Dreamwalker

by Oswald, J. D.

  ‘Would you like to come in?’ He asked eventually, unsure what else he could do but offer the hospitality any dragon would give to a weary traveller. For a moment Gideon looked uncertain, but then he stepped through the open doorway, dwarfed by its size.

  The man went straight to the fireplace, warming his pink hands in front of the flames for a while before pulling off his damp cloak. Underneath it he wore more clothes, Benfro noticed. They were the same dark material but followed his shape more closely. Aware he was staring, Benfro looked for something else to do.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ He asked. Gideon returned his stare for perhaps longer than was necessary, as if he was trying to understand what had been said. Benfro resisted the urge to lift a hand to his lips and mimic the action of drinking.

  ‘Thank you, some chamomile tea perhaps,’ Gideon said after a while. Benfro set the kettle on the fire and went through to the storeroom for the herbs. He lingered longer in the dark room than was polite. Certainly it was only the work of a moment to locate the pot which held the dried flowers. All the while he listened out for his mother’s return. Although everything he had been taught since he was a kit told him he should flee, he didn’t feel any fear at the presence of this man. And yet his normally burning curiosity was quenched by an overwhelming sense of awkwardness. Were it another dragon who had come to visit he would have known what to do, what to talk about. But this was so completely beyond anything he had ever experienced that he could only stand, indecisive and fretful in the dark.

  Finally the whistle of the kettle meant he could linger no longer. He went back into the main room, took down the smallest of the drinking bowls and sprinkled a handful of the herbs into it before adding boiling water. The smell of the flowers reminded him of autumn, sunshine and dry-baked earth. It was a welcome distraction from the endless rain.

  ‘My humblest thanks to you,’ Gideon said as Benfro handed him the bowl. His speech was formal, like the old dragons in Sir Frynwy’s tales, and it occurred to Benfro that the man must have learned it from books. He had never thought about such things before but now it made sense that men and dragons would have different ways of speaking.

  ‘Pray tell me, what is your name, good sir dragon?’ Gideon asked. Benfro tried not to smirk at the overblown question.

  ‘Benfro,’ he said. ‘My name’s Benfro.’

  ‘Well, Sir Benfro,’ Gideon said. ‘This is a fine bowl of chamomile tea.’

  Benfro was about to respond when he heard a heavy thump on the wooden deck, closely followed by the door crashing open. Morgwm stood there, dripping with rain, her eyes darting swiftly about the room as she took in the details. For an instant she looked so terrifying, so feral and monstrous that both he and Gideon cringed, ready for the killing blow. Then in an instant it was gone.

  ‘Gideon, by the moon!’ Morgwm said. Then she slipped into the same gibberish that the man had spoken when first he had arrived.

  ‘I am sorry, Morgwm,’ Gideon said in that same stilted and formal speech that Benfro could understand. ‘It was never my intention to come unannounced. Always in the past you have known of my arrival e’en ere I was a league from your door.’

  Morgwm looked silently at the man for a long moment, then across at Benfro before understanding lit up her face with a happy grin.

  ‘You speak our language well,’ she said. ‘If a little archaically. I never knew that you had learned it.’

  ‘Twas a folly of my youth,’ Gideon said. ‘Or so didst seem at the time. Seldom has the opportunity presented itself for me to practice. And never before have I been honoured with a true speaker with whom to converse.’

  ‘But you’ve visited me countless times, Gideon,’ Morgwm said. ‘Did it never occur to you to speak the draigiaith then?’

  ‘In truth our visits were ever too short, their business too urgent. And your command of the saesneg made it most sensible to use my native tongue.’

  ‘Well, as you’ve no doubt discovered, Benfro speaks only draigiaith. He’ll learn other languages in time but he’s only thirteen years old. There’s plenty of time for such learning.’

  ‘I would that it were so, good Morgwm,’ Gideon said. ‘For I come with ill tidings. The boy has been chosen to become one of the Warrior Priests.’

  ‘That cannot be,’ Morgwm said. ‘Hennas would never allow such a thing.’

  ‘Her mind has been turned since last you visited her,’ Gideon said. ‘And by a practitioner far more skilled than I. She believes her son has been granted the greatest of honours.’

