XVI – When the cat’s away #3

'I do not think I am judging you,' said Arwel, disguising his mistrust as empathy, 'but were you the one who unleashed such a burst of energy?'

Owin beheld himself advancing toward the bonfire; he felt the nape of his neck throbbing from the blow he had received.

He closed his eyes and strove to recall somewhat more.

Before the crackling fire, four human silhouettes.

He compelled himself. His hands glowed crimson—the energy, the forest and the sky.

The pounding of his heart warned him of peril and, fearful, he opened his eyes.

'If you wish, the dungeon shall be my place,' he said, and, standing, he held out his hands to shield his fears.

He pondered whether to offer an explanation for his belatedness to the former assembly, yet if Narg were indeed evil incarnate, they would require his aid to stay his hand.

After all, Celtión had dispatched Gwion to shield him.

He felt himself supported, the burden of duty upon his shoulders—yet with the pride of one who would ere long rise as a hero. At last.

They were not convinced, yet they did not act either, save Gwion, who drew the letter from his pocket and delivered it to Gregor, the official spokesperson, to read aloud.

'Maed,' whispered Cheas, covering his mouth.

No sooner had he finished than the eldest, searching for the trace that all magic leaves behind, held the paper up to the light of the candle upon the round table.

'You underestimate the intelligence of your king and mine own. It will take more than a note to cast doubt upon my loyalty,' said Arwel, bowing his head to stifle and hide the laughter at the thought that had crossed his mind.

Although his bowels burned with the urge to tear the heads from all—including Cheas and Gregor—he could not believe that for a thousandth of a second he missed Maed and his ramblings. What a weight that would have lifted from the situation.

'It is the seal of Celtión. Only a fool or one in league with Narg would deny such evidence,' quoth Gwion.

Arwel scarce lifted his head; the light from the candle beside him illuminated his visage, and, raising his left eyebrow, he replied:

'Gwion, the last time I was on the verge of slaying thee; do not put me to the test,' he said sharply, though without stirring. 'Whether or not thou art the one-eyed wolf.'

'The beast of the mountains that I slew with mine own hands also thought it had a chance against me,' he retorted, tearing off the bandage.

For the fire that rebellion had kindled within him, he would have set upon him straightway—in the blink of an eye he would have drawn his blade and slit his throat—but he beheld it.

The blue galaxies sparkled in Gwion’s eyes which, even in the warm twilight of dusk, in that small chamber of rock and wood, illuminated him to the middle of his torso.

'By the sharp edge of Tyr’s sword,' said Arwel, swallowing hard as he began to rethink his existence.

'Do you require any further proof?' said Owin, chest puffed out and chin raised, as if the very essence of his friend signified a victory for him.

'Celtión might be in danger,' said Cheas as he scratched his hairless chin.

It came as no surprise to him, nor to Gregor. Gwion might be Odín himself, yet they would still seek the truth to prove their king’s innocence. It pained them less—even death—than the thought of having to rise up against him.

'He may have been forced,' he continued, 'or be part of the plot out of spite for Narg,' he added, turning directly to Gwion.

'We are beating about the bush when we have an inexhaustible source of information locked away in Maed’s love chamber. Let us make the traitor sing,' muttered Gregor through clenched teeth.

They pondered the proposal in silence for a moment as they passed the note from hand to hand. He was right, yet Ubberia’s guards looked to Narg to pass judgement; any other course would spark a bloodbath.

'If Tower were in the stable, we should have someone to turn to,' said Gwion, to prove his impartiality to Arwel, and tucked the note into his shirt.

'He has chosen him as his master and tried, with great difficulty, to warn us of this.

If Narg were the villain, I think he had more than enough opportunity to throw him from his mount at full gallop. '

Despite what Arwel thought, Gwion felt terrible.

Before him stood his commander’s unwavering loyalty—the very loyalty he had learnt and made his own—and, in his possession, the seal that locked away a potentially terrible truth.

Blind loyalty or justified betrayal, duty-bound fidelity or treachery for love.

Gregor drew a deep breath to summon the rational mind within him.

There would be time later to mete out a sound thrashing to the conspirator with whom he shared a blood bond.

He understood that his thirst for justice must not outweigh his instinct to uncover the truth.

He had seen so many wise men driven to their deaths by vengeance or the lust for power that he did not wish to become one of them.

'At what hour did you receive the note?' he asked at length, his countenance inquiring.

Gwion turned thoughtfully towards Owin.

'It is true, it cannot possibly be from Celtión,' the sorcerer stated, doing the maths.

'If they departed yesterday before lunch, they would have reached Lepontia—if they were heading thither, with luck and avoiding the storm—by dawn this day.

Secondly, no raven, however swift it may be and with a tailwind, can cover that distance in less than four hours. '

'Besides, how would it know you would be in Ubberia?' added Cheas.

'Celtión hath been consecrated. She could see the future,' Owin explained, then corrected himself.

Arwel, bewildered by his sudden changes, turned back to him and, espying the thin scar upon his cheek, pointed it out whilst lifting his chin.

As a good commander, he kept a watchful eye on his comrades to ensure their well-being, and that scar, though it looked old, he had never seen before.

Owin, feeling uncomfortable, avoided his gaze and hid it behind a strand of hair.

Cheas, an attentive observer of the situation, noted how Arwel’s blue eyes scanned the meeting room as he calculated movements and possible lines of attack.

'The Lodge of Shadows is desperate,' said Cheas, turning to Gregor. 'I have decided to call them that.'

The seasoned warrior shrugged. At this juncture, what did it matter to him what name he gave to those who threatened the light?

'Let us recapitulate: Tregor hath confessed, and there may be at least three of them: him, Windar, and the manuscript mentioned another.'