With racing heart and trembling hands, Bran took them to the window, where the last rays of the setting sun cast a crimson tint on the paper.
HMS Phaeton, Temasek, 48 Geo. III—he deciphered. Year Forty-Eight of the Mad King’s reign—forty-five years earlier. It was too dark to read the rest of it, so Bran snapped his fingers and a hovering flamespark appeared over his head. In its flickering bright light, the boy continued.
HMS Phaeton, Temasek, 48 Geo. III (2561 a.u.c.), July 14
We got a new Captain today. Broughton Reynolds, a brash young fellow. He’s barely nineteen and has already made a name for himself with dauntless attacks on Bataavian ships. Looks like our two years’ holiday is over.
HMS Phaeton, East of Bashi Channel, 48 Geo. III (2561 a.u.c.), September 23
We are chasing a stubborn Bataavian merchantman across the South Qin Sea, and have now entered, on good wind, the uncharted waters east of Ederra. The Captain refuses to give up the chase. Where is the Bataavian going, anyway? There are no ports here other than the Qin beyond their tarian, and if he wished to cross the Ocean then we’ve already missed the currents.
HMS Phaeton, Unknown Waters, 48 Geo. III (2561 a.u.c.), September 30
The sea is like nothing I have ever seen. It’s calm where we sail, but mists and storm clouds are all around us. The Weatherman stands on the prow and says nothing. The navigator hasn’t left his room for days. Men say his mind is going. At least the Bataavian seems to know where he’s headed, and we’re still able to follow him.
HMS Phaeton, Unknown Port, 48 Geo. III (2561 a.u.c.), October 4
We have entered a pleasant warm bay surrounded by green hills. A great city sprawls on all sides, with all dwellings made of dark wood and whitewashed stone. The Bataavian anchored at a fan-shaped island in the middle of the bay, connected with the mainland only through a narrow bridge and a gate. There is a multitude of Qin and other ships in the harbour, all very primitive.
Both the island and the city are within range of our guns. There seem to be no proper cannons defending the bay whatsoever. We are flying Bataavian colours.
HMS Phaeton, Keeyo, 48 Geo. III (2561 a.u.c.), October 5
The Bataavian officials entered the ship to inspect it. The Captain ordered them captured for hostages and to fly the Imperial Jack.
We’ve learned from our prisoners that the island is called “Dejeema”, the city is “Keeyo” and the country is that of “Yamato”. I have sailed these oceans for the best part of my life, but I’ve never heard of this port. Where in Annwn are we?
The merchantman was running empty, so to gain anything from the adventure, the Captain demanded the Bataavians to provide us with supplies and some silver bullion, of which we know the red-heads always keep plenty. Our Carron guns gave a warning shot and, judging from the reaction of the locals, this was the first time they had ever seen or heard such devices. The authorities of this Keeyo seem unable to stage any sort of effective defence, so it looks like the matter will be resolved only between us and the Bataavians.
HMS Phaeton, Keeyo, 48 Geo. III (2561 a.u.c.), October 6
A most unexpected development. Today a boat approached our ship and a local woman—very pretty, I must add, and wearing the finest of silks—begged to be let on board. She spoke good Bataavian. The Captain took pity on her. He is now discoursing with her in his cabin. What can all this mean?
Later today another boat arrived and a local official, through an interpreter, demanded the release of the woman in a very haughty tone. We’ve “released” a musketful of lead shot instead, and he turned tail.
HMS Phaeton, Keeyo, 48 Geo. III (2561 a.u.c.), October 7
Out of the blue, the Captain ordered us to set sail in the morning, even before we received all the supplies we asked for.
As we were about to lift the anchor, there was an explosion on the island and a raging fire spread quickly throughout the wooden buildings. The Bataavians and locals alike fled from the flames to the boats. Soon there was only one man left standing on the shore. I looked at him through the spyglass to see what manner of fool he was.
