X – The Invisible Hand #3

'I shall go as well,' Arwel interjected, chin held high.

'Nay, thou shalt tarry behind to array the troops. The security for my birthday celebration must be taken care of down to the last detail,' commanded Narg.

Arwel, dissatisfied, snorted under his breath, but acknowledged that he would have time to follow Gwion to clear up his doubts.

'Windar,' whispered Bartón.

'Escort her like her shadow. She may be in danger,' Narg clarified, turning to Cheas. 'I require you and Gregor to search the library—if Tros lets you in—for references to Perkolon and any record of Halfdan’s official visit to this kingdom. Also, ask him for your father’s books.

I have a feeling I have made the worst mistake of my life. '

Cheas bowed his head and hunched his back even further.

He looked back at him, sword in hand, standing upon the red tiles in the midst of the kingdom’s courtyard, reciting his judgement aloud: 'I, Narg Hugnork, King of Old Minister, sentence thee, Maltón Trylosson, to die by the blade of my sword.

Given thy great magical power, and finding thee insane, thou art a danger to the entire realm. May Odín have mercy and come for thee.'

Maed perceived that Cheas had become lost in memory, as if he could see the pain through the crystal of his honey-coloured eyes, and did what he knew: he teased him.

He leaned back slightly in his chair; the table’s radius was just right so that, with his leg stretched out, he could land a kick with the tip of his boot.

Cheas jumped, and Narg turned instantly towards Maed.

'Where are we heading, my king?' he asked to avoid a reprimand, placing a hand upon his brother’s tense knee as he remained silent.

Narg pursed his lips; he did not know if it was intentional, but each time Maed uttered my king , a mocking, sarcastic tone was palpable.

'You shall discover once we are upon our way. Let us not become ready prey, for perchance the castle walls have ears.'

'My lord, in four days’ time it will be thy birthday, lords from all over the kingdom and from the…'

'The Lands of Tloston, yes, yes and yes, Kuopio,' Narg interrupted. 'I have had enough of my grandmother announcing who is coming. Trust that I shall find answers and we shall return in time to celebrate my birthday or my funeral.'

Narg gave a smile with a hint of hidden melancholy.

'Owin, there is a great oak tree eagerly awaiting thy company this night.

Gregor, make sure he keeps his word: with sword and without armour.

Thou shalt be the first to experience that magic.

I promise thee that a minstrel shall compose a ballad concerning thee and thy tardiness.

But tomorrow, as soon as the sun doth rise, thou shalt set forth with Gwion for Ubberia and escort the widow hither. '

Among the loose ends Narg had in his mind, knowing how the manuscript had ended up in Ubberian hands was essential to understanding its true origin—or whether one of his own had sold out.

'Dost thou think she will agree to come with us merely because we ask her?' muttered Gwion, not daring to look him in the face.

'I do hope so; if not, she shall be the first promise I have ever broken in my entire existence. Bring her hither by any means necessary—as a guest, as a prisoner—but alive. I know you shall be able to persuade her.'

Narg winked at him and pursed his lips as if blowing him a kiss. The blush that spread across Gwion’s cheeks was the perfect target for the teasing that released the tension.

To conclude the assembly, as ever, they drew their swords and laid them upon the table, their points joined in the centre.

The perfect circle that formed the kingdom and the blade that defended it.

They arose, right hands outstretched over their hearts, where they placed the creed they recited together:

'May the path that Odín hath woven for us upon the loom of time guide us through the light and bring us back together.'

Even as Narg had requested, two hours later they stood ready to depart upon the red tiles of the castle courtyard. As he had calculated, if they rode at a steady pace they would reach their destination by dawn.

Owin was aiding Narg to conceal the manuscript. Arwel was imparting final instructions to the band of ten soldiers he had chosen. Bartón was fastening the axe to Kuopio’s back, whilst Cheas stood beside Maed.

'Look after the big lad, will you?' Maed asked as he adjusted the reins.

'Look after the king, will you?' Cheas retorted, handing him a thick cloak. 'The weather up north is less forgiving.'

Maed smiled, wrapped himself up, and turned to Cheas to give him a wink:

'Fear not, I shall find some place to warm myself,' he said and set off.

'Try to come back alive,' murmured Cheas, uncertain if he had heard him over the clatter of hooves upon the rock.

And so they beheld them depart. The storm was brewing, sufficient to hide the sun at midday.

The figures faded into the distance as if they were entering the leaden tunnel of uncertainty about what the road held in store for them.

The search for the truth that had begun with Halfdan’s fall was now underway.

It was no coincidence that the very earth, privy to destiny, was cloaked in grey and seemed to weep, knowing what they would find there, where they were heading.

Standing firm within the courtyard by the ramparts, the damp spring chill seeped into the bones of Cheas, the commander, and Owin, though it felt more like an eternal languor taking root in their stomachs.

Arwel lamented not being his king’s shadow to watch over him.

The youngest of the troop, inquisitive by nature like his father, he could not cease to mull the matter over as if, for some reason, he knew the answers lay within him.

For the sorcerer, it was something else, something closer to fear that began to numb his muscles, perhaps at the mere thought of the punishment he would face that very night.

Upon entering the castle, Arwel found Gwion sprawled across one of the two-seater armchairs by the bonfire. Frowning, he was examining the gears and strings of the imposing hourglass that would soon run out, wondering where the lever was that would set it in motion as it did every year.

Arwel drew near and, ere claiming his notice by taking a seat at his side, observed keenly the paper held within his hand.

'You should have got rid of that ages ago,' he said.

'I think Celtión discovered something about all this and could not bring herself to say it.'

'In three days, the sand in that hourglass shall turn golden like the sun’s rays that bless Alfredo’s divine blood to commemorate the birth of the legacy made light,' Arwel mused, raising his hand to show him the silver ring.

'If you are one of the Father’s wolves, choose your side wisely, for my oath still stands. '

Upon an improvised ivory table, seven metres beneath the surface, amid damp walls of uneven white rock, beside a cauldron and jars, there lay a sleeping head.

'That damned horse,' quoth she, and took it in her arms to cradle it.

The head awoke, its eyes flooding the chamber with an emerald glow whilst a stringed melody floated on the air—and from its mouth came words: 'With the raven’s feather and the wolf’s claw, upon the skin of the loyal one—drinking the sap of knowledge with the blood of master and servant—the noose shall tighten and its power shall reign. '

When she fell silent, with a kiss upon her brow, she fell back to slumber.

'So, that is the piece we are missing. The skin of the loyal one, and you have let him go,' protested the man standing beside her.

'His absence and his fate are to our advantage—they are predictable,' she said, and handed him the folded paper she had been keeping in her bodice. 'Thus she shall be prepared to ensure they return in time for the banquet.'