The Rose Cord Page 18

  Finding coins was not difficult. There were chests of them neatly stacked around the pillars. Benfro had no concept of money but he had always taken Ynys Môn’s advice so he filled his leather bag with as many as its strap would hold, adding a few other shiny trinkets, including the torc he had ripped from the skeleton at the door. There were so many maps he didn’t know where to begin. But one was folded rather than rolled and drawn on some thin, lightweight fabric he couldn’t name. It claimed to be A Reckoning of the Northern Land Mass of Gwlad, and he recognized the familiar shape of the Ffrydd on it, ringed by the Rim mountains. It went in the bag with the gold. Then, slinging the weight over his shoulder to go with the food, he shouted for his companion, who had disappeared into the shadows again.

  ‘Malkin, it’s time we left.’ For a moment there was no reply, then the squirrel came running round a pillar, clearly excited.

  ‘The sun,’ it said, scampering up to Benfro’s feet. It ran this way and that, jumping about with infectious glee. Then it set off behind one of the pillars. ‘The forest. Come. Benfro look.’

  How he had missed it during the night was difficult to say, except that the whole room did not seem to conform to any normal sense of dimensions. It was a window, hewn through the rock wall and opening on to a large balcony. A stone balustrade edged its two sides, but straight ahead there was nothing to stop a nasty fall. Malkin was peering over the edge in a manner that made Benfro’s hearts jump. He could see the forest spread out away from him, picked out in the dawn light, shadowed by the great mountain of Magog’s lair. It was a very long way down.

  ‘Careful, Malkin,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to fall.’

  ‘Malkin fall lots,’ the squirrel said, turning as nonchalantly as if there were no drop at all. ‘Malkin fall out of tree, land on head. Not hurt Malkin.’

  ‘Still. I’d be happier if you moved a bit nearer the room.’ Benfro realized that the squirrel was so small, so light, that it most likely could tumble a hundred feet without coming to any harm. But as he inched carefully closer to the edge, he could see that this was more like a thousand feet down, with sharp rocks to shatter anyone who fell. The cliff face was sheer and smooth, curving away from the opening where he stood on both sides and continuing its upward climb for many hundreds of feet to the castle ruin high above. Even so it struck him as odd that a room whose contents were so obviously valued and which was so well protected from the inside of the castle should be open to the elements like this. Turning, he made to re-enter the repository only to find that it wasn’t there.

  In a panic, Benfro looked back and forth for the entrance to the repository. A cold breeze whipped up the cliff face around him, appearing as if from nowhere and pushing him this way and that. Maybe it was his imagination, but the ledge which he had thought of as a balcony seemed to be getting smaller. Malkin scrambled up his tail, over his back and on to his shoulder, tiny claws clinging to his neck in alarm.

  ‘Where room?’ it asked, all its earlier cockiness gone as it began to realize the predicament they were in. ‘Where ledge?’

  There was no doubting that the ledge was disappearing fast. Benfro could not see any movement, even if he stared at the edge, yet somehow, as if he were growing, it came ever nearer. His back was against the rock face now, cold stone digging into him as he hugged it ever closer. He curled his tail around his feet, its tip dropping away into oblivion, forced ever more upright as the ledge turned into a sill, the solid knot of muscle in his back pressed hard against the cliff. His wings creased and furled.

  His wings! How could he have forgotten them? And he had the memories of flight in his head. True they were jumbled up with a thousand other experiences, but they had been so visceral, so laden with pure, simple pleasure they were never far from the front of his mind.

  ‘Malkin,’ he said, trying to look around at the tiny creature and realizing it was wrapped too tight to his neck for that, ‘hold on tight. I’m going to fly.’ The words filled him with a thrill of excited anticipation like the way he had always felt before carrying out some mischievous prank on the villagers. He poised himself, beginning to unfurl his wings, trying to think how best to launch himself upon the air.

  In the end the decision was taken from him. There was simply not enough ledge to stand on any more. One moment he was balanced precariously halfway between leaping and dropping, the next he was tipping forward, his balance gone.

