by J. D. Oswald
The other books were equally riveting, the parchments if anything even drier – reckonings, revenue summaries and the like – exactly the sort of thing she would have expected. With the exception of the threadbare robes, these could have been Seneschal Padraig’s rooms back at Candlehall.
‘My lady, is it safe down here on your own?’ Beulah turned to see Clun step through the doorway, which opened on to one of the service corridors.
‘I’m perfectly safe with Captain Herren here. And I’m not exactly helpless myself.’
‘Of course. It’s just …’
‘That you worry, my love? Yes, I know. I wouldn’t have it any other way. But I needed to search these rooms, and Herren was good enough to show me where they were.’ Beulah couldn’t be quite sure of the expression on Clun’s face as he looked over at the captain. It might have been jealousy. ‘Anyway, where have you been?’
‘The people are in shock, some are angry. They loved their lord very much, it seems. I’ve been trying to organize the mourning party.’
‘Is there no one else to do this?’ Beulah marvelled at how naturally Clun seemed to assume his mantle of responsibility, how little he complained of its burden.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am. That task should have fallen to me.’ Captain Herren bowed his head. ‘With Tolley gone, and Lord Queln …’ He fell silent, and for a horrified moment Beulah thought he was going to cry. The contrast with her consort could not have been more marked.
‘What exactly are you looking for here?’ Clun looked down at the books and scrolls Beulah had piled on the desk.
‘Anything, nothing. Something that might throw a bit more light on this Father Tolley. Something that might suggest who he’s working for. Corris is too small, too out of the way for Ballah to worry about. But Tolley learned his magic somewhere, and it wasn’t from the Candle.’
‘May I try something, my lady?’
Beulah nodded her assent, and Clun settled himself down into the chair behind the desk. She watched him enviously as he relaxed, settling his breathing down into a steady pattern and closing his eyes. For the briefest of instants she saw a swathe of colour around him, the ghost of his aethereal self.
‘Be careful, my love,’ she said, feeling the subtle change in the air around her. With an effort she brought the lines to her vision, noting how the chair was placed at a point where two thick ones intersected. The other lines flowed around the room, far more of them than she would have expected in such a lifeless place.
‘Fetch Captain Celtin,’ Clun said. Beulah shifted her focus to see Herren nod a quick assent and dart out of the door.
‘What is it?’
‘Behind the bookcase.’ Clun pointed at the now-empty wooden shelves. ‘There’s some form of chamber, but it’s protected by wards. I don’t want to tackle them without a second opinion.’
Beulah studied the bookcase. It seemed firmly fixed to the wall, but she had seen the skill with which the palace joiners had hidden doors at Candlehall. It was quite possible that there was some form of mechanism that allowed it to swing open. Now she looked, it was obvious. The room was small, each item of furniture in the best place possible, but there was an unusually large gap between the bookcase and the desk, a patch of empty floor that meant the chest was too close to the fireplace and obstructed access to the sleeping chamber.
‘Curse this pregnancy,’ she said. ‘If I could see what’s going on here, I could have it open in an instant.’
‘Don’t say that, my lady,’ Clun was on his feet and at her side in an instant. His hand touched her stomach, warmth spreading through the thin fabric of her dress. Something inside gave a palpable kick.
‘Ow!’ Beulah was more surprised than hurt. Clun started to laugh, stopping only when they were interrupted by a discreet cough at the door. Turning, Beulah saw Celtin and Herren standing outside.
‘You sent for me, Your Majesty, Your Grace?’ Celtin nodded a simple salute, clasping one fist to his chest.
‘This bookcase.’ Clun pointed. ‘It’s hiding a passageway, protected by charms. You’ve been dealing with these things for much longer than me.’
Celtin nodded, walked slowly up to the bookcase, felt around its edges, peering closely at it from all angles. Then he leaned his forehead against the wood and closed his eyes. Everyone fell silent, feeling the charge in the air. For a minute or so there was no noise save the quiet brush of the wind against the narrow pane of glass, the occasional distant clatter from the kitchens. And then, with an audible click, the bookcase hinged an inch or two away from the wall.
