by J. D. Oswald
Beulah ran across the room, ruining her dress in the process, and began wiping blood from Clun’s face with a white handkerchief. Melyn was so astonished by the sight that it took him a few moments to gather his thoughts. What had happened to the ruthless queen he had left behind?
Two sets of double doors led from the reception room; one stood open. Silently Melyn crossed over to the doors, approaching so that he could see what lay beyond. It was a large bedchamber dominated by a huge four-poster. For a moment Melyn thought that was all there was in the room, but something pulled at his attention, a feeling of incongruity. He stared hard, trying to work out what it was, and then he saw her, at the foot of the bed, cowering, her head covered by her flimsy wings. Quite how he could have missed her bulk he didn’t know, but the question was lost in his contempt and hatred for her kind.
Melyn crossed the room in swift strides, lowering the point of his blade until it sizzled just a hair’s breadth from the dragon’s face.
‘Well, if it isn’t sweet Frecknock. I’d been meaning to have a word with you. Get up!’ He spat out the words, a cold fury sweeping over him as he remembered the death and destruction caused by the dragon in the woods near Pwllpeiran. A dragon she had failed to tell him about. ‘What are you doing in the duke’s bedchamber?’
‘Your Grace, Master Def— the duke asked me to attend him.’
‘Nonsense. What would the likes of him want with the likes of you?’
‘He said that he wanted to learn more about the Grym. What little I know, I was happy to share.’
Melyn came close to lopping off her head there and then, but he remembered the other reason he had kept Frecknock alive: her knowledge of the passes through the Rim mountains to northern Llanwennog. He stayed his hand, let his blade evaporate into nothing. The pent-up force of the Grym took some of his anger with it as it went.
‘What happened out there?’ He pointed towards the reception chamber.
‘Some men came. They said they wanted to talk about trade agreements. His Grace the duke invited them in, started talking to them about commerce. He knows a great deal about it; I think his visitors were surprised.’
‘And where were you while this was happening?’
‘I was sitting under the window by the door over there.’ Frecknock pointed back out to the main chamber. I suspect the duke likes to have me around when he conducts his negotiations; my appearance is … unsettling to some men.’
Melyn hastily revised his opinion of Clun. His knowledge of trade was understandable, given that his father had been a moderately successful merchant, but using a dragon to put his competitors on edge during negotiations? That showed a subtlety of touch beyond his years.
‘So. You were lying there taking up space, and what? You just let these men attack the duke? You ran in here to hide? You didn’t think to help?’
‘No, Your Grace. It happened so fast I barely had time to react. I would have done anything to help Master Defaid. He’s always been kind to me, ever since the attack on the queen. I didn’t run from his attackers.’
‘But you were hiding in here.’
‘I didn’t run from his attackers,’ Frecknock repeated. ‘I ran from him.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The first man leaped up, shouted something and then slashed at the desk with a great fiery blade, much like yours. His Grace took a step back and then …’ She paused, her expression changing from deferential and scared to one of total puzzlement.
‘Then what, dragon?’
‘I … I don’t know. I think His Grace reached out for the blade. Then there was this screaming sound, and both of his attackers sort of … exploded. No, that’s not the right expression. It was more like something tore them apart. But I couldn’t see what. And then His Grace was standing there alone, with the blade in his hand. And he looked at me with such a light in his eyes. I thought he was going to kill me. I … I fled.’
Benfro sat under the trees at the edge of the clearing and watched as the boy dragged a heavy wooden chest from the riverbank back towards the cave. He managed a couple of paces, then slipped and fell, staying down for a long time. Then he sat up, rubbing at his ankles as if they were sore, climbed wearily to his feet and started again. Two more paces and he fell once more. At this rate it was going to take him all day to get the chest to the cave.
