III - SECRETS AND LEGENDS #3

Cheas suggested they converse in a secluded spot, but Gwion hesitated.

Although he did not feel safe, he could not discover a cause to hide the truth from his companions when it was they who, in the face of imminent death, had held his hand so he would not fall.

If there was any way to find a remedy, he thought, it was alongside them.

He would make use of Gregor’s learning; if any man knew of any precedent, it was surely he.

They would repair to a place where no man might overhear. With Gwion’s ultimatum to shun the stables, Gregor and Cheas put forward counsel, yet Maed averred to know of the perfect retreat: secret, dark, and with walls so thick they could stifle even the fiercest cries.

The constant throbbing in his forehead slowed its pace. He half-opened his eyelids, unhurriedly, whilst checking that the light was not stabbing daggers into his temple. He savoured a ragged breath, accompanied by a whistle that revealed just how long it had been since he had last filled his lungs.

He sat up warily. The bed seemed to swallow him up, in league with a cobblestone upon his breast that pressed him down into the soft mattress. His mouth was parched, yet the jug upon the table to his right was as dry as his own throat. He swallowed sand—glassy, crystallised and hot.

He sat upon the edge of the bed and let his ankles dangle; they gave thanks for the sudden rush of blood with an irritating tingling on the soles of his feet that felt like needles pricking his skin.

He clenched his teeth to endure the sensation, but relaxed them when he realised that if he clenched his jaw, his head would start to ache again.

He stretched to seize the golden cord hanging from the headboard of his bed and summon the servants, but in mid-air he felt the uncontrolled trembling of his hand.

Hatred, hatred, and yet more hatred assailed him: of himself, of his plight, of his inability to recover, of his inability to fetch water unaided.

In desperation he clenched his stomach, curled the fingers of his hands and toes, and braced each muscle to encapsulate his frustration, then loosed it.

As if thus fuelled, he rose to his feet.

His feet touched the cold rock and his internal scaffolding faltered.

His knees knocked together, exposed in the linen smock that reached down to his thighs.

He beheld his thin, pale calves, like the legs of the stick figure his daughter had drawn so many years ago.

'A stick figure,' he thought, and before falling, he seized the burgundy curtain that had come loose from its bracket.

The sun, the spring light—the kind lovers celebrate with the scent of flowers that beautifies all things, the light that waters the fields to give life, that which is essential to the earth—blinded him.

But anger blinded him even more, that flame he had refused to kindle and which flared up the moment that accursed word crossed his mind: Perkolon .

He screamed until he was out of breath, whirling round and round and smashing everything in his path.

With fury, he shattered vases and ornaments, scattering his clothes across the chamber until he found himself standing amidst the chaos.

He took a breath and screamed again, even louder, his sphincter, eyes and stomach clenched tight.

His throat burned, yet he felt compelled to do so; he needed to scream with all his might—what little he had left—to silence the constant echo of that powerful word.

'Perkolon,' he thought again and walked, clinging to the walls. He desired to run, yet his feet dragged. Perkolon , a voice snorted from his occiput, determined to unsettle him.

The pulsing in his head revived, the ringing in his ears, his sight grew dim. Another fit, he supposed, and he made his way to the desk where a silver tray held the remains of a breakfast he had never touched.

'I possess Perkolon’s manuscript.' Halfdan’s voice spoke behind him, as if time had preserved those final words in the air. Another twinge in his forehead doubled him over, and as he lowered his head he beheld the blunt butter knife gleaming menacingly. He took it up.

Perkolon , and with the last gram left in his throat, before yielding to the temptation to plunge the knife into it, he tore at his vocal cords in a frenzied scream whilst, with his eyes closed, to slay that macabre voice, he hurled the knife.

Silence reigned all around and within him. He raised his head. He beheld it, clearly, before him, and the anguish abated. It was over there, he convinced himself.

'Owin!' he cried, peering through the slats of the door.

'It was because of thy ointment, my lord,' said the guard, standing pale in the corridor.

They had heard the explosion of rage that, like a warring horde, had shattered everything, and, fearing he might be in danger, they had alerted Owin.

'I do not desire an ointment, I desire you to bring Gwion.'

