The Golden Cage

by J. D. Oswald

  ‘Then rise, Clun Defaid, Duke of Abervenn.’

  Clun stood slowly as the murmurs fluttered back and forth through the hall. There were some among the crowd who thought him perhaps too young to take on the responsibilities of a whole province, others who saw in his elevation a fairy story turned real.

  ‘Now take my blade, my love.’ Beulah whispered the words just for Clun as she held out her hand, offering him the blade of light. His eyes widened in surprise. This had not been a part of the ceremony he had rehearsed with Padraig the night before. She smiled at him, then released her control, directing the flow of the Grym towards him. An unskilled peasant would likely have been burned alive from the inside, but he caught it naturally, as if he had been practising all his life. Beulah could see the near panic in his face as he realized what he was holding. She didn’t need to skim the edge of his thoughts. But she took his free hand, turned him to face the crowd, which stood silent, enthralled.

  ‘Duke Clun has proven himself worthy as my protector.’ She pitched her voice to thunder through the hall, drawing power from the throne even though she wasn’t sitting in it. The moment was perfect. She felt like she could have taken on the whole of Llanwennog single-handed.

  ‘Now hear me, all of you, when I make this proclamation. Today will be a day of celebration for the new Duke of Abervenn. Tomorrow will begin two weeks of festivities, at the end of which I will take this man as my consort.’

  Errol slipped into the ice-cold water, shuddering as it rose to his waist, his chest and finally his neck. Downstream of the ford it deepened rapidly, the flow slowing into a long pool. Taking the weight off his ankles was bliss, but the main reason for this morning dip was hygiene. He swam to the opposite side and ripped off some of the soft grass that overhung the bank, tearing it in his hands and pulping it as best he could to form a basic soap. Kneeling in the shallows, he scrubbed at his skin until he began to feel clean, trying to remember the last time he had bathed properly.

  The sun had broken over the treetops and was shining down on the flat rocks closer to the ford and the waterfall. Errol let it dry him, the light breeze causing involuntary shivers to run across his bare skin even though he drew warmth from the Grym. Then he turned his attention to his clothes.

  His shirt was frayed and thin, crusted with ingrained dirt and blood; a ragged tear ripped the fabric where Beulah had stabbed him. He plunged it into the cold water then laid it flat on the rock, using a smooth stone to try and work out the worst of the stains. He was pummelling away at the blood on his breeches when Corwen appeared.

  ‘Is it worth all the effort?’ the old dragon asked.

  ‘I’ve nothing else to wear.’ Errol thought of his novitiate’s robes hanging in their locker in the monastery at Emmass Fawr; the selection of unfashionable but well made and hard-wearing clothes in the chest in the back room in his mother’s cottage. ‘And I can’t wander around naked.’

  ‘Dragons do.’

  Errol laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose they do. But I’m not a dragon. I don’t have thick scales to protect me.’ He picked up his shirt, which had almost dried in the sun. It crackled stiffly in his hands as he inspected it. ‘I wish I had a mending kit.’

  ‘Why not just get a new shirt?’

  ‘Where from? There’s no shirt maker for hundreds of miles, and I haven’t any coin to pay him with even if there was.’

  ‘But there are shirt makers in Gwlad, and tailors, cobblers – craftsmen whose purpose in life is to fashion clothes and boots for others. I remember a man in Talarddeg who used to make funny little hats with tassels on the top.’

  ‘But they’re not here, are they.’ Errol hauled his breeches from the water and squeezed them out a last time. Some bloodstains would never shift, he realized, and pretty soon the knees would be gone.

  ‘Neither were you, four weeks ago, and yet here you are now. Did you walk here, Errol?’

  Errol could remember very little of his arrival apart from the pain. He had walked the lines, that much he knew. But he had intended to go home to Pwllpeiran, where his mother could heal him. Instead he had heard Sir Radnor’s voice, felt a gentle but firm force push him elsewhere, and then he had woken up in the cave with Corwen staring down at him.

  ‘So I could go back,’ he said. ‘I could go home and pick up some clothes. Check on my mother. Let her know I’m all right.’