Leaning back against the rough bark of an old oak tree, Benfro felt the reassuring ache in his wing root. It was his anchor, the only thing that he could rely on to help him escape from Magog. But slowly, inevitably, the damage was healing. Despite the endless nights of twisting and turning, digging his back into roots and branches, bashing it against rocks or just lying on it badly, it was getting increasingly difficult to raise the necessary pain out of his injury. Soon he would be as good as he had been before his fall, and then there would be nothing to stop Magog from possessing him throughout the night. He would sort jewels until he was so exhausted he fell into a stupor, and as soon as he was rested, he would be back in the repository. Even now he could feel the weariness pulling him down, as if he weighed three times as much as he should, as if the earth were a warm welcoming bed just waiting for him to sink into its comforting embrace.
Benfro jerked his head back, smacking it against the tree and blurring his vision for a moment. He had been so close. He could see the outline of the ancient writing desk fading away from his sight as he snapped back into himself, and deep in his mind he heard the insane laughter of his tormentor, echoing away to nothing.
He tried to focus on his aura, to tighten his grip on the rose cord that linked him with Magog’s jewel, but to see it properly he needed to relax, and to relax was to succumb to sleep. To sleep was to condemn more of his dead friends to an eternity of terrifying solitude. Like he had condemned Sir Frynwy.
The old dragon’s spirit had told him to look to his friends for help, but Benfro couldn’t think of anyone he could consider a friend. His mother was dead, most of her jewels stolen by Inquisitor Melyn; the villagers were dead and at the mercy of Magog; he supposed Frecknock was still alive, but she would never be friend. And besides she was responsible for the whole mess he was in. Perhaps he could consider Corwen a friend, but the dragon mage was only a projection of his memories. If he’d been able to help Benfro fight Magog, then he would surely have done so already. So who had Sir Frynwy meant? Malkin? The mother tree? Benfro was sure they would help him if they could, but how could he find them? He didn’t know where to begin looking. It was all helpless. He was alone.
Glumly he watched as once more the boy hauled himself to his feet, his pain obvious even this far away, and tried to move the heavy chest. He was persistent, Benfro had to admit, but couldn’t he see that the task was beyond him?
More for the want of something to do than anything else, he levered himself to his feet and headed down into the clearing. The boy didn’t hear his approach; he was too intent on straining at the chest. As Benfro neared, he let out a short gasp of pain and crumpled to the ground again, clutching at his ankles and grimacing.
‘Where do you want it?’ Benfro picked up the chest as if it weighed no more than air.
‘I … In the cave, please. If it is fit.’ The boy spoke halting Draigiaith with a strange accent that reminded Benfro of Gideon. He remembered his first meeting with the man, and how his mother had said that of all their kind he was perhaps the only one she would have trusted.
‘Who taught you our language?’
‘I learn what I can from to read scrolls.’ The boy was very pale, now that Benfro looked at him. He didn’t know much about men, but he was sure their ankles weren’t meant to look like that either. Not twisted at such an odd angle to the leg, and not swollen, bruised. He shifted his perception a little, trying to see the boy’s aura. It was a pale thing, as if he was hanging on to life by the thinnest of threads. But around his ankles and feet it swelled out, pulsing and livid with purples and reds. Benfro remembered his own aura when he had damaged his wi
ng root and knew that these injuries were much worse. How had the boy managed to walk at all?
‘Wait there,’ he said as if it were necessary. He carried the chest into the cave, setting it down close to the bed. Then he went back out to where the boy was still lying, reached down and scooped him up. He weighed even less than the chest.
‘What am you do?’
‘Your ankles are broken.’ Benfro spoke Saesneg, even though he hadn’t used the language since his mother had taught him. He carried the boy to the cave and set him down on the bed, then turned his attention to the fire. The coals were almost burned out; it would take too long to stoke them up to a decent flame. Instead, he piled thick logs on top of the ash, then breathed out a steady flame. The wood caught, blazing a welcome warmth. On the bed the boy shivered, moving towards the heat.
Benfro went to the chest, opened it and peered inside. There were assorted clothes, piled on the top, some damp from the river, but at the bottom he found a couple of dry wool blankets which he handed over.
