III - SECRETS AND LEGENDS

The thirteenth day of spring turned the snow into a memory, along with the spilled blood. The sun was about to rise and Gwion awaited its arrival: dawn from the watchtower on the wall usually presented itself as a dreamlike spectacle.

At the first glimmer, he hung up his thoughts and surrendered to the light piercing the darkness through which his soul wandered. Of the man he had been, only ashes remained—all because of the accursed secret that robbed him of sleep.

It was the changing of the guard that roused him from his daze with a sigh, and, with a snort, he set about his daily labours, which consisted of grooming and brushing the council’s horses.

His calmness and patience made him the ideal candidate; moreover, he enjoyed it because he usually preferred the company of beasts to the idle prattle of his comrades.

He esteemed them, yet believed that they sometimes undervalued the virtue of silence.

Ere he descended from the wall, he paused by the stairs and, whilst waiting for the battalion due to take the watch on the battlements to finish climbing up, he surveyed the interior of the realm.

Old Minister was well-ordered, despite its unexpected and rapid expansion during the early years of Nork and Windar’s reign.

Triangular in shape, wider on its northern side, it narrowed towards the south where Mount Suoreach stood, so named for its flat slope, which they had skilfully utilised as a natural barrier.

Any foe daring to sail the seas of Minister and attempt to invade would be unable to descend without falling into the void.

The castle, which towered over the entire realm, had three towers, and from the east, the tallest one began to light up.

It had been deliberately built at the foot of the mountain to make use of the uneven terrain.

Thus, as a military defence, should they manage to breach the walls, reaching the heart of the realm would be an uphill struggle.

Moreover, and this was the most important reason, it gave the illusion of superiority and protection: from a distance, one could see the three points of the bluish castle forming a balanced triangle.

Gwion peered intently at the window on the third floor of the tallest tower and noted that the curtain remained drawn.

'He will not be rising this day either,' he thought. Since that fateful day when the collapse of the temple had overshadowed the celebrations, Narg had been unable to recover and, bedridden, was struggling with the migraines that plagued him. The temple’s restoration was nearing completion, and they hoped to reopen it on the king’s birthday.

With care furrowing his brow, he descended the staircase leading to the main gate and made sure the portcullis was closed and the drawbridge spanning the moat was lowered.

It was his brother’s charge, yet he knew Maed would not wake until well past mid-morning.

He would deal with the western entrance anon.

That postern, employed solely for commerce with Utmia, was so narrow that but a single carriage might pass, and it boasted two rude wooden doors that remained open from dawn until dusk.

For defence, since there was no water to separate the fortification due to the steep terrain, they had created an elongated moat beneath it, with a system of trapdoors which, if activated, would cause any one passing through to fall ten metres underground and be impaled by spears and sharp rocks.

Hieing toward the stables, as he crossed the walled courtyard that parted them from the row of dwellings, he used the toe of his boot to stir the straw that carpeted the ground, thereby muffling the clatter of the horseshoes upon the cobblestones.

To take a shortcut, he chose the central street of the three that served as the chief thoroughfares.

These, unlike the narrow streets running within the citadel’s four residential quarters, were paved with stones, and each was named in honour of the battles fought by Alfredo.

Jumalhan, to the west, commemorated Odín’s gift.

Kampaily, to the east, marked the moment he gathered his retinue to claim the throne.

The central street, Lijsaorsa, alluded to the last conquest achieved before the founding of the empire.

All three led to the castle courtyard, but Lijsaorsa ran straight ahead, so much so that from the castle steps one could see the northern entrance, and it was there that Gwion was about to cross.

Right at the bevelled corner between the walled courtyard and Lijsaorsa, he halted to speak with certain folk troubled by Narg’s health.

As the merchants, who like every morn were setting up their stalls, espied him, they gathered round until he found himself in the midst of a large company listening intently.

At first he felt dazed, until he beheld in their eyes the fear of losing the last raven of the west and being left adrift without a captain.

With the utmost caution, he chose his words so that the panic lurking in the shadows, ready to prey upon the kingdom, would not spread.

