XXVII – King for a Day #2

The eldest of the Gerinsons spun his king’s cousin round by the shoulder until he was facing him and forced him to look him in the eye.

The king froze as he beheld the bluish plasma flickering in his pupils whilst he seized the ring finger on which the king wore the ring bearing the royal seal and, with a sharp backward flick, snapped it.

Aghast, Lerg, with pain in his throat, strove to break free, but Gwion, a head and a half taller than him, pinned him down with a stranglehold about his neck. He compelled him to pace over to the table, where he took a napkin and thrust it into his mouth, crumpled into a ball.

'You look fairer when you are silent,' he whispered in his ear.

Then, with a grim smile as he noted that none dared to stay his hand, he twisted the finger in the palm of his hand until he managed to tear it off.

'One finger for the darkness and one for the light,' he said to Cloet as he watched him defiantly out of the corner of his eye.

Cheas cast his gaze upon Gregor in search of answers when he perceived that something within Gwion had shifted. His movements, ever deliberate, appeared colder, as though one who has grown weary of waiting and begins to dig the foundations of his own destiny.

The eldest of the troop sought to turn the pieces so they might fit into the puzzle and, to break the tension, said:

'First, we must find Windar. Owin, could you cast a locating spell?'

'Nay,' said Gwion, handing the finger with the ring to the sorcerer. 'He shall take care to send the halt order to the eastern troops. Arwel, dispatch soldiers to the bridge, lest they fail to receive the message in time. You and Cheas, take charge of locating Windar.'

His composure surprised his comrades and left Cloet speechless.

'Of course, if His Majesty sees fit,' he added, mimicking Maed’s sarcasm.

The Prince of Welst paused to reflect. To refuse such a rational plan simply for the sake of it would be despotic—something his father might do, just to prove who wore the trousers.

He did not do so. Yet neither did he bow his head, and whilst Owin was realigning his crooked septum, he gave his orders with precision.

He sent Gwion to help with the message on his father’s behalf.

To do so, the sorcerer needed to retrieve certain instruments that had been moved to the utility chamber in the east wing, next to the armoury.

He bade Cheas inquire of every townsman concerning Windar’s whereabouts.

Meanwhile, he held counsel with Arwel and Gregor, whom he esteemed the most experienced and level-headed, for he must draw upon that wisdom if he were to devise a means to accomplish what had occurred to him, in which Tregor was one of the cards he might play.

'Is there a bald man in the troop?' he asked, and Arwel’s bewildered look answered him.

'Do not fret,' said Windar, and kissed him, and, turning her back, continued mixing the herbs with her hands, whilst Bartón, unsatisfied, continued with his questions.

Pokrak, who had but lately briefed Windar privately upon the latest tidings from the castle—without comprehending why Bartón was kept in their company—snorted and looked to Windar to silence him.

'I did not mention it before so as not to hurt your feelings,' she said at length and sat him down, whilst, with a nod, she bid her companion to proceed with the preparation.

Bartón knew not where to fix his attention: upon Pokrak’s hands, which glowed as he stirred ingredients into a small burgundy-coloured cauldron, or upon Windar’s words, which averred that Gwion, Gregor and Cheas had allied themselves with Cloet to rise up against Lerg and await Narg with their troops ready at the border.

From the hut where they were gathered, he could hear the trumpet proclaiming the departure of a platoon through the main gate. He analysed his queen’s words with that curse of his which prevented him from lying, but with which he could detect deception, and he realised that everything added up.

There was naught he could do but await tidings that Narg had set foot upon Ministerian soil, so that he might spring into action and rescue his king.

'Celtión,' she paused, imagining the immeasurable pain Narg would feel upon realising he had been betrayed by his own daughter.

'As soon as Gwion and the traitors are dead, we shall be a united family once more. Celtión will come to her senses; Marzota has done her duty and brought her up very well.'

By the river’s brink, hard by the road between the marches of Cartos and Moldivar, Narg commanded a brief halt of fifteen minutes. The sun hung at its zenith and the spring heat turned the armour into furnaces.

The ten Ministerian soldiers and the handful from Lepontia scattered to keep watch. Maed and Kuopio shared the task of handing out the snacks. The red-haired man went south and the young Gerinson to those scattered to the east.

