Dreamwalker

by Oswald, J. D.

  ‘There’s to be dancing later on,’ Martha said, breaking the uneasy silence.

  ‘Martha, don’t be so forward,’ her father said, taking her by the elbow and making to steer her along the line to where Clun was watching with interest.

  ‘I hope you’ll do me the honour,’ Errol said, letting go of her hand reluctantly. Martha smiled back, giving him a little wink before allowing herself to be introduced to Clun, who bowed deeply, took her hand and planted a chaste kiss on her fingers. Errol felt a curious pang of jealousy and animosity towards his step-brother.

  ‘The likes a’ her aren’t fer the likes a’ yer, boy.’ Errol turned back to the line, now finally nearing its end. Alderman Clusster looked at him with barely concealed distaste and did not offer his hand to be shaken. Beside him, Trell glared sullenly. He was wearing a black outfit not unlike that of a predicant of the Order of the Candle, and beside him, his sister Maggs looked on nervously. Errol smiled at her in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. It must have been four years now since she had been dragged up to his mother’s cottage, in tears and terrified. She would be eighteen now, he thought. She looked a lot older, but before he could say anything they had moved on.

  Errol was beginning to feel hungry. He could smell the roasting meat of a whole cow that had been slaughtered for the occasion, and it reminded him that breakfast had been a long time ago, lunch an opportunity missed in the hectic round of last minute panics. The line had almost finished, just a few close friends of Godric taking their time to gossip about trivial matters whilst they tried to ingratiate themselves with his new wife. He wondered if he could slip away and find Martha before the feast began. Then he noticed the doors swing open. Two strangers, a man and a woman, entered the room. By their clothes he could tell they had been travelling for most of the day, perhaps more. They stood in the entrance, looking back and forth, then, noticing his stare, the man beckoned him over.

  As he approached, Errol could see that the man was old, at least sixty and probably more. His face was lined and leathery, his hair white but full. He stood over six feet in his riding boots and radiated a quiet sense of power and authority. The woman was considerably younger, perhaps in her early twenties and stood as tall as the man. Her riding cloak was as fine as any Errol had ever seen and embroidered with sigils he recognised but couldn’t quite place. Her face was not beautiful but neither was it ugly, marred only by a band of brown freckles that spread across her upper cheeks and nose like a muddy splash. She looked straight at him, her eyes seeming to bore into his, with what he could only think of as an expression of fascinated horror.

  ‘Inquisitor Melyn! Your Highness!’ Errol was thrust aside by the bustling figure of Father Kewick, who crossed the distance between him and the door in a couple of frantic bounds before crashing to one knee. The old man allowed his hand to be taken and the priest kissed the single large ring as if continued existence depended on it.

  ‘I am Father Kewick,’ he said. ‘Of the Order of the Candle. No one told me…’

  ‘Enough, Kewick,’ the old man said. ‘Our visit was not announced. You need feel no shame. But tell me, what is this celebration? Surely the choosing is not until tomorrow.’

  ‘The choosing, yes.’ Father Kewick seemed flustered. ‘We are celebrating a marriage, your grace. Goodman Godric Defaid and Hennas Ramsbottom, the village healer, he pointed to the happy couple, still oblivious to the new arrival.

  ‘Then we’ve arrived at an auspicious time,’ the old man said. ‘For both the happy couple and ourselves, since it looks like we’ll be well fed. Come, Kewick, introduce us.’ He pulled his cloak off, revealing the simple cloth garb of a warrior priest, and handed it to the flustered Kewick, who took it as if it might explode, or transmute into some wild beast. All the while he bobbed up and down, dipping his head in obeisance, then snatching a nervous glance at each of the newcomers.

  Errol watched them walk across the room towards his mother and step-father. The young woman kept her cloak on and stared all around the room as if looking for something. Only then did it all fall into place. Kewick had called the old man Inquisitor Melyn. He was the Inquisitor of the Order of the High Ffrydd, come for tomorrow’s choosing. So Clun would get his chance after all. But Kewick had called the woman Your Highness, and that was why Errol had recognised the sigils on her cloak. She must surely be the heir to the Obsidian Throne. Princess Beulah of the Speckled Face. He had never seen her before, which was hardly surprising given his background and upbringing. She could never have seen him before. So why she was staring at him as if he had just thrown a glass of wine in her face?

