled. And not afraid to show his beast-side given the way he'd snarled bloody jowls like that. The Keepers who'd gathered there before Kashin all began to disperse while the raccoon dressed himself again.
He couldn't quite say why, but seeing the fight, and the faint nostalgia for a time past he had heard in Alberta's voice, inspired him to step a little closer and say, "Don't put those away just yet. I'd like a turn."
The raccoon turned, both eastern blades still in his paws. Green eyes in the shape of a beasts's regarded him in surprise, quickly taking in his Yeshuel tunic, missing left arm, and buckler with no sword. He did not bring the golden Cenziga blade with him anymore, and Caur-Merripen more properly belonged to Nemgas anyway. To his relief, it was the lack of sword, not the lack of an arm that the raccoon noted. "You have no sword to fight me with, Kashin of the Yeshuel. I would never accept a challenge from an unarm... from a man with no blade."
"He may use mine," Wolfram announced. The ram strode forward, hooves making a soft whump in the carpet with each step. He drew his blade and held it out, laying it flat in his hands as he approached the Yeshuel. "I would be honored if you used my blade, Kashin."
Kashin could see Czestadt nod in approval from the other end of the hall so he knew that the craftsmanship would be exquisite. He smiled to the ram and bowed his head respectfully. "I will treat your weapon with the honor it deserves. I thank you and salute you for your generosity." So saying he wrapped his hand about the hilt and lifted it from the ram's hoof-like hands. The weight was steady and after only a moment it felt comfortable in his grip. As Wolfram backed off, he took a few experimental swings, savored the gasp of air as it swept past, and then he turned back to the raccoon.
"I have a blade now. Do you accept my challenge?"
Rickkter chuckled and nodded. "I have heard it said that Yeshuel train from birth."
"Near enough," Kashin admitted as he and the raccoon moved into the center of the hall. Czestadt joined Wolfram's troops against the far wall, while more Keepers clustered nearby to watch. "Much of our training is in prayer and the doing of good deeds. We usually do not fight with swords."
"But you know how," Rickkter added as he swept out his arms, the katana over his head and the wakizashi at his middle. "I can see it in the way you hold that blade."
Kashin stood with his right leg and side forward, showing as little of his body as possible. The sword angled out ahead of him. "Aye, I know how to use a sword."
"The same rules as before then? First blood from the torso?"
"That is fair. I agree."
Rickkter smiled, a little bit of blood still flecking his jowls. "Then let us begin."
The raccoon wasted no time with a sudden leap forward, driving both blades in a quick succession of arcs, one aimed at Kashin's head and the other at his gut. Kashin bent at his ankles until his knees kissed the carpet with a most gentle caress, while his upper body bent backward, his chest sucking inward to avoid the slash from the wakizashi, and his head tilting back to slip beneath the blow from the katana. He then turned on his ankles, sliding to Rickkter's right, bringing forward his right arm and the sword at its end.
The raccoon's green eyes went wide and he tried to drive his right leg down to push himself to the left to avoid the blow. But Kashin pressed the stump of his left arm around the raccoon's back, holding him in place for just a split second longer. The blade's edge ripped along the front of Rickkter's tunic, and then both of them spun apart to stand where the other had only moments before. Kashin held out the ram's blade so that the glint of red along one edge was visible to all. "The battle is won."
Rickkter blinked in disbelief and dabbed his fingers at his chest where his tunic sagged where the cloth had been sheared in twain. A line of red peered through his flesh like a dragon's eye contemplating a return to use after a century's slumber. His jaw opened once without sound, and then it opened again in a barking laugh, the sort that only a man who cannot believe the testimony of his eyes would use. "The battle is won," he repeated in the midst of much headshaking and even more laughter.
"How did you do that?" Wolfram exclaimed in wonder as he came forward to reclaim his blade. "I saw it but... I do not know how you did that!"
Kashin offered him the blade by its hilt and bowed his head low. "You have a very fine blade, Captain Wolfram. It is no secret. Bend. Bend like a reed in the wind. If you can do that, you can find your way."
"Some reed," Rickkter muttered as he tried to stop the bleeding with his tunic. "No reed has ever drawn my blood before."
"Of course I'd find the men playing with their swords," a new beastly voice said with mock derision from the end of the hall facing the Cathedral doors. Rickkter's ears perked and his head turned faster than all the rest. Standing with paws on hips in warm brown tunic and breeches with a blue cloak about her shoulders was a lady skunk. She tapped a booted foot like a mother scolding children.
