The Obsidian Throne Page 14

  ‘Your Grace. Are you sure this is wise? The jewel will consume you utterly.’ Frecknock’s voice sounded distant, as if she were shouting to him from the far side of the parade ground out beyond the palace walls. Melyn focused on the jewel, surprised just how deep he had sunk into its intoxicating lure. With a wrench, he dropped it back into the velvet bag, the voices still loud in his head, the knowledge still just out of reach.

  ‘A man could spend a lifetime studying this jewel and barely scratch its surface.’ He hefted the bag, feeling much more than its physical weight. It promised so much, but at what price?

  ‘Or he could lose himself to it entirely,’ Frecknock said, and Melyn was surprised to hear the worry in her voice, the real concern for his wellbeing. He paused a moment, taking in the whole of the throne room, the palace, the city. All his to command – was that not enough?

  ‘Stay here. I know you don’t like it where I am going.’ He stood up, muscles aching from having sat on the uncomfortable throne all morning. He shoved the velvet bag into his cloak pocket alongside the box and its rings, stepped down from the dais and walked slowly to the screen behind it.

  ‘Guard the entrance. I won’t be long.’ He took one last look at the throne room before heading down into the great cavern, adding with a hollow laugh, ‘I go to speak with my god.’

  ‘Little things. Little things. They smell of power. I wonder what they taste like?’

  Dafydd stood, frozen to the spot by fear. The two dragons in the doorway looked almost identical, as if they were twins. They were thin for their kind, their necks long and sinuous.

  ‘What are they doing in here? This is our place now.’

  The two dragons moved as one, then found they could not both fit through the doorway together. For a moment they fought each other and the sheer comedy of their actions lessened Dafydd’s terror. It was only for a moment though, and then one of the great wooden doors crashed off its hinges. The noise as it hit the marble floor echoed through the vast hall. Behind him, Dafydd sensed Iolwen’s focus waver as the calm she had radiated began to dissipate. He reached up, grabbed her hand, not really wanting to turn his back on the dragons to face her.

  ‘You must stop, Iol. The people don’t need to feel your fear.’

  She opened her eyes, glancing up and past him. He followed her gaze and saw the beasts had covered half of the distance between doorway and throne now. Their progress was slow, hampered by the mess and destruction around them, but they moved in a perfect synchrony, one with the other, that was oddly mesmerizing.

  ‘We have to go. Now.’ Usel had edged to the corner of the throne and Dafydd felt rather than saw the medic slipping into his invisible form. And then he let out a tiny shriek, his image solidifying.

  ‘Mustn’t try to hide. That’s kitling magic that is.’

  Dafydd heard the words deep in his head and knew that one of the dragons had spoken directly to their minds. Given the words, it might have been both of them, so closely were they linked. They acted as one creature split in two, weaving from side to side sinuously.

  ‘Who are you?’ Dafydd spoke the words in a whisper, too quiet even for Iolwen and Usel to hear, but the two dragons stopped, lifting their heads towards him like curious animals.

  ‘It speaks an ugly language, does it not?’

  ‘It wants to know our name. Should we tell it?’

  ‘Names are power. Let us not.’

  ‘Names are only power to those who know how to use them. What can this little thing do?’

  ‘Caution, brother. Is that not what Angharad said? These creatures are small, but one of their kind killed Sir Chwilog.’

  Dafydd heard the conversation in his head, even though he could see no movement from either dragon as they bickered. He had hoped to distract them and it seemed to be working. Then he remembered the line circling the dais and throne, beyond which none of the dragons seemed yet to have ventured. Perhaps it was that rather than his question that was keeping them at bay.

  ‘We are Ynys Faelog.’

  ‘And we are Ynys Feurig.’

  ‘And we would know what manner of creature you are. Like a man, but with the power of the Grym to command.’

  Dafydd’s head began to ache. It wasn’t that the voices were loud or harsh, but they stabbed deep into his mind.

  ‘I am Dafydd, son of Geraint. I mean you no harm, nor disrespect. You are twins, are you not?’

