The Rose Cord

by J. D. Oswald

  He cast his eyes over the room once more. There was, he fancied, a nexus not far from the window. It was a pale glow, as if the sun were shining down through a tiny hole in the ceiling. But it was still night and there was no moon to make such a mark either. He blinked and the spot was gone. Perhaps it had been his imagination. Certainly it was difficult to think straight when every breath was an effort unrewarded.

  He must have dozed off then, for the next thing Benfro knew the sun was shining through the half of the window not blocked by snow, painting a bright square higher up on the ceiling than seemed possible. He felt stronger now, though hungrier than ever, and struggled to uncertain feet. His head was light, and spots sprang into his vision as he fought with the thin air, What should have been a matter of seconds took minutes, but finally he made it, gasping, to the window.

  The sill came up to his chest, and the snow against the closed pane reached his chin. With heavy arms he opened the window and pushed this away, trying his best to clear the opening so that he could see out properly. It took far longer than the simple task should have done, and when he was finished he had to lean against the cold stone and try not to retch. He was breathing as hard and fast as he could, and yet it was like there was a stout cotton bag over his head. Finally, when the spots began to clear from his vision, he lifted his head and stuck it out the window.

  He could see the ground now, and its distance made his head spin. The perspective was all wrong, everything too far away. The sun was low in a hazy sky, seeming almost to be below him. Flanking it, he could see a ridge of mountains spreading out like a wall and beneath them was a sea of green, unbroken for countless miles. There was only one place he could be. Mount Arnahi.

  Benfro leaned as far as he could out of the window, trying to see where on the mountain he might be. But the walls were too thick and the snow reflected the sunlight with painful brightness. He would have climbed on to the sill, edged his way out and looked down, but the opening was too small and he had nothing like enough energy. Instead he slumped back down on to the floor, cherishing the memory of what he had seen but exhausted beyond the point where he cared if he saw it again or not.

  Sitting there, he remembered the wooden door set into the wall just a few paces from him. The floor sloped slightly towards it, narrow channels between the flagstones channelling any water that way. As the wind gusted a little more snow over his head and let it settle on the floor, he realized why. But the door was big enough to let a dragon twice his size through, so there was more to it than just drainage. He crawled across to it on his hands and knees.

  By the time he reached the door, he was so tired it was all he could do to lie on his side and stare at the handle, so far above him it seemed unreachable. He gasped for air, forcing the thin substitute that filled the cave into his lungs, fighting against the lightness in his head that threatened to send him back to sleep. Gritting his teeth, Benfro once more hauled himself to his feet, swaying dangerously until he caught hold of the door handle. It was a massive cast-iron loop, and he held on to it as if it were a lifeline. It was almost too heavy to turn, solid with cold and age and rust. He thought it wouldn’t budge, and his vision dimmed with the effort. Then, with a final heave, it popped up.

  Expecting the door to open into the room, Benfro spent several minutes leaning back, holding on to the latch and cursing his weakness. Only when he stopped for a moment did he realize his error. There was no latch on his side of the door. So he shifted his weight forward, ready for a hard push to get the hinges moving. The door gave easily, as if recently greased, and overbalancing, he pitched forward into the darkness beyond.

  ‘When will he regain consciousness?’

  Melyn looked down at the sleeping figure swathed in crisp white linen like a new-born babe. Errol’s face was a mess of purple and yellow bruises, one eye swollen completely shut, the other puffy and weeping yellow from the side. His nose had been broken and blood still clotted his nostrils. His lips were split and twice their normal size.

  ‘He’s very badly injured,’ Usel said. ‘I’ve been keeping him unconscious to aid his recovery.’

  ‘Damn you, man. I need him awake,’ Melyn said. ‘I need to know what happened to him. And how in the Shepherd’s name he came to be in Ruthin’s Grove. He’s meant to be in Tynhelyg.’