He relayed the report and painted a picture of a reality in which there were neither new developments nor improvements.

Then, all somewhat calmer—himself included, as he strove to believe his own words—they dispersed.

The merchants drove their carriages to the street assigned to them by royal decree.

It was Narg’s decision that, to prevent meat and fish from contaminating the other stalls—such as those selling fruit and vegetables, or the tailors’ wares—the themed markets should be spread across the three main thoroughfares.

In Kampaily, animal products were sold; in Jumalhan, fruit and vegetables; whilst in Lijsaorsa, being the widest, stalls were set up for everything other than food, and where the healers also set up their consultation rooms.

Gwion set off again and, to enjoy the perfect blue sky, brushed his thick hair back, but the reflection of the morning sun upon the metallic flourishes adorning the columns hurt his light eyes, like honey freshly extracted from the comb.

Blinded, he crashed into a merchant’s cart brimming with glassware, though, fortunately for him, he managed to catch, in mid-air, the four vases that had come loose.

Nigh upon the far end of the thoroughfare, he took leave of the glassmaker at his stall, whom he had escorted to make amends for his carelessness, and, feeling ashamed, he declined the mirror the man had offered him as a token of gratitude.

He proceeded on alone, avoiding any further eye contact lest he be delayed, and, upon reaching the castle courtyard, he turned to his left.

He felt strange, somewhat unwell, but the warm breeze that brushed against his skin drew a sigh from him.

Standing before the gate to the training arena, he thought of how much he missed wielding a sword.

The wound in his left rib, sustained in the battle against Ubberia, though it had already healed, still prevented him from moving freely.

He gazed absently inward and drew a deep breath to give thanks to the gods: to Odín, Father of All, for giving him life; to Tyr, god of war, for his courage and strength; to Hela, goddess of death, for allowing him to live another day.

Then, as if a great weight had been lifted from him, freedom completed him, and a fresh sigh decompressed his soul.

Upon reaching the stable, he gazed in astonishment at the steeds through the window.

And he realised that his sensitivity allowed him to perceive and appreciate even the most ordinary details.

He even thought the realm so peaceful and immaculate that it seemed to shine.

Abashed by such sentiment, as he entered, he pressed his palms against his eyes.

He needed to return to the present and avoid losing the little sanity that kept him going.

'Hey, Gwion, are you all right?' said a voice to his right.

He could not see him; his sight was blurred from pressing his eyes shut, yet he recognised him and, as he felt Gregor’s hand upon his shoulder, he nodded.

'I saw you sighing; have you fallen in love?' he asked, his tone somewhat tender given the circumstances.

Gregor, who cared for him, drew him nigh, his arm about his neck, that he might share the secret.

'Tell me, and we shall raise a toast to Freya, who hath given you a new heart.'

'No!' Gwion replied curtly and stepped back. 'It is but a hangover from last night’s revel,' he added in a friendlier tone. 'I was abroad with Maed and he got me to drink too much.'

A ray of sunlight slipped through the casement and struck his amber eyes directly, making them sparkle. His sensitivity—the kind he could not control—surfaced in liquid crystals.

'Firstly, you must not be ashamed of it nor become obsessed with living in solitude. She would be happy for you,' he said, adding, 'Secondly, I shall marry you off to whosoever I choose, but weep not.'

A few paces to the left, behind a thin adobe wall, Maed was searching within his saddle for the clasp of his cloak.

The revels of the past night had left him more dizzy than he would care to admit, and he could not find it.

Upon hearing the conversation, he hastened his pace and, whilst embracing his brother, suddenly rubbed his hair with the knuckles of his right hand.

'The girls are weeping, and if you weep, you are a girl!' sang Maed in a mocking tone and a playful melody.

Gwion pushed him away with a sharp movement and took three steps back, his countenance a picture of utter disapproval.

'No one could take notice of such a dull existence,' retorted Maed, somewhat hurt by his brother’s excessive reaction. 'Perhaps the horses can understand you.'