XXIX – The Chosen Ones

Maed, at the rear of the caravan, was rubbing his eyes to clear the grit that was blinding him when Narg’s cry, with Santiana atop his head, alerted him.

They had but newly resumed their journey a few moments earlier.

Narg, flanked by Kuopio on the right and Celtión on the left, led the way as ever.

He had turned in the saddle to ensure that all were on the move and in good array when he beheld him take wing from the very spot they had just departed.

He scanned the field and found no other raven; so, taking advantage of the fact that he was flying low, he strained his eyes to confirm that he bore a note in his talons.

With his heart racing, he raised his right arm above his head and clenched his fingers from little finger to thumb whilst repeating to himself: 'tkäjäbkom nimunshe' .

It seemed that the gift he possessed as Alfredo's heir—to make ravens obey him no matter whence they came—had worked. For a few seconds he flew above them as if suspended in the air, but with every flap of his grey wings, like great blades, the earth on the path began to swirl around the host.

Surprised and somewhat affrighted, he essayed it once more and perceived that the vigour of his summons was commensurate with the bird's resistance; the raven pushed the air with increasing vehemence until, with a screech of pain, the red host was engulfed in a sandstorm.

He held his right arm aloft, whilst the leather of the gauntlet echoed in his left hand where he held the reins of Tower, and, defeated, he lowered his head. His grey hair concealed the shadow overtaking him, and, looking over his shoulder, he watched it.

Kuopio waited for the order and, receiving none, donned the skin of Arwel. With a shout, he commanded the troop not to halt.

Twenty-three horses rode behind Narg, the metallic clang of armour echoing with every hoofbeat, the rustling of cloaks whipped by the wind, the ceaseless gallop, the shouts of the soldiers who, unable to comprehend, masked their fear with war cries.

Tower’s muscles tensed between his legs; the stale air lashing his face and the sounds of the surroundings—everything transported him twenty-five years back in time, to the open fields of Kerkion.

The same thirst, the same fury, and as the veins in his neck began to swell, he felt that rage and the taste of blood once more.

His blade was already drawn, and in the instant he was about to aim it at her, the rage that clouded his vision dissipated.

The first thing he espied amidst the grit whipping at them was the constellation of her freckles, broken by the scar he himself had inflicted—on her body and in her soul, he was certain.

He felt something within him snap, for the fault lay with no one but himself—for having pushed her away, for having been so weak.

She turned to look at him, and her girlish smile was so perfect and so feigned that, in the crystal of her eyes, he found the same thing he saw in Windar’s.

That quality which commanded such respect from him and which he now understood for what it was: cynicism.

What should he do with her? he pondered for a moment.

She had surely given warning of his arrival and they would be setting a trap for them.

But was he ready to put the two women he loved on trial?

Moreover, on what grounds could he arrest her at that moment?

For though he was certain of her betrayal by intuition, he lacked proof.

The sandstorm engulfing them was the exact reflection of his thoughts; thus, unable to see the path, he could not move forward. And he thought he heard Maltón’s voice in his head saying: 'Justice does not always come as we expect, nor in the right bottle.'

With his soul a cry, he lifted Santiana above his head and opened his mouth.

'At full gallop, gentlemen. Darkness awaits us at Old Minister.'

Maed blinked rapidly to combat the intense stinging and realised that the storm was dissipating behind him. Tobert, with his arm outstretched, absorbed every last trace of the yellowish whirlwind into the palm of his hand.

He pushed off with his legs to gain momentum and dug his spurs in vigorously to follow the battalion when he heard Salvetja bid farewell to Tobert: 'You are ready. I have nothing more to teach you.'

He pulled upon the reins until his steed came to a halt, then, at a trot, his features contorted, he turned back to confront the deserter.

'Darkness is not met on the battlefield, but only on the other side of the veil. War unfolds in the same fashion,' the sorcerer told him by way of explanation, to Maed's exasperation.

The host was retreating, and slowly Tobert filled his personal chest of magic with tasks that Salvetja offered him whilst shaking his head. He trusted his master’s decision; what he did not trust was himself.

'There are songs to be composed to light the path,' added Salvetja with a smile. 'But to the raven I entrust my finest weapon.' And he laid a hand upon the young man's shoulder; the latter, abashed, lowered his gaze.

