by J. D. Oswald
It took a good half-hour to clear a path wide enough. The building had burned, but the fire had only consumed the top storey, leaving the ground floor largely intact. Melyn forced the door open to reveal a weed-choked hall with two further doors leading off. A scorched staircase climbed to the clouds.
The first door opened on to a mass of leaves where a thick bush had grown to fill the available space. Beyond the staircase the fire had eaten away most of the back of the building, but the other door still stood firm. He tried to open it, but it was locked. His blade of fire should have made short work of the wood, but as he brought it to bear, it fizzled out and died. Astonished, Melyn looked more closely. The frame was dark and ornately carved with strange stick-like sigils – Draigiaith. As written by the dragons themselves, it was a poor alphabet and difficult to decipher, so many words being depicted by the same symbol. He really needed Andro to read it, or at least give him some idea of what he was dealing with.
Slipping once more into his trance, Melyn studied the doorway as he would study the Grym, and sure enough he could make out protections weaved over the room beyond. They would have been all but impossible to break had the creature that had woven them been still alive, but any spell began to unravel and lose its potency once its creator died; all he needed to find was the right point to start.
It was slow work, but rewarding. The skill with which the protections had been wrought was breathtaking, certainly far more sophisticated than anything he had seen in many years. Still, he knew he could beat them, and eventually he did. With a quiet sigh of satisfaction he slid back from the aethereal and into his body, pushing forward on the door as he felt its solid form against his outstretched hand. It gave, creaking slightly as it opened on to a dark room, musty and dry smelling despite the damp and vegetation all around it.
Conjuring a light, Melyn stepped into what was quite obviously a library. Heavy leather-bound books lined the walls, and were piled on and around a wide reading desk. Two chairs, shaped for dragons to sit in, sat one each side of a large fireplace, the ashen shapes of logs still sitting on the hearth. With the door opened, a breeze kicked up the ash, crumbling it away to dust that floated up the chimney.
Melyn looked slowly around the room, wondering how it had been missed when the troop had searched the village. But then half of them had been novitiates; they would never have even seen the door, let alone been able to get past the wards that protected it. While the dragons had still lived, perhaps even he might have overlooked it.
He reached out and took a book from the pile on top of the reading desk. It was a thick volume, bound in dark leather and bearing more of those impenetrable runes inscribed in gold on its cover. It felt too heavy in his hands, and the tips of his fingers tingled where they touched it. Voices whispered seductively in his ears as he made to open the cover and look inside.
‘Inquisitor?’ Captain Osgal stood in the doorway, not daring to come in. For once Melyn forgave him the interruption. He pushed back the urge to open the book, shuddering slightly at how quickly it had gone to work on him. Pulling off his travelling cloak, he wrapped the book in it, feeling its lure diminish as physical contact was broken.
‘Gather the troop together, Captain,’ he said. ‘I want all these books transported to Emmass Fawr immediately.’ Andro would know what he was dealing with. He would decipher the runes, and then Melyn would understand the secrets that lay within.
4
The history of Abervenn is one of constant change. What might have grown to be a powerful dukedom, perhaps a rival even to Candlehall, has been kept in check down the centuries by the clever patronage of the House of Balwen. The gift of a grateful monarch, Abervenn has equally often lost its duke to a capricious king. Divitie III most notably appointed four and executed three dukes of Abervenn during his tumultuous reign.
Barrod Sheepshead, A History
of the House of Balwen
Benfro wandered aimlessly through the forest. He had intended hunting, but there seemed to be little prey out in the twilight gloom. Or maybe it was just that he couldn’t be bothered with stealth and silence, instead tramping through the undergrowth with all the subtlety of a herd of cattle. He was tired, bone weary in a way that made it difficult to think straight, almost impossible to maintain his control over his aura. His damaged wing was a constant niggling pain that he dared not deal with; he needed it to help him stay awake and to wake him when he did finally succumb to sleep.
