Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls (24 page)

He stood for a moment before the fire, placing one ale on the thick oak mantel above the roaring flames, his back toward the throng. He took a good draught of the other and almost choked; it was stronger than he thought possible. He heard a sudden laugh and turned to see one of the
Wolvers
stand and move easily to his side, reach up and grab his other ale and pretend to take a drink. The huge man then acted out a much-exaggerated choke, and all the other
Wolvers
joined in laughing. Rema sensed the danger and knew instinctively that he must react the right way. If he took offense, he was dead. If he ignored it, he would look weak and invite further humiliation. As the laughter subsided, he spoke to the Wolver in mock seriousness.

‘Now why did you do that, for now we have to challenge each other and I will lose.’

The
Wolvers
smiled. This one was not a hothead, but knew of honour and such things. This could be very interesting. No one ever stood up to them. His words were good.

‘You keep my quiver, for I don’t how I can get it back, and I’ll race you with this one, whoever loses buys another round.’ Rema smiled at the
Wolver
who was enjoying the attention in front of the crowd, and here was a game he could not loose.

‘Alright medal-man, I think I’d like you buy me
and
my brothers
here another ale.’ At this, the
Wolvers
gave a cheer, and quite a few in the crowd stopped their conversations and watched as the newcomer took on the Wolver. A few private bets were quickly placed but there was little money against the Wolver, and Rema knew that he must lose; but lose well, that way everyone was winner.

He made a rather theatrical show of deep breathing and practicing getting the big quiver up to his mouth, which brought laughs from several onlookers. The
Wolver
was taking it more seriously, but was relaxed for he could not see how he could lose. Rema nodded and they faced off. The tavern fell quiet. Rema moved first, and the
Wolver
made sure everyone could see that he gave the newcomer a clear head start. Rema did well for a while, but the ale was too strong and too plentiful, He stopped and gasped which brought roars of laughter, The
Wolver
just open his mouth, threw back his head, and poured the ale in. He seemed to be able to breathe and drink at the same time; everything about him was economical and fluid. Rema had another go but seemed to breathe it all in at the wrong moment, and started coughing; ale sprayed everywhere. Laughter rippled through the tavern. The
Wolver
could see an opportunity so he stopped, placed his ale on the mantle and put another log on the fire. This brought more raucous calls, and much laughter. Rema had a third go, and this time he was able to keep at it. The
Wolver
suddenly realised that his showy move was a little foolhardy and quickly downed the last of his ale, resumed his seat, and putting his feet on the bench before him, pretended to be asleep as Rema finally downed the last mouthful. He stood facing the crowded room, and upended the quiver, to show to all that he had at least done the deed expected. The cheering was brief, but accepting. Rema signalled across the tavern to the publican who had watched with some concern, for the
Wolvers
were a handful if not treated with respect. Eight ales, all in quivers, arrived soon after, and that was an end to it, the
Wolvers
returned to their own conversation, except for the winner, who stood once more and spoke briefly to Rema, as they stood before the fire. He spoke most strangely, which took Rema completely by surprise, for it was so unlike the manner in which he expected any
Wolver
to talk. His voice was hard like steel, but it carried an emotion, which told of shock.

‘I like your style medal-man. Not many would take us on like that. I can see you know how to judge a situation. I only wish my brother had your judgement, for I fear when he had the need, he did not have it.’ Rema realised that the
Wolver
was only half talking to him, for he was staring into the fire and sipping the fresh ale thoughtfully.

‘Your brother?’ Rema inquired without looking at the
Wolver.

‘Six days ago he went into a forest with two others, chasing a man, and he never came back. None of them came back. They were the best we had. He must have done something wrong, really wrong, but how can that be, for he was a
Wolver
? Three Wolvers against just one man?’ He stood shaking his head slightly in disbelief at the impossible.

In that moment, Rema felt a deep cold fear. Was this man playing with him? Did he know? How could he? His heart thumped noisily against his chest, and ever so briefly, he thought that the
Wolver
sensed his panic. He was about to say that he was sorry for the
Wolver’s
brother, but then he knew that was a lie, so he remained silently staring into the flames.  The
Wolver
sipped once more, and then walked off back to join his kind, without another look or a word. Rema turned slowly around, and spied a rather gaunt looking old man sitting by himself at one of the more private side benches. He took his empty quiver and went across and joined him.

