The Golden Cage

by J. D. Oswald

  And then there was a hand on his forehead. In his confusion Errol thought it must be his mother, come to soothe his fever away. But the hand was too big, its texture rough on his skin. Another hand pressed something into his palm and he heard a voice say, ‘Chew this. It will take away the pain for a while.’ Without thinking, Errol put what felt like a rolled-up leaf into his mouth and bit down on it. A bitter taste filled his mouth briefly, then turned sweet, making his mouth water more. He chewed reflexively, feeling the agony recede almost immediately. With the relief came a crushing weariness that pulled him downwards, back on to the soft bed of dry grass and into a deep warm sleep.

  Benfro looked down at the sleeping boy, glad that he had found the sedda leaves on his forest search. Too many and they would knock out even a fully grown dragon, but one, chewed for a few minutes, would make what he had to do next at least painless if hardly pleasant.

  He set about arranging the ingredients for the potion around the edge of the hearth, then realized he had no pot in which to mix them. On the ledge above the bed his battered old leather bag still sat with its contents of purloined gold from Magog’s repository. He opened it, sure that he had taken a wide goblet along with the other treasures. Sure enough he found it, wedged in the bottom of the bag, but it was too small. He had seen a cauldron somewhere, he was sure, but had it been in Magog’s retreat on Mount Arnahi?

  Benfro’s eyes lost their focus as he tried to remember, and unbidden the Llinellau Grym swam into view. They patterned the walls and the floor, thick lines intersecting under the hearth. He could almost hear them calling to him, inviting him to investigate their endless paths, but he knew better than to give in to that temptation. He was too weary to concentrate, and he knew that Magog would whisk him away somewhere if he tried to walk the lines, like he had done the last time, diverting his attention away from Corwen’s cave and across the miles to his mountaintop retreat.

  Corwen’s cave. Benfro remembered now where he had seen a cauldron. And many other things he might find useful. They were just a few dozen paces away, through a wall of solid rock. He could see the way there. It was as simple as stepping over a fallen branch in the forest. All he needed to do was take that first step. In an instant he would be there, with the familiar old furniture, the writing table with its unfinished manuscript laid out waiting, the bookcase with its store of ancient knowledge, the fire and comfortable bed alongside.

  Benfro shook his head, driving away the stupor that had crept up over him. He had seen the room at the top of Mount Arnahi, Magog’s retreat. Even with his jewels dislodged from their pillar-top resting place, the ancient dead dragon mage was trying to drag him back to that inhospitable place.

  Benfro turned away from the cave wall and headed out into the clearing. The storm had darkened the sky almost to black, though nightfall was hours away. The trees writhed around in a frenzy, their fresh new leaves ripping in the wind. As he watched, a squall of rain lashed across the track, kicking up the dust and turning it to mud. He hunched his shoulders against the wet and made his way to the ford, turning upstream into the deeper water and wading to the waterfall, pushing through into the cold dark cavern beyond.

  With almost no light filtering in from outside, Benfro had to wait long moments for his eyes to adjust enough to see what he was doing. He thought of conjuring a flame – there was fire just the other side of the cave wall – but he was terrified of manipulating the Grym. Magog lay in wait for him that way. So instead he hauled himself out of the icy water and stood shivering until the gloom resolved itself into familiar shapes.

  It took a while to find the cauldron, and by feel a set of long iron spoons. All the while he wondered why Corwen didn’t appear to him, but the old dragon’s movements were a mystery. Sometimes he was absent for days, other times he was always around, watching, making occasionally helpful comments. Benfro was about to head back to the water’s edge when he realized what else had been bothering him the whole time he had searched the cave. There was an unusual odour, as if someone had visited the place recently, certainly in the last week. He tried to pin down the scent, but it was very faint and the ground underfoot had that faint spicy smell that covered everything else. Then, finally, he realized what it was. The boy had been in here.

