by J. D. Oswald
‘Indeed not, sir. I’ve already spoken to old Missus Benton in the kitchens, and the chambermaids are airing the guest rooms as we speak.’ He turned back to Beulah, who wasn’t sure whether to run Lord Queln through with her blade for his rudeness or laugh at his obvious senility. ‘My lord’s not been a well man for many years now, Your Majesty. Not since his only son rode off to war and never came back. We do our best for him, but it’s not easy. Please follow me. I will show you to your rooms.’
They left Lord Queln in his courtyard and followed Herren up the steps. Beyond the narrow oak door, the castle maintained the air of shabbiness it wore on the outside. What little light reached the window slits had to contend with inch-thick glass as green as water in a dying pond. The tapestries that hung from the thick stone walls may once have depicted hunting scenes or stories from the early days of the Twin Kingdoms but now were all a uniform grey. Clun walked up to one, peering closely at it as if he might be able to make out some detail. He reached forward and tapped the fabric lightly, enveloping himself in a choking cloud that tumbled down the length of the drape, from the ceiling to the floor, gathering momentum like loose snow in the mountains. Beulah hoped that their rooms would be better cleaned, though judging by the scurrying chambermaids they would more likely smell of recently disturbed dust.
‘Who runs this fiefdom, Captain?’ Beulah asked as they made their way up more narrow winding stairs to the third floor, where the main guest rooms were situated.
‘His lordship does what he can, Your Majesty. I see to the keeping of law and order, and Father Tolley runs the administration, the collection of taxes and so on. Corris isn’t the port it used to be.’
‘This Father Tolley. He’d be a predicant of the Candle, I take it? One of Padraig’s men.’
‘Indeed he is, Your Majesty.’
‘Correct protocol, when addressing your monarch, is to use the title Your Majesty only on first meeting. After that, you should call me ma’am. I must admit I have little time for such nonsense, but the people expect it. Now tell me, Captain. Where is this wayward Candle? Why wasn’t he here to greet me?’
Captain Herren stopped mid-step, turning to face the queen. So this is his guilty little secret, Beulah thought.
‘He left for Beylinstown about three days ago, Your … ma’am.’
‘Did he say why he was going there?’
‘No, ma’am. Just that we weren’t to go after the bandits until he got back. I assumed he was going to ask his superior to petition Lord Beylin for help.’
‘And that’s why you weren’t out on the road yesterday, when we were attacked?’ Beulah skimmed the edge of the captain’s thoughts, searching for duplicity and finding none. In truth, he was rather a simple-minded man. Not stupid, but not imaginative either. Good material for a guardsman, probably not the best choice for captain. She wondered whose decision that had been, Lord Queln’s or Father Tolley’s
‘Yes, ma’am.’
The rooms they were shown into were surprisingly clean and spacious, though dark. A fire had been lit in the hearth, and through a small door Beulah found an ancient but large bathtub already filled with hot water. She had expected to see a stream of serving girls bringing pitchers up from the kitchens, but wide copper pipes snaked around the walls, disappearing through the stone to the back of the fireplace. Such sophisticated plumbing was so out of place in the crumbling old castle, she almost laughed.
Stripping off her road clothes, she dropped them in a pile by the door and lowered herself into the hot water, sighing in delight at one of the simpler pleasures life could bring, soaking away the dust and the aches of being so long in the saddle, while Clun attended to the wound in her arm and the ugly blistered burn on her palm.
‘Do you not find this place a little strange, my love?’ she asked as he knelt by the side of the tub and massaged her shoulders.
‘Corris has been going downhill for years. The river’s silted up and the big barges can’t make it further than Wright’s Ford these days. Lord Beylin spent his money improving the road from there, rather than fighting nature and dredging the river.’
‘I didn’t mean the poverty.’ Beulah had once again forgotten that Clun was a merchant’s son. His knowledge of the geography of the Twin Kingdoms was the equal of her own, perhaps even better as he seemed to know more about the commercial wealth of each town they visited, whereas all she could remember were the names of the local aristocracy. ‘I meant Lord Queln. He’s plainly senile, and yet no one has stepped forward to take his place. If Padraig had heard of his state, he would have petitioned me to appoint a successor.’
