VI – Raise Ravens

How right his intuition had been—and how little heed he had paid it—Narg reflected, when he heard of that mysterious hooded figure and understood that the urgency pressing upon him for so many days had a cause.

Gwion had already retired, and he, with the rolled-up manuscript in his hand, was pacing slowly about the chamber.

As he pondered to whom else Miar might have given that intelligence, he dodged the mountains of raiment and glassware that threatened to cut the soles of his bare feet.

The chamber, like his mind, remained in chaos.

Windar had pulled the golden cord hanging against the wall right next to the headboard of Narg’s bed.

The clamour of bells rang out in the kitchen and in every chamber where the castle’s servants were to be found.

The summons was plain: the king required their presence.

Within two minutes the footman appeared, and Windar requested a jug of fresh water drawn straight from the well.

Thereafter she reclined once more into the velvety burgundy armchair to await the outcome with patience.

'Wilt thou read it, or dost thou already know what it says?' she asked.

'Perkolon’s manuscript,' Narg murmured to himself as he leaned against the lintel of the window, which, being devoid of hangings, bathed the interior of the chamber in sepia.

Gwion collapsed upon his cot. He was exhausted; his will had deserted him.

'Will you not remove your muddy boots ere you slumber? Yet then you complain of me.'

Gwion lifted his head and beheld his brother standing at the foot of his bunk, thrusting gear into a rucksack as he spoke.

He did not desire to quarrel, so, with what little strength he had left, he sat up and began to undo the buckles on his boots.

He looked at his brother again and sprang to his feet.

Maed, startled, spun round in the doorway and, finding nothing, turned back to him, confused.

'You cannot go to Cartos,' he commanded, striding towards his brother. 'Time is of the essence; I shall rest anon.'

He lit the candelabra standing beside his cot to help the two long skylights combat the gloom of dawn. Then he sat down on his brother’s bed and fastened the single loose buckle.

Maed narrowed his eyes and searched his memory to see if he had forgotten anything.

'Right, you are even stranger than usual, and that is more than I would expect to see for the rest of our lives.'

Somewhat bewildered, he brought his face close to his brother’s to look at him closely.

'You bear the aspect of a madman: your eyes bulge, and the circles beneath them make you resemble a creature of the wilds—a genuine raccoon, to be precise,' he observed, a mischievous smile spreading across his countenance.

'That lady has stolen your dawn. You ought to practise the art of…

' He paused for a moment when he beheld Gwion’s deeply furrowed brow, then whispered, '… love a little more.'

'Will the day ever come when you think ere you blurt forth your words?' Gwion snapped, closing his eyes to contain his anger. 'Brother, Gregor and I have betrayed Narg’s trust.'

Maed, rigid as a plank, went pale in an instant and sank onto the cot. Gwion fixed his gaze upon the grey stones of the wall before them—for to look into his brother’s green eyes whilst recounting the events would be a trial he could not face.

He did his utmost to remain impartial and ward off the flood of thoughts and feelings that were overwhelming him. But before he could finish, he was interrupted by a thunderous burst of laughter that reverberated and echoed through the cold, bare-walled room.

With a look of contempt, he turned towards Maed and found him with both hands clasped over his stomach, scarcely able to breathe, doubled over with laughter.

'Forgive me,' said Maed as he wiped away his tears, 'you know the admiration I feel for you and the respect I have for Gregor, but to me this seems like gossip tied to a set of assumptions based on a letter written on an old papyrus that was in the hands of the kingdom that has denied us peace the most.

'And thus you resolve it. End of the matter,' he cried.

Gwion gesticulated wildly with his arms, every feature of his face darkening despite the candles burning beside him.

'As if you had heard that Narg is Windar’s puppet, and that by chance Odín sent his wolves to our village. No, of course not—you have already got it all worked out.'

He rose erect, steadfast, and began to clap his hands with euphoria. The palms of his hands were red as the words came out of his mouth with difficulty. His teeth were clenched and his jaw was locked.

Maed opened his eyes wide and studied every movement, but remained silent, not as one who had been reprimanded, but alertly biding his time.

'If the world be swallowed by darkness, what care is it of ours? So long as we may spend our days in the tavern or beneath some woman’s skirts.'

