by J. D. Oswald
‘I can’t leave him, Usel. He’s my husband. The father of my son.’
‘You cannot help him here, Princess. We must return to the cavern, do what we can from there. Prince Dafydd is very resourceful. I am sure if he can he will survive this and return to you.’
Even Usel seemed to struggle with that lie. Iolwen had always dreamed of returning to Candlehall, of being welcomed home by the people who had sent her to live with their sworn enemy as a hostage to peace. Now that dream was turned nightmare.
Another crashing noise from above and dust billowed from a larger crack, extinguishing all the nearby torches. Iolwen took one last look towards the stairs, dark now, then hurried down the corridor towards the palace.
They found Captain Derridge and his band of misfits in the corridor where they had first parted. Iolwen might have suspected them of having just stayed there and not distracted the dragons at all, were they not to a man bloodied and bruised. The captain himself had one eye swollen shut, his hair slicked red and he held his arm awkwardly by his side. Even so, he pulled himself as upright as he could manage when he saw the princess approach, his other eye searching past her for the rest of the party.
‘The prince?’ he asked. Iolwen said nothing, but she could see Usel shake his head.
‘Ah, by the Wolf!’ Derridge winced as he spoke. ‘I’m sorry, Your Highness. We did our best to draw him off, that big black bastard. But there’s more of them up there every time I look.’
‘You did all you could, Captain. I never asked more of you than that.’ Iolwen slumped her shoulders, the adrenaline that had brought her so far now leaving her. She would have sat down; they were safe enough this far inside the old stone buildings and there were benches along the wall, but that was not what a queen did in front of her subjects. She took a deep breath and was drawing herself up ready to command, even if she wasn’t sure what that command would be, when the noise of running footsteps distracted her. She turned, her heart leaping at the thought that somehow Dafydd had escaped and was hurrying to join them, but the face that greeted her was not her husband. Instead a young lad, perhaps no more than twelve, appeared around the corner that opened on to the steps up to the cloisters.
‘Cap’n, sir. Cap’n, sir. Oh.’ He stopped in his tracks when he saw the princess, then made to kneel and bow at the same time, almost falling over.
‘What’s up, Beyn? Thought you were meant to be keeping a quiet eye on them beasts. Not running around shouting and drawing attention to yourself.’ Derridge limped forward, catching the lad before he tumbled to the floor. He held him by the arm and turned him so they both faced Iolwen. ‘My grandson, Your Highness. All the excitement’s gone to his head, I fear.’
The boy looked terrified, but somehow Iolwen knew it was because of her, not the dragons destroying the city and killing anything they could catch. He stared at her, then realized he was staring and dropped his gaze to his feet.
‘Begging pardon, ma’am.’
‘There’s nothing to pardon, Master Beyn. You were about to report to your … the captain. Go ahead.’
The boy had looked up again at her words, his eyes widening even more when she said his name. Iolwen smiled, even though she didn’t really feel like it, and tried to send soothing thoughts to him. It wasn’t as easy without the power of the throne to help her, but it seemed to do the trick.
‘I was watching the big doors, like you said, Grandda— sir. After the big black one went inside, there was all kinds of crashing and banging. I thought the Neuadd itself was going to come tumbling down. Only then they starts swooping in. All the other dragons. And they’re all landed in the courtyard, all facing the entrance. One of them doors has fallen off. I think the big dragon couldn’t fit through. Anyway, I was watching and another dragon comes out. Only it’s not the big black one. He’s nowhere to be seen. This one’s different. It seems, I don’t know, cleaner? And it shrieks at them in that weird way they have of talking. And the big red one shrieks back. And, and, and then I saw him. I did. Tiny he was beside the dragon, but he was there.’
‘Who was there, lad? You’re not making sense.’
‘The prince, sir. He was there, and then this new dragon, it looks down at him. He reaches out to it, and then they both just disappear.’
‘Disappear?’ Iolwen had lost her smile, but something of an idea, a hope, was forming in her mind. ‘This other dragon, what did she look like?’
