The Rose Cord

by J. D. Oswald

  ‘When was this?’ Benfro asked, his astonished curiosity getting the better of him.

  ‘They have been coming for hundreds of years now,’ the Gweinydd replied. ‘Every century it seems another band makes its way here. Each is the same as before, arrogantly claiming the castle as its own, or in the name of some king. They stamp around the courtyard, shit in the great hall and break down walls with their swords of fire. Always they think themselves the masters of everything they touch, so always we are able to lure them down to the dungeons. Once there, no creature alive or dead can escape, as well you know, master. These men, if men they be, do not last long without food and water.’

  Benfro was suddenly taken with an image of the inquisitor, Melyn, trapped in a dark dungeon, unable to escape, with nothing to sustain him but the condensation on the cold stone walls, slowly starving to death despite all his magics. It quite cheered him up.

  ‘So how long have I been gone?’ he asked innocently, falling into the role that had been given him. The look on the Gweinydd’s face was difficult to read, but it seemed a mixture of concern and surprise.

  ‘Master, you do not know?’

  ‘I’ve not been … Well, let’s just say I haven’t been in a position to count,’ Benfro said, wishing he had kept his mouth shut. The ugly creature seemed to be thinking, for it fell silent a while before answering.

  ‘Fully two thousand years have passed since you flew from the high tower,’ it finally said. ‘Master, please forgive me, please forgive all of us, but there were times when we thought you might never come back.’

  ‘There were times when I thought I might not be able to,’ Benfro said, recalling the fading jewel on the riverbed, the jewel that had grown steadily in power since he had retrieved it, feeding on the memories of the villagers and his mother. Without thinking, he reached for the bags slung over his shoulder. Neither was there. And then he realized. The food laid out on the tables was his own: fruit and vegetables gifted him by the mother tree, fish caught in the river that very morning. Only the brackish water in the ancient pewter tankard had come from this place.

  ‘Where are my bags?’ he asked in what he hoped was a nonchalant voice.

  ‘Master, your bags have been taken to the kitchens. The food we laid out for you as you like. The fresh viand you trapped in the forest on your journey is being prepared even now, a feast to celebrate your return.’

  Fresh viand? Benfro was not sure what the Gweinydd was talking about. He had brought fish, true, but that was already prepared. And the elderly servant had said trapped. The penny dropped and with it a terrible chill shivered down his spine to the tip of his tail.

  ‘Malkin.’ Benfro leaped to his feet, his tankard of water tumbling to the dusty floor. ‘Where is he? Take me to him. Now.’

  10

  The Gweinyddau were perhaps Magog’s greatest creation. They were certainly his most terrible. Bound to the palace of Cenobus, they were said to have been created from the spirits of his enemies stripped from their bodies at the moment of their deaths. Their punishment for having opposed his will was to be bound for all time to serve it. They existed only for his amusement, appearing at his command then returning to some unnamed place when he no longer required them. No one else would they serve unless that was their master’s wish.

  Sir Frynwy, Tales of the Ffrydd

  Errol froze, unable to move for fear. The knife at his throat was sharp, stinging his skin; the guard’s hold was unbreakable.

  ‘Please, please. Forgive him.’ Dondal hastily tucked the key into his pocket. ‘He was raised in the mountains. There’s much he has still to learn.’

  The guard grunted, a cruel sound that did little to assure Errol he was being forgiven. For long moments the guard simply kept him held, as if deciding whether or not to accept the duke’s explanation. Then, finally, he withdrew the knife and shoved Errol away. He hadn’t said a word since they had arrived, Errol realized. He wondered if the guard was mute but was distracted from the thought by Dondal finally heaving the door open. They both stepped through and he locked it behind him.

  ‘Only dukes are allowed to touch the keys to the palace,’ Dondal said to Errol as they walked down a narrow alley almost identical to the one they had just left, stopping finally at an imposing wooden door set into a faceless stone building. ‘Most ordinary folk aren’t even allowed to see them. You’ll have to be careful, Errol; the guise of a mountain-bred simpleton will only carry you so far.’

  ‘I …’ Errol began, but the duke held up a hand to silence him.

