XVIII – The X marks the spot

It was nigh upon midnight when they stepped forth into the castle gardens on their way to the library. Two guards sought to accompany them, but Maed charmed them into remaining and requested that they seek out Pelit, who kept vigil in his office awaiting tidings of the king’s health.

Narg’s patience hung by a slender thread.

Kuopio, who had stood at his side for nigh upon a lifetime, could sense it in each of his gestures and even in his breath.

And it was not merely that, though his visage had regained its shape, he was vexed by his still somewhat swollen eyelid, or the numbness of his cheek, or the absence of sensation in his lower lip.

In less than half an hour, the eve of his birthday would commence, and he yearned to return to Old Minister, yet with answers.

His disquietude prevented him from beholding how majestic the city appeared, nestled upon the hillsides with small lanterns embedded in the rocks, illuminating the paths.

Nor could he delight in the images etched into the red tiles commemorating the siege of Kerkion, nor did he remark upon the fresh air that enveloped them before one of the library doors opened.

He was intent upon his objective which, unlike the battlefield, he did not know how to navigate.

Scarcely had he crossed the threshold when he halted upon the carpet at the foot of the steps, his warriors standing firm upon either side.

In the same movement he adjusted his cloak and sword, and was about to clear his throat when, from behind one of the many blocks with shelves, Milkron peered out and beckoned to them with his hand.

Narg made no effort to hide his presence and clicked the heels of his boots to break the silence.

He walked down the central aisle past the desks, and the scene confused him.

Time there seemed to have stood still. He observed what he believed to be the same elders, seated at the same lecterns, in the same positions he remembered before fainting.

Kuopio followed him, head bowed, stroking his bare chin. After collecting the debt, the sorcerer Salvetja had retired to rest, leaving his pupil, Tobert, in charge of the king’s health.

As he passed the mirror, Maed turned, hoping to catch a glimpse of his reflection once more.

He yearned to feel that analytical adrenaline which stirred his thoughts so greatly.

Yet they had concealed it behind the curtain once more, and, lest he be left behind, he hastened his pace whilst beholding the shelves lined with volumes.

'How that bookworm Gwion would love to be here,' he thought, and permitted himself to be entranced by the sweet scent of incense.

Beside him strode Celtión, her head covered in black velvet. She sought to conceal her bewilderment after her father had disregarded her counsel to return to the realm. He had been clear: he would not depart without an answer, dead or alive.

When they arrived, Milkron bowed to the king, but went to meet his boy Maed.

He drew his arm around him from behind his neck and patted him upon the chest a few times.

Right glad was he to behold him—and he desired to savour this boon of fate, for he knew they would ere long take their leave and that, as a rule of life, they would nevermore meet.

Narg, torn betwixt impatience and uncertainty, beheld them, longing for his father, even though his memory of him was fleeting.

'King Hugnork, over here!'

It did not take Narg long to recognise the deep, raspy voice of the man who had introduced them to the Soul Mirror that very morning. He turned, though amidst so many hooded heads he could not make out who was calling him, until Tobert pointed him out.

They made their way towards the back of the library, in single file.

Milkron observed how Maed was studying Celtión, who was walking ahead of them, and with a gesture asked what was amiss.

'I do not understand,' he said, not fretting that she might hear him. 'If the priestess be so powerful, why did she not aid her father with magic or some pimpum ?' He accompanied the word with an exaggerated spreading of his hands.

Narg turned and, with his index finger to his lips, accompanied by a click, bade him be silent. Milkron, on the other hand, with a warm smile of one satisfying a child’s curiosity, explained that the priestesses were the channel to the god to whom they had consecrated themselves.

'This is not the first time humanity hath walked through the gorge,' he said, drawing him nearer so he might hear without raising his voice.

'Ere Odín gave his Ravens, magic upon earth was yet more scarce and could only be wielded by the Naamclënt.

One of them, a Pure One with the Sixfold Star, did craft the spell and bless the first priestess to stand as the bridge to the gods, and thus receive the guidance of light in her words. '

To be a high priestess was the highest aspiration for those who dedicated their lives to the divine.

