The Golden Cage

by J. D. Oswald

  There were few people in the long low-ceilinged room; Jarius had yet to make it down. Usel was waiting for him, however, and they retired to a private room at the back of the building. They sat at a heavy-topped oak table and a serving girl brought two tankards of foaming ale. Dafydd drank deeply from his, washing away the road dust.

  ‘You look like you needed that.’ Usel sipped at his own drink with slightly more decorum.

  ‘It’s been a while since I’ve had real ginger beer,’ Dafydd said. ‘It doesn’t travel well to Tynhelyg, and the brewers there don’t know how to make it with the dried ginger root that gets brought in.’

  ‘Well, this is all right, I suppose, but it’s not the best. Remind me to take you to Plentin’s when we get to Talarddeg. He makes the finest ginger beer in the whole of Gwlad.’

  ‘Listen to you two. You sound like a couple of old merchants discussing their next trip.’ Dafydd looked up from his tankard, then reflexively stood up. A familiar fair-haired woman in a long dark gown stood by the unlit fireplace. He was certain she hadn’t been there before, though he hadn’t heard the door.

  ‘Ah, Lady Anwyn. I was wondering where you’d got to.’ Usel stood as well, and pulled out a chair so that she could sit.

  ‘I was here all along, Usel. I’ve been practising.’

  Dafydd looked at the young woman and back at the grey-haired medic. He was nothing like as powerful in the ways of the Grym as his grandfather – no one in the whole of Llanwennog could hope to match the king – but he was nevertheless a skilled adept. He could conjure a puissant sword and knew how to feel out another man’s thoughts. He could even communicate over long distances using his aethereal form, though there were few people with the skill to see him thus. He had no desire to contact either his father or Tordu, and the king himself would not wish to be bothered until there was important news. But in all his years of training he had never encountered a spell that could render him invisible in the way both Usel and now Anwyn seemed able to do. He could misdirect a person’s attention so as to be overlooked, could possibly even make a small crowd ignore him, but he had also been trained to know when something similar was being done to him. At no time had he noticed any of the telltale signs.

  ‘This … trick. I’ve not seen it done before. It’s new magic?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s the very oldest magic. Or the subtle arts, as those who taught it to me would prefer to call it. I’ve always found the term more appealing.’ Usel smiled an enigmatic little smile, then disappeared from where he was sitting. Dafydd could sense nothing of him, but he reached forward and poked the area where the medic’s chest should have been. As he made contact, so Usel reappeared.

  ‘Touch will undo the spell, it’s true. But it’s a useful working nonetheless. It would have been very difficult to get across half of Llanwennog undetected without it.’

  ‘Who else knows how to do this?’ Dafydd asked. ‘Do the warrior priests? By the tree, man, this is a terrible thing. Our armies could be attacked before they knew anything was coming their way.’

  ‘No warrior priests know this magic, sir. Just the same as none of King Ballah’s soldiers know it, nor the king himself. It’s not an easy spell to cast, more difficult yet to maintain.’

  ‘Could you teach me how to do it?’ Dafydd’s mind reeled at the possibilities. He could come and go as he pleased, evade even the most persistent of Tordu’s spies.

  ‘I can,’ Usel said. ‘Indeed I will, once I’m convinced of your dedication to our cause.’

  ‘Am I not here?’ Dafydd was slightly taken aback at the suggestion behind Usel’s words. ‘Have I not brought my pregnant wife with me?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect. Yes, of course you’re here, and Princess Iolwen too. But there’s more at stake than you perhaps realize. You rightly pointed out the danger should Melyn and his warrior priests learn this magic. They know nothing of it, and neither does your father. But if either of them even suspected the other of having such power, they would immediately launch an attack. In their minds they wouldn’t be able to afford to wait until some unseen enemy slew them in their beds.’

  ‘Surely it would bring peace? They’d know that it was pointless trying to fight, that no one could win.’ Dafydd said the words, but even as he did, he could hear his father ranting on about the menace of Queen Beulah and her odious inquisitor.

  ‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’

  ‘No, you’re right. They’re determined to have their war anyway. Knowing something like this would just make them more eager to get it started.’

  ‘Which is why we need to give the people of the Twin Kingdoms an alternative, and why they mustn’t learn about this magic.’

  ‘But if they don’t know about it, then who does? And who taught you?’

  ‘I learned most of my skill in the subtle arts down in Eirawen, from a very old and very scholarly dragon.’

  ‘A dragon?’ Dafydd almost laughed. ‘Dragons don’t know anything but a few parlour tricks. I’ve seen them in the travelling circuses. Most of them can only manage a few words of pidgin Llanwennog, and they don’t really understand what they’re saying.’

  ‘The dragons you see in circuses are pathetic creatures, it’s true.’ Usel looked sad as he spoke, his face creasing as if he felt a terrible sense of loss. ‘Perhaps what you do to them here is even crueller than the treatment my people have meted out on them for centuries. At least we only kill them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The dragons you see in circuses have been drugged into mindlessness, then trained like performing dogs to do the most demeaning of tricks. In truth they are majestic, noble and dignified creatures. And they are wise in the ways of the Grym, far more powerful than men will ever be. We’ve persecuted them almost to the edge of extinction, and in so doing we’ve missed out on an opportunity to learn so much. Worse, we’ve made ourselves a powerful enemy.’

  17

  An adult dragon’s brain contains, on average, a dozen fine red jewels. Curiously there is no statistical difference between male dragons and females in this respect. It is believed that the jewels form over time, much like kidney stones, and this is borne out by the fact that juvenile dragons – kitlings in their strange speech – have few or even no jewels.

  Dragons being creatures naturally attuned to magic and the Grym, the jewels become imbued with some of that great power – hence their enormous value. In all the nations of men the possession of dragons’ jewels has been the exclusive privilege of royalty, and a fiercely guarded privilege at that.

  But there is a dangerous side to such concentrated power, for to hold a dragon’s jewel is to take a short cut to the world of magic. Those with the talent and self-discipline to learn the ways of the Grym know full well its dangers and are prepared for them. A novice, or worse yet curious amateur, is to some extent protected from this danger by lack of skill. When a dragon’s jewel is used to make up for this lack, then only blind luck can prevent tragedy.

  Father Charmoise, Dragons’ Tales

  ‘Can we rest a moment, please? I don’t think I can go any further right now.’

  Benfro stopped and looked back to where Errol was bent over, hands on his legs, breathing heavily. His face was pale and his hair stuck to his scalp in untidy black strings, matted and sweaty. He had dropped his bag, which he had sewn together from bits of cloth found at the bottom of his wooden chest and filled with a small selection of clothes. Benfro wasn’t sure whether he was going to collapse on top of it.

  ‘All right. But only for a moment. I’ll have a look round and see if the ground gets any easier up ahead.’ He watched as Errol sank gratefully to the forest floor, then pushed his way through the undergrowth, peering up to see if he could find the sun and gauge the time.

  They had been walking for hours, always through the trees, avoiding the path and heading just east of north. They needed to reach the Rim mountains as quickly as possible, and Benfro knew it was at
least three days’ walk. That was how long it had taken him to stumble back to Corwen’s clearing after he had escaped Magog’s influence. But he could cover the ground much faster than Errol, even without the boy’s damaged ankles. And all the while Inquisitor Melyn and his army of warrior priests were getting closer.

  Despite his initial panic on learning of the approaching army, Errol had insisted they take time to prepare for their journey. It made sense, of course; just heading off into the woods with no supplies and no plan would have been a disaster. He had collected as much food as possible, wishing that he’d thought to dry some meat. Errol had spent many hours fashioning his bag, then he had gone through Benfro’s, picking out the coins and the golden torc and discarding everything else except the map. It was a much reduced load, but he had assured Benfro the coins would be more than enough to buy them whatever they might need in Llanwennog.

