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Chapter Twenty-Two
For all great workings of magic, be they spells that affect thousands, or simple conjurings that are personal in nature; for every enchantment there is a vulnerable spot. Most obviously this is the conjuror himself, for he is the fulcrum directing the grym to his will. But there are spells which persist even after the mage who has performed them has gone, spells which are anchored not in the body of a man but in the world itself. No spell can be sealed entirely, for were such a thing done then that spell would wither and die. The skilled mage will see the point where grym ends and conjuring begins, and there he will find the key to unravelling the spell.
Magic and the Mind by Fr Andro
Melyn studied the boy who sat across the desk from him. He had changed in the months since the choosing. The round-cheeked puppy fat of youth had melted from his face, hardening those features that had so worried the princess. Queen now, he corrected himself. So much had happened since that night when they had ridden into the village with low expectations. It was undeniable that the boy had the features of Prince Balch, but that in itself didn’t mean he was related. It did mean that he would make an excellent spy, just as soon as his unswerving loyalty to the order could be ensured.
‘Andro tells me that you’re a quick study,’ Melyn said, pouring two goblets of wine and pushing one across the desk towards his charge. It was a heavy, sweet wine from the Caldy Peninsula, not something he had much of a taste for himself, but it would quickly intoxicate the boy and break down his natural barriers.
‘Master Andro is very kind,’ Errol said. ‘But most of what we learn in class I’ve already learned back home. Father…Kewick was a good teacher.’
Melyn looked deep into the boy’s eyes, fixing them in his own gaze. He felt the link between them, easier now that he had done it a few times, though there was still that initial resistance to his suggestion. As if discomfited by his stare, Errol took up the goblet and swallowed a mouthful. Almost immediately Melyn could feel the barrier begin to dissolve away. He began to work on the boy’s mind, suggesting that he drink more and reinforcing the idea that he had learnt all his young wisdom from the fat priest.
‘Your reading and writing are impressive for a boy of your age. Especially one from your background,’ Melyn said, letting his flattery work on Errol’s ego, building up a vision of trust in himself and the order. ‘I’ve asked Andro to begin tutoring in the language of the Llanwennogs,’ he added, pushing a desire to learn towards the boy as he said the words. He needn’t have bothered, Errol’s passion for knowledge was vast and naïve.
‘Don’t they speak like us?’ He asked.
‘It’s similar,’ Melyn said. ‘But different enough in its way. A man from the Hendry could make himself understood in Tynhelyg but they’d know him for a foreigner whatever he looked like.’
‘Why would I want to go to Tynhelyg?’ Errol asked.
‘Think, boy,’ Melyn said. ‘You’ve the looks of them and the brains to learn to be like them. Who better to send into our enemy’s camp to discover what he plans?’
‘You want me to be a spy?’
‘Of course I do,’ Melyn said, and along with the words, he pushed the idea of a life of excitement, travel to far lands, adventure and danger into the boy’s thoughts. There was already a seed of acceptance in his mind, the Inquisitor simply sought to feed it, nurture it into the same sort of powerful driving force that was Errol’s natural curiosity.
‘But you won’t be going anytime soon,’ the Inquisitor added. ‘It takes years of training and even then most don’t make the grade. Do you think you have what it takes?’
‘I… I don’t know,’ Errol said.
‘Good,’ Melyn said. ‘I’d think less of you if you were certain you could do it. But I knew you had promise as soon as I saw you. I reckon you’ll do well.’
‘Thank you sir,’ the boy said, lifting his goblet once more as the Inquisitor willed him to do so. It was definitely getting easier to manipulate him, Melyn realised. It saddened him in some ways. Far better that the boy had come to him willingly. Modifying large chunks of his memory was a crude way of ensuring his trust and loyalty to the order, and one which could very easily backfire. Time would set the suggestions solid so that the boy would know no other truth, but time was always in short supply. Yet handled properly, Errol Ramsbottom could become a powerful weapon in his hands. The risk was certainly worth it.
‘Sir Felyn? Are you there?’
The voice was quiet, almost an echo on the wind rather than something spoken.
