The Rose Cord

by J. D. Oswald

  The ground was undulating, climbing away from him into foothills, the Rim mountains. Eyes tight closed, Melyn tried to see more and more of the view; tried to concentrate only on what he could recall; tried to build up the exact shape of the distant ridge.

  And there, rising over it all like a silent sentinel, that distinctive mountain peak. Closer than he had ever seen it.

  ‘I know where he is,’ he said finally. ‘It’s a long way from here, but we can track him down.’

  ‘Who will you send,’ Beulah asked.

  ‘Send? Why I shall go myself,’ Melyn said. ‘But there’s no point in leaving until the spring. I don’t think our errant dragon will leave his little bolt-hole before then, and I need time to pick out five hundred of my best warrior priests.’

  ‘Five hundred?’ Beulah asked. ‘Isn’t that a bit much for one, maybe two dragons? And what about the campaign. I need your warriors at the front.’

  ‘Your Majesty, they will be going to the front.’ The faintest whisper of a smile played across Melyn’s face as the plan he had been hatching finally came together. ‘But I will need to beg a favour of you.’

  ‘What favour?’

  ‘Your dragon.’ Melyn smiled. ‘It knows the way through the Rim mountains. I’ll want to take it with me.’

  17

  When taking on a new apprentice, a mage must consider many things. First is the candidate strong enough in the magics to be worth nurturing? There is little point in sharpening a soft blade. It is a waste of time trying to teach a pupil who is already set in his ways of thinking; any new apprentice should be young enough to be open to new ideas and yet old enough to understand the burden of responsibility which he takes upon himself. Before agreeing to teach one who has presented himself for that purpose, a mage should satisfy himself as to the motives of his would-be charge. Many a young hothead takes it into his mind to be a powerful mage, believing all the stories of Rasalene, Arhelion, Palisander of the Spreading Span, Gog and Magog. Such hatchlings as live in the realms of myth and legend should be guided into the noble calling of bard. Theirs is a creative mind unsuited to the rigours of the Grym.

  The ideal apprentice should be young, but not still picking shell from his scales. He should be mindful of the energies that flow around him and naturally aware of the Llinellau Grym. He should be sensible of mind, fixed in the here and now, not dreaming constantly of the past or the future. He should be motivated by the most honourable of aims – to serve the memory of his ancestors and ensure the safekeeping of all dragonkind. He should be brave, for he will experience terror such as none should ever know, and yet he should not be impetuous; there is no room for the headstrong among the order of mages. He should be possessed of a good memory and an eye for even the tiniest of details.

  Above all else, he should know patience and humility. The life of a mage is a solitary one, and the journey to that life both long and arduous. Of the many who step out on that path, very few will reach so far along it as to be able to call themselves mages. None will ever reach its end, for it is a journey of endless lifetimes.

  Aderyn, Educational Notes for the Young

  ‘Stop!’ the old dragon commanded. There was something else in his voice this time, something that Benfro found impossible not to obey. The flames too seemed caught by the steely determination of the order, for they ceased their flickering, freezing in position as if an instant had been taken from time and held up for Benfro to see. He hung, ungainly and graceless, over a cold fireplace, unbalanced and yet unable to fall.

  ‘Just what are you trying to do?’

  ‘I was reaching for one of the lines. I thought I could get it if I moved quickly enough.’

  ‘Reaching? Lunging more like. Now sit down again before you hurt yourself.’

  Benfro tried, but he was rooted to the spot as if he were a tree. He could not move a muscle. He fought against the restraint, felt like he was thrashing around in a frenzy, even though he could see that his arms, legs, wings and body remained motionless.

  ‘I can’t move.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ The dragon pulled himself to his elderly feet with considerable difficulty and much painful popping of joints. He shuffled around the fire, and Benfro, from his awkward and unlikely position, almost bowing in obeisance, got his first proper look at the wizened creature.