  ‘No more talk. Speak only if you are addressed directly. In here you are a page, and pages must be seen but not heard. Now hurry. We’re late.’

  Errol wondered how they could be late when the king had not set a time for them to present themselves, but he kept this to himself and followed the duke as the stout old man trotted through corridors of ever-increasing size and splendour.

  After the cold austerity of Emmass Fawr, the run-down dilapidation of Duke Dondal’s residences and the rustic simplicity of Pwllpeiran, the palace was almost beyond belief. Errol wanted to stop, to stare, to marvel at the fabulously rich tapestries, the ornate mouldings inlaid with gilt, the enormous portraits of strangely familiar people, the carpet so deep his travel boots sank into it like spring grass, but he had to keep up with the duke. And besides there was just too much to take in.

  They finally halted their near-run in a vast room with wide floor-to-ceiling windows down one side. Through the glass Errol could see a huge formal garden dropping away in curved terraces towards a long castellated wall and beyond that the distant ramble of the city climbing the hills on the far side of the river. For the first time since stepping through the city gates, he could see the sky as more than a greying overhead strip of light.

  ‘You’re gawping again, Errol.’ Duke Dondal wheezed slightly from his exertion. ‘Try not to act like you’ve got a brain. It doesn’t do to be noticed too much.’

  Errol reached a pair of closed doors large enough to admit a coach and six. They were painted white, with intricate gold, red and green highlights on the carved panels. Two men, dressed in the same smart livery as the rude fellow who had summoned them to the palace, stood at silent attention on either side. At first Errol thought that the room was empty, but then he heard someone clearing his throat.

  ‘Ah, Dondal, you’ve arrived.’

  He looked around to see an old man, thin-faced and sporting a severe goatee beard, sitting behind a large desk at one side of the room. Errol tried to shrink into the shadows as he rose and walked slowly across the carpeted expanse towards them. The duke stood upright and stiff, giving no sign of deference whatsoever. The air bristled with an uncomfortable tension, made worse when the old man stopped a few paces away and stared straight at Errol.

  ‘And what is this you’ve brought with you? A bit old for a catamite, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘This is Errol, my nephew. I hope to present him to Prince Dafydd as a page.’

  ‘And what makes you think the king would allow such a thing?’ the old man asked, the sneer evident in his voice. Errol still had no idea who he was, nor whether to face the hostile stare or avert his eyes.

  ‘He’s Edgar’s son,’ Dondal said. The effect was instantaneous. The old man’s whole bearing changed. His shoulders lost some of their stiffness and he turned to give Errol his full attention.

  ‘Look at me, boy,’ he said. Errol complied. The old man reached out and took his chin in his hand, not roughly. Moved his head from side to side as if inspecting a prize ram.

  ‘Do you know who I am, boy?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Errol said, aware that this was the first time he had spoken Llanwennog to someone who needed to be fooled by his mastery of the language.

  ‘I am Tordu, King Ballah’s cousin, major domo of the palace and High Earl of Tynhelyg. Nothing happens in this city that I don’t know of. Nothing happens without my approval. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes
, sir.’ Errol bowed his head as the old man finally released it. ‘I wish only to serve my king in whatever capacity he sees fit for me.’

  ‘Is that so, Errol?’ the major domo asked. ‘Well then, pray he doesn’t decide he needs more soldiers for his army today.’ And with that he swept past the both of them, nodding to the two guards, who pulled open the great doors.

  Beyond was a room that made the hall they were standing in look like a peasant’s tool shed. Errol couldn’t conceive of such a space being enclosed: the ceiling was so high it could have been sky, the walls fifty paces away on each side, a hundred and fifty ahead of him.

  Mindful of Dondal’s warning, he tried not to stare too much as they hurried across the great hall towards the towering throne. But the closer he came, the more Errol was transfixed. At first he thought that the throne was unoccupied, then he felt a familiar but alien presence brush over his mind. It was like Melyn trying to divine his thoughts, but the timbre of the probing was completely different, more subtle. Errol let the flow of his recent experiences bubble to the top of his mind. It wasn’t too difficult to fake innocent wonder and amazement at what he had seen since arriving at Dondal’s run-down castle, and after a moment the tingling sense of being read faded away.

