X – The Invisible Hand #2

They waited in silence. Seated, with their heads bowed, they fidgeted with their fingers, but Narg remained standing by the large window on the west wall. From there, he watched the folk coming and going in the courtyard at the heart of the castle.

Minutes later, Narg heard the door close behind him. He went over and lit the candle that would illuminate the watchful eyes of the raven, signifying that the meeting had begun, so that no one would disturb them. Turning, he sought out the sorcerer’s pale face.

'Take a seat,' he ordered, then continued to the rest of them: 'I desire you to hearken carefully. I will not tolerate this sort of behaviour; you are the empire’s elite warriors, not mercenaries from some distant backwater.

I am your king, and together we form the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that is the finest kingdom of all the lands explored by man.

Each of you brings a unique quality; I have no intention of threatening to replace you—I doubt there is anyone in the entire empire who could.

But you shall be punished for your childish actions.

Did you think I would not find out about the chaos in the library? '

The eight swallowed hard and exchanged glances. Any one of them could have told him the reason for the fight. It was Gwion who, in the face of the heavy silence, cleared his throat to take responsibility, but before he could speak, Narg continued:

'No one but me will speak at this moment.

What is this about causing a ruckus as if this were a seedy tavern?

If you have any disagreements, I order you to resolve them at once, and if you need to beat each other up to let off steam, well, you have the training ground—and, while we are on the subject, I have not seen several of you round there for some time. '

Narg did not know what they had been arguing about—and nearly killed each other over—but it was clear that his sternness and anger were not due solely to that. Gwion concluded they shared the same feeling; Perkolon’s manuscript had left them with more doubts than certainties.

'I have never hidden anything from you, and this shall not be the first time,' said Narg, hoisting his left leg onto his chair.

From his cuff he drew forth a rolled-up papyrus, unrolled it upon the table for all to behold, and with an open hand invited them to peruse it. Perkolon’s manuscript, they repeated within their minds, beholding it glow orange in the candlelight.

Ere turning his back upon them anew to shut the shutters and forestall the gale that had arisen from casting them into darkness, Narg espied the gesture the Gerinson brothers made in unison: they turned their eyes to the left, pursed their lips and lifted their right eyebrows.

Gwion had read it, he had no doubt, but he preferred to give it time and fixed his attention upon the window.

The merciless wind lashed the mast until it tore away the banner fluttering at its tip.

Narg watched as, tumbling through the air, it was carried down into the courtyard, onto the red tiles where Alfredo had founded Old Minister.

'Your legend makes it sound as if things were easy, but it is carrying your blood that complicates them,' he thought with a sigh.

'Come now—not everyone reads Leighill, but whoever doth, speak up and instruct thy comrades,' he ordered into the deathly silence.

Owin observed how Gregor’s eyes darted from side to side, crying aloud that which the rest preferred to keep silent. He stretched himself across the table and took up the papyrus. Gwion raised his eyebrows and Owin gave him a wink.

Narg remained with his back turned, yet he used the reflection in the glass to observe the reactions of his loyal followers and read more than he wished to. Every word that Owin slowly translated transformed their features.

Gwion could have recited it alongside him; those words were etched into his memory, and hearing them revived the intricate, tangled emotions within his chest. He desired to deny it, even as the facts unfolded before his eyes: Narg was the darkness born in Lepontia who had spilled the blood of warriors to crown himself king of an empire.

He beheld it plain—the raven, in four days’ time, should loose the darkness.

Yea, even the vexing circumstance of sending his daughter so far abroad did confirm his guilt.

Yet certain matters did not congrue; what end did he seek by shewing them the manuscript?

The eldest of the Gerinsons began to analyse the situation.

Narg was intelligent and rarely left his actions to chance.

If he knew about the fight in the library, he also knew what had sparked it.

So, what was he getting at with all this, rather than accusing him of treason for having read the manuscript without his permission?

'He is manipulating us,' he concluded, but instead of reacting, he came to his senses. If what was written in the manuscript was true, he was one of Odín’s Wolves, and the thought of having to slay the man he most admired made his blood run cold; with his heart pounding in his throat, to still himself, he sang the white song to himself.

