Dreamwalker

by Oswald, J. D.

  Perhaps it was because he had never known his father, never known very much about him even. It was difficult to consider himself head of the family when his mother had hardly acknowledged the existence of Sir Trefaldwyn in fourteen years.

  ‘Why the long face?’ Meirionydd asked, her quiet voice breaking through Benfro’s thoughts.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Benfro said, then remembered that there was little point in lying to Meirionydd. ‘I was just thinking about my father.’

  ‘He would have liked to be here,’ Meirionydd said. ‘He’d have done everything in his power to be at his son’s fourteenth hatchday. I suspect his absence is as much a reason as any why your mother gave you the gift she did.’

  ‘Why did he leave us?’ Benfro asked. ‘Didn’t he love my mother?’

  ‘Ah, Benfro, don’t ever say that. Don’t even think it.’ Meirionydd moved herself closer to his seat. ‘Your mother and father loved each other so completely it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. They were soul-mates, destined to be together forever. Sir Trefaldwyn’s decision to leave, to set out on his mad quest, was not taken on his own. It was a thing they did together.’

  ‘Mad quest?’ Benfro asked.

  ‘Dear me, this Fo Afron wine loosens even the tightest of tongues,’ Meirionydd said. ‘It’s not my place to tell you such things.’

  Benfro felt his anger beginning to rise. Once more he was to be treated as a kit, despite all the gifts and toasts. Meirionydd, ever insightful, saw his mood changing and spoke quickly to head it off.

  ‘Don’t be angry Benfro,’ she said. ‘It’s true you should be told about your father, but it’s not for me to do that. You must ask your mother. I’m sure she’ll tell you now. Won’t you Morgwm?’

  Meirionydd turned to face Benfro’s mother, but she was looking the other way, scanning the crowd of faces. When finally she turned at Meirionydd’s nudge, Benfro could see concern writ large across her face.

  ‘Where is she?’ Morgwm asked, not waiting to see what it was Meirionydd wanted. ‘Where’s Frecknock?’

  ‘She was here earlier. Why?’ Meirionydd said.

  ‘I couldn’t remember seeing her. Did she present you with anything, Benfro?’

  Benfro racked his memory, seeing all the faces of the villagers as they had given him their presents. He couldn’t remember seeing Frecknock amongst them. Nor could he imagine her giving him anything he would want to keep.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so. I told you she wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘You did?’ Meirionydd asked. ‘Why?’

  Benfro couldn’t say why. He knew the reason perfectly well, she had used the celebration as a cover to hide her actions. But he still found it impossible to voice that thought.

  ‘She doesn’t like me much,’ Benfro said.

  ‘She doesn’t like you at all, Benfro,’ Meirionydd said. ‘But that’s no reason to miss an important gathering. At least she should have had the courtesy to tell someone. Did she, Sir Frynwy?’

  ‘Eh? What?’ The old dragon asked. He had been deep in conversation with Ynys Byr, but now he turned to face Morgwm and Meirionydd across the platter-strewn table. Benfro watched on, hopeful that someone might notice his plight.

  ‘Did Frecknock tell you she would not be here?’ Meirionydd repeated the question.

  ‘She was here first thing this morning,’ Sir Frynwy said. ‘Then she asked if she might be excused. I thought she meant to come back before the party started. I haven’t seen her since. Is she not here?’

  ‘No,’ Morgwm said. ‘And she wasn’t here when we arrived either.’

  ‘Well, she’s young. And we all know how she feels about Benfro,’ the old dragon said, turning to face Benfro in his seat. ‘I’m afraid you rather stole Frecknock’s place as the kitling of the village. Before you hatched she was rather spoiled by us all. She’ll get over it in time. I suspect she’s sitting at home. Perhaps I’ll just head over there and try to persuade her to join us.’ And so saying, Sir Frynwy slid off the end of the bench, bowed politely to Benfro at the head of the table and left the hall.

  ‘How did you know she wouldn’t be here?’ Morgwm said to Benfro after the heavy door had swung shut on the clearing afternoon sky.

  ‘I… I just knew she wouldn’t,’ Benfro said, his thoughts battering against the barrier that prevented him from telling the truth.

