The Rose Cord

by J. D. Oswald

  ‘Very well,’ she said, unsure what good it would do to be poked and prodded by the palace quacks. ‘But find me a coenobite of the Ram. I don’t want one of Padraig’s useless bureaucrats treating me like a textbook.’

  The chambermaid curtsied and left the room, taking the others with her. Beulah settled her head back into the pillows, wiping cold sweat from her forehead. It had been days now, maybe weeks, since this strange ailment had hit her. It came and went; sometimes she would be as fit as ever, the next day barely able to drag herself out of bed. It was difficult to keep food down, and what she did manage to eat left her feeling bloated. She would have suspected a poisoning attempt, but Clun, noble Clun, insisted on tasting all her food before she ate, and he was as fit as a fiddle.

  Anger gave her a little strength, and Beulah used it to drag herself out of bed. She ached in her hips and back as she made her way to the bathroom. Warm scented steam swirled in the air, rising off the bath her chambermaids had already drawn. It was at once inviting and stomach-churning, and with a terrible sense of helplessness Beulah turned as fast as she could to the basin. She had not eaten much the evening before, but what was left of it came up in great heaves.

  She leaned over the basin, catching her breath and fighting the waves of nausea that swept over her. How long had it really been like this? Had she felt this way before the debacle in the Neuadd when that strange young woman had run rings around a dozen highly trained warrior priests? When both she and the boy Errol had mysteriously disappeared in front of her eyes? It seemed to her that her symptoms had begun shortly after that. Perhaps she was suffering from some dark magical attack. And yet Beulah felt certain she would have known if that were the case. She was skilled in magic, after all. And she had the power of the Obsidian Throne to help her. Perhaps Melyn would have been able to divine what the problem was, but as ever when she needed him, he was elsewhere. She doubted she had the energy to try and contact him through the aethereal.

  The raw burning pain in her throat seemed to counter her queasiness a little, and Beulah felt able to bathe. Warm water soothed her aches, and the perfumed soap washed away her night sweat, so that by the time she walked through into her dressing chamber, wrapped in a long white silk robe, she was beginning to feel almost human. In the mirror her face was gaunt, thin and drawn. Her freckles stood out like some disfiguring plague against skin as pale as a bloodless corpse. Her hair was straggly and matted, still damp from her bath, more scalp showing through than was healthy. She looked awful and was glad of the distraction when the reflected image of the chambermaid appeared behind her.

  ‘I have summoned a physician, ma’am. A Ram, as requested. He awaits in your outer chamber.’

  ‘Well, he’s no use to me there, is he? Send him in.’

  The chambermaid bobbed a curtsy and scurried out of the room. After a few moments there was a quiet knock at the door.

  ‘Come,’ Beulah said, not bothering to turn round. To her surprise, the figure who appeared in the doorway was not some road-weary travelling coenobite but Archimandrite Cassters himself. She remembered him as a chubby man, white-haired and slightly eccentric, but old age was catching up with him now.

  ‘Your Majesty. I was told you weren’t feeling well. Please, how may I help you?’ The archimandrite made to bow, but Beulah stopped him. If he made it down on to one knee, he’d never get back up again.

  ‘Come, Your Grace, sit. If I’d known the silly girl would fetch you I’d never have sent her. I only meant for her to find me a coenobite.’ She steered the old man to one of the chairs arranged by the large window which overlooked an empty courtyard, settling herself down into the other.

  ‘And why would you seek our help? Aren’t Padraig’s palace physicians to your liking?’

  ‘They’ve used my blood to grow their leeches fat, and they’ve made my back sore with their cupping. I don’t think they know the first thing about medicine.’

  Cassters smiled, creases forming at the edges of his small clear eyes. ‘So tell me, my queen. How long have you been suffering this malaise?’

  ‘Perhaps three weeks now,’ Beulah said. ‘It comes and goes. Mornings are always worst. If I could just get a decent night’s sleep. But I feel drained all the time.’

  ‘If I may, ma’am?’ Cassters reached out and took her wrist, feeling for a pulse. His touch was warm and dry against her skin as he felt her forehead and peered into her eyes. It seemed strange to be so close to someone, so intimate. Only Clun would dare to touch her face that way, and she had not had the strength to visit his chamber in weeks now. Dear Clun, so unlike his traitorous stepbrother Errol. But then Errol wasn’t really Clun’s stepbrother at all, was he?