  He was older than any dragon Benfro had ever met. Older than Sir Frynwy, who he had thought the oldest creature alive. And he was small for a dragon, no bigger than Benfro had been before he had gained his new wings and the curse that came with them. He stooped low, supporting his upper body with a short shaft of wood that was taper-thin at its base, fattening up into a polished smooth ball at the top. The hand that rested on this was all sinew and bone, skin stretched taut like a corpse left to dry in the sun. Three of the fingers on this hand had talons that twisted and coiled and were cracked and blunt. The other three had lost their claws altogether, scar tissue marking their violent passing. The thumb was missing.

  The old dragon shuffled slowly around the hearth, and Benfro noticed that his tail was half missing too, its point lost in some ancient battle that had left a shiny red stump. His wings had once been magnificent, but now they hung like tattered curtains from a skeleton frame that hunched into a great arthritic crook in the middle of his back. His neck was long and thin, and around it there hung a silver chain with a small round pendant. Benfro could see this twist and turn in the frozen firelight, revealing an image of the dragon in the moon on one side and something he couldn’t quite make out on the other.

  ‘You really can’t move?’ The old dragon bent to look him in the eye. Close up, the elderly face was even worse than Benfro remembered from the night before. Each missing scale had in its place a pucker of scar tissue as if it had been plucked out in some terrible torture. One of the eyes that stared into his was clouded, yet still shone with the same bright intelligence as the other, as if, denied sight of the physical plane, it had instead developed the ability to look deep into the magical realm. He peered myopically at Benfro and then down at the floor.

  ‘Strange.’ The dragon scratched at his face with a hand as gnarled and broken as the one that seemed welded to his stick. ‘Sit!’

  Feeling a bit like a performing dog, Benfro couldn’t help but obey the command. Without any message from his brain, his legs took the strain of his position and pulled him back. As he felt his backside come into contact with the floor, so everything switched. For an instant it was dark and then the fire started to flicker again. He could feel its heat on his face even though the old dragon stood between him and the flames.

  ‘You’re a puzzle, Benfro of the Borrowed Wings.’ The old dragon settled himself down in the dirt beside him, and Benfro noticed that he sat at the point where two of the thicker Llinellau crossed. They glowed brighter at his touch, pulses of light spreading from him, branching and branching at each point until they radiated through the walls of the cave like a quiet flash of lightning reaching out to cover the sky. Or did the light come from without, from a thousand different points, joining and joining until it met in the place where the dragon sat? It made Benfro’s head spin.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked the old creature when he had managed to focus on his face properly.

  ‘Who do you think I am?’

  ‘I think you’re Corwen, but you say he’s dead.’

  ‘Death is not the end of a dragon, Benfro. You of anyone should know that.’

  ‘So you are Corwen.’

  ‘Corwen is dead. I am the collected memories of his life. His wisdom, if you will.’

  ‘His jewels.’ Benfro suddenly understood, and felt all the more foolish that it had taken him so long to get there. ‘The jewels lie somewhere near here, at a nexus.’ He stared hard, squinting to make out some pattern to the gentle surges of light that might point him in the right direction.

  ‘You should have seen that the instant you arrived in this clearing. It is plain for any with the sight to see
. Yet you spent a whole day wandering back and forth calling the name of a dragon who died over a thousand years ago. I followed you round but you refused to see me. I could only come to you as you drifted off to sleep, and then you disappeared into your dreams so thoroughly I couldn’t find a trace of where you were.’

  ‘You were in my dream?’ Benfro asked, confused.

  ‘No, Benfro. I was not. That’s the whole point. You travelled the Llinellau somewhere – I watched you go – but I couldn’t keep up with you. I was worried. You cannot see them awake and yet asleep you walk the Llinellau like no other dragon I have ever seen.’

  ‘Am I asleep now?’

  ‘Are you? I don’t think so. Try getting up, pinching yourself. Dip your face in the waterfall outside. If this is just a dream then none of these things will happen.’

  Benfro was loath to leave the cave. He had found Corwen, or at least the memories of him. Now he just wanted to keep hold of the moment, not let it go.

  ‘What am I to do?’ he asked eventually, when the silent thoughts that filled his mind had boiled down to that one salient point.

