Morgwm stood in the near-total darkness, staring up at the perfect black circle scribed by a halo of flickering white. She was transfixed by the beauty of the sight, a deep-seated calm washing over her as if a wrong done aeons ago had finally been put right. All the cares and worries of her long life were gone, all forgotten in that one, endless perfect moment.
Then a terrible crash broke through her reverie, followed by the wailing of a healthy pair of lungs. The child! She had completely forgotten him.
Morgwm hurried back to the cottage, fearing the silence that fell once more upon the dark clearing. She swept in through the door and took everything in a single glance, astonished for the second time that day, the second time in half a lifetime.
The basket by the fire had tipped over and even now the edge of the blanket was singeing, a charred smell of burnt hair filling the room. Pieces of egg-shell lay scattered over the floor, and for a terrible instant Morgwm imagined the infant, somehow able to move even though it was just hours old, knocking over the basket, spilling its priceless contents on the floor.
But there was no dead kitling on the floor, no mess of unfinished yolk. And the child still lay in its makeshift cot, gurgling in a contented, happy way, its blankets all awry.
Confused, and with her hearts in her mouth, Morgwm stepped closer, her vast feet avoiding the broken shell as if to tread on it might somehow cause harm to the dragon kit that should still have been lying within. The baby boy’s eyes were open and a broad smile spread across his face as she approached. Then he squealed a happy cry and something far larger than his tiny body moved under the blankets. Morgwm pulled them away, half her mind confused, the other already knowing what lay beneath.
It was a dragon, twice the size of the baby boy yet still miniscule. Perfectly formed, its skin was still smooth, the first scales no more than the faintest of dimples rippling over its chest as it breathed. It lay on its back, neck extended along the baby’s side, seeking warmth and companionship to the infant’s obvious delight. Tiny taloned feet worked back and forth and its wings fluttered gently, far bigger in proportion to its body than those of any full-grown dragon.
Slowly, tentatively, Morgwm reached down and stroked the infant dragon’s belly. Its lazy eyes opened and it looked up into the face of its mother. A grimacing smile spread across its mouth, revealing sharp fangs. Then it belched, an absurd little noise that had the baby boy alongside wriggling with amused pleasure. Morgwm cupped her hatchling in her hand and lifted it away from the cot. Its miniature hands grasped at her fingers with surprising strength and she lifted it up to the light, the better to see what she and Sir Trefaldwyn had done.
A strange sadness filled her that she had missed the hatching, but it was swept away at the realisation that it must have occurred at the height of the Confluence. This then was a true child of Rasalene and Arhelion. And she could barely contain her excitement as she inspected the kitling minutely for defects, appraising her offspring with the detached professionalism of a healer. It was perfect. He was perfect.
He.
The first male dragon to be hatched in a thousand years.
~~~~
Chapter One
Not much is known of the natural death of dragons, for none have been observed in advanced age. Like other beasts of the wild, it is most probable they meet violent ends when they no longer have the strength to defend themselves. No decaying dragon carcasses have ever been found, however, so it may be that, like the fabled elephants of Eirawen, they take themselves off to a secret graveyard to die. If this is the case, then whatever man finds this place will be rich beyond measure, for the ground will surely be strewn with the discarded jewels that grow within every dragon’s brain.
Beasts of the Ffrydd by Barrod Sheepshead
Benfro hid in the bushes at the edge of the clearing, watching the cottage forty yards away. Thin smoke wafted up from the chimney and a heavy wooden chair propped open the doorway. Straining his senses, he tried to catch a whiff on the breeze of whatever it was that was being prepared inside.
He could smell the rich loaminess of the earth nearby, where the potatoes had been dug earlier in the day. The cabbages were a sulphur reek and all around the flowers were a riot of aromas, but they were a distraction. He had to practise, to single out the least from the overwhelming mass. So he concentrated harder.