  ‘Does it matter that she’s not here?’ Meirionydd asked, an expression on her face not unlike that she wore when daring him to do something that would probably get him into trouble. As far as his hatchday celebrations were concerned, Benfro couldn’t have cared less whether or not Frecknock was there, though if pressed for an answer he would have said he preferred her absence. But he also knew what that absence meant and what terrible danger it could bring down on them all.

  ‘I can’t say,’ he said, knowing it sounded odd and hoping that Meirionydd would pick up on that.

  ‘You can’t say, or won’t say?’ She asked, staring deeply into his eyes.

  ‘I can’t say,’ Benfro said, holding that stare without blinking.

  ‘Do you know why she’s not here?’ Meirionydd asked. There were many reasons, Benfro knew, but only one that he couldn’t talk about.

  ‘I can’t say,’ he said again, trying to emphasise the negative. Meirionydd looked at him more closely still, those piercing gold-flecked eyes seeming to grow around him.

  ‘Benfro dear, are you all right?’ Her voice was in his head, enveloping him, banishing the sounds of the party so that he felt like he stood in a sun-filled clearing in the woods with nothing but the wind for company. Even as he thought about it, the scene materialised around him. He didn’t recognise the clearing, but it was a peaceful place and he was content to just sit and gaze at the blue sky, the soaring birds and the gently swaying treetops.

  ‘She’s put a glamour on you, Benfro,’ Meirionydd said. Benfro looked around to see her standing beside him. Only she was different somehow. The Meirionydd he knew was old, her scales chipped and dulled with the years, her face lined from centuries of smiling. She carried herself as if her joints ached continually, stooping like the weight of the entire world pressed down upon her shoulders. The dragon who stood beside him was undoubtedly Meirionydd, but she was young and beautiful.

  ‘Meirionydd?’ Benfro said, trying not to stare.

  ‘Ah, dear me, yes,’ Meirionydd said, seeming as surprised as Benfro. ‘This is not quite how I intended to appear to you. How strange that you should see me like this, and in this place. But never mind. It’s something we can talk about another time. Now you must tell me all about Frecknock.’

  ‘But I can’t speak about it,’ Benfro said. ‘She did something to me so that I couldn’t say it.’ Only after he had finished speaking did he realise that he had voiced the words and she had obviously heard.

  ‘It’s a crude working, really,’ Meirionydd said. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t even be able to think about it. I’ll undo the damage when I can, but for now I think time is of the essence. So tell me what dreadful secret Frecknock would have you keep.’

  ‘She took the Llyfr Draconius,’ Benfro said and as he told his story, the terrible sense of frustration burst out like water from a makeshift dam, kicked over at the end of a day’s play. When he had finished he felt as if a great burden had been lifted from him, almost as if he floated in the air.

  ‘We’ve been blind and stupid, all of us,’ Meirionydd said. ‘Frecknock’s young and headstrong. We thought to teach her about the world around her and the subtle arts so that she might come to appreciate the life we live, to share it with us. We never thought she might want more, but it’s only natural that she should seek a mate.’

  ‘But this Sir Felyn, I think he’s a man,’ Benfro said. ‘I saw his hands. He reached for a goblet of wine. They were just like Gideon’s.’

  ‘Slow down, Benfro,’ Meirionydd said, frowning. ‘What do you mean you saw his hands?’

  Benf
ro wanted to gabble. It was such a relief to be able to speak his mind that the words jumbled up in their eagerness to spill out. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm himself and explain fully what he had seen. Meirionydd’s beautiful young face grew longer as he neared the end of his telling and when finally he fell silent, she too remained quiet for long moments. Then finally she seemed to come to some decision.

  ‘There’s much you’ve told me that shouldn’t be possible, Benfro,’ she said. ‘Even I’ve never managed to travel the lines and see through another’s eyes without their knowledge. Still, Morgwm’s told me about your flying dreams, so I have to accept that you’ve unique talents.

  ‘No, don’t get full of yourself, young dragonling,’ she added. ‘There’ll be time to look into your unusual skills later. Right now Frecknock must be our priority. I don’t doubt that your assumptions are correct about this stranger. The only Sir Felyn I ever knew was a weak-willed dragon who died at the hands of the warrior priests over five hundred years ago. There aren’t many of our kind out in the world beyond this forest. It’s not been safe for our kind in millennia. Far more likely that a skilled adept of the High Ffrydd has duped her.’

