by J. D. Oswald
‘Your Majesty, would you please stand now.’ The archimandrite’s words were a whisper, meant only for her. Beulah realized she had tuned him out completely, not hearing the ceremony at all. Behind her the chapel was an echo of silent anticipation, as if everyone assembled simultaneously held their breath. Then she felt a hand touch her arm lightly and looked round to where Clun hovered in an almost squatting position, offering to help her up. She took his arm and they rose together.
‘To be joined in the eyes of the Shepherd is no trifling thing. Do you, Clun Godric Defaid, take this woman to be your wife? Do you swear to protect her, to honour her for all of your days?’
Clun’s nervous ‘I do so swear’ was the greatest gift he could have given her. Beulah could see in his thoughts that he was in awe of her. There was no artifice in him: he didn’t see her as a source of power or wealth or influence, only as the woman he wanted to be with for the rest of his life, to serve with unquestioning loyalty, faith and love. It was almost humbling, but also unsettling to be faced with such devotion.
‘And do you, Queen Beulah of the Speckled Face, First of the House of Balwen, Ruler of the Twin Kingdoms and Defender of the Faith, take this man to be your husband and consort? Do you swear to protect him, to honour him for all of your days?’
‘I do so swear.’ Beulah heard the words, recognized them as her own, but she had no memory of saying them. For an instant she was in the aethereal, looking at the two figures standing in front of the altar, faced by the indistinct shape of the archimandrite. Clun was a shining form of gold, handsome and self-assured, and tinged with that soft roseate glow that had suffused him the night he had come to her possessed by the spirit of the Shepherd. Beside him she looked small and slightly pale, all the energy and colour swirling around her belly, as if her unborn child were leaching the life out of her.
And then with a nauseating swirl she was back in her own body, staggering slightly as if she had been hit. Clun held her firm, lending her strength as she knew he always would. Behind her, she sensed the approach of Inquisitor Melyn.
‘Hold steady now, Beulah. It’s nearly done,’ he murmured as he handed two rings to the archimandrite. Cassters took a sharp breath as he saw them. One was a plain gold band inscribed with intricate sigils. The other, larger than its companion, was white silver, ancient in design, and held a single small ruby surrounded by tiny diamonds. As he held them up for the congregation to witness, a ripple of astonished whispering flickered through the chapel
‘Your Majesty, this is King Balwen’s ring.’ The archimandrite spoke quietly, a look of horror on his face.
‘One of them, yes,’ Beulah said, and added nothing else but a smile. As if aware that he had interrupted his own service, the archimandrite shuddered slightly, then collected himself. He blessed the gold ring first, handing it to Clun. Then he blessed the silver ring, taking far longer over it than was necessary before passing it to the queen.
‘These … rings.’ The archimandrite hesitated, struggling to regain his composure. ‘These rings are a token of your troth, a reminder of the promises you have made to each other today, in the presence of the Shepherd and of these witnesses. By taking them, by wearing them, what was two is become one.’
As he spoke the words, Beulah felt Clun take her hand and gently push the golden band on to her finger. He looked at her through her veil, waiting patiently, but didn’t reach out for the ring she held. It was hers to give, he was saying. He would not take it from her. Or had he picked up on the archimandrite’s hesitation? Did he realize that there was something yet more in the exchange of this particular ring?
Beulah found she no longer cared. She had made this decision weeks ago. She took Clun’s hand in hers, feeling its warmth and strength. Turning slightly, so that everyone in the chapel could see, she pushed the ring on to his finger.
‘It is done. What the Shepherd has joined, only he can ever part.’ Archimandrite Cassters’ voice faltered slightly as he made the benediction, sounding higher than its normal deep baritone. ‘You may kiss the bride.’
Clun lifted Beulah’s veil and bent to kiss her. There, in front of witnesses, she felt a sudden sense of embarrassment, as if this union were a private matter and not something for all to see. It was a fleeting moment, however, and she reached up and took his head in her hands, pulling him into a fierce embrace that lasted a good few seconds.