He dreaded the end of each day. In the light he could find things to do, useless tasks that took his mind off the gnawing lethargy that constantly pulled at him. But at the end of the day there was nothing, no distraction but to sit in his rude little corral, shivering with the cold. He never lit a fire; the warmth would have had him sound asleep in seconds. He would battle against the waves of tiredness that dragged him down, and sometime in the night he would lose. Magog would break through the last loose knot of his resolve and come crashing in. Sleep had once been a time of wonder for Benfro, a place of magic dreams and adventure, a safe haven from the trials of growing up. Now it was the enemy, his own private torment.
With a wail, he found himself back in Magog’s repository. His first reaction was anger. How could he have fallen asleep so easily, out in the forest, walking? But soon weary resignation took over. His thoughts might be free to wander, to rail against the unfairness of it all, but he was a slave to the master of this place. It mattered nothing to Magog that Benfro’s mind was addled by lack of sleep, his body weak with too little food. Perhaps the mad old mage even intended him to be that way. If Magog could control his sleep this easily, soon he might take over his waking hours too.
Wearily Benfro began his struggle against the force that made him sort the jewels. It was so difficult to concentrate; he just wanted to close his eyes and fade into oblivion. But Magog would not allow it, and the central of the three small heaps in front of him demanded he fight.
It had been building slowly over three nights, as if the jewels he sought had burrowed their way into the pile, spreading out through the other memories rather than staying where they had been. Almost as if they had known what was coming and sought to make it as difficult for him as possible. Benfro knew that sooner or later he would start to find old friends with his traitorous hands, and now in front of him, almost complete, lay the sparkling white reckoned jewels of Sir Frynwy. He had no desire to find the final jewel, but he knew with a terrible certainty that tonight he was going to consign his old friend to a terrible lonely fate.
Benfro struggled with all his might, trying to keep his hands from the large pile of jewels. In the back of his head he could hear Magog laughing. Or was it just that he felt the old mage’s glee more strongly with each passing hour? Either way, he was powerless to do anything but watch as he reached for the first jewel, picking it out with rock-steady fingers and hefting it in his palm.
It wasn’t Sir Frynwy.
It wasn’t either of the other dragons whose smaller piles lay in front of him, but a fourth memory, as yet unchosen, still free to commune with the other souls that Magog had trapped so many thousands of years before. Benfro placed the jewel back on the heap, slightly off to one side, then reached for another.
The progress was painfully slow. He didn’t know how many nights he had come back to the repository and sorted jewels. It would have been madness to count. He could see that the great pile had diminished, but it wasn’t yet half the size it had been when he and Malkin had first created it. There were some nights, joyous nights, when he found no complete sets of jewels before he managed to shake off Magog’s influence and wake himself. But even as he fought against it, a part of his mind couldn’t help thinking that there must be a more efficient means of sorting. Then again, if Magog wanted him ground down by a slow process of crushing tedium and demoralization, this was probably the best way to do it.
His fingers brushed another jewel, shaking Benfro out of his musings. He cursed himself for being sidetracked
from fighting at the same time as his hearts sank in defeat. There was no mistaking the dragon whose memories he held; he shared many of them himself. Slowly, shaking as he tried to stop himself, Benfro lowered Sir Frynwy’s last jewel down to the pile in front of him, forcing out a whisper through reluctant lips as he did so.
‘I’m sorry.’
His body no more than a puppet, Benfro got to his feet, bending to scoop up the completed collection. This was the worst bit, when the dragon whose memories he held would speak to him, chide him, plead with him to stop what he was doing.
‘You need to fight him, Benfro.’ Sir Frynwy’s voice was in his head, as clear as if he stood beside him.
‘You don’t know what it’s like.’ Benfro replied only in his mind, his lips locked shut in a grimace. ‘He’s so powerful.’
‘I know, but you’re powerful too. You fought him off before, and you can do it again.’
