II - THE HARPS FALL SILENT #3

It was the voice of the people who adored him.

They placed him upon the same pedestal as their gods.

Small wonder—he looked after them. From the day of his coronation, he had resolved to uphold Alfredo’s ideals: respect and protection for every being living under his banner.

Peasants were esteemed as producers; there were no slaves; servants possessed the right to freedom; and likewise, Narg had ensured that the lords could retain their wealth, but not at the expense of the innocent.

Compelled to stand, his vision blurred as light played like shards of glass within his pupils, he drew a breath whilst the euphoria granted him a moment’s respite.

Owin, grave as ever, held out his goblet for him to drink and pretend to toast the people.

He did so; the sour taste scorched his tongue and, just as the first time, he pursed his lips, but it helped him regain his breath, which had been cut short by the pain.

He raised the goblet once more and remained silent.

He gave no speech, merely smiled and offered a gesture of thanks with his left palm raised to his face.

What could he say that would not stir the waters and cloud the ocean?

If the response he received filled him with such hatred that, had it not been for the presence of those around him, the glass of mead would have ended up against the wall, shattered into tiny pieces, just like those that at that moment made up his soul.

Having composed himself, he took his seat again. Without meaning to, he had exchanged glances with Maed, who, with a gesture of exaggerated reverence, drew a smile from him.

Owin took his seat upon Narg’s left; he was one of the eight and, like the rest, accompanied his liege in that secluded and solemn retreat.

He remained grave, even though he could see an improvement in the king’s countenance, for he grieved for the fallen, for so much blood spilled and souls snatched away.

Narg loved him, even with that graveyard-like harshness, just as he loved every member of the council, as family.

He could not recall how long they had known one another, but he had no doubt that it was he who would replace Maltón.

Narg, to rouse him from his stupor and bring a little colour to his moon-like pallor—which contrasted with the almost perfect jet-black of his hair—gave him a firm, resounding slap upon the shoulder.

In response, Owin’s head snapped forward, until it almost plunged entirely into the stew steaming before him.

His grave countenance shifted, and his brow touched the tip of his thin nose.

'He who gets angry loses.' Maed’s voice set everyone off laughing, and the laughter spread shrill. 'You are not going to shut yourself away in your little hovel, are you?'

Owin was wont to spend more time there than was advisable and missed the gatherings his comrades organised on their days off.

That seclusion led to further seclusion; through his absence, he missed the inside jokes that gave life to the banter he later failed to understand, and that remark was one of them.

Yet, instead of letting it fuel his temper, he ignored it; Maed was Maed—what else might he anticipate from him?

Moreover, and of greater moment, he had been entrusted with overseeing the raising of the temple in Tyr’s name; he did not wish to miss the inauguration.

Narg succeeded in turning his thoughts away from the note for a season, and from that word which stirred such turmoil within him.

He filled his cup with fermented drink and raised his arm to toast once more, but this time he fixed his gaze upon the Gerinson brothers: Gwion and Maed.

It was by their valour that he yet lived after the last battle, and he would never forget it.

The two of them, together with Cheas, were the last to join the council.

Blessed were the differences among them all, which Narg celebrated and respected; each contributed to the perfect balance.

He still remembered them: three orphaned adolescents who had fought their way through the ranks of the soldiers, excelling in every discipline to become the men who now fought shoulder to shoulder with him.

He had watched Cheas grow up because he was the son of his former sorcerer, Maltón Trylosson.

But as for the Gerinson brothers, it cost Narg little to take them under his wing, and for some reason—perhaps the fact that they were almost the same age as Celtión—he favoured them and made no secret of it: the swords they carried had been commissioned and delivered by him, in person.

Maed, seated opposite his brother, beside Windar, conversed with all who would speak with him, fashioning jests from the minutest details and casting a dash of sarcasm with every breath.

That was his chief talent: to pierce Narg’s hide, turning each care or fury into some other, lighter matter.