  ‘Hatched from the same egg we are.’

  Looking at the pair of them, Dafydd didn’t doubt it. They were one creature really, split in two. They moved as one, spoke as one. He wondered what would happen to the other if one of them was injured. Would they both feel the pain? What if one died?

  ‘Come away from the black chair, Dafydd son of Geraint. It is too dangerous to approach.’

  Dafydd took two steps from the throne before he realized what he was doing. Iolwen’s cry of alarm and Usel’s firm grip on his arm stopped him in his tracks. He shook his head from side to side, trying to dislodge the compulsion in the dragons’ words.

  ‘The Obsidian Throne is no danger to me,’ he said.

  ‘Truly?’ The twins stopped their pacing around the circumference, turning to face each other. Dafydd imagined he could hear some exchange between them, but the thoughts were so swift and so utterly alien he could tell nothing of what they meant. And then they turned as one, stepped over the invisible line.

  ‘Run!’ Usel’s words were backed up with a sharp tug to Dafydd’s arm. The medic didn’t wait to see if he was being followed, just darted around the back of the throne and set off for the distant door through which they had entered. Dafydd couldn’t take his eyes off the twin dragons as they moved ever closer. Their eyes were dark globes flecked with tiny sparkling points, like stars in a clear night sky. There was something hypnotic about the way their heads moved from side to side, like a snake bearing down on a mouse. Transfixed by that stare, Dafydd inched slowly backwards until cold stone blocked his path. He was trapped against the throne and would surely die here.

  ‘Dafydd, up here.’ Iolwen’s voice broke through the fog in his mind created by the dragon twins. He felt her hand on his shoulder, dared to turn for long enough to find the neat steps that climbed up to the throne itself. He scrambled up on to the seat, embracing his wife as if he hadn’t seen her in months, not the scant minutes that had passed since the dragons had first entered the Neuadd. The twins had reached the dais now and climbed on to it without so much as a backward glance.

  ‘I’m sorry, Iol. I never meant for this to happen.’

  ‘Hush now. She is coming. She won’t let us down.’

  ‘Who’s coming? Iol? What are you talking ab—?’

  Dafydd’s question was cut short by a screech from the open door. The light dimmed as another dragon filled the entrance, the great black beast that had been chasing the captain and his men around the cloisters. It screamed something in their harsh, guttural language and Dafydd felt the twins withdraw from his mind. Only with them gone could he sense how much they had inveigled their way into his thoughts. Their sudden absence made him feel sick.

  As a pair, the twins turned to face the other dragon, their response to his call a rapid shouting like the argument of magpies. They retraced their steps past the invisible boundary, movements less coordinated as they picked a path back to the door.

  ‘Quick, Iol. We won’t get another chance.’ Dafydd grabbed Iolwen’s hand and pulled her out of the seat.

  ‘But she’s coming. She’ll take us away from here.’ She resisted, a look of confusion spreading across her face.

  ‘Who’s coming? Iol, we can’t wait. We have to get to the cavern. Our son’s still down there.’

  Mention of their child, and maybe Dafydd’s touch, jolted Iolwen out of whatever dream had a hold of her. She looked first at Dafydd, then at the dragons bickering in the doorway. Then without a further word she leaped from the throne, landing gracefully on the marble floor. Dafydd followed her,
and in moments they were running for the anteroom. Neither of them turned when they heard the roars of frustration and alarm from the dragons at the far end of the Neuadd, nor when the sound of wings beating at the air drowned out even that. Iolwen had a head start and was a faster runner than him, but Dafydd didn’t relax as he saw her disappear through the open doorway. He could feel the hot breath of the beasts behind him, the tendrils of the twins’ thoughts probing for any gaps in his mental shields. The ground shook beneath him as something vast crashed into it, the black dragon landing after its short flight across the hall. He imagined it rearing its head, mouth wide open, fangs still dripping with the blood of its last victim as it prepared to strike him down. With the last of his strength, he leaped for the door, crashing on to the floor in the small room even as the great beast let out another frustrated roar.

