X – The Invisible Hand

Old Minister dawned grey and overcast, promising heavy rain before sunset.

Kuopio waited, seated upon the bench beside the ancient door of the meeting chamber, his elbows resting upon his knees.

His chin reposed in the cup formed by his hands, whilst a finger played with the length of his reddish beard hanging from his chin.

He raised his arms to stretch and took the opportunity to re-tie the half-ponytail of his wavy hair.

He had been sitting with a hunched back for some time, and the hump he had developed from carrying his heavy axe, combined with the peculiar dampness of the day, was beginning to numb his limbs and stiffen his large bones.

He yawned widely. He was usually the first to arrive at the evening gatherings because, as a true morning person, he knew his quarrelsome nature as soon as he woke.

His foolproof method for not slitting anyone’s throat was to rise at dawn and eat breakfast alone until he felt like a man again.

But this time was different. He had not been able to sleep on account of what had transpired within the library, which had left him with a discomfort as though a plough had furrowed his soul and his vitality was escaping through that gaping hole.

Lost in thought, his brown eyes fixed upon a point before him, he felt the anguish within his breast. He had not been fortunate enough to release the grief that spell had wrought.

He needed to weep—yet down the narrow corridor came the rhythm of a steady, purposeful pace.

There was but one person in the whole kingdom who strode thus; he could recognise him from afar by the force with which those boots struck the cobblestones. The king was approaching.

He hastened to his feet, smoothed his waistcoat, straightened his cloak, and stood firm by the door, where he waited until the figure of Narg, escorted by Cheas, appeared.

With the latch in his hand, he began to force it open.

Rusty, it oftentimes jammed, but Narg insisted upon keeping the original door he had opened on the day he founded the council.

'You are getting on in years and losing your strength,' Narg joked when it finally gave way and he prepared to enter.

Their bond went beyond service and rank.

Kuopio, Ministerian by birth, forged a sincere friendship with the king during his training, despite the difference in lineage between the blacksmith’s son and the heir to the throne himself.

Their martial instruction, overseen by Ralf Kolins—Arwel’s father and then commander of the royal army—was imparted impartially, and no favouritism was shown when it came to receiving blows that taught defensive posture or fostered the fortitude to bear them.

Furthermore, their evenings of leisure were devoted to candid discourse and sincere glances that, over the years, they had nurtured and cherished.

Kuopio cast a glance upon Narg and felt somewhat relieved. The king appeared grave yet well-groomed, the shadow of a whitish beard shaved clean, his hair combed back to reveal the gleaming scar upon his brow.

The three went within, leaving the doorway ajar for Maed and Gwion. The brothers hastened along, lest they be the last to arrive and suffer the consequences of the Leal Board: a game contrived by Narg, which disguised the punishment for being tardy as a pastime.

The rules were simple: the last to arrive at the council meeting had to purchase everyone a drink that night.

Narg himself had lost on two occasions. Furthermore, the Leal Board kept a tally of these offences, and the punishment for anyone who reached a dozen was to spend the night, with only their sword, beneath the great Oak of Brimmon upon the outskirts of the kingdom’s walls.

Owin and Maed were in the lead, both with a tally of eleven points.

The sorcerer had the excuse that the loft where he spent most of his day had no windows—with only a skylight, he lost all track of time.

Maed, meanwhile, had been penalised on two occasions—not for being last to arrive, but for turning up drunk on mead and looking a sorry sight.

They had not met since the day Ubberia laid siege to Old Minister, so Narg, together with Cheas, took the opportunity to dust the round table, taking care to leave the grooves of the carved ravens clean, and to dust the nine identical chairs, upholstered in dark burgundy velvet.

Meanwhile, Kuopio lit four of the twelve candelabra to assist the morning light in overcoming the leaden storm clouds.

Then he placed upon the table the ochre book with a rough cover in which the assembly’s decisions were recorded.

The rest, upon arriving and as was their custom, first left their helmets on the rack hanging on the wall beside the door, where Narg’s war crown already lay.

After choosing their seats at random, and whilst adjusting the golden raven emblem on the backrests, they greeted one another with a few morning jests.