As she reluctantly pulled away, taking Clun’s hand in her own, he leaned towards her and whispered, ‘My lady. The ring. What does it mean?’
‘It is King Balwen’s ring,’ she said as they stepped slowly down the aisle. ‘Legend says that it was made for him by the Shepherd himself. It has been worn by every king of the House of Balwen for the last two thousand years.’
‘But I’m not a king.’
‘No, my love. You’re not a king. But you are my consort and you will rule the Twin Kingdoms by my side.’
The pile had grown depressingly small now. Benfro didn’t know how long he had been sorting through it, but the screams of protest that echoed through his head as he sifted jewel after jewel were much quieter than when he had started. He had found two more of the villagers. Both had been calm, telling him much the same as Sir Frynwy had done, forgiving him for his actions, trying to reassure him that he would win his fight, return and free them all once more. Now parts of Ynys Môn sat in front of him, incomplete but close to the point where he too would be consigned to a solitary hell. The old dragon was quiet, choosing only to send images of the hunts they had shared and the small triumphs Benfro had achieved as he learned the skills of forest craft. The aim was obvious and laudable, to show him that he could succeed. But Benfro felt only sadness in the memories.
He was going to lose. Soon the whole pile would be sorted, each dragon’s memories trapped once more for Magog to tap for whatever strange power they held. Then he would be overcome. He wondered if he would drift away to nothing, or if he would just be pushed to the back, left a spectator as the greatest mage ever to master the skies of Gwlad rose again and took his revenge on the creatures that had killed him. It was becoming increasingly difficult to care.
Jewel after jewel after jewel, he lifted them, weighed them in his palm, felt the flavour of the thoughts they contained and compared them with the small piles he had already sorted but were still incomplete. Sometimes he had to lift a jewel from these piles and weigh it in his other palm, holding both as if he were some kind of strange balance, measuring their similarity. There were memories subtly different yet so intertwined they could only belong to dragons who had shared a lifetime together. To part them was to live through his mother’s death over and over again, and yet he was powerless to stop. Even the pain in his wing root was little more than a minor irritation now, and nothing he could use to break out of the endless loop of his nightmare.
A shudder ran through him as Benfro’s fingers found the next jewel. There was no mistaking it, no denying it was the last piece of Ynys Môn.
‘Do not despair, Benfro. This is a torment for us, I won’t pretend otherwise. But we’re safe here. And I know you’ll defeat him.’
Benfro wanted to scream. As his traitorous hands cupped the pile of shining white jewels, he strained every sinew of his mind to throw them back on to the pile. Bad enough that Meirionnydd, Sir Frynwy and half the other villagers had already been consigned to the alcoves, but not this. Not Ynys Môn. There had to be a way to stop it from happening. But as if his effort were nothing, he scrambled to his feet, heading off into the darkness in search of the correct alcove.
Something blocked his way.
Something long and low, like a rolled-up rug or an animal sprawled on the floor. Something, in fact, remarkably like a young man, hardly more than a boy.
In his puppet-like state, he walked straight into the shape, rolling it over as he lost his balance and tipped forward. Benfro had just enough time to make out Errol’s startled face before he was plunging down, tumbling head over heels as c
racked and eroded cliffs rushed past him in the opposite direction. Astonished, he almost dropped the precious jewels still cupped in his outstretched hands, and as he clutched them, he realized he had control over his body. He snapped open his wings. For a few moments he continued plummeting towards the bottom of what looked like a deep ravine, but then he felt them catch the wind and slow his fall, and then with a single great sweep he halted his descent and swooped up.
As he climbed, Benfro could see that he was surrounded by mountains, though he didn’t recognize any of them. Neither had he ever before seen the enormous castle that squatted on top of the nearest, surrounding its peak with concentric rings of high walls, rising to a single thick tower on the top.
