III - SECRETS AND LEGENDS #5

That tale made sense to Gwion. If it was an oracle and he did not listen, many folk might suffer by reason of his cowardice.

Without further ado, Gregor organised the tasks for each of them.

He would be responsible for consulting the elder orators.

Gwion would have the titanic task of facing his fear; he did not like the idea, but he began to see it as a challenge, something only he could handle.

Meanwhile, Cheas would accompany Maed to Cartos to consult Milkron, the farmer who had taken them in when their parents died.

They departed the dungeons in utter silence, more so than when they had entered. Cheas, the slimmest of the four, poked his head through a narrow crack to ascertain that no one was present, whilst the brothers waited behind.

'Do you do this every time you… you know?' asked Gwion.

Maed gave him a simple smile. He did not desire to ponder women, not with what was befalling his brother. He was solicitous but could not show it; Gwion would grow wroth with him.

When they reached the dining hall, they beheld Owin awaiting them at the far end. Ere they joined him, Maed drew Gregor aside.

'What we have done, brother-in-arms, is not treason, is it?' he whispered anxiously. 'Tell me we have not established a secret lodge.'

Gregor merely shook his head; he did not wish to ponder the matter.

The more they mulled it over, the more they would realise they were as disloyal to their king as the greatest traitor.

Narg trusted his retinue, but he was jealous of any information circulating behind his back.

There were no secrets amongst the council; therefore, if he were to find out that they were acting without his knowledge, there would be no doubt that they would all end up executed in public.

Owin was furious; one could tell by the tapping of his foot. He had been looking for them for two hours, yet no one had seen them. He had brought a message from the king; the sovereign desired to see Gwion.

Ere they reached him, Owin glared at them with the harshest of looks, but Cheas quickened his pace and overtook his comrades. He had anticipated the scene and, with an idea in mind, as he passed through the dining hall, he made a swift detour into the castle kitchen.

He halted before them and, without uttering a word, began to draw the sword hanging from his belt. Gregor, Maed and Gwion came to a sudden halt; had Cheas gone mad? Before the entire blade was drawn, Gregor stretched out his burly arm to take Cheas by the shoulder.

'We went hunting. We did not tell you because we assumed you were busy, as usual,' said Cheas, showing the bloodstained blade.

'I see,' snorted Owin, running the tip of his index finger over the bloodstain. 'What beast do you bear upon your mounts?' He gave a dry chuckle. 'I have searched the stables and your horses have not stirred,' he observed, anticipating the lie. 'Have you gone hunting on foot?'

'We were drinking at Maed’s favourite haunt,' retorted Cheas.

His gaze was clear; he was not lying, merely distorting the truth, and it helped that his raiment reeked of stale mead. The youngest Gerinson’s reputation preceded him: the brothel and the tavern were his refuge, and they were the last places Owin would ever set foot in.

'Without hunting weapons,' he emphasised. 'Is there something His Majesty should not know?'

He enunciated every syllable and stressed the end of each sentence so heavily, with his jaw set, that he tested everyone’s nerves.

'You may not invite me, but do not deceive me,' he reproached.

'My little brother’s big mouth provoked certain travellers from the north with his unpleasant remarks. They challenged us to hunt the first beast that crossed the kingdom’s borders with the weapons we did bear. As you can see, we did not succeed in our endeavour.'

Owin paused for a moment, and before he could object, Gwion continued:

'Fear not, for tomorrow, to clear the name of His Majesty’s warriors, he shall come to the village to wreak his vengeance.'

Maed smiled; Cheas and his brother had but now ruined his good name, yet they had an excuse to ride forth and win renown in Cartos.

'In any case, Owin, comrade, your gaze accuses us,' quoth he, and embraced the gaunt sorcerer, who melted into Gwion’s burly arms. 'You dishearten me; we are one in the troop—claim not titles of nobility you do not possess.'

The words spat out with the speed of a toad feeding took his companions by surprise.

Owin bowed his head. It was true; the state of Narg had him all worked up and anxious.

He felt guilty for having confronted them like that, but he was also jealous that whenever something happened, they did not think to invite him.

With his back turned, Gwion waved to his comrades and set off to climb up to Narg’s chamber.

Upon reaching the third floor, amidst the sound of his own boots, he caught the sound of another pair stealthily following him.

