by J. D. Oswald
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’ve been in the warehouse since before dawn, doing an inventory. I’ve not seen anyone but my assistants.’
‘Then we’ll have to look for him in the livestock rings.’ Beylin turned back to Beulah. ‘I wanted to show you them anyway, ma’am. I thought you might be interested in the horses.’
They set off from the warehouse out into the livestock yards and towards the main auction ring. The town was a small trading centre compared with Candlehall, but Beulah was quietly impressed with how efficiently it was all run. The holding pens were neatly arranged, each separated from the next by a track wide enough for two wagons to pass. All the roads were hard-packed dirt, but drainage ditches had been dug to carry off any rainfall before it could turn them into a muddy quagmire. Thought had gone into the allocation of pens too, with breeding cattle separated from meat stock, and in turn separated from sheep. What pigs were traded in Beylinstown tended to be kept at the furthest end, away from everything else. Lord Beylin had spent a great deal of money building up this market and taken the best advice on how to lay it out. It had obviously paid off handsomely, judging by the number of pens occupied and the steady noise coming from the nearby auction ring.
‘What are they selling today?’ Beulah asked as their small party entered the substantial wooden barn that housed the auction ring. Several merchants were standing about, though it was not as busy as she had expected.
‘I’m not sure, ma’am.’ Beylin went up to the nearest merchant, questioned him, then returned.
‘There’s a horse auction going on, but there’s some unhappiness. Seemingly the best two beasts were bought privately before the sale even started.’
‘Does that happen often?’
‘Not usually, ma’am, no. The auctioneers have been known to bar breeders if they do it too much. It’s their fees that pay for all this.’ He gestured to take in the pens, the barn and everything else. ‘Sure, there are some who try to fool them – bring a few broken old nags for the ring and use the pens to showcase their quality stock. There’re merchants who’ll try to get a better deal that way too, but generally they know the system’s there for their benefit.’
Beulah looked over to the nearest pen attached to the auction barn. A few sorry-looking horses stood motionless in the sun, their heads drooping, eyes closed. Only their swishing tails whisking away the flies showed that they were alive at all. If this was the standard of horseflesh being sold at this market, then the best of the crop couldn’t have been worth much.
‘I was looking for a horse myself. My old mare was killed by a dragon, and the replacement died when we were attacked by bandits outside Corris. It’s a shame there’s nothing here fit for riding. I wouldn’t even eat some of these.’
‘Those are indeed poor specimens,’ Beylin said. ‘But I’ve no doubt there’ll be better inside.’
The interior of the barn was cool and airy. Lit by big open windows high up in the walls, it was arranged around a central ring about twenty paces across. On one side wooden benches climbed in tiers. Opposite them, on a low dais, the auctioneer stood behind a tall lectern, like a priest at Suldith prayers. Alongside him an assistant sat behind a table, entering details into a large ledger.
Beulah motioned for her guard to stay in the chamber behind the tiered benches, entering the main body of the barn with just Lord Beylin and Captain Celtin for company. She wanted to observe the auction with as little disruption as possible. And, who knew, there might even be a horse worth bidding for, though she was doubtful about that. If the merchants outside thought that the finest beasts had already been sold, then she didn’t much fancy buying second best.
The hammer fell, signalling the sale of a pretty mare with a foal, as Beulah settled herself down on a wooden bench just a few paces away from a group of farmers. They looked at her once, nodding by way of a hello, then went back to their discussion of the livestock on sale. It was obvious they had no idea who she was, and Beulah was strangely relieved by the knowledge. Beside her Beylin wore a dark travelling cloak over his elegant courtly clothes, and Celtin was dressed like any other warrior priest of his order. Without their guards to attract attention, they could have been anyone.
‘And our next lot, a pair of fine young geldings from the Nebo stud. Gentlemen, ladies, these two have been broken both to saddle and harness. They would make good carriage horses, but equally could be ridden over rough ground. Shall we start the bidding at one hundred crowns the pair?’