  Tordu stopped twenty paces from the throne and dropped to one knee. Dondal did the same and Errol hastened to copy them.

  ‘Your Majesty, I bring Dondal, Duke of Tynewydd, Marshall of the Southern Dividing Mountains,’ he said, then stood and stepped to the side.

  ‘Come forward, Dondal,’ said a voice from the depths of the throne. Errol risked a quick glance up and saw a small broad man with shoulder-length white hair and a long beard that gave him the look of a mountain goat, leaning forward from the dark depths of the throne. One gnarled hand clasped a dark wooden arm like a claw.

  Dondal rose, bowing his head once more, then motioned for Errol to come forward. With a terrible sense of dread Errol realized that something was wrong. Out of the corner of his eye he could see guards standing all around, silent and attentive, but there was no once else in the throne room.

  ‘Your Majesty, I have come before you to make my pledge to the crown,’ Dondal said in a clear proud voice, ‘and to present you with Errol Ramsbottom, a spy for the Twin Kingdoms sent to infiltrate your royal house.’

  Benfro rushed from door to door in the darkened castle. The elderly Gweinydd trailed slowly behind him, legs shuffling over the cold stone slabs, claws clacking in a nervous rhythm. Somewhere in the depths of this ruin the other creatures had Malkin, might even now be preparing the squirrel for the pot. And he had let it happen.

  ‘Where are the damned kitchens?’ he shouted.

  ‘Master, surely you remember—’ the Gweinydd began.

  ‘Humour me,’ Benfro countered. ‘It’s a big castle with a lot of rooms. You can’t expect me to remember them all. Now hurry.’

  ‘Master, I have already informed my brothers of your displeasure. Please understand, we only do as you have had us do in the past. We can do nothing else.’

  ‘I need to find the kitchen,’ Benfro said. ‘I need to see my friend.’

  ‘Then please follow me.’ The strange creature shuffled round in the corridor before heading off the way they had come. Benfro followed, so slowly he hardly seemed to be moving at all.

  ‘You call me master,’ Benfro said after a few minutes’ frustrated silence. ‘How can you be sure I am Magog?’

  ‘Master teases me again,’ the Gweinydd said. ‘My eyes maybe aren’t as good as they used to be, but I can see a dragon’s aura, read his sparkle as well as I ever did. True you have changed with the years, but then who has not? Yet I sensed your presence the moment you flew into the forest.’

  ‘But what makes you so sure? I mean, I could be an impostor. I could be Gog.’

  The Gweinydd stopped in mid-stride, a complex manoeuvre considering the number of legs it had. A shiver ran through it as if someone were dancing on its grave. It glanced back over its shoulder at Benfro, hundreds of tiny lights pinpricked in the reflection of its compound eyes.

  ‘Master, did you just say what I thought you said?’ it asked, a fear in its voice where before there had been an unctuous, toadying quality that promised much but delivered an obsequious nothing.

  ‘Gog, my brother, yes.’ Benfro felt the atmosphere thickening like milk and eggs brought to the boil. It was almost as if the whole great building were drawing in its breath. As if a primordial anger were heating the very stones that it was built of.

  ‘Master would not speak that name for a hundred years before …’ the Gweinydd said in a whisper that was almost lost in the electric silence. ‘Master has burned lesser dragons for even thinking that name in his presence.’

  ‘Well, perhaps that anger was what kept me away from here for so long,’ Benfro said. ‘But you still haven’t answered my question.’ They had reached a staircase now and were making slow progress up its treads. He wanted to pick the elderly creature up, carry it to the top, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch that scaly skin.

  ‘Master, I have never met …’ The Gweinydd paused, millennia of conditioning not allowing him to continue.

  ‘Oh, never mind,’ Benfro said. ‘As long as you’re sure I am who you say I am, then we’re both happy. But can we pick the pace up a little. I can assure you my wrath will be great if my companion has been hurt in any way.’