Captain Celtin stood back, letting out a long breath. ‘There’s your passage,’ he said, and Beulah could see the sweat on his scalp. ‘Well protected too. I’d probably have missed it meself if it hadn’t’ve been shown me.’
‘I’ll go first.’ Clun swung the bookcase open to reveal dark steps descending through the stone. He conjured a blade of light, the glow chasing away the shadows. Beulah followed him down, the two captains behind her.
It wasn’t far, twenty steps at most, and then the passage opened up into a small round chamber. The four of them could just about fit inside, huddled around a small altar carved from the rock wall. A slim book lay open on it. Beulah picked it up, turned it over and read the title etched in gold letters on the blood-red leather.
‘The Prophecies of Mad Goronwy.’ She flicked the book back over, taking in the page that had lain open. The margins were almost black with scrawled writing, impossible to decipher in the gloom. Sections of verse had been underlined, linked together with looping lines and arrows. ‘Stanza thirty-five. “The return of the true king”.’
‘ “When Balwen’s last sits on the stolen throne …” Is that the one?’ It was Captain Celtin who spoke.
‘Yes,’ Beulah said. ‘Do you know what it means?’
‘It means nothing, like the rest of the tosh that old witch spouted. It’s so vague you can make it apply to anything. But here, in this place, I know what it means. The Guardians of the Throne.’
‘You’re sure?’ Beulah felt ice trickle down her spine. ‘I thought they all died in the Brumal Wars.’
‘What’s this?’ Clun asked. ‘The Guardians of what?’
‘The Throne. Least, that’s what they call themselves,’ said Celtin. ‘They’re a bunch of freaks who reject the Shepherd’s teachings and worship the Wolf. Way I heard it, they believe he’s going to come back and claim his kingdom. Apparently all of Gwlad will burn, except those who pledge allegiance. It’s standard nutter stuff, and they just love Mad Goronwy.’
‘They worship the Wolf?’ Captain Herren’s voice was very quiet, almost incredulous. His face looked very pale in the light from Clun’s blade, and Beulah wondered whether he might faint.
‘That they do,’ Celtin said. ‘Only they don’t call him by his true name. No, they have another name for the beast. They call him Gog.’
Beulah let out an involuntary shriek, simultaneously realizing why court ladies sometimes clasped a hand to their mouths. She felt ashamed at her lack of control, but Herren and Celtin were hardly better. Both of them had gasped and stepped away from the small altar, back towards the steps and the exit.
‘What?’ Clun stared at them all, oblivious to the change in illumination, seemingly unaware his blade of light had turned dark crimson.
The walls of the castle glistened with damp, sparkling like diamonds in the light from the torches. Errol moved slowly along the corridor, straining his ears for any sound that indicated he had been discovered. He didn’t know what monsters lurked in this place, but he was sure he didn’t want to meet any of them.
It was hauntingly familiar, but he couldn’t quite place where he had seen a corridor like this before. Nor could he remember how he had come to be in this one. All he was sure of was that he needed to get to the other end, and he needed to do it unseen.
He darted from shadow to shadow on light feet, flitting across the patches lit by the torches. Something troubled h
im about that: it shouldn’t have been so easy. But he was concentrating too hard on not getting caught to worry about such things. And anyway he had reached the staircase now.
The steps were wide but shallow, spiralling up. Even keeping close to the central column, he had to take two steps on each tread. The stairs went on and on, carrying him up with slow monotony. Only the rapid dash past the wide opening to each floor punctuated the weary tedium of the climb. At each one Errol would stop briefly to catch his breath and peer down yet more lifeless corridors coloured sooty yellow by ranks of flickering torches. He wondered who lit them all and who kept them topped up with oil.