  ‘Gideon mentioned an Inquisitor Melyn,’ Benfro said. ‘Could it be him?’

  ‘If it is, then we’re in grave danger indeed,’ Meirionydd said. ‘Melyn is the worst kind of man there is. Pray to the moon that you never meet him. Do everything you can to avoid him. Now, come. We must return to the party before anyone notices.’

  Benfro was about to ask how he could get back to the party when he had never left, but Meirionydd turned back to him as if she had suddenly thought of something.

  ‘Benfro, ‘ she said. ‘I would never put a compulsion on you, that’s a bad thing that can only rebound on whoever practices it, but I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell your mother about this place. She might not like knowing that I still carry it around with me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Benfro asked.

  ‘This is where I first met your father,’ Meirionydd said with something like melancholy in her voice. ‘He was magnificent, Sir Trefaldwyn. Did you know that he could fly? After a fashion, at least. Dragons could never truly fly, that’s just a myth. But his wings were so large he used to leap from the tallest trees and glide to the ground. And he would tell me stories, like Sir Frynwy’s only more vivid, more real, as if he had really been there. Sometimes when he spoke of Gog and Magog it was as if he had actually met them, as if they had truly existed.’

  ‘But he was my father,’ Benfro said, confused. ‘Morgwm’s my mother…’

  ‘Trefaldwyn only ever had eyes for Morgwm,’ Meirionydd said. ‘That much was apparent from the moment they met. But I loved him in my own way, even though I knew it was hopeless.’

  ‘Don’t you hate her for it? My mother?’ Benfro asked.

  ‘Hate her? Quite the opposite Benfro dear. Morgwm’s my closest friend. She was before Trefaldwyn came along and she remained so even when they were joined. Ever since he left on his mad quest I’ve felt her sadness each day. But I wouldn’t want her to think that I held this place special. It’s my burden and I never meant for you to come here, but obviously there’s more of your father in you than any of us realised. So let’s keep it our little secret.’

  ‘Of course,’ Benfro said, trying to absorb all that he had seen and heard. But even as he committed the clearing to his memory and gazed once more on Meirionydd’s youthful beauty, he could feel it slipping away. She seemed almost to age in front of his eyes. The wind in the trees became the murmuring of a dozen conversations and somewhere his mother was calling his name.

  ‘Benfro? Benfro? Are you all right, Benfro?’ He snapped awake, if he had truly been asleep, to find himself still staring at Meirionydd. The old dragon turned to his mother.

  ‘Benfro’s fine, Morgwm,’ she said. ‘But we have to find Frecknock. I need to speak to her before she endangers us all.’

  As if in response, the doors opened and Sir Frynwy stepped back inside. He hurried to the table and slid himself back onto the bench.

  ‘She’s not at home,’ he said, a look of terrible worry frowning across his old face. ‘And someone’s taken the Llyfr Draconius from my study.’

  *

  Beulah sat impatiently in her chair as maidservants adjusted her gown and did unnecessary things with her hair. She hated all the pampering and preening, the need for ridiculous costumes, the whole ceremony. She would much rather be out in the field, planning her next move or stamping her authority on the Twin Kingdoms. But she needed the people behind her and the people loved all the pomp and show.

  Candlehall was at a virtual standstill. There wasn’t a bed or floor to be begged. Even the staff in the palace of The Neuadd were having to double up, their rooms given over to the minor nobles who suddenly appeared like flies at the decaying body of the old king. It had been building for weeks now, first the preparation of the king’s body and the laying in state, the black of mourning and tiresome rituals that had kept her locked up in the palace. Then the presentation of the noble houses, in order of importance, each privately pledging their allegiance to the Obsidian Throne whilst trying to garner favour and reduce their tithes at the same time. Beulah had been grateful for the help of Seneschal Padraig during that time. The old man might have been working desperately to consolidate his power base within the palace, but Beulah was wise enough to know that she needed him, at least in the short term. Now there was just this day to get out of the way, the funeral followed by her coronation. Then she could throw off the dull fripperies of court convention and set about building the twin kingdoms into the power it should be.

