III - SECRETS AND LEGENDS #2

Gwion hated sarcasm, but even more so that his secret was being used as a jest. If any man deciphered the words, the gallows would await him. Maed knew this, wherefore he gave him a wink as he turned and laid hold of Gregor by the shoulder to persuade him to go and fetch a few pints of beer.

When he was at length alone, he paced slowly unto the horses’ watering trough, filled a bucket and felt within his pockets: he had sugar cubes wherewith to reward the beast. Then he took up a bale of hay from one of the corners and drew back the bolt from the gate that enclosed Tower, Narg’s black steed.

Ever since he had fallen ill, just after the temple’s collapse, he had been unable to muster the strength to tend to his steed, who—cunning, ill-tempered and wild—would let no one but him touch him.

But for some reason, perhaps the peace with which Gwion treated his peers, Tower had accepted him as a groom.

He carefully chose the brush that belonged to him from among all those hanging from one of the wooden beams, and began to stroke the soft coat whilst whispering a few words to keep him calm.

'Still, my friend. If you behave, I have something you will like. Forgive me for being away; I know you are not the problem. You see, I am the mad one. I will finish grooming you and we will go for a ride. Fancy getting out of this confinement?'

He fell silent as he realised how free he felt. The soliloquy with a horse as his interlocutor gave him a sense of security. But, in the blink of an eye, he went from blushing with embarrassment to turning pale with terror. Within his head, the voice, clear and piercing, repeated:

How much longer wilt thou deny thy essence?

He scanned his surroundings as he brought his hand to his waist to remind himself he was unarmed, but no one, apart from him and the nine court horses, was there.

His mind flashed as he realised this, his heart galloping within his chest. The throbbing pulsed through the veins running down his neck and blood rushed to the sides of his head.

In quest of a rational explanation, he bowed his head and, amongst the straw carpeting the floor, found a stone brushing against the tip of his boot. He took it up and, as he stepped back, brandished it at him.

Without stones to cling to, faced with the uncertain void of the fall when the cracks of duty open beneath our feet, we would never fulfil our destiny. Dost thou prefer to plead insanity, or wilt thou face the truth?

Once again, that which he feared most came to pass: Tower spoke to him. His muzzle did not stir—yet his eyes, those orbs as black as his own coat, bright and deep, fixed upon Gwion’s own—held him spellbound.

A bitter chill ran down his spine. It was his fear of madness that was driving him mad.

On the verge of swooning, with nausea filling his mouth with gastric juices, flight was the only course left to him, and he ran in search of his brother.

He was drenched in sweat, despite the short distance between the stable and the tavern, when he opened the door. Maed, with his back turned, looked over his shoulder at the commotion. He, who knew his brother’s strength—both of body and will—all too well, apologised to Gregor and went to meet him.

'Has Tower run off again and have you gone after him?' asked Maed, 'because that is what you look like, or…' He paused.

He spat out the words along with a thousand sparks of saliva and beer he was swallowing as he helped his brother steady himself against the wall by the door.

'…you have been off with a young lady, which, unless you have been intimate with a she-wolf, I do not think would have left you in such a state, though'—he smiled, his white teeth gleaming through a three-day stubble—'I can recall the odd lass or two who have left me in that condition.'

Gwion pushed him. He abhorred his jests, especially in his present plight.

'Come on, Ask!' exclaimed Maed.

Ask was the byname Maed had given him, and that was what he called him when he desired to appeal to the part of his brother bound to him by blood, rather than the warrior with whom he shared the rigours of war in the field.

It did not trouble Gwion; after all, Ask was the first man fashioned by Odín and his brothers, carved from an ash tree, and the name fit him almost perfectly: tall, broad-shouldered, with strong legs and a rough-hewn character.

'You are speechless, which is not much different from your usual state, yet not with that countenance as though you had beheld a spectre. Ay, tarry a moment!'

A spark of clarity flashed through his mind. He leaned close to his ear, his large, frank green eyes wide open, and whispered: 'Has it happened again?'

Gwion could not speak; he had Tower’s voice within his head.

Thousands of thoughts raced wildly through his mind, among them, going to His Majesty and confessing what was happening to him.