‘She, ma’am? Couldn’t have said if it was a she or a he. They all look the same to me. Big and mean and ugly.’
Iolwen skimmed the edge of the boy’s thoughts, looking for an image of what he had seen. She wasn’t as adept at the magic as her sister, not in the same league as King Ballah or Usel, but the blood of Balwen ran through her veins and with it the skill to influence others. And sometimes to read them also. It helped that the boy was all excitement and fear, the images boiling off him like steam. She couldn’t see a clear picture, just snippets, details, the curve of a tail, the tuft of an ear. But she did see Dafydd in his mind, and that brought a surge of relief. That he was surrounded by dragons was less encouraging.
‘How did they disappear?’ She asked the question more to bring the image to the front of the boy’s mind than in hope of an answer.
‘It was like they just dissolved into the air. But fast, like.’ True to her hopes, the scene played out on the edge of his thoughts, and as it did so, Iolwen saw more of what happened than perhaps the boy had been able to comprehend. Dafydd did indeed reach towards the dragon’s outstretched hand, and the two of them faded away to nothing. It would have been impossible to believe, had she not seen it happen once before.
‘Usel, is it possible that one might use the Llinellau Grym to travel to a distant place?’
The medic took a while to answer, which confirmed her theory to her before he even spoke. ‘In the ancient stories that dragons tell to their kitlings some of their heroes can do this. Flow into the Grym and reappear somewhere else instantly. I had thought it just that, a story. But of course all dragon tales are teachings as much as entertainment so there may well be some truth in it.’
‘And what about a man? Or a boy not yet grown to adulthood?’
‘I have never heard of such a thing, ma’am. The almshouses at Emmass Fawr are packed with the mindless remnants of men and boys who have lost themselves to the Grym. Their bodies stay behind, only their minds disappearing into the Llinellau. I do not believe it is possible for our kind.’
‘And yet I watched a young man disappear from the executioner’s block in Tynhelyg. Dissolve in front of my eyes and flow into the Grym. There was no dragon there to help him; he did it by himself.’
‘Errol?’ Usel frowned. ‘But how?’
‘I don’t know, but it gives me hope that Dafydd lives still. The dragon we met on the island, Merriel. I think she may have come back to save us. I was calling to her when we were trapped near the throne.’ Iolwen’s answer was cut short by a roar from the courtyard, followed by a crash that shook the whole building. Stone blocks the size of a man’s head tumbled down the stairwell and into the corridor as something battered against the cloisters above. ‘But now is not the time for speculation. Now we must flee before these creatures destroy us all.’
14
The Order of the Candle is the youngest of the great religious orders of the House of Balwen. Founded in the time of King Divitie III, it initially consisted of six warrior priests of the High Ffrydd and six medics of the Ram, charged by the king with travelling the length and breadth of the Twin Kingdoms to carry out a census of his lands and peoples. A task that at first seemed simple in the end took more than twenty years, and was not in fact completed until the reign of Divitie IV was in its second year.
Such was the success of the census that the new king decided to make it an ongoing process, with each village and town being visited at least once every five years. The original warrior priests and medics had already been joined by a small army of clerks
and predicants, and it was only a matter of time before the order became as much an administrative body as one charged solely with collecting information.
Through generations of service, the order has strengthened its hold on the administration of the Twin Kingdoms, and perfected its methods of record-keeping and information-gathering. It is perhaps the least glamorous of the orders, at least to those not privy to its secrets. But whereas the Order of the High Ffrydd is the king’s sword, the Order of the Candle is his eyes and ears. With clerks of the Candle in every town and city throughout the realm, it is said that no man can sneeze at dusk and the seneschal not know it by dawn.
Father Romney,
The Order of the Candle – a Brief Introduction
‘Have those Candles arrived yet? They should be here by now.’