‘But I’m so tired. I can’t think straight half the time. It’s like fighting your own shadow.’
‘Listen, Benfro. Remember how Frecknock put that glamour on you, to stop you from telling anyone what she was doing.’
Benfro felt a momentary surge of anger at the mention of Frecknock’s name. It was her fault that the villagers were all dead, that his mother had been slaughtered in front of his own eyes, that he was in the mess he was now in.
‘Yes, she has a lot to answer for.’ Sir Frynwy’s voice seemed unreasonably forgiving. ‘But think about how you dealt with that. You fought it as hard as you could; you tried every trick you could think of to get round the spell. I remember thinking you’d gone quite mad, the way you kept coming up to me and asking odd questions. Of course, once I knew what had happened to you, they all made sense.’
‘But it’s hopeless.’ Benfro wailed the words in his head. He could see the stone wall with its collection of alcoves all too close now as he walked with stiff legs towards it. ‘I couldn’t break her spell. It took months for any of you to see what was wrong. And by then it was too late.’
‘Benfro, it was too late before you were hatched, long before Frecknock even came to our village. Don’t be so quick to condemn her. Us old dragons had chosen to live together; she was forced. Some day you’ll understand what that means. But that’s not the point. The point is, you had a problem you couldn’t solve on your own, so you brought it to us. You brought it to your friends.’
Benfro was at the wall now, leaning towards the nearest empty alcove. Tears welled up in his eyes as he reached out with his cupped hands to drop the jewels in.
‘I’m sorry, Sir Frynwy. I don’t want to do this, but I can’t stop.’
‘I know you can’t, Benfro. Not on your own. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine in here on my own for a while, and I know you’ll win. You’ll defeat Magog and come back here to free us all again. But remember what I said. You don’t have to fight him alone. You have friends out there who can help you. If you’ll just ask.’
‘What friends? Who are you talking about?’ Benfro screamed out the questions in his head, but the last jewel had tumbled from his hands into the alcove, and the voice of Sir Frynwy fell silent.
The Neuadd was considerably less than half full. Admittedly it was almost impossible to fill it entirely, so vast was the area it covered, but nevertheless Beulah felt it would have lent more gravitas to the occasion had her people shown a bit more enthusiasm. Perhaps she should have insisted that the city merchants pay their respects in person.
Representatives of all the noble houses were there, of course. The court hangers-on were jockeying for position, still playing the game as if her father were alive. She watched them from her vantage point on the Obsidian Throne, trying to work out who was sleeping with whom, trying to remember some of their names.
Seneschal Padraig sat on a simple wooden chair to one side of the throne, Archimandrite Cassters alongside him. Beulah wished that Melyn was here too. Not that she needed his support or even his approval, but he was her power base. Without him she felt the responsibility of state rested on her shoulders alone. She had tried to contact him, but the one thing Cassters’ potions had not been able to cure was her frustrating inability to achieve the trance state necessary to reach the aethereal. And she had no idea where the inquisitor might be right now.
A few latecomers darted through the doors at the far end of the hall, no doubt hoping their tardiness went unnoticed. Beulah knew that Padraig had scribes posted throughout the citadel; she would be presented with a list of all those who had attended and all those who had not, along with their excuses or lack thereof some time in the next week. With the raising of an army throughout the Twin Kingdoms, plenty of the heads of the noble houses had a reasonable excuse for their absence – at least this time. Still disappointed at the attendance, she decided it was time and nodded at the seneschal to get the proceedings under way.
Padraig shuffled to his feet, a sheaf of papers in his hand as if he needed reminding of what he was going to say.
‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen. You have been called here for an important royal proclamation.’ He tried to project his voice across the hall, Beulah noticed, but he didn’t have the skill, nor the power of the Obsidian Throne behind him. It was likely that most of the gathered audience couldn’t hear a word he was saying.