'If my king permits, I shall observe how well the days of rest have suited him,' quoth Bartón, closing the door and unfastening his cloak clasp. 'I would counsel Comrade Kuopio to do the same—the moons are no longer faithful companions for pursuing young Maed.'

'Tis you who have pursued young Maed. I passed by your chamber this morn and you were not there, and I do not deem you spent the night alone,' retorted Kuopio, wiping the smile from his visage.

Bartón attempted to offer an excuse; he pondered a falsehood, yet merely pursed his lips when he heard someone knocking at the door.

As Arwel awaited Narg’s leave to enter, he raised his head and sighed with relief upon perceiving that they had not commenced without him. The eyes of the raven gargoyle above the lintel were dark.

Narg, seated facing the door, called out to him and, upon seeing him enter, noted his agitation, even though he was not permitted to run through the castle.

Arwel himself had laid down that rule before the council one afternoon when he arrived at the meeting smelling of pork and drenched in stew: a clueless servant running through the dining hall carrying pots had bumped into him.

Since then, the commotion, both in the corridors and in the halls, had diminished considerably.

To Narg’s relief, naught serious had befallen; it was merely that the commander desired to uphold the impeccable record of zero offences he shared with Kuopio.

'Do not fret, thou art not the last, yet by reason of thy offence, this day thou shalt polish every boot. Thy record shall remain unblemished. Fair is fair,' said Narg with a half-smile at the commander’s displeasure.

Behind Arwel came Gregor, with a chicken drumstick in one hand and a cup of herbal tea in the other. Narg looked him up and down and raised an eyebrow. The cleanliness protocols forbade entering with food. But anger flashed in Narg’s words when he noted the purple bruise upon his right eye.

'Breakfast time is over and this is not the dining room. What in heaven’s name is amiss with you folk today? Arwel is running through the corridors, Maed is turned out all smart,' he said through gritted teeth.

Young Gerinson shrugged and cast a glance at Cheas, who raised his eyebrows in complicity. He no longer knew how to comport himself; even his fair visage seemed to be an example of scorn.

'Thou, arriving with grease-smeared fingers,' he added, pointing at Gregor with his gloved hand. 'And to crown all, Owin is the last to arrive, if he arrives at all. He shall spend the night, with the storm forecast for this evening, outside the kingdom’s walls.'

'If thou wilt allow me to explain,' said Gregor, head bowed, aware of the error he had made.

A man as educated and well-prepared as he hated to make errors, especially when it came to something as basic as the rules of the council of which he had been a member since its foundation.

But what had befallen the previous day—the altercation with his colleagues, the surge of adrenaline he had experienced at Ubberia Castle, and what he had read in Perkolon’s manuscript—had left him utterly beside himself.

'No, I will not allow it—not from thee, nor from anyone,' Narg interrupted, gazing at him intently, anger flashing in his blue eyes. 'How dost thou intend to explain that thou hast a black eye as dark as the tea in thy cup?'

It was not merely anger that Narg felt, but a disappointment that led him to slam his hands—clad in black leather gloves—down upon the table; forthwith he rose, pushing his chair back with the edge of one knee.

'You feel powerful, do you not? Invincible!

' he exclaimed, raising his hands skyward, before turning back to his men: 'Do you think that because we have conquered the last kingdom of Móntria, all that remains is to rest? Being the empire’s royal army carries more responsibility than your coarse minds can comprehend.

Do you think it is easy to rule? Ask Halfdan.

Ah, no, that is right, he is dead! And if you do not behave like the knights you are, I might soon be too. '

He clenched his hands into fists so tightly that the leather of his gloves creaked.

The warriors exchanged glances. Might this have aught to do with the brawl in the library?

, they wondered, and out of the corner of their eyes they sought Gwion, who seemed unperturbed, his head tucked between his shoulders.

'I shall deem thee not to be late, but for thy lack of common sense thou shalt clean the stables for a month, alone, without anyone’s aid,' he commanded, casting a glance at Gwion, who nodded, perceiving that he must not assist his comrade.

'Now, cast away the victuals and go fetch Owin.

This council may not be stayed any longer and I require you all here. '

Gregor nodded, his gaze still fixed upon the floor, and turned to depart.

'I trust thou wilt wash thy hands ere thou returnest,' he said once he had left the small meeting room.