  And finally they had tried to get some sleep, knowing full well that neither of them would be able to but loath to set off in the darkness. At dawn they finally gave up the pretence and headed out of the clearing.

  Benfro pushed through a particularly thick laurel bush and emerged into another open area. He could hear the river far to the west, gurgling over rocks, flush with the rain that had fallen overnight. The grass was wet on his feet as he walked out from the trees, feeling slightly nervous. He kept his eyes sharp, looking for any sign of ambush, even though he knew he must be well ahead of the warrior priests.

  From the middle of the clearing he could see the mountains surrounding him like a huge wall. Arnahi climbed high into the clouds to the north, and lower peaks marched away from it both east and west. Most were still snow-capped even though spring was almost over. Closer still, the foothills rose up in a series of ever larger mounds, the tree canopy making them look like green anthills. Somewhere up there was a path through to Llanwennog on the other side. A whole new country and the place where his father had gone.

  Benfro dug the map out of his leather bag, opened it up and turned it round until he could get an idea of his location. Mount Arnahi was the only obvious landmark, but a couple of the other mountains had distinctive shapes he thought he could identify. He wished that Ynys Môn were with him. The old dragon had told him to take the map in the first place, and he had always been much better at navigation.

  A terrible feeling of panic hit Benfro as he thought about his old friend – about the too-small pile of jewels back in Magog’s repository where he had found the map. Turning, he rushed back into the trees, knocking branches aside in his rush to get back to Errol. The boy looked up at the noise, a look of alarm spreading over his face.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The jewels. We left them behind.’ Benfro was almost unable to get the words out. He couldn’t believe he could have done something so stupid.

  ‘They’re safe where they are. Corwen will look after them.’

  ‘No. Melyn will find them. He’ll take them. I need Magog’s jewel to undo his spell, and I can’t leave my mother behind. I have to go back.’

  ‘But Corwen said –’

  ‘Corwen can’t help us now.’ Benfro picked up Errol’s bag, barely registering its weight. ‘There’s a clearing about a hundred paces up ahead. I can fly from there back to the cave. I’ll only be an hour. Get some rest and be ready to go when I get back.’

  He could see that Errol was about to argue, so Benfro simply set off back to the clearing. As soon as he was past the laurel bush, he dumped his bags in a pile, unfurled his wings and leaped into the air. He turned once, twice, three times, beating hard as he climbed. Down below he could see Errol looking up at him, but if the boy shouted anything, his words were lost on the wind.

  Once he had enough altitude to get his bearings, Benfro could see how far they had walked in the day. It was a depressingly short distance; Errol just wasn’t capable of going at anything faster than a crawl, it seemed. They would have to pick up the pace when he got back, or they would be overtaken in short order.

  He thrust his head forward, set his wings and sped back towards the clearing and the cave. He could see the arc of taller trees, their leaves a brighter green where they lined the curve of the river. He covered the distance in no time, looking always further south for any sign of the approaching army. There was no haze of dust on the horizon to mark its passage, but the day was not as clear as when he had seen it before.

  The clearing opened up beneath him. Benfro was certain they had walked further, but instead of going in a straight line, as he had intended, they had walked half of a great circle, wasting valuable time and energy. Why had they not just followed the path? And why had he forgotten about his mother’s jewel, and Magog’s too? He could only assume that lack of sleep had affected them both more than they realized.

  His eyes fell on the waterfall and Benfro swooped, preparing to land. He had not seen the jewels since Corwen had taken them under his protection, had not seen the back of the cavern where the old dragon’s own gems were laid to rest. But he knew where to look.

  Movement registered in the corner of his eye as he came in to land, as close to the river as he dared. Looking around, Benfro saw something on the path where it entered the forest on the far side of the clearing. For an instant he thought it was a deer looking for some good grazing and emboldened by the quiet that must have fallen over the place since they left. But with a terrible dread in his hearts, he knew that it was no deer.

