XXII – Prayer in the night #2

'If I cannot set them all right, I desire at least to make amends for the worst mistake of my life,' he said and kissed her hand.

'Celtión, take my crown, marry whomever thou wishest, but do not leave our kingdom in Lerg’s hands.

' He turned to the wise old man and asked, 'How doth one veto the consecration of a priestess? '

'Impossible,' replied Tobert, taking two steps towards him whilst adjusting his brown suede waistcoat.

But, beneath Narg’s wrathful gaze, he withdrew to sit in a corner in penance.

'Then it shall be the first reign without a king, governed by a council and a priestess.'

He beheld his daughter’s smile once more, the sparkle within her eyes, the freckles that perfectly adorned her cheeks, and he was at peace. He would die; he was prepared for that, yet he desired that image to be the last thing he beheld.

'Are you so afraid of losing for the first time in your life that you would rather leave us alone in this battle?' said Maed.

'Fool!' Narg shouted. 'You have no notion how greatly I yearn to loose the darkness that lurks within me—the darkness the Soul Mirror laid bare—and slay you this very moment.'

Without a second thought, Maed spun Santiana through the air and, when the hilt was in front of Narg, offered it to him.

'Go on then. Loose it, and at least let it die fighting.'

Agreeing, Narg took his sword, not because he intended to use it, but to force the Father’s Wolf to comply with his wish.

'Let us fulfil our destiny,' shouted Narg, both hands clenched around the hilt, raising his arms above his head.

'And so they shall, for words are like butterflies. The variety of their colours, the meanings we ascribe to them,' said the blind old man, who sat down with Milkron’s help.

Narg lowered his sword, without breaking his attack stance, and looked at him over his shoulder.

'I believe the plan was to have the beast take possession of thy body. But, even though it cost thy mother her life, and my eyes, it was worth it for me, Farfal Gerinson, royal sorcerer of the court of Curktron, to delay thy arrival into the world.'

Bewildered by what he had just heard, Maed sought refuge in the eyes that, crinkled by a smile, were looking at him: Milkron. Little by little, everything began to make sense.

Narg, his legs trembling, settled down beside the old man, who took his time to feel his way across the table with his hands until he found Narg’s and gently clasped them.

Farfal told them that, as soon as the wedding of the King of Lepontia, celebrated over lunch, had ended, Narg’s mother had fainted. When she regained consciousness two hours later, as evening fell, she thought she had wet herself, but in reality her waters had broken.

'Two moons earlier than planned,' said Narg, who knew the tale of his birth.

'I was on my way out of the kingdom when a mounted guard stopped me.'

Being an only child and having received warning from his cousin Drotken concerning the Blood Moon, Farfal was endeavouring to flee to the southern lands; yet, upon hearing the tidings, he did not hesitate to return and lend aid.

'A man’s actions speak louder than the legends told of him or his knowledge,' said Milkron. 'That is honour.'

Narg’s blue eyes were fixed upon the old man’s, as if his white retinas were painting his tale like a canvas. For Kuopio, it began to work like a lullaby, and, without ceasing to listen, to keep himself from yawning further, he set about handing out the water Pelit had poured.

'A mother’s instinct knoweth more than the threads of the universe’s loom. She asked me to help her hold on.'

The sage’s hoarse, deep voice seemed to lay colour upon the tale, and in it Narg heard more of his mother than he had in the brief time he had been granted with his father.

He knew his mother had insisted upon returning to Old Minister so that the future king would not be born under any banner other than that of the raven, but the birth was imminent.

'She was a woman of strong character,' said Farfal, and Narg hid a smile behind his hand.

'Although I warned her of the danger, she insisted that the courage of the raven she carried in her womb would ensure its survival, and she convinced Renger.

So, with a combination of herbs, I managed to ease her pain and slow down the labour. '

Every three hours, certain of the temple’s stained-glass windows were opened, that the place, anchored in the heart of the mountain, might be ventilated after so much incense had been burned.

And, even though the windows were upon the main façade, a cold blizzard reached Narg’s neck.

As he shivered, he recalled the sensation he had during his last nightmare: the emptiness that cradled him and stayed his fall.

