The Twelve Dragons of Albion

by Mark Hayden

  ‘Glad to hear. I have to go now. Block your ears, Vicky.’

  ‘I can go one better. I’ll put a Silence on meself.’

  ‘Is that a thing? Really?’

  I sensed the change in the atmosphere around the passenger seat. ‘She’s gone, love. Just you and me now. I love you, Mina, and I can’t wait to spend all night kissing you.’

  ‘Conrad! The PO will hear you!’

  ‘I don’t care. You need to know that my arms are open and waiting for you.’

  ‘I love you…’ Bleep. Call ended.

  I tapped Vicky on the shoulder and pointed to the message on the display. She removed the Silence.

  ‘That was all kinds of embarrassing,’ she said.

  ‘Not for me. For me it was worrying.’

  ‘Who the hell’s Sonia? And no, you can’t tell me to mind me own business, not after you’ve been sticking your neb in all day.’

  The speculation about what Mina might do to Sonia continued all the way to Llanhennock and the Usk View Hotel. When I reminded Vic that Mina had shot and killed someone, and shown no remorse whatsoever, things went quiet until Vicky said, ‘I reckon she’s a secret Ninja.’

  ‘They’re Japanese. Try Thagee. Thugs. They’re devotees of the goddess Kali.’

  ‘Definitely.’

  We got the biggest laugh of the day when the owner of the hotel asked us if we wouldn’t prefer a double room to two twins, arching her eyebrows suggestively as she did so.

  ‘No,’ said Vicky, beating me to it. ‘I am not sharing a room with me Uncle Conrad ever again. Not after Marbella.’

  The owner looked both shocked and baffled. I played along. ‘You shouldn’t have drunk so much sangria, Victoria.’

  ‘I was only twelve. You shouldn’t have given it to me.’

  ‘Well,’ said the owner. ‘I look forward to hearing more stories over dinner. We eat together when there’s only four people.’

  ‘Can we keep it up over dinner?’ I whispered to Vic as the owner disappeared up the stairs holding a key in each hand.

  ‘Better not,’ said Vicky. She raised her voice. ‘He’s not really me uncle, but we definitely want two rooms.’

  The room was comfy, the food was wholesome and the company was pleasant, but I was shattered. I headed upstairs very early and I was almost asleep when Vicky sent me a text: Mina’s a Survivor. She’ll be fine. G’night. X.

  17 — The Pennaeth of MADOC

  The day started badly and got worse. Vicky was a no-show at breakfast, predictably, but so was Iestyn. He sent a text to say that he was running late and would meet us at the Old Chapel in Uskpont.

  Vicky took it philosophically when she finally emerged. She gave a French shrug and said, ‘I thought he was on a promise last night. She’s a lucky lass, whoever she is.’

  ‘Never mind his love life, we’ve got a mission here. We don’t know the first thing about this bunch, and our leader’s AWOL.’

  She sat back from the table. ‘It’s not like you to get antsy.’

  ‘That’s because I’ve been in charge before, and you need to believe that I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘You just don’t like taking orders, do you?’

  ‘You don’t last five minutes in the RAF if you can’t take orders, and if Iestyn had orders to give, I’d follow them. This is just turn up and wing it. That rarely goes well.’

  I’d been expecting a conference over breakfast, so I was up well ahead of time, and now I had time to kill. I took a long walk down to the river to loosen my leg and clear my head. In the sunnier spots, the daffodils were well on their way, and it was a much calmer Conrad who checked out of the hotel and drove up the valley. I left the car up the hill from the Old Chapel in the tiny village of Uskpont and we walked down to scope it out.

  ‘How did they get permission for that?’ she asked.

  I looked at the modern brick extension behind the dreary barn of the chapel and had to agree with her. The original building had little merit, and the congregation can’t have had much money. The extension looked much classier and more luxurious, though I had to agree that it wasn’t in keeping.

  ‘Are there any Wards or Glamours?’ I asked

  While Vicky walked slowly past, scanning for Lux, I noticed something more obvious: a brass plate in Welsh and English. The Old Chapel, Uskpont, was the registered address of MADOC Music Ltd.

  ‘Nothing out here,’ said Vicky.