  He wasn’t sure whether he was more angry or surprised at this. It seemed somehow wrong that Errol should have been in here, but there was no way he could have found it without Corwen’s help. Confused, Benfro pushed through the curtain of water, pausing to rinse the cauldron thoroughly in the strong current. When he was halfway across the clearing, a squall peeled the makeshift roof off the corral with a great crashing noise, branches splintering and careening off into the darkness. He stood staring at his sleeping place as the rain rattled off the inside of the walls, no doubt soaking the once-dry grass that was his bedding. Shrugging in defeat, Benfro turned away and entered the cave.

  The warmth was welcoming after the chill of the storm. He put some more dry logs on the fire and placed the cauldron on top of them, then checked on Errol. The boy was still asleep and probably would be for hours yet, which was just as well. Benfro recalled the times before when he had prepared this medication, back at home with his mother watching over him to make sure he made no mistakes. Would she be proud of him now? Would she praise him for what he was doing? He hoped so.

  The preparation took almost half an hour, during which time Benfro examined the damage done to Errol’s ankles. He had never studied the anatomy of men, but it was fairly easy to see that the damage had been healing badly. Not set properly, the bones would likely have fused into one unyielding mass, making walking extremely difficult and painful. In some ways the boy had done himself a favour by breaking them again.

  It wasn’t going to be easy to set them right though; he might not even be able to do it at all. Errol’s ankles were much smaller and more complicated than Ynys Môn’s shoulder, and he had only watched his mother heal that. But it was a task that would require his full attention, that would take his mind off sleep and the endless weariness that pulled at him.

  Steeling himself to the task, Benfro let his perceptions shift until he could see Errol’s aura, stretched thin over him like a second skin. Only those ruined ankles glowed with any colour, and that was a livid shifting mass of purples and reds. Settling down in the best position he could manage for both comfort and light from the fire, he extended one talon and set to work.

  6

  And the Shepherd called forth his followers, bidding them come to him at his most marvellous palace. They gathered together, Grendor and Malco, Wise Earith and Balwen the Brave. Though they had travelled to the far corners of Gwlad, spreading his good words, still they heeded his call and returned.

  Each one in turn attended him, curious as to why he had summoned them. But none was so bold as to question him. And to each one he gave a gift of power, of understanding and wisdom. Grendor received the knowledge of all the languages of men, Malco the strength of the mountain bears he so resembled. To Earith the Shepherd gave the power of healing, so that any she touched would be cured of all illness.

  Then came Balwen, last into the hall. And when he knelt before his master, the Shepherd rose from his throne and went down to meet him.

  ‘A great war is coming,’ the Shepherd said, ‘and I must leave Gwlad to fight the Wolf in his lair. But do not despair, my loyal servants, for I shall return. Until then I have touched you each with some measure of my power. Use it wisely, for only thus can you guard my throne.’

  And he laid his hand on Balwen’s head. And with that touch, Balwen the Brave was filled with the power of Gwlad such as no man had ever known.

  The Book of the Shepherd

  Melyn pushed through the doors into the royal chambers, ignoring the startled looks of the ladies-in-waiting who hovered around the queen like so many flies around a corpse.

  ‘Your Majesty, once again you look ridiculous. Must you insist on wearing these outrageous costumes?’
>
  Beulah laughed without any mirth. ‘You know as well as I do that I hate this pomp and show, Melyn. I hate it as much as you do. But it’s what the people expect.’

  ‘True,’ Melyn conceded. ‘Padraig may be an insufferable bore, but he knows how to manipulate public feeling. The whole city celebrates today.’

  ‘That’s because they don’t have to go to work.’

  ‘Well, that could have something to do with it, I suppose. But they’re feeling well disposed towards the royal house too. The people seem to approve of Clun.’

  ‘I didn’t choose him for his public appeal, Melyn. He has other qualities.’

  ‘I’m sure he does, but now is perhaps not the time to discuss them. You’re due to be married in about twenty minutes.’

  ‘Is it that late already?’ Beulah looked over at the window as if trying to gauge the time by the light filtering in. The sky was overcast, a grey pallor marring an otherwise fine warm spring day. It had rained earlier, washing down the yellow sandstone walls of the citadel and making everything smell fresh. All they needed was a little sunshine and it would be perfect.

