II - THE HARPS FALL SILENT #2

Light upon doubt, light upon darkness, he comprehended.

That Everflame was the answer; it signified what Odín would desire for the earth, and Narg resolved to take it.

If Perkolon was a force as potent as the very word that preceded it, if it was what would shatter his dream, he would discover the truth.

He would outmanoeuvre the foe, strategically, to govern all. It was his duty and destiny.

He was certain; the ravens obeyed him; he knew he carried Alfredo’s legacy. 'But,' he hesitated, 'if behind all this legend and these ideals, destiny hath turned from its course and the blood offered to Odín leadeth only to more war…'

He raised his left hand aloft whilst with his right he drew forth the scrap of paper he kept hidden about his person: a petition for Miar, Halfdan’s widow, who yet dwelt within the castle by Narg’s immense mercy.

He closed his eyes. A raven appeared, with a short, shrill caw.

Within the castle, the central table stretched from one end to the other. From the chief portal, it crossed the hall of welcome, passed the bonfire beneath the imposing arch where the vault began, to the opposite end, opposite the kitchen door.

Cheas, with his courtly manners and excellent organisational skills, was in charge. The scant six days he had had to plan the feast, since the fall of Ubberia, had robbed him of sleep, but the honour was worth it and it had to be perfect.

He gave his final instructions in the kitchen and departed so hastily that the swing door flapped open for a moment.

He surveyed the great dining hall; all the candles in the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling beams above the table were lit.

He paced the walls to view the torches, set betwixt the realm’s red banners, and was content.

There was light enough to drive back the gloom that the stormy noon devoured—so much so that even the greyish-blue stones of the castle walls seemed to glow and lent a sense of warm shelter.

As he requested leave of the guests who crossed his path, he peered into the entrance hall and saw that the fire had sufficient logs to keep the heat going and that the carved statuettes of the gods upon the mantelpiece were in place. All was perfect; only one matter remained.

With a leap he climbed upon one of the benches and craned his long, slender neck to look for him.

He dodged folk without halting to greet them once they recognised him and made straight for Arwel, who stood with his back against one of the pillars supporting the arch, holding a clay jug full of mead.

In the distance, he was flirting with the daughter of Pelit, the Lord of Lepontia.

They exchanged smiles and glances whilst he shook his head to brush back his blond hair and reveal his crystal-clear blue eyes, giving her a wink.

Cheas leaned close to his ear and whispered that Narg was not there and had not been seen since sunrise.

Arwel’s features darkened, and he set about giving orders, as the troop commander he was, so that every single soldier under his command would be ready when he gave the alert.

But at that very moment, even as the festivity that had not yet begun was about to commence, they beheld a company of folk gather by the door and part to make way, bowing as they did so, until they saw him appear.

The reflection of Cheas’s amber eyes shone, illuminating his slender, refined face. With a gesture, he smoothed back the shoulder-length hair that covered his ears and approached his king to guide him through the throng.

Narg tucked the two pointed tails of his red jacket—with the Raven’s Standard embroidered upon the breast—behind him and took his seat at the head of the table.

That place had been reserved for him, as the spearhead that he was.

He did not usually like sitting there; he preferred to leave it empty so that Alfredo’s spirit might be with them, but on this occasion he agreed.

The people and the lords, his warriors and servants, all desired to honour him above all others on that day.

Upon his right hand he beheld his grandmother, Windar, conversing with Bartón Paljson, the bald man of the troop and the oldest sword in the realm.

The burly man sat diagonally across from them, so that the distance and the clamour of the hall rendered discourse troublesome and compelled both the royal grandmother and the warrior to gesticulate and cry out in order to make themselves heard.

Narg, amused and tempted, not desiring to interrupt, was touched and took his grandmother’s hand. How blessed he felt to still have her with him, to have her and her company.