‘Rest,’ he said, then left the cave before the boy could say anything more. Outside the sky had darkened with clouds, threatening rain. The tops of the trees whipped back and forth in the strengthening wind, suggesting a storm might be coming. Benfro looked over at the makeshift roof on his corral, wondering whether it would withstand a good blow. He didn’t really fancy finding out.
‘He can help you. If you let him.’ Corwen appeared beside Benfro as if he’d been there all the time.
‘How? The boy can’t even walk.’
‘His name’s Errol, Benfro. As you well know. Don’t you think it’s a bit kitlingish, ignoring him the whole time?’
‘I just helped him.’
‘For only the second time in a month. He saved your life.’
‘How? You’ve said that before, but just how exactly did someone I’ve never met before save my life?’
‘You have met before, Benfro. You and Errol are far closer than you can imagine. And who do you think it was told you to jump when you were surrounded by warrior priests at Emmass Fawr?’
Benfro remembered the voice in his head telling him to jump. ‘That was him?’
‘That was him. He was kidnapped, brainwashed by Inquisitor Melyn. He was taken to their monastery and trained to be their spy. But he still managed to break free. Help him, Benfro, and he’ll help you fight Magog.’
Benfro doubted very much there was anything the boy could do for him, but the simple act of helping with the chest had made him feel better. It had been something to do rather than sitting around trying not to fall asleep. He needed activity, things to occupy his body as much as his mind. And Errol was in need of medical help. Even if he was a man. His mother had never refused help to anyone. It would shame her if he left the boy untended.
‘I need to gather some herbs.’ Benfro stepped into the woods, dark with the coming storm. Corwen said nothing, but Benfro was sure the old dragon smiled as he faded from sight.
‘Your Majesty, this is too soon. Half of the provinces don’t even know of your betrothal yet. How can they be expected to send tribute?’
Beulah looked up at her seneschal sitting beside the Obsidian Throne, his little desk once more strewn with scrolls as he delivered his daily report on the state of the Twin Kingdoms. Every day since her announcement he had used the briefing to moan about her upcoming wedding.
‘I neither expect their tribute nor their presence, Padraig. I fully intend travelling the whole country myself, just as soon as Clun and I are wed.’
‘A royal tour? But no ruler has done that since –’
‘My great-grandfather. I know. And even he missed out most of it. I saw more of my kingdom travelling with Melyn for the choosing than my father saw in all of his reign. It’s no wonder the people aren’t happy with my call to arms. They don’t know who I am. I shall show them and recruit them to my army.’
‘Your Majesty, is it wise to pursue this war? No one has ever succeeded in breaking through the passes before.’
Beulah let the seneschal make his case, unsure quite why she was so tolerant of him. Perhaps it was because he ran the palace and citadel so effectively. Beyond Candlehall the entire machinery of state was kept running by predicants of the Order of the Candle. Avoiding the upheaval his replacement would cause was well worth the hassle of his arguments for peace. And Beulah knew that Padraig’s loyalty to the throne was unquestionable. He would never ally himself with the factions that plotted against her; he just didn’t want a messy war mucking up his accounts.
‘King Ballah has made three attempts on my life since I came to power, Padraig. We know he has plans to put his grandson and my traitorous sister on this throne. I’ll not sit back and let him do that.’
‘You know I will always serve you, my queen, but I must advise caution. Ballah provokes you with these attacks. He wants a war. What better way to thwart him than to refuse?’
‘No, Padraig. I understand your reluctance, and I value your counsel, but I cannot tolerate a belligerent nation to the north. Ballah will have his war, but he won’t like the outcome. I don’t intend fighting it by his rules.’
‘Very well, Your Majesty.’ Padraig went back to his scrolls, but Beulah knew that she would have the same argument, couched in different terms, the next day.
Errol didn’t need to look at his ankles to know that he had undone weeks of healing. The pain was constant even when he kept as still as possible. Movement sent waves of agony rushing up his legs so intense he felt he might vomit. He lay back on his bed of grass and tried not to twitch.
