‘What?’ The Inquisitor asked.
‘These peasants,’ Beulah said, casting her arm across at the dancing people. ‘They can’t believe their luck. There are few enough nobles who can say their marriage was attended by one of the Royal House, or even an Inquisitor. Godric and Hennas will forever be the couple whose union was witnessed by the heir to the Obsidian Throne. It’s funny they should see us as blessing their union when in truth we come to steal their sons.’
*
Errol would look back upon it as both the happiest and the worst evening of his life. Once the speeches had been made and the formal dances performed, he was free from his duties and could get away from the crush of people to a quiet corner of the room. The arrival of Inquisitor Melyn and Princess Beulah had caused complete chaos, although it was universally agreed that their presence was a good omen for the marriage. Errol had heard a number of hushed conversations where the words ‘blessing’ and ‘miracle’ were used.
For his part he was not so sure. The Princess had stared at him throughout the formal dances, even when Godric had plucked up the courage to ask her to join in. For a terrible moment, Errol thought he was going to end up partnering her through one of the progressive dances. He was uncomfortable with the whole celebration, awkward in the company of others and not quite sure he knew properly how to dance, though his mother had done her best over the last two weeks to teach him. Fortunately the princess had thanked the goodman and left the floor, returning to the bridal throne which she had claimed for her own, as soon as the music finished.
The Inquisitor had refused to join in the celebrations, sitting instead with a flagon of mead by his side and watching everything with sharp, curious eyes. Errol had caught his gaze a couple of times, feeling the dangerous power behind it, like a man barely in control of a violent rage. He had felt stripped by that stare as if his every secret were being pulled out into the open, examined and discarded as unimportant. He wasn’t the only one caught in that penetrating gaze either.
‘What you thinkin’ ‘bout, Errol?’ Martha dropped herself unceremoniously into the chair beside him before he could stand and offer it to her. Her face was flushed with the exertion of dancing; a bright, excited sparkle in her eyes. It was difficult for him not to stare. But then why not?
‘The princess,’ Errol said. ‘Every time she sees me she looks like someone’s put vinegar in her wine. I’ve never met her before but you’d think we’d been enemies since birth.’
‘That’s ‘cause you look like her enemy,’ Martha said. ‘I told you the first time we talked. You’ve got Llanwennog blood in you Errol Ramsbottom. It shows.’
‘My dad, I guess,’ Errol said. ‘Mother never talks about him.’
‘Well, you’ve got a new da now,’ Martha said.
‘Yeah,’ Errol smiled. ‘I guess I have at that.’
‘You want to get some air?’ Martha asked, looking up at the doors to the hall that opened up onto the night outside.
‘Won’t your dad…?’ Errol started to ask, but a quick glance at the trestle tables across the hall behind which the great barrels of beer had been stacked made the question redundant. The big, burly form of the smith was already slumped in a chair, head back, eyes closed and mouth open. An empty tankard hung from one limp hand, the other clasped his belly as if trying to hold in its tumescence.
‘He’s not a violent drunk,’ Martha said, as if apologising for something. ‘He’s never hit anyone, as far as I can remember. He jest likes to drink til he fergets. This...’ She swept her green-gloved hand across the room. ‘It’s hard for him.’
Errol stood, offering his arm to Martha, unsure what to say. He had never known his father, and so felt no sense of loss. Godric Defaid had lost his wife after fifteen years together, but he had managed to rebuild his life and now he was embarking on another great adventure. Tom Tydfil had never even tried to lift himself out of his own despair. He wondered what it must have been like for Martha, growing up without a mother and with a father so wrapped up in his grief.
‘You’d be young master Ramsbottom then.’ Errol looked up into the face of Inquisitor Melyn, startled by how close he was. Judging by the way Martha clutched at his arm, she too had been surprised by his sudden appearance. The music was loud enough to cover the noise of an approach.
‘Your grace,’ Errol said, hastily remembering his manners and bowing. ‘We are honoured by your presence. May I introduce Miss Tydfil.’