‘Maybe it slipped his mind.’
‘You don’t know the seneschal well, my love. Nothing slips his mind. If he hasn’t brought this to my attention, it is because he is unaware of it.’ Beulah climbed out of the now-lukewarm water, accepting a towel and drying herself. Wrapped tightly in a clean bandage, her arm ached but was largely pain free; the same could not be said of her palm, which throbbed in time with her heartbeat. She would have liked a chance to meditate and focus the power of the Grym on healing herself, but she needed answers to too many questions to settle her mind.
The great hall was like something from an ancient fairy tale. A huge open fireplace burned logs the size of small trees, casting a flickering light on two long tables arranged in parallel with low benches along both sides of each. At the far end of the room, raised on a dais, a smaller table sat in front of a large carved throne. Made of oak or a similar wood and almost black with age, this was a facsimile in miniature of the Obsidian Throne back at Candlehall. Two smaller chairs with ornately carved high backs were placed one on either side. All three were unoccupied.
At first Beulah thought that the hall was empty, but a noise from the fireplace, barely audible over the crackling logs, caught her attention. Sitting on a low stool by the hearth, staring into the flames, was Lord Queln.
‘My lord, I must thank you for your kind hospitality,’ Beulah said, crossing the hall with Clun and feeling the fierce heat of the fire on her face from ten paces away. How could Queln bear to sit so close? ‘I was particularly impressed with the plumbing.’
‘Eh? Oh?’ Queln looked round as if trying to locate the source of this new noise. Perhaps he truly was blind, Beulah thought. It would explain a lot.
‘Your Majesty. I must apologize for my rudeness. No one told me you were coming. Had I but a day’s notice …’
‘It’s no matter, Queln. I’m not so pampered that I can’t cope with a little hardship. But heralds were sent out over two weeks ago. Are you telling me none made it here?’
‘I don’t recall meeting one, ma’am. My memory’s not what it was. Tolley normally deals with day-to-day things like that, but I can’t seem to find him.’
‘Captain Herren tells me Father Tolley left a few days ago for Beylinstown. Why would he go there?’
‘Herren. He’s a good man. A good soldier. He’s my grandson, you know.’
Beulah was almost distracted from her question by the admission. Almost, but not quite. There was something not quite right about Queln. She had thought him senile, but perhaps there was a deeper malaise.
‘Father Tolley, Lord Queln. Why did he go to Beylinstown?’ Beulah tried to catch the old man’s eyes, brushing the edges of his thoughts to see what reaction the priest’s name provoked.
‘My son. My lovely Gerrid. He had a bit of a roving eye, you see. Always after the serving lasses. Who knows? Half of the town might be his children. It wouldn’t surprise me. But Herren’s the one I can be sure of. He has his father’s eyes.’ Queln’s face slackened, and his head turned back to the fire as if he had been speaking to a page rather than his monarch. Beulah’s anger flickered at the snub, and she used that surge of power to push deeper into his thoughts.
He wasn’t senile, of that much she could be sure. His mind was a mess, but only because someone had made it that way. It was as skilled a working as any she had seen Melyn perfor
m, taking snippets of memory and mixing them together, jumbling up the order of things, confusing an old man to make him more suggestible.
Beulah knelt in front of Queln, putting her hands on his knees. Instinctively he looked straight at her, and she gazed deep into his eyes.
‘Father Tolley. Where did he really go?’ An image flickered in Queln’s thoughts, a series of fragments that assembled to form a person. Short, thin, wearing the traditional robes of a predicant, black hair slicked back over a pale almost pointed skull, a nasal, weasely voice that seemed to fill her head.
