XXV – Until then

At the gates of the white-sand castle of Lepontia, Pelit clasped hands with the warriors to wish them a safe return and turned towards Narg. He was about to do the same, but the brotherhood that bound them overcame propriety and he embraced him.

'Have a care. There are vultures aplenty with ravens' feathers,' he whispered in his ear.

The warning left Narg confused, but he simply turned towards the castle.

Pelty, robed in her nightwear concealed beneath a long, thick cloak, had not desired to miss the farewell and bowed before the king of the empire.

As she passed Maed, she held out her hand to shake his and followed her father, who had noted the lit candles in the temple and, ere resting, deemed it meet to offer a prayer for the light.

Maed could not suppress a mischievous smile when he observed that in the hollow of his palm the emissary’s daughter had left a delicate white handkerchief wherein was wrapped a small note that read: 'For Arwel'.

It was for such tokens that they were fated to prevail, those small courtesies that rendered the world a more kindly place.

As he let out a sigh of love, as if he were the conqueror, he approached Narg with an unlit torch, intending to light the way to the stables, when Salvetja and Tobert arrived in the courtyard laden with bags and the cane-wood case.

'With so much darkness yet along the way to extinguish, the bonfire shall these two sparks join,' said Salvetja.

'Thank you, but so much fire causeth a blaze,' retorted Celtión, seeking her father’s support.

Narg considered the matter: to admit them to the company, given Salvetja’s apparent age, might retard their progress, albeit he had succeeded in curing his headaches.

'Wars are won by men, as men, without magic,' he said at last, and his daughter smiled. 'But this is not men’s work. It shall be an honour to have your light with us.'

Tobert, with his tangled curls, smiled at his master, who, in response, snapped his fingers; and from the melody he produced—heard only by Maed—the torch in his hands kindled. It was time to set forth.

The king and his warrior wolf proceeded in search of the horses, whilst the rest would await his private reunion with his steed.

Upon entering the stable, Narg slowed his pace and Maed, in a quick sweep, checked that there were no surprises.

Corner by corner he drove back the shadows of the stables with his torch and concluded that he would not mind removing himself thither, finding it more spacious and warmer than his own chamber.

Narg waited at the door; it was not fear of the darkness ahead that held him, but the knot in his stomach—not knowing how to act when he stood before him.

But he remembered the vulnerability that had gripped him the day he met his loyal sorcerer, and with humility in his soul—acknowledging his own simplicity and mistakes—he opened the gate that sheltered Tower.

Maed beheld him circling Tower with his hand outstretched a few centimetres above the black fur without touching it, and thought of Cheas.

He pictured how the tidings would light up his gentle smile and his reaction upon learning the truth that his father had not forsaken him.

He donned his boots to experience what he would feel upon being reunited with his own, and, for the first time, became aware of his true essence.

'Odín’s Wolf,' he murmured to himself and studied his hands.

If he had no memory of his past life, how was that possible?

And though he had no doubts, his brother came to mind.

How proud he would finally be when he told him how he had helped Narg in his darkest hour, how crucial his actions had been in uncovering the truth, and the manliness he had shown by behaving like the man everyone wanted him to be.

The eagerness to reach the realm and embrace his brother and comrades in his arms made his nerves tingle, and he was on the verge of making a quip to his king to hasten.

But Narg’s measured pace, given what he was about to experience, called for patience.

He rested his shoulder against the pillar and, with the torch held out before him, waited.

Grief weighed heavily upon the king’s breast, and his greying hair fell across his visage as he halted before Tower. With both hands, he took the horse’s muzzle so that the steed, who was calm, might lift his head.

He broke down, but it was no loud wailing, nor did his sobs echo through that place of straw and wood.

It was heartfelt, anguished, uncontrollable.

As his eyes welled up and tears streamed down his cheeks, his ragged breathing made his stomach tremble, and grief overwhelmed him the moment Tower’s stony eyes met his own.

'I am so sorry, Maltón, my friend.'

He let out a soft whinny and Narg knew he understood him.