"Kayla!" Rickkter exclaimed with a bright smile, his wound forgotten. He stepped swiftly to her side, sliding an arm along her back and guiding her forward. "Why my old friend Sir Czestadt and I were just showing Captain Wolfram and his men the finer points of swordsmanship. And Kashin here was showing even me a thing or two."
"Don't touch me," Kayla pushed him away, though there was an audible churr in her voice that seemed the beginnings of a laugh. "You'll get blood all over my new cloak."
He leaned in closer and nearly stuck his snout in her ear. "Perhaps you can help me tend to my terrible wound?"
She laughed and shook her head. "I have to check on Andwyn. You can fix that trifle yourself. It doesn't look nearly as bad as what that mighty warrior did to you yesterday, or so Misha claims."
Rickkter growled, even as a few of Wolfram's soldiers began laughing behind their hands and paws. "Remind me to put spiderwort in his next batch of muffins." It wouldn't hurt the fox of course, but it would keep him very close to his chamberpot for a day or two.
Kayla laughed and kissed him on the nose. "You boys have your fun. I will see you again soon."
The kiss was all it took for the raccoon's mood to improve considerably. He tried to follow Kayla, but the skunk shook her head as she headed off down the other corridor adjacent to the Cathedral entrance. Rickkter watched her go for a moment, before turning back to Kashin and Czestadt. He shrugged his shoulders and patted his chest which had already stopped bleeding. "So, shall we try that again?"
After his engaging and much needed talk with Kayla the skunk, Akaleth returned to Felsah's chambers to find the jerboa priest scouring several sheets of parchment on which his scrawling letters could be seen. He had even drawn several diagrams – and a few pictures of Madog – linking various ideas together as he sorted through Akabaieth's journals. The newly-made rodent offered to share more of the details on what he'd found, but Akaleth shook his head.
"I just spoke with a skunk named Kayla. She saw the sword of Yajakali."
"Aye, she's one of the ones Metamor sent to Marzac. I had the opportunity to hear the story from Sir Charles Matthias when I first arrived." Felsah's long tail flicked from side to side as he turned in his stool and bobbed his head. "Astonishing! Truly astonishing."
Akaleth nodded and then sniffed at the air. "Is that coffee?"
Felsah turned back on his stool and lifted a small mug in his paws. "It is! I found a shop in the market that usually sells the beans to inns and to the wealthier merchants. To my good fortune I learned that the shopkeeper is a Follower and he has given me a small supply. The coffee helps me keep awake during the day."
"It is already midafternoon," Akaleth objected with a mild reproach. "Does your new body keep you awake at night too?"
"It has," Felsah admitted with a shrug before lapping up a tongueful of the black brew. "But not always. I am trying not to have too much, but with your visit I didn't want to fall asleep while we spoke."
"Have you fallen asleep during prayers?"
Felsah grimaced around his jowls and nodded. "A few times, though only when I've been praying by myself. Would you care for some?"
"Thank you, but I will decline for now. Perhaps tomorrow morning. I expect that I will have to leave then. There does not seem to be all that much I can do here."
"I understand. It is best to leave soon. Any delay risks you suffering the Curse."
"I confess I wonder what it would make of me."
Felsah chuckled and took another sip. His whiskers thrummed with each drop. "I have not given it much thought, but if I had to guess, possibly a horse or donkey. I don't quite know why either. You seem to make the strangest of friends, and so do they at times. I don't know if that makes any sense."
"As much as sense as you being a desert mouse."
Felsah smiled and then took another sip of his coffee. "What will greet you when you return to Yesulam?"
"Father Kehthaek most likely. He is encouraging me to start a discipline for Questioners, much as he has one of his own. There are many tasks of administration and pedagogy that he is involved in and into which he has brought me."
"I remember," Felsah said with a nod. "I was enjoying teaching those little classes to my fellow Questioners."
"Why not continue here?" Akaleth suggested as he settled down on the pallet and stretched his legs. "You said yourself that many Followers here at the Keep have a deplorable sense of what is and is not permitted for Followers. Teach them."
"Father Hough tries that at every Liturgy. Many have listened and it has profited them greatly. Many do not."