The smoke from the chimney wafted downwards on the lightest of winds, spreading away from him and hugging the far ground. Still Benfro could tell that it was the beech wood that was burning, its distinctive lemon-acid reek was unmistakeable. For an instant it dominated all his senses, but he pushed it aside and sought further inside.
There was an aroma of cedar, very delicate as if powdered. Other spices presented themselves to his nose, cloves, cinnamon, maker-bark. As he identified each ingredient, Benfro could see its pot in the storeroom where it was kept. He could read the copperplate script neatly describing its contents. He knew that storeroom better than anything in his life, knew exactly where everything should be. It was essential, his mother had told him at least twenty times every day of his short life, that he know what was where. Too young yet to know what everything was for, but he could fetch anything and return it to its correct place blindfolded.
This potion was new to him and it piqued his curiosity. Breathing out a great snort to clear the myriad fragrances, Benfro clambered out of the bush and made his way across the clearing back to the house.
‘I wondered how long you were going to spend in that bush,’ Morgwm said as he stepped lightly through the door. Benfro smiled, he still tried to keep his actions secret from his mother, but she always knew what he had been doing.
She sat at the great table by the window, mixing ingredients in a vast stone mortar. The brass scales stood beside a collection of jars, its polished silver weights shining in the sun. This must be an important potion, for nine times out of ten Morgwm would measure by eye. Benfro was fairly sure that way was usually more accurate than the scales.
‘What are you making?’ He asked, settling himself down on the bench to watch. Across the wooden expanse, his mother smiled at him, but her green eyes were sad, her shoulders a little slumped.
‘Oh Benfro, you’re really too young to be burdened with such things.’
Benfro sighed. For all that he was ten years old, his mother and all the villagers still treated him like an infant. He made to get up, resigned to learning nothing today, but his mother reached out her arm and touched his.
‘Stay, little one,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t have to learn this, but I fear you will need to sooner or later.’
‘What are you making?’ Benfro asked, excited again.
‘Vitae Mortis, the reckoning powder,’ Morgwm said, her eyes again downcast. ‘Old Ystrad Fflur died this morning. We must perform the ceremony so that his spirit can move on to the next world.’
Benfro sat with his mouth agape. Ystrad Fflur. Dead. But he’d been talking to the old dragon just a couple of days ago. So he was slow and short-sighted, but then most of the villagers were that way. Did that mean they were all going to die? A lump formed in his throat at the thought of losing his friends, his family. A tear swelled in the corner of each eye and dripped down the scaly mass of his cheeks.
‘Ah, Benfro, to weep over someone you have known for such a short time. But then you’ve known him all your life whilst I’ve only known him for a fraction of mine.’
‘How did he die?’ Benfro asked. He didn’t know how to react. Should he be all sombre and quiet, or should he ask questions? His mother had always encouraged him to question everything but even so this didn’t seem like the right time.
‘He decided not to go on living,’ Morgwm said, a matter-of-fact tone in her voice not quite matching the sadness in her eyes. She tipped the contents of the mortar into a small glass jar and put it in the leather bag lying alongside her on the table. ‘Now run and put these away,’ she indicated the pots of ingredients. ‘And bring me back one
of the amphorae of Delyn oil.’
By the time Benfro returned with the oil, his mother was standing in the doorway, the bag slung over her shoulder, her long, heavy-headed walking stick clasped in the other hand. He made to hand the heavy clay jar over to her, but she waved it away.
‘No, you should carry it to the village, as a mark of respect,’ she said. ‘And to show the villagers that you’re ready to take on some of the responsibilities of a healer.’
Benfro said nothing in reply, but as he followed his mother out of the house and across the clearing, three fast steps to one of her strides, his head felt giddy with pride.
*
Errol knew as he rounded the corner that it was going to be a bad afternoon. The posse were waiting for him.
