XXII – Prayer in the night #3

After Narg broke off the betrothal without further explanation, nothing Cloet did met with his king’s approval.

Thanks to the education his mother had given him, he possessed a vocabulary, etiquette and knowledge of history and geography, mythology and science, which far surpassed Lerg’s own knowledge.

Yet, however sound his counsel or plan for the realm might be, his father would dismiss it.

He prioritised his own manhood. 'You will never be man enough to reign,' he would repeat after some heated argument, such as the last one that had taken place a few hours before setting off for Old Minister, which he recalled with clenched teeth.

'If Celtión be present, thou must appear as a true warrior. There is no more fitting attire than thy armour and ceremonial crown alongside the emblem of our kingdom. Perhaps I shall break my vow, even if that means going to war with Weftein.'

Lerg had said as he tossed aside the garments that Cloet had carefully selected and arranged within the suitcase.

'You do not care whether we are wed. You intend to slay Narg and seize his empire either way.'

The truth, spoken in anger or not, would have caused him just as much pain as the punch his father had landed in the pit of his stomach.

He sat upon the bed and took up Celtión’s letter.

He called to mind that celebration where he first beheld her.

It was impossible for him to forget that smile and those freckles which had filled his heart.

Yet, so many years later, he did not know if he loved her.

So why did it grieve him? Because he had but newly learned she loved another man, or because she was his second thwarted love.

Sickened by the moans and screams, he resolved to take a stroll. At the castle gate a guard offered to accompany him, yet he refused. He was armed and had no purpose to stray far from the garden, being clad only in his dress waistcoat.

He was about to reach the heart of the intricate labyrinth when a murder of ravens flew overhead.

He closed his eyes and pursed his lips, gripping the hilt; then, he heard it.

First, the scraping of stones, and he hid behind one of the monoliths depicting the figure of the warrior Santiana.

He beheld how, beneath the statue of Alfredo, one of the rocks—the largest one—was finishing closing and returning to its place.

Then the sound of footsteps reached him and he poked his head out.

A shadow moved swiftly behind the statue and Cloet, breathing heavily, began to draw his sword.

'Who goes there?' said a voice to his right.

'I am Cloet, Prince of Welst.'

He sheathed his sword upon recognising the platinum-blue armour of the elite warriors and endeavoured to discern why he was not locked away with his companions.

'I am the grandmother queen’s personal escort; she sent me to a place, but I have lost my way. I am retracing the path from where we parted to find my way.'

Cloet cast his gaze upon the statue and, without beating about the bush, asked him where that place was. Bartón looked for an excuse to lie, but could not. He puffed out his chest and decided to stand his ground against the prince.

'To the hut where we were hiding from the traitors, like Gwion and Celtión, or your father and yourself.'

With feigned calm, Cloet patted the burly bald man on the shoulder and replied with a smile:

'Go in peace. Windar is sleeping in her bedchamber and has appointed my father to rule the kingdom until Narg’s return.'

'All is well, gentlemen.'

From where the statue stood, a soldier in a black cloak and clad in ministerial armour drew near.

'Pokrak?' asked Bartón, surprised.

Cloet scrutinised him from head to toe. A heavy burlap sack hung from his shoulder, and from his waist hung two swords, one of which—with a black blade and golden hilt—he thought he recognised. Yet he assumed it must be a replica; none of those legendary weapons had been seen since Alfredo’s death.

He observed the expression upon the soldier’s thin, high-cheekboned visage as the man wheeled toward Bartón, and the foul stench of deceit assailed Cloet.

'Come on. I know the way,' said Pokrak, placing a hand upon Bartón’s shoulder.

They took their leave, and as soon as they had taken a few paces, Bartón, with his shining bald pate, turned:

'Is Tregor all right?'

'He is in a safe place,' he replied, waving his hand to bid them farewell and hide the trembling of his body.

He knew not what moved him to act thus, yet he did; he took the stairs two at a time up to the second floor.

He halted before the door of Windar’s chamber.

He rapped twice and then peered within. With his heart beating like the drumbeat of war, he wheeled back toward the stairs.

He did not repair to his father. Straight as an arrow, he climbed up to the attic.

The thud as Celtión placed the manuscript upon the desk before her father snapped him out of his reverie.

'The plan to possess the raven baby failed, and that is why they swapped the children,' said the priestess.

'That is what Halfdan meant by my invented blood.'

'First, the child is on his way to you; you shall recognise him, he radiates salvation. Like an ostrich, one for glory, the other for the flies,' Celtión read aloud. 'The true heir of the raven is in the kingdom and shall be the sacrifice.'

'Narg is the heir; he controls the ravens,' added Kuopio, folding his arms.

'He doth not possess Alfredo’s blood. Didst thou suppose I had forgotten the tale thou didst relate to me in my childhood concerning thy coronation?'

Narg cast up his eyes toward Maed and closed them. None knew what they were about to hear, save his dear Celtión. For a moment he felt the relief of not being him, but the lie he had convinced himself of had come to an end.

'Gentlemen, your king, Narg Hugnork, doth not control the ravens,' quoth Celtión as she looked each of them in the eye, one by one.

'That is why he compelled me to consecrate myself.

He knew I could not pass the test he had passed, were it not for the enchanted stone Maltón gave thee.

And I am certain he sentenced him when at last he discovered it was him. '

Kuopio sought support from Maed, but found him with a glassy stare, his gaze lost in nothingness. Then, towards Narg, who had removed his crown—the one he felt he should never have worn—and placed it upon the table, his head bowed, defeated, his fists clenched.

Crouching beside her father, with one hand upon his lap, she tried to get him to look at her.

'The goodness that remains in thee hath driven thee here so that thou might prevent this,' she whispered.

Narg put his hand in his pocket. 'Maltón has lied to me,' he thought as he furiously clenched the stone that had sealed his fate.