  ‘His Grace the Duke of Abervenn left for the chapel about ten minutes ago,’ Melyn said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a boy look more nervous.’

  ‘Boy, Melyn? He’s a grown man.’ Beulah shooed away the ladies-in-waiting. ‘Go now. I will speak with the inquisitor alone. You may wait for me downstairs.’

  The ladies left the room, fussing that the queen was not yet ready, though Melyn could see nothing wrong with how she looked beyond the sheer ridiculousness of her costume itself. White and large was the best way he could describe it, with all manner of extraneous bits trailing off here and there. He understood the need for the symbolism, but he couldn’t help disliking the extravagance of a dress costing so much gold which would be worn just once, for less than half a day.

  ‘Has he asked about his father?’ Beulah took up the brush one of her ladies had placed carefully on the dressing table, and began pulling it through her hair. Melyn realized he was staring and looked away. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Beulah brush her hair before. It had always been too short to worry about, but now it was down to her shoulders

  ‘His father?’

  ‘Clun. Has he asked about his father? I assume you took care of that little problem.’

  ‘Clun hasn’t asked about his father, no,’ Melyn said. ‘Not that I’ve had that much time to talk to him. Or you for that matter. I should have delivered my report to you as soon as I arrived.’

  ‘As I recall, you were doing that when we were interrupted. Never mind, Melyn. Tell me now.’

  ‘But your wedding?’

  ‘Can wait a few minutes more. It never hurts to keep a man waiting. A lady, on the other hand …’

  Melyn told her what they had found at Pwllpeiran and how they had tracked signs of a dragon travelling north into the great forest of the Ffrydd. ‘I don’t think it was the kitling, Benfro. I think this is another beast entirely, something completely wild. I’ve never heard of their kind eating people before. Killing us, yes, but not eating us.’

  ‘What about the boy Errol? Was there any sign of him?’

  ‘No,’ Melyn said. ‘I don’t even think he’d gone back to his home. We found only signs of the two adults living there, and their bones.’

  ‘And you’re sure it was them?’

  ‘As sure as I could be. They were picked clean, but it was definitely a man and a woman. You could say the beast did us a favour, but I’ll still track it down and kill it. I’ll break the bad news to Clun tomorrow. Let him enjoy his wedding day.’

  ‘No, I’ll tell him,’ Beulah said, standing and gathering her voluminous dress around her, taking Melyn’s proffered arm. ‘He’s going to be my husband, after all.’

  Errol sat on a cliff, looking out over hauntingly familiar mountains. He hugged his knees to his chest, shivered at the cold and stared at the impossibly large building across the narrow steep-sided ravine. He had seen Emmass Fawr, walked its endless corridors from the highest tower to the deepest dungeon. The castle he saw now made the monastery of the Order of the High Ffrydd look like a doll’s house.

  It spread around the whole of a single mountain peak, encircling it with concentric rings of battlement-topped stone walls. Windows glinted in the sun like the myriad facets of some vast spider’s eye, and thin towers reached skyward from every corner. In the middle, atop the highest peak, a single fat circular tower rose five or six storeys higher still, capped with a conical roof of dark slate.

  As he watched the huge castle, looking for signs of life and wondering how he had come to be in this place, Errol heard a screeching noise behind him at once alien and terribly familiar. He turned to see four great beasts beating their way through the sky. One, weighed down with something, flew lower than the others, and as they approached one of its companions dipped down in a complex spiralling motion, dropping even lower still and catching the burden as it was released. Errol’s heart lurched as he realized what that burden was.

  Martha.

  She was being passed from dragon to dragon in mid-air, hundreds of feet above the ragged mountains, tumbling from one set of talons to another like a child’s discarded doll, and all the while the dragons were screeching at each other in what sounded like hideous laughter. Before he could do anything, before he could even register that he must be dreaming, they had passed overhead, ignoring him completely, and were making the short trip across the ravine to the massive castle. In only a dozen beats of their wings, they were there, passing over one of the high walls and disappearing from sight.