Curious, he wheeled about, climbing higher until he could get a better look. The scale was almost impossible to comprehend; nothing could be that big, surely. He needed to get closer or to see something recognizable within one of the open spaces surrounded by those tall thin walls. But for the moment Benfro was content just to whirl in the air currents, feel the wind in his ears.
Some indefinable seventh sense kicked in at the last possible moment. It was almost as if a voice in the back of his head had shouted, ‘Duck!’ Not knowing why he did it, Benfro folded his wings in with a snap, clasped his hands to his chest and hunched his head. He dropped like a stone just as something vast swooped through the place in the air where he had been. It screeched like an enraged buzzard, and now Benfro could see it was a dragon, clawing at the air in an undignified attempt at a fast turn.
That sense tickled him again, and Benfro swept his wings wide, slowing to a halt and pirouetting as a second dragon speared through the point where he would have been had he continued falling. There was a great clattering of wings and two other dragons tumbled past him, looking as if they had just collided in mid-air. The first dragon had recovered from its dive and was heading straight towards him, screeching, talons drawn for blood. Beneath him the other three had sorted themselves out and were climbing back up through the air.
Benfro folded his wings and dived again, still clasping the jewels to his chest. His move took his attackers by surprise. They must have thought he would try to turn and flee; instead he plummeted between the three, heading for the castle, looking for shelter before they could regroup and attack again. They tumbled out of his way, bashing into each other and lashing out like bickering kitlings. He sped himself onward with huge sweeps of his wings, surprised to find that he felt no pain at all in his wing root.
Too late he remembered the first dragon.
Wiser than his three companions, he must have wheeled round, watching the fight and flight, taking his time to see what was going on. This time his dive connected, and Benfro felt the wind knocked out of him. Sharp pain lanced across his shoulders as talons sank into his flesh. He twisted in the air, trying to shake his attacker loose, but without success. And all the while he was falling towards the huge castle.
They were over the wall now, tumbling towards an area of grass criss-crossed by wide flagstone paths. Benfro twisted again, trying to wrench the talons from his back, but they stayed firm, the pain lancing through him anew. His hands flew open reflexively, spilling their precious collection of memories to the air. Ynys Môn’s jewels tumbled towards the grass, Benfro watching them with a mixture of horror and relief. Wherever it was he had brought them, they weren’t going to be trapped in Magog’s repository.
His hands free now, Benfro was able to reach up to grip his attacker’s talons, all the while fighting with his wings to keep aloft. He felt scale and leathery skin taut over trembling muscle. Extending one talon, he ripped at the other dragon’s feet and ankles. With a screech, his attacker let go, and Benfro once more snapped his wings shut, diving away for a moment before whirling round to face his vicious enemy.
Or at least that was what he meant to do. But he was suddenly too close to the ground and travelling too quickly to stop before he hit. In the instant before impact he heard the dragon shriek in maniacal triumph.
‘Your Highness, is there anything else I can get you this evening?’
Prince Dafydd looked up at his manservant, hovering by the door. No doubt the man was on a promise. One of the kitchen girls most likely. Sometimes he wondered that the palace staff managed to perform their duties at all, the amount of time they seemed to spend jumping into bed with one another.
‘No,’ he said, grateful that he would be left alone now. ‘That will be all. Goodnight, Jevans.’
The servant bowed and retreated from the room, pulling the doors closed behind him. Dafydd settled back into his armchair and studied the patterns of flame in the fireplace. Through the doorway in the bedchamber Iolwen was sleeping. She did a lot of that these days. And eating. The slim lonely girl he knew and loved was filling out as her condition began to show, but there was more to her brooding than pregnancy. Ever since she had met the boy Errol she had been different, almost homesick for the country that had abandoned her so many years ago. She took far more interest in the news from the Twin Kingdoms than ever she had before, and she spent long hours up in the tower where he had been imprisoned, reading the words he had written as if there were something profound in them, rather than a rather naive attempt at a Llanwennog grammar.