Beulah listened to the sum come down to fifty crowns, then slowly climb back up as the punters were drawn in. The horses were nice enough, certainly worth the initial asking price, if not a lot more. They were a little skittish in the ring, but not so bad that they would be unmanageable. No doubt they would find their way down to Castell Glas and the household of some minor noble or rich merchant. Looking around the room, she could see plenty of interest, but the gathered farmers and merchants were eyeing each other warily, not wanting to show their hands.
She had never been to a real auction before, and Beulah found the experience fascinating. There were mock auctions at court, where the nobles bid for useless trinkets, or even each other, as a sort of game. It was just another way to flaunt their wealth, as far as she could tell, like the absurd costumes and town houses large enough to sleep an entire clan. This was different. This was the commerce that fed the Twin Kingdoms. Farmers and breeders produced; merchants bought and sold; and a small fraction of every transaction made its way back to her treasury.
Beulah watched as the geldings were knocked down for a hundred and seventy-five crowns the pair. Then a huge stallion was led in, eighteen hands if he was an inch and darkest black all over. His eyes were fierce and wild; no one had managed to tame him yet. The halter around his neck was made from rope as thick as a man’s wrist, and two handlers struggled to keep him in check. Sweat sheened his flanks, and he wheeled this way and that, frightened by the strange room but determined to fight rather than flee.
‘A feisty one, this. A genuine Gomoran stallion from the Gwastadded Wag. As you can see, he’s been habituated to men but not tamed. And he’s certainly not broken. You all know how rare these horses are, so who’ll start the bidding at a thousand crowns?’
The room wasn’t silent: there was too much noise coming from the great horse and the scrabble of would-be punters getting as far from the front row of benches as possible. But the atmosphere changed, as if there had been a collective intake of breath. Beulah wasn’t surprised. A thousand crowns was a lot of money for just one horse, however magnificent he was.
And yet he was a truly regal beast. If he could be broken, if she could bend him to her will, then he would make the most perfect of gifts for Clun.
Guiltily Beulah recalled that it was her search for her missing consort that had brought her to this place. She scanned the auction room on the off chance that he might have come here, but he was nowhere to be seen, much like the bids the auctioneer was trying to elicit.
‘All right, who’ll give me five hundred? No? Four fifty? Four hundred?’
‘Two hundred and fifty.’ Beulah looked around for the person who had spoken, then realized it was herself. The auctioneer’s eyes swept the room, trying to locate her. She waited until his eyes met hers, then nodded once.
‘I have a bid of two fifty from the lady in the fourth row. Do I hear any higher?’
‘Your Majesty, is this wise? Gomoran stallions are renowned for being unbreakable. In all my years I’ve never seen one ridden.’ Lord Beylin spoke under his breath as if he were worried about being overheard in the echoing noisy barn.
‘There are more ways to break a horse than brute strength, Beylin.’
‘Any more bids? It’s a crime to let a splendid beast go for such a price.’ The auctioneer was waving his gavel back and forth across the crowd, desperately trying to pluck more money from the air. Most eyes were cast down, or fixed on the stallion as he tossed and turned, pulling his handlers about as if
they weighed no more than air. Beulah tried to study the beast using her aethereal sight, but she couldn’t find the trance. She reached out to him with her mind, as she had done to Father Tolley. She didn’t expect the horse to have much in the way of thoughts, but she wanted to calm him, to reassure him that no harm would come his way. He was a simple thing, driven by the most basic of needs. She soothed him with promises of food, the companionship of other horses and a return to the open fields where he could see the sky overhead.
‘Well, if we’re all done bidding here?’ The auctioneer’s voice was distant, unimportant. Beulah stared only at the horse, his wide black eyes locked on her own.
‘At two hundred and fifty crowns. Going once.’ Nostrils flared, flecked with foam.
‘Going twice.’ Hind legs quivered as muscles fought against restraining hobbles. Tail arched, flicked this way and that, cracking like a whip.
‘Gone! Sold to the lady in the fourth row. Your name, madam?’
Beulah sent a firm command to the horse. Be still. As she rose to her feet, it snorted, pawed the ground with its front feet, then stopped, silent, motionless.