  ‘That would be one way. Inadvisable but possible.’

  ‘Except I’ve never managed to do it on purpose. I’ve always had help. Or it’s been a matter of life and death, and I don’t want to end up in Ruthin’s Grove again. Or Melyn’s chapel.’ Errol shuddered at the thought of being back in that cold miserable place.

  ‘You don’t have to go anywhere at all, Errol.’ The old dragon sat himself down on the rock, resting his feet in the water, where they made no impression whatsoever. ‘You can reach out to a place and bring what’s there to you. It’s one of the first of the subtle arts a dragon learns.’

  ‘I’m not a dragon.’

  ‘So you keep saying. And as long as that’s how you think of yourself, you never will be. But humour me. Since Benfro has gone off on one of his sulks in the woods, I’ve no one to teach right now. Perhaps you’d like to learn something new.’

  ‘Of course,’ Errol said. ‘Always.’

  ‘Well then, try this for me. Close your eyes and imagine your mother’s house. Imagine the room where you used to sleep and the chest where all your clothes are stored.’

  Errol tried to build the picture in his mind, finding it remarkably hard. He knew the house so well that he couldn’t remember ever having studied it in any great detail. Nor did it help that his memories of home had been comprehensively rewritten by Inquisitor Melyn. Errol thought he had sorted out the truth from the jumble of incongruous images, but there was always that doubt at the back of his mind.

  ‘Concentrate, Errol. Describe the chest. See it.’ Corwen’s voice was inside him, all around him, and in that instant Errol felt himself slip from his physical body. His eyes were still closed, but suddenly he could see everything around him – the clearing, the trees, the river cascading over the falls past the rock on which he sat and on towards the forest. And he could see the lines linking everything, painting the form of Gwlad, each point linked to every other.

  He looked south, in the approximate direction of his mother’s house so many hundreds of miles away. It was daft to think that he could see it, but suddenly he was there, standing outside the front door. It looked dilapidated, lifeless. He supposed that made sense; his mother would have moved into Godric’s house in the village. He wondered if she would have taken his things with her, and with that thought he was standing in his bedroom.

  It was dark and dusty, even to his strange new sight, but everything seemed to be pretty much where he had left it. His small collection of books sat on the shelf above his narrow bed, and there, under the draughty window that looked out on to the woods, was his clothes chest. He remembered it perfectly.

  ‘Come back to me now, Errol.’ Corwen’s voice sounded impossibly distant, and yet at the same time right there with him. Errol realized he could hear the rush of the waterfall and the splashing of the river over the ford. The image of his room was fading, but he could still see the chest and, linking it to where he sat, the endless impossibly complicated web of the Grym. He felt the rock under his backside and feet, anchoring him to the clearing, and yet his clothes chest was only a hand’s reach away. He just had to –

  A great splash whipped Errol’s eyes open. He was suddenly, painfully, fully back in himself, his heart pounding as if he had just run up six flights of stairs. He looked around, first at Corwen, who was still sitting on the next rock along, then at the river, where something had upset the flow just in front of him. Something large and square and wooden.

  ‘How … ? Did I … ?’ He dropped down into the shallow water, dragging the heavy chest out on to the bank before it was completely ruined. His fingers touc
hed its surface, and he noted the long tracks of dust they left behind. How long had the house been abandoned? Why had his mother left his things behind?

  ‘I had thought you might just fetch a shirt perhaps, or maybe a pair of breeks. This, this is splendid.’

  Errol barely heard Corwen’s words. The sudden magical appearance of the clothes chest was a wondrous thing he couldn’t comprehend, let alone acknowledge that it had been his own doing. But seeing his old home, his old life abandoned and left to ruin, he was overcome with a loneliness so bleak, so total that it choked his throat and brought tears to his eyes.

  ‘Your Majesty, I see you’ve created a new Duke of Abervenn. My congratulations to the Lord Lyon on his subtle work with the new coat of arms.’

  Melyn climbed the dais and knelt briefly before the Obsidian Throne before standing again. He had noticed the new pennant fluttering in the breeze and flying from almost every second flagpole in the citadel. ‘So tell me, who presented themselves as such an obvious choice you did not feel the need to consult your old mentor?’