Inquisitor Melyn paced around the dais upon which King Ballah’s throne stood empty. He knew he could sit in it and no one would complain. He had earned the right by combat, after all, and taken it up not long afterwards. Only now he viewed the throne with a mixture of unease and disdain. It was a focus for the power of the Grym, the subtle arts so beloved of dragons, but he didn’t need it. He didn’t need the help of the vast collection of jewels deep beneath the throne room either. The power was his to wield wherever he was and whenever he felt like it. He understood so much more.
‘The first wave from Tochers arrived this morning, sire, along with a good number of Queen Beulah’s troops.’ Captain Osgal stood guard, for all that the inquisitor needed a guard. He looked awful, the burns on his face and hands still not healed. Melyn knew that he could fix the captain the same way the Shepherd – Magog – had healed his own injuries over a lifetime of service. A lifetime of lies. He wouldn’t though, at least not yet. An injured and irritable Osgal was far better at keeping the troops in line than one distracted by the spoils of conquest.
‘Who is in charge? General Otheng or that oaf Cachog?’
‘Otheng, sire. He was to be stationed at Tynewydd, but with Geraint’s army routed and Tordu’s men scattered, he thought it best to head straight here. He’s waiting outside.’
‘Excellent. Send him in then.’
Melyn waited while Osgal retraced his steps to the main doors, flung them open and barked a command to the guards waiting outside. The inquisitor should have been irritated, impatient that everything took so long, but now he felt only calm. The Shepherd – Magog – had lived for thousands of years, his spirit still powerful for thousands more after his untimely death. The passage of minutes, hours, days meant nothing when you could imagine millennia. There was still much to do, however, and at the speed of men rather than dragons.
‘Inquisitor Melyn. It is good to see you well.’ General Otheng bowed only slightly as he approached the dais, never taking his eyes off Melyn’s. As the second son of the Duke of Dina, he should have shown greater courtesy to one his senior in rank, but he was perhaps the most seasoned soldier not in the Order of the High Ffrydd, and as such Melyn was prepared to allow him some leeway. Chances were that he would soon be Duke of Tynhelyg anyway.
‘You have made good time. Tell me, is there any news of Tordu? Prince Geraint and his army are no more, but I don’t want the people rallying to his uncle.’
‘You need not worry yourself about him, Your Grace.’ Otheng reached for the clasp on a leather bag slung around his neck. Fumbling it open one-handed, he pulled out a silver amulet set with a polished red jewel. ‘Found him in the woods not far from Tynewydd. What was left of him, that is. He’d fought off some of those great beasts, killed one by the looks of the carcass lying close by him.’
‘Tordu? Really? Was he alone?’
‘A way off from the main fighting, for sure. I think he must have been trying to escape, for all the good it did him. Lost his guts in more ways than one.’
Melyn felt his side, the scar of golden scales where Benfro had almost done the same to him. Normally he might have enjoyed Otheng’s joke, but now it fell flat.
‘You found no curses on this?’ He nodded at the amulet.
‘I wasn’t born yesterday, Melyn. I had one of your warrior priests with me; got him to check it over. No way I’d be holding it now if he hadn’t. There were some nasty things lurking in it for the unwary, but it’s fine now.’
Melyn regarded the amulet with wary eyes, remembering the fate of the poor soul who had foolishly picked up Prince Geraint’s golden version of the same thing. ‘Frecknock? What do you make of this?’
General Otheng’s face paled as the dragon emerged from her resting place beside King Ballah’s throne.
‘Your Grace. I … You have a …’
‘Dragon?’ Melyn couldn’t help but chuckle at the man’s fear. ‘Do not concern yourself. Frecknock serves me, and she is as skilled in the ways of the Grym as any man. Hand her the amulet. She won’t bite unless I tell her to.’
Otheng held out the amulet on its chain, the shaking of his hand making it jerk up and down like a man freshly hanged. Frecknock took it in one outstretched hand, tugging slightly until the general released his grip.
‘This is very much like the other one, but silver where that of Prince Geraint was gold. The gem in the centre is not dissimilar to those in King Ballah’s ring, smaller chips from the heart stone. I suspect that they might have been used for communication, among other things.’