  ‘Look at this plate,’ I said. ‘They’ve got change of use planning permission for commercial purposes. That’ll keep the general public off their backs. Doesn’t solve the mystery of the extension, though. That looks distinctly residential.’

  The sound of a hot hatch engine signalled Iestyn’s arrival and a round of apologies.

  ‘No problem,’ I concluded. ‘What’s the plan now we’re here?’

  ‘Just follow my lead. I’ll get my Badge of Office and we’ll go in.’

  I was not happy. Vicky shook her head: Leave it. I left it.

  Iestyn opened the boot and pulled out a sword. Not the dagger favoured by English Watch Captains, or a short sword like Caledfwlch, this was a bloody great big sabre. Even Vicky raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Embarrassing, isn’t it?’ said Iestyn. ‘My Dad was in the Royal Marines and I told them to make me one like his. By the time I’d seen Rick’s natty little dagger, it was too late.’

  It was, of course, sheathed, and I wasn’t going to suggest he took it out in public. The swords carried with dress uniform in the services are stainless steel and thin. They look good, but they’d shatter if you hit someone with them. ‘What’s it made of?’ I asked.

  ‘I couldn’t afford Dwarven steel. Clan Farchnadd, the Gnomes of Harlech, they made it. They used Atlantean steel, which is pretty good.’

  ‘Can you use it? As a sword?’

  He looked at me as if I were mad. ‘Don’t be daft. I don’t normally unsheathe more than the top twenty centimetres. Too sharp. Might cut myself.’ He checked that no civilians were near, took the hilt in his right hand and scabbard in his left. He pulled out the blade, and it glistened and glowed. A good half dozen runes were etched into the metal. The only one I recognised was the mark of Caledfwlch, his Badge of Office.

  ‘Let’s get going,’ I said, before he could ask what my Badge was attached to.

  Iestyn led the way, and we were soon admiring what the Druids of Caerleon had done with the Old Chapel. ‘There was a big Ward on the Door,’ whispered Vicky.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ I responded. ‘They wouldn’t want Dai Public in here, would they?’

  The interior of the chapel had been left open. No new walls broke the space, but no trace of its original purpose remained either. Purple banners hung between the windows, embellished with golden dragons. More dragons adorned the back of a stage, chasing each other in a Chinese/Welsh fusion. The stage was empty, apart from two stacks of speakers, as was most of the floor. Stowed neatly against the south wall were chairs, folding tables and several piles of purple cushions. Was that a rolled up carpet? Yes.

  The north wall had new oak panelling behind a chair of honour. The panelling had a list of names and dates, but don’t ask me what they commemorated, because the headings were in Welsh. There was no mistaking the man in the chair, though. He was the boss.

  ‘Croeso i…’ I only recognised the first two words. This was going to be a long meeting.

  Iestyn thanked him (I presume), then said to us, ‘The Pennaeth of MADOC bids us welcome and offers us hospitality.’

  This was an honour and guarantee of sorts, and a lot more than we’d got from Stella Newborn.

  The Pennaeth got up from his chair of honour with some difficulty. He was old, much older than the Warden of Salomon’s House, and frail in body. He’d never been a big man, and now he was tiny next to Iestyn and me. He was wearing white robes that hung off him, and a golden torc around his neck.

  Sharp eyes surveyed the English contingent, then the Pennaeth b
eckoned us forward to shake hands. ‘Harry Evans,’ he said. Clearly the vogue for surrendering birth names had passed him by.

  The Pennaeth offered his arm to Vicky, and leant on her as he took us through a concealed door to a room at the far end of the old building. The function of the space was obvious from the table, chairs and cupboards: this was the committee room. If I were a Druid of MADOC, I’d find it very hard to concentrate during a discussion of the budget on account of the murals.

  The Pennaeth was still leaning on Vicky, so she had the unenviable task of responding to the art first. ‘Stone me, sir, these are very … striking.’

  The Pennaeth spoke, and Iestyn translated. ‘He says that’s one way of putting it.’

  The room was long and thin, with windows at either end and two murals covering the longer east and west walls, both clearly by the same hand. On the east wall, there was a composite picture featuring the same characters in different scenes – Druids healing the sick, Druids cooking, Druids singing, Druids tending a flock of sheep, Druids at work in a forge. All the activities were outside, staged along the banks of a river, with no sign of a house or coal tip anywhere.