  ‘Did you know about Lleyn’s child?’ Beulah asked.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘When she died, what was it, sixteen years ago now? She was with child. I assume you knew about that.’

  Cassters looked her straight in the eyes. ‘Only after she had died,’ he said. ‘Father Gideon was her physician. He told me afterwards what had happened. That Llanwennog prince, Balch, was the father, apparently.’

  Beulah summoned up her strength. It was difficult with the headache pounding away between her temples and her stomach churning acid, but she could skim the edges of the archimandrite’s thoughts and she saw no subterfuge in them.

  ‘And the child died with its mother.’

  ‘That’s what I was told. It was a tragedy, but some might say a blessing too. A half-breed heir to the throne. There would have been civil war. Or worse.’

  ‘So you believe the prophecies then.’

  ‘What, Mad Goronwy? Not really, no. But for better or worse the people of the Twin Kingdoms wouldn’t have taken kindly to a son of Ballah on the Obsidian Throne. Oh, there are some who would have welcomed it, true. Abervenn has always been close to the Llanwennogs. But others would have taken up arms against them: in Castell Glas and the west, not to mention Inquisitor Melyn and his warrior priests. No, it would have been a busy time for us Rams had that happened. Very complicated.’

  Beulah felt the emotions skirting around the archimandrite’s mind. He regretted that the two nations could not get along, but accepted it too. He had no part in the conspiracy, she decided.

  ‘So what of me then? Have you any idea what’s causing this infernal sickness and these grinding headaches?’

  ‘That, my dear, is much less of a mystery.’ Cassters patted her arm as the warm smile came back to his face. ‘Really I’m surprised that Padraig’s quacks couldn’t see it for themselves, but then they would never think of such things, what with the vows they insist on taking. Your malady will cure itself in a while, but I can give you something to alleviate the symptoms straight away. I’ll have an apothecary make it up, but given the circumstances I should probably administer it myself.’

  ‘Why? What is it? What’s wrong with me?’ Beulah had noted the archimandrite’s new informality and a sudden realization dawned on her which was both wonderful and terrifying.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with you at all, my queen,’ Cassters said. ‘You’re simply suffering from a severe form of morning sickness. Your mother was just the same.’

  ‘I’m with child?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty. You are with child. May I be the first to offer you congratulations.’

  The light was always different here, as if it were older, slower, thicker. It glowed with a golden sheen, dust motes hovering in the air like spiders on invisible threads. If he tried hard enough, he imagined he could make time stop, fix himself in one impossibly long moment. Stop doing the endless dreadful task his traitor hands persisted with.

  But always he was helpless.

  The pile of jewels was still large, but it was much smaller than it had been after he and Malkin had finished building it. Benfro picked his way through the jewels one by one, savouring briefly the flashing memories of those dragons who had lived so long before.

  At first they had fought against him, gh
ostly forms swirling about his head, shouting at him to wake up. But Magog had done something to them so that all he could hear now was the soft chink of crystals rolling together and the silent screaming of tortured souls.

  He was tired like he hadn’t slept for a thousand nights. Weariness pulled at his arms, drooped his wings from his back, made every breath an effort, and yet he was powerless to do anything but sit in front of the pile, sorting jewels into smaller heaps. He always knew when the complete memories of a dragon were reunited. It was like the feeling of a voice abruptly cut off, a sobbing lament silenced by the slamming of a dungeon door. And when each small heap was ready, he would stand, scoop up the gleaming jewels in his shaky hands and carry them to the next stone alcove to imprison them in endless mad solitude.

  Benfro knew that this was a dream. He knew that all the while he still slept in his draughty corral, shivering on his damp bed of twigs and grass. And yet he was here in Magog’s repository, deep beneath the ruined castle of Cenobus, watched continuously by the brooding presence of the great mage himself. Corwen had tried to explain something to him of the art of dreamwalking, but Benfro was not all that receptive to the old dragon’s teaching at the moment. Apart from his constant debilitating weariness, he couldn’t forgive Corwen for bringing the young man, Errol, to the clearing he had begun to think of as home. Or was he just angry because Errol had saved his life? He didn’t owe men anything but hate.