  And then Errol was sitting on the castle wall, looking down over a wide courtyard laid with flagstones and neatly mown grass. The four dragons had landed, their captive now lying on the ground motionless. They bickered among themselves like crows dancing around a dead animal, so absorbed in their dispute that they completely failed to notice a fifth dragon approach on foot from a huge arched doorway that led into the building. It had to be a male dragon; Errol had never seen a creature so big and magnificent. He towered over the other four, making them seem like children, and he clipped them around the heads until they stopped their arguments and formed a sulky line.

  It was so like old Father Drebble knocking a bit of discipline into his more unruly pupils that Errol almost laughed, but his voice choked off before he made a sound. The large dragon leaned down to inspect the still bundle on the ground, stooping further to pick it up and inspect it more closely. He turned away from the four youngsters, walked a few paces back towards the door, then turned and shouted something at them. As one, they leaped back, crashing into each other in their haste to get airborne. Errol ignored them, straining to see the older dragon and the too-still form of Martha as he carried her away towards the building. Was it his imagination? Was it just the rolling, bumping motion of the dragon’s gait, or did she move her arm to her head, like someone waking from unconsciousness? He prayed she was unharmed even as he knew she was in serious trouble.

  He wanted to rush after her, follow as stealthily as he could, find wherever it was the dragon was taking her and free her. They could escape together, if he could just get down to the courtyard. But it was a forty-foot drop on to hard flagstones. Behind, he knew without looking, it was ten times that on to near-vertical scree-covered slopes. To either side the wall snaked away, impossibly narrow, hitting him with sudden heart-stopping vertigo.

  And then he was enveloped in noise, a terrible screeching as the first of the four young dragons dived at him, claws reaching for his head, talons outstretched. Instinctively Errol ducked and felt himself tipping over the wall backwards. Into nothing.

  ‘It is written that in the earliest days, when he still walked among his chosen, the Shepherd directed King Balwen towards fair Myfanwy and filled his heart with love for her as he filled hers with devotion to him. His blessing upon that union was the foundation of our people, the beginning of the Twin Kingdoms
.’

  Beulah tuned out the words, barely hearing Archimandrite Cassters’ droning voice as he worked his way through the marriage ceremony. She knelt on a hard cushion in front of the altar in Brynceri’s chapel, staring through her veil at the ornate carvings on the wall behind, at the archimandrite’s heavy silk robes, at her hands. Darting a quick glance sideways at Clun.

  ‘Our lord no longer walks among his flock, but he watches over us at all times. From our first breath he is there, even until we depart this life and make that final journey to the safe pastures. He is our guide through life, our protector from the Running Wolf.’

  She had not expected to be so nervous. It was such a cliché; only empty-headed young maidens panicked on their wedding day. And yet here she was, fidgeting and quite unable to concentrate.

  ‘His compassion knows no bounds, his wisdom is infinite, and nowhere is his generosity more amply demonstrated than in his blessing of the union of man and woman. For if we search our hearts, we can see that he has brought together Clun Godric Defaid, Duke of Abervenn, and Her Majesty Queen Beulah of the Speckled Face, just as he has brought together every man and woman since the beginning of time.’

  Beulah winced at her full title, hating her father for his cruelty in naming her so. She would have dearly liked to change it, but her people were a superstitious lot, and nothing would alarm them more than abandoning the name bestowed upon her. The history of the House of Balwen was littered with sorry tales of those who had tempted fate that way.

  ‘We gather here, in the shelter of this chapel, built by King Brynceri himself on the spot where the Shepherd instructed him to unite the whole of Gwlad in his love, to act as witnesses to this union.’

  There was a power to this place, Beulah had to admit. She was not one for spending hours in religious contemplation, preferring to serve her god in her actions, but Brynceri’s chapel glowed with an energy like the Obsidian Throne, though perhaps not as potent. She tried to relax, letting herself slip into the aethereal. Once more it seemed she was unable to reach that state that had been second nature. She suspected it was something to do with her pregnancy, but it was frustrating nonetheless. She didn’t like the feeling of helplessness, and she longed to teach Clun the art. His aethereal image was so strong, he would surely master it as swiftly as had she under Melyn’s tutelage. There were few enough adepts as it was and she would need them all for the coming war.