"So it is with every generation. How is the care for the young of the parish? Does Father Hough have time to prepare them for Immersion and Confirmation?"
"He has done a well as he could, but it is a need. There are two other priests in the valley now and so that will help some."
"Three new priests," Akaleth pointed out with a wave of a finger. "Do not forget yourself."
"But I am trying to help Vinsah!"
"You will not always be studying these journals. You need to make sure that the next generation of Followers that grow up here at Metamor are more faithful in their observance of our ways. They have been given a great deal of latitude because of these curses, but that cannot be an excuse forever. It isn't even a good one now."
Felsah nodded thoughtfully and in silence he took another sip of his coffee. He stared out the window at the dwindling light of the afternoon for a moment before taking a second sip and nodding again. "It is worth trying. I will speak with Father Hough about it in the morning after you have left. For now, there is one other thing you must see before we take our evening meal. I promised you I would show you something when Patric returned from his rounds."
"You did," Akaleth replied. "Has he returned yet?"
"He is about to knock at my door," Felsah smiled and then tapped one of his large ears. Akaleth almost laughed in surprise as a pair of feet slapped outside and a knock struck the Questioner's door just as he had predicted. "Please come in."
The door swung open and in stepped a figure standing only a couple of hands higher than Felsah. He was covered in bright green scales from head to toe and tail tip; the only garment he had on was a brown cassock modified for his reptilian body and long tail. His eyes seemed to jut out of his boxy head at the end of little cones that swiveled in different directions. The impression was disorienting to Akaleth, but he kept this to himself, focusing his attention on the nearest eye only.
"Father Felsah," he nodded his head to the mouse and then toward the human. "Father Akaleth. I hope you have had an enjoyable day in our home."
"It has been very edifying," Akaleth replied with a warm smile. He found it easier and easier to let the mask of the Questioner down, at least when he really wanted to smile. "There is much beauty hidden here that the world does not know."
"Patric, I wanted you with us now because I wish to show Father Akaleth the slab," Felsah said as he rose to his hind paws and finished the last of his coffee. He set the cup aside and rubbed his paws together, then wiped them back over his whiskers to groom his face.
"The covenant slab?" Patric asked in surprise. "Of course. It's only been with us a few weeks now. There's still far too much we do not know, but if you'll follow me I'll show you where we keep it."
"The covenant slab?" Akaleth asked as he rose to his feet, towering over both jerboa and lizard. "What is this?"
"It is easier to explain once you have seen it. You'll understand why I waited until Patric could be with us to show you as well." Felsah offered as he hopped out the door nearly landing on the seminarian's tail. Once they were in the hall leading past several other small cells used by the seminarians, the two of them could walk side by side with Akaleth trailing after.
Akaleth said nothing as they moved down the hall away from the sanctuary proper. The walls were fashioned from the same speckled gray granite that the rest of the Keep appeared to be made from. Doors to the cells were on their right, while at their left little braziers burned to give light, and to illuminate the wooden carvings positioned between them. Akaleth noted with approval that each highlighted some scene from salvation history. They formed a Resurrection homily in miniature, and that was always a good message to keep before the eyes and the heart. He would have to suggest something similar to Father Kehthaek for the Questioner Temple when he returned.
The hallway turned to the left at the end, and then opened into a wide storage area with a high sloping ceiling. If there were any geometric consistency within the Keep, then they were standing on the other side of the high altar in a room as long as the sanctuary was wide. It was clearly a storage area for devotional and liturgical pieces as he recognized several sets of seven-tiered and four-tiered candelabra, statues of various saints not currently on display, chests nearly bursting with vestments for the various seasons, numerous thurifers, a shelf filled with jars of holy oil, and boxes stuffed with so many candles and incense that the entire room was permeated with the odor of wax, frankincense and myrrh.
All of this he observed with a quick glance. And once done his eyes fixed resolutely on the enormous slab of rock laying in the center of the room beneath a blue cloth. Patric rested one hand on the blue cloth, spreading long fingers and staring with some reverence, both of his eyes fixed upon the slab. Felsah hopped to the other side and beckoned Akaleth to come closer.
"This is the covenant slab," Felsah announced with a sweep of one paw. "It was found in the Holy Land a few days journey from Yesulam. Do you remember the night when that wave of light washed across the land only a few hours before the dawn?"
"I remember that. Only a few days before the Nativity."