  The jewels he had been carrying spilled out of his lifeless hands and into their alcove prison. Benfro imagined he could hear a howl of despair as the remains of some long-dead dragon succumbed to Magog’s terrible working. Then with a start he realized that the noise came from his own mouth. He slumped forward, resting his head against the cold stone for a minute, sobbing with sheer frustration. He feared sleeping now, for every night brought the same journey to this terrible place; every night he was forced to do this horrific work, and every night he could feel Magog growing stronger. No wonder he spent his waking hours in a daze; there was no rest to be had from sleep. And nor could he easily escape from it.

  Anger and frustration swept through him as he stood in the cold repository. Benfro hammered his hands against the rough stone, feeling the life surge back into him with the blows. Almost as quickly, the looming invisible presence of his tormentor coalesced into a solid form, the tendrils of control tightening in his mind.

  ‘Come, young apprentice, your work is not yet finished.’ Magog’s voice was totally compelling, directing Benfro’s muscles back towards the gleaming pile of stolen jewels. He fought against it with all his might, as he had done every night since escaping the mountaintop retreat, seeking out that weak spot in Magog’s influence. He knew what he was looking for, the dull nagging ache between his shoulder blades, the root of his twisted wing.

  ‘No more! Leave me alone!’ Benfro twisted round as he shouted, feeling for the uneven branches he knew were underneath him, supporting his sleeping form hundreds of miles away. With a gasp he found them, found the spot of maximum tenderness, and drove himself backwards on to it. A searing pain ripped through his back as if some great wild beast had leaped upon him and was tearing the flesh from his bones with its teeth. The wind rushed out of him with a great screaming cry, his vision dimmed almost to black, and then he was back on his bed of dried grass and bracken, gasping for breath and juddering with shock.

  The pale spring sun hung over the treetops on the eastern edge of the clearing as Benfro emerged wearily from the corral and trudged down to the river. The water was icy still, meltwater from the mountains to the north. He didn’t care as he waded out towards the waterfall and plunged his muddled head into the flow. His wing ached like a sore tooth, something that had to be probed and prodded. It should have healed by now, but every night he wrenched it anew escaping from Magog’s influence.

  ‘He can help you, you know.’

  Benfro looked around to see Corwen standing alongside him. The image of the old dragon was almost perfect, but the water didn’t part around his legs and tail where they dipped into the river.

  ‘How can he help? He can’t even walk.’

  ‘Errol’s ankles are much improved, as it happens. He at least knows how to listen to those who offer help. Well, most of the time, anyway.’

  ‘What can he possibly do for me?’

  ‘He can watch over you while you sleep.’

  Benfro snorted, water spraying from his nose. ‘Why would he want to do that?’

  ‘Because he can. Because he wants to help.’

  ‘And why should I trust him, even if I did believe he could do anything for me?’

  ‘Benfro, it’s been three weeks now since you got back here. You’ve not slept properly in that entire time. Every night you’re off to Magog’s repository rebuilding his power, and every night you lose a little bit more of yourself to him. It’s plain for anyone to see you’re changing day by day. The kitling Morgwm raised would never have refused to help heal injuries, even if they were on a man, yet you left Errol to heal himself. That’s the action of Magog, not Benfro.’

  ‘I can defeat him. I will defeat him. And on my own.’ Benfro trudged out of the river and shook himself dry. His wing root cracked painfully at the motion, but he ignored it, turning his attention instead to his aura and the insubstantial thin red cord that leached away from his forehead like some ghostly siphon. The knot he had tied around it had faded as he slept, and he spent weary minutes trying to fix it. Success brought a measure of relief from a pain he had not realized he had been feeling, like a heavy burden being lifted from his shoulders. He was surprised to find that he was seated on the riverbank; he didn’t remember sitting down. Hunger rumbled in his stomach, but he ignored it for a moment, just relishing the feeling of the sun on his face. After a while Corwen came and sat beside him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Benfro said. ‘It’s hard to fight him sometimes.’

  ‘I know. But you can do it. And you can win. But not alone, Benfro. If you don’t take the help that’s offered, and take it soon, there’ll be nothing of you left to save.’

  THE BEGINNING

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  First published by DevilDog Publishing 2012

  Published in Penguin Books 2013

  This edition published 2014

  Copyright © James Oswald, 2012

  Cover illustration © Sam Headley

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  ISBN: 978-1-405-91770-4

 
  J.D. Oswald, The Rose Cord