He would rather face the gallows than live in fear of it.

He felt like a traitor for hiding it. Perhaps all that war, the blood upon his hands, had fractured his soul.

But he, as a soldier, wished to meet his death only upon the battlefield.

'He will not hold his tongue, brother. The cursed creature ceaseth not his prattling,' he said, distraught, clutching his head with both hands. 'I can endure it no longer. I shall go to Narg; he must confine me.'

Maed perceived that some person had entered behind his brother. The dim light of the tavern, perfect for drinkers, made it impossible to discern clearly who it was.

A scent of jasmine enveloped him entirely. His green eyes sparkled in time with the long, deep sigh that rose from the depths of his soul. Enchanted by that silhouette, he savoured the flutter in his stomach.

As Gwion drew a breath, the faces of all his lovers flashed through Maed’s mind: perchance it was Tiria, he wondered, or Midna, or Ralha. But Tiria returned to his thoughts; he felt no such attraction to any other; the magnetism that bound them was almost ancestral.

In that fleeting instant, as his lascivious wit scanned her form from crown to sole, he perceived that she was of shorter stature; yet, upon arriving at the feet, he made it out.

Those brownish, knee-high boots, with the golden buckle crossing over upon the outside.

He cast his gaze upward. The angular profile, with the raised chin and shoulders arched slightly forward. He recognised him.

The faint light of a candle by the doorway revealed his face. Gwion was speaking to him, but Maed was no longer listening. The sweet scent still lingering in the air clouded his mind a little more.

With his sincere smile and measured movements, Cheas drew near.

His compassionate gaze spoke volumes more than his words.

Ready to listen and lend aid, he leaned forward; tilting his head, he exposed his ear.

But Gwion’s reaction was brusque. In his eagerness to deny, he shook his mane until the strands stuck to the sweat upon his face.

'I shall order something strong to drink,' Cheas declared, displeased. 'A little divine brew will take the fear from your visage,' he added. 'It is clear you are hallucinating or have witnessed the appearance of a God.'

Maed took a step forward and stepped between them.

'What is this about?' quoth he, changing the subject. 'Let us discourse upon your mien instead.'

'Aye, but anon, within the lists of the training arena,' Cheas replied sharply, turning back to Gwion. 'I heard your utterance; all heard it. Is it not so, Gregor?'

The burly warrior with the curly beard rose from his chair and, taking care not to stumble, made his way over to them whilst nodding. He could already feel the beer’s effect. It was his first mug, but he had spent the night upon watch and drowsiness was speeding up all his bodily functions.

'Were it not for the fact that in this place, as soon as the sun goeth down, no one shall remember a thing, it would be an open secret,' remarked Gregor.

Gwion took the latch of the door to the gloomy place and, without looking at them, said:

'I shall go to Narg ere any other do so. I have lost my wits.'

'I would not advise it,' said Gregor. 'Owin told me a few hours ago that he had had another episode. He cannot see any man.'

'In his state,' added Cheas, who knew the king’s reactions all too well, 'he will not sentence you to death, but to exile.'

Maed remained silent, his head bowed. He felt within just as he had upon the battlefield, therefore he bore himself in like fashion.

He gave all his attention to his breathing, drawing long draughts to cool the heat he felt upon his cheeks.

Then, a roar, issuing from the depths of Gregor’s stomach, gave him the spark he needed.

'That is going to devour us all,' he jested, placing a hand upon his comrade’s belly.

'Besides,' said Gregor, clamping his mouth shut to stifle a belch, 'firstly, we are your kin; secondly, I reckon madness is often nothing more than prejudice.'

Cheas bowed his head; he knew that all too well. The memory of his father’s death struck him in the chest. Maltón, the royal sorcerer who had instructed Owin in his craft, had gone mad and perished at the hands of Narg and his sword Santiana.

From one day to the next, he had lost his reason.

Naked, he ran through the castle whilst, at the top of his voice, he recited chants with incoherent analogies and invented premonitions.

Many averred that he had fallen prey to the wisdom of a terrible truth.

Yet Narg, to shield the folk from Maltón’s might—notwithstanding the deep affection he felt for him—condemned him.