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*****

(I/* 7/22/2013)

I could, perhaps, be forgiven the error of supposing that I was in a state of torment in a particularly nasty area of the Netherhells. After all, consider the evidence: I not only smelled sulfur everywhere, but was belching up quantities of it every few seconds. Furthermore, the area inside my skull was burning hot, and being poked at randomly with sharpened needles.

Opening my eyes a small fraction revealed that I was sitting down at a table. The fact that I was seated in front of a window through which streamed the sunlight of a freshly minted day did convince me that I was not in the Netherhells. Just quite yet. Mark you, the breaking day did convince me that perhaps Death was not quite so bad, after all.

I sank my head on my arms, and stated with feeling:

"Will somefur turn that __________ sun off?"

To which I received the mild response:

"Quite beyond my powers, young fur. And I'm sure many would complain, don't you think?"

Somehow, through my sulfur-and-pain wracked brain, the suggestion that I should be standing at attention, and immediately at that, managed to struggle to the surface. I got rather unsteadily to my hooves, straightened my back with a will, and managed to bring my head level, which sent shooting pains that threatened to make my eyes drop out of my head. I opened my eyes just enough to confirm that the figure swimming before my vision was indeed my Sovereign Lord, the High King of Faerie, Adler of Albric Tor.

One of these days, I will figure out how I managed to stay upright and salute. So I can never, never, never do that again while in that condition.

I wobbled on my hooves for I'm not sure how long, before the voice broke in again, in some concern.

"Oh, there you are, Roland. Good morning. Am I right in assuming that this young fur's condition is directly tied to the uproar the Palace was in early this morning?"

I swallowed hard, stifled an eruption of sulfur, and opened my eyes. My immediate lord, His Royal Highness the Marshal of the Imperial Army, strolled into the room majestically. He was bearing a flower, an orchid to be precise. I had a fleeting notion that it was intended for my coffin. Instead, with great delicacy, he placed it in a vase on the table, admired his work, made an adjustment, and then walked out of my vision. A light metallic ringing sound indicated that he was perusing the breakfast options on offer, a concept that was not terribly appealing to me at the moment.

"It is indeed, brother."

"Well, what in Her sweet and holy visage were you doing?"

"Protecting the integrity and sanctity of your realm, brother."

"At that hour of the day?"

"I do not keep merchant's hours in fulfilling my duties to you."

"I've never suggested you have, Roland. But see here, why have you deposited your protégé here in the Morning Room?"

"To report, of course. Corporal?"

I managed to gasp out a weak response.

"Would you please be kind enough to give His Majesty a précis of the events last night, from the time you started your Vigil in the Old Chapel."

I nodded, and somehow managed to struggle through the whole story without falling flat on my muzzle. At least I wasn't interrupted with questions. His Majesty and the Marshal listened to my account very patiently. I had my eyes closed most of the time, so I'm not sure how they took Brother Fenimore's account of the Coming of the Skunks.

I got to the point at which I had started to smell and taste sulfur in the Crypt, when His Majesty's interest was piqued. He backtracked a little.

"Did you really threaten to strike the High Bishop repeatedly with your short-staff, Corporal?"

Either nodding or replying would do, but unfortunately I somehow chose to do both, and divine justice of a nature began squeezing my brain like a sponge.

The King evidently turned to the Marshal. "Well, good heavens, that never ends well. They usually hold a frightful grudge, those high-church types."

Some vigorous spoon-work against a china bowl indicated that the Marshal had, at some point, helped himself to breakfast. "Well, Corporal Winterbough here did make him look a fool in front of the Cathedral Chapter. Mark you, Dr. Tailor is a fool, so it didn't take much work. Told me he hadn't been down in the Crypt in years, would you believe? No wonder no fur knew about conditions down there. That's going to change in a hurry, I tell you. And I know the details are beneath him, but somefur in the Chapter should have known Brother Fenimore had managed to winkle his way consistently out of services. No, no, a bit of humility won't do him any harm, brother."

"Had he...I mean, the High Bishop...had he known about that puzzle-floor that the Corporal described?"

"Not a bit of it. No doubt the information got lost somewhere along the line. Probably when Irenaeus went through the Cathedral like a mad-fur. It was only when Brother Fenimore was helping with the inventory of the books and manuscripts that he discovered that little trove on the early history of the Cathedrals. Found a number of 'em, tucked away in his cell, if you please. Including not only an account that explained how the Old Chapel's floor worked, but how it connected up to the Crypt."

An exasperated tut-tutting. "Have I not, Roland, said it over and over again: this mania of our family for the clever puzzle..."

"...is going to be the end of us, one of these days. Yes, yes, I know, and last night proved you right again, brother."

"Well, I suppose something better be done about it. What, I don't know. I doubt we can duplicate the Ward that guards the front of the Crypt."

"More's the pity, brother. No, I'll speak with Captain X on the matter. She'll have some ideas at least in how to seal it up in the short-term so those monks don't get it into their heads to go playing with it. Might have a go, myself, y'know. Get that randomizing function to loop on itself. No fur'll be able to walk on the floor of the Old Chapel again, but better that, than messing about in the Crypt."

Which reminded me, as I stood (swayed?) there. I croaked out a request for permission to speak, which was granted.