'Look what thou hast had to endure to watch over me. Without thee, I would not be king—I would be nothing.'

The steed stretched his neck and rested it upon Narg’s shoulder; Narg wrapped his arms about him and interlaced his fingers in the smooth, glossy mane.

'I wish thou couldst speak to me and tell me thou dost forgive me. I need it so,' he whispered, pressing his nose and brow against the soft coat with his eyes closed. 'Tell me all shall be well.'

It was not Tower’s voice, but the echo of his soul that resonated in his mind as a memory: 'Believe not that thou alone canst change the world and generations to come.

That is not the mark of a hero, but of a conceited despot, with an ego greater than his lineage.

Alfredo understood this in his day, and so didst thou when thou didst form the council.

Thou wilt only achieve it by being part of something greater—with the support of thine own—whilst lending thy hands, sweat and blood to what lies beyond time. '

Those were the words he had not understood at the time, yet which now gave him the meaning he required. This was not about him and his renown, valour, or might, nor of his crown or his realm. This was about a greater tale, one of Ravens and Wolves, one of legend.

He raised his head and met the smile of his faithful warrior, ever sincere, and knew they should prevail. There he was, with his ravens perched upon his head, at the gallop of his loyal friend, together with the wolf brothers, escorted by his retinue.

He kissed Tower between the eyebrows and said to them both:

'Come. There is a darkness to vanquish.'

Without reins, Maltón, within Tower, walked behind his king.

The Old Minister’s delegate in Lepontia repeated the entrance ritual and stepped into the temple. Step by step, he walked down the aisle, taking in its colours as he listened to his own breathing and relaxed his shoulders.

He was about to sit upon one of the benches before the altar when he espied that the statuette of Odín had toppled.

Ere touching it, he espied the hole in its base and discovered, beside it, next to a white handkerchief, a note that bore the words: 'It is coming for you.

You know how to play, but they must return in time.

Before you depart, set the trap; no one from that wretched kingdom must be spared; all souls surrendered shall be rewarded.

Bring with you the stone from Helheim which I have given you. W. H.'

The turmoil in Pelit’s heart made him dizzy. He drew a deep breath as his eyes misted over from lack of rest and the truth he had just stumbled upon.

To honour the purity of the temple, he did not run, but stretched his legs with every step, as far as he could, until he reached the entrance arch. The trapdoor was intact. He breathed a sigh of relief.

He descended the steps, crossed the bridge over the River Hasahor and ran, turning his head from side to side in the hope of spotting a soldier raising the alarm. He found none and, out of breath, prayed he would reach the courtyard before it was too late when he heard applause and festive shouts.

With his head held high, his back straight, his shoulders relaxed, one hand upon the hilt of Santiana and the other hanging at his side, the king made his entrance into the courtyard.

He waited for Maed to bring forth the rest of the horses whilst the small band of ten Lepontian guards who would escort them made ready.

'You are all witnesses to what I am about to say: if my life ends in this battle, I wish for nothing more than for my kingdom to be ruled by my retinue.'

Celtión was about to protest when her father turned to her.

'Thou shalt be part of the council,' he said, drawing Santiana. 'I would have preferred an official ceremony, but I believe this will suffice.'

Kuopio and Maed stood on either side of Narg. The glint of his sword above his head reflected the light of the torches surrounding them. High Priestess Seidrín, letting her copper-coloured hair flow freely, knelt upon the ground and prostrated herself before her king.

Narg placed the blade first upon her right shoulder, and Kuopio’s voice resonated deeply:

'Do you swear to watch over the welfare of the people of Móntria?'

'I swear,' said Celtión, and Narg moved the blade to her other shoulder.

Then came Maed’s turn, yet instead of reciting the words standing tall, as was the custom, he crouched to look her in the eyes.

'Do you swear to renounce all personal desires that might weigh upon the welfare of the kingdom?'

She swore it aloud, her brow furrowed and her teeth clenched.

'May the blessing that Odín has bestowed upon us guide thy path, just and true, for the good of humanity, or punish thy transgression with fury,' said Narg, and, after sheathing his sword, he offered her his hand.