At that moment Maed perceived the insult was personal.

His brother underestimated him and took him for a proper lout.

The disappointment caused him to rise from the cot and, standing almost upon his toes to make up for the difference in stature, he stepped forward and pressed his brow against Gwion’s.

'You accept without question what Gregor hath translated from a tongue not our own and, Odín help me, you even hearken unto a horse—yet you behold me as the bumpkin of the troop.'

With his index finger outstretched, he jabbed Gwion’s broad chest.

'Let not my private concerns mislead you, brother.'

Seeing that he did not reply, he seized him by the collar of his tunic, but instead of reacting as he expected—striking first—Gwion was astonished; it had been a long time since he had seen his brother so wroth.

The cheerful Maed, who, even in the most pressured moments, with a remark born of simplicity, made all seem less overwhelming, now stood at the peak of Mount Ira .

'I am no less intelligent or brave than you for finding peace upon a woman’s breasts. I have no less understanding of life than Gregor for not knowing those tongues. I am no less refined than Cheas for swearing. You think me lesser—but I am not, and I hope one day to prove it to you.'

Even without a physical fight, Maed felt at peace. He had loosened the knot that had been tightening his throat for some time. He let it go, picked up his cloak and, before opening the door to depart, turned to face a stunned and distraught Gwion.

'Any soul who knew our place upon the council could have penned it.

If we are special, it is only because we were fortunate enough to be two orphans chosen to serve the greatest of monarchs.

But before I am loyal to Narg, I am loyal to you— and if you doubt the truth of that letter, I shall go with you to find it.

Even so, I beseech you, proceed with caution; you are the prudent one—leave the foolishness to me. '

'You are right,' quoth Gwion. 'We must needs discourse upon this matter with our comrades.

'If it is to come to pass, let it be the full council, all eight of us; else, do not count upon me.'

The unconditional support of his kin was essential to him.

Gwion pondered for a moment and realised he was right; all must be apprised.

He knew how grievous it would be for some to hear of this, and therefore he must gather his strength before donning the robe and playing the role of peacemaker before his comrades.

Seated at the desk, he penned seven identical notes that read: 'At sunset, in the library.

Without fail. GG' He sealed them and wrote the names thereon: Cheas, Maed, Owin, Gregor, Arwel, Kuopio and Bartón.

Then, he peered out the door and stayed the first lad who passed by.

The young lad, no more than a dozen years of age, bore a tall stack of bedding, which he was delivering to the dormitories.

He handed him the set intended for them and took the message.

'Wake me before dinner. Insist if you have to. Today is a special day and I do not wish to miss the celebrations.'

The window glass—whole but moments ago, now shattered—lay at his feet and was embedded in his left knuckles, which dripped with blood. In his other hand, trembling, he held forth the manuscript for his grandmother to read.

It would have been hard to wager which would cross the finish line first—his heart, his chest, or the veins running through his parietal bone. An icy breath, from the beyond, persisted in whispering at the nape of his neck: 'Assert Alfredo’s lineage.'

He was blinded. Had Halfdan been alive, the Blood Eagle would not have been enough to quench the thirst for vengeance Narg felt. But it was that thirst, irrational and furious, that struck him in the back and, with a sharp bite, made him swallow his doubt.

He wheeled about and, like a stampede, rushed towards his grandmother. She, who had but just been reading, raised her head and met his furious expression and eyes ablaze. He snatched the manuscript from her hands and raised his arm above his head.

'I am Alfredo’s heir,' he said, glancing towards the window where a raven, answering its lord’s summons, had just alighted. 'I am the offspring of Odín’s raven.'

He spake aloud that which he needed another to tell him.

It was not the doubt that the ravens were his, but rather the certainty of knowing what he had been fighting against within for years and which was on the verge of overpowering him.

But, before that could come to pass, a sharp pain jolted his brain.

He rubbed his forehead in a futile attempt to smooth out the years, whilst thinking that perhaps it was not an illness that was afflicting him, but a defence mechanism he himself had built to stop him, to stop himself.

Thick drops of blood fell from his knuckles. Windar took his icy hands and led him towards the armchairs. Sitting face to face, she began to heal him.