  ‘Her son, you say Gideon,’ Morgwm said. ‘That’s something then. The persuasion she made me put on her when she agreed to take the boy is still holding. His true identity may not yet have been discovered.’

  ‘I hope that is so,’ Gideon said. ‘But even if it is, forces conspire against his continued good fortune. The villagers of Pwllpeiran told me that Princess Beulah attended the choosing this year, and that she showed great interest in the boy. I can only think that she saw something in his appearance that aroused her suspicions. That he was chosen at all is unusual, for he is not yet old enough to become a novitiate.’

  ‘I’m sorry, indeed, Gideon,’ Morgwm said. ‘I’ve done everything I can for the boy. I don’t see how I can help any more.’

  ‘Neither would I presume to ask,’ Gideon said. ‘Even as we speak, others strive to protect him. We are not without our allies in the Order of the High Ffrydd. Not all of them are Melyn’s men.’

  ‘Melyn!’ The word escaped Benfro’s mouth like a shout of alarm. He had been sitting quietly, listening to the conversation with fascination even though he understood very little of what it concerned. The mention of the name had shocked him out of his musing. Melyn. Could this be Sir Felyn’s true identity? It had to be. If this man, Gideon, could speak like a dragon, then surely others could too.

  ‘Is there something you wish to say, Benfro?’ Morgwm asked. There was indeed, yet he was still bound by Frecknock’s compulsion which held his mouth shut on the matter.

  ‘No mother,’ Benfro said. ‘I just recognised the name. Melyn.’

  ‘Inquisitor Melyn is not someone you would ever want to meet, Sir Benfro,’ Gideon said. ‘He is strong in the subtle arts, ruthless in his quest for power and he would soon see every dragon on the face of Gwlad dead, their unreckoned jewels horded in the caverns beneath Emmass Fawr for his personal pleasure.’ The man turned back to Morgwm.

  ‘And that is why I have come here, to warn you,’ he said. ‘Melyn is wise and cunning like a fox. Beulah belongs to him body and soul. She will soon take the Obsidian Throne, for only her personal intervention is keeping the king alive. As soon as she reaches her majority, she will simply let him die. If she suspects a dragon has helped to save her sister’s son then she will not hesitate in reinstating the aurddraig. She may well do so anyway, without that excuse to prompt her.’

  ‘And when is her birthday?’ Morgwm asked.

  ‘The same day I brought the boy’s mother to you,’ Gideon said. ‘The day Princess Lleyn died.’

  ‘The day that Benfro was hatched,’ Morgwm said.

  *

  Princess Beulah sat in her chambers watching the dull pink glow of morning rise over the rooftops of Candlehall. The city was as quiet at this early hour as it would ever be; the only noise the clanking of wagons bringing produce from the countryside to feed the insatiable urban appetite. Occasional cries and crashes broke through the morning chorus of birds feeding in the trees outside the palace. An aroma of new-baked bread wafted up on the cool breeze, making promises of breakfast.

  Beulah rose from her chair and dressed herself in the plain clothes she had chosen for this morning. No handmaidens attended her, which was how she preferred it to be. She had long since dismissed all the tiresome ladies in waiting her father had insisted serve her. Their endless gossip was irritating and trite, their sole interest which of the noblemen who fawned upon the king might make the best husband. Beulah
was not interested in such trivial nonsense; Melyn had opened her eyes to much greater possibilities. And today she might even begin to pursue some of those plans, for today she turned twenty-one. Today, should her ailing father have the decency to die, she could take the Obsidian Throne for herself and not have to leave the running of state to some power-hungry regent.

  The palace was quiet as she walked down the long corridors that led from her quarters to the rooms of state where her father lived. Sleepy looking guards stood to attention at her approach, opening the doors for her. She gave them not a glance, sweeping through and into the king’s apartments without a sound.

  Seneschal Padraig was waiting for her in the outer chamber. His face was wrinkled and old, heavy bags forming under his eyes; his hair thin and yellowing; his hands long and claw-like, bent with arthritis. The windows were shuttered against the morning chill and he sat at a desk lit by several thick candles, their flames flickering in the draft of her arrival and sending the shadows dancing around the room.