  ‘That, my young dragon, is a very good question.’

  Benfro looked up at the memories of Corwen. The dragon seemed solid enough, and yet he could feel the heat of the fire coming through the apparition as if he was not there at all. He wanted to reach out, to touch his companion, but he was afraid his hand would pass through him, that he would be as insubstantial as a ghost. It would have been disrespectful at the least and might even have caused great offence. The last thing he wanted to do was annoy the old mage. He had been sent here to learn as much as for his own safety. He didn’t want to be driven away.

  ‘Will you teach me?’ Benfro asked. ‘Teach me about the Llinellau Grym, about magic?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll teach you a great deal more than that, Benfro of the Borrowed Wings,’ Corwen said. ‘If you’ll learn.’

  ‘Why do you call me that?’ Benfro asked.

  ‘Benfro of the Borrowed Wings? I call you what I see. You weren’t born with the ability to fly, were you.’

  ‘No, none of the villagers could fly,’ Benfro said. ‘Sir Frynwy said our wings were a useless appendage, a throwback to a time when dragons were feral and wild, little better than beasts.’

  ‘Sir Frynwy was a fool,’ Corwen said with such abrupt bitterness that Benfro felt a stab of anger slice through him.

  ‘Sir Frynwy was a wise dragon,’ he protested. ‘He was a good friend.’

  ‘No doubt he was, but he was still a fool. A dragon’s place is on the move, travelling. Pursuit of knowledge is what drives us, what keeps us alive even after we are dead. Your good friend Sir Frynwy, Ynys Môn, Meirionydd and all the others, they denied their heritage when they settled. They abandoned the old ways. If the men hadn’t killed them, they’d eventually have dwindled away to nothing.’

  ‘But Sir Frynwy was a great bard,’ Benfro said.

  ‘Yes, he trained as a bard,’ Corwen said. ‘He was apprenticed to old Hafren, who was himself Albarn’s best pupil. I’m sure he told you everything as legend. No doubt he recounted the exploits of Palisander and the trials of Ammorgwm the Fair. Did he tell you of Queen Maddau the Wise? I know he did. And he told you of the endless battle between Gog and Magog. You thought it a splendid tale of fabulous beasts, powerful beyond kenning. It never occurred to you that it might have been true. But then you met Magog – he gave you your wings. So where does that leave the myths? Are they true or are they false?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Benfro admitted.

  ‘And I suppose your mother told you all about men, about how they rule over creatures ten times their own size, about the cruel subjugation of the dragon races that has led to our near-extinction? Do you know why men hate us so?’

  ‘They covet our jewels,’ Benfro said. ‘And yet they fear them too.’

  ‘That’s one of their rationalizations,’ Corwen said. ‘That’s what they’ve persuaded themselves to believe over many, many generations. But if they truly feared our jewels then they wouldn’t covet them so. They wouldn’t track us down, torture and kill us. They would leave us in peace to live out our lives in solitary travel, exploration and adventure. Had they left us in peace, we might even have been able to share our knowledge and wisdom with them, allied ourselves to whatever causes they sought to pursue.’

  ‘So why do they hate us?’

  ‘They hate us because we made them that way,’ Corwen said, a glint of triumph in his eyes, as if the death and destruction waged on dragonkind was something to be proud of.

  ‘We?’

  ‘Well, I say we,’ Corwen said. ‘It wasn’t us, not me or you. But it was certainly a dragon. I can’t remember it myself, but there was a time when men were simple creatures, living in rude huts and raising cattle and sheep. Then all of a sudden they had intelligence. They could reason, build, fight. Above all they could use magic. And they were consumed with a hatred for dragonkind that was breathtaking in its simple ferocity. This wasn’t something that came to them over a thousand years. This was something that happened overnight. Only a mage, and a powerful one at that, could perform such a spell.’

  ‘Who?’ Benfro was appalled.