  13

  The union of two dragons is not something to be entered into lightly. To join is no mere physical thing, but a mixing of the souls and a sharing of spirits. A pact between friends may be no more than a formula of words, but to wed is to mingle two essences so tightly together that no power on Gwlad can ever take them apart. No power, that is, save death. And even in that finality, as a dragon’s remains are consumed by the Fflam Gwir, so the spirit of the bereaved will be drawn to the ceremony whatever base physical barriers strive to keep them apart.

  Sir Rhudian, Marriage of Gwynhyfyr

  Reflexively, Benfro stretched his wings wide to the morning air, catching the rough upward current, smoothing it with wing edges that seemed to know instinctively what to do. Instead of falling he rose on the wind, swept up and around so that he could see the cliff wall, smooth as glass, jutting up from the forest like some great wound. The long slow rise of the hill he had climbed the day before dropped away on its western flank as if some enormous hand had chopped it with a blade so sharp it could cut thoughts. Sitting atop this vast rock, the ruins of the castle were picked out by the low sun in a series of jagged shadows, like teeth rotten with age. Only the front arch, the focus for the dark magic that protected the place, stood proud and tall in its decaying wall.

  He circled the palace, high above it, for some minutes, savouring the feel of the cold air on his scales, the thrill of hanging in the air. He had never known vertigo, the irrational fear of falling that so many of the older dragons professed. Now he knew why. He had been born to fly. It was his birthright. The wind in his ears was a whistling wailing thing that sung a terrified song of joy as it welcomed this new creature to its embrace.

  Then he remembered Malkin.

  The squirrel sat almost on the back of his neck, gripping on for dear life with tiny claws that dug into his flesh where they could find purchase, scraped on his scales where they could not. The noise he was hearing, singing below the wind, was its screeching alarm as it was buffeted and bounced with each sweep of his massive wings. He had become so wrapped up in the joy of flying, the sheer pleasure of turning this way and that, of riding the currents and then climbing by sheer brute strength that he had completely forgotten his companion.

  ‘Are you all right, Malkin?’ Benfro shouted, his voice almost lost to the rushing air. He dared not look round at the creature, dared not turn his head lest it lose what little grip it had. Yet instinctively he knew it would be safe if it sat in the hollow of his shoulders. Or was that one of the thousand memories and feelings he had sampled that night, a skill from a long-dead dragon?

  ‘Benfro fly. Malkin fly!’ came the reply. It was not fear the squirrel was feeling but exhilaration. It screamed with the excitement of it all, heedless to the danger of a fall. Benfro could feel the movement of its claws now, not as a frenzied scrabbling for grip but a constant moving, this way and that, to get the best view.

  ‘Where Benfro fly?’ Malkin asked, its voice barely discernible above the roar of the wind. It was a good question. Benfro banked in a slow circle, searching the distance for anything that might look like the clearing where Corwen was supposed to live. All he could see, even from his considerable altitude, was the vast forest stretching in all directions, undulating in long, slow hills and valleys as it went, like lazy ripples on a pond. Mountains ringed the landscape, some jagged and white-tipped, others brown ridges and mounds, hazy in the warming air. Only one gap appeared in this fortress wall, countless miles distant. It was as if some cataclysm, aeons ago, had carved a chunk out of the mountains, exposi
ng the hidden depths of the forest to whatever lay beyond. The midday sun sat high overhead, though Benfro was no longer certain which day it was. Still he knew that Cenobus lay due north of the Graith Fawr, if the maps in the repository were to be believed.

  Now high above the fortress, he could see the march of the Rim mountains rising to their highest point, a sharp peak, palely distant. That was the direction he needed to follow. It almost called to him. He fixed his sight on it, locked it in his memory and set off.