What had it been about that boy? King Ballah had been fascinated by him too, had let him get far closer than was wise. Was it yet one more sign of the old man finally losing his mind, that he could be so easily swayed by a likeness to his dead youngest and favourite son, Balch? Or was there something else about the young spy that Dafydd hadn’t noticed? He didn’t think he’d ever met someone so naturally powerful in magic, and yet so unskilled, so unwise in its application. And then there was the nature of his disappearance. His escape from the executioner’s block still defied any explanation. It was a worry too. If Melyn had uncovered some new conjuring that could make his spies invisible, whisk them away from danger even when their ankles were smashed beyond walking, then Llanwennog was in far greater danger from the Twin Kingdoms than the war council realized.
Dafydd despaired at the council. Tordu was so wrapped up in his spite, hating everything and everyone, and he was as stubborn as a pack mule. Dondal was a coward, terrified of Ballah but always looking to play both sides. He would agree with anyone, as long as it meant he could keep his head on his shoulders. And Geraint, dear old dad. Dafydd supposed he should have more respect for his father, but the man was a foot soldier to the core, lacking any imagination.
Which left the king. Ballah was still a force to be reckoned with, still the sharpest mind of the lot. And his experience counted for a great deal. But lately he seemed less the all-powerful ruler, more the grandfather in a dynasty grown fat and complacent. Perhaps familiarity bred contempt; certainly he’d seen more of the king these past few months than in the rest of his life. Since his wedding. Since he had been invited to join the council.
The knock at the door was so quiet Dafydd couldn’t be sure it hadn’t been going on for minutes. It dragged his attention back to the room, the hypnotic swirls of the flames becoming just fire flickering as it consumed the logs. He focused his mind and reached out to the figure who stood without, trying to work out who it was from the colour of their thoughts.
There was nobody there.
Another knock, slightly louder this time, came from the door.
‘Who’s there?’ Dafydd brought forth his puissant sword, feeling the power of it surge through him. He crossed to the door in a half-dozen paces. Still he could sense no one standing on the other side. Or was there something? He reached out with his mind again, visualising the corridor outside. He knew it well enough, but now there was something different. A shadow in the darkness, perhaps. Or a hole the shape and size of a man.
Dafydd whipped the door open, blade forward. For an instant he saw nothing but the corridor, he was certain. And then there was a hooded figure in front of him, motionless, waiting.
‘Who are you?’ Dafydd raised h
is blade to the man’s throat. Unperturbed, the stranger held up his hands, palms outward in a gesture of peace, then slowly reached up to his hood, pulling it back to reveal his features.
‘My name is Usel, Your Highness. I mean you no harm. Quite the opposite in fact.’
Dafydd almost dropped his blade in surprise. The man who stood before him was quite plainly a southerner, from the Twin Kingdoms. He wore the simple robes of one of their travelling monks, a healer coenobite of the Order of the Ram. His face was pale, as if he didn’t often see the sun; his skin smooth save for a light fuzz of stubble, his dark hair streaked with white; but it was his eyes that held Dafydd’s gaze. They were palest grey, bright with intelligence. As he looked at the man, those eyes shifted focus to behind him and creased at the edges with a warm smile.
‘I heard voices … Oh.’ Dafydd looked around to see Iolwen, wrapped in silk bedclothes and a heavy shawl, standing in the middle of the room, staring.
‘Princess Iolwen. It’s good to see you again. I hope you’re well.’ The stranger spoke softly, but his voice carried. Dafydd cursed himself for being distracted like a novice. He whipped his head back round, tensed for an attack, but there was no need. Their unannounced visitor had not moved.
‘Usel, what in the Shepherd’s name are you doing here?’ Iolwen said.
‘You know this man?’ Dafydd asked.
‘Of course, love. So do you. He’s Usel. He was with the party that brought me here. He stayed almost a year while I settled in. I cried for a week when he was called away, when it was just me and my ladies-in-waiting.’