‘It is I, Frecknock, calling out to you for help.’
Melyn glanced at the boy sitting across the desk from him. If he, too had heard anything then he made no sign of it. Damn her timing, he thought. He had planned to spend at least another half hour working on Errol. Now he would have to begin all over again. But then the secrets this stupid and wilful dragon could reveal were far more important than the boy right now. She might even be able to shed some light on the queen’s recent encounter.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave now, Errol,’ Melyn said, gently planting a notion of discomfort in the boy’s mind. ‘We’ll continue this conversation later. Tell Andro I want you to learn the language of the Llanwennogs. I expect you to be able to answer me in their tongue next time we meet.’
Melyn watched as the boy hastily drained his wine, stood, bowed and darted from the room. Once the door had latched shut, he settled back in his chair and collected his thoughts, willing himself once more into the role of Sir Felyn, wandering dragon in search of a mate.
‘Sweet Frecknock,’ he thought, sending the words in the draigiaith, that terrible, difficult language that made his skin crawl whenever he heard it.
‘Ah, Sir Felyn,’ came the reply. ‘I thought that I’d lost you forever.’
‘And I too,’ he thought back. ‘What has kept you from me for so long? I would have come to your side but you never told me where I could find you.’
Melyn sent his mind out along the lines, trying to locate the source of the voice. It didn’t take him long to touch the alien mind, so small and self-centred, filled with its own petty worries and anxieties, frustrations and rage.
‘It was the kitling, the little squirt. He told them what I was doing. They came and stopped me. They took away the book. But I don’t need it now. I can do the calling without it.’
Melyn choked back the rage swelled up in him. No licence to breed had been sought in his lifetime. There should be no kitlings amongst the dragons.
‘I’m sorry to hear of your woes, sweet Frecknock,’ Melyn thought, struggling to send a soothing calm out with his words. ‘But your skill in the subtle arts is plainly far superior to those who would thwart you. Your beauty is matched by an inner strength I’ve not seen for many centuries.’
‘You flatter me, Sir Felyn,’ the thought came back. Not angry or mistrustful, he could sense that she liked his attentions.
‘I speak only the truth as I see it,’ he thought. ‘But I would see you with my eyes as well as touch the fair brilliance of your mind. Tell me how I might find you and though I be at the far end of Gwlad, I’ll not stop until I can be by your side.’
‘The far end of Gwlad?’ came the reply and Melyn cursed himself for underestimating the stupidity of his quarry. He had meant it as a simple figure of speech, and she had taken it to mean he was months if not years of travel away from her. The sad disappointment in her tiny little mind was a sickly taste in his mouth like bile from a gut-punch.
‘Sweet Frecknock, don’t be so sad,’ he thought. ‘I’m not so far away, surely, that I can’t reach you in a week, maybe two. Tell me where to come and not even the Inquisitor of the Order of the High Ffrydd will keep me from reaching you.’ It was true, he realised with a wry chuckle. He would positively speed himself to her.
‘I can’t tell you exactly where it is,’ Frecknock’s thoughts came to him peppered with anxiety. He se
nt soothing, formless thoughts back to her, gently encouraging disclosure, assuring her that she was doing the right thing.
‘The others rely on her protection,’ she thought. ‘They may be small-minded and mean-spirited but they’re the only family I have and I wouldn’t want to see them suffer the same fate as my parents. They were killed, you see. By a mob of men. My mother, who would never hurt a fly, was hacked to death. My father was trapped and burned when he tried to take his revenge. I was lucky to escape with my life. It was only after months of wandering in the forest that Morgwm found me and brought me here.’
‘You’ve suffered more terribly than any should have to,’ Melyn thought, suppressing the urge to cut the link with this simpering half-wit. He needed more information to confirm the suspicion that was growing inside him, more than just a name. ‘It’s fortunate indeed that you were found, that even now you live with others of… our kind. Tell me sweet Frecknock, how can you all live together without attracting the same attention that claimed your poor parents?’