  ‘He’ll be no use to you if he’s dead,’ Usel said, and Melyn wondered why it was he suffered the medic’s insolence. He was used to being feared, avoided, respected. Usel simply treated him as he treated everyone else. But then the man was perhaps the most skilled physician in the Twin Kingdoms. Damn him.

  ‘Well I want to know the moment he’s awake enough to talk. And I expect you to heal him, medic.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can, Inquisitor,’ Usel said. ‘But someone’s taken a lot of trouble over breaking his ankles. I’m not sure he’ll be comfortable walking any great distance again.’

  ‘I don’t care about his comfort,’ Melyn snarled. ‘I just want what’s in his head.’ He stalked out of the room, almost crashing into a novitiate who was hurrying along the corridor towards the infirmary.

  ‘He’s not awake, if you’ve come to see him,’ Melyn said to the cowering boy. ‘That fool Usel’s got him drugged into a stupor so deep even I can’t get anything from him.’

  ‘Actually, Your Grace, it was you I was looking for.’ The novitiate held out his trembling hand with a small roll of parchment in it. ‘This just arrived by bird from Tynhelyg.’

  Melyn snatched the message from the terrified boy, unrolled it and peered at the tiny writing. It was of course coded, and the light in the corridor was far too weak to decipher the scrawl. Frustrated, he limped back through the monastery complex and up into his tower rooms, cursing his age all the way. There, where the afternoon light shone in through the windows, he could spread the parchment out on his desk and begin the laborious task of translation.

  Half an hour later he was back in the infirmary, four warrior priests behind him. Usel the medic still tended the boy, aided by the coenobite who had first brought him news of Errol’s capture. Both of them looked up in surprise at the inquisitor’s sudden return.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ Melyn demanded.

  ‘Father Gideon knows more about healing bones than any man alive,’ Usel said. ‘He’s already set Errol’s ankles and he’s helping me with his ribs. It’s a delicate operation.’

  Melyn stared at the old man, trying to see into his mind, but it was closed tight. He could tell by the way he stood that Gideon had travelled far and wide, learning many secrets along the way. Not the least of which was how to deflect a casual mind-sweep. Well, if he was a trained medic and could help to keep the boy alive, Melyn would tolerate his presence. At least for now.

  ‘Very well. But I need him conscious.’

  ‘He’s not going to wake any time soon,’ Usel said.

  ‘Nevertheless, he will wake just as soon as your drugs wear off. You won’t give him any more until I’ve had a chance to speak to him. And just in case your medical sensibilities come before your devotion to the order, these four warrior priests are going to sit and watch.’

  Benfro couldn’t tell how long he had been unconscious. His first returning awareness was of cold. His feet and hands stung with it. Then, when he tried to move them away from whatever was chilling them, the pain dragged him awake. Every muscle in his body was bruised, or at least that was how it felt when he tried to shift. His head pounded with waves of nausea and his arms felt like they were on back to front.

  Slowly, agonizingly, he began to pull himself together. He had ended up on his front with one arm twisted beneath him. The other was wedged between his body and a cold stone wall. At first he thought he was stuck: certainly any attempt at movement brought waves of agony and not much motion. He managed to extract his arm from underneath him; his weight had cut off the blood flow and he spent some minutes silently screaming as the feeling came back. And all the while his breathing was forced, the th
in air still refusing to give him the support he was used to.

  He lay against the wall of a small alcove that opened up into a larger cave. The stairs down which he had fallen climbed away with curiously broad low steps, curving in a gentle arc until he could see no further. Beyond him the cave was natural, not carved like the room above. The walls were rough and pitted, and the floor, uneven in the main, was covered in a thick layer of fine gravel. Larger rocks pierced this at random, like strange creatures drowning in a stony sea. The light filtered through from his left, its source hidden around a rocky outcrop that formed one side of the alcove.

  A stiff cold breeze filled the cave, brushing past him and on up the stairs. Guiltily Benfro remembered that he had left the window open. The snow would fill the room with the next storm. He wondered how long it had taken to cram it completely.

