XXVIII – Point of no return

No sooner had they crossed the border at Korkolat than, upon Kuopio's counsel, they turned right to proceed along the path beside the river.

Although it was more rugged, it bore them away from the border route separating that kingdom from Ubberia, and thus diminished the likelihood of an unpleasant surprise hindering their journey.

There they took their final halt to make the most of the yawn of light that still remained.

After that, they might not tarry, lest the darkness of the open countryside expose them to the perils of nature, and though they were warriors, armed and protected, none of them desired to test their strength against a bear or a pack of wild wolves.

After so many hours of riding, with the clatter of hooves against the ground, the sounds of the countryside were a welcome relief. The chirping of crickets began to mingle with the distant hooting coming from the highest branches of the small wood beside the riverbank.

Accompanied by Tower, who had become his shadow, Narg made his way to a hillock where Tobert, with his back against a tree, had his head tucked between his legs. The king’s hand upon his shoulder caught him off guard, and he snatched the inkwell from the air.

'I am writing history,' he replied to Narg’s questioning look. 'A sort of logbook, so that future generations may learn from our mistakes and not forget the truth.'

'It would only be our own,' said Narg, scratching his chin. 'Because truth is always tinged with the dust from just one side of the path.'

'That depends on the depth of the footprints left in the earth,' retorted Tobert, closing the book.

Narg fell into thought, his hand buried in Tower’s fur, as if he desired to swap places to escape what he sensed was about to confront him.

He let his gaze drift towards the river which, in its calm waters, bathed in the last rays of the setting sun, seemed to extend in its reflection the peaceful landscape of the distant mountain range.

'At least, if we fail, there will be a memory,' he muttered, defeated.

'Or if we survive. Such is the magic of the written word—immortality,' he said with enthusiasm, pointing to his notebook bound in pale brown leather.

Narg smiled, and as he turned back towards the sunset, surprise took hold of his visage. For an instant, almost imperceptible, shorter than the blink of an eye, the sun’s last orange ray, just as it vanished over the horizon, flashed with a vivid, deep emerald glow.

'An excellent omen!' exclaimed Tobert, drawing in a breath slowly until his chest was fully expanded, then letting it out with a soft sigh of pleasure. 'Only the chosen may behold the minuscule space where light and darkness meet, wherein the portal to Asgard is revealed.'

Narg was aware of the myth that the paths of Odín’s realm were of such a brilliant emerald green that even the stars alighted upon it to shine all the more brightly.

'That very same glimmer was seen on the thirty-third day after Yule, when the ship War Roar, captained by Redo, Alfredo’s grandfather, appeared floating in the Sea of Korkol,' Tobert told him as if he were unaware of his family’s dubious history.

With a twisted mouth and a shake of his head, he let him speak.

Of all the legends of the Raven King, the one that portrayed him as having come from another world was the one he liked the least, perhaps because it detracted from the achievements that his most admired hero had painstakingly accomplished.

'Perhaps some god hath come down to help us in this battle,' added Tobert, perceiving Narg's disagreement, 'and, though we cannot see them, they will surely fight by our side.'

With a steely gaze, he thanked him and turned to his men to hide his weakness.

If he needed aught at that moment, it was hope, for the long ride had allowed him to ponder and conclude that it was not darkness in any of its forms that rent his heart asunder, but the figure of his beloved grandmother behind it all.

For, even though he had learnt, even though he understood as much as his capacity allowed, even though he was prepared to fight come what may, that was the essence of his pain.

An incomprehensible betrayal—without quite knowing whether the disloyalty or the incomprehension pained him more.

After little more than a quarter of an hour’s rest, as night began to fall, Narg raised his head and gestured to Kuopio to get ready to depart.

Maed, lying upon the thick grass with his arms behind his head and his legs spread apart, was striving to relax his body whilst watching the few clouds that dotted the sky drift westwards.

A few stars were already visible, along with a faint moon on the verge of becoming full.

Judging by the constellations, he calculated that it would take around five hours, at full gallop, to reach Old Minister.