‘Good evening sira, do you mind if I join you?’ The man looked surprised, but nodded. Rema sat opposite him and breathed a gentle sigh, for this was undoubtedly Palid, the
Wisden
for whom he had risked so much to see, and he knew that the next part of the deception would be much more difficult.

Palid was well named, for his skin was quite white, and showed a blue vein pattern on the back of his hands and neck. His eyes were tired and hooded, the result of endless hours reading and scouring ancient texts in poor light. But for all of that, they were intelligent eyes, and Rema understood that this man should not be judged on his appearance.

‘I have seen a few try that,’ said Palid quietly sipping on a large ale, ‘try to stand toe to toe with a
Wolver.
You did rather well my friend, there was humiliation waiting close by, but you seemed to have understood how to weave your ways around her!’ His eyes sparkled, and putting down the drink he took up a long stemmed pipe, and begun puffing contentedly, sending small grey clouds of sweet smelling smoke towards the rafters. Rema caught the attention of a passing steward and ordered another two ales.

‘It was a little tricky sira,’ he said respectfully, ‘but all’s well.’

‘You wear the
Guild–medallion
, I heard them talk, so I take it that you are in favour with our king.’ Palid spoke firmly. It was statement requiring no answer, so Rema let it stand.

‘And I see that your are Palid, one of the fabled
Wisden,
and I am honoured to share a drink with you siraa.’ Palid did not react beyond a narrowing of his strangely opaque eyes whilst sucking deeply on his pipe, before exhaling the most perfect smoke ring Rema had ever seen. Then he removed the pipe and stroked his short white beard with a blue-veined hand. There was silence for a time before the old man spoke again in a quiet and considered voice.

‘You know my name, which means that you came here to see me. This little show of yours was just a means to an end. I thought it unusual. How can I help you? The king’s favoured will receive what is required from even the
Wisden.
’ There was a coldly sarcastic edge to his word’s, which gave Rema some comfort. This man was no lover of Lord Petros. Rema took a deep breath and went on.

‘The king has ordered all who carry his medallion, that we are to support his cause, and to this end he has spoken of a prophecy which seems to have played heavily upon his mind. Sira, I am not well endowed with a good memory and I have found it hard to recall all he said. I fear that he will require more of me than I am able to give unless I have a fuller understanding of this prediction, this prophecy. I would like to retain his favour as best I can, so when today, by chance, I met another of the
Wisden
and he mentioned to me that you sira, often come here in the evenings, I thought, well I hoped, I might discuss this thing with you.’ At that moment, the two ales arrived and Rema slid one across to Palid. ‘I would be most obliged.’

Palid sat in thought for so long that Rema finally stood, anxious to leave, and excusing himself. ‘I am sorry to have troubled you siraa, I see that my request is not well made.’ He only took one step before Palid’s white and bony hand reached quickly over and firmly grasped his elbow.

‘Sit down friend, for I perceive you to be one who needs my assistance.’ His voice cut like a knife but was audible only to Rema. It was a command that he could not ignore. Nor did the
Wolver,
who had just won eight quivers of ale miss this small but sudden action, and with a growing interest, he watched whilst the two men at the side-bench talked.

‘I do not wish to know your name, or your business my friend, but I sense that there is something about you which might turn the tide in this sorry Kingdom.’ Palid spoke quickly in hardly more than a whisper. ‘The
Wisden
have been under great pressure of late to reveal the truths hidden in the prophecy of which you speak. Lord Petros has demanded that we do not rest until we have lain out clearly before him what is to be. He is a fool who does not understand that the wisdom of the seer is not commanded. Yes, that’s right, I call him a fool for amongst all the
Wisden,
I know this to be true. He is right to fear the prophecy, for it is powerful indeed, but it can be thwarted, although I do not know how.’ The old man was breathing faster now and Rema was spellbound. Here was an ally, not an enemy, right in the lion’s den.

