The Obsidian Throne Page 27

  He stood up again, noticing for the first time that the tunnel had narrowed, its roof now lower than his wing joints. He had to hunch to move forward, holding his wings close in an awkward manner that put pressure on the wound in his side. For a moment Benfro nearly panicked as he realized that he couldn’t turn round. If he wanted to retrace his route he would have to crawl backwards, something that would be almost impossible with the torch. But even as he had the thought, he noticed the spreading light up ahead, palest blue and flickering slightly.

  The noise came quite abruptly, as if someone had opened a door. One moment he was stooped low and shuffling towards the light in muffled silence, the next his ears were deafened by a roar he found both familiar and comforting. He hurried on, squeezing into the ever-narrower tunnel and cursing the greater bulk his gift from Magog had given him. The dragon who had fled the village so long ago could have walked through standing tall. Instead, the final stretch was a struggle, his wings twisting back behind him in a manner horribly reminiscent of Fflint’s attempts to pull them off. Then with a last heave he was through.

  Cold seeped up through Benfro’s feet, now standing in puddles of icy water. He stared at the inside of a waterfall, cascading down one entire wall of the cave and filtering the daylight from beyond. The Grym flowed into him and the aethereal sight flooded back into his missing eye. It was such a contrast to the pitch-black blindness of the past few hours that he winced, covering up the empty socket with one hand as if that might help. It didn’t, and neither did the guttering flame of the torch still clasped in his other hand. He set it down against a damp rock wall, and that was when he noticed something impossible.

  Shadowy, ghostlike and imprinted over both his seeing eye and aethereal was the form of a dragon. She floated in the air in a manner she had never been able to do in life, and Benfro felt his hearts try to leap into his mouth as he recognized the form he had never thought to see again.

  Morgwm the Green.

  His mother.

  22

  Of all the healers in Gwlad, wise Earith was ever the foremost. Her skill was such that some said she was life itself given dragon form. Hers was the skill to knit bones, make lost limbs regrow, mend even broken hearts. She would turn none away if they needed her help, be they friend or foe, dragon, man or wild beast. But not even Earith could save Ammorgwm the Fair when the violent magics of the warring brothers Gog and Magog struck her down.

  Who cast that killing spell, no one will ever know. Such was the madness that possessed those twins it could have been either. Or it could have been both, the combined power of their workings too much even for one such as Ammorgwm to survive. The whole of Gwlad froze in that moment, and it is said that Earith herself, thousands of leagues away in distant Eirawen, fell into a faint and did not wake for many days. And when she did finally awake, such was her sorrow that she cut herself off from the rest of Gwlad, so that her miraculous healing was lost to all.

  Sir Frynwy, Tales of the Ffrydd

  Dafydd woke to the sound of birds trilling. At first he thought he was on the island, that he was hearing the endless call of the gulls that lived around the long stone jetty. Why they stayed there he couldn’t understand. Gulls were scavengers, reliant on fishermen and other sailors for their food, but the island was deserted and rarely visited. They had pestered him for days after he had arrived, landing beside him without any show of fear, pecking at his hands until he gave them the food he had prepared for himself.

  But these weren’t gulls. The sound was too pleasant for one thing. Not the incessant shrieking, the demand for attention worse than any unfed child. This was more like the songbirds that had been a fad among the richer ladies at court a few years back. Poor creatures caught and caged simply so that people could enjoy their song. Most had just thought it pretty, but he had heard the melancholy in their chirping, and Iolwen had too. He remembered well how she had set free the pair gifted to her by one particularly wealthy benefactor anxious to gain favour with the king.

  Iolwen. The memory of her jolted him fully awake. Dafydd sat upright too quickly, his sense of balance taking a while to catch up. For a long while he had no idea where he was. The room was vast and airy, a high ceiling of ornate plaster reflecting golden sunlight as it filtered through tall windows. There was no glass, just painted wooden shutters folded back to let in the air.

  The bed in which he lay was big enough for ten, and yet he was alone. Dafydd clutched the white sheets to his chest, feeling the coolness of the fabric. They smelled faintly of spring flowers and were softer than the finest down. A gentle breeze wafted past him, bringing scents of the sea and beyond the trilling of the birds, the sound of voices. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, and he had no idea where he was. He could remember being whisked to the island by the dragon Merriel, could remember exploring and discovering a cave. After that everything was a blank.

  Climbing out of the bed was more difficult than he had anticipated. It was wide, but it was also tall. He felt weak as he shuffled over to the side and let himself down to the floor like an intrepid mountaineer. As he pulled away the sheets, so he understood why. Dafydd had never been as brawny as his father, tending more to the wiry frame of his great-uncle Tordu. He had always been strong though, with the muscles of a man used to outdoor pursuits. He could shoot a couple of hundred arrows without tiring, and hold his own in a sword fight. But now his arms and legs were like sticks, the thinnest covering of flesh clinging to them. Feeling his face, he could trace the hollows in his cheeks with his fingers, the bones hard against skin like a badly mummified corpse.

  ‘We have done the best for you we can. In time you will regain your strength and vigour.’

  Dafydd wheeled round at the voice. The words had been spoken in heavily accented Llanwennog at a volume that suggested a large man but in a timbre that was unmistakably feminine. For a moment he was confused, seeing only a wall of dark shiny scales, like the armour in his grandfather’s collection that he had been told was worn by the fighting monks of the Southern Isles. It took him a while to realize that he was looking in the wrong place, and to raise his head until he saw the head of the dragon who had spoken.

  ‘You have slept a long time. Many days and nights. The Heolydd Anweledig can have that effect on people. Especially when they have been