XVI – When the cat’s away

When Arwel and Cheas reached the courtyard, they beheld Owin aiding the widow to dismount, and Gwion—his head and arm bandaged—hauling an elderly man roughly from his horse.

Owin, his eyes wide and shoulders back, reacted as he beheld Arwel drawing near, weapon pointed at him.

'It seemeth the sorcerer standeth no longer in need of his sword,' quoth Arwel—and, instead of delivering it into Owin’s hand, he pressed the blade against the young man’s breast as he leaned in to whisper. 'I only hope your magical decisions be those you learned from Maltón.'

Owin’s legs trembled. He was not wanting in the courage to reply—the right answer had crossed his mind—but the commander’s menacing gaze, with the respect it commanded, made him hesitate.

Arwel clenched his jaw, awaiting an answer, when, out of the corner of his eye, he beheld the widow walking with difficulty after the intense gallop.

'If they have abolished carriages in Ubberia, they might have conveyed her in a calèche, might they not?' she chided as she pushed him aside and offered him her hand to shield his steps.

As he turned, the men clad in green cloaks, with matching breastplates, the distinctive leaden-grey and dull armour, pointed helmets and boots studded with spikes on the outside, alerted the commander, who loudly rebuked his companions:

'By the sharp edge of Tyr’s sword, what in Odín’s name are these Ubberians doing within our walls?'

He raised his hand, and both the Ministerian soldiers in the square and those stationed upon the battlements drew their bows and aimed them at the intruders.

Gwion approached him, pushing his way through the throng that forced the prisoner to walk, and, once at his side, lowered his arm.

'These men have come to bear witness when this worm receives a fair trial. Allow me to introduce him: this is Tregor Bert.'

Cheas, taken aback, turned to look for Gregor, but he was nowhere to be seen.

'To put you abreast of matters,' he continued, raising his chin, 'I call, in the name of Owin and mine own, for an immediate meeting in the council chamber.'

Well aware of the unease caused by any other than his king giving him orders, and seeking some one to calm him, Arwel turned towards Cheas, but the latter lowered his head.

Gwion’s demeanour intimidated him and he felt useless, as if painted onto the canvas with the weight of Tros’s blood, which was drying upon his raiment.

'See to it that our guest be installed in one of the finest chambers in the castle,' he commanded Arwel.

The commander looked him up and down, but Gwion, without changing his stance, pushed Tregor aside and approached Arwel to speak to him in secret:

'Post two well-armed guards at the door. The lady is no threat, but she may be in danger.'

'Let Cheas handle it. Where do you intend to lodge this criminal?' he asked, bewildered.

'It is up to you.' He placed a hand upon Tregor’s back and pushed him towards Cheas. 'Take him to the dungeon.'

'Idiot, we do not have one, nor a dungeon. Narg does not take prisoners of war,' said Arwel, tapping his temple with his index and middle fingers.

In response, Gwion raised his eyebrows and turned back to Cheas.

'To the dungeon?' he asked, blushing.

'Aye, Maed will understand.'

Arwel and Miar, hands clasped, cast their gaze upon Gwion and feigned an attentive ear.

The widow stood spellbound—albeit the commander at her side, with bearing most manly, possessed bright blue eyes worthy of admiration.

Arwel, for his part, studied his movements, gestures, and the subtle yet perceptible glint within his uncovered eye.

He cared little how Maed had found the castle prison and what use he made of it.

That air of superiority told him more than all his words.

Cheas wasted no time and, with his sword drawn, pulled the rope that held Tregor.

Upon entering the castle, he searched the hall, but there was no sign of Gregor.

The eldest of the troop was holed up in Windar’s bedchamber, half his body within the wardrobe.

He shuddered at the aromatic blend of dampness and the floral perfume that was so characteristic of her, but he did not halt despite hearing the voices coming from without until one of them called out to him as he passed through the door.

'Make ready—Gwion and Owin have called a council meeting without Narg present. Let us pray that Tyr, with his blessed justice, abideth with us, and that this day I need not stain my blade with the blood of a friend.'

Arwel kept pace with the widow’s slow stride. He was not surprised by what Gregor was doing; if it had been up to him, he too would have been looking for clues.