‘Can you tell me what the prophecy means?’ Rema asked in a whisper. I know a little, but not as you do sira.’ Palid puffed eagerly on his pipe for a time.

‘I carry it with me at all times,’ he said, ‘for I study it when I can. I have found that after a few ales my mind is more able to roam the deeper parts of my memory in which lie so many other sayings and truths. That is why I come here so often, for it enables me.’ Rema said nothing. ‘I will tell you what you already know for the king will have spoken of this to all the bearers of the medallion. There is one, an archer from the Highlands who is betrothed to the lost one of the line of Hendon. This man has a skill with the bow, which is unsurpassed in all the kingdom. It is he who will decide the final battle, which Lord Petros cannot avoid. Indeed, it would seem that he seeks it. The
Wisden
have seen that much, but there is another matter on which we cannot agree, for we do not see it.’ He paused, and puffed hard upon his pipe. His eyes were shut as thought he were trying to decide how next to place his words.

The
Wolver
was watching, sitting like a statue, eyes narrowed and every sense alert, for there was something about these two, which awoke in him a deep unease. He had long held the old man Palid in contempt. He could not understand why one such as he should be respected, for he did no work, could not fight, and his body was old and repugnant. The newcomer was a mystery, but he had so easily struck up a conversation with the white one that it seemed not a little suspicious.

‘There is a mention of the
eagle’s eye
, and we have searched long and hard throughout all the ancient records and teaching, but can find no mention of this. Lord Petros demands that we discover the answer to this, and his advisor Zelfos will scream at us and threaten, but the
Wisden
are not afraid of him for we are all old, and death holds no fear. Beware of this man if ever you cross him for I hold that he is not human.’ At that moment Palid suddenly became aware that the
Wolver’s
eyes were upon them. He shifted uneasily, and drank some ale.

Rema was enthralled by these few words but he held another question which could not be further restrained. ‘Why does the king not kill this one of the Hendon line, for I hear that she is captured?’ He sat with heart thumping in his chest, for he was unsure of how he might react to any reply.

‘He can kill her of course, and has been tempted I am sure, but there is an old and deeper truth created when Revelyn was first born as a kingdom under that name; when the mighty of old such as El-Arathor forged the rules by which the rulers ruled, and others would obey. It was set down that any who would take the life of royal blood, except in battle would be cursed beyond all that the human mind could conjure, and their life would be forfeit within a year. Lord Petros fears this truth, and will not act in murder, until he sees no other option. The royal one is safe for the present, but I cannot see far in this regard.’

Rema nodded in relief. ‘I thank you for this sira, for it is some comfort.’ Hardly had the words left his mouth than he realised what he had revealed of himself. Desperately he sought some further words which might make a cover for his stupidity. But none came. Palid looked hard at Rema but said nothing further. Instead, he reached deep into his long robes and took out a small parchment which he slid carefully over the bench top to Rema.

‘Take it, this prophecy which so interests you, and read it well. Remember this, that with any prophecy there is power in the telling of it, for the more it is spoken, the more it spreads, the more chance that it cannot be thwarted by even the most cunning of the plans of man.’ For an instant, the hands of both men rested on the parchment and for the briefest of moments a silence descended on the tavern and the flames in the giant hearth were stilled, as though time had slipped, and then caught itself once more. People looked quickly round about, shifting nervously, and then resumed their merriment. Rema and Palid both sat for a while contemplating what had just transpired.

Rema finished his ale and stood to leave. ‘I thank you for your time sira, it has been most interesting.’ He spoke loud enough for others around to hear. It was the parting of two who had met without cause, and enjoyed an unexpected conversation, no more. Palid nodded and resumed the sucking on his pipe. Rema walked slowly back towards the entrance to the tavern. All around were his enemies. Sworn to serve the king, to uphold a kingdom to which he stood as its greatest threat. In truth he could not understand it, but at least he had some deeper knowledge, and the one to whom he had been speaking, this Palid of the
Wisden,
was one who had not capitulated to the demands of the mad Lord Petros. Perhaps there were others. That he must believe.