‘I am Beulah, Queen of the Twin Kingdoms.’ Now there was silence in the room. The auctioneer’s mouth hung open for long seconds until, finally, he closed it with an audible snap. He looked down to his assistant, who had stood up, then back at his queen.
‘Your Majesty. I had no idea. If I had but known –’
‘You’d have what? Taken a few bids off the wall to up the price?’ Beulah enjoyed the look of horrified injury on the man’s face. Around her she noticed that everyone else was standing or kneeling. ‘This is why I didn’t announce myself. How can you hold an auction when you’re all on your knees? And who would dare to bid against their queen? Go about your business, gentlemen. I shan’t get in your way any more.’ And with that she stepped down to the ring to inspect her purchase.
The horse towered over her, a mass of barely controlled energy wrapped up in a glossy black coat. The two men holding his halter ropes nodded to her as she approached, but didn’t kneel or let go. Still reaching out to the beast’s mind, she tried not to let her own trepidation feed into his fear. It was strange trying to calm an animal, when she had been trained by Melyn to use her talents to unsettle.
‘Your Majesty. Is this wise?’ Captain Celtin made to accompany her into the ring. Almost instantly the stallion’s neck arched, its muscles tensing.
‘Stay back, Captain. I’ll be all right.’ Beulah didn’t look to see if her order was followed, but the great beast relaxed again. She took a couple of steps closer, holding herself upright but not looking the animal in the eye any more. Finally, when she was within reach, she put out her hand, low and flat as Melyn had taught her so many years before when he had presented her with her first horse. Slowly, and with much snorting, the stallion lowered his head until he could smell the proffered hand.
Beulah stood there for several minutes, just letting the beast get to know her smell while at the same time she filled its mind with as much comfort as she could manage. It was exhausting, far more difficult than spreading fear and confusion. All around her the hall was silent, and she could feel the weight of every eye on her. This was how legends were begun, she realized, aware of how this must look. The pale thin queen conquering the savage beast. Finally, she dropped her hand down and stepped away.
‘Take him back out. Let him be with other horses.’ As she spoke the words, she sent the idea to the horse that he should go with the men. Snorting and bucking but still more tractable than when he had been brought in, the stallion allowed himself to be led out. As the doors closed on the auction ring, a huge cheer went up, the people rejoicing in their queen.
Returning to the town and the castle, Lord Beylin seemed oddly distracted. He wouldn’t catch Beulah’s eye, and she had the distinct impression he was trying to avoid talking to her. As they disembarked from his private barge, she confronted him.
‘What, Petrus? Do you disapprove of my taste in horses?’
‘It’s not that, Your Majesty. Though I see many months, even years of trouble from that horse.’
‘Then what? You’ve been avoiding my eye ever since I bought the animal. Why?’
Beylin seemed to consider his answer for a while as they walked the short distance up the hill to the castle gates. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I truly am. When you came to me this morning, I lied to you.’
‘Lied to me? About what?’
‘About not knowing where the Duke of Abervenn had gone. About not having seen him this morning. He begged me to do it. It was his idea that I take you to the livestock markets. I made certain that various merchants would say they had seen him heading that way. But I never intended that you should buy a horse.’
‘What’s so wrong with buying a horse?’ Beulah felt a moment of unease as they entered the castle, stepping from sunshine to shade and then back into the sun. There was something afoot, and she didn’t like the way she was being manipulated.
‘I think you should ask His Grace that yourself, ma’am.’ Beylin bowed and indicated to his left.
Beulah looked over to where he pointed to see Clun standing alone in the courtyard. He had changed back into more formal garments, and the sun glinted in his blond hair giving the impression of a halo. As he saw her, he walked forward, and out of the shadows followed two of the most beautiful mares she had ever seen. They were palest yellow in colour, slim and athletic. Obviously well broken and docile, yet they held their heads high, ears pricked and alert, eyes bright to everything going on around them.
‘My lady, I’m sorry for the subterfuge.’ Clun’s face was broad with a grin she had not seen on him before, a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘I’d heard that the best horses in the whole of Gwlad came from these parts. So I thought I would buy you a pair.’