‘The smith’s daughter, yes,’ Melyn said, nodding his head in Martha’s direction but not offering to take her hand. Errol noted the way the old priest’s eyes flickered over her face and body almost greedily and felt a prickle of resentment run across the skin on the back of his neck.
‘You make a lovely couple,’ the Inquisitor said.
‘We’re not… that is. We’re just friends,’ Errol said.
‘Oh you’re much more than that, Errol,’ the Inquisitor said. ‘Though I doubt even you realise it. But you’re young still. There’s time to learn these things. So tell me, have you ever considered joining one of the religious orders?’
Errol felt Martha’s grip on his arm tighten again. He was tempted to look at her but the Inquisitor’s eyes held his gaze. They were two bottomless black pits that threatened to swallow him whole. He knew that they were just eyes, yet they were vast, bigger than anything he could imagine. And he was falling into them, endlessly plunging, helpless and doomed.
But he wasn’t helpless, neither was he doomed. This was a man. Powerful, yes, but a man nonetheless. It must be some magic trick that he was playing, trying to overwhelm him. Was it a test? And if so, would he fail by succumbing or pass?
As he thought, Errol realised that he could see the lines, glowing all around him. He had never noticed them inside buildings before, there wasn’t much alive save the people milling around. But the web was still there and the Inquisitor was tapping into it somehow. His whole body was suffused with the same tenuous glow and a thin tendril reached out to bridge the gap between them.
Without knowing quite how he was doing it, Errol focussed on that tendril, squeezing it with his mind until it broke. Perhaps it was a natural revulsion at being in any way connected to the old priest, but however it was done, he instantly felt himself released. The noise of the room came back to his ears and he realised that for what might have been minutes but was probably no more than a single heartbeat he had been fighting a duel. Now he felt exhilarated at having won, but at the same time he was shaking and a cold sweat prickled his back underneath the itchy cotton of his shirt. Finally he remembered the question that had heralded the attack.
‘I’m too young for the choosing this year,’ Errol said. ‘I’m only thirteen.’
If the Inquisitor was startled at how easily he had shaken off the attack, he showed no sign of it.
‘Fourteen is the youngest a boy can become a novitiate,’ he said. ‘But we’ve taken children into the Order of the High Ffrydd at younger ages. Especially those that show great promise. You can learn a great deal in the months before your next birthday.’
‘I… I still have much to learn here,’ Errol said, knowing as he did how stupid it sounded. Beside him, Martha was tense and silent as if she too were fighting some internal battle.
‘Nonsense,’ the Inquisitor said, with a short, cruel laugh. ‘That’s the boy in you talking. It’s safe here, and boring. But you long for more. I’ve spoken with that ass Kewick about you. He says you’ve read every book this place has. Think about it Errol, the Order’s not just about warring and violence. We’ve been at peace with Llanwennog for decades and no-one hunts down dragons anymore. We’re all about learning, about unravelling the mysteries that the Shepherd has laid on this earth for us to uncover.’
Errol had the indefinable sense that he was being lied to. There was something the Inquisitor was not telling him. It did not matter though. He had made up his mind months ago that he wanted nothing to do with the religious orders, and he
had promised Martha he would never join the Order of the High Ffrydd. Still, there was just the small problem of how to turn down what was supposed to be the highest honour he could ever be given.
‘You need to think about it,’ Melyn said, a smile coming slowly to his face as if uncertain how to sit there. ‘And besides, this is a time for enjoying yourself. Talk to your step-brother about it. He’s already accepted my offer.’ He turned and walked away.
‘I think we should go outside,’ Martha said quietly. Errol was happy to be steered towards the door. Outside it was cold with oncoming winter, the night sky awash with uncountable stars. Two dozen horses grazed on the village green and a huddle of men sat around a makeshift fire that would surely ruin the grass.