'Arise, Seidrín, wife of Frey, high priestess of Móntria, daughter of Narg Hugnork. Hold thy head high as thy king’s royal counsellor, from this moment forth and for evermore. '

When Celtión rose, accompanied by a festive chorus and applause, Kuopio, smiling, noted the unease in Maed. He did not probe, but remained alert.

Now ready, Narg prepared to mount his steed, and Kuopio’s question paralysed him. What did he intend to do with Owin once they reached the realm? He looked back over his shoulder.

'We shall detain him and heal him,' he said, turning towards Salvetja. 'The half-soul of darkness can never overcome Odín’s blessing. Until then, we shall treat him as the faithful friend he is. I will not make the mistake of acting out of fear again.'

He placed his foot in the right stirrup of Tower’s saddle, and just as he was about to take the small leap to mount, it was Celtión who intervened:

'And the grandmother?'

'They will leave her to me,' he commanded, and at length mounted, then adjusted his cloak. 'I do not know what drove her to do this, and I hope to find out before I finish her off.'

The echo of footsteps came from the ceiling, spread through the vaulted room and roused her. She kept her eyes closed, focused on the sound, and waited motionless so that the wood of the reading chair would not creak.

'I swear I saw that rock close.'

She recognised the voice and perceived them striving to displace the stone which barred the entrance to their refuge.

She stretched forth and touched Bolet’s shoulder with the tip of her foot; he lay upon the floor a few paces distant.

He sat up straightway and beheld the puddle in the passageway leading to their position, to ensure the water did not stir and that they were safe.

'I am sorry, my lady, it is sealed. However, the Everflame looks weak, as if something were consuming its glow.'

The muffled and increasingly distant echo of footsteps confirmed they were departing, whilst the dust that fell from the ceiling made her cough.

'That damned boy, I should have locked him up along with the council.'

'The cough syrup you gave Renger would do him good,' said Bolet, laughing.

'Your brain is but for show,' she rebuked him with voice and gaze.

She was not proud of it, yet she did not regret it either; her cause transcended the bonds of blood. She raised her head to behold just above the white marble pyre, where a perfect representation of the constellations was painted upon the damp rock, which, as time passed, began to glow.

'The alignment is about to be perfected,' she said, pointing to the central star, which was on the verge of outshining the rest. 'He is as raven-like as his father. I will not risk upsetting the balance before the time is right.'

She settled the severed head in her lap and brushed the black hair from its eyes, when, unexpectedly, it opened them.

'Bring my belongings nearer. I shall select what to retain, for Pokrak speaketh true—this place is no longer safe.'

Windar struggled to her feet. For many moons her knees had been weak and her hip had been a tight knot.

The superfluous weight did not assist, either, squeezing her spinal spaces and causing sharp aches.

Her body no longer responded as it once did, yet she could not employ her magic to mend herself; she had to save it to repair the world.

Bolet was dragging the heavy linen sacks towards the midst of the hall when he beheld her commence a dance. With a beaming smile, she stretched forth her arms whilst lifting his head in her hands so they might gaze into each other’s eyes.

'With the raven’s feather and the wolf’s claw, upon the skin of the loyal one—drinking the sap of knowledge with the blood of master and servant—the noose shall tighten and its power shall reign,' said the head, and she, tenderly, stroked the thin black moustache that adorned his lips.

She caressed his swollen cheeks and kissed him.

'Almost,' she replied in a whisper and sat down upon the floor whilst Bolet emptied the bag at her feet.

'What wilt thou do with Nork?' he asked, bringing the silver tray nearer so that the head might rest upon it.

'Marzota shall remain with him. He needs the Everflame so we do not lose contact. But I shall come and fetch him if matters go amiss. It shall be in the hut where we open the portal to make our escape.'

With the longing of young lovers, unwilling to part from him, and with another wet kiss upon his thin, greyish lips, she laid him upon the tray beside her.

'Let us choose what is worth saving, and whilst I fulfil our oath, wait for me until then, my beloved.'