When Gwion and Owin had finished leaving their horses in the stables, upon the castle steps they came face to face with Lerg and the prince, who were preparing to take a stroll through the garden to aid their digestion.

'Do you know if Celtión will be coming to the celebration?' said Cloet, somewhat sheepishly, as if the question had slipped out from the depths of his soul.

The exchange of glances between Owin and Gwion was instantaneous.

The two men who loved the princess were sharing the same space for the first time.

But the warrior focused on ensuring his gestures did not give him away.

He reached into the sleeve covering his arm and touched the sealed letter hidden there.

He stroked it for a few moments whilst the silence began to make them uncomfortable, but he needed strength to control the impulse that overwhelmed him: to thrust his chest against Cloet’s and shout in his face that Celtión, his beloved princess, loved him and that somehow they would be together again.

'I could not say, my lord,' he said at length, his gaze fixed upon Cloet’s shoulder. 'I doubt the king will permit you to return to Old Minister so soon.'

'So soon?' he asked, startled. 'It hath been five years!'

'And what is it to thee? Thou art betrothed to the Princess of Weftein,' his father challenged him.

'When I die, thou shalt possess two of the ten kingdoms of Tloston, and if Narg doth not hasten to produce an heir, his empire entire.

It shall cost thee naught to reunite the land beneath the power of the raven. The reincarnation of Alfredo.'

Disgust etched itself across the pale sorcerer’s features as he looked the king up and down. Hearing him say that only served to reinforce the rumours: Lerg was plotting to seize Narg’s crown. Could he also be involved with the manuscript?

'It would be wise for the elite warriors to respect my son,' said Lerg in response to Owin’s cold stare.

'They do, just as they do with all the lords of other realms,' replied Owin. 'At least, until Narg orders us otherwise,' he added with a half-smile and made his way through the rulers of Welst.

As the door slammed shut, Kuopio, who had fallen asleep in the armchair where he had collapsed, startled and wiped the thread of drool hanging from his beard. But Maed, who had remained awake and seated beside his king during the four hours they had been kept waiting, stood up.

'He hath certainly taken his time,' he grumbled, exasperated.

He groped his way towards the door in the dim light he had kept the chamber in so that Narg might rest.

'Important are all lives,' said the sorcerer with a smile.

The slender line of light streaming through the crevice of the door glimmered upon Maed’s golden curls as he, without concealing it, furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes.

The man was the one he had beheld in the courtyard, and yet he was not.

He wore the same long green tunic, had the same square jaw and thin eyebrows, but the man standing before him sported an uneven white beard and was three times his age.

'More than your king’s?' he asked at length, raising his left eyebrow as he confirmed that the energy he sensed from him was no less intense.

'By example hath a wise king taught me this: no less than any other life is a king who serves his people.'

'Do you deem him trustworthy?' asked Celtión, standing with her back to the sorcerer. 'I have never beheld them before.'

'However, the priestess Seidrín I do know,' he said, bowing his head in her honour. 'Masters of the paths are we, of here, but also of there. Guided by the stars, via the Ilmanur Bridge arrived we. At the right time. Just in time to fulfil our duty.'

Maed turned to Kuopio with a puzzled look upon his countenance. His accent and unfamiliar vocabulary did bewilder him, yet, at the same time, they did arouse his deep curiosity.

'From Wilmontón, is it not?' asked Kuopio.

'A little further east,' he replied, leaving him pensive.

He perused the maps, and Wilmontón, as far as he could recall, was the coastal kingdom that opened upon the Écolas Sea, further east of Tloston. What could lie beyond?

'Salvetja is my name, and Tobert is my ward,' he said, gesturing toward the young man of no more than fifteen, with large curls covering his head, who, though his nervousness was evident, bowed and shook their hands.

Maed, whilst shifting his gaze betwixt the old man, the young man and the priestess, spoke sparingly and in his own fashion, commenting upon the frequent episodes that Narg suffered and, without entering into detail, upon the tense situation he was undergoing.

Salvetja, sitting upon the cot, snapped his fingers and instantly the candle to his right lit up. He brought it close to Narg’s face, who lay sleeping with his mouth agape, and studied him for a few seconds until, with a gesture that only his pupil understood, he indicated what he required.