The Golden Cage

by J. D. Oswald

  And yet there was nothing Errol could do but cling on for his life, growing ever colder and more tired. He tried tapping on Benfro’s arm to get the dragon’s attention, but to do it properly meant loosening his hold. And Benfro seemed intent on putting as much distance between them and the warrior priests as possible. In that regard Errol could only agree; he just wished there was a more comfortable way of going about it.

  The sun slipped below the distant haze of the western Rim mountains as Errol began to lose all feeling in his arms and legs. He’d long since felt his face go numb and then disappear altogether. He tried to reach out to the lines, to pull in the power of the Grym to warm him. But he was too high up, too far removed from Gwlad, to tap into that life force. And it was so hard to concentrate, so hard to keep holding on, so hard to stay awake.

  He must have nodded off, for when Errol looked down again, he could see the pine trees thinning out, dark rocks rolled down from the mountains above the traces of ancient landslides. They were climbing with the hills, and the air was thin in his lungs, spreading its chill deep into his body. He was impossibly tired, fighting against the waves of sleep that washed over him. Darkness was falling, and he couldn’t work out if that was because of the setting sun or just his vision fading as the cold took him.

  Then they crossed a ridge and were flying over snow. Errol remembered the scraps of dirty white that still clung to the higher passes when he made the trip from Emmass Fawr to Tynewydd, and the deep drifts that piled up around the walls of the monastery over the winter. They were nothing compared to what he looked down upon now. It was a vast field of white, crystals glinting in the last of the day’s fading light. It smoothed out the contours into a series of gentle folds, each climbing higher so that they seemed to reach for the star-specked sky.

  Cold beyond belief, shivering uncontrollably, Errol didn’t notice that they were descending towards this high plateau until they were almost upon it. The darkness made it hard to judge distance, the unblemished surface even more so. It was only when Benfro shifted his grip that he realized what was about to happen. As it was, his terror at the prospect of landing was short-lived.

  They hit the ground faster than was perhaps wise. Just before impact Errol felt himself being pushed away. He tumbled briefly through the air, then crashed into the snow. It cushioned his fall, but still drove the wind out of him and smothered him in cold. He had a brief glimpse of Benfro’s great bulk hitting the ground a few paces further on before his own momentum drove him down, kicking up a great powdery mass of snow into his face with an explosion of noise and darkness.

  Errol lay unfeeling for what seemed like an age. He had gone beyond cold and through fear. Now he just wanted to lie there, head down in the snow, and sleep for a little while. There was no hurry, no need to run. He was safe here, and warm. He could rest.

  ‘Wake up.’ A large hand grabbed the back of his cloak and hauled him to his feet. Errol tried to focus, but he couldn’t even open his eyes. He wished whoever was bothering him would go away. Then he could settle back down into the nice warm snow and sleep.

  ‘Come on, Errol. Wake up.’ He felt himself being shaken, tingles of discomfort coming from his legs and hands. It was the first sensation he had felt from them in a long while and it stirred a warning in his memory. Captain Osgal, of all people, telling him what could happen to someone who let the cold get to them. But he wasn’t cold; he was warm. He didn’t need the lines. Or had that been what the captain had said – that extreme cold makes the body think it’s warm? He couldn’t remember, could hardly think straight at all. Had the captain said it would make him tired as well? Or was that his mother?

  ‘Oh, by the moon!’ Errol felt himself being shaken then turned round. Then an incredible sensation swept over his face and hands. It was as if he were being doused in the softest of liquids. Where it touched him, it warmed him in such a way that he realized he had actually been frozen. It washed away the tiredness, putting strength back into his arms, his legs, his neck and eyelids. Lifting his head, he opened his eyes and almost screamed.

  He was engulfed in pale blue flame, which danced and shimmered over his arms and body. Benfro stood in front of him, holding him by the shoulders, staring intently at him, but all Errol knew was that he was on fire.

  ‘How?’ He opened his mouth to speak, and the flame ran in as if it were alive, plunged down his throat and into his lungs, warming him from the inside. He coughed, but more out of reflex than from any discomfort; this flame didn’t consume the air he was breathing. Instead it flowed around him, through him, until he was restored to something near normal. And then, its job done, it slowly faded away, leaving only the night and the keen, cold wind.