  His back felt unbreakable as he soared over the forest. This was a far cry from the panic-fuelled glide he had used to escape from the warrior priests and their purloined monastery. Then he had been both terrified and in considerable pain as his muscles were asked to do something far more strenuous than they had ever done before. He had not flown since, and it felt to him like only a couple of days had passed, yet here he was, flying as if he had done it all his life, his back as relaxed as if he were just going for a walk. Was there truth then in what Meirionydd had said? Had he really slept for months in the shade of the great mother tree? Had she nurtured him, strengthened him while he slept? And if so why?

  The tiny creature that sat on his back, face to the wind in contagious glee, might be able to tell him. The squirrel was her emissary. Benfro knew it had said it had come with him for the adventure, but he couldn’t help remembering its aura, the way it had stood astride the Llinellau Grym as if it knew they were there, as if drawing sustenance from them. It was a creature of the tree, and while the squirrel seemed childlike and simple in many ways, he was beginning to learn from his experiences that outward appearances were more often deceiving than not.

  For now it was enough just to exult in the sheer pleasure of flight, to sweep his wings up and down through the air in a steady rhythm that inch by inch pulled the far-flung mountains closer. Slowly the afternoon passed as the sun tracked its journey across the sky. There was not a cloud in sight, and the warm rays massaged him as he flew. Every so often he would hit a patch of thermal activity, where a darker canopy of leaves absorbed more heat, warming the air and forcing it up. There were rocky ridges too, poking their occasional sharp faces through the trees and deflecting the breeze. Whenever he felt a rising draught, he would pause a while, wheel slowly round as he had seen the buzzards do countless times, climbing higher and higher until the force could no longer lift his weight even with his wings unfurled to their full magnificent length. Then he could set off again for the pointed mountain in another long slow glide.

  At some point in the afternoon he began to tire. It was a subtle thing at first. He would drift off course a bit, suddenly find he was flying towards some interesting-looking tree, larger than the forest surrounding it, or wheeling in a thermal without realizing he had come to it, unsure how long he had been circling, just maintaining his altitude. His wings were still strong, but it became increasingly difficult to focus on the task of flying.

  And still the trees went on.

  A half-day’s flying was what the magnificent image of a dragon had told him, yet Benfro was certain he had flown longer than that and there was still no sign of a clearing, nor even the thicker vegetation that might have marked the passage through the forest of a river. His thoughts were becoming cluttered now, the memories of the stolen jewels rising in his mind and threatening to swamp the part that was him. He would find himself fondly remembering a stolen kiss, the summer that the rains never came, the joy of a perfect temba, its symmetry and alliteration pleasing both to the eye and the ear, its message as pertinent as the act of composition. Yet he didn’t know what a temba was, had never known a drought and had only ever kissed his mother, whose affection was freely given and limitless.

  The sun sank further and further, dropping steadily towards the serrated teeth of the Rim mountains. As Benfro flew on, he found it increasingly difficult to remember what it was he was supposed to be doing. Only the tall lonely peak mattered. He had to get to it while the sun still painted its flank in shades of pink and orange. If that flame went out, then the world would be condemned to an eternity of evening, long shadows and the reign of the dark creatures of the night. The men were at his back, riding after him on great birds broken to their will. At their head, the inquisitor spurred on his steed with a malicious glint in his ruby eyes. A sword of flame sprang from his outstretched hand, guttering in the wind.

  ‘Benfro, wake up. Fly too low.’ The tiny voice broke through his stupor. The trees were reaching up to grab him, so close he could see their top branches as a thousand thousand groping hands. With a start, he swept his wings down reflexively, pulling himself back into the air. A cold flood of realization pulsed through him. He had fallen asleep in mid-air and been gliding slowly downwards in blissful ignorance. Only his companion passenger had saved him from a messy perhaps fatal crash.

  Steadying his mind against the crushing weariness, Benfro tried to get his bearings. He could no longer see the mountain, so close was he to the treetops. They spread around him in a bowl, rising towards the glowing orb of the setting sun, now dipping itself into the forest. With a final effort of will, he pushed himself on towards that last rise, hoping against hope that there might be something over it, a thinning of the trees, perhaps, or a bald ridge where he could land.

  But he didn’t know how to land.