  ‘Do I detect a note of jealousy, Melyn?’ Beulah smiled at him from the throne and he couldn’t help notice a change in her. She seemed somehow softer, more feminine.

  ‘My queen is of course free to take counsel wherever she chooses,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be so po-faced, Melyn. You weren’t here, and circumstances forced my hand. I don’t think you’ll disapprove of my choice. You sent him to me, after all.’

  ‘Clun! You made a novitiate duke of the most important region of the Twin Kingdoms?’

  ‘That’s only the half of it, Inquisitor.’ Melyn turned to see Seneschal Padraig emerging from a side room. ‘She intends to marry him.’

  Melyn looked back at the queen, seeing again that difference in her. He knew she had something of an infatuation with the boy, but he hadn’t realized things might go so far. Still, given the choice, he’d take Clun as prince consort over any of the vacuous sons of the noble houses.

  ‘Padraig disapproves,’ Beulah said, an unusual amount of tolerance in her voice. ‘Both about Abervenn and my marriage choice. He thinks I should have forged greater ties with Tochers or Castell Glas.’

  ‘It’s true that a union with either of those houses would have strengthened your position, Your Majesty,’ Padraig said. ‘And marrying a commoner is a snub to your courtiers.’

  ‘Whoever I’d chosen, even if it had been one of those pathetic little lordlings, it would have been seen as a snub to the rest of them. Elevating a common man, then taking him as my consort, makes me popular with the people. It’s a fairy tale come true.’

  ‘Of course, Your Majesty. And that’s what my predicants are telling everyone as they spread the news throughout the Twin Kingdoms. Although I would have preferred a little more time to make all the necessary preparations.’

  ‘More time?’ Melyn asked. ‘How soon are you planning on having the ceremony.’

  ‘Next Saddith, by the Shepherd!’ Padraig settled himself down at a small desk placed close to the throne and shuffled through a pile of scrolls. Melyn looked back at the queen, trying to work out what it was that was different about her. She was wearing a long dress of gold silk rather than her usual boyish suede trousers, for one thing. Was her hair a little longer than he remembered? It was difficult to tell. Her face looked thinner, as if she’d not been eating properly, but she looked healthy, almost glowing with the power of the throne. Then the penny dropped.

  ‘Your Majesty, would you like to take a walk around the courtyard? It’s a beautiful morning.’

  ‘Why, yes, Inquisitor. I think I should.’ Beulah held out her hand and Melyn took it, helping her down from the throne. Beside them Padraig scowled but continued with his paperwork.

  At the great oak doors to the Neuadd two guards tried to follow as Melyn escorted the queen outside. She dismissed them with a casual wave.

  ‘Do you think any harm can come to me when the Inquisitor of the Order of the High Ffrydd is my personal escort?’

  They walked across the grass, keeping away from the cloister that surrounded the great hall. Only when Melyn was sure they were beyond eavesdropping range did he speak.

  ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘Known what?’ Beulah feigned innocence, but he had known her too long for that to work.

  ‘That you were carrying Clun’s child.’

  ‘Cassters came up with the diagnosis. I’d been sick as a dog for a fortnight before that.’

  ‘You had the archimandrite examine you himself?’

  ‘It wasn’t my idea, actually, I just wanted a Ram rather than one of those useless Candle physicians Padraig’s filled the palace with. They tried to treat me with leeches.’

  ‘So Padraig doesn’t know.’

  ‘No one knows but Cassters, Clun and myself. And you, I suppose. Cassters has even found a pregnant maidservant in the castle to treat for morning sickness. Some of her medication comes my way.’

  ‘And you think no one will suspect there’s a reason behind your sudden rush to get married?’

  ‘There are ways of lengthening my term, by a few weeks if necessary. My child will be conceived on my wedding night. It won’t be delivered until nine months have passed. No one will be able to cast doubts on the legitimacy of my heir.’

  ‘That’s dangerous magic, Beulah.’ Melyn dropped all pretence of royal protocol. ‘You could damage the child, or yourself for that matter.’