  ‘Did you … ? What did you … ?’ Errol struggled to form words.

  ‘I’m sorry, Errol. I was so intent on getting away that I flew too high and too far. I should have realized. You might have frozen to death.’

  ‘But the fire. I never realized … Can you all do that?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ve never met another dragon who could. Most would think it disgusting, feral even. Corwen didn’t think that though.’

  Corwen. Errol heard the old dragon’s last words echoing in his mind. He slapped his hands against his sides, feeling the two small lumps, one in either pocket.

  ‘I got the jewels.’ He reached into the first pocket and pulled out the cloth-wrapped bundle that was Magog, unwrapping it to reveal the shining gem. In the starlight, reflected through innumerable ice crystals, it was as black as coal. ‘It didn’t come without a fight.’

  ‘Put it away,’ Benfro said, averting his gaze. Errol hastily wrapped the jewel up again and pushed it to the bottom of his pocket. Then he reached into the other side and pulled out Morgwm’s jewel. It glinted palest white; if he dropped it in the snow they might never find it again. He could feel the soft touch of the memories held within it: fierce pride, gentle intelligence, worried concern and above all else deep sadness. The touch also brought back to his memory the images he had seen before, of a newborn infant nestling with a hatchling dragon, Princess Lleyn and Father Gideon, the sun blanked out by the disc of the moon.

  ‘Give it to me.’ Benfro’s voice cut through Errol’s musing, and he looked down to see that he had clenched his fist over the jewel. Embarrassed, he relaxed his fingers and passed Morgwm’s memories on to her son. Instead of thanking him, Benfro snatched the jewel away, turning his body as if it needed his whole bulk to protect the tiny stone.

  ‘You shouldn’t have touched her.’ Benfro’s tone was as cold as the snow that trickled in through a gap at the top of one of Errol’s boots.

  ‘I’m sorry. There was no other way. Melyn was coming.’

  ‘And you left Corwen there?’

  ‘I had no choice. I would have been captured.’

  ‘After all he did for you, you just left him behind to be … to be … defiled by that monster. How could you do such a thing?’

  ‘He wouldn’t let me. He pushed me away. I …’ Errol tried to explain, even though he felt terrible about what he had been forced to do anyway. Benfro’s sudden mood change shocked him. The dragon had been helping him. Why was he suddenly so angry?

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I tried to bring Corwen’s jewels, but he stopped me. He knew what was going to happen, said it was better. That way he’d be with Melyn wherever he went.’

  ‘Don’t try to explain. Don’t make excuses. I should have left you for the warrior priests. I should have let you freeze.’ Benfro spat the words over his shoulder, then turned his back completely and stalked off into the darkness. Errol stood and watched him go, bemused, until the cold seeping into his feet reminded him of where he was. Being stuck somewhere near the top of a snow-capped mountain was not his idea of fun, though it beat being captured by the inquisitor and his men.

  He sought out the lines, trying to tap them for warmth. The place was so barren, the snow so deep, that at first he had difficulty finding any, and when he
did, they were weak and thin. Still, he was able to tap the nearest, to feel the power of the Grym surge through his body, giving him energy and driving away the cold. His breath steamed in the night air as he paused a while just to enjoy the sense of freedom. Overhead the night sky was clearer, closer than he had ever seen it before. Behind him, lost somewhere in the dark mass that was the distant forest, Melyn and his warrior priests still pursued him, but they were a long way away and he had a good head start. Pulling his cloak around his shoulders to keep out the wind, Errol set off in Benfro’s footsteps.

  ‘Have you seen the Duke of Abervenn?’

  Beulah walked the well-appointed corridors of Lord Beylin’s castle, stopping anyone she came across, few though they were, and asking them all the same question. She suspected that many of the castle staff were avoiding her deliberately; quite often she heard voices whispering urgently just around corners or behind closed doors, and occasionally she caught sight of figures darting away. It was obvious that they were terrified of her even though she had done nothing to deserve the reputation that prompted their fears. At least she hadn’t done anything in Beylinstown.