‘What..?’ Errol began before realising that it was unlikely Princess Beulah would travel alone. This was her bodyguard and he would do well to keep away from them. Quickly, he steered Martha into the shadows and away down the space between the hall and the church next door. It would take them out onto open fields that climbed up towards the forest.
‘We have to run away,’ Martha said. ‘Tonight.’
‘What?’ Errol said.
‘You must’ve felt it, surely?’ Martha said. She was shivering slightly in the cold and Errol took his jacket off, draping it over her shoulders. ‘He’s chosen you.’
‘But I’m too young,’ Errol said.
‘He don’t care,’ Martha said. ‘He wants you close. He sees you as a threat, or maybe an opportunity.’
‘How do you know this?’ Errol asked.
‘He was concentratin’ on you,’ Martha said. ‘Didn’t think I was worth worryin’ ‘bout. He’s not a nice man.’
‘You can read people’s thoughts?’
‘Not like that, no,’ Martha said. ‘I can… sense things. You can too, it’s jest you ain’t never tried. But that don’t matter. Nothin’ matters but we’ve gotta get away from here. Away from him.’
‘How?’ Errol asked. ‘Where can we go?’
‘I don’t know,’ Martha said. It was the first time he had seen her look anything other than completely in control.
‘I’ll speak to my ma,’ Errol said. ‘She’ll know what to do. And she’s travelled a lot.’
‘Alright,’ Martha said. ‘But don’t take long. I’m goin’ to go home and change. I’ll pack a bag and meet you up in the forest in an hour. You know the place.’ She pulled him into a hug that he wished would go on for ever, finally releasing him and stepping back into the shadows.
‘Go now,’ she said, then disappeared.
Errol shivered, realising that she still had his jacket on. He hurried back up the narrow alley towards the village green. He would speak to his mother. She would know what to do. He just hoped that he wouldn’t get anyone into trouble by running away.
Some of the men who had been sitting around their makeshift campfire had moved, Errol noticed as he stepped into the square. He had just enough time to register that people were close by, then a gruff voice said, ‘that’s him,’ something connected with the back of his head and the last thing he saw was the ground rushing up to swallow him in blackness.
~~~~
Chapter Twelve
In times of great need, a mage might wish to consult with the collected memories of his ancestors, stored in their jewels and collected together after reckoning. There is much to be gained from seeking this counsel, but a note of caution need be sounded.
Memories mean no harm, but they are dead things and long for the spark that exists in the living. With no concept of hunger, no need for sleep, they will slowly drain the life out of an unwary visitor, even whilst they engage in impassioned debate or expound on subtle arts long forgotten. The jewels of a single dragon are a powerful thing, hypnotic and beguiling. Infinitely more potent are the collected memories of an entire dynasty.
On the Application of the Subtle Arts by Corwen teul Maddau
A rough shaking woke Benfro from his sleep. His head fuzzy, it took a while for him to realise that it was still dark
‘Wake up, Benfro,’ his mother said. ‘Hurry.’
‘What?’ He asked, rubbing his eyes in a vague attempt to make things clearer. He was still half in a dream where he had been flying over the treetops, watching his shadow skim across the whizzing green canopy below. He often dreamt of flying and the cruel truth of waking up hit him hard every time.
‘Quickly Benfro,’ Morgwm said and as he came more to his senses he could feel her agitation
‘What is it?’ He asked.
‘Men coming,’ she said. ‘By the moon, I should have seen them earlier. I must be getting old.’
‘Men?’ Benfro asked, excitement and fear spreading through him in equal measure. ‘How do you know?’
‘There’s no time for that now,’ Morgwm said, pulling Benfro out of his bed and thrusting his leather satchel into his hands. It was heavy and full. ‘You have to get away from here as quickly as possible. You know what will happen if they find you.’
‘But…’ Benfro started to say. Morgwm lifted her hand to silence him.
‘No more questions,’ she said ‘Just do as I say. You can’t go to the village, they haven’t had time to prepare for this. You’ll just have to head out into the forest. Far away. Don’t stop walking until at least midday. And don’t come back until the evening after tomorrow.’