"On that night, the man, his wife, and their seven year old son who had found this slab were all transformed into a race of creatures that have been dead for millennia. They became Tened. How I wish they were in Metamor now so that I could introduce you to them, but... that is not to be."
"The Tened? I have never of them. What are they?"
"A feathered race that have munch in common with reptiles as well as birds," Felsah said as he glanced once at Patric who nodded and began folding the blue cloth back from the slab. "I have a few sketches of them that I can show you in my quarters. But first, please examine this slab."
Together, Felsah and Patric folded the cloth one section at a time until the cold stone monolith was revealed. Several different types of scripts were chiseled into the surface, each letter inlaid with some vibrant blue metal that he did not recognize. Akaleth stepped closer and studied the text, noting the very strange letters, most of which looked nothing like letters and more like glorified scratches, until he recognized the lowest set as Galendish. He read the words out loud, "In memory of the Tened, who wouldst not be parted from the Truth, even to preserve their lives, I Who Am make this everlasting covenant with the Peoples of Scale and Feather. For so long as thou hast no dealings with those who wouldst name themselves gods in defiance of the Most High, I shalt shield thee from their direct agency."
He glanced at both Felsah and Patric who had finished unveiling the slab and were folding the cloth one last time. "Is this a real message from Eli?"
"We don't know," Felsah said with a quick glance at Patric. The chameleon looked ready to disagree, but then shut his mouth and nodded to the Questioner. "There are a few facts in its favor. It was found in a bed of flowers near Yesulam and those who found it were quickly turned into Tened, a race that has long been dead. That they are Tened has been confirmed by three sources. The script is made out of a metal not even the alchemist Pascal recognizes, though we only allowed her a brief glance; she is... not the sort to keep any secret, and she would likely destroy anything we lent her in order to learn what it is."
Akaleth frowned and pursed his lips. "We certainly do not wish any part of this destroyed."
"Another fact is that there are twelve different languages used on this slab. Most of them are not human languages. We have identified three human languages, the Tened language, the Binoq script, the script of the Åelves, and even a Lutin dialect. We believe that another of thee scripts belongs to the dragons but few of them are small enough to enter this chamber, or friendly enough to Followers to care to enter here."
"And these scripts, are they all the same message?"
Felsah nodded, hopping along the length of the slab and resting his paw on one of the human tongues. Akaleth glanced at it and saw that it was Suielish, the language the Ecclesia used. Even a quick read of that proved his fellow priest right. "Every one of them that we can read says the same thing," Felsah said as he ran one claw along the inside of a letter. "If this was a forgery, then it is the work of scholars from a variety of disciplines. No one scholar would know twelve languages when those languages include the tongues of dragons, Åelves, Lutins, and Tened. Plus they would have to know alchemy to create this metal as well as have some logistical support to take it to Yesulam. And where did the flowers come from? And how did Jacob and his family become Tened? These and a few other reasons are why many believe this to be genuine of Eli."
Akaleth ran his fingers along thew script and almost shivered as he touched the cold metal. If it were possible it felt chillier than the stone. "How did you learn what language these are? I've heard of the Binoq only in legend, and I've never heard that Lutins were the sort to write anything down."
"They have a primitive script," Patric piped up from the other side of the slab. "They use it more to track elk herds, bear migrations, various tribe squabbles, and occasional wisdom of their ancestors. There are even rumors of magic incantations, but that's just what I've heard the scouts who've gone north of the valley say."
"The three human scripts I recognized," Felsah pointed out, and then gestured to the Galendish at the bottom, the Suielish closer to the top, and another script that used similar letters with very different strings of consonants. "The last should be familiar to you as well."
"The common tongue of Sonngefilde and Kitchlande," Akaleth mused as he deciphered it. He wasn't as familiar with it, but having spent so much time in the company of Sir Czestadt it had become almost second-nature to him. "Aye, it says the same thing. But what of the others?"
"Both Emily and Jon recognized the top-most script as that of the Tened," Felsah pointed with one claw at the far end of the slab, and then returned his gaze to the human priest. "They know more about the Tened than anyone else in the valley; Jon has been collecting their artifacts for several years now. And last week when Sir Matthias visited Metamor to gather with some of his friends, I asked him to come and take a look at this and tell me what he thought. He recognized the Binoq script and the Åelf script, but he couldn't read them. Nobody knows how to read them! But at least we know what they are."
