XXVII – King for a Day #4

'We shall leave the prayers for another time,' she said softly, bowing her head.

'You know, I have the feeling that Freya has granted me more life than I desired, more than my beloved Halfdan, not as a punishment, but to help with something as great as our love.

I would like to speak with Gwion. Do you think I might be able to do so? '

Holding hands, they departed the chamber with a glimmer of hope upon their faces.

The whole realm, as happened every year, looked like an anthill ablaze.

From early morning, inhabitants of Utmia, Korkolat, Ubberia and Moldivar, robed in red, gold and black, had been arriving for the celebration.

Spread across five chief gathering points, they had set up makeshift stalls and taverns along the three chief streets—and were already reserving their places in the castle courtyard to toast Narg.

The minstrels tuned their instruments on street corners, and all folk greeted Cheas, the king’s legendary warrior, as he passed by.

He pondered commanding the gate shut and the realm evacuated, but as he drew near the northern wall, the gladness of the folk stirred his helplessness at not knowing how to defend them against that which he had never faced before.

He might rob them of their festivity, yet it made no difference where they stood; if they failed to stay the encroaching darkness, all would be over.

As he climbed the stairs of the wall to ask the soldiers who had been on guard since dawn about Windar, weariness made his legs give way.

The pain in his lower abdomen once again took his breath away with sharp stabs that made him sweat.

Upon reaching the top, seeking stability, he rested his hands on the battlement and stretched his neck forward.

On the dirt track he beheld them, on foot, blending in with a contingent of Cartos.

Four hooded figures, bearing long staffs, drew near unto the realm.

The monumental gates were bolted from within. They had been installed but two days before, and Arwel raised his head to gaze upon them for the first time.

The sturdy foundations had allowed them to rebuild the temple upon its own ruins, and it was far more beautiful than its predecessor.

To this end, Owin had engaged, from Moldivar, the finest architect in all of Móntria, who, in Arwel’s eyes, had done an exquisite job.

Not only by perpetuating the design that had come to Narg in a dream, but by erecting a structure above the dome capable of repelling lightning.

With the azure of his pupils crystallised, he gazed at the carving on the right-hand side, where the stoic and invincible Tyr, wearing a horned helmet, stood upon a rock and raised his unbreakable sword towards the sky.

On the left, the engraving was even more impressive.

The god, with his muscular and mutilated arm wrapped about the neck of the immense beast, dominated it.

To enter, he would use the sacrificial door at the rear.

It was kept open so that the priests might finish the decorations for the inauguration which, were it not for the immense darkness threatening to descend like an avalanche upon Old Minister, would take place the following day on the king’s fortieth birthday.

Before entering, he brushed the dirt from his dark brown boots behind his knees and kissed his pendant.

Within, he found himself alone and thought to light the sacred candles set upon the altar.

He needed no light; the faint glow offered by the approaching night sufficed, streaming in through the immense, colourful stained-glass windows in the walls and the pyramidal glass roof.

He had come because he needed Tyr to hear him and give him the courage and composure that were beginning to run out.

But the temple had not yet been consecrated, so praying there or in the privacy of his chamber would surely be equally futile.

The building was divided into four groups of prayer benches, with two side aisles and one in the middle that split the temple in two, along which Arwel walked slowly towards the main pillar rising at the intersection with the transept.

It all seemed so immense and welcoming to him, and the calm that reigned there made him promise himself how often he would come here.

'The perfect refuge for the soul,' he thought.

A cry of joy escaped from deep within him, for he found the symbol carved by fire intact.

He pulled one of the benches closer to lay the remaining marked objects upon it and compared them one by one.

His heart leapt with joy. Without understanding its meaning, he was certain it was a clear message from Tyr and, fearful of what he knew and what he did not know, he thanked him.

He confirmed the hypothesis he shared with Miar.

The symbol etched by the lightning was identical to the other two, but upon examining it with his fingertips, he noted that the Sigel rune and the quarter of the Vegvísir—from the bottom up to the horizontal midpoint on the right—were more finely detailed.

His finger traced each incision as he savoured the feeling that they would prevail, whatever the cost, when the warning trumpets sounded.

With hope upon his face, he hastened toward the northern wall.