XXIV – Of the Beasts Skin Am I

The stone that sealed the fate of Old Minister and later of Móntria creaked within Narg’s gloved fist.

'He swore to me it would have no effect upon the ravens. That it would only give me the courage I needed to bring about the future I desired for my people.'

Maed felt his breath catch as he was lost in the memory and beheld the same expression upon Gwion’s countenance that morning when Gwion had told him of the manuscript. Both their gazes reflected unease and dismay, as if the two men he admired had succumbed for the same reason: a tale ill told.

With Milkron’s hand upon his shoulder, he had to swallow hard to resist the urge to turn and curl up in his arms, even as he had done in his childhood.

Glancing about the library, he perceived that Kuopio, Pelit and, a little further off, Tobert with his notebook and inkwell, had adopted the selfsame posture, arms at their sides and backs hunched under a weight none of them was prepared to bear.

Ere Narg might beseech him anew to fulfil his destiny, he set Santiana upon the table and retreated several paces.

Let another accomplish the deed—Pelit, or the old sage, or Celtión, whose visage was scarce discernible beneath the hood of her black velvet robe.

He did not care, yet he would not do it, nor would Kuopio; the cost of the unfathomable stain of regicide upon their consciences would lead them to the grave.

Narg put the stone away, removed his gloves and began to stroke Santiana’s blade with the tips of his ten fingers. From hilt to tip and back again, whilst gazing at his reflection in the polished steel.

'May the brilliance of this noble metal reflect as much light upon your path as you do, noble one, upon the paths of others,' he recalled the words his beloved wife had spoken on the day she handed him the sword she had commissioned to be forged for him.

He sighed. How he missed her. It was to defend her and his little Celtión that he had found the courage to conquer Kerkion after they had taken up arms.

'If it had not been for your mother, I would be a stubborn loner,' he said to Celtión, 'a lonely, cowardly and stubborn king. In that respect, I pity Lerg; he never loved his wife enough to find the right path.'

And that warm memory made him drop the heavy bag he had been carrying upon his back at his feet so she could see what lay within: his greatest fear.

The one that had intoxicated him during that bloody clash that marked a turning point in his life; it burned him anew and merged with the rage of believing himself to be the shadow’s puppet.

He reproached himself for not having realised his own darkness that day in the open field against the revolutionaries.

He smelled the scent of blood—that of others, which bathed his hands; that of his own, which dripped from his forehead—and suddenly, his scar stung, forcing him to remember.

That was why he had banned spells in battle, for within him lay Odín’s power and blessing to find the way, and to that blessing he turned as he stood up.

'You can accuse me of whatever you like, but I did not kill Maltón because of the darkness within me. He was my friend and I…' He struck his chest and looked upon Celtión. 'I am the heir of the raven.'

Carried away by the memory, he recounted the scene to them as he relived it.

It was within the board chamber, upon that first day he established the council.

Arwel, Kuopio and Gregor had withdrawn, and Narg, whilst Maltón tended to the cut upon his brow, seized the occasion to confess what had befallen upon the field of Kerkion: 'If it were not for the rock, I should never have had the courage to do it,' he remembered him saying.

'Without stones to cling to, faced with the uncertain void of the fall when the cracks of duty open beneath our feet, we would never fulfil our destiny.

It is not magic; that has always been within you,' said Narg.

'So Maltón confessed to me that it was a simple rock he had picked up from a pile of rubble the day we met. '

Maed thought he recognised those words and turned, his wide eyes bright with silver:

'How came you by Tower?'

Puzzled, Narg looked at him, unsure what his horse had to do with it, but he realised that those eyes, which he admired with wonder and fear at the same time, had something to tell him.

'I do not recall how long ago, yet I do recall how: it was legendary!' he exclaimed enthusiastically.

With the confidence of being among friends, he turned around in the saddle.

The posture he adopted, with his legs apart and his elbows on the backrest, brought a smile to Pelit’s face.

That was how he used to sit on quiet evenings during his youth, entertaining them over a few beers with some adventure, even if it was made up.

And with the same passion, he began his tale.

Alone, he appeared at the north gate. Black, as dark as the unfathomable universe, majestic and wrathful, he refused to be caught.