  Weak from hunger and the thin air, cold and bruised, he picked himself up and staggered into the light. Everything hurt, even the pads of his feet as he picked his way over the sharp gravel, but the pain seemed to sharpen his mind, fight off the light-headed weariness that had triggered his fall. The mouth of the cave was wide and tall, big enough to stretch out his wings and not touch the sides, had he the vigour and the inclination. But it was filled halfway up with snow. It flooded into the cave mouth like a mudslide in white, a soft but unyielding barrier to the outside. Through the gap he could see the sun high in a blue-black sky. The heap of snow between him and the outside might have been as big as the mountain itself; there was no way he would be able to climb it and certainly no way he could dig it away.

  Dispirited, Benfro turned to look at the rest of the cave. It seemed to go on for ever, stretching into endless darkness. It was just possible that there might be another way out, he thought. So, ignoring the aches from his stomach and the protests from the rest of his battered body, he set off to explore.

  He discovered that the more he walked, the easier it became. He still felt weak and breathless, but not with the incapacitating weariness that had been with him since he first arrived in this strange place. The cave carved its way back into the mountain, zigzagging as it went. He expected it to get darker as the snow-filtered light from the entrance was cut off by the endless twists and turns, but the walls gave off an eerie green light of their own. He could not be sure, but he thought the gravel floor might be sloping down very gently. He soon lost all sense of direction with nothing but the rough walls and their random sharp turns to guide him. At least there was only the one passageway, so he would be able to retrace his steps if it became really necessary.

  No sooner had he thought this than he came across the doors. There were three of them, all stout dark wood and of a similar size, material and construction to the one in the top room. Their latches were ornately wrought iron, blackened with age but rust free. One stood directly in front of him, at what was the end of the cave, the other two flanked it on either wall, twenty paces or more apart. Since that was the way he had been going, Benfro opened the central door first.

  Beyond it lay a passage only slightly larger than the door itself. It was hewn out of the solid rock in a perfect rounded arch and it speared arrow-straight away from him to a point so far distant he couldn’t be sure whether it was light he was seeing or just his imagination. Wind whistled past him, bringing a cold blast from the snow-filled entrance. It caught the door, whipping it from his grasp and slamming it shut. Taking the hint, he turned to his left.

  This door opened on blackness. He could see nothing beyond the frame. Again the wind blew, but weaker this time as if the air was less keen to enter the space. It felt like there was a vast open nothingness beyond – something in the way the darkness swallowed the tiny noise that the hinges made. He kicked a little of the sharp gravel into the opening, expecting to hear it rattling down steps or clattering into a wall. Only silence met him. He waited, seconds turning into minutes, his breathing as shallow as he could manage, straining for a sound. When it came, it was very faint, but unmistakably the echoed ploip of stones hitting deep water from a great height. Carefully he closed the door.

  The third door swung open almost before he reached it, as if whatever lay beyond wanted to be discovered. Light poured through the opening, warm and welcoming. There was the faintest aroma of cooked food and scrubbed wood that drove all thoughts of caution from Benfro’s head. Trying hard not to drool, he stepped into a large room dominated by a long solid table with low benches along either side and a massive carved chair at its head.

  ‘Go and tell the inquisitor the boy’s awake.’

  Errol heard the words through a sea of numbness. He floated in his head, cocooned from the pain and suffering, which were just memories. Somewhere out there the real world was waiting for him with promises of misery, but for now he could pretend it didn’t exist.

  ‘Here, drink this,’ a familiar voice said. ‘You need to get some fluids back into you.’

  Errol felt the touch of a bowl to his lips, and then sweet liquid filled his mouth. He tried to open his eyes, then realized that they were already open. The shapes he had thought random dream images coalesced into the friendly face of Usel.

  ‘Welcome back,’ the medic said. ‘I thought you were going to sleep for a week.’

  ‘How long?’ Errol tried to say, but his throat was still too dry. He reached up and took the bowl, nearly dropping it as the agony returned. Usel caught it, spilling only a little on the white sheets.