  Perhaps it was news of the battle with the band of mercenaries. Perhaps these simple provincials found it hard to cope with the idea of a woman fighting, and killing, armed men. Or perhaps they were simply frightened of her because she was their ruler. Whatever the reason, it was tiresome, and her temper was fraying to the point where she might very well begin to earn her reputation. This latest page, cornered before he could make good his escape down a servants’ stairwell to the kitchen wing, was not much use either. He stared at her wide-eyed, his mouth working away as he tried to remember how to speak. And when he did find his voice it was high-pitched and squeaky, like a peasant girl hawking bread in the street.

  ‘N-no, Your Majesty. I’ve n-not seen n-no one.’

  Beulah dismissed him with a wave and carried on down the corridor. She had woken that morning to find Clun gone from their bed and not in the bathing room either. Normally she wouldn’t have worried about it; he was free to come and go as he pleased, after all. But since the incident with Father Tolley he had become more introspective, quieter even than his usually reticent self. He had taken to going off on long walks around the city in the afternoons when she retired to their rooms to rest and work on healing her wounds. But he had never disappeared so early in the day before.

  From what she could tell, he had dressed in his plainest clothes, taking his old novitiate’s cloak and boots rather than anything she had given him. Beulah seldom worried about others – she had never had someone to care about until Clun had come along – but this behaviour was sufficiently out of the ordinary to give her concern. Her mind raced at all manner of implausible possibilities. Had he found a young lass in the town and was bedding her on the side? Was he secretly plotting with Lord Beylin to kill her and take the throne? Maybe he had fallen for all that mumbo-jumbo about the coming of the true king and was busy learning the secrets of Mad Goronwy’s prophecies.

  Beulah laughed out loud at the thought of strait-laced Clun bent studiously over a reading desk, one finger tracing lines of meaningless words etched on to a parchment. He would no more betray her than cut off his own arms. But it bothered her that she even thought these things of him.

  The central hall of Lord Beylin’s castle was bright and airy, modelled on the Neuadd, though not on the same grand scale. Its windows were glazed with clear glass, and the morning sun shone through from a pale blue sky outside. It was early still, but Beylin sat on his throne-like seat at the end of the hall, deep in conversation with a group of men wearing the distinctive cloaks of merchants. Her entrance unnoticed, Beulah watched the noble for a moment as he negotiated. She was forced to revise her opinion of him; his skill at commerce was quite at odds with the somewhat needy and foppish appearance he presented to the world.

  ‘Your Majesty. I didn’t expect to see you so early.’ The merchants scattered as Lord Beylin leaped to his feet and crossed the hall. ‘Did the servants not bring breakfast to your chambers?’

  ‘I dismissed them. I don’t like to be fussed over. Nor do I need someone to help me dress.’

  ‘Of course not. But can I offer you something now?’ Beylin looked around, catching the attention of a young page who had been taking notes during his negotiations. The boy put down his pen and scurried over.

  ‘Go to the kitchens and tell them to prepare breakfast for the queen. To be served here in the hall.’ Beylin turned back to Beulah as the lad scurried off on his errand. ‘Will the Duke of Abervenn be joining us?’

  ‘Actually, that’s why I came down. I’ve been searching for Clun since I woke, and I can’t find him anywhere. Have you seen him this morning?’

  ‘No. No, I haven’t.’ Beylin frowned, then turned back to the group of merchants who were hovering uncertainly around the throne-like chair at the head of the hall. ‘Gentlemen, have any of you seen His Grace the Duke of Abervenn this morning?’

  The merchants came forward as if they had been waiting to be brought formally into the presence of their queen. Beulah counted five men, all well dressed and clearly prosperous if the size of their girths was anything to go by. The tallest of them, a balding man with grey tufts of hair sprouting from his ears, reached the queen first and knelt extravagantly on one knee. Sighing, Beulah offered him her hand to be kissed.

  ‘May I present Terquid Squiler, head of the guild of horse merchants.’ Lord Beylin sounded almost as bored as Beulah.