  The artist did have some strengths. The composition of groups was good, as were the inanimate objects. The figures were OK, given that Druidic robes cover a multitude of crimes against the human form, but the perspective was all over the place, and as for the faces…

  ‘…’ said Harry.

  ‘The Pennaeth wonders if you recognise him,’ said Iestyn.

  There weren’t many male Druids on show, and I identified Harry mostly by eliminating the tall ones. Vicky was lost, so I moved over and pointed to a figure directing work in some sort of modern scriptorium. I looked Harry in the eye. ‘You were a handsome chap in your youth.’

  It was a risk, but I’d seen the glint in his eye when Vicky helped him through the door. He burst out laughing. ‘Still am,’ he said. He moved slowly to an orthopaedic chair with its back to the west wall and sat down. This meant that we had to confront the other mural.

  The same Druids were gathered in a sacred grove at night, the full moon providing illumination. Harry was shown seated on a throne of raw logs, and everyone was listening to a woman singing and playing the harp. This woman had featured more prominently than any other Druid in the other mural, and was clearly a star of some sort. She was painted with very long black hair and a generous figure. There was something about her that seemed familiar, but it was hard to be sure, and I didn’t want to stare because all the Druids in the western mural were naked.

  Iestyn found it amusing. Vicky found it embarrassing. She didn’t know where to look, and after she’d settled Harry, she offered to pour the tea from flasks on a sideboard.

  ‘The artist made a mistake in using acrylics for the flesh tones,’ I said.

  ‘Very diplomatic,’ translated Iestyn.

  ‘Who’s the singer?’

  The Pennaeth broke into a beatific smile. ‘Adaryn, the high-flying eagle,’ he said, then he switched back to Welsh. ‘She is the Bard of MADOC. She has a Gift of Song like no other. In the mundane world, she would be a … mega-star.’ Harry went misty eyed for a second. ‘Adaryn Owain. She worked with the greatest Bard of the twentieth century and took his name. She won the Druidic Eisteddfod hands down three times running – the first to do so since Owain himself. We’re very lucky to have her. The Old Chapel and MADOC Music are her project completely.’ His tone changed, back to business. ‘Obviously we’re meeting here because it’s our nearest property to the Grove, and Iestyn said that your business was with the Grove.’

  ‘Obviously?’ I said.

  Iestyn spoke in his own voice. ‘Another article of the Welsh Petition bars everyone but Druids from the sacred groves without authorisation from the Archdruid.’

  The Pennaeth nodded in agreement. If you’re expecting me to be annoyed with this farce of translating a man for whom English was probably his first language, I’m sorry to disappoint you. I spent too long with Afghanis of various stripes not to understand where the Druids were coming from. The Druids wanted their distinctive magickal identity recognised, and that was a perfectly reasonable thing to ask for. If I were the Prince of Wales, I’m not sure I’d grant their petition, but that’s for him to decide. I’m not sure that unleashing a Dragon was going to help, either.

  Harry enjoyed his cup of tea after repeating his statement of welcome and hospitality. He took two big gulps, using both hands to hold the cup, then pushed it aside and stared at me. He blinked, glanced at Iestyn and Vicky, then looked at me again. ‘The Constable either likes you or she’s desperate,’ he said, in English, ‘because she didn’t choose you for your magick. Why have you come all the way from London, Mr Clarke?’

  Vicky and Iestyn were stunned. I took a stab in the dark. ‘If we speak in English, it’s off the record, isn’t it?’

  He grinned. ‘Now I know why she chose you. There’s a whiff of Loki about you, Mr Clarke. Just a trace. I can smell the Old Enemy, of course. You reek of Odin. And tobacco. Get on with it before I ask you for a cigarette.’

  I half turned to point at the east mural. High above the too-blue river, a Dragon flew towards the sun. ‘We have evidence that some of your Druids have acquired, quickened and hatched a Dragon’s egg.’

  The silence stretched out. Harry blinked a couple of times and ran his hand unsteadily over his face. He looked behind us at the mural. Iestyn moved to speak, until I gestured him into silence.

  The Pennaeth finished his art appreciation and stared at me again. ‘I can tell you’re not lying, but this can’t be true. None of my children would actually do this. It must be a trick.’