Without halting, he felt for the small dagger at his belt.

He held his breath, did not blink, but came to a sudden halt and, turning, shoved the man who was aping his footsteps against a pillar to his right and pressed the dagger against his throat.

His pupils relaxed from the shock. He began to see, first, a visage veiled in straight, greying hair, blue eyes with a scar upon the left side of his brow, and, by the time he desired to react, he himself was threatening his king’s life.

He recoiled, terrified.

'My lord, what art thou doing behind me in such wise? I am right sorry for what I have done, I just…' He paused, breathless. 'I, I just desired…'

Gwion’s eyes crystallised, but Narg, far from getting angry, laughed.

'You have been drinking, have you not?' he asked, his nose pressed against Gwion’s tunic, and with his hand he gestured towards the royal bedchamber.

Gwion bowed his head and let him pass first.

'You are the stealthy one,' he said in a low voice. 'As I was feeling better, I decided to walk through the corridors and did not see you coming up behind me. The migraine did not slay me, but my own warrior nearly did,' he joked.

Once within, Narg signalled to the guards not to suffer any disturbance and closed the doors.

Gwion, standing stoically by the doorway, scanned the semi-circular room with his gaze and froze at the sight of the disorder.

At the far end, by one of the three large windows, the wide royal bed lay unmade and uncovered; scattered across the floor were divers objects he could not readily discern, and, as he tried to make sense of the scene before him, the chill that gripped the tip of his nose led him to note that the orange glow of the logs and the poker still resting upon them was a sign that the fire had been lit but recently.

'Cease gazing like a weaned calf and take your seat; there is a matter I would ask of you,' he said, gesturing towards the burgundy armchairs to his right.

Narg crossed to a small table and helped himself to one of the decorated bottles standing there. Although he shared his drink with his counsellors as if they were of his own blood, he deduced that Gwion had had enough alcohol.

The thick, reddish liquid filled the chamber with a delicate floral scent.

Gwion drew a deep breath. As he endeavoured to recall where that fragrance bore him, he surveyed the chamber once more.

He beheld the large window beside the bed, which overlooked the heart of the castle courtyard and the stone steps, and perceived that one of the curtains was hanging by a thread from the rail that held it in place.

The last rays of daylight filtered in through it, barely providing any illumination.

He turned back towards the bed, the cushions torn open, and, amongst the scattered feathers, he espied the king’s undergarments.

Embarrassed, he looked away and, at his feet, found a silver tray surrounded by broken glass.

He was surprised and somewhat more uneasy; the disorder in his sovereign’s chamber, which was wont to be immaculate, was undoubted testimony to the tumult within his mind.

He turned again to Narg; dark circles scored his visage; he appeared dishevelled, with an unkempt beard, tangled hair, and greasy skin. He felt sorry for him.

'Can you feel it, lad?' asked Narg, now seated opposite him. 'There is something in the air—it pulses in the shadows. Betrayal is sniffing at our arses.'

Gwion felt as though the soft armchair was swallowing his body. He hunched his shoulders and his chin dropped until it brushed his chest. 'He knows,' he thought, and he began to feel short of breath as an imaginary noose tightened around his neck.

'I have walked through the shadows and I believe I have discovered a passageway leading unto the end of the tunnel, yet you must take the first step.' Narg raised his hand aloft and gestured unto the wall behind him.

Four paintings hung above the hearth, which Gwion scanned without comprehension, until he reached the largest one.

In this one, the king was painted at the centre of his eight elite warriors, their swords pointing forward and intertwined on the ground, representing the unity of the kingdom.

But it was the butter knife stuck between the eyebrows of the figure to Narg’s right that sent a chill down Gwion’s spine.

’Twas he, and Gwion did feel the blade piercing his thoughts.

He had vowed never again to suffer that feeling of betrayal that came from lying to his king, and there he was, drowning in grief.

He thought of his brother, what would become of him, how he would react, whether he would suffer the same fate, and, rather than pleading for his own life, he watched over him.

'Maed,' he stammered.

'Let us leave him out of it. You are both the best, but you know as well as I do that he is not exactly stable, to put it mildly. I do not wish him to mar the mission merely because a maiden crossed his horse’s path.'