  ‘It’s necessary. You know how little the noble houses respect me. I need them for their armies and their taxes, and they know it. Angor wasn’t the only one with sympathies towards the Llanwennogs; there are others with no stomach for war. I don’t want to give them any reason to think my dear sister Iolwen might have a greater claim on the throne than my heir.’

  ‘Have you any news from Tynhelyg?’

  ‘She and Dafydd were married months ago. They went east towards Fo Afron for their honeymoon and nobody’s seen them since. Our spies are concentrating more on tracking Ballah’s army; they’re not too concerned with his grandson.’

  Melyn was about to ask about the plans for the wedding, but they were interrupted by a guard running across the grass. He stopped several paces away as the inquisitor and queen both produced blades of light. Dropping to one knee, he bowed his head low.

  ‘Please forgive this intrusion, Your Majesty. But there’s been an attack. In the citadel. An assassin.’

  ‘Who?’ Melyn asked as Beulah mouthed the same words. ‘Who’s been attacked?’

  ‘Your Majesty, it’s the Duke of Abervenn.’

  5

  There is nothing so good as time when it comes to the healing of bones. Yet time alone cannot force a fracture back to its proper shape. A limb can be splinted with wood and cloth to hold it in position while it heals, but where many small bones are broken, or where immobilization might lead to seizing of a joint, then the subtle arts may be used to speed the healing process.

  Care should ever be your watchword when tapping the Llinellau, but even more so when using the power of the Grym to heal. Be sure when you work not to draw strength from your patient, nor yourself. That way lies exhaustion, illness and death.

  Morgwm the Green,

  The Herbwoman’s Guide to Healing

  ‘Your Majesty, please, get behind me. Stay with the guards.’ Melyn cursed his age as he tried to keep up with Beulah. She ran with most unregal haste, despite her dress, sending servants and minor nobles alike flying as she sped down the corridor. The sensible ones stayed on the floor or ducked into alcoves and doorways to avoid the party heading for the royal chambers.

  He managed to catch up with her as she stopped to wrench open an ornately decorated pair of double doors. Melyn grasped her arm and held her back.

  ‘Remember what I taught you, Beulah. Don’t go rushing in unprepared.’

  He already had his blade of light at the ready, its steady fire a reassuring pressure in his mind. When he was sure that the que
en was not going to go running off again, he released her arm and opened the door himself. A grisly scene awaited him on the other side.

  It was a reception chamber in one of the guest suites, well appointed for the most noble of visiting dignitaries. Tall windows hung with elegant curtains looked out on to a lawned courtyard. Sumptuous armchairs were arranged around an open fireplace, currently unlit. Two ornate desks sat at the far end of the room, one split in two as if by some crazed axe-wielding giant. Chairs lay on their backs, and two very dead bodies sprawled on the floor.

  It looked like something had ripped them apart. Their blood splattered the walls, innards oozing out into the richly patterned rug. A heavy stench of burned iron and shit hung in the air.

  ‘By the Shepherd! Clun!’ Melyn was astonished to hear the wail in Beulah’s voice.

  ‘My … my lady.’ Movement behind the desk dragged Melyn’s gaze away from the eviscerated corpses on the floor. He looked up and saw a man-shaped blood spatter shift, a clear shadow appearing on the wall as Clun stepped forward. He was covered from head to toe in gore, his ducal robes ruined.

  ‘By the Shepherd, boy, what happened here?’ Melyn heard Beulah’s sudden intake of breath at his words and remembered that he was no longer addressing a novitiate but the Duke of Abervenn. ‘Your Grace,’ he corrected himself. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I think so … sir.’ Clun seemed to be unsure of the correct way to address him. Given what he must have been through, Melyn was prepared to forgive him, just this once.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I … They were here to see me about trade agreements.’ Clun motioned with his hand towards the broken desk. Papers lay all around it, some stuck to the green leather top with blood. ‘Then one of them said something about Abervenn never again being a plaything of the House of Balwen. He conjured a blade of light, used it on the desk. He was trying to get at me.’