21
Most workings of the subtle arts are transient, of the moment. A dragon might reach along the Llinellau to bring something to him or send a thought to a loved one. He might draw a little of the Grym into himself to ward off the cold or to help heal some small injury. More complex workings can persist after they have been performed, though these are more difficult and can unravel when least expected or convenient.
Almost all a dragon’s workings will begin to unwind once they have died. Only the subtle arts of a great mage can hope to persist for longer, and even then only if that mage’s jewels have been laid to rest according to his or her instructions. It is for this reason that mages tend to live apart from the rest of their kind and their jewels are not joined with those of their family upon reckoning.
Dire consequences will follow should a dragon mage’s jewels be removed from their final resting place. The workings they control are complex and powerful things, and their unravelling can be profoundly destructive.
Corwen teul Maddau,
On the Application of the Subtle Arts
Even though he walked a path beaten by Benfro’s tail, Errol still found the going almost impossible. The snow was soft and powdery, with a thin crust on top that mostly held his weight but occasionally gave way. He might walk for a hundred paces with only the whistling wind to contend with, then without warning he would find himself engulfed in frozen white. Each time it happened he lost his concentration and his tenuous connection with the Grym, letting the bitter cold eat at his exposed face and hands. And each time he struggled to haul himself out of the hole back on to the crust where the dragon had passed.
He had tried walking on the snow to the side of Benfro’s trail, but this was if anything more treacherous still. And all the while the thin air made breathing difficult, every small effort like climbing to the highest tower in Emmass Fawr. Still he pressed on, drawing what strength he could from the Grym and praying all the while that Benfro’s tracks wouldn’t suddenly disappear. If the dragon took off and flew away into the night, then Errol would never find him.
Errol wondered at Benfro’s mood change. His rescue had been tru
ly heroic, and even when they had landed the dragon had been full of concern. But as soon as he saw the jewels he had flipped. Or was it as soon as he saw his mother’s jewel? Or as soon as he took it? Errol knew the dangers that dragon jewels posed, but surely they were less for a dragon himself? Unless the bond was too close, like mother to son.
The night wore on as he pondered the questions. Perhaps, he thought, it was Magog trying to reassert his influence, now that his jewel had been removed from Corwen’s cave. But if that was the case, then it was crucial he find Benfro before it was too late. He remembered all too well Corwen’s words when he had first seen the old dragon’s jewels: ‘You’ll know when there’s nothing left of Benfro and Magog has taken his place. If that moment comes, you must kill him.’
Shivering as much at the cold as at the thought, Errol pressed on through the snow, climbing yet another in a seemingly endless series of shallow rises. Ahead he could see the first pink tinges of dawn fading out the night stars. How long had he been walking? Not that long surely. But then he was far further north than he had ever been before, and he had read of the frozen sea where the sun never set in the summer, nor rose in the winter.
The air seared in his throat, escaping from his Grym-warmed body in gusts of steam that hung about him as he trudged towards the top of the rise. He could see the U-shaped indentation made by Benfro as he had passed earlier. Errol was all for giving up, digging himself a shelter in the snow and going to sleep, but he knew if he did that he would likely never wake up. So he struggled on, slower and slower, hoping that this last ridge would be the top and that he could go downhill for a change. Foot after foot, every muscle in his body creaking and protesting at the strain, it was all he could do to keep his eyes focused on the ground in front of him, trying to guess when next the crust would give way.
And then his foot landed lower than he expected. For an instant Errol tensed, then relaxed, accepting the inevitable plummet, the blast of icy cold as he lost his link to the lines, the desperate struggle to pull himself out of waist-deep powder. It never came, and before he could register surprise, he had started his next step, his body acting without any input from his mind. Again his foot landed lower than he was expecting, and again he tensed for the drop through the crust. This time he jarred his knee badly, sending a shock right up through his body all the way to his jaw. Crunching teeth woke him from his stupor and Errol stopped walking, looked up, gasped.