"What happened in the Crypt? Why is everything brighter?"

There was a period of silence as both of the royal skunks considered the question with thoughtful interest. I took advantage of the silence to close my stinging eyes. It was the King who eventually spoke.

"Well, I'm not expert in fumaroles, Corporal, but I imagine that one of the problems might have been that something was clogged up, somewhere along the line. I doubt very much that the Casket and its contents had anything to do with it. Most likely, it was that unfortunate wretch Brother Fenimore. Falling from that great a height, he probably broke whatever was clogging the fumarole when he struck the ground, and there you are."

The Marshal rumbled. "Of course, there's the less practical explanation of the fact that you could read his fate as a sacrifice."

"Oh, yes, true, true, brother. One would like to think that Fuma wanted the attention, and all. Gets lonely down in that Crypt with no fur visiting you. I suppose that's the High Bishop's fault, isn't it? You're right, Roland, I suppose a little humility will do him a power of good."

A grunt. "Could apply to a number of furs."

"Yes. Well. Now listen, Roland, I don't interfere in the way you run the Army, discipline and all that, but really, hasn't this young fur suffered enough?"

Whatever response that got was muffled by a spoonful of something.

"Well, he's in my Morning Room, and while I'm eating breakfast, and I won't have it."

There was a scrape of a chair, followed shortly afterward by a soft tread, and then by two paws placed against the side of my head. The pain in my head flared, and then drained away, leaving me mostly tired and worn-out.

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

"There you are. Haven't lost the knack. Dashed useful thing, the Royal Touch. My father used to love visiting the infirmaries and laying paws on the furs there."

"Not as much as laying them on the nursing sisters, and they weren't ill."

"Really, brother, no need to bring up gossip."

"It's not gossip, it's..."

"Yes, well. Neither here nor there." He went over to the sideboard, and helped himself to a succulent slice of melon, which he brought back to his seat.

"Nasty things, those fumes. Don't know how the Interpreters of old used to stand it."

There was a snapping of fingers, followed by the flat of a paw on the table from the Marshal. "Almost forgot a vital thing, brother. When the High Bishop went in and brought the Corporal here out of the Crypt, the Corporal was raving and speaking in tongues. Wasn't in the report, of course -- how could it be?"

"You don't say! Really? I rather wish I'd seen that. Only read about that sort of thing."

The Marshal frowned. "You might reconsider your desire, brother." He reached into a pocket of his tunic and drew out a piece of paper. Putting on his spectacles, he read out what was written there in a firm voice.

Beware the burning cloud of night

Bearing within the rains of hate

Brother against brother shall clash and fight

Pride and ambition shall meet its fate

There was a long, shocked silence from the King, who asked for the paper, and held it up close to his muzzle to read for himself.

"No mistake in the transcription, Roland?"

A spoon was pointed at me. "None. The Corporal here raved that three times, clear as anything. Heard it myself."

The King handed the paper back to the Marshal, who tucked it away.

"Have the monks...?"

"Every last one of 'em, brother. Swore them myself, and woe on any of 'em that breaks the oath. Brother Fenimore's fate is gentle compared to what would happen if those fools open their muzzles."

Having seen that fate, I was aghast, and not a little scared. The Marshal turned to me, and shook his head.

"Not your fault, Corporal. You're just the instrument of Fuma in this regard. It's not like when you threatened the High Bishop with your battle-staff; that was within your control. By the way, I'd give the Cathedral a wide berth for a good long time, if I were you. But back to the Crypt. No, I expected this would happen when I sent you down. Nothing down there was chance, Corporal."

The Marshal pushed aside his bowl, and looked at the table thoughtfully. "Quite uncanny, isn't it, brother?"

"Uncomfortably so, Roland."

"What is, Your Highness? Your Majesty?"

The two royal skunks got up. It was the Marshal who spoke.

"Not allowed to say, Corporal. You'll find out, eventually. Right turn! Dismiss!"

A footfur handed me my garrison hat and my short-staff at the door, and I walked out into the sunshine of a summer day in Albric Tor.

I looked over at the imposing bulk of the Cathedral. When you see buildings like that, they're meant to make you feel insignificant. And I, Corporal Westersloe Winterbough V, was an insignificant fur, Valour Medal to the contrary. No title, no lands, no family, and just one line in the Army List, out of tens of thousands of entries.

But as I turned to go home, I pondered. If I'm so insignificant, and just an instrument of Fuma, why do furs like Colonel Briarrose take an interest me? Why did a hired assassin draw a bead on me with a deadly poisoned arrow? Why am I allowed to stand in the presence of the King and address him?

And why did he look so worried at my prophecy? And I know prophecies are meant to be vague -- it's how Interpreters kept their jobs -- but what did the brother fighting brother mean? And when?

And why didn't the King and the Marshal remark on the fact that both Brother Fenimore and I were from Elfhame? Or comment on the story he told of how supposedly we were crushed by the Coming of the Skunks?

It's good that elves live a long time. Because I wonder if there'll be enough years to allow me to figure out some answers.

At least I know this much: there'll be no lack of opportunities, I'll wager. And you know what?

Bring them on. I'm not afraid.

New York, New York

July 15, 2013 - July 22, 2013