XXIV – Of the Beasts Skin Am I #3

He set the cup of clay before Narg, and the king gathered the little saliva that his nerves had not yet dried up.

He blushed before spitting. On the one hand, he felt he was disrespecting those present; on the other, he feared he would spoil the ineffable nature of that substance.

He closed his eyes and, with his lips at the rim, let it fall.

With trembling hands, he swirled the cup as if tasting wine and, to his relief, liquid remained.

He drew breath heavily, as one emerging from the ocean’s depths where he had wandered lost for a long time.

Celtión cast back her hood and, after pushing Maed aside—who stood behind the king—embraced her father from behind.

There was no longer any doubt: Narg Hugnork, heir to Alfredo and to Odín’s Ravens, was absolved of having to don the beast’s skin.

Yet ere they gave themselves to rejoicing, Kuopio requested leave, took up the cup, and bade Pelit follow him in the trial.

'I do not mean to be dramatic, but no one should get their hands dirty.'

He rested the tip of his sword just beneath his chin, brought the cup close and spat into it.

The saliva dissolved in the water and not a trace remained.

With a smile, he passed it to Pelit, who received it with a startling pallor on his dark complexion.

And to the relief of those present, he obtained the same result: the beast was not among them.

'Then,' quoth Narg, taking the time to look at each of his companions in turn until he reached Maed, and then releasing the doubt that had knotted his body and soul, 'who hath the audacity to bear the raven’s insignia and embody the shadow?'

The question was put to all, yet the king awaited answer from his faithful Maed.

At that moment a silent dance began. Odín’s Wolf and Odín’s Raven regarded each other, face to face.

Their eyes shifted from right to left. An invisible thread linked their thoughts, the very same that bound them in destiny and to their history, one as ancient as time itself.

Neither Kuopio nor Celtión, nor Pelit nor Milkron perceived it.

Farfal did. He, with his blind white eyes, beheld the magnetic pull, robed in light, that flowed between the king and his warrior.

Maed focused his instinct—one he had not yet learnt to control—to uncover the truth.

First he conjured the image of the soldiers in the troop, then the villagers and the castle servants.

Each was encompassed by a particular hue: reds and oranges, turquoises and emeralds, some bright, others more subdued or pale.

Each stood out in their uniqueness. What he imagined, Narg beheld in astonishment, whilst feeling his skin bristle with increasing intensity as the silhouettes passed.

When he reached the last one, none resonated, and Maed shook his head from side to side, as if tossing the long silver mane of his true essence.

He denied the possibility that evil could be found amongst his comrades, and in the hope of not finding it amongst them, he scanned the faces of the council.

One shone blue, another green, the next yellow and… Black.

The connection was severed. Odín’s Raven and Odín’s Wolf had closed their eyes, as if wishing to blind themselves to the truth that had been revealed before them. Amidst the tense, expectant silence, Farfal was about to speak, but Maed parted his lips and, with a whisper mute with sorrow, said:

'Owin.'

The scar upon Narg’s brow smarted as if the old memory of his migraines were striving to take dominion.

The vision he had beheld that night, when his dream was no dream—he knew that, even as Colquen the Hermit, he had received a revelation.

For the cup of Windar’s fortune was, beyond doubt, Tyr’s golden cup.

With all his might, he conjured the scenes before his eyes. It was them, and he realised that Gwion was not plotting against him; he was holding Owin back. And as he beheld Odín’s Wolf standing before him, he knew that his kingdom and humanity lay in the other man’s hands.

'Arwel could be a problem,' said Gwion, rubbing his left forearm vigorously as he observed his unease.

He knew his commander would not stand idly by, even if it were revealed that Narg was the evil one. 'The raven’s pet,' he thought, and continued in the face of an Owin who remained silent.

'I shall speak to Gregor; I am sure we can count upon his aid.'

The sorcerer looked towards Cheas, who emerged from his stillness to adjust the cloak covering the sleeping Miar.

'Not him,' said Gwion. 'It is clear he is comfortable as Cloet’s lackey.