Maed sought a way to refute him, to persuade him that they required his presence, yet he perceived that once again the rhythmic sound of the sorcerer’s voice was lulling him.

'Wolf, who walketh upon his hind legs, I leave his life in thy hands; in return, I take thy promise that thou wilt care for him.' Maed swore it, his right fist upon his chest.

It was then, the moment Salvetja covered his head before turning left and leaving them, that Maed thought he saw the old man’s face grow younger. He recognised him—though he wondered whether it had been in Lepontia, through the castle's window, or in another life.

Tobert clenched his jaw to swallow the sadness of saying farewell to his master in this fashion.

'I am not the commander, yet welcome to Old Minister's troop,' he said, stretching out his arm and ruffling the boy's curls. 'We are never ready to become men, yet that doth not mean we are not so. Thou shalt do well.'

They caught up with the rest at full speed. The full force of the wind struck his visage and a tingle of freedom sent a shiver through Maed. What he had said to the young man, he was saying to himself too, and hearing what he had always needed to hear, he felt his soul expand within his chest.

He raised his head and, with the reflection of the silvery full moon bright in his eyes, thought of Gwion.

'Wait for me, brother, I am almost there.'

Seated upon the throne, he still trembled, his voice like a child’s, as he commanded Cheas to bring Owin before The Oracle.

Arwel volunteered for the task, concealing his visceral need to distance himself from the subjects who frightened him so much, but Cloet, with his pleading gaze, besought him not to leave him alone with the quartet.

Exhaustion weighed heavily upon him; the soft cushion of the throne pricked his buttocks, and he was tormented by guilt at having behaved in precisely the manner he had desired to avoid.

And with the thought that he would surely never fill his uncle’s boots, he let his body slump against the backrest and closed his eyes for a moment.

Gregor finished arranging some armchairs so that The Oracle might rest to the left of the throne. He was about to depart, loath to proceed with the scheme he and Cloet had contrived, when the old man, with his two white lanterns for eyes, blew in his face.

'Valhalla hath a special place for thee.

The price is Tyr's golden cup. Perkolon within thee, thou within glory,' he clearly heard the voice within his mind and beheld his hands.

He revelled in the electricity that had leapt from his breast and spread until it nestled at his fingertips.

He gazed at the thin, bright green film enveloping them and knew what to do.

Striding quickly, he made his way down the narrow corridor, passed through the door beneath the staircase and, upon reaching the entrance hall, wrinkled his upturned nose and narrowed his eyes.

How foolish it felt to obey the rules against running through the castle when the urgency gnawed at his nerves, thought Cheas as he returned from the armoury having found nothing but a colossal mess, and no trace of his comrades.

With the sense that he had forgotten some pressing matter, he lifted his head to ponder where to seek it, whilst scratching his hairless chin.

Within his field of vision stood the hourglass, half of whose grains were tinged with a distinctive wine-purple hue; it was dripping away what he calculated would be the last two hours before it turned.

The rumbling in his stomach and a feeling of emptiness made him hunch his shoulders a little more and, thinking that perhaps Owin and Gwion felt the same, he headed for the kitchen.

No sooner had he stepped through the swing door than, through the large window overlooking the labyrinth, a yellow light flashed and reflected off all the metal utensils.

The servants and cooks who were there shouted their surprise in unison and crowded together to peer out.

He, deducing that this could mean naught but mischief, ran towards it whilst drawing his sword.

The Everflame of Alfredo’s torch marked the spot for him. Behind him, a dusty cloud of earth and shell rose as he ran through the labyrinth.

When he reached the heart of the labyrinth, beneath the statue of the legendary Raven King, he beheld the split rock and the entrance to the dark passageway. Standing sideways, on guard and with the blade of his slender sword held out before him, he entered.

He had not beheld her for five years, but even with her back to him, he recognised her. Marzota, kneeling in the midst of a red circle, surrounded by chilling paraphernalia, murmured a chant whilst her body glowed an intense purple.

He endeavoured to draw near silently, but the splashing betrayed him and Marzota turned her head. Her black-painted pupils and her gloomy gaze terrified him.