‘Hey, Witch Boy! Where d’ye think ye’re going?’ He didn’t know who spoke the words, didn’t really care. It could have been any of them. It was hard to distinguish one village boy from another at times, even though he had known them all from his first memories. They all had the same round, florid faces, the same mops of straw-blonde hair cropped in the same regulation pudding-bowl style. Only the cloth and cut of their tunics and trousers gave any hint to who might be who’s son, and even then everyone in Pwllpeiran was related. It was that kind of place.
‘I aksed yer a question, Witch Boy.’ Closer up, Errol could see who was being clever this time. Alderman Clusster’s son, Trell. He was dressed in expensive fabrics: strong corded trousers that reached halfway down his shins and looked like he had long-since grown out of them; a thick twill shirt, two sizes too big; and a soft leather jacket of doe-hide brown. To Errol, dressed in his much-mended sack-cloth trousers and shirt, it was an unnecessary display of wealth, though that hadn’t stopped Trell from clambering up trees, through hedges and across streams with the rest of his less-well dressed gang. It looked like they had taken the short cut straight from school to head him off on his way home. Errol’s heart sank. If that was the case then he might as well get the torment over sooner rather than later.
‘I’m going home, Trell,’ he said. ‘You know, Hennas’ cottage up the road a-ways, where your mam had to bring your sister last autumn. To get rid of that little problem she had.’
Trell looked furious. His face turned redder still and his hands clenched into fists. Now comes the bad part, Errol thought. At least the beatings were usually short. As the gang approached, he thought about turning and fleeing, but bitter experience had shown him that running only prolonged the torment, and exercise seemed to increase the gang’s violent tendencies. He stood his ground as they approached and was rewarded with a flicker of uncertainty in Trell’s eyes. Like most bullies, the boy was a coward at heart.
‘You wanted something Trell?’ Errol said, trying to keep his voice calm though it felt like his whole body was shaking. ‘Only, I can ask my mam to whip up another potion if you need.’
A shock ran through his whole body as the punch came from nowhere, collided with the side of his face. He had been expecting a kick, or at least a blow to the stomach first, but by the time Errol had thought any of this, his knees had already given up and he was on the hard-packed dry dust of the road. The gang stood around him laughing as Trell pulled back and landed a heavy kick in his stomach. Through his pain, all Errol could see was his leather satchel lying on the ground a few feet away, its contents spilled out in the dirt, kicked this way and that by the circling boys. His prize, the book he had been reading all summer, lay broken-spined, trampled as if it were worthless. A strangely lucid part of him laughed at the realisation that to most of his illiterate tormentors it might have been no more than bathroom stationery. Another carelessly placed foot ripped a skein of pages in two, spilling them about the pathway, and Errol’s laughter suddenly turned to rage.
Without thinking, without even knowing how he did it, he grabbed the nearest foot on an inward trajectory and pulled it hard towards him, rolling as he went. The laughter turned to alarm as someone yelped and then a pile of bodies crashed to the ground all around him. Seeing Trell’s face in the melee, Errol lashed out with his foot, feeling a cruel satisfaction as his soft leather heel met bony nose with a sickening crunch.
‘Aaarghhh. Doo boke by dose!’ Trell screamed, clutching his face as thick red blood spurted from between his fingers. He scrabbled away from the fight, shuffling on his bottom like a baby and Errol couldn’t help himself from laughing. The rest of the gang, picking themselves up off the ground, looked over at Trell’s pathetic figure and joined in. Someone grabbed Errol’s arm and for a moment he thought he was going to be hit again. Instead he felt himself being pulled to his feet, his dusty shirt patted down with rough but not unkindly hands. Someone slapped him hard on the back, almost knocking him to the ground again. Turning, he saw Clun, the merchant’s son, a huge grin on his face.
‘Nice one, squirt,’ the boy said, genuine mirth on his face. ‘Perhaps ye’re not such a weed after all.’