There was one for each god, and only one could hold the title at any one time.

When she passed away, the aspirants underwent the consecration ritual, which involved bathing their bodies in mead and essences to cleanse them of impurities.

Then, in the midst of the ceremony, one by one they left the mark of their breath—a part of their soul—upon the Hallowed Rock Crystal; and if she was the chosen one, her new name, by which she was reborn, was written in the moisture.

Seidrín was the youngest in history to attain the rank; perhaps Frey had chosen her because of her blessed blood.

'Priestesses may or may not be sorceresses. The Sages of the North you see here, however, certainly are,' added Tobert, and as he paused upon reaching the far end of the hall, he held out his hand to point at the hooded figures.

The great library of Lepontia was a haven for sorcerers from all the kingdoms, a place to grow old and leave, for posterity, the wisdom of the path set down in writing. Moreover, there they might be of use, devoted to studying and perfecting their knowledge to aid those seeking answers.

'It is said that Odín chose from among them the four who make up The Oracle.'

'The Oracle is a legend like so many others,' said Maed, folding his arms. 'It is unrealistic that a company of decrepit men might endure upon the summit of the Everwhite Mountain.'

'Said Odín’s Wolf,' interrupted the raspy voice. 'Welcome back, Raven King. The light, I see, thou hast found.'

In the most hidden corner, they discovered him.

With his head completely concealed and his body reclined, he was stroking the blank pages of the book upon the desk before him.

Yet the surprise was even greater when Kuopio leaned in to see his face.

He turned to Narg, pointed to his eyes, and then shook his head.

'Blind, indeed, am I,' he said as he removed the piece of cloak to reveal his white pupils and a bald patch glinting in the candlelight to his right. 'The legends are true—even when appearances deceive, my dear Maed.'

Narg turned and, with his disapproving gaze, narrowed eyes and clenched jaw, he crushed Maed with his stare. Kuopio also turned to him, but looked confused. The king had gone from placing immense trust in his young warrior to being annoyed by everything he did.

Maed averted his eyes from his king and, to hide how vulnerable he felt, aped the gesture his comrade made with his arms outstretched.

With a knot in his stomach, he felt once more how insignificant he was compared to his brother’s greatness.

Defeated, he brushed Milkron’s arm off his shoulder with a condescending smile and walked away.

'Do not scold him,' said the sage. 'The innocence of children helps us see things that adults are unable to perceive.'

Narg’s eyes rolled back in their sockets. He had never heard such utter nonsense about Maed. Innocent? That was the last word he would use to describe him.

'Forgive me for disturbing thee, but I have come in—'

'—search of answers regarding the manuscript thou dost carry within thy right boot. If thou must needs apologise, it is a sign that thou knowest thou art doing something wrong—but as thou art not, thou needest not.'

He did not know what to say. He had heard of the sensory powers of the Sages of the North, yet he had never had the pleasure of meeting one.

The first act of the old man with the still-rolled-up manuscript was to draw it near his visage, examine it with his hands, and smell it. Then he carefully unrolled it upon the blank book and ran his fingertips over it.

'Curious,' he said before returning to his study.

'This manuscript was…'

'If thou tellest me what thou wishest to hear, then thou shalt not know the truth. Do thyself a favour and hold thy peace.'

Narg clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. He could not call to mind the last person who had dared to speak to him with such impunity, yet he held his counsel, lest he forfeit what he perceived might be his final opportunity to learn the truth.

'Pure is thy soul, Mr Raven—but the ego that those around thee have taken it upon themselves to nurture oozeth from thy pores.'

The word Ego again. The experience from two days past—the vivid memory of his daughter being devoured by a pair of jaws—made him shudder, and, turning pale, he looked towards her.

But Celtión, her fingers clasped on her skirt as if it were none of her concern, watched him from her seat beside Tobert, who was enthusiastically taking note of all that was transpiring.