XV – Ravens of the East

' N

arg, awake. Pray, good sir, awake,' quoth Maed as he gave him a few gentle slaps upon the cheeks.

Within the dimly lit chamber, Narg lay surrounded by his two knights and his daughter. He appeared to be sleeping, but in truth he remained unconscious and breathed but barely.

Celtión uncovered his head, and the thin scar running from the outer corner of his left eye to the end of his jaw surprised Maed, who brought his finger close and stroked his cheek.

She recoiled in disgust and, frowning, beheld her father.

She had no desire to call to mind that night, five years agone, when her king had punished her for life.

'Come on, do something,' he said, hoping she could heal him.

'I am neither sorceress nor physician. I am the High Priestess.'

Maed rolled his eyes as he snorted and shook his head. He was battling his own desperation. He, who was wont to act upon instinct, missed his brother’s composure. 'If Gwion were here, he would have set this to rights by now,' he thought, wishing Narg had mistaken him for Gerinson.

He turned towards Kuopio and beheld the copper-haired warrior holding a jug from the bedside table, gesturing to ask if it would be a good idea. Maed nodded.

Narg rolled over in bed, as if awakening from a dark nightmare, and sat up.

'Have you all gone mad, or what on earth were you planning to do? How many more trials must my heart endure to prove it is strong?' he grumbled, so sleepy he could barely speak, whilst rubbing his chest and striving to wipe away the water dripping therefrom.

Maed and Kuopio smiled; they knew not who had been more affrighted, having thought, for a moment, that they had lost him.

'Well, Narg, you are harder to awaken than Bartón after a night of drinking,' said Maed, biting his full lower lip.

'And that is saying something,' Kuopio added, handing him a piece of cloth to dry himself off.

'I would desire, just once, that thou wouldst address me as thy king. "My lord", "my king", "milord" or even "Your Majesty" would be appropriate,' Narg chided Maed, though he enjoyed the easy manner in which he spoke to him.

He knew that the youngest of the Gerinsons was loyal, and he esteemed his unstructured manner, in which he was not afraid to speak the harsh truth and risk arousing his wrath.

Surrounded by folk who, from a tender age, had treated him with the deference befitting his lineage.

He was the king, he carried the blood of Alfredo in his veins, yet he oft felt the weight of the loneliness that the council meetings instilled in him.

Perhaps that was why he had created the elite and the hall with its round table.

To have a place where the rules were different, to feel part of something that transcended his name and came close to friendship.

'Coming, my lord,' quoth he, accompanying his reply with a bow.

Narg snatched the jug from Kuopio and, using his head as a target, hurled it.

Maed dodged it despite the impenetrable gloom, and along with the crash of glass shattering against the wall, the laughter of the king and his two warriors echoed.

If he were to reprimand them as he ought, they would not return to Old Minister, and if he had not been willing to put up with such things, he would not have chosen them.

'Art thou feeling better, my lord?'

The voice made his heart skip a beat and his hopes rise in his throat.

'Celtión!' he bellowed, turning towards her.

'If I may correct thee, that was my worldly name. I beg thee to call me by the name Frey has bestowed upon me. I am the priestess Seidrín. It is a pleasure to serve thee.'

She held forth her hand for him to take, but he drew her into his arms. Stiff, with her arms at her sides, and Narg felt the distance.

Where was his little girl, she who once ran freely through the castle with a laugh that set his days to music?

But, as he kissed her cheek, he noted the scar and found his answer.

Ere he released her, he drew her yet again against his breast and, with his eyes shut, repented as he had never done before in his life.

His mind coursed through the occasions when he should have stood before the abyss of the crossroads, the decrees enacted, the deeds accomplished, until the execution of Maltón, so vivid, returned to him and he felt the air drain from his lungs.

Silence reigned until Kuopio went to the window and drew back the curtain.

Narg narrowed his eyes to minimise the impact of the midday sun’s glare, which bathed them in its brilliant colours, and alongside his daughter’s beautiful freckles, he noted her look of horror.

He turned first towards Kuopio, and then, in Maed’s olive eyes, he caught the warning.

Frowning, eager to understand, he scanned the corners of that square chamber with yellow walls, whilst the young Gerinson made his way towards him.

'What is happening?' he asked, already frightened, and reached for the hilt of Santiana at his waist.

Maed did not answer, not until he was close enough.