I could swear he was looking straight at me, even though the ship was by now a good half a league away from the island. He wore a flowing crimson robe, his hair was long, dark, flowing in the wind and his eyes—I swear—gleamed like nuggets of pure gold. He raised his hand and pointed accusingly at the Phaeton.
I shiver even now writing about this queer incident. I am glad we’ve left the wretched place behind.
HMS Phaeton, South Qin Sea, 48 Geo. III (2561 a.u.c.), October 10
As soon as we had left Keeyo harbour, a strong north-easterly carried us towards charted waters. We should be back in Temasek much sooner than we hoped.
Saw the Yamato girl promenading the deck with the Captain. She really is the most striking beauty. Like all her kin, she seems to belong to the same race as the people of Qin or Siam, but her skin is very smooth and pale, almost glowing. We exchanged glances and she smiled.
There is sadness in her brown eyes, and she is looking sickly, as if she was carrying some heavy burden on her heart. I hope we can get her to a safe harbour soon.
That was the last page of the diary. On the other side was a rough sketch of a map. There was no mention of the pendant or the medallion. Bran could only guess what happened next, but the inscription on the locket proved Ifor and the mysterious woman at some point had grown closer. Their happiness, however, could not last long. Dylan had been born two years after the True Image’s creation, and he was definitely the son of Branwen, Ifor’s first and only wife. Something must have separated Ifor from his beloved Ōmon… Perhaps she had at last succumbed to the sickness mentioned in the diary.
The crumbling pages of the memoir awoke something in Bran. His heart pounded madly as he read of the strange places and faraway lands, of sails, currents and winds. He studied the sketched map, full of names he had barely recognised, having paid little attention to the geography lessons at the Academy. Where the easternmost verge of the vast Varyaga Empire met the mysterious land of Qin out in the ocean, on the other side of the globe from Dracaland, there was a red question mark signed Yamato.
He looked out through the attic window, where the last rays of the setting sun traced the edge of a long line of dunes. Beyond the dunes lay the endless sea, the slow humming of its waves clearly audible in the twilight. He imagined himself on that sea, on a ship bound for uncharted shores. The wanderlust, which had caused his father and his father’s father to abandon the friendly plains of Prydain and sail the wide oceans, now stirred within him. In an instant he forgot all about the musty walls of the Academy, and the low hills and forests of his homeland appeared too familiar, boring, suffocating.
The ocean was crying his name and there was no escaping its call.
Dylan stared at the floating needle intently, without blinking. Sweat streamed down his furrowed forehead in thick rivulets, even though the Chamber of Precision was always cooled to exactly sixteen point four degrees centigrade.
The silver needle entered a tiny hole in the side of a bronze cylinder, alongside a hundred other identical needles. This was the last one. As it settled in with a barely audible click, Dylan sighed and fell back onto his leather chair.
“Fantastic work, Master Dylan.” The assistant, wearing the white and blue mantle of a thaumaturgist, clapped his hands. “Without your help, assembling this lightning capacitor would have taken us a month!”
“It’s nothing. I’m glad to be useful.”
“There is always a use for one with such talent. If I may be so bold, why didn’t you stay at the Academy, Sir?”
Dylan looked at the boy and smiled. The assistant must have only been a few years older than Bran.
“How old are you, son?”
“Nineteen this year, Sir.”
“You’ve got your baccalaureate then?”
“Just this June.”
“I can see by the way
you wear your coat that you are used to wielding a sword. Second faculty in Dracology?”
“My first, actually. I’ve only taken up thaumaturgy as an alderman, but I much prefer it here in the Tower of Research.”
“Yet you still fly sometimes?”
“Oh, yes, Sir, once in a while. I don’t have a dragon of my own, but I borrow some from the Academy stables.”
“Are you a good rider?”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Then you will understand what it’s like to have a passion for one thing and ability for another. I may be a skilled magician, but I cannot imagine giving up the feeling of hot wind in my hair or the smell of the sea.”
The assistant’s face lightened.