  ‘Your Majesty, you grace our humble little town with your presence,’ Squiler said. ‘My fellow guild members and I would like to welcome you to Beylinstown.’

  ‘But have you seen the duke?’ Beulah took back her hand before the merchant started to drool on her ring. Squiler rose to his feet, turned and looked at his companions. There was a great deal of head-shaking and shrugging. Then one of the merchants spoke up.

  ‘I saw a young man walking through the town just before sunrise, Your Majesty. But he didn’t look like no duke to me.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  ‘I’d say he weren’t yet twenty years, ma’am. But tall and strong. He had the ruddy cheeks and fair hair of a Graith Fawr man, I’d say. I didn’t recognize him, didn’t pay him much heed, to be honest with you.’

  ‘Did you see where he was going?’

  ‘Towards the south wall and the river gate, ma’am. Down where the barges unload and the main livestock markets are held.’

  Beulah was wondering how best to dismiss them before they started to press her for trading privileges or reduced taxes, when Beylin stepped in.

  ‘Gentlemen, thank you,’ he said. ‘Now if you would excuse us, the queen has not yet broken her fast. Perhaps we could continue our discussion later this morning.’

  As if on cue, the doors were thrown open and a small army of servants appeared. The merchants bowed and made their exit, though Beulah could see that they were not best pleased at the interruption to their negotiations.

  In moments the top table had been cleared of paperwork and laid for a meal. Platters of cold meats, dried fruits and warm-smelling bread appeared, enough to feed the queen’s guard let alone just herself and Lord Beylin.

  ‘All this just for me?’ Beulah asked as she was escorted to the table, given the throne-like chair to sit in.

  ‘My cook is perhaps a little overzealous,’ Beylin said as he sat himself down to her left. ‘But he’s worth indulging. Have some of this fruit – it comes from Eirawen, I’m told.’

  Beulah looked at the food spread in front of her, then across the table to the near-empty hall. Outside the day was growing brighter as the sun climbed over the courtyard walls. She had no appetite right now, at least not for the exotic things Beylin was offering. She was more concerned about Clun.

  ‘I’m not hungry, truly.’ She stood, finding it almost impossible to move the heavy chair back. ‘I must go and find my husband before he gets into some kind of trouble.’
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  ‘Then permit me to accompany you, ma’am.’ Beylin stood, dabbing at his lips with a napkin even though he had not eaten anything.

  Beulah acquiesced with a nod. She would have liked to have gone alone, but that would not have been wise. Even if she could look after herself in a fight, being recognized by a crowd of her loyal subjects would have been awkward at best. In the end they were joined by a small contingent of her guard, led by Captain Celtin, which meant that far from being able to move around unnoticed, their progress through the town was marked by an ever-increasing crowd of excited onlookers.

  The river gate was as its name implied. Where the Hafren met the town walls, two great towers had been built, one on either bank, and a large stone arch constructed between them. The river here was relatively narrow, but deep. On either side the warehouses and loading docks of the richer merchants towered over the stream. Beylin led the party down to his personal dock, and they took a boat to the heart of the commercial sector.

  Outside the gate, beyond its original walls, the town was rapidly expanding, with new warehouses and docks stretching far south. Behind them, on the low hills on either side, Beulah could see endless rows of wooden fencing: holding pens for the cattle and horses that were the lifeblood of this place. Even early in the morning the air was thick with the dust and odour of moving animals. And somewhere in among it all was Clun.

  They disembarked at a particularly grand warehouse and dock complex that belonged to Beylin himself. A tall thin man dressed almost entirely in black came to greet them, an expression of near panic on his long, lined face.

  ‘My lord. This is so unexpected. If I’d but known …’

  ‘Relax, Verran. I’ve not come to spring a surprise audit on you.’ Beylin introduced Beulah to his chief accountant, and the man’s pale face turned whiter still.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ He bowed low then fell silent, lost for words.

  ‘We’re looking for His Grace the Duke of Abervenn,’ Beylin said. ‘He was seen coming this way at first light.’