  ‘A trick, sir?’

  ‘Either there really is an egg, and someone’s framed us, or one of the youngsters has played you. Pulled a fast one.’

  I looked at Vicky and raised my eyebrows. The Pennaeth needed to hear this from a proper Mage.

  With some effort, she plucked up the courage to say, ‘There was definitely an egg, sir. That’s indisputable.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Harry. He turned back to me. ‘It seems you’ve been a bit premature with the rest, though. Having an egg doesn’t mean it was quickened or hatched. We know a bit about Dragons, Mr Clarke, probably more than you’ll find in Salomon’s House, and nowhere in our lore is there anything that says which Dæmon can do this, or how to get into a nest. Besides, raising a Dragon is a huge undertaking. Do you know how much they eat? And how much Lux how they consume?’

  ‘Would 7,000oz cover it?’

  Vicky and Iestyn both drew a breath, both thinking I’d overplayed our hand. That’s what happens when you don’t plan things. Harry said something, clearly a curse because Iestyn didn’t translate it. Then he asked for fresh tea and said nothing until Vicky had put a new cup in front of him.

  He took his two gulps and rested for a second. ‘Say that again, Mr Clarke.’

  ‘Someone from Newport sold a manuscript called Of the Lady of the Fountain, and her adventure with Owain ap Urien. They sold it to a buyer in England for 7,000oz Troy.’

  As soon as I named the scroll, his eyes closed with pain. ‘Sold? To an Englishman?’ His voice was shrinking to match his body.

  ‘Englishwoman, but yes. Last summer.’

  Suddenly, I heard a door slam outside the committee room, the noise coming from the new extension. Then I heard footsteps crossing gravel. Someone had made the flasks of tea before we arrived, and that someone had just left in a hurry. Vicky heard it, too, but the footsteps had gone before we could even stand up.

  The Pennaeth’s right hand was shaking. Over the last few moments he had aged terribly. I looked at Vicky.

  She leaned towards me. ‘He was getting help from a Deuxième Mère. I’ve only realised now that she’s gone.’

  ‘And she heard every word?’

  ‘Oh, aye.’

  ‘I can still hear as well,’ said Harry, much more faintly. ‘And she wasn’t helping me think.�
�� He swallowed loudly. Several times. Then he switched back to Welsh.

  Iestyn strained to hear the words, then said, ‘You must do what you must do, but the grove is sacred.’

  Harry was still looking at me, so I spoke for all three of us. ‘I understand. We won’t desecrate the grove. We’re going underneath. To the Nest.’

  He shook his head. I had no idea what he meant, but it wasn’t a prohibition. He waved us towards the door, and we stood up.

  ‘Will you be okay?’ asked Vicky, placing her hand on his shoulder.

  His shaking hand reached into his robes. He pulled out a big phone with huge buttons and a tiny screen. He placed it on the table and waved us off again. I had to wait a second because my leg was stiff, and I don’t think he knew I was still there when he next spoke. Or maybe he did, and that was the point, because he spoke in English.

  ‘From Cardiff docks to Champion Bard,’ he whispered. ‘And now this.’ He was staring at a picture of Adaryn Owain singing to children, and I knew where I’d seen her before and what her name used to be. I whispered my thanks to the Pennaeth of MADOC and left him to make his phone call.

  Vicky was holding open the door to the Old Chapel. ‘Iestyn’s gone up the hill to turn his car round. He’ll stop in front of us, then lead the way.’

  We set off to the Volvo, walking past the empty space where a rusty green Volkswagen Golf had sat when we arrived. ‘What’s a Deuxième Mère?’ I asked. ‘I can guess, but it’s all useful knowledge.’

  ‘You saw me help Li Cheng do his stuff at Bank Station, yeah?’

  ‘You put your hand on his shoulder. The Clerk to Salomon’s House did the same during my test on Thursday.’

  ‘That’s called Subordination. It’s not difficult if both parties have a good supply of Lux.’

  ‘So you couldn’t help me, for example.’

  ‘I couldn’t, but an Occult Physician could. Being a “Second Mother” is harder because you have to enhance your partner’s faculties. To do it from another room means that there must have been another link active – probably the two chairs he sat in.’