“To be able to enjoy the things you do is a great gift, boy,” Dylan added. “You and I are both very lucky to have it this way.”
“I can’t disagree with that, Sir.”
Dylan nodded to himself. The boy seemed happy enough where he was. Dylan wished for nothing more than to be able to give Bran the same simple happiness, the joy of living his life as he wished, but he could sense in his son a lingering uncertainty. If Bran did not know what he wanted, how could Dylan give it to him?
The heavy faer iron door to the Chamber of Precision hissed open and Doctor Campion entered with a bundle of notes.
“Here are the divinations you asked for, Dylan.”
“Ah, excellent, give them to the gentleman here,” he said, pointing to the assistant. “You know what to do with it, boy?”
“Of course, Sir, the calculations of Solar and Jovian tides are of the utmost importance to our work.”
“By the by,” the astrologer said, turning from the door, “I keep forgetting to tell you—I’ve seen your son.”
“Bran? When?”
“A week ago. He stumbled upon some lich dragon in the marshes and wanted to know what it was.”
A lich dragon? And he never said anything…
“And have you… told him?”
“As much as we are allowed to divulge, yes.”
“Was he all right?”
“He was unscathed as far as I could tell—a brave lad. I told him not to worry. The swamp up Teifi is full of those remains, you know.”
“And he did not wish to see me?”
“He said he didn’t wish to disturb you. That sounded like a sensible idea.”
Dylan stood up abruptly and glanced first at the lightning capacitor then at the assistant.
“You’ll be all right with that on your own?”
“Of course, Sir, but…”
“I’m going home. I think I need to talk to my son.”
Dylan found himself in a situation as difficult as the toughest negotiation cases he had dealt with in his career. He wanted to talk to his son about the bone dragon and the dangers of venturing into the dried-up marshes, but Bran would hear nothing of it. The boy had something much more important to say.
“I want to sail with you on your next voyage, Father,” Bran said with a firm, unwavering voice.
Rhian put down her cup of afternoon tea noisily and looked at her two men with concern.
Out of the question! Dylan wanted to say, but remained silent. He sat down, dumbfounded by his son’s sudden decision. With every passing second, his resolve weakened. He suspected Bran’s primary motive was a trip overseas and back, giving him at least a year to decide about his future.
“You’ve told me so many stories about your youth out at sea,” argued Bran, as the silence prolonged, “but I’ve never been anywhere. My idea of a ‘faraway land’ is Glowancestre!”
“I only joined the corps after eight years in the Academy,” Dylan reminded him, but there was no conviction in his voice.
He had sailed around most of the Dracaland’s colonial dominion before the age of twelve, accompanying Ifor on various merchant and warships. He had witnessed all the perils and dangers of life on the open sea and hoped to shelter his son from them, but it seemed the call of blood could no longer be ignored.
“And you are certain this is what you want?”
He raised his green eyes and looked straight into Bran’s to try to discern the truth.
“On my dragon’s wings,” the boy replied with an oath understood by every dragon rider.
“Let me talk to your mother in private.”
Dylan stood up and nodded at Rhian. They disappeared into the kitchen.
“I knew it would end like this. He kept asking me about your father, he did.”
“It was bound to happen. He’s got the Sea in his blood.”
“You’re not thinking of letting him go with you?”
Dylan bit his lips nervously.
“Is that such a bad idea?”
“It’s dangerous! He’s our only son!”
It’s not exactly safe here, either, thought Dylan, remembering the bone dragon.
“I have been sailing for almost thirty years now and no harm has ever come to me.”
“That’s different. You’re older, more experienced, more powerful…”
“He’s not a dwt anymore—he’ll be sixteen next year. His friends are already joining the army. Besides, this is just a simple diplomatic mission. I don’t see what could possibly…”
Rhian sat down on a stool and gazed outside the kitchen window.
“I thought you’ve always wanted to keep him from harm.”
“I have, but I now see it was a mistake. Look at the boy; I can sense his dislike. He thinks I dislike him! I’ve never taken him anywhere; I’m always late for everything. A trip like this would be a perfect opportunity for us to finally bond.”