  ‘The forest creature remains unharmed. I saw to it that my brothers knew of their mistake as soon as you told me, master. They await their punishment even as we speak. As do I.’ The Gweinydd lowered its head in penance.

  Ignoring it, Benfro rushed up the last few steps and across the room to where most of his possessions were spilled over a table. They had clearly been sorted through and deemed unsuitable to be sent to the dining hall. Sitting alongside the bags was a wicker cage with a small slotted window in the front and a cane handle in its lid.

  ‘Malkin? Is that you in there?’ Benfro grabbed the basket, fumbled with the fiddly catch mechanism and in the end resorted to peeling open the lid with one extended talon.

  Two terrified beady black eyes stared up at him from the depths. The creature’s fur was matted and ruffled, its tail a pale shadow of its former magnificent bushy self. It was trembling uncontrollably, and its tiny claws were clenched tight around the bars of its cage. It had soiled the inside of the basket in its terror, and the mess was all over its legs and smeared into its fur. A stench wafted up to Benfro as he stood over the tiny cage which reminded him in a strange way of the smell of the warrior priests. It brought a fury to him that was not directed at the pathetic little creature, rather at the architects of its misfortune. All the rage and frustration that had built up in him since he had tried to rid himself of Magog’s jewel now broke through. He rounded on the elderly Gweinydd as it shuffled towards him.

  ‘How dare you treat my companion in this manner?!’ he shouted with such fury that the creature backed away from him and cowered even more.

  ‘Master, you have always returned with provisions for your table,’ it stammered towards the floor. ‘We only thought—’

  ‘You only thought!’ Benfro puffed up with scarcely controlled fury. ‘And who gave you permission to think? When did I tell you that you could return to this place? You have grown above yourself in my absence, Gweinydd. I will have to do something about that.’

  He took a deep breath, rising towards the ceiling and feeling the heat inside him grow. It was a pure anger that filled him, an excitement of power he had not felt for millennia. This was how justice was meted out, how those who displeased him felt the true extent of his wrath.

  ‘Appear before me. All of you. Now,’ he bellowed. Almost instantly they were there, as sorry a collection of mismatched body parts and evil intent as ever you could find. He hated every facet of their being, everything about them. They reminded him of nothing so much as his failure. He knew his great castle was a ruin, even though it appeared whole. T
hat magic was one he had worked a long time ago. He knew that pillagers and looters had taken their pick of his great treasures, his works of art and irreplaceable library. The knowledge of the ancient mages was lost, and all due to these pathetic wasted excuses for servants. He could stand their presence, their very existence, no more. It was time to correct the mistakes of the past and begin anew.

  The power was upon him now, a great force built to a point where it could be contained no longer. The miserable creatures stood before him in a pathetic huddle, shifting listlessly from side to side, refusing to meet his gaze. So they would end as they had begun, afraid, bewildered, barely worthy of his attention.

  ‘Benfro?’ a voice asked – small, squeaky and laden with fear. He wanted to ignore it. It was an irrelevance, a distraction from the task in hand. He would deal with it just as soon as he had vented his wrath on the minions he had created to be his perfect servants, the minions who had so badly failed him. Yet something about the voice would not let him be.

  ‘Benfro?’ it asked again, and the short word slipped through the knot of his rage into a tiny silent corner of his mind. There it found a confused, frightened dragon kitling. He was Benfro, he knew. Yet this was his palace, the castle of Magog. These were his creatures, his Gweinyddau. But he had never seen them before this evening.

  As if he were struggling in wet mud, his mind confused and tired, he looked round to the source of the voice. A squirrel, dishevelled and shrunk in upon itself, its tail matted in places, its fur a dull brown rather than the vibrant red it should have been, stood on the table by his side. It looked up at him with its black eyes full of concern. It had a name, he knew.

  ‘Malkin?’ Benfro said. And as he heard his voice, the confusion ebbed away. The rage seeped out of him as if it had never been real. Slowly he slumped back towards the floor. His wings, he realized, were spread wide into the dark arches of the kitchen. With a glow of embarrassment, he folded them back to his sides. For a while the spirit of Magog had taken him over – he could see that now – but how long had it been in him?