  ‘There’s something in here for the pain,’ the medic said, holding up the bowl once more. ‘I’d far rather put you out completely, but Melyn won’t allow it. He wants to speak to you. In fact he’s wanted to speak to you for quite some time now.’

  ‘I can’t hide from him.’ Every word brought with it a wince of pain. ‘I can’t think straight. I’m not even sure how I got here.’

  ‘No one is, Errol. That’s the problem,’ Usel said. ‘Word’s going round that Ballah’s men dumped you in Ruthin’s Grove to show that they could move about here unnoticed. I’d stick to that if I were you.’

  Usel stood, placing the empty bowl on a small table beside the bed. For the first time Errol noticed that three warrior priests were standing at the far end of the room, staring at him.

  ‘I have to go now,’ Usel said.

  ‘Where?’ A sudden terror surged through Errol at the thought of being left alone with the inquisitor. ‘You’ll be coming back?’

  ‘Of course,’ Usel said, and somehow Errol knew he was lying. ‘And don’t worry. Andro’s about as well, He’ll make sure you’re given all the time you need to recover.’

  Errol wanted to say more, but the medic had turned away. He watched him cross the room and say something quietly to the warrior priests. They stepped aside and he left. Then they once more formed up in front of the door.

  ‘My ankles are both broken,’ Errol said, unsure whether his weak words would carry across the infirmary. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ He had meant it as a joke, but it rebounded on him. The painkilling draught was working its magic on him, but he knew that he was trapped in this bed as surely as he had been trapped in the torture chair in Ballah’s dungeons.

  How had he got to Ruthin’s Grove? His mind cleared slightly as the pain dulled, but his thoughts were also slowing down, made sluggish by the potion. He remembered being dragged through the palace out into the courtyard. He remembered the people as a faceless, amorphous mass save for the major domo and the grinning axeman. And he remembered a pale worried face at the window in the West Tower. Iolwen turning away. Not Iolwen but Martha. Or was it Iolwen after all? And the lines going everywhere. Anywhere but where he was. It was simple to get away from trouble; he just had to remember how it was done.

  A noise in the corridor snapped the warrior priests to attention. Errol could hear the hurried approach of many feet. He knew the inquisitor was coming, and he knew that the old man would see straight into his thoughts and memories. He hadn’t the strength to build a world in his mind for Melyn to s
ee, hadn’t the clarity of thinking. His confusion would be his undoing. He had to escape. If he could just remember how.

  As if coming to his aid, the lines swam into his vision. They criss-crossed the room, an intricate web of power and life, each one a link to limitless possibilities. He had to find a place to go, choose one only from the clamouring multitude. But the noise of approaching doom was louder now, and as he struggled with his task Errol watched one of his guards turn to open the door.

  For the briefest of instants he thought he saw Melyn approaching along the corridor. Then something clicked in his head and everything turned upside down.

  There were plates and cutlery made from the finest silver and wrought with the same delicate patterns as the candelabra that illuminated the scene. Two places were laid, one at the head of the table, the other to its right. The smell of cooking meat made his stomach gurgle in anticipation, but there was no food. Benfro slid himself on to the bench in front of the lesser place setting. It didn’t seem right to assume he could take the head of the table.

  Pain twisted in his stomach, an acid burning that felt like it was wearing its way out through his intestines and the leathery skin of his stomach. He belched a sour burp that etched his throat and spread fire out across his chest. Anything at that point would have been good, even water, and he reached greedily for the huge goblet just in front of his right hand.

  To his surprise it was full not of water but of wine. Benfro had only ever drunk wine once before. Not even Meirionydd had dared to thwart his mother’s edict that he was too young for it. When he had finally managed to steal a few dregs from the bottom of Sir Frynwy’s barrel, it had been an unpleasant sour-tasting liquid full of bitter glass-hard shards. Just remembering the incident made him feel ill.