'Did it snow that night?' he asked.

'Aye,' he affirmed, reaching out to stroke his cheek. 'When the last drop of the moon’s blood evaporated, the queen used her final breath to push one last time. With thy first cry, the whole sky turned grey and the kingdom was draped in white.'

If the beast’s soul, as recounted in the book of Perkolon, had descended to earth upon the completion of the Blood Moon, it was impossible for it to possess him, Narg concluded, and his frown began to relax.

Yet he still harboured certain doubts, which he resolved to dispel as he beheld his daughter take up Perkolon’s manuscript.

'I am my father’s firstborn; why did I not die?'

'The curse went unnoticed in Lepontia. Unlike other servants of the court, I was born in Kerkion, right on the border.'

He and four other young men had survived, though each suffered irrevocable consequences: the loss of one of their senses. One of them oozed fluid from his ears for five days until he went deaf; another had half his tongue split.

'My eyes blistered as if they had been burned.'

Narg felt pity and, as he pieced things together, he asked himself: 'Who else but me?'

Within the garret, Owin’s chamber, they were confined along with the widow who had beheld their entry, sitting in the sole clear space amidst the litter scattered everywhere: the bed.

It was no coincidence they had chosen that room; upon the topmost floor and with only a skylight for a window, they could not escape.

As soon as the soldier from Welst closed the door and took up his guard, Arwel lunged at Owin. With his hands about his neck, he pinned him against the wall. Gwion, who was striving to pull them asunder, was grateful that they were disarmed.

'Leave him alone,' he entreated. 'It is clear that Celtión’s letter is true, and Windar needs to be rid of him.'

Arwel clenched his teeth a little tighter and narrowed his eyes. The fact that Owin, pale as he was, offered no resistance infuriated him even more.

'It is you, is it not? Confess!' the commander roared, drawing him from the wall to smite him anew. 'I have not forgotten what I found in the forest.'

Owin merely shook his head and squeezed his eyelids shut. Gwion, wearied of his refusal to hearken, sought to thrust him away, but Cheas interposed himself.

'On the last page, my father said he did not trust Owin.'

'Right, show me,' said Gwion arrogantly, thrusting his chest against Cheas’s. 'Ah, no, you have handed it over to Cloet. It is clear you are looking for a new lord to serve.'

Cheas’s reaction confused Gwion. He flashed a broad smile, tilting his head to one side, looking somewhat tender, then punched him in the pit of his stomach. The unexpected blow left him doubled over and gasping for air.

Arwel released Owin to stay their hand, but Gregor held him back by the breast. Cheas seized his comrade by the hair and compelled him to lift his head.

'It is because Cloet hath the letter. You fool!'

Gwion’s eyes filled his face and he was left gasping for air again, but this time it was his heart that stole it from him. His mind, to escape, began to hum the healing lullaby.

'You should not have. Your father left it to you,' said Gregor.

'You know, perhaps it was a good idea. What intuition drives us to do is rarely wrong,' said Miar, observing the scene unfolding before her.

Cheas loosed Gwion, glared defiantly at Gregor and went to meet the widow. Before sitting down beside her, he unfastened his cloak and draped it over her shoulders, which were hunched against the cold.

It was incredible how that woman, even in the face of such violence and the certainty of death, never let the smile depart her lips. He was studying her composure when he noted how, with a touching gentleness, she stroked the green bracelet with small white flowers that was tied about her wrist.

Cloet rolled over in bed again and buried his face in the pillow. The weeping and cries for aid coming from his father’s chamber were rending his heart.

'I am your new king, do you hear me? Whether you like it or not, you will please me. Now, turn over and lie still.'

It had been a long time since those screams had woken him. In Welst, the maidens and servants were accustomed to fulfilling the king’s wishes. And he was grateful that this time the king was not forcing him to watch 'how a real man did it' .

He wondered, almost convinced, if Narg was different.

That that letter was a lie. That Tregor and Maltón’s diary were but the tip of the iceberg.

Given the admiration he felt for his uncle, he could not accept it.

He needed to cling to the legend. He refused to be like his father; he desired to be like Alfredo, like Narg, even though Lerg kept telling him that these were fables that glorified men of little character.