  Dafydd scrambled away as the great black dragon pressed its snout to the doorway. Its head was too big to fit through, so it reached in with hands as big as a man, grabbed the door posts and pulled the whole wall away.

  ‘I will eat you, little man.’ It spoke directly to his mind, less subtle than the twins, the words battering down his defences. He couldn’t get his footing, kicking away dust and rubble as he tried to reach the steps and escape. But the distance was too great, and all he could do was watch in terror as a scaly, taloned hand reached out to grab him.

  The cavern reeked of power. Melyn had felt it before, but now his senses were so much more finely tuned to the Grym, he couldn’t help but be intoxicated by it. He knew that the Shepherd – Magog – was not really down here, but the place was such a potent nexus it was that much easier to seek him out.

  ‘Ah, Melyn son of Arall, I wondered when you would return.’

  The voice filled him with wonder, lent him energy and eased away the aches and pains from sitting so long in Ballah’s uncomfortable throne. It was the same thrill he had always felt when in the presence of his god, but now it was tinged with a certain sadness. And anger too that he had been so fooled.

  ‘How long have you been planning this? How long—’

  ‘Since I died?’ The voice in Melyn’s head suggested faint amusement. ‘I did not die, my faithful servant. I am not dead. I merely left this plane of existence, as the holy books tell.’

  ‘The holy books are a lie. The Shepherd is a lie. Your power—’

  ‘You cannot begin to understand my power, little man. How far it reaches. What it can do. I have healed your body, kept it young past its time. I can just as easily age it until there is little left of you but a husk.’

  Melyn felt pain grow in his joints as if someone had sliced them open with a razor-sharp knife and poured acid into the cuts. His fingers bent, the knuckles swelling and seizing them into claws. His back creaked and folded until he was stooped, squeezing his lungs and making it hard to breathe.

  ‘Imagine that. The great Inquisitor Melyn grown old and decrepit. Easy prey for any upstart warrior priest who might want to take his place. Perhaps your Captain Osgal or maybe Clun Defaid. He shows promise, and he has no doubts as to my divinity.’

  Melyn struggled against the weight crushing down on him, dragging at his thoughts and making him slow. He pictured the mindless, sitting in the almshouses outside Emmass Fawr, drooling on to their naked chests, shitting themselves, needing to be fed and cleaned until their bodies finally gave up. He would not go that way. Neither would he die at the hands of some upstart novitiate who had caught the queen’s eye. He clenched his fists, using the pain that shot through his hands and up his arms, riding it as he pushed back against the presence that he had so long considered his god.

  ‘Still some fight in you, eh? Good.’ The voice of the Shepherd, the voice of Magog, had a sneer in its tone that was quite unmistakable, but as he spoke, so the pain lessened, the relief flooding through Melyn like a healing balm.

  ‘Hard to be in awe of your god when you’ve killed his brother. When you know him for the false god he truly is.’

  ‘Ah, Melyn son of Arall. What is a god if not someone who watches over his people, guides them, intervenes here and there to keep destiny on track?’

  ‘You commanded we hunt down dragons, slay them. And yet you are a dragon yourself.’

  ‘You have seen this place, Melyn. And you have seen its larger twin beneath the great hall of the Neuadd. There are others around Gwlad, in places of power. They are the points around which the Grym turns, the source of our power, my brother and I. But he betrayed that power. He gave it up for the love of that fickle creature.’

  Melyn wasn’t sure what the voice was talking about, but he could see it was important. This cavern with its vast collection of jewels was not the work of men, and neither was the great cavern beneath the Neuadd. True, he had overseen the placing of dragon jewels within its alcoves all the years he had been inquisitor, as had every head of his order before him. That had been one of their sacred duties, handed down to Balwen by the Shepherd himself. But the hoards pre-dated them, perhaps by millennia.

  ‘How is it you persuaded the Llanwennogs to collect your precious jewels for you? They rejected the teachings of the Shepherd centuries ago.’