‘Your reign will be short, Queen Beulah of the stolen throne.’ Queln’s voice was completely different, hard and cold. He reached forward, grasping Beulah’s hands with his own. In the flickering orange glow of the firelight his face was contorted, veins bulging at his temples, sweat beading on his forehead and nose. ‘The true king is coming, and he will wipe all but his own followers from the face of Gwlad. Enjoy your days while you can. They won’t last.’
Riding Queln’s thoughts, Beulah felt the full impact of the words. It was as if they had been planted in his head, waiting for the moment when she uncovered them. And whoever had put them there had left a small surprise too. She saw it just in time and leaped back, pulling her hands free, wrenching her mind away as Queln went into a spasm. Clun jumped forward to shield her, but the old man posed no threat now she had released him. He writhed, his bent back twisting and buckling until he fell off the stool and on to the floor. His breath came out in gurgling choking coughs, as if something were stuck in his throat. Blood leaked from his nose and ears, then from his eyelids, streaming down his cheeks in a parody of tears.
‘Lord Queln.’ Clun knelt down beside the old man, grasping his arms to stop him convulsing. Beulah just looked on; she knew that there was nothing anyone could do to save the man. Someone had killed him a long time ago, but it took a few more minutes for Lord Queln to die.
14
And the Shepherd, leaving his Hall of Candles, went out into Gwlad, even to the lair of the Wolf. And here he called out to his old foe, saying, ‘Wolf, you are cowardly, attacking my flock in the night. Come, fight me cleanly, fairly. In the light. And if you can defeat me you may have your feast of all.’
Taunted by the words of the Shepherd and greedy for his offer, the Wolf came snarling even from the very depths of his lair. Though it was day, he launched himself at the Shepherd with fangs bared and claws drawn.
But the Shepherd was wise. He had prepared for this. And seeing the Wolf’s evil spread all over his beloved Gwlad had determined to rid the world of it for ever. And so he gathered the Wolf to his breast and carried the snarling beast with him to the stars.
Their fight may last a thousand thousand years, but when it is done the Shepherd will once more return to his chosen, and the Wolf will be vanquished for ever.
The Book of the Shepherd
Melyn steered his horse through the rocks, leaning forward to keep his balance as the beast struggled up the steep path. They had cleared the treeline about an hour earlier and now he could look out over the sprawling mass of the forest as it spread away from him.
The track was narrow, picking a path between huge boulders that seemed almost to have been carved. At first they had been able to ride three or four abreast, and the warrior priests had spoken quietly among themselves, sharing their experiences of the fight with the dragon. Now they were down to single file, Melyn in the middle of the group with Frecknock walking ahead of him, and everyone was silent. Overhead, the sun beat down on them through hazy clouds, heating the air and making everything seem heavy. A storm was on its way.
The climb took far longer than he had expected. From the clearing where they had battled Caradoc the rocky ridge had seemed no more than a half-hour’s ride away, but as with everything else in the forest this was a deception. Four or five times higher than he had estimated, it had taken them all morning to reach. Now, making their slow way up towards its spine, Melyn imagined they must look something like a line of ants headed back to the nest with their spoils. The thought of riding towards a nest made him uneasy. The creature they hunted was somewhat larger than an ant.
The little column stopped, and Melyn almost rode into the back of Frecknock. She had said little since the failed ambush, and he couldn’t find it in himself to blame her for the fiasco, even though he had lost a good man. She had done all that he had asked of her, perhaps even more. If there were blame to be apportioned, then it was his. He had underestimated his enemy twice now. He wouldn’t make that mistake a third time.
‘What’s going on?’ Melyn saw Captain Osgal dismount and pick his way back along the track towards him.
‘Can’t ride any further, Your Grace,’ Osgal said. ‘The path’s too narrow and steep. A horse could break its leg with a man on its back. We’ll have to lead them from here.’
Melyn knew Osgal doted on his horse, but he could also see the wisdom in the man’s words. It was a long way back to the main camp and the spare horses. This diversion to track down and kill the renegade dragon had already taken too much time; he couldn’t afford to waste more while half of his troop walked back through the forest.