  *

  ‘Thank you all for coming at such short notice,’ Sir Frynwy said, his voice as serious as Benfro had ever heard it. The great hall in the centre of the village was packed; he hadn’t seen it so full since they had all come to see the reckoning of Ystrad Fflur. That time he had stood at the front, the centre of attention. This time, delayed by his strange encounter with Frecknock, Benfro had to content himself with squeezing in at the back where he could see little through the crush of bodies.

  ‘It has been many hundreds of years since the first of us came to this village,’ Sir Frynwy continued. ‘Since then we have lived as the mother expected, as we agreed when we took the choice. We have seen old friends depart and new friends arrive. We have had hatchings, too few I must admit. But the latest gives us cause to hope. You all know that young Benfro is the first male dragon to be born in living memory.’

  Was he? Benfro felt a chill shiver run through him as those dragons closest, who had registered his late arrival, turned to look at him. He knew them all. He had known them all his life. Yet now they seemed almost like strangers.

  ‘You also know that he is curious and impatient to learn all manner of things, most especially with regard to the subtle arts. So be aware that I have already spoken with him and know him to be innocent in this matter,’ Sir Frynwy said. ‘For someone has been into my house and taken from it my copy, the last remaining copy, of the Llyfr Draconius.’

  Ripples of shocked murmuring bounced around the hall. Meirionydd, who stood near the back and had seen Benfro come in, pushed her way through the throng to his side.

  ‘You knew of this, Benfro?’ She asked.

  ‘Sir Frynwy came to our house last night,’ he said. ‘I didn’t take it. I don’t even know what it is.’ He wanted to say but I think Frecknock has it. I saw her with a book and she was doing some kind of spell, but all that came out of his frustrated mouth was ‘I didn’t take it.’

  ‘I believe you, Benfro,’ Meirionydd said. ‘And if Sir Frynwy’s convinced of your innocence then there’s no argument about it. But it would have been easier for all of us if this were just a case of your curiosity getting the better of you. The Llyfr Draconius is a dangerous thing in the hands of one not trained in its use. And if the warrior priests should find it...’ she did not finish the sentence.

  ‘But what is it?’ Benfro asked, his ignorance made unbearable by his burning need to tell anyone what he had seen. Yet he was unable to say anything about Frecknock and his encounter the day before. It felt like he was trapped inside his own head and he searched frantically for a way out.

  ‘Why would someone take it?’ He asked again, trying to work around the block in his mind.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Meirionydd said. ‘We’re happy here. We all chose to be here. And we know what would happen if the men found our village. Messing around with the subtle arts is just too risky.’

  ‘But the men don’t hunt us any more,’ Benfro said.

  ‘No, not as they once did. Their king doesn’t pay them in gold for our heads anymore. But they still hate us and try to control us. We’re not allowed to use what they call magic; we can’t breed without their licence; we’re not meant to live in groups of more than four; we have to pay a tithe to their treasury every year.’

  ‘But the village is four dozen strong,’ Benfro said, looking at the collection of dragons
around him, all in heated discussion. ‘At least that.’

  ‘We are forty-seven, your mother and yourself included,’ Meirionydd said. ‘And the men know nothing of our existence.’

  ‘But they come here from time to time. That’s why Ynys Môn takes me on long hunting trips. He said so.’

  ‘Not here, Benfro,’ Meirionydd said. ‘They come to your mother’s house. They think she lives alone. And if someone comes to her with ill-intent, the road will lead them nowhere. Such is the power that protects us all.’

  Benfro wanted to ask more, but Sir Frynwy’s strong voice cut through the hubbub like a rumble of thunder.

  ‘My friends, please,’ he said. ‘I know this is difficult. I don’t want to accuse any of you and it may well be that none of you are guilty. But you must understand how serious this is. Anyone dabbling in the subtle arts risks harming us all. Even Meirionydd, who is by far the most skilled mage amongst us, would not risk the delicate balance that keeps us hidden. So please, be patient. Think back over the last few weeks and try to remember anything that you might have seen. I will come to each of you in turn. We will find the book before the day is finished. Then we’ll put all of this behind us and come together for a feast.’

