XI – A Kingdom Called Lepontia #4

Eager, Cheas snatched the box from him and pressed the tip of his dagger into the upper corner of the design until it yielded.

The seal, bearing a golden horse upon a crimson field, came loose and rolled down one of the beams until it fell into the crevices.

Cheas’s eyes lit up entirely when he found the small lock.

He was proud of his father’s sharp mind—happiness radiated from his body with a soft glow that passed unnoticed in their eagerness to discover what lay within.

The key fitted perfectly and, despite the rust upon both parts, the bolt yielded effortlessly. As soon as the lid was lifted, a sweet scent wafted through the air for a few moments. Enticed by the fragrance, they drew it in gently, as if they might taste it.

'Jasmine,' whispered Cheas with his eyes closed. 'My mother loved jasmine.'

He wished he could smell it for ever, lest the memory should fade.

'How is that possible?' he asked, discovering the flower preserved in perfect condition. 'Tros had the key, the room belongs to Owin, and my father has been dead for about ten years.'

'Magic, my friend, magic,' emphasised Gregor. 'Maltón possessed the combination of the great ones: an extraordinary innate power and acquired knowledge that rivalled his boundless kindness. I sense that he knew you would one day take possession of this and has left you a gift.'

They beheld likewise a sapphire as red as uncoagulated blood, fashioned like a drop, and a small notebook. Cheas took it up and perused the cover, wrought of crumpled black leather.

In his slender hands he felt his father’s energy come alive again and recalled the trepidation with which he had carried it within the pocket of his tunic.

He began to leaf through it; the pages were yellowed and some stuck together due to dampness.

He turned the first few pages slowly; then several at once.

Then Gregor witnessed Cheas’s utterly unexpected reaction.

The measured, agile and quick-witted knight of Old Minister rose—and, before falling to his knees, with a cry that rent his throat, hurled it against the wall.

Gregor left him to his sorrow, fallen, his muffled sobs breaking the silence.

'Exhaustion and memories are no good allies,' he thought as he picked up the notebook.

He scrutinised it, yet could not make sense of it: every page was smeared with ink blots and indentations that pierced the paper from the pressure of the pen in an attempt to censor the contents.

But something remained visible: a word that terrified him; on every single page, amongst the scribbles, Perkolon stood out clearly.

'The memory of my mother is pure rubbish—she died giving birth to me,' Cheas sobbed.

'I know she loved jasmine because my father would repeat it, almost as a reproach against my very existence.

This notebook is the remnant of a sick mind, and behind it all lies that damned word.

If he was involved and part of the darkness, what role do I play, when my whole life hath been a lie because of him? '

'I am sorry, but we have found something,' encouraged Gregor, opening the notebook before Cheas.

'First—the last few pages are not crossed out.

Second, these symbols might form a spell,' he said, turning the page.

'Look—these are formulae, and these here are diagrams crowned with runes.

I believe I saw Owin use something like this before the temple was consecrated. '

The final five leaves of the notebook enumerated an array of herbs, elements, symbols, and runes—diagrams and insignia, spells in Leighill, and others in a tongue even Gregor did not know—with words underlined or circled to denote their import.

Cheas, his cheeks flushed and his lashes damp, assisted Gregor in tidying the floor and stowing away the contents whilst he regained his composure. Then, notebook in hand, evading the tempting aroma of the midday meal, they set forth at once in search of Tros.

During the three-and-a-half hours of steady gallop separating Old Minister from Ubberia, Gwion bombarded an Owin with questions, to which he merely confessed that he had fainted.

Implicitly, so as not to give themselves away and arouse the other’s suspicion of treachery, they avoided mentioning the manuscript.

'You appear exhausted,' quoth Gwion, matching his pace to observe him. 'You have forgotten your sword,' he noted. 'That is a problem if matters grow tense.'

'It must have been left in the meadow,' Owin clarified.

He rolled his eyes to exhume what had befallen him, but it was the image of his master Maltón that he found.

He knew he would not be proud, because, although he could not remember it, the aftermath in the forest made it clear that, once again, the light had abandoned him.

And, whilst his chest was gnawed by guilt, his mouth formed a look of regret:

'When we return, I must needs ascertain whether I have been afflicted by a nightmare. I do not wish to alarm you, yet I deem I was assailed by forbidden magic.'