‘Other things?’ Melyn asked.
‘Like the ring it is a focus for the Grym. It gives the wearer greater control over the subtle arts. Both Tordu and Geraint were adepts, I am sure, and with these amulets they would have been able to read the minds of the weak-willed. Influence them. Perhaps even make them do things they would not ordinarily have done.’ Frecknock approached the inquisitor, offering the amulet to him. He took it, feeling the force of the Shepherd in it, the force of Magog. It called to him, as did the other stones hidden away in the cavern beneath his feet, a siren song of power that was so sweet and seductive. But it spoke of something else too. A vast stone palace surrounded by familiar mountains. A tower so tall it pierced the clouds. Unfinished business.
‘You had best take this, Otheng.’ Melyn passed the amulet back to the general. ‘It will help you maintain communication with the rest of the Twin Kingdoms while you establish our rule over this land.’
General Otheng was absent-mindedly wrapping the silver chain around his hand when the import of Melyn’s words hit him. ‘Establish rule? Me?’
‘I cannot think of a man more qualified, and I’m sure Her Majesty the queen will agree. Llanwennog is now a province of the Twin Kingdoms. It will need a duke to rule it. Have the clerks of the Candle begin a census. They’ll need to work with those local administrators we have already vetted. King Ballah wasn’t a fool; he ran his kingdom efficiently enough. I see no point in starting from scratch. You will be in charge, General. Make sure our soldiers treat the people of Llanwennog well. We’re not here to pillage and then run. Do a good job and I’ve no doubt you will be well rewarded.’
Otheng stared for a moment. Melyn could read his thoughts clearly enough, but they were written across his face as well. The titles and land at Dina would always be his brother’s to inherit, but a dukedom that covered the entirety of Llanwennog was a prize indeed.
‘I will not disappoint, Your Grace.’ He slapped a fist to his chest in salute. ‘But will you not be staying? Your warrior priests—’
‘Are needed elsewhere. You may keep the few who came with you, but my troops must take leave of the city. It is yours to rule now. I suggest you begin immediately.’
Only a few stragglers remained in the corridor when Iolwen, Usel and their newly formed guard of honour returned. Some black-robed predicants in a huddle were arguing with a few clerks of the Candle as to whether they should descend or not, and two of the Llanwennog palace guard were exchanging nervous glances. When they saw the princess they snapped to attention, but she could see their eyes roving over the group in search of the man they naturally deferred to.
<
br /> ‘Prince Dafydd was separated from us. He has escaped, and so must we before my sister arrives.’
The two guards hesitated for a moment, and in the silence one of the clerks approached.
‘Your Highness. This is most irregular. The secrets of the House of Balwen have been kept, well, secret for thousands of years.’
Iolwen drew herself up to her full height, still too short to face down the man as much as she would have liked. Still, he quailed. He was thin, as many Candles were, and his skin had the pallor of one who rarely ventured outside.
‘Your name?’
‘I am Ioan, ma’am, chief actuary to the victuallers’ subcommittee. My remit is—’
‘You are the most senior Candle here?’ Iolwen didn’t give the man the opportunity to bore her to death with a long description of his duties. She had left this palace as a six-year-old girl, but even at that age she had learned not to let a Candle speak for any longer than was necessary.
‘I … That is to say, yes.’ Ioan dipped his head in a bow.
‘How many Candles are there still in the city?’
‘Our numbers were not great to begin with, ma’am. Seneschal Padraig has spread us around the Twin Kingdoms, and many have been tied up with the administration of Qu— your sister’s war against Llanwennog. Before your arrival our numbers were not more than three hundred, I believe.’
‘And how many remain? How many have refused to enter the cavern?’ Iolwen nodded at the open doorway.
‘Perhaps half that number, ma’am. I am disappointed to say that most of the predicants have chosen to save their skins rather than serve the crown to which they have sworn fealty. Their names are recorded and they will not be added to the rolls when the time comes for graduation.’