Young Gerinson led the way as they entered the castle; the others followed him with quiet steps so that no one would notice they were endeavouring to hide. It was not unusual for them to wander together, but their countenances betrayed tension.

They did not question him, though they did not understand what place within the castle itself could be as safe as he swore it was.

They passed beneath the hourglass hanging above the hearth.

Cheas cast a sidelong glance at it and then, with his eyes upon the upper bowl, reckoned the number of days remaining until the sand ran out and it was time to celebrate Narg’s fortieth birthday.

'Five,' he thought, and was about to mention it to his companions when Maed led them through the archway beneath the staircase in the entrance hall, which led to the east wing of the castle.

That passage was but barely wide enough for two persons to pass one another, and it was so low that speech therein would raise an echo.

Although it was the most uncomfortable spot in the castle, this was no design flaw; rather, in the event of an invasion, it was intended to serve as a refuge and make it difficult for foes to reach the militia barracks and the parade ground.

Upon reaching the fork midway along the passage, Maed looked both ways and saw that no one was nigh.

He took the path upon the right, descended a few steps, and halted at the end where there stood a door that seemed sealed, thick, and heavy.

He drew a rusty key from his trouser pocket and unlocked the padlock.

Then he gave them the signal and they followed him.

With Gregor’s aid, they pushed the door open slowly to prevent the bolts from clattering.

'Let us thank our lord for taking no prisoners in battle.

May he be so generous as to destroy anyone who does not think as he does.

Let us also thank Odín that none of us holds a different opinion to his, and thank even more—' he paused as he opened the door, '—no one more than me, who discovered this place. '

He entered first and kindled one of the torches hanging from the right-hand wall. The place was dark and damp, covered in cobwebs and dust—far too much of it. He waited until all were within. Raising his left hand, he waved it in the air as he bowed and gestured towards the interior.

'Ladies and gentlemen, the kingdom’s dungeon.'

Despite the gloom, his mischievous smile shone through, and he noted the look of amazement upon his comrades’ countenances.

Once in the centre, Maed hastened to finish the task and kindled further torches and candles until the place was fully illuminated, making it clear just how snug a dungeon might be.

'How long do you spend here?' asked Cheas. 'You have set up a cot and a table with candles,' he noted as he surveyed the chamber. 'But if these be plates and jugs, might it be that you…?' he stammered indignantly, though he was not quite sure why.

'One must be a gentleman, not just in war. With ladies too—it is similar, but no one loses out. Or do you expect me to take them to the stable and, in the midst of the glory, have Tower give me advice on how I should go about it?'

'It is not amusing!' Gwion shouted, clenching his teeth and fists, wearied of his younger brother’s behaviour. 'Cease making me appear even more mad than I am, cease making me feel so wretched that I would rather die this instant.'

'First, be calm,' whispered Gregor, drawing forth a log to employ as a seat and bidding Gwion to take his place. 'Second, do all the beasts speak with you?'

The mirth that this preposterous business caused Gregor made his cheeks crinkle, however much he tried to hide it. To which Gwion, with his best angry-buffalo visage, assured him that it was only Tower the chatterbox who was testing his reason.

'No!' bellowed Maed, slamming his fist upon the table, which quaked. 'If you are going to tell the truth, tell the whole truth. That wolf who, instead of slaying you, gave you counsel—do you remember him, Ask?'

Maed set about summarising the tale. One early morn, in their childhood, Gwion had roused him, soaked in tears and blood.

'I recollect telling you that the beast had not spoken to you, but that you had fainted from fear.

And that the wolf did not devour you because it had smelled your feet, do you recall?

' he insisted, touching his shoulder. He sought to cheer him up; he did not wish to behold him thus: sad, fearful and furious with him.

'I did not forget it because I feared for you. '

Gwion hung his mind upon the memory, and images of the beast came to him. He could smell the breath from its mouth upon his face; he could even feel the pain of the claws and see the ivory of the fangs and the dazzling grey of the eyes.

'That night I slipped out of bed,' he recounted, looking at Gregor. 'An impulse drove me to walk barefoot through the woods. I felt the need to commune with nature. I walked away from the cabin, through the snow.'