Gwion relived the chill that ran down his spine when he faced the hooded figure in the darkness. Had the same man attacked them?

Upon arriving in Ubberia, a handful of guards, who had belonged to Halfdan’s troops, mounted their horses and escorted them to the castle gates. When they dismounted, Gwion ordered one of them to take them to the widow guest.

The old woman was in the main hall taking her breakfast. She appeared to be in better health than at their last meeting with Gwion.

Robed in a pink gown, she blushed as she beheld them enter, and yet more when she recognised the young, slender Gwion, who, bathed in light, seemed more comely than she remembered.

'Pray, take a seat. An elderly lady like me doth not often have the chance to share a meal in company, and what fine company!' said Miar, her eyes fixed upon Gwion.

Deep down, the widow’s demeanour reminded him of his brother, and he could sense the same reaction in the young ladies he courted, though he had to admit, Maed was more charming.

'We come on behalf of Narg Hugnork, king and sovereign of all Móntria,' recited Gwion, one hand on his breast and the other upon the hilt of his sword hanging from his belt. 'He requires your presence in Old Minister. We shall escort you,' he added, standing so straight that he seemed taller.

The guards patrolling the hall went on high alert, and five of the widow’s loyal followers surrounded her. Owin swallowed hard; he regretted being unarmed. The old woman lifted her head from her plate piled high with fruit and, with a wave of her hand, calmed her guards.

'You know, I will gladly go, but upon one condition...' she said, gesturing towards the chairs.

Owin entreated with his eyes for her to agree and avoid an unnecessary confrontation. They had time; with Narg absent, they could not lay a finger upon the lady until he returned.

Gwion pulled back one of the chairs surrounding the long table and sat down. Owin, with a sigh of relief, followed suit, and the old woman, satisfied, continued in silence until she had finished. Then she withdrew to prepare herself, accompanied by two Ministerian guards.

Narg’s warriors took the opportunity to stretch their legs in the main courtyard.

The atmosphere in Ubberia Castle tended to be somewhat damp, with a musty smell due to the perpetual mourning for Halfdan’s death.

Narg allowed it; he was interested in the kingdom’s harvests and produce, not what was done with the building.

'Friend, how does it please you to be Lord of Ubberia?' joked Owin, seeking to lighten the mood.

Gwion blushed and shot him his characteristic look of disapproval.

'She claims to be in mourning, but every time she sees me, she becomes more and more unseemly.'

'Hurry up and find yourself a wife,' added Owin in a playful tone. 'If Narg deems a marriage useful, for the sake of Móntria, to win the affection of those who are still loyal to Halfdan’s memory, you shall be the first candidate.'

'It is not that easy,' he murmured, his voice tinged with nostalgia.

'You still love her, do you not?'

'With all my heart.'

Suddenly, Valcon, Gwion’s white horse, whinnied, rearing up upon his hind legs.

They turned in alarm and perceived that some varlet had purloined the saddle from the colt, who was as gentle and calm as his owner.

They scanned the large courtyard and beheld, at the far end, a peasant pointing at a man who was fleeing.

'It was Tregor!' he cried out. 'Tregor Bert.'

He wandered about for a while among the trees without finding the path.

Bartón was an excellent warrior, possessing immense strength with which he could slay with a single blow of his flail.

Furthermore, he was a skilled strategist at identifying key points upon the battlefield and contriving ambushes, yet when it came to finding his way, he tended to become lost with ease, even within the castle itself.

There was a tale among the troops that Bartón hated.

A few years earlier, Narg had sent him to gather intelligence upon the military forces of Korkolat, to the west of Old Minister.

Upon his return, whilst detailing what he had discovered, he mentioned the sky-blue attire of the warriors.

It was then that the entire council burst into laughter upon realising that for nearly six weeks he had been infiltrating Moldivar, situated to the east of their lands.

In a foul temper and famished, he strode along cursing and swearing, and, without realising it, ended up face-first in one of the pits. He did not know if it was the same one, but he knew with absolute certainty that, unless the gods came to his aid, he might have to spend the night there.

With his visage flushed from striving to climb out unaided and the gastric juices rising in his gullet, he did have to swallow his pride and cry Arwel’s name. 'How far could he have gone?' he thought.