'Either you tell me what is transpiring at this very moment, or I shall rend thy bowels and suspend them as garlands to adorn the chief hall for my birthday,' he roared as he rose and shoved Maed upon the breast.

'Your eye, my lord. Your mouth. Pray, take a seat,' he whispered, and Narg obeyed.

Kuopio hastened to remove a rectangular mirror and held it up to his eye level so he could see his reflection.

In his whole life, not for a single instant, had he imagined beholding himself in such a plight.

The left side of his face—as if cleft perfectly by an imaginary line running across his nose—was disfigured.

His eyelid was swollen, his eye covered by a patch of congealed blood, the skin upon his cheeks wrinkled and slack, and the lower corner of his lip drooping.

That was why he found speech so arduous.

He brought his trembling hand unto his visage and traced the deformity with his fingertips.

Rage overwhelmed him. He desired to annihilate the figure he beheld in his reflection so greatly that, with a single blow, he smashed the mirror and sent Kuopio reeling; the latter avoided falling only thanks to the bed rail.

'Odín! Why hast thou done this unto me? These hands have fought only in thy name.'

That prayer to the heavens, through tears, with arms outstretched, crushed Kuopio’s spirit; he had to sit down to keep his balance. Their king, the strongest man they knew, was defeated, and they did not know by whom or by what.

Maed, however, refusing to look upon him, turned his back.

In two strides he reached the window, and Narg’s silent, anguished weeping, which shattered the unbreakable silence of surrender, was on the verge of unleashing his own.

He clenched his fist and so, without thinking, with his bare hand he shattered one of the oval panes.

At his feet lay the courtyard of Lepontia, where his gaze fell.

A long line of folk caught his gaze. He scanned them one by one—crutches, bandages, children being carried.

He searched until he reached the van and beheld him.

The young man, in a green tunic decorated with golden arabesques, with a ruddy beard and a peaceful countenance, raised his head.

They looked at each other. From a distance.

He recognised him. He knew not from where, yet he knew what to do.

'We must set off at once for Old Minister,' said Celtión.

'No,' quoth Maed rhetorically without turning about. 'He will not survive the journey.'

'The priestess is right,' said Kuopio. 'Owin must see him urgently.'

'What do you think will befall when the guests arrive and behold him thus?

' Maed retorted, turning towards him. 'What would you wager happens if Lerg beheld him thus?

' He pointed to Narg, who sat with his face concealed betwixt his hands and his hair.

'Blood, my friend, much innocent blood. Perhaps darkness is naught but the simple stratagems men devise for power. '

Celtión’s eyes widened, and he noted it out of the corner thereof. He had said too much, yet with the ease that characterised him—the same ease that permitted him to navigate amatory entanglements—he leaned in and whispered:

'We came here for answers, and we shall not depart without them. If thy eagerness to behold my brother gnaws at thy bowels, then hasten and fetch, with all haste, the sorcerer who abideth in the courtyard.'

Celtión clenched her jaw, but even as she prepared to reply, Maed interposed.

'It is the command of Odín’s Wolf, High Priestess Seidrín.'

The card of his true essence—even he could not believe it, yet it worked. Narg, hearing the door shut, rose and, defiantly, sword in hand, strode towards Maed. The warrior knew not how to react and stood rigid as his king seized him by the collar of his tunic and set his mouth close to his ear:

'You know what this means, do you not? I was born in Lepontia and here I must die, where it all began.'

Maed strove to withdraw, yet it was to no avail. Narg, brusquely, compelled him to take Santiana in one of his hands, which hung limply at his side.

'Do it swiftly. Let it be with the purity of Santiana’s steel so that I may be reunited with my beloved. Then, return to Old Minister. Take Celtión with you. Find those who contrived this and bring them to justice. Come on! What are you waiting for?'

Maed reacted, yet not as Narg had intended. With his free hand he thrust the king from his breast and wrested himself free.

'I will not be the one to slay him,' he said firmly.

'If you do not do it now, it may be too late anon. I trust you; it must be you—you are Odín’s Wolf. I would rather die by the hand of a loyal friend than that of an enemy.'

Narg’s gaze remained fixed, his expression pleading. Kuopio endeavoured to rise and step between them, yet he could not find the strength. The journey and all he had been through had achieved what the war had not: they had defeated the red-haired soldier.