  ‘You think too small, Melyn. My reach spreads further than the Shepherd and the Wolf. They form only part of the story. The House of Ballah has not increased the size of this hoard for many years. And there were few dragons in this part of Gwlad to begin with. Rejecting my teachings was all part of my plan. What better way to ensure enmity between the two houses, the two nations?’

  ‘Divide and conquer. But why would you need us fighting? What could we do together that might possibly threaten your great master plan?’

  ‘Threaten?’ Again the voice in Melyn’s head laughed and sneered. ‘Nothing could possibly threaten me in this realm. I am everywhere, know everything. But the wars and the constant scheming have kept you occupied. Kept you distracted while I waited for the time to be right.’

  ‘The time for what?’ Melyn asked, even though he suspected he knew. The ecstasy of being in the presence of his god was hard to ignore, even knowing his god was false.

  ‘The time to be reborn. For the Shepherd to return. So that the damage my brother did to Gwlad might finally be repaired.’

  ‘For Benfro.’ Melyn’s words echoed in the empty cavern. Ever since uncovering the truth about the Shepherd he had found it hard to kindle the old anger that had fed his ambition through the years, but just thinking about the young dragon stoked it anew. Not the explosive rage at his very existence, this was a more narrow fury. One he could control and direct.

  ‘He is the key. His hatching at the confluence was not a coincidence. Neither is his lineage, directly back to me through the male line. My brother worked hard to stop that from happening, cursed the dragons of this realm to have only female kitlings and cursed them doubly to become the shrunken, timid creatures you have hunted. They are not true dragons. It is only fit that their jewels add to my power, sustain me even as my mortal remains turn to dust.’

  Melyn reached into the pocket of his robe and took out the heart of the Shepherd. Knowing now what it was, he could see its imperfections, the roughness of it. Not just unreckoned but unfinished, it was unlike most of the jewels he had handled in his long life with the Order of the High Ffrydd. It buzzed with power, uncomfortable to hold though not in any physical way. He rolled it around the palm of his hand just once, then placed it in the nearest empty stone alcove. From his other pocket he pulled out the box that had once contained Balwen’s ring on Brynceri’s dessicated finger. Where had the finger gone? He couldn’t recall. It was no longer important. The ring nestled beside its twin, given to some ancestor of King Ballah so many years before. Looking at them together, he could see the differences in the jewels, and the similarities. Their colour was identical to that of the heart from which they had been expertly chipped. Magically chipped. He plucked them swiftly from the box and placed them in their own alcoves, all three jewels apart. Then he let the box tum
ble to the stone floor.

  ‘I am still with you, Melyn son of Arall. I will always be with you.’ The voice of the Shepherd was no weaker in his mind, the ecstasy still potent enough to drop a man to his knees. At least a lesser man.

  ‘I know. But I also know I don’t need these jewels for what I have to do. They are safer here.’

  He turned from the alcoves and headed for the steps carved into the central pillar, felt the Shepherd’s presence fade the way it always had before. That casual dismissal that had once left him bereft now left him relieved. Mind closed as tight as he had ever closed it, yet still Melyn wondered if his god knew that he was lying.

  13

  In ancient times the dragons of Gwlad were huge beasts, fire-breathing and ferocious. Unlike the timid creatures we see today, they ruled the skies, flying with ease on wings bigger than the sails of the great merchant ships that ply the Southern Sea today. The few tribes of men were spread across the lands now known as Llanwennog and the Twin Kingdoms of the Hafod and Hendry, living in caves and constantly in fear of violent death from above.

  It is said that the dragons were the Shepherd’s first creation and favoured by him above all, but they turned to the Wolf and spurned the teachings of their creator. In his wrath he raised up his second creation, the men who until then had lived in fear. Taking on their form, he came down from the safe pastures and walked among us. One he favoured above others, taught him the ways of magic and the Grym, gave him the wisdom needed to unite the warring tribes. His name was Balwen and his sacred task was to hunt down the creatures of the Wolf, slay them in the name of the Shepherd.