Celtión, returning from washing her hands, found her father sitting alongside Salvetja and Tobert. He was polishing the steel of his sword whilst observing himself in the reflection.

'My wife gave it to me on the day when, with our feet submerged in the Santiana Sea, I asked her to be my life partner,' he said, the gleam in his voice declaring how special it was to him. 'It is laughable how little it takes to build, and how easily we destroy.'

'Speakest thou of Grandmother?' interrupted Celtión.

'I speak of all this that I do not understand, yet that does not make it any less true,' he replied with a hint of sadness and turned towards the sorcerer. 'If it was so easy for you to heal me, Owin never even tried, did he?'

Salvetja comprehended the anguish behind the king’s question. It was not a matter of knowing the magical abilities of his retinue, but the hidden desire to keep him ill.

'Blame him not for seeking answers elsewhere to poorly phrased questions. If neither the where nor the what is known, meaningless is what is obtained. Without reason the body doth not fall ill, even when the sole and true fate is death. Even more lethal than the edge of his sword is the locking away of one’s fears. '

The sorcerer stretched out to draw closer and traced the scar upon his brow with his thumb. There was no magic in that touch, yet it lifted the burden Narg had borne alone since Maltón’s passing, for though he was the only one to grasp that message, to share his secret set him free.

'The cure was not invented for health,' he added, and Narg nodded.

'I gave thee light to illuminate the map thou already hadst, that thou mightest follow the path thou already knewest. Shouldst thou return there, only thou shalt be able to traverse it.

Of the places we insist on remaining ignorant of, paths are they we have already travelled, yet the landscape terrifies us. '

Maed listened from a distance, captivated by the sorcerer’s melodious voice, until his presence was noted by Celtión, who declined lunch and returned to where the horses were. He handed the basket to Tobert to take his place and followed her.

'Since when have you ridden like a lass?' he asked when he caught her up, having noted her strange manner of walking. 'It hurts your back and slows you down.'

'Ever since I began attending to mine own affairs,' she replied without halting.

Maed closed his eyes to master his anger and drew a deep breath. A musty odour made him grimace, and he realised it came from her.

'That thick black coat is making you sweat.'

'I do not wish to soil my dress,' she replied, lifting the hem until the thin beige fabric peeked out. 'How much further is it?'

Some eleven hours, Maed calculated, with brief respite to spare the horses. She nodded in accord, and then he, and Tower at his right hand, beheld her slip her hand into her pocket and ride forth alone.

The black steed shook his mane and stamped his right hoof thrice upon the ground until a cloud of dust rose.

'Fear not,' said Maed, who for the first time dared to stroke him, 'I do not like the new princess either.'

Tower shook his mane again as he snorted. Maed, interpreting this, raised his left eyebrow, twisted his lower lip and turned his eyes towards the right flank as he reached into Tower’s saddlebag to retrieve Perkolon; something told him he ought to keep it safe.

He kicked the door open, caring not whether he found her in her undergarments.

He had already dispatched the troops to the eastern border, at the foot of the Indralor Bridge.

He had washed his face, brushed his fringe back, and changed his sweat-drenched shirt to don the chainmail beneath the red waistcoat and the Council’s cloak once more.

In his hands he bore Maltón’s notebook and the piece of bark he picked up as he passed through the boardroom.

His heart, like a forge stoked by guilt over Bartón’s fate, made his blood boil, and, with the same momentum, he entered the room. He found her startled, sitting in the dim light upon a plush crimson armchair by the window and, without hesitation, hurled the notebook at her feet.

'To the point, Miar, widow of Halfdan, what does that symbol mean? I know thou knowest, so either thou speakest willingly or I shall use force,' he said with his back to her as he closed the door.

He did not recognise himself as he turned over in his mind what he had just said.

He had utterly lost the composure that made him the wisest commander in the empire, a man who, even with the enemy’s steel tearing at his flesh and the weight of death upon his shoulders, could think clearly.

But he needed to understand what that symbol was that made him feel so strange.

For among his own theories was the notion that Maltón had scattered them throughout the kingdom.