He paused for a while somewhere between the eighth and ninth floors. The corridors were four times as high as most he had seen and reminded him of some of the older parts of Emmass Fawr. In fact a lot about this place reminded Errol of the monastery of the Order of the High Ffrydd, but there were differences too. No warrior priests wandering about, for one thing. But there was no time to ponder such mysteries; he had to get to the top of the tower.
It took both for ever and no time at all. One moment he was tramping up uncounted steps, no end to them in sight, and the next he was at the top, looking into a chamber. He took a moment to catch his breath and then weaved his way through piles of strange-looking brass instruments, past tables so high he couldn’t see what was on top of them, and out to the far side.
‘So you made it past my children again, Xando. Well done.’ The voice spoke Draigiaith with those strange inflections, and as he heard it, Errol realized where he was. He must have fallen asleep again, and now he was dreaming. Only everything was so real, as if what he saw was actually happening. He wanted to look up, to see if the vast golden cage still hung by its chain from the rafters, but he was not in control of his body. It wasn’t his body at all. That was why it hadn’t ached to climb all those steps, why his feet had felt so light.
‘Master, they’re all asleep at this hour. I was more worried that Mister Clingle might spot me. I don’t much fancy working down in the sewers again.’ The voice that spoke was not Errol’s. It was considerably younger, higher-pitched, and spoke perfect Draigiaith with that same unusual accent. Errol found himself looking down at his hands and feet, seeing the limbs of a boy of perhaps ten.
‘I will have words with the major domo when next I see him. You’ve been promoted, Xando. You work for me now.’
Errol looked up at the words and saw the ancient dragon standing by the fire warming his tail and back. He felt a surge of excitement and happiness at the news, no doubt the boy’s feelings towards his advancement in this place, wherever it was.
‘Errol!’ He spun round at the word, looking up to the see the cage hanging high in the rafters. A pale face framed by straggly black hair looked down at him through the bars. He wanted to shout, ‘Martha, I’ll get you out of here,’ but no words came out.
‘What is it, Xando? Worried my little pet will escape and hex you? Don’t be. She can’t get out of my cage.’
‘Errol!’ The voice was more insistent, but Errol saw no movement from Martha’s lips. She stared down, an expression of puzzled curiosity on her face, but she hadn’t spoken. And if not her, then who?
‘Who’s Errol?’ The boy Xando’s voice filled his ears. ‘I thought I heard someone calling.’
‘I’ve no idea, Xando. You must have imagined it. Now come, we’ve work to do.’ The ancient dragon shuffled away from the fireplace and headed for his massive desk. Errol felt a strange sensation, as if someone had taken him by the shoulders and held him firm while Xando walked away. He was still looking up at Martha, but out of the corner of his eye he could see a young lad dressed in an ill-fitting assortment of rags, walking away towards the desk. Up above Martha’s eyes widened. She mouthed, ‘Errol?’ But no sound came out. And then he could feel the grip on his shoulders tightening, shaking him. The scene in the tower room began to fade, melding into a close-up view of a familiar cave wall. Martha’s silent pleading face stayed with him only as a memory.
‘Errol, you’ve got to wake up!’ He blinked, rolled over and gazed up into the face of Benfro, which was perhaps too close for comfort.
‘What?’ Errol tried to gauge the time by the shadows at the cave mouth. He hadn’t been asleep for nearly long enough.
‘Melyn’s coming. We have to flee.’
16
The Grym persists throughout Gwlad. It links all livings things, from the tiniest gnat to the vast whales that dive the far depths of the Great Ocean. The most visible manifestation of this power is the Llinellau, and even the youngest kitling instinctively knows how to use them. How then might it be possible to remove a living creature from the Grym? And what effect would such a wrenching-apart have?
From the working journals of Gog,
Son of the Winter Moon
Melyn watched the retreating form of the dragon dwindle to a small speck in the sky, his anger cold in the pit of his stomach. They had been so close to success. It had succumbed to the fear like a first-year novitiate, tumbling out of the sky towards five hundred armed and ready warrior priests. It wouldn’t have stood a chance. But at the last moment it had found a way, had gathered itself together and fled. Something had come to its aid.