  ‘Ow! Enough. Get out all of you. Leave me alone.’ Beulah winced as her hair caught in the comb. The handmaidens rushed to finish off her dress before scuttling out of the room like frightened crabs, bobbing and curtseying to her back. She watched them go in the tall mirror, then studied her reflection.

  To give them their due, they had done a good job. Beulah almost didn’t recognise herself. Her face had been dusted white, though close up her band of freckles still showed through the chalk. Her hair, normally short cropped and tied in a single ponytail at the back, had been washed in exotic oils, the tangles teased out and then styled in the current vogue. It felt wonderfully clean, but impractical, bunched up on either side of her head like two great buns. The oils had softened its normal dark brown colour into a deep red, matching the gown she would wear to the funeral. Any clothes that required the help of two or three people to get dressed were a complete nonsense, as far as she was concerned. This gown was even worse, using hard wire in places to make her seem busty where she was not, and to hide her natural musculature. It was not how she liked to be seen, nor how she liked to see herself, but Beulah understood the need for the show. For the time being at least, she was a figurehead and pressure was already mounting for her to choose a consort. To produce an heir. Well, she would let old Padraig think he was in control for now, and she wasn’t above having the odd dalliance with some of the sons of the noble houses. They would learn soon enough that she was made of stronger stuff than her father.

  ‘Your highness, you look ridiculous.’ Inquisitor Melyn stepped into the room, dressed in his usual dark brown robes. Beulah cursed him silently for the privilege of his order. The warrior priests of the High Ffrydd only ever wore simple garments, unlike Seneschal Padraig and Archimandrite Cassters, who would no doubt be trying to outdo each other with their raiments today.

  ‘I quite agree, Melyn,’ Beulah said, turning to talk to the man rather than his reflection. ‘But it’s something I will bear. Just for this day. Is it time yet?’

  ‘I came to fetch you, my lady,’ Melyn said. ‘Your carriage awaits.’

  ‘Carriage! I haven’t ridden in a carriage since I was three. Why can’t I ride?’

  ‘In that gown?’ Melyn asked as Beulah struggled to her feet and cursed the stupid high-heeled slippers some genius had designed for her to we
ar. She longed for her soft leather trousers and well-fitting boots. Even the outfit she had worn to her birthday party would have been better than this, but possibly a little inappropriate.

  ‘This won’t be over a moment too soon,’ Beulah said, allowing the Inquisitor to take her arm and leaning on it perhaps more heavily than she would have liked as she fought for balance.

  ‘Patience, my lady,’ Melyn said. ‘Your time will come soon.’

  The carriage took them across the palace complex to The Neuadd, where the king lay in state in front of the Obsidian Throne. Beulah was secretly grateful for the ride, though it would normally have been no more than a ten minute walk.

  King Diseverin looked healthier in death than ever he had in life, a testament to the mortician’s art. His face was pale pink, rather then bloodshot, his eyes closed. Washed and prepared with the arcane skill of the preservers, ironically he no longer smelled like a rotting carcass in the middle of a vineyard. The funeral robes in which he had been dressed were new, expensively cut and bore no stains of food and drink that had missed their target.

  Beulah sat on a small throne alongside the empty black chair as each of the leaders of the three orders gave their eulogies. Then she followed the bier as it was carried out of The Neuadd and loaded onto a magnificent hearse pulled by six white chargers. The cortege proceeded at a snail’s pace through the main streets of Candlehall in an ever widening spiral. To each side of them the crowd stood silent, most heads bowed. Everyone wore the deep red of mourning so that it looked as if someone had sliced the throat of the city and even now it bled thick venous blood.

  After what seemed like hours, they finally reached the chapel of Brynceri, nestling by the city walls. The bier was carried inside and Beulah followed her father on his last journey. The chapel was small, with barely enough room for the most senior members of the orders and a few of the oldest nobles. More eulogies were said, the same old trite half-truths and exaggerations. Beulah wanted to shout out for them to get on with it, or at least to tell the truth that her father had been a weak and useless king, that he had allowed his own wife to die and had sent his youngest daughter to the castle of his sworn enemy when she was only six. Instead she bit her lip and held her peace. Time was on her side. She could afford to wait.