  He had been flying on someone else’s memories, reading the currents in the way a master would, but he had no recollection of landing. Panic gripped him as he remembered the shock and helpless danger of his previous return to earth. And this time he had the added responsibility of Malkin perched on his shoulders.

  It was getting hard to keep aloft now, each sweep of his wings heavier than the last. He could feel that knot growing in the middle of his back as the muscles began to cramp and protest against their treatment. And still the rise was ahead of him, now higher than him.

  The sun sank further into the trees, an orb that seemed to swell as it was devoured. Where the forest rose to meet its feeder, the branches of the trees turned flame red, as if a fire tore uncontrolled through the wood. The warm evening air rippled and burned, distorting everything, as Benfro ploughed on, desperately trying to keep above the trees. Closer and closer, the rise climbed in front of him, eating the sun as it came, sucking the life out of it, the red fading to yellow, blue, purple and black.

  He felt the topmost branches tickle his belly scales with their leaves, feared for an instant his tail would snag. It smacked into wood, a numbing pain running up his spine, but it bounced and jumped free. The sun was almost gone now, the last wisps of light spreading through the trees as it trickled away. And then with a final burst of energy he soared over the ridge.

  It was a large clearing. It was the clearing, he knew as soon as he saw it. A small river ran through the middle of it, deep and still for the most part, but tumbling over steep rocks where it entered on the far side until it levelled out near the middle. A little-used track of hard-packed earth crossed the clearing by the rocks, and where the rocks formed a small cliff there was a cave mouth.

  With the last of his strength failing him, Benfro tried to wheel, to slow down, to get a better look at the place. The flat half of the clearing was covered in small shrubs and dry brown grass, with the occasional large boulder that had rolled down from the foothills that rose steeply some distance away. A crash-landing there would be fraught with danger. Only the path was clear of obstacles for any length. And the river.

  ‘Can you swim?’ he shouted over his shoulder to the squirrel.

  ‘Swim?’ the answer came back, a touch of anxiety in the voice now that they were so close to the ground.

  ‘In the river,’ Benfro added. ‘I have a problem with landing.’

  ‘Malkin hang on,’ it said, claws gripping the soft skin of Benfro’s upper neck.

  It was too late to make any other arrangements. Benfro banked hard, trying desperately to lose some speed. Then he remembered the bags slung around his neck, one full of food and the other
gold. One would spoil and the other drag him to the bottom. With a muscle-spasming wrench he clapped his wings down as far as he could, lifting himself higher into the air for long enough to haul the straps over his weary head. The bags dropped, hitting the thick grass by the track and tumbling towards the river. Over and over they went, spending their momentum with a gambler’s recklessness. For a moment he feared they would clear the bank and bounce into the water, but they finally came to a halt, first the food bag and then the heavier leather sack with its coins.

  Sweeping around for one final time, Benfro could feel the strain in his back, knew that at any moment he would not be able to hold himself aloft.

  ‘Hold on tight,’ he shouted to the squirrel at his neck. ‘And leap free as soon as you think it’s safe.’

  ‘Malkin hold on,’ came the reply. ‘Malkin not know how to swim.’

  Benfro’s hearts sank at this. He had been counting on the little creature leaping clear when he hit the water, being able to save itself. Still, it was too late now. He was on his final approach, dropping with considerable inelegance towards the dark, still and hopefully deep water. His wings were like two great boulder-filled sacks that he somehow had to keep held out as far from his body as possible. Or did he need to fold them up before he hit? Suddenly racked with indecision, he pulled back from the onrushing river. Or at least that was his intention. But as he pulled up, so his head reared and his legs pushed forward. With a last heroic spasm of flapping, he slowed to an almost acceptable speed. And then he hit.

  Water exploded in every direction. The slap of his impact jarred through his feet, up his legs and into his body, driving the wind out of his lungs. Unable to fold his wings, they flopped forward, slammed into the water and pulled him head first into a dive. There wasn’t time to get his arms out of the way, to take a breath, to even think, before he had plunged into the depths.