‘How did it escape us?’ he asked Frecknock, who stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the fast-dwindling figure.
‘We don’t feel fear the same way you do.’ Frecknock turned and faced him. ‘Benfro would have been taken by surprise, but he would have known that what he was feeling wasn’t real.’
‘Benfro? I thought that was Caradoc. Are you sure?’ Melyn didn’t wait for the answer. He knew that Frecknock’s sight was keener than any man’s, and she would have been far more likely to recognize Morgwm’s hatchling than any of the warrior priests. If that had been Benfro, his refuge couldn’t be far away.
Melyn slipped into the trance that let him see the aethereal. The colours shifted and the whole scene took on a slightly unreal air. Patterns swirled in the sky, an indication of the powerful magics that had formed this place, that formed it still. He was loath to move far from his body, in part because of that treacherous continuously changing power, and in part because of his memories of the collapsed passageway. He didn’t want to lose himself, but neither did he want to lose this chance to locate his quarry.
He rose straight up out of his body, climbing into air strangely thick, like warm water. Looking down, he could see his army among the trees, no longer advancing. A few of the figures were vaguely man-shaped, but none had the sharp sense of self required to master this place. Only Frecknock stood out.
As he climbed, Melyn searched for landmarks he could use to return to his body. He could see the bright swirl of colours that was Benfro, speeding off to the north, and the great bulk of Mount Arnahi. Melyn didn’t want the dragon to get much further away, but he had to be careful. He moved slowly in the same direction, marking the relative sizes and positions of the few notable hills so as not to lose his men. The ground beneath him was an undulating mass of green punctuated by the living force of uncounted millions of small animals.
Benfro still headed straight for the huge mountain, while directly behind Melyn, almost as if his army travelled a line drawn between the two, the barren bulk of the rock where they had lost Caradoc rose out of the forest. He could return simply by heading for that, looking down until he saw his men and their horses. Melyn now sped forward like a bolt from a crossbow, his only focus the escaping dragon. And yet, for all his skill, his years of practice in travelling through the aethereal, Melyn found himself struggling. The forest writhed and shifted. Colours spun in the corners of his vision, making him feel sick. Far more so than in the lowlands of the Hafod, he felt the distance between himself and his body as a growing pull, an elastic that wanted to snap him back to himself. He was gaining on Benfro, but he wondered how much longer he could keep up the pace.
The ensuing hours were the most exquisite form of agony. Not a torment of the fle
sh so much as a harrowing of his soul. Melyn fought against the pain, the self-doubt, worry and fear that assaulted him in waves, even as he struggled against the ever-growing force that wanted to pull him from the sky. He began to lose control of his self-image, watching as it dwindled away to little more than the sparks he saw in his warrior priests. But it was no matter as long as he had enough left to see where Benfro landed. If he ever landed.
And then, finally, the dragon wheeled and dived, swooped over a low tree-capped hill and dropped down into a wide clearing beyond. Melyn recognized the place from when Benfro’s aethereal self had fled the Neuadd. He was just in time to see the dragon land, running for a cave mouth close to a river on the edge of the trees.
He moved closer, waiting for Benfro to come back out of the cave. And then it occurred to Melyn that the dragon might be able to see him. Might even be able to fight him. He remembered the fire that Benfro has used to throw off his attack. Melyn had pushed that aside with a thought back in the Neuadd. But here, this far from his body and assaulted by the strange magic of the forest, he was weak. He might even be defeated.
It was too risky. All he needed to know was where the dragon had gone to ground. Now he must get back to his body as soon as possible. A small troop of warrior priests, riding fast ahead of the main army, could be here in two, maybe three days. The sooner they got started the quicker they would arrive. Melyn only hoped that Benfro would still be here when he returned.
And then he saw something that made his heart leap. An unmistakable figure, as pin-sharp in the aethereal as he was in real life, hobbled slowly out of the cave.