Dreamwalker

by Oswald, J. D.

  Finally the king was placed in an alcove in the city wall, alongside the hundreds of other kings and queens of the House of Balwen. Beulah watched as the masons bricked up the hole, wondering why her mother’s body had been laid in a simple grave in the chapel grounds. She had been queen and surely ought to have had a place in the wall. Earlier kings had made arrangements for their dead wives to be buried with them, but Diseverin had somehow forgotten. Yet another notch on the tally of reasons why she hated him. Perhaps it was tactless, maybe it even shocked a few of the elder statesmen present, but she lingered only long enough to see the last stone in place before turning her back and returning to her carriage.

  The journey back to The Neuadd was quicker, taking the direct route. People still lined the streets, their red cloaks and dresses gleaming in the midday sun. This time no heads were bowed and some even cheered. Beulah smiled and waved though in truth the common people irked her. They were so simple-minded and petty, so easily aroused and easier pleased.

  Back in The Neuadd the small chair beside the Obsidian Throne had been removed and Archimandrite Cassters stood on the steps in front of her. Seneschal Padraig stood to one side, holding the crown of state on a cushion. She suspected there had been much wrangling as to who would have which job in this coronation.

  ‘King Diseverin is dead,’ the archimandrite said in a loud, pompous voice. ‘Who dares to take his place on the Obsidian Throne?’

  ‘I bring you Beulah of the Speckled Face, Princess of the House of Balwen.’ Inquisitor Melyn stood beside her like the father of the bride at a wedding. He sounded bored.

  ‘Come forward, Beulah,’ Cassters said. She glanced sideways at the Inquisitor and rolled her eyes in desperation then tottered forward on her uncomfortable heels towards the archimandrite. At least the flowing lengths of her gown hid the frantic small steps she took, maintaining the semblance of an air of dignified competence and majesty. She reached the steps and knelt on the soft red cushion that had been laid out for her, bowing her head to the old priest for what she vowed would be the last time in her life.

  ‘By what right do you make your claim to the twin kingdoms?’ Cassters said, his voice quavering with the importance of his task. ‘By what right do you seek to take the Obsidian Throne for your own?’

  ‘By right of my birth,’ Beulah said, trying to disguise her impatience with the whole ceremony. Behind her, standing in their carefully arranged rows of seniority and influence, the great merchants and noblemen of her realm waited in silent anticipation. This was something that they expected to witness, a shared experience that tied them into her power base. Yet another one of the tiresome and seemingly endless round of ceremonies and functions that were supposed to stamp the mark of her authority. She would rather have sent her loyal warrior priests into the houses of any who dared to gainsay her. Fear was a much more potent motivator than mindless adulation.

  ‘And is there anyone amongst us who would deny this claim?’ The Archimandrite said, raising his voice for the whole hall to hear. Beulah waited, counting the seconds, daring anyone to speak. She could sense the tension in the air, the massed thoughts all hesitant and expectant. Close to the great throne and its focus of the power of the grym she could hear some of those thoughts, though she couldn’t identify who was thinking them. They were all caught up in the excitement, some simply empty and waiting, some wondering how best they might manoeuvre themselves into positions of favour, one or two even lovesick at the thought of her. One thought jarred against the sea of approval and she focussed on it as she might a lone poppy in a field of golden wheat.

  There is one with a better claim. He will come forward and take what is rightfully his. Then, as if it knew it was being heard, the thought vanished, the presence that had hovered behind it closed to her more totally than even Inquisitor Melyn could manage.

  ‘The Twin Kingdoms have no leader, the Obsidian Throne sits empty,’ Archimandrite Cassters said, his voice bringing Beulah back to her senses. ‘Beulah of the Speckled Face, Princess of the House of Balwen has claimed the right to rule and none have sought to gainsay her. Do you, Beulah, swear by The Shepherd to maintain the rule of law, to hold the scales of justice, to protect your citizens from harm?’