Arwel, like Narg, scanned the faces of his comrades.

It was the phrase that dragged Alfredo’s name—and his entire lineage—through the mire that made his blood boil, but the expression on Gwion’s face, the cold stare and the peculiar gleam with which he watched Narg, paralysed him.

The captain of the troop, the man who was ready to slay for his king, could not react.

The name of the signatory, Tregor Bert, echoed through the small chamber and they turned towards Gregor, who had avoided telling them that his own uncle was the author. Narg sensed that tension as he listened to them breathe.

'According to this, we are all implicated. Gregor’s uncle, two born in the lands of Cartos like the Gerinson brothers, my grandmother, and myself.

And the finishing touch, comrades, last night I had a dream akin to a transmutation, in which two of you spoke of killing me and unleashing the darkness. '

That phrase fuelled him, and Arwel, driven by compulsion, stood up, sword in hand, and walked towards Narg.

Cheas, misinterpreting his intention, intercepted him before he reached him and stayed him by the breast. But Arwel, whilst he pierced him with his gaze, just two centimetres away, swung his sword through the air to grasp it by the tip and extended the hilt towards Narg.

'If there be even the slightest chance that I might cause thee pain, end my life forthwith—for it serveth no purpose other than to serve thee.'

Narg reached out his gloved hand towards the hilt offered to him, but instead of taking it, he struck it with the back of his hand.

'Let us set aside sentimentality, for it will bring no answers. Rest assured, Arwel, should you or anyone else attempt to destroy the peace that has cost us so much blood, I shall not hesitate, but it shall be with my sword alone.'

Narg turned to Owin, who had been lost in thought, stiff, his petrol-blue eyes so bright they seemed to mirror what he beheld: Gwion.

The monarch of Old Minister walked round the table to where he stood and took him by the shoulder.

Owin raised his head with the sad gaze of a lamb aware of its impending death.

'I do not mistrust any of you, my loyal ones. If I did, I would not risk my life—and the entire kingdom—locked away with you in this four-by-four chamber. I know I am invincible. But I also know that I have trained you to be the best, and that means better than me.'

Narg closed his eyes and struck his chest with his fist.

'Odín has blessed my family; truth and light always prevail.'

Tiny drops from a few scattered showers splashed against the boardroom window, further dimming the faint light that filtered in with grey flashes.

It felt as though even the very air they breathed there mirrored the tension in the room, tightening the council’s red waistcoat around them a little more to take their breath away.

The silence that ensued did not assuage their unease.

The patter of rain against the glass and the sparks from the fire illuminating the eyes of the raven on the lintel were the only sounds to be heard.

It was as if their hearts had ceased at that very moment so that all the vigour in their bodies might be devoted to digesting the tidings.

'Well then—if we are not to behead anyone, I suppose you have thought of something,' Maed finally said, still in the same position as at the start of the conversation, with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes closed.

Even Narg, for a moment, thought he had fallen asleep and was about to slap him.

Owin clenched his teeth and grimaced. So much tension gnawed at his soul, and Maed seemed not to care at all. He hated that he treated everything like a game, that he dismissed problems, that he lived carefree, but even more so that he addressed Narg with such a lack of fear and respect.

'I would suspect you, if it were not for the fact that your tiny brain would never allow you to devise any plan,' the sorcerer finally said, leaning forward over the round table to await his reaction.

'Aye,' continued Narg, ignoring Owin’s remark and turning to Maed, 'and since you are as sharp as ever, you and Kuopio shall accompany me. We depart in an hour.'

The king’s choice of his brother unsettled Gwion, and he could not hide the surprise upon his countenance as he crossed his arms. Whenever they undertook a formal visit, it was Gregor, Arwel and he who accompanied him.

The eldest of the troop, for his learning and command of tongues; the commander, as the most faithful man at his side; and he, for his upright demeanour and the reverence commanded by his imposing figure and fierce gaze.

But Narg had a reason: of the possible traitors, neither Maed nor Kuopio matched the hazy memory of his vision.