  Meirionydd left him then and Benfro found a place to sit where he could watch as she and Sir Frynwy went from dragon to dragon, talking quietly. Each one was the same, a shake of the head or a short suggestion soon dismissed. Benfro wanted to shout out that he knew where the book was, that he knew it had already been used. But whatever it was Frecknock had done to him, it stopped him from saying anything on the matter.

  Neither was Frecknock at the meeting, he noticed. Surely that would be suspicious. Hope surged through Benfro then. If Frecknock was confronted by Sir Frynwy then surely she must admit to what she had done. She might even lift whatever strange compulsion she had put on him.

  The small door at the corner of the hall which led to the kitchen and stores opened almost unnoticed. Benfro’s hearts dropped as he saw his tormentor slip into the room. She had nothing with her and the look of terrible defiance she gave him on seeing his stare convinced him that there was no chance of her ever admitting to her deeds. Still, Sir Frynwy and Meirionydd were both old and wise in the subtle arts. Perhaps they would be able to see the duplicity in her. They must surely ask her why she was late to such an important meeting. With a terrible sinking feeling, Benfro watched as Frecknock made her way across the hall towards him.

  ‘Hello there, squirt,’ she said. ‘Are you enjoying the Inquisition?’

  ‘Where have you been?’ Benfro asked, unable to voice the question he really wanted to ask: what have you done to me?

  ‘Hah! As if I’d tell you what I was doing,’ Frecknock said. ‘You’re a nosey little squit of a thing who’ll probably be the ruin of us all. The less you know about anything the better, as far as I’m concerned. Better you just wander off into the forest and let the rest of us get back to our old lives.’

  ‘Now Frecknock, there’s no reason to be rude.’ Sir Frynwy said from behind her. Benfro had watched his approach with a delighted sense of triumph.

  ‘Sir Frynwy,’ Frecknock said, turning and nodding her head to her senior.

  ‘I have been around everyone now, save you Frecknock,’ he said. ‘You were late for the meeting, I noticed. Do you know why I called it?’

  ‘You have lost your book, Sir Frynwy,’ Frecknock said. For an instant the old dragon’s eyes seemed to light up with relief. ‘At least that’s what Benfro told me this morning. I was headed into the forest to collect some special herbs,’ she added. Benfro watched the conversation intently. As Frecknock mentioned herbs, Sir Frynwy’s eye twitched slightly and he dropped his head a fraction, as if embarrassed by something.

  ‘Well, you’re here now,’ he said finally. ‘And you of all should know how important it is that we find the book. You’ve studied it with Meirionydd for some years now, after all.’

  ‘As you say, I know it well,’ Frecknock said. Benfro could tell from her posture that she considered this high praise indeed. He saw too just how vain she was. The safety of the village, the lives of the other villagers, were of less worth to her than that she was considered important.

  ‘But have you seen the book?’ Benfro asked, knowing full well the answer but unable to voice it. Frecknock stared at him with the closest thing to true hatred he had ever seen; a cold, murderous look that lasted only a second but chilled him to the core. Then in an instant it was gone, replaced by a sickly, unctuous and false smile.

  ‘Of course not, Benfro,’ she said. ‘At least not since last week when Meirionydd and I went through the Aleydine Codex. You wouldn’t know what that was though.’

  ‘What would someone want the book for, Sir Frynwy?’ Benfro asked, ignoring Frecknock’s taunt. He couldn’t tell the old dragon directly what he had seen, but he might be able to make him think around the problem.

  ‘Almost anything, Benfro,’ Sir Frynwy said. ‘It contains the fundamental knowledge of the subtle arts. When you’re older, and provided your mother approves, Meirionydd and I will introduce you to its mysteries. But we must find it first. And since none of us have seen it since last week, I’ll have to arrange a search of the village. I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but there’s no option. It’s too dangerous not to know where it lies.’

  Sir Frynwy turned away from Benfro and Frecknock, climbing once more onto the raised dais at the end of the hall. The voices of the villagers dwindled to almost nothing, expectant in their hush.