  ‘I do so swear,’ Beulah said, projecting her words as a thought to all the gathered witnesses. ‘I will maintain the rule of law. I will hold the scales of justice. I will protect my people from those who would do them harm.’

  ‘Then by the power of The Shepherd, our most mighty lord and master, I crown you Queen Beulah. May your reign be long and glorious.’

  Beulah felt the crown being placed on her head and for an instant all she could think of was a hope that it had been well-washed since her father had worn it. The last thing she wanted was to catch his lice. Then she realised that all around her voices were shouting ‘long live the queen.’ She looked up into the smiling, round face of Archimandrite Cassters.

  ‘You must take the throne now, my queen,’ he said, kneeling before her. Slowly, she rose to her feet, cursing once more the awkward, uncomfortable slippers. Then she remembered the crown on her head. She could do what she liked now and hang the consequences. She kicked off the slippers, losing three inches of height in the process. She reached up for the strap that held her red gown of mourning around her neck, unclasping it and throwing the garment to the floor. Beneath it she wore a plain but elegant dress of royal blue. As she strode passed the kneeling archimandrite and up the stone steps to the throne, she could hear a murmuring amongst the crowd as if some thought it too early by far to be casting off her mourning. Yet she knew that even more would be impressed at her willingness to put the past behind her and begin her reign on a positive note. It was all about symbolism, and though it bored her to distraction she would play the game of state to the best of her ability.

  The throne towered over her, magnificent almost to the point of absurdity. Its true seat was head-height to her and wider than the largest bed in the palace. Legend had it that King Brynceri had carved it himself after defeating the last great dragon, Gog, though Beulah had never understood why he had made the thing so large. Its legs were now hidden by the stone steps that climbed up to it and a smaller stone seat, more suitable for a man, had been inserted into the original. It was obvious that this was from a later age than the original. The stone was a lighter, coarser material, painted to match the smooth polished black of the original, and the quality of its carvings were not in the same league as those that adorned the original arms and that massive towering back.

  There were many mysteries about the throne, but its power was undeniable. All her life, Beulah had felt it whenever she came into the great hall of The Neuadd. She had longed for it as an alcoholic yearns for the oblivion of drink, and yet she had been forced to wait by the constant vigilance of Seneschal Padraig and his countless Candle spies. She glanced sideways at the old priest, who had backed away from the spot where she had been crowned and now resumed his habitual place. That would change soon, she thought as she turned to face the congregation, feeling the power of the throne behind her and savouring the moment.

  A thousand faces looked at her across the great expanse of The Neuadd. The cries of long live the queen had fallen silent and everyone waited for her to take the throne. This was the moment she had worked for all her years and yet as she felt the expectant gaze she hesitated. She could see mapped out for her a long, hard life of ruling. No more would she be able to take a horse and ride out into the countryside alone. Nor could she visit the monastery at Emmass Fawr unannounced. She would have to deal with daily requests for money, help, advice, justice. Soon she would have to choose one of the half-wit nobles as a consort and worse, bear him children. Her own childhood had been miserable, why would she want to inflict that on anyone else? Yet the state needed an heir, and most likely a spare as well, to avoid the inevitable civil strife that would build up should she not reproduce. Her life would no longer be her own.

  For a long mo
ment, Beulah wavered. Was this really what she wanted? Then she remembered the look on her little sister’s face as she was taken away from the palace. She saw her mother lying dead in a pool of her own blood, the king sprawled in a drunken stupor in a chair nearby. She saw perfect Lleyn kissing the enemy in a bower up at Ystumtuen, giving herself and the twin kingdoms away to the House of Ballah like some cheap whore. All the things that had driven her to learn and grow strong came back to her in that instant. And ahead of her, unmoved from the place where he had left her, Inquisitor Melyn fixed her with his calm, penetrating gaze and nodded.

  Beulah took a deep breath, grasped the cold stone arm of the throne and hoisted herself into the seat.