' Owin shook his head. 'We must intercept the host before they arrive, for I doubt he will give Narg a fair trial, and even less so if Celtión is travelling with them. The ravens of the east cannot be trusted, and I will not leave my brother’s life in the hands of that brazen princeling. '

A faint groan escaped his throat as he clenched his left fist to steady his nerves at the thought of Maed being in peril. Owin realised that the discomfort in his forearm was not the common itch of a healing wound, and, to soothe it, he groped through his scattered belongings.

He concluded that naught he picked up in the dim light would be of any use.

He did not desire Arwel to interfere, even if, in his characteristic distrust, he was watching them from the other end of the room.

He would have preferred to trade some dried ash roots rather than use the energy of his Naamclënt soul and risk his spell going awry due to lack of rest or his frayed nerves.

He sought the confidence he needed in Celtión’s letter.

He perused anew the paragraph wherein it was averred that he was the key to staying the evil.

With his composure restored, after delivering the note to Gwion, he took his arm and removed the stained bandage. The swollen veins were bluish.

'For the past two days, I have broken almost every rule Maltón imposed upon me. One more will not make any difference amidst all this chaos. It shall hurt a little.'

With his fingertips glowing in a pale blue light, he placed them gently over each incision from the bite of the bear of Ubberia.

Gwion clenched his jaw and clutched the letter to his chest. He knew not what he disliked most—the pain, the sensation of anger spreading through his body, or the smell of burnt flesh.

'If we are not free by midday, we shall take action,' said Gwion, relaxing his hold. 'You must put the guards to sleep.'

Owin nodded, though he made his displeasure clear.

To knock out so many soldiers, he would surely have to either make a powerful exchange or use dark magic, and that bothered him more than the fact that the request came from Gwion, the most righteous among them.

But if he had to do it, he was willing to stain his soul a little further to save humanity.

'It must be you and me, for if it be not Narg, then it is Kuopio—they are of the proper age. One of you weareth the beast’s skin.'

The flash of galaxies that flickered in Gwion’s eyes frightened Owin, who had to close his own. 'The beast’s skin,' he repeated in his head. The sea washed over his face and he pretended to cough as he hid between his knees to endure the pain that overwhelmed him.

He felt the adrenaline of that night all over again, in the midst of the storm by Brimmon’s oak, the hand on his shoulder and the blow to his head. But this time, stirred by the voice endlessly repeating the beast’s skin, the mist shrouding his memories cleared.

He awoke by the bonfire, leaning against a log, as a pair of elderly hands held his head and made him drink a thick liquid. He grimaced as soon as his taste buds detected the sour, tangy flavour—like nothing he had ever tasted before—which filled his mouth with saliva. He swallowed.

'Fear not, my child. With this, thou shalt be safe from that which is to come.'

He was still dizzy, but he recognised the voice of the grandmother queen as her figure took shape before his dazed gaze and he felt the rain as if the storm were raging miles away.

'I received your message this morning,' she said as she tried to straighten her back, 'but I could not find you. That is why I was late for the council and, well, why I am being punished.'

'I did find you.'

'It was not difficult; the whole kingdom knew where I would be. Bartón made sure even the market stallholders found out.'

'Thou art where thou oughtest to be. Happy birthday!'

It was then that he remembered Perkolon’s manuscript and, in desperation, as he stood up, he looked around.

They were enveloped in a sort of invisible bubble that repelled the savage gale whirling earth, logs and rocks around them.

The bonfire blazed, a bluish glow, rising high enough to brush the treetops.

He peered over the crackling flames and espied three other folk drawing near.

He stood on guard and looked at them defiantly.

Never in his forty years—exactly turned that day—had he felt such hatred and humiliation.

He, who during the war had taken pity on his opponents because he knew that the reasons driving them onto the battlefield were greater than themselves and that, like him, they were following an ideal that must be defended with their lives.

But this was different; the four standing before him were not soldiers fighting for honour, but traitors who threatened all his beliefs.

'You have made the worst mistake of your lives, for it is I who shall take them from you.'

'Calm down. It would be good, both for you and for the rest of humanity, if you listened to our version of the story of why you wear the beast’s skin,' said Windar with the dignified gentleness with which a mother speaks to her child.

'There is no version that makes you look righteous. If it is my destiny, before I die, I will take you with me.'