Errol was confused. He couldn’t work out what had happened. He stood, staring in a daze at the sobbing figure of Trell, still sitting on his backside in the dirt, still clasping his bleeding face, tears mixing with the blood and dust on his cheeks. The other boys were ignoring him completely now, chattering amongst themselves about what they were going to do next. School was over for the week, harvest was all but finished and two days of autumn sunshine beckoned. There was exploring to be done, adventures to be had and games to be played.
Errol realised that he was being asked to join in. Someone pushed his satchel back into his hands, the torn pages of the book roughly shoved into the top.
‘Wotcher say Witch Boy? Ye wanna play battle in the hayfield?’ Clun asked.
‘It’s Errol,’ Errol said, bemused at his turn of fortune. ‘My name’s Errol.’
‘Whatever. Ye’re the Witches’ boy. That makes ye Witch Boy. Ye coming?’
Errol considered his options. He had seen the games of battle played out in the fields in summers past. They were rough and ready, usually ending in someone being hurt badly enough for his mother to be called upon to heal them. Everyone involved got into serious trouble for the damage they caused. He longed to join in, indulge in some carefree rambunctiousness, but there were endless chores to be done and his mother was no longer young, if indeed she ever had been. But if he passed up this opportunity would it ever come again?
He looked down at his satchel and the mess that was his book. Then he looked across to where Trell was still sitting. The Alderman’s son had turned very pale and blood was still leaking from his nose. The green of his shirt was slicked all down the front with black, his expensive trousers speckled and the soft suede of the jacket ruined.
‘I can’t,’ Errol said, turning reluctantly back to Clun. ‘I’d better get Trell to my mam ‘fore he bleeds to death, and once I get home there’ll be no coming back.’
‘Suit yersel’’, Clun said with a small shrug. Then he slapped one of the other boys hard on the back of the head and ran off whooping, pursued by the rest of the pack.
Errol shouldered his pack and stooped to help Trell up. Something strange had just happened. It was as though their roles had reversed. How long had the Alderman’s son been bullying him? Years too long. And all it had taken was a kick to the face to turn it all around.
‘Leabe us be,’ Trell snarled, causing Errol to step back. Some of the old fear was still there, but it was just a reaction.
‘At least tilt your head back a bit and put some pressure on the bridge,’ Errol said. ‘Or you might bleed to death. Come to the cottage and my mam’ll fix it up in no time.’
‘Dot goink eddywhere near your sdinkink hovel,’ Trell shouted, blood spittling out of the sides of his mouth as he scrabbled to his feet. ‘Ye’ll bay for dis Errol Rabsboddob.’ And with that he ran off back towards the village.
Errol noted with some satisfaction that he held his head back, one hand reaching up to the bridge of his nose as he went.
~~~~
Chapter
Two
The knowledge and wisdom of a lifetime is stored in a dragon’s jewels. Every experience, thought, action; every loss and every regret is tied up in those elegant and mesmerising gems. And yet from the moment a dragon dies, those same memories begin to leach away, returning to the earth from which all power comes. To save those memories for eternity, to retain a remembrance of a greatness now passed, the jewels must be reckoned. And only the living flame can seal up a jewel against the ravages of time.
Healer Trefnog’s The Apothecarium
The old dragon looked somehow larger in death than in life, as if he had shrunk himself through sheer force of will. Now, freed from the shackles of existence he lay impossibly huge upon the rickety old wooden bed in his tiny cottage.
Benfro peered around his mother to stare at the dead form of Ystrad Fflur. Of all the dragons living in the village, he had been perhaps the kindest, certainly the most indulgent. Benfro remembered the room from past visits too numerous to count. He would sit by the fire listening to stories of the world outside the forest, mythical places whose very names conjured up exotic images: The Sea of Tegid; Fo Afron and the Twin Spires of Idris. Many an hour he had spent, spellbound by the endless tales of legend. Benfro suspected that Ystrad Fflur was lonely and liked the company but he had been generous too, plying him with sweetmeats and other delicacies as a bribery to keep him coming back.
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