Kuopio reached forth a hand to raise him to his feet, and, as they inspected the horses’ shoes, Maed beheld Narg smile upon Celtión, who drew near from the riverbank.

'She is as strange as a violet buffalo. I doubt even Gwion would know her.'

'If you do not know what ails her, you have certainly had ample experience with women.'

'No, my dear Burgundy. I am merely a charming, hot-blooded jester who needs to quench his fire—either through war or in the bed.

If I knew aught of women, or of love, I would have a soft place to rest this night, and someone waiting for me to arrive alive,' he said, and the flutter he felt in his chest made him colour.

It was clear to the redhead: the Maed who had left Old Minister almost by mistake would return a changed man, a man. Perhaps stepping out of the shadow of his brother, the perfect one, or discovering the truth of his very essence, had given him the chance to mature.

The gentle gust that ruffled their hair carried with it a sharp scent that only Maed could perceive.

With the memory of the one who had borne that scent, and his cheeks creased, he turned toward the priestess and marked the moment she slipped her hand back into the pocket of her thick black velvet robe.

He gathered saliva to spit to one side and, as he undid the clasp on the saddlebags he was adjusting, he gestured to Kuopio to follow him.

'What I am about to tell you might cost me my head,' he said to Narg as they intercepted him. 'But I have realised that keeping it makes no sense if it is merely for survival.'

Narg clenched his teeth and rolled his eyes. He could have heard anything from Maed without being surprised, but he never thought it would be that.

The caravan reached the main courtyard and came to a halt by the castle steps.

Cheas, who had gone ahead to inform Cloet and devise an excuse for cancelling the festivities, came out to greet the emissary from Cartos—regent of Old Minister in that kingdom—and the colourful retinue of courtiers and minstrels accompanying her.

Standing in the semicircular entrance, with the castle gates behind him, he welcomed them.

The Cartian emissary, robed in a striking orange tunic that stood out in the gloom, bore Narg’s birthday gift.

Three goats—one black, one white and the last, brown—strove to escape whilst Cheas hearkened to how singular they were and why he must not leave them anywhere other than the temple, awaiting sacrifice at the inauguration.

They had been raised upon the slopes of the Everwhite Mountain, and the emissary swore that they had grazed upon the very grass nourished by the flow of knowledge that watered the stony slopes.

He let the last of the contingent enter, and then, at the foot of the stairs, he beheld them and another cramp tightened his stomach.

He breathed gently through his nose to master the pain and fixed his gaze.

Was he hallucinating, or were those men—who appeared very old despite the speed with which they drew near—real?

All four were clad in thick, cement-grey robes that brushed the ground, with large, pointed hoods that reached halfway down their chests and completely concealed their faces.

Even their hands were hidden by wide, flared sleeves.

Each carried a dark wooden staff upon his right side, several centimetres taller than the men themselves.

At first glance they appeared identical, formed of intertwined trunks, but they differed in the colours of the stones at the tips, wrapped in shreds of thinner branches.

They resembled the old librarian's staff so closely that the memory of Tros stirred his heart and sadness drew his lips into a frown.

He squeezed his eyelids shut to hold back the tears and noted how the common murmur of the realm had fallen silent, so that all that could be heard was the tapping of the four staffs striking the stone in unison as they drew nearer.

Three of them passed by him. Cheas opened his eyes as he felt his skin prickle and found himself face to face with the straggler.

Through the shadow of the hood, he made out the cadaverous visage, with parched, wrinkled skin and thin, grey lips, but true terror seized him when the old man raised his head.

His eyes—green, irisless, luminous, an exact replica of the gem on the staff—took his breath away.

The old man brought his staff close to Cheas’s heaving breast and, with one of the tips of the branches, lifted the cord hanging from his neck until he uncovered the white stone he had been concealing, and let it fall.

Upon the warrior’s narrow breast, the gem bounced three times and three times a warm amber light flickered whilst an electric current spread through his body.

With a familiar tingling sensation, it travelled through his limbs until it nestled at the tips of his twenty fingers, and within his head he heard clearly: 'The stone that never faileth was born of thy blood; only thou canst wield it.

Perkolon taketh form within thee, and thou within him. '