Narg’s icy touch made her turn, and she was met with a dreamy smile. She leaned towards him and kissed his forehead, like a mother, and to him she was: his own had died giving birth to him.

For a moment he forgot the feast, the hubbub and the mugs of beer and mead passing before him.

He had eyes only for respect and admiration for Windar, who, at eighty-seven, remained stoic, with her iron will and a firm gentleness in her speech.

She was his example of greatness. If she had been able to rule Old Minister on two occasions, whilst at the same time raising him from the age of seven, Narg felt he could do it too; he had the advantage: he had his grandmother, his retinue and the unconditional love of his people.

They did not need to speak; encompassed by soldiers and servants, they had learnt to understand one another through their glances.

She had instructed him in the reading of countenances and the battlefield, in the anticipation of enemy movements, the art of war, and the challenge of ruling.

And so, without saying a word, she tilted her head to the right, the smile creasing, accordion-like, the fine thread of an old scar that adorned her left cheek, her sea-green eyes sparkling with interest, to ask him if all was well. He merely smiled and lowered his gaze.

That medley of feelings coursing through him, as king, he might not permit.

He must not express it, even though she was his extraordinary confidante.

Besides, what might he say to her? That he missed his beloved wife?

Perhaps because it was true, but it was nothing new.

Windar would understand; a widow from a very young age, not a day went by without her mentioning, at least once, her late beloved Nork.

Perhaps he might have told her how grateful he was that Freya had granted him a long life, and that he was saddened by the curse that befell them, forcing them to watch their loved ones depart.

For he could not imagine her pain at seeing her son Renger die; the very thought of it twisted his gut.

His Celtión, his beloved little girl, was far from him, but safe and for her own good.

It crossed his mind to mention, between the lines and through gestures, the note he had just sent, but he felt it would overshadow the celebration, the one she had also laboured so hard to bring about.

He elected to remain silent and turn to his left, deliberately seeking the complicity of Maed, or Cheas, any one who might distract him from the recurring thought and impatience of waiting for an answer.

And it was Owin’s face, as pale as ever, that he encountered.

A raven had struck the window with a sealed missive bearing the emblem of Ubberia in its talons. Owin, following protocol without reading it, handed it to him, but waited by his side.

It remained crumpled in Narg’s fist as he clenched his hand and his teeth tightly.

His jaw was set, his brow furrowed, and an angry snort escaped through his nose.

It was not what he had expected; that much was clear.

His whole body screamed it, and Owin could read it.

Owin desired to ask him what he already knew—doubtless it was because of the note they had penned together—yet he did not dare.

The king had bowed his head and was holding it with both hands.

A twinge, the sort that used to drag him into rest for days, warned him that he needed to cease his thoughts.

The music waxed louder; the applause broke through the ceaseless murmur of celebration.

A new crown had been commissioned and had but now emerged from the forge.

The gold glinted in the light of the chandeliers that seemed to float above their heads.

That crown was, in the intricate arabesques of the metal, an exact replica of the castle.

The towers were depicted on either side and the main dome at the front, with two ravens at the top, carved from gemstones, one blue and the other red.

A perfect work of art that drew every gaze. Resting upon a red and gold cushion, which Cheas, with a ceremonial stride, bore over to Narg. It was a surprise of which he had no inkling, but which his eight warriors desired to bestow upon him because, after all, he had become the king of all Móntria.

It was Gwion who had the honour of placing it upon him, and as he felt the cold metal, Narg recalled his coronation.

He was seventeen years old, and it seemed to him as though it had been but two nights.

From the head of regent queen Windar, who had patiently guarded the throne, it passed to his own.

This came after he had proved, as the true heir of Alfredo, that he was worthy—by accomplishing the feat demanded by the family rites: commanding a murder of ravens to follow him from the distant western meadows to his own bedchamber.

He heard the applause, the isolated shouts calling his name. He felt dazed. He did not know if it was memory or the present, if it was celebration or the echoes of war. He held his breath.