  Cheers of jubilation rang out in the great hall. Some people even threw their hats into the air. Beulah drank in their adulation, feeling herself at the nexus of everything. She let them cheer for long minutes, focussing on individuals nearby and marvelling at how open they were to her probing mind. It was as if the throne amplified the power of the grym, concentrating it into her and filling her with energy. How could her father have been so dead to this that he had to drink himself insensible? Or maybe it had been just too much for him; maybe that had been the cause of his affliction. Well, it was hers now and she was going to make the most of it. With a single thought, she reached out to all the assembled gentry, projecting her words along the lines so that they all heard her voice booming out like a giant.

  ‘My people, I thank you for your support on this most special of days. You will see that I have thrown off my gown of mourning. I would ask you all to do the same. King Diseverin is gone. Not even the power of the House of Balwen can bring him back. Let us remember his best moments and move on.’

  Beulah had them spellbound and their rapt attention fed power into her that almost made her dizzy. There was nothing she could not accomplish with the combined might of the twin kingdoms behind her. Now was the time to begin the tasks she set herself.

  ‘I sit here on Brynceri’s throne and see our twin kingdoms grown soft and weak,’ she said. ‘We have grown used to the comforts that our wealth brings us, but we’ve forgotten what brought us this wealth in the first place. We were once a powerful nation that stood up to all who would do us ill. Now we make poor treaties with our enemies and send them our children to be slaves. That will end. No more will we bow to their belligerence.’

  A murmur ran around the great hall as the assembly digested this edict. To her left, Beulah could see Seneschal Padraig turning pale. She silenced everyone with a mental command.

  ‘Even now King Ballah’s people spread through the Caenant Plains. Where once they were wanderers, now they build towns and cities. Will we wait for them to mass their forces? Will we sit here in idle luxury while the enemy builds its strength on our doorstep? And by what right does Ballah claim these lands anyway? Caenant was Brynceri’s birthplace, it was the cradle of our people. We should not be so willing to cede it to rule from distant Tynhelyg.

  ‘I say enough of appeasement,’ Beulah said, standing. On the dais above the crowd, with the powerful weight of the obsidian throne towering behind her, she felt like she was flying.