“But shouldn’t he go back to school?”
“If we force the decision on him now, he will despise us and the school. I’ll try to convince him otherwise, but I will need time.”
“And for how long are you planning to leave me all alone in this empty house?”
Rhian looked up at her husband with tearful eyes. Dylan embraced her tenderly.
“We’d be back before summer.”
“That’s almost a twelvemonth, that is!”
Dylan could find no answer.
“I suppose that’s my lot,” she said with a sigh. “You Gwaelod folk just can’t stay in one place for too long. It’s that damned sea at your doorstep. I should have gotten used to it by now.”
“It will be four more years at least before the boy sails anywhere again, I promise.”
They returned from the kitchen, Rhian mournful, Dylan serious but proud.
“I will consider it,” he told Bran, though it was clear he meant he approved, “but I might as well tell you now—I’m to sail to the land of Qin in October, so I’d suggest you learn whatever there is to learn about it. At any rate, a little knowledge never hurt anybody.”
“Yes, Father,” Bran said, bowing respectfully, barely containing his excitement.
He walked slowly out of the living room, but as soon as he was out through the doorway, he sprinted to the stables.
Dylan looked after him and shook his head.
“I do hope he’s not planning on taking that thing with him…”
CHAPTER V
September could not pass fast enough. Bran had spent it waiting anxiously for the news of the ship on which they were to sail to the distant lands of Orient, and studying what little information he could find in his father’s books and in the town’s library.
“Boym’s Travelogue? What’s that?” he asked, reading the ancient black letters written on the thick leather cover of the hefty volume Dylan had given him.
“A Venedian traveller’s account. One of the most detailed reports of the Qin Empire’s goings-on we have.”
“But it looks so old. Are you sure it’s up to date?”
Dylan chuckled. “I’m sure it’s not. But we don’t have much else. You’ll find the Qin are a notoriously elusive race.”
The Venedian’s tale was even older than Bran h
ad suspected. Two centuries had passed since Boym had travelled the length of the old Silk Route, across the great plains of southern Varyaga, the steppes of the Horse Lords and the deserts of Toshara before reaching Ta Du, the capital of the mighty Qin.
In the West, the Wizardry Wars had been at their most terrible. Millions perished in battle, poverty and famine. In contrast to that, the Qin seemed like a paradise. Populous, rich, peaceful and technologically advanced beyond imagining. Boym spent a great part of the book describing the marvels of the Emperor’s palace, as big as a Western city—clockwork humans that raced down the corridors with messages, walls that moved aside on their own as the guest approached, mechanical servants pouring tea and war machines that marched on legs of metal.
And then there were dragons; Bran had learned a little about the Qin dragons at the Academy—a species known as the long, distant relatives of the Western beasts: wingless, serpentine, dwelling in rivers and lakes instead of caves and high hills. One sentence in the papers Bran had found in the attic had struck him: “the sight of a long induces not the familiar dragon fear but a dragon awe.” Ever since reading it, Bran’s desire to see a Qin dragon had been growing.
Why did the days pass so slow?
“What’s that on the coast, Father?” Bran shouted over the wind.
Emrys was slowly growing tired, barely keeping up with Dylan’s silver dragon. They had travelled over a hundred miles since leaving Cantre’r Gwaelod early in the morning, and were flying over the mighty Severn Barrage construction grounds—an imposing wall of faer iron and silksteel, stretching for over ten miles across the estuary—when an even more unusual sight on the horizon caught the boy’s attention.
“That’s a city, boy!” laughed Dylan. “That’s Brigstow!”
Bran knew the meaning of the word, but had no image to associate with it. He’d often been to Aberdaugleddau, a small port town in southern Gwynedd, and travelled a few times as far as Caerlion, the largest settlement west of the Dyke, but neither of these could have been truly called “cities”.
The Shadow of Black Wings (The Year of the Dragon, Book 1) Page 5