"And the children of scale and feather would be those like Patric?" Akaleth asked, glancing between the jerboa and the chameleon, still trying to grasp the significance of this slab being an authentic message from Eli.
"I believe that is what it means," Patric said with a click of his tongue. "Who else could it refer to?"
Akaleth frowned and glanced back at the stone and its arresting message. "And these who name themselves gods in defiance of Truth... does it mean the Lightbringers... the aedra and daedra?"
"It would seem so," Felsah said with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "There's no way to be certain, but I suspect it would include any supposed god who is not Eli."
"Who else knows of this?"
"Those who helped us bring it here of course. Father Hough bid them keep silent about it for now, and so far no one has said anything. It is only a matter of time. Jacob and his family are unusual, even for Metamor. There is something... different about them that I think other Keepers can sense, even if they cannot name it."
Akaleth exhaled and then let the familiar sensation of the mask settle over his features. He ran his fingers across the letters, noting each word, pondering the bright blue metal, and the message written in the languages of many races. Scale and Feather. Tened. Truth. I Who Am. Could it be real?
His eyes settled on the first phrase and a doubt began to arise in his heart. "What do we know of the Tened? Were they true to Eli? Did they even know of Eli?"
Felsah chittered under his breath and then turned to the chameleon. "Patric, please make sure the slab is covered again. There are some things I must show Father Akaleth. They are for his eyes and ears alone. Do you understand?"
Patric's eye cones both seemed to lower even as his long fingers grabbed the blue cloth and began dragging it back over the slab. "I understand, Father. I will tell Father Hough where you two are when I see him."
"Thank you," Felsah swung his head back to the human priest and almost squeaked. "If you would come back to my cell?"
Father Akaleth listened with both wonder and doubt as he the jerboa regaled him with a tale of a dream, a land of desert, oasis, and a burrow town of other jerboa. And in that dream a strange creature visited him by the still waters of the oasis, a creature covered in feathers, with sharp teeth instead of a beak, and scales along his feet, face, and hands. His plumage had been bright and his tongue sharp but gentle. And in his soul a deep bitterness that poured forth in a confession whose duration could not be measured by hours or days, perhaps not even by years.
"Dare I ask what you gave him as penance?" Akaleth asked, half in hopes that his friend would laugh, and half in hopes that he wouldn't. Felsah smiled, an expression which made all his whiskers bend back along his face and then angle upwards so that he seemed to have a ridiculous mustache.
"It is hard to credence," Felsah admitted as he hopped from the pallet over to his small writing deck. He lifted the lid and withdrew a small folded piece of parchment. "But when I rose the next morning I found this letter and two others. This was meant for me. Read and tell me what you think."
Akaleth took the little folded bit of parchment from the jerboa's small, slender paws. The very first words made him nearly drop the letter. "To My Confessor..." Akaleth swallowed and stared over the parchment at his friend. "He wrote you a letter? This Troud?"
"I believe he wrote three letters. This one was for me so that I would believe that it was more than just a dream. It was... real in a way."
"Even that jerboa village?"
Felsah scratched behind his ear and finally let out a small chuckle. "Well, perhaps not that part."
Akaleth was grateful for the mote of levity and resumed reading the letter. It was brief and a moment later he set it down and took a deep breath. "Have you shown this to anyone else?"
"You are the first to see it."
"Which means either something is going to great lengths to tempt the people of scale and feather here at Metamor, and they are using you to do it, or this is genuine. And why would they tempt them into a deeper faith in Eli? That does not make sense. This... Troud... does not seem to be interested in them for his own sake." Akaleth folded the letter and offered it back to Felsah. The jerboa took it very gently in his paws and returned it to his writing desk.
They sat in silence for nearly a full minute, both of them lost in their thoughts. Finally, Akaleth knew there was only one question that could settle the matter for himself. He folded his hands, sliding his fingers together before tapping his knuckles to his chin a few times. Dark eyes found the desert mouse who had picked up a short stick as was gnawing at the end. "Do you believe it?"
Felsah continued to gnaw on the stick for a moment before lowering it and spitting out a few splinters. "Forgive me that habit... it is something I must do to keep my teeth from aching and from growing too long. As to all of this, the slab, the letter, the dream." His eyes, wholly dark from one lid to the other, seemed nevertheless to turn inwards as he resumed gnawing on the stick. And like that he sat for several long seconds, his claws digging into the wood to hold it in place as his jaws worked and his teeth scraped at the end of the solid oak branch.