  ‘It’s time to take the true word to the unbelievers,’ she said. ‘It’s time for us to move against Llanwennog.’

  ~~~~

  Chapter Nineteen

  Seneschal Tegwin, head of the Order of the Candle in Divitie XXIII’s reign, first proposed a census of all the dragons in the Twin Kingdoms. Since they were no longer to be persecuted, and indeed enjoyed a certain degree of protection from the king, it was only right that they should contribute to the running of the state in the form of tithes. Recording dragon numbers, their ages and status was the obvious first step in this bureaucratic process.

  It was to be a mammoth undertaking. The work was shared out between the three orders and took almost fifty years to complete. This is not because the Hafod and Hendry were awash with dragons, quite the opposite. So few remained, and they had grown so adept at hiding, that finding them proved almost impossible.

  Dragon’s Tales by Fr Charmoise

  The sun hung low in the afternoon sky, pale and cold. The ground was wet with recent rain and the trees dripped heavy spots from their bare branches, filling the forest with a quiet roar. Overhead, the last few clouds were drifting away on a falling breeze. The earlier storm had blown itself out and now the world felt fresh and clean and new.

  Benfro pushed his way past evergreen shrubs, their leaves slick with water, heedless of the damp on his scales and the loam sticking to his feet. Behind him, Meirionydd and Sir Frynwy moved more cautiously along the narrow animal track. Both of them were breathing heavily with the exertion though he would hardly have considered their pace fast.

  ‘Are you sure this is the quickest way, Benfro?’ Meirionydd asked, wheezing slightly. Benfro stopped and turned, agitated at their slow progress.

  ‘I’ve come this way a dozen times,’ he said. ‘It takes at least an hour off the journey. If you don’t keep stopping, that is,’ he added.

  ‘We’re not all as young and fit as you, young dragon,’ Sir Frynwy said. ‘Some of us haven’t walked much further than the distance between our houses and the great hall in decades. Are you sure this is where she’ll be?’

  ‘She’ll be there, I’m sure of it,’ Benfro said, glancing up at the afternoon sky. It was lighter now than it had been in the morning, thanks to the clouds clearing, but it wouldn’t stay light for long. They needed to hurry. In the dark they would not be able to approach quietly. He wasn’t really sure that they would be able to approach quietly anyway. Old Sir Frynwy made as much noise as a rutting boar as he plodded through the undergrowth. At least Meirionydd seemed to know how to tread without snapping dead branches.

  ‘We must hurry,’ Benfro said, turning once more to clamber up the slope. ‘It’s not far to the proper track now. We can be there in under an hour.’

  Their sluggish pace continued and with each passing moment Benfro’s anxiety grew. Even when they left the animal track and started along the wider path that ran parallel with the river, Benfro could feel each second as a terrible disaster. Right now, further upstream, Frecknock was calling out in search of a mate, unaware that she was bringing herself and the villagers the unwanted attention of men. Worse, the attention of their sworn enemy, the inquisitor of the Order of the High Ffrydd.

  Finally, when he was beginning to think they might never arrive, Benfro heard the noise of the river playing over the rocks and falls not far distant.

  ‘Quiet, now,’ Meirionydd said. ‘It’s important she doesn’t know we’re coming.’

  ‘Go and have a scout, Benfro,’ Sir Frynwy said, softly. ‘Tell me what you can see.’

  Benfro crept forward to the edge of the path and looked out across the clearing to the flat-topped rock. There, sitting just as she had the last time, eyes tightly closed, was Frecknock. The thick leather-bound book lay beside her and the firepot glowed with its tiny flame in front of her.

  ‘She’s there, Benfro said when he had pulled himself back through the heavy shrubs that clustered around the river’s edge. He described the scene. Meirionydd closed her eyes as if concentrating on something.

  ‘She hasn’t started yet,’ she said. ‘But it can’t be long now. I suspect it is only vanity that has held her up this long.’

  ‘Vanity?’ Benfro asked.

  ‘Some other time, Benfro dear,’ Meirionydd said. ‘For now we’ve got to get down there, and fast. It’s critical she doesn’t make contact with anyone.’

  Benfro led them along the path a bit further and then down the steep slope to the first of the river pools. It had been late autumn when last he had seen Frecknock up here, and the river had been at its lowest. Now in the holding of breath between winter and spring, and after weeks of endless rain, the water was high, rushing between the larger rocks, over the smaller ones in a dangerous flow that threatened to carry anyone who tried to wade through it over the nearby cliff
edge. How Frecknock had made it to the flat-topped rock he couldn’t begin to guess. There was no way that he would be able to get any closer.

  The light was failing now as the sun dropped down behind the western flank of the valley. The flickering glow from Frecknock’s firepot danced across her features and Benfro could see her lips moving as she mouthed silent words of power and longing. With her eyes closed and the roar of the river, he realised that they could have marched up the road singing at the top of their lungs and not disturbed her. He was wondering how they were going to get across the deluge and break her spell when Meirionydd stepped along the bank away from him a few paces. Something about her posture caught his attention and he watched as she walked. She was clearly looking for something but he couldn’t see what it could be. There was nothing along here but tangling shrubs, the muddy bank and the rushing water at their feet.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ He asked, but Sir Frynwy put a gnarled hand on his shoulder and hushed him. Meirionydd scrambled further along the bank, clambering over rocks and tree-roots worn smooth by the passing water. She stopped at last, sniffing the air like Ynys Môn after the scent of a boar, then made a complicated motion with her hands. The air seemed to shimmer like a summer heatwave, something made Benfro blink and then his mouth fell open with an audible clunk. She had the Llyfr Draconius clasped in her hands.