  ‘Good morning, princess,’ Padraig said, rising from his chair. ‘And may I be the first to wish you a happy birthday.’

  ‘Thank you Seneschal,’ Beulah said. ‘But that honour should belong to my father, the king.’ She stepped towards the doors to the sleeping chamber, unsurprised to see the old man move to head her off.

  ‘King Diseverin doesn’t normally rise for another hour,’ he said. ‘He’s an old man who needs his sleep.’

  ‘Ha! You’re an old man, Padraig and you sleep less than two hours a night.’

  ‘I must confess to being in better health than the king,’ Padraig said. ‘As you well know, he’s over-fond of his wine. Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t disturb him until he has awoken.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of disturbing him, Seneschal. I will sit and watch him until he wakes. I will be the first person he sees on this special day. It’s my gift to him on my birthday.’ Beulah smiled, though she felt no amity towards the obdurate priest. He had built himself too comfortable a position running the twin kingdoms for her father. His input was valuable, but he needed to be reminded who wielded the true power.

  ‘It’s a bit dark in here, isn’t it,’ she said, raising her hand and holding it upwards in front of the Seneschal. A tiny ball of light appeared, hovering in the air a few inches above her palm. It was pure white, almost too bright to look at, and it chased the shadows away from the corners of the room, exposing the tatty furnishings, the dirty, torn tapestries and dusty paintings of illustrious Balwens long dead. Padraig shrunk back from the light as if it might burn him, a haunted fear in his eyes. Beulah closed her hand around the orb, extinguishing it with a thought and stepping past the Seneschal towards the doors to the kings sleeping chamber.

  ‘You’ve always been a loyal servant to my father, Padraig,’ Beulah said. ‘But as you said, he’s an old man. He’ll not live forever. One day I will sit on the Obsidian Throne.’

  ‘My lady, I live to serve the Twin Kingdoms and the House of Balwen,’ Padraig said, bowing. ‘Whoever sits upon the throne.’

  Beulah turned her back on the Seneschal, pushing open the doors to her father’s bedroom. Inside it was almost completely dark, just the light from the outer chamber picking out the great bed, the armchairs and sofa, the rising shapes of the large shuttered windows and the doors that led to dressing and bathing rooms. Beulah knew it well from her childhood, when her mother had still lived. She had often come here in the mornings to bounce around on the massive, soft bed and play hide and seek with her sisters. The memory almost made her laugh out loud. How stupid she had been back then, how naïve to find happiness in such simple things.

  Then, the room had smelled of the fine rose-water perfumes her mother had worn. Now her nose wrinkled at the all too familiar odour of stale wine, unwashed bodies and rot. It might have been fun to scare the Seneschal with her conjuring, but she felt no need to bring more light to this horrible place. She knew that the furniture was torn and dirty, the massive bed soiled by drunken incontinence and the dissolute habits of her father. He was a sot not worthy of the name he carried.

  There, in the dark stench of his sleep, she hated her father more than anything. More than she had when her mother had died because he had been too drunk to call for help. She hated him far more than she had when he had washed his hands of all his daughters: putting Lleyn under the tutelage of Cassters of the Ram; sending poor Iolwen to study with Padraig and thence into the hands of the enemy; handing herself over to Inquisitor Melyn. At least that had turned out all right for her, though it had been a cruel blow for a grieving five year old. She could taste the pain, the confusion and terror at the breaking up of a happy family in that foul-smelling room, and for a moment Beulah considered how easy it would be to kill her father there and then. She was old enough, she could take the throne and no one would stand in her way.

  But that was not her way. King Diseverin would not die in his bed, unconscious from too much drinking. He had done enough harm to the standing of the House of Balwen without adding such an ignominious end to his list of failings. No, she needed him awake and sober for this of all days. She needed him to declare to the Twin Kingdoms that she had reached her majority. She needed him to acknowledge her as his heir.

  Beulah closed the doors, momentarily plunging the room into total darkness. With the stench rising and the sonorous snores of her sleeping father, it could have been a bear’s den, the beast asleep, surrounded by the foetid bones of its victims. She knew better, using her well-trained senses to navigate across the room to the windows, which she unshuttered one by one, pulling back their heavy velvet curtains to reveal the light of morning. Startled by the brightness, the king let out a great snort, rolled over and buried his head in his pillows.