It had been monumentally stupid, he realized, to try and move the entire chest at once. Far easier to have taken all the clothes out, piece by piece if necessary, and carried them to the cave. Then he might have been able to shift the empty chest without doing himself harm. But at the time he had been so amazed to see it, so determined to get it out of the water and into the cave, he hadn’t thought of the consequences of putting so much strain on his partially healed bones. Now there was little else he could think about.
He tried to sit up, the better to examine the damage, but the pain dimmed his vision and forced an involuntary gasp past his lips. It seemed worse now than in the dungeons below King Ballah’s castle, when the hammer had first fallen. Back then he had been able to tune out of the pain somehow, to move out of his body and observe it from a distance. It was the same when he had recalled his bedroom and the chest: it hadn’t been memory but a part of him actually there.
Errol searched for that feeling, a strange mixture of anticipation and indifference which had come over him as he had followed Corwen’s instructions. The throbbing in his ankles made it impossible to concentrate. Giving up, he listened instead to the noise of the wind outside. It was strengthening with the promise of a fearsome storm, and he was glad of his shelter, the warmth of the fire. He wondered what had caused Benfro to help. He wondered too where the dragon had gone.
Almost as if it were waiting for him to stop trying, the strange feeling of otherness slid over him. The pain of his ankles didn’t so much diminish as become something that was happening a very long way away, to someone else. He felt light, as if his already skinny body had turned to air, and all around him the lines of the Grym shimmered into view, adding their own form to the shape of the cave.
Errol sat up and experienced the disorienting feeling of watching his body stay where it was. He lifted his hands to inspect them, and saw an image of muted flickering colours, pale as he flexed his fingers. Looking down at his legs, he could see the same swirl of pastel shades, closely hugging his real shape like a second skin. And then, surrounding his shattered ankles, a livid pulsing mass of purple and red.
‘There are very few of your kind who can master this skill.’ Corwen sat on the far side of the fire. But it was a different-looking Corwen to the one he was used to seeing. This dragon was old, yes, and he bore the same scars as Corwen, but he was fully twice his size, with huge wings folded neatl
y at his back. He glowed with a rainbow of colours that shifted and flowed over his form in a mesmerizing pattern that shouted vitality. All except for one arm, his left. It was small, like the arm Errol was used to seeing, only now it seemed shrivelled and useless. It hung limply at the dragon’s side, the hand twisted into a crude fist, talons digging into the palm. And it glowed with a malignant red shimmer that hugged the leathery skin like sweat.
‘It is a manifestation of the Grym,’ Corwen continued. ‘Those who can see it call it the aethereal in your language. We have another name for it, an mhorfa, but it doesn’t translate well from the Draigiaith.’
‘I … What am I seeing?’
‘You’re seeing the Grym with your mind’s eye. Freed from the physicality of your body. This is an intermediate step between the magic of men and what we call the subtle arts.’
‘And these colours, my ankles?’
‘Your aura, Errol. The power of the Grym that flows from you, that defines you. Your ankles are badly damaged, and your aura reflects that.’
‘So what’s wrong with your arm?’
‘I think you already know that.’
‘Magog.’
‘His influence is insidious. His power infects the very Grym itself, turning it into something I’ve never encountered before. I am holding him back as best I can, but in time he will prevail. I don’t want to think what I will become when that happens.’
‘We’ll find a way to stop him,’ Errol said, feeling the pull of his body dragging him back to a world of pain. ‘There has to be a way.’
‘Your concern is admirable, Errol. But you’ve got to heal yourself first. And you need to help Benfro. Then you can worry about me.’
Errol wanted to ask more. There was so much he didn’t understand, so many things he needed to know, but his leg twitched and a wave of pain sparked through him so intense it leached all the colour out of his new vision. He was back in his body with a terrible snap that had him sitting bolt upright. For a moment he could see nothing at all but sparks of red light flickering in front of his eyes. Wave after wave of nausea washed over him. His mouth ran wet with the promise of throwing up.