Nodding his agreement, Melyn dismounted, his knees creaking. The other warrior priests followed suit, and they were soon off again, trudging up the winding path. Ahead of him Frecknock appeared to be paying a lot of attention to the rocks, occasionally tripping over her feet as she wasn’t looking where she was going.
‘What is it?’ Melyn asked. ‘What can you see?’
She turned back towards him, forcing those behind him to stop while the rest carried on ahead.
‘These rocks and boulders. They were once a building. A vast building. But something destroyed it.’
Melyn looked at the nearest boulder. It was almost square, its edges chipped and rounded by the wind and rain. Twice as high as him, its flat surfaces were dimpled and cracked just like any other boulder. He couldn’t see how it could have been part of anything. It was far too big.
‘Nothing could move a rock this size. Not even that creature Caradoc. It’s just tumbled down in an earthquake.’
‘Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but if you look more closely, you can see where it’s been carved out of a quarry. See, here, and here?’ Frecknock pointed with her long taloned finger, the claw extruding from its tip in an unconscious reminder of her beastly nature. Melyn moved closer to the rock and peered at its surface. There were striations, marks that could have been made by a chisel, but he wasn’t convinced.
‘You’re imagining things,’ he said, pulling his horse by its reins as he stepped forward.
‘Then what about these?’ Frecknock pointed to a jumble of smaller rocks a little off the path. Wondering why he was humouring her, Melyn allowed himself to be led towards them. They were made from the same stone as the ridge. Everything around him was the same material, dark red granite made friable by endless wind and rain. There was nothing remarkable about them, and yet as Frecknock bent down, grasped one of the rocks and heaved it over, he couldn’t help but feel a tingle of anticipation.
‘There. I thought so.’ The dragon stepped back so he could see.
It was ornately carved; no weathering this. Quite plainly a craftsmen of great skill had chipped and smoothed out an image in the surface of the rock. Kneeling before it, Melyn traced his finger over the form, trying to work out what it could be. This piece was obviously just a small chunk broken off a much larger whole.
‘What is it?’
‘I think it’s part of a wing tip.’ Frecknock crouched down beside him, reaching out to the stonework and tracing her extended claw over the shape. ‘See. You can make out the scales on the leading edge, and here’s the last joint.’
‘No, it’s part of an arm, and a spear.’ Melyn looked back at the enormous square block and the hundreds of others like it scattered all over the ridge. ‘But you’re right: at least some of these blocks have been cut for building.’
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br /> He pushed himself back up on to his feet and went to retrieve his horse. Frecknock looked like she wanted to explore the rubble more, but she dragged herself away and rejoined the line.
Melyn noted more obvious carving as they continued up through the afternoon. A light wind built up with their increased altitude, whipping a fine dust into little whirlwinds that skidded across the path, alternately blanking out the view ahead or plunging them into choking, eye-watering darkness. And still they climbed.
He had thought himself fit, but Melyn was sweating profusely by the time they neared the crest. The larger boulders thinned out, leaving a barren desert of smaller rocks and more dust for the wind to play with. The path widened, no longer constricted by the big blocks, but still they couldn’t see the top, each new rise just revealing another false summit. And then, finally, they crested the last ridge, and the warrior priest at the head of the troop stopped in his tracks, forcing those following to fan out into the rubble. Angered, Melyn pushed his way through to see what could break the discipline of his elite troops.
It was an arch not unlike Brynceri’s back at Emmass Fawr. Only where that rose over the road away from other buildings, this one had been incorporated into a massive wall that stretched across the top of the rocky outcrop, reaching more than five hundred paces across to the cliffs on either side. The wall was crumbling in places, almost completely gone near the western edge, but in the middle it climbed three or four storeys high.
‘What is this place?’ Captain Osgal spoke the words, but Melyn knew all his men were thinking the same thing. It felt wrong, as if it had been hidden away for a long time and still didn’t want to be discovered.
‘I think this is Cenobus, the fabled palace of Magog, Son of the Summer Moon.’ Melyn looked around to see Frecknock standing beside him. Her expression was even more rapt than when she had first seen Caradoc.