‘As you all well know, the ducal House of Abervenn was recently implicated in a plot to overthrow our beloved Queen Beulah, a plot backed and financed by the godless Llanwennogs.’ Looking down at his sheaf of papers, Padraig’s voice faltered slightly at these words. He glanced briefly over at her and Beulah scowled at him. Clearing his throat quietly, he continued.
‘This unprovoked attack is an act of war on the Twin Kingdoms, and it will not go unanswered. Even now armies are being recruited and trained. We will bring the queen’s enlightened rule to the lands of the north.’
A muted ruffle of sound fluttered around the great hall, losing itself in its own echoes as the seneschal’s words were relayed from person to person. It wasn’t news to anyone: the draft had been pulling able-bodied men from villages and towns across the land for weeks now.
‘By his treason Duke Angor has forfeited all the lands and titles of Abervenn. His co-conspirators have been rounded up and executed, his wife and daughter stripped of their titles and privileges. This is the punishment any can expect who plot with our enemies.’
Beulah cast her mind out over the crowd, judging the mood as Padraig droned on. She had read his speech earlier, added to it herself the passages he seemed to have most difficulty with. Now she wished he would just hurry up and get to the point.
‘It is the right of the queen to bestow lands and titles as she sees fit, and it is for this reason that she has brought you all here today. Come forward, Clun Defaid.’
He had been standing in the front row, his nervousness at complete odds with the studied nonchalance and self-confidence of the nobles surrounding him. At his name Clun stiffened as if someone had poked him with a sharp stick. Beulah could feel his unease beginning to turn to fear, and she sent calming thoughts towards him. He still looked like a rabbit hearing the shriek of the raptor, but he seemed to pull himself together enough to take first one step, then another, and another, each one easier than the last until he reached the podium. A low bench had been placed in front of the throne, and he knelt upon it on both knees, bowing his head.
Beulah stood and the whole hall rose with her. She looked over Clun’s prostrate figure and fixed her audience with her gaze. She paused just long enough to make people feel uncomfortable, the silence hanging heavy in the vast space of the Neuadd, then with a single thought conjured up a thin blade of light.
A palpable gasp ran through the crowd. All eyes were on her – she could feel their full attention as she reached out with the power of the throne, projecting her words so that everyone would hear as if she stood alongside them.
‘Clun Defaid. You have proven yourself selfless in service to the House of Balwen. As a
warrior priest of the Order of the High Ffrydd, I would expect no less.’ Beulah noted Clun’s involuntary flinch at the inappropriate rank. She couldn’t very well introduce him to the other noble houses as a mere novitiate. Melyn might not like it, but Clun would be his equal soon, so the inquisitor would just have to promote him to a full warrior priest, and the traditions of the order be damned.
‘Your actions succeeded in foiling an attempt on my life. You took a poisoned quarrel meant for me, and now I offer you this in reward. Do you swear, in front of the assembled noble houses of the Twin Kingdoms, to serve the House of Balwen and to pledge the service of your issue from this time henceforth?’
Clun’s voice was thin, scared. It barely travelled beyond his lips. Beulah took the thought behind it and pushed it out to the audience as loud as her own words.
‘I do so swear.’
‘And do you swear to uphold the laws of our nation, to act as arbiter in matters of justice?’
‘I do so swear.’
‘Do you swear to maintain an army of able-bodied men, equipped and trained in such numbers as are commensurate with the lands and titles I choose to bestow upon you?’
‘I do so swear.’
‘And do you swear to honour me in whatever task I set before you?’
‘Unless death prevents me, I do so swear.’
Beulah was almost taken aback by the deviation from the set protocol, but delighted at Clun’s new-found confidence. She could tell by the murmuring of the collected witnesses that they approved. Good. It would make her next proclamation easier for them to accept.
Bending forward to the still-kneeling Clun, she touched the shimmering blade of light to his left shoulder, then his right, smelling the slightest odour of singeing cloth and leaving two almost imperceptible dark lines on the simple shirt that he wore.