  ‘I don’t know.’ A look of sadness passed over Corwen’s face. ‘It was before I was hatched, over two thousand years ago. But the legends tell of it happening around the same time that Gog and his followers disappeared. Not long before Magog himself vanished. That was when the life went out of most dragons, abandoned by their greatest mages and faced with a terrible new enemy.’

  ‘I found out what happened to Magog,’ Benfro said. ‘I saw him die.’

  ‘Hah! There are those who say he never really existed,’ Corwen said. ‘But I learned at the feet of Albarn the Bard, and he was apprenticed as a kitling to Rheidol, who was Magog’s favourite. When I was young, dragons still hoped that their warrior chief would one day return, but I accepted his death around about the same time I encountered my first inquisitor. Still, I’ve always wondered how one so great and powerful met his end. Tell me, Benfro. Tell me what you saw.’

  So Benfro told him his tale, starting at his mother’s death and finishing with the crash-landing in the clearing. As he spoke, the old dragon seemed to shrink in on his already diminutive self, becoming older and more bent with each passing word. He said nothing to interrupt, save for a sharp intake of breath at the point where the great bird smashed in the skull of the greatest dragon ever to live, killing him like prey while he slept. When Benfro had finished, he looked up at Corwen, surprised to see his eyes wet with tears for something that had happened so long ago.

  ‘The bird you describe is a lammergeyer.’ He shrugged his shoulders and pulled himself back together. ‘While I lived and travelled – and I lived for a very long time, travelled a very great distance – I saw one, maybe two. They’re cowardly creatures, eaters of carrion. I’ve never heard of one coming anywhere near the Ffrydd. Their home’s on the other side of the world, the far side of the Sea of Tegid. They don’t do the killing, rather clean up after someone else has done the work. For one to come that far and act as you say, it would have to be possessed. And to possess a mindless creature like that would take a mage of such power as I have never encountered. I doubt if even Magog himself could have done it.’

  ‘Then who?’ Benfro asked.

  ‘That I don’t know,’ Corwen said, and Benfro could hear the despair behind the words. ‘But it tells me how you won your wings, and that they’re as much a curse as a blessing.’

  ‘A curse?’ Benfro asked, flexing slightly and feeling their reassuring weight at his sides. ‘They’re magnificent. How could they possibly harm me?’

  ‘A dragon’s gift is also his bond, Benfro,’ Corwen said. ‘You’re linked to Magog’s unreckoned jewel by the most powerful of magics. He survives through his connection with you, taking you over little by little. Had you left the jewel where you found it, that process would have been subtle, undetecte
d until you were too far gone to notice. There would be no more Benfro, only Magog, risen again. As it was, you’re a kind-hearted soul and you sought to bring final rest to the great warrior mage. You took his jewel with you. I suspect he didn’t think you’d do that.’

  ‘How does that change things?’

  ‘Have you learned nothing from Sir Frynwy’s tales? Magog was greed and jealousy in dragon form,’ Corwen said. ‘Do you think that after many thousands of years dead he would be any different? So close to you, for so long, he can’t help himself from digging his claws deep into your psyche. That’s how you managed to get into his repository. No other dragon alive has ever entered that sanctum. And who do you think put your friends’ jewels in there?’

  Benfro thought of the great room with its seemingly endless ranks of dragon jewels all cut off from any contact with others. It was a singular act of cruelty beyond his comprehension. What possible crime could those condemned souls have committed to warrant such torture, over so many centuries? Then he remembered the pain he had felt when he had tried to rid himself of the tiny red ruby. He remembered the voice trying to find his name, tempting him into the watery grave, a companion for long-dead bones.

  ‘I …’ he began, but could think of nothing to say.

  ‘You’ve been completely in his thrall at least once, Benfro,’ Corwen said. ‘He’s made you do things that you’d never consciously do. But he doesn’t control you now. So there’s hope.’

  ‘What should I do?’ Benfro’s voice sounded very loud in the cave.

  ‘You must sleep now, young Benfro,’ Corwen said. ‘I’ll watch you don’t wander off in your dreams tonight.’

  ‘But there’s so much I don’t understand, so much I need to know.’