‘We’re protected here,’ Frecknock’s thoughts were a mixture of emotions, some cautious and sad, others excited and hopeful. Melyn could only assume that years of skulking and hiding had beaten down her spirit. Now the excitement of her success in finding him again was chipping away at her long-learned reticence. Silently he pushed a feeling of encouragement at her, building on the sense that he could be trusted. It was not dissimilar from what he had done to the boy, Errol. The Inquisitor smiled to himself as he realised how alike they were, and yet so different.
‘I don’t fully understand it yet,’ Frecknock continued. ‘It’s an ancient spell, very powerful. Any who come to this part of the forest will only find the path to the cottage in the clearing. Only Morgwm can take them to the village, unless they have been there before. So you see, good Sir Felyn, I can’t tell you how to get here. You must first find Morgwm herself and persuade her of your good intentions.’
Melyn racked his brain for the memory. He had read a list, somewhere, that detailed all the dragons known to still live in the Twin Kingdoms. Andro would be able to find it for him, but he needed it now. And he had heard the name before, he was sure. He had ridden with Padraig, decades earlier when they were both young men, when warrior priests had accompanied predicants as they travelled the Twin Kingdoms collecting tithes. Had she not been one of the first dragon to awaken his suspicions? Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he remembered her. A healer, peddling quackery to the nearby villagers, she had shown him little deference, no respect. And she had paid her tithes with newly minted coin she could only have acquired by theft.
‘Morgwm the Green,’ he thought, remembering finally. He could feel the rush of excitement channelling back along the lines into him.
‘You know her?’ Frecknock’s giddy anticipation almost made him laugh out loud. She was so simple, so stupid.
‘It’s been many a year since last I saw Morgwm the Green,’ Melyn thought. ‘But I know where she lives. I’ll come to her cottage in two weeks time. Wait for me, Sweet Frecknock, but tell no one. I’d like to surprise my old friend.’
‘Of course, Sir Felyn. It will be our secret,’ Frecknock thought. ‘Oh, I cannot wait to meet you. You must have such stories to tell of the long road, such adventures as would turn even Benfro’s head.’
‘Benfro?’ Melyn queried.
‘Morgwm’s kitling,’ Frecknock thought. ‘He’s a pest who gets far more attention than he deserves. He’s the one who stopped my last calling. He was spying on us. He’s only fourteen and they’re already teaching him the subtle arts.’
Melyn almost exploded with rage. Only a lifetime’s mental discipline stopped him from channelling it all into Frecknock, revealing his true self even to her love-blinded senses.
‘A kitling, and a boy dragon at that,’ Melyn thought in a tight-closed series of words with no emotion attached. ‘I look forward to meeting him. Though not as much as I look forward to meeting you, sweet Frecknock. But now I must go. There is much that needs to be prepared for my journey. You should go, too, lest someone once more interrupt our private thoughts. Two weeks, sweet Frecknock, and I will stand at your side. But remember, tell no-one.’
Melyn thought he heard her voice faintly echoing ‘no-one’ but he had already cut his mind off from hers. He was cold with rage, calm in a way he had never been. The Shepherd moves his flock to a plan only he can know, he thought. And this was surely the work of his god. Now was the time to purge the world of the evil that was dragons. He stood up and crossed to the door. Outside his rooms, the corridor was dark, the flickering torches on the walls making the shadows between them impenetrable.
‘Osgal,’ he shouted. The tall man emerged from the shadows, buckling his belt. He had a slightly green look about him.
‘Inquisitor,’ Osgal said, dropping to his knee and bowing his head. ‘Please forgive me.’
‘Whatever for?’ Melyn asked. ‘Get up man.’ He was in too much of a hurry to worry about whatever it was ailed the captain of his personal guard. There were many preparations to be made for this journey. He would need a troop of warrior priests for one thing. It wouldn’t hurt to take some of the novitiates along with him either. This was the sort of training they needed, not endless bookwork and sword practice.
‘Gather my troop and select ten of the novitiates,’ Melyn said. ‘We ride at dawn.’
‘My lord, might I ask where we ride?’ Osgal asked.
‘Ystumtuen and the edge of the great forest,’ Melyn said. ‘We’re going dragon hunting, captain.’