The tidings spread throughout the realm because, despite being savage, he made no endeavour to flee, and folk began to wager upon who could hunt him down without harming him.

'It was clear that he chose me above all others. As soon as he saw me, he approached and lowered his head so that the rope might be slipped around his neck,' said Narg, holding out his hands to illustrate the moment. 'From that moment on, I alone have had the honour of riding him.'

'And, since the fall of Ubberia, Gwion,' added Kuopio, trying to smooth down the memory of his goatee.

Narg raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes. He had guessed the intent of the question, though not the reason behind it. He turned towards Maed, who, in a silent conversation with a blind man, received a signal from Farfal to continue along that path.

'Before I set out,' he said, his eyes now green, 'was it before or after Maltón’s death?'

'Shortly afterwards,' replied Kuopio. 'I know because it gave Narg something else to think about after the execution.'

'So, like Colquen with the bear, Maltón transmuted his soul before he died.'

'Tower!' shouted Narg.

He leapt to his feet, overturning the chair, yet clung tightly to the table as a wave of dizzying emotion swept over him.

'Why did you not send me flying the first time I mounted it? If his death and the failure of his mission rest upon my shoulders.'

'For sometimes, my king, an ally’s loyalty—and their purpose—is so great that it transcends life itself,' said Maed, his eyes closed as he held back his emotion.

And in four words, together with Kuopio, they recounted their brother’s skill—he had read the manuscript—and, emphasising how sorry they felt, the reason for the fight in the library.

'You may rest assured, Gwion will ensure the kingdom remains at peace.'

'You are right,' said Narg, his eyes glazed over. 'We must all fight this war together. If I die now, there is no guarantee that the beast will not awaken here. If I am to die, it will be to ward off the darkness, with my hands stained with one last blood: that of Windar.'

'If thou returnest to Old Minister, thou wilt condemn all of humanity,' said Celtión, stepping in front of him. 'When thou arrivest, Lerg’s army will be waiting for thee, and thou wilt give them the reason to shed the necessary blood, and the beast will awaken.'

When the loft door opened, the knowing smile between Cheas and Miar flashed in the dim light. Bearing a candelabrum, the letter and the diary, and with his waistcoat badly fastened, Cloet entered.

Gwion stood up and confronted him with arms outstretched.

'If you have come for me, here I am. Do you intend to attack me like a coward?'

'Silence!' shouted Cloet, baring his waist. 'I have come unarmed, and it is up to you to shed light on all this.'

Gwion, taken aback, glanced out of the corner of his eye at Cheas, who, as if he had won a wager, gave him a wink.

'Be grateful that I am an educated man and you are still breathing. I care little that you are Odín’s Wolf.' He began tapping his chest with his index finger. 'For as soon as Narg returns, and we have cleared this up, you and I, sword in hand, without armour, shall meet in the arena.'

He pushed him out of his way and halted in the midst.

Arwel, with his back and left leg against the wall by the door, watched him with his arms crossed over his chest and noted how nervous he was, rubbing his hands frantically after placing the objects upon the table.

'By the sharp-edged sharpness of Tyr’s sword. Canst thou not see that Lerg hath sent him to extract a confession and execute us ere Narg returneth?' said Arwel.

'I have come because, amidst all this power play, this interplay of light and darkness, the scales must be tipped in the direction of justice.'

He stood before the men who were defending his uncle’s life, and even he could scarcely believe it.

He admired them, every single one of them.

He needed to be precise, lest they interrupt him, and so clear that there could be no doubt as to his sincerity.

He imagined, as he had so many times before, leading the council with the confidence and manner he believed Narg possessed.

Then he told them he knew the legend Maltón recounted in his diary, as well as that of Colquen the Hermit and his greatness.

He went over to Cheas and shook his hand.

'I knew your father. He was an extraordinary man with whom I could talk for hours on countless subjects. Now that I know who his instructor was, I understand so much more.'

Gregor, despite the disapproving looks he received from Arwel and Gwion, made use of his oratorical skills and recited Perkolon’s manuscript in detail, along with a summary of everything they knew. What did it matter, if Lerg would surely have them executed?