The simplicity with which Maed lived and breathed was infectious to the rest, and that filled the king with vitality, making him feel forever young, despite the times he wanted to have him beheaded in a public trial.

A natural charmer, his green eyes sparkled in the candlelight illuminating the hall; his white teeth gleamed, hidden by his full lips, which he used to his advantage with every beaming smile, in every circumstance, for conquest. The women of the town sighed as he passed, and he, like a true gentleman, never turned down an offer.

Gwion, the eldest, seemed the antithesis.

Reserved and quiet, he kept his gaze fixed upon the viands and deigned only to listen.

The most corpulent and broad-shouldered of the entire council, he governed his movements to avoid any clumsiness, conveying the food to his mouth with the manners of the most refined courtier.

Even his hair seemed to adopt his solemn demeanour.

Whilst Maed’s was short, chestnut-brown, shiny and wavy, Gwion’s tended to cover his face; straight, it fell heavily to the level of his clean-shaven chin.

All, Narg not excepted, had doubted that they were verily brothers, had it not been for that particular gesture they both made when tension took hold of the situation: eyes to the left accompanied by pursed lips and a raised right eyebrow. That involuntary gesture betrayed the blood they shared.

Narg admired Gwion—his bearing, the strength of his body and spirit, nerves of steel, quick reflexes, and an almost instinctive ability to make split-second decisions. If he had to send someone to negotiate, firm yet courteous, it would undoubtedly be him.

Gwion kept his eyes upon his plate when he felt a kick against his calf.

Confused, he looked up and met Maed’s mischievous smile as he gestured, with a gleam of his olive eyes, towards Narg.

The Lord of Cartos had come over to congratulate them, and with him was his daughter, who kept touching her hair whilst looking at and smiling at Gwion.

But his response was curt, a half-smile, and his gaze plunged back into his plate.

Maed rolled his eyes at the bowls whilst shaking his head.

Gwion was unmarried—both of them, in truth—but he had never lain with any person.

Although one woman held sway over his sighs and his memory, no other had made him forget her; he thought only of war, of his king’s welfare, and of his younger brother.

The celebration continued late into the night. Cheas peered out of one of the great windows. The snowstorm seemed to have abated, he confirmed; then he approached Narg to inform him that the hour had come.

Gregor Belt, the oldest and, at first glance, the fattest of the troop, ignored Arwel’s signal and carried on speaking.

He recounted, without omitting a single detail, how Gwion and Maed had saved the king’s life and, together with him, had annihilated every last enemy.

He was undoubtedly a born orator who captured the full attention of Windar, but also that of Bartón, who had not been present at that part of the battlefield, but had instead been leading and finishing torching the rest of the camp.

When he finished, he wiped his thick, curly chestnut beard with what he thought was a napkin on the table beside him, slung his axe over his back—which he only ever laid down when sleeping—and stood up to ask everyone present to follow the troop in orderly fashion towards the temple.

He spoke in four tongues; such was one of his gifts—he was a polyglot, even in dead languages, and a connoisseur of most of the realm’s myths and legends.

When they were ready, it was the turn of the redhead of the troop, Kuopio Limpu, who had remained by the kitchen to indulge in his favourite pastime: food. With every new dish the servants passed in front of him, he pounced on the excuse to taste it.

He wiped his hands and his reddish beard, which gleamed with grease, and led the company to unbar the postern door that would guide them onto the cobbled path towards the temple.

At Narg’s side, he joined the procession, whilst, in a low voice, he conversed with him.

Kuopio was one of Narg’s most ancient counsellors; they were of the same age and had even trained together.

As they stepped forth, Narg stood in awe.

Unexpectedly, after the storm, beneath a clear firmament, Yule had bestowed upon them an immense, whitish crescent moon, which lit their path as he, his eight warriors, and his grandmother broke away from the rest. They would enter through the priests’ entrance, which lay directly behind the altar, whilst the people would enter through the two immense main doors, carved with the figure of Tyr, which stood open.