Benfro was about to say something, he wasn’t sure what, but the look on his mother’s face silenced him. Pausing only to take a long drink from the water butt and splash some of the cold liquid over his face, he hugged his mother and left.
Outside, the moon shone full through ragged clouds. There was a gentle breeze but it bore the cold wind of winter, rippling his scales and numbing the tips of his ears in short order. He strode across the vegetable patch to the forest edge, heading north and into the deep forest. At the edge of the trees he paused, turning back to look at his mother, but she had gone back inside.
Benfro was no stranger to the woods around the village and his mother’s cottage. He had ranged far and wide on his own and in the company of other dragons, usually Ynys Môn. He had often hunted with the old dragon at night as well, but this time the trees seemed strangely alien. Maybe it was the sharp transition from sleep to wakefulness, or perhaps the way the moonlight wavered as the clouds scrambled across its face. Months had passed since his mother had told him about the magic that protected the villagers from being discovered, about the rules of men and the terrifying power that they could wield. Yet his mother’s words still rang in his ears as if they had just been spoken.
There’s no reasoning with men, Benfro. They have a terrible power and they will kill you as soon as look at you.
Dawn saw Benfro at the escarpments where he had first seen Frecknock make her calling. Time had not lessened his inability to tell anyone about that episode and as the days had passed by, so his resentment for her had grown. Punishment he knew. Sometimes he might even have grudgingly admitted to deserving it. Like the time he had carefully collected a wasp bike from an old oak tree near the village and put it in the outhouse around the back of Ynys Bir’s house just to see what might happen. His mistake that time was to have used the carved stick given to him by Ystrad Fflur the year before on his hatchday and to leave it with the bike in the outhouse. His punishment had been swift and painful, involving the removal of the now quite angry wasps from the outhouse. Once it was over, and he had apologised to the elderly dragon, things had returned to normal.
What Frecknock had done to him was not punishment in any way he could understand. He was used to her rages at him, even when he had done no wrong, but to have this terrible secret gnawing at his insides was a torture out of all proportion to any wrong he could conceivably have caused her. Fretting about it didn’t help. If anything it only made his resentment and frustration grow. Still, they were the best company he could manage as he went deeper and deeper into the forest of the Ffrydd.
Benfro reached the top of th
e escarpments at midday. His mother had provisioned him well, stuffing his satchel with enough food to last a week. Gnawing on a haunch of venison he looked out to the south and wondered what Morgwm was doing right now.
He could not see the village from his vantage point, only the path of the river marked out like a scar of taller trees. All had lost their leaves to winter, save the conifers which clumped together in odd patches, black in the weak sun. The slope of the hill dropped away from him in gentle undulations. Followed ever downwards, they would lead to the villages of men on the very forest fringe and then into the twin kingdoms of the Hafod and Hendry. So much he knew from Sir Frynwy’s lessons, but he could no more imagine it than he could understand the subtle arts.
As he looked out over the land, Benfro felt an upwelling of anger quite out of keeping with his normal demeanour. How could it be fair that the world was denied to him this way? He didn’t want to spend his life in fear of creatures he had never met. He didn’t want to know about distant lands only as descriptions in books. He wanted to get away from this small corner of the world. He wanted to see things first hand, to make up his own mind about the tranquillity of the Sea of Tegid and the magnificent splendour of the Twin Spires of Idris. But most of all he wanted to fight back against the tyranny of men. To avenge the wrongs that they had visited on dragonkind over countless millennia.
A buzzard screaming overhead seemed to echo the rage that surged through him at that moment. Benfro looked up at it, soaring through the air like it belonged there and his anger turned to despair. He remembered his dreams of flying over the treetops, the sun warm on his back, his shadow a scout covering the ground ahead of him. He stretched his useless wings out, flapping the two thin scraps of skin against the cold air for a moment before folding them away again. They had been big when he was just a kitling, but as he had grown, they had stayed resolutely the same size. There was no way now that they would ever lift him off the ground.
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