And then a small knot in the branch cracked beneath his fangs and Felsah picked it out with his fingers. He held it aloft between a thumb and finger, little claws just touching the chewed wood as he turned it over in the late afternoon light filtering through the window. "After our dear friend Vinsah, that is the other thing I have spent most of my thoughts upon. Do I believe all of that about the Tened and the children of Scale and Feather. Do I? Oh, Father, oh my friend, oh Akaleth, aye. Aye I do believe it.
"I know it is so strange and so unlikely, but I know it must be true. I cannot prove it, I cannot even prove it to many of those garbed in scales and feathers, but I know it deep down in my heart. I know that Troud exists and that he was created by Eli as a guardian and guide for the Tened race, and that his sojourn in the darkness of misery came to an end with his confession and repentance. I know that Jacob and his family's finding of that slab, and their change into Tened was the act of providence And I know that promise is from Eli.
"All I could think of the entire time we spoke with Wolfram was that it was a shame he and his friend were mammals. Had they been birds or lizards, then from here to eternity they would never have needed to fear Revonos or any of the Pretender's minions. And yet I could say nothing because I don't know what to do, nor how better to help them. Perhaps this is the first spark of a renewal in these lands, lands once the ancestral home to the Lightbringers. Perhaps here Eli means to bring up a people who will be faithful to Him. And through them, the rest of Galendor that does not acknowledge His name will finally see how great He truly is."
Felsah lowered his snout and tossed the knot of wood into a small iron pail. "Maybe my hopes are just running away with me. I haven't been here for two months yet and I already love this place and her people dearly. Do you know that some of those who have become like Patric cannot even stand being in the presence of mammals anymore? They are overcome with panic and fear that we are going to steal their eggs and hunt them down. Their eggs. Aye, they lay eggs now. Ah, I am carrying on like an old fool. Aye, I believe the slab, the letters, all of it are real, Father. I believe it!"
Akaleth put his hands on his knees and nodded his head, smiling for his friend's sake. "If you believe it, then I believe it too. The only question that remains is this: how will we convince the Patriarch and the Council of Bishops that this is true?"
Felsah put his chewstick down and stuck his head and arms beneath the lid of his writing desk. He searched for only a moment before emerging with two sealed letters. He hopped to Akaleth's side and offered them to him. "When I woke from my dream, there were three letters on my desk. The first you've read. These are the other two. One of them is for Patriarch Geshter, and the other is for Father Kehthaek. I do not know what they contain. But the only way I can be sure they will arrive is if I give them to you."
Akaleth turned the letters over in his hands, saw the names written in a very careful script on the side opposite the seal, and nodded. "I will deliver them personally as soon as I can. And I will tell them both what you have told me. But there is one thing more we should have so that they can see for themselves. We need to make a rubbing of the Covenant Stone. If there is anything there that would show this is not real, it will be there and someone in Yesulam will see it. And if it is real, they will see that too... in time."
He tapped the letters on his knee once, and then furrowed his brow. "Why haven't you mentioned this to Hough or Patric? Or even this Emily, the one you say guides the people of Scale and Feather here in their unique way?"
"Because I'm not one of them, and yet I've been brought into whatever is happening here. I didn't want them taking my dream and these letters the wrong way. Until Yesulam speaks, we must be prudent. That and..."
"What?"
"I fear that they do not wholly trust me yet. There is still some fear that I am that strange Questioner. I want to do right by them... aye, I worry too much. I've never been responsible for any soul but my own and those I question. Forgive me."
Akaleth set the letters to one side, near to his other personal things so that he would not forget them. "There is nothing to forgive. Let us go make that rubbing, and then we can worry about Vespers instead. And then something to eat. I'm beginning to feel famished, my friend."
Felsah bobbed his head up and down, eyes warming and his whiskers stilling their anxious wiggling. "I'll find some charcoal. There should be plenty of parchment in that chest behind you. And to eat, well, I'll ask Wolfram and his men to fetch us something suitable."
"A little fruit and a little meat would suit me." And with that, the two priests began collecting what they would need. Akaleth was delighted to discover that his hands only trembled a few times as he gathered sufficient parchment.