  Beating his wings so hard they almost hit the ground, their tips crashing together underneath him, Benfro clawed his way back up into the sky just as Inquisitor Melyn and a handful of warrior priests rode into the clearing at a gallop. Behind them Frecknock ran like an obedient dog. How had they got here so quickly?

  He hardly had time to think before the fear rolled out across the distance between him and the inquisitor. It was a mind-numbing force, squeezing the breath out of him and making his hearts thump so hard he thought they might burst from his chest.

  ‘No! You won’t have me!’ Benfro screamed at the top of his lungs. The words broke whatever spell it was that Melyn tried to weave, the fear leaving him as swiftly as it had come. For a wild instant he felt the complete opposite as he turned and climbed ever higher. There were only a few men – they must be an advance party and they couldn’t have slept in the days since he had first seen them far to the south. He could attack them now, while they were weak and tired. He could take them all, rip them to shreds, breathe fire and watch as the inquisitor writhed and screamed in agony, consumed by flames that kept him alive while they burned his flesh away.

  ‘No, Benfro. You can’t win this fight.’ Corwen’s voice was right inside him, and for a moment he could sense the old dragon as if he flew alongside. It was a voice of reason. He couldn’t risk attacking these men, and as if to underline the fact some of the warrior priests conjured long blades of burning white light, spurring their horses on across the clearing. Others looked to their saddlebags and produced crossbows.

  Howling his rage at the wind, Benfro took one last look at the waterfall that concealed his fate, and turned to the north and fled.

  ‘Don’t let him get away! Use your bows.’ Melyn shouted the orders even as he knew he was too late. The dragon had been coming in to land, but now it wheeled, pulling its unlikely bulk back up into the air with beats of massive wings that cracked like whips. Mixed in with his frustration and rage, Melyn couldn’t help but feel a curious sense of wonder at the sight of such a large creature flying through the air. It was wrong, he knew, an evil gift from the Wolf. But it was magnificent all the same.

  Dismounting next to a low stone corral beside the track, he settled himself down on a stray boulder, pushed away the fury that threatened to bubble over inside him at any moment. His men were already quartering the clearing, looking for signs of their quarry, but Melyn had no time for that. He had to follow the dragon, to see where it was going. Pushing all other thoughts from his mind, he slipped into the trance that would all
ow him to travel the aethereal.

  As he rose from his seated body, he could see the track that crossed the clearing shimmer and pulse like a vein or some central strand of a giant spider’s web, pulling everything that fell into the forest to this one location. It was very much like the paths and tracks around the dragon village he had destroyed, Melyn realized. There an ancient magic had controlled the roads, so that all travellers ended up at Morgwm’s cottage. Was this clearing the home of a similar creature?

  A question for later. Now he had a more urgent task. He scanned the aethereal sky for the fleeing dragon and almost missed it, looking too far to the horizon and the bulk of the Rim mountains. They were closer than he had realized, the view to the north dominated by the great jagged point of Mount Arnahi. He could feel the huge mountain calling him, pulling him towards it, and had to fight to stay where he was. It was then that he noticed Benfro dropping down into the trees not far away at all. And the track beside which his body sat led straight to the dragon, curving only slightly with the rise of the hills towards another clearing in the trees.

  ‘Osgal, take a dozen men. Head up this track at best speed. You’ll find the dragon, and no doubt the boy as well, in a clearing about two hours north-east of here. Be careful; the road will try to lead you astray.’ Melyn spat out his instructions almost before he had fully returned to his body. The captain said nothing, merely nodded, then pointed to the men who were to follow him. Within moments they had mounted, crossed the ford in a welter of splashing water, and disappeared into the trees.

  Melyn leaned back against the stones of the corral wall. He was tired, he realized. Bone weary. It was no surprise; none of them had slept in over two days, and he was by far the oldest of the troop. Still, it was an unwelcome sign of weakness. He pulled himself to his feet, joints protesting at their misuse, as Frecknock trotted over to his side.