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Chapter Twenty-Three
When attempting to influence your enemy’s thoughts, it is important to keep your manipulations as simple as possible. Far better to work with what is already there than to try and build a completely new reality. As in all magic, observation and preparation are the keys. Know your enemy better than you know yourself. Know his friends and family, his past experiences and his future ambitions. Then you can plant your suggestions so that he will think them his own.
Magic and the Mind by Fr Andro
Errol was puzzled as he left the meeting with the Inquisitor. Had he done something wrong, to be so suddenly dismissed? He couldn’t think of anything. In fact the details of the whole encounter were slipping away from him as if they were unimportant. And yet he knew that something had happened, something that jarred with the confident, stern but avuncular feeling with which he considered the Inquisitor.
‘What is it about old men and young boys?’
Errol nearly jumped out of his skin. The corridor outside Melyn’s quarters was gloomy, lit only by occasional torches hanging in their iron sconces from the rough stone wall. A face leered out of the darkness, promising violence and pain. Without thinking, he took a step backwards and the menace leached away, replaced by a deep-throated chuckle. Captain Osgal stepped out of the shadows.
‘Don’t panic, boy,’ he said. ‘I know that you’re here on the Inquisitor’s business. You won’t get a thrashing, this time.’
‘I… I’ve finished for this evening. I was just heading to the chapel for candle-lighting.’ Errol was nervous of the captain. There was something about the man that filled him with a deep unease, as if Osgal had done him a great disservice at some time but he could not remember what, or when. It didn’t help that the captain of the Inquisitor’s personal troop had a reputation worse by far than any of the quaisters in the monastery.
‘Not so fast, young Ramsbottom. The Inquisitor has a guard in this corridor at all times. This is my shift right now but I have to go… somewhere for ten minutes. You’ll stay here and guard the corridor until I get back.’
‘But I’m not armed,’ Errol said.
‘Don’t be stupid, boy.’ Errol could see the discomfort on the captain’s face. By the way he was holding his hands across his belly and the faint sheen of sweat on his face, it wasn’t hard to imagine what he wanted ten minutes for. Errol wondered what they had been se
rving in the officer’s mess that evening that could disagree so fundamentally with a constitution as robust as that of Captain Osgal.
‘There’s a full troop of warrior priests in the lower floors of this building,’ the captain said. ‘Any intruder would have to get through the main gates undetected and across the monastery complex unchallenged before they even came close to here. And if they made it as far as the Inquisitor’s study then they would have him to contend with. You won’t be needed to fight off hordes of Llanwennog spies, but if his grace comes out of there and doesn’t see a guard in this corridor, it’ll be my head on the block. So just stand there in the shadows and try not to fall asleep. Ten minutes, that’s all I need.’
Errol watched as Captain Osgal hurried away, unsure whether he was going to be thanked for being helpful or reviled for being party to the soldier’s moment of weakness. On balance, he favoured his chances of the latter and the thought of yet more humiliation and punishment at the hands of the man filled him with a deepening sense of gloom.
Settling back into the shadows as instructed, Errol considered his life since he had come to Emmass Fawr. It wasn’t the great adventure he had expected, though neither could he deny that the opportunities for learning were far greater than anything he might have found back home. Home. The word seemed almost alien to him. This was his home now, or so he was told every day. The Order was his family, not Hennas and Godric. There was no room, nor any need, for Maggs Clusster in his life.
The thought brought Errol up short. He hadn’t considered his past for a while, and neither had he thought about Maggs. Now that he did, he realised that she was the wrong person. He knew her well enough, but what he knew about her was not what sat at the front of his mind. He had never walked hand in hand with her through the trees, nor had he sat on warm summer evenings by her side as they gazed over the forest from the rock at Jagged Leap. Maggs was the sad-faced, thin young woman who had appeared at the cottage door late one night with a terrible tale. The girl who’s own father had got her pregnant. The girl who’s bully of a brother, Trell, had pushed Errol off the rock at Jagged Leap into the pool where old Ben Coulter had drowned. Pushed Errol and… someone else.
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