  ‘Friends, we are all here, save Morgwm of course, and I have spoken with her already. None has seen the book, yet it can’t have gone far. So we will have to search the village, house by house. Some of us are not as good at remembering things as we once were, so it may have quite innocently been forgotten. Since I’m charged with looking after the book, we’ll start at my house. Benfro, you and Frecknock will accompany me and aid in the search.’

  Too swept up by the events to be astonished, Benfro bustled out of the hall after Sir Frynwy and Frecknock, half running to keep up. The village was not large and as Elder, the old dragon’s house was close by the hall. It stood in its own yard surrounded by an abundance of wild flowers and, after the hall, was probably the biggest building in the village, though Sir Frynwy lived alone. Benfro had been inside many times before, but only into the front hall and, once, into the library. He glanced up at the wisteria-hung oak frame front, two stories high with great glass filled windows like eyes, big enough for him to climb in. The door was not locked and Sir Frynwy pushed it open before motioning for Frecknock to step over the threshold. A small crowd of dragons had clustered around the gate, peering over the fence to see what would happen next. Benfro took a last glance at them and stepped inside.

  The hallway was dark, panelled in ancient oak. It smelled of Sir Frynwy, there was no other way to describe it. An old, slightly musky odour part wood, part tobacco smoke, part patrician authority that put Benfro instantly on his guard. Ahead of him the great wide staircase climbed away to the upper floor and he felt a thrill of excitement that he was going to see the whole of this house. But first there was the library, the obvious place to look for a book.

  Frecknock opened the door and stepped in without waiting to be asked. Benfro was shocked at her boldness, but then she had been studying with Sir Frynwy and Meirionydd for some years now, so perhaps she felt such familiar ease was acceptable. If it annoyed Sir Frynwy, he did not show it, instead motioning for Benfro to move into the study too.

  ‘Come along now Benfro,’ he said. ‘The quicker we can get this whole place searched, the quicker we can eat.’

  ‘I…’ Benfro was desperately trying to say that he knew who had taken the book and that she was standing in front of them. ‘I don’t know where to look,’ was all that came out and Frecknock’s evil grin showed that she knew what turmoil he was in.

  The library was nearly as dark as the hall, the light from the huge windo
w almost totally obscured by hanging creepers and ivy on the wall outside. It was a big room, lined on all walls with bookcases, filled with books. An unlit fireplace broke the pattern on one wall with two comfortable looking armchairs pulled up close to its dead mouth. The only other furniture in the room was a large writing desk, strewn with parchments. A couple of sconces attached to the desk dripped wax from the stubs of candles left in them.

  ‘Where was it you used to keep the book, Sir Frynwy?’ Frecknock asked, crossing the room to a shelf close to the fireplace. ‘Here, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve searched this whole room a dozen times,’ the old dragon said. ‘You won’t find it in here, really.’

  ‘Nevertheless, we have to look, don’t we,’ Frecknock said. ‘After all, other’s will be searching each of our houses in turn, won’t they. Each and every one from top to bottom until the book is found.’

  ‘It is only fair,’ Sir Frynwy said, although he didn’t sound too happy about it.

  ‘Well don’t just stand there like a dead sheep, Benfro,’ Frecknock said. ‘Get started on those books over there.’ She pointed to a stack by the writing desk, haphazardly piled as if Sir Frynwy had been consulting them as he wrote.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m looking for,’ Benfro said. It was a lie, he knew exactly the size shape and colour of the book Frecknock had been using but he wasn’t about to make life any easier for her.

  ‘It’s a leather bound book, Benfro,’ Sir Frynwy said, coming over to where he stood by the stack. ‘It’s very old, older than me in fact. The cover is a deep brown and the title is tooled into the spine in gold lettering.’ He began to pick up the books from the stack, one by one, his long fingers stroking them as if they were beloved pets. ‘It is much heavier than any book its size should be, something to do with the weight of knowledge it contains. And it has a very distinctive feel to it…oh.’

  Benfro watched as Sir Frynwy’s expression changed in an instant. It was as if someone had stuck him with a pin and all the air flowed out of him.