  Reaching out a hand, Beulah touched her father’s neck where it was exposed to the light, trying not to retch at the feel of his clammy skin. This was the hard part, she realised. Manipulating the forces around people was easy, she did it everyday, but this particular person filled her with such hatred and revulsion that she could scarcely bring herself to be in the same room as him, let alone touch him. To feel his feeble mind was worse still. And yet she had a job to do.

  The palace in Candlehall was well placed for drawing down power from the lines. Beulah concentrated for a moment then let the energy flow from her and into her father’s degenerating body. She washed away the drunkenness from him, soothing the beginnings of his hangover and filling him with more strength than he had possessed in many a year. She swept away some of the cloudiness from his thoughts, noticing how pathetically he still clung to the image of his wife, her mother, dead these nineteen years. She left him with that thought, building on his sense of guilt.

  It was delicate work, subtle and intricate, but Beulah had been taught by the best. When she was finished, she took a moment to replenish her own energy from the buzz that filled the whole city around her. She could feel her rejuvenated father beginning to wake, his mind clearer than the previous night’s drinking should have allowed, but not so clear that he might be able to think easily for himself. She didn’t want him to do anything unpredictable to ruin her big day. Then she rose from the bed, crossing the room to the sofa that stood in the great bay window overlooking the grass courtyard and the Neuadd. As she settled into its dusty embrace, her father rolled over, eyes screwed against the growing light of dawn.

  ‘Eh? What’s going on? Who opened the shutters?’ King Diseverin IX said, sitting up and rubbing at his stubbly face.

  ‘I did, father,’ Beulah said, putting a bright and cheery tone into her voice.

  ‘Who…? Oh, Beulah. What are you doing here?’ The king asked. She waited for a count of ten, knowing that she had put the knowledge in his head, confident that it would take exactly that long for her father’s muddled mind to access it.

  ‘Ah yes,’ the king said, right on cue. ‘Happy birthday.’

  ~~~~

  Chapter Sixteen

 
; The Processional, or Kingmaker’s Dance, was first introduced in the reign of Weddelm III, Weddelm the Foolish. It is derived from the old progressive dances favoured at that time, where each dancing couple must complete a complex turn about the floor before the man can release his partner and move on to the next woman in line. Diseverin, who was fond of dancing, developed the Processional to denote the ranking of his nobles and sons, arranging the dance so that he would take each of their partners in turn, starting with the lowest and ending with the wife or betrothed of the heir to the Obsidian Throne.

  When his only son and heir, Prince Lonk, disappeared on his fools quest for the lost treasure of Cenobus, Weddelm used the Processional to signal his favoured heir, bringing to a close the unbroken tradition of male rule when he ended his dance in the arms of his eldest daughter, Iolwen, spurning the wife of his cousin, Dafydd.

  Duke Baggot, Iolwen’s husband, used the old king’s folly as justification for his own claim on the throne, which subsequently plunged the Twin Kingdoms into the terror of the Brumal wars.

  A History of the House of Balwen by Barrod Sheepshead

  Benfro sat in the fork of the tree, watching the road. It was a place he sometimes came to when he wanted to think, or just to get away from the turmoil of life. He had been coming here a lot of late.

  Ever since Gideon’s visit, with his confusing news about the workings of men, the terrible, scheming Princess Beulah and her mentor, Inquisitor Melyn, Benfro had been struggling against the compulsion that Frecknock had placed on him. There was rarely a waking moment in his life when he didn’t think about his encounter up on the escarpments. Time had only confirmed in his mind that Inquisitor Melyn and Sir Felyn were one and the same. Even the realisation that dragons and men spoke radically different languages had not altered his convictions. If Gideon could make himself understood, how much better might Melyn be? Benfro burned with the need to tell anyone who would listen about the danger they were all in, about how close the village was to discovery. But he could not say a word, however hard he tried, whoever he approached. Some of the villagers were no doubt beginning to wonder if he was completely sane, the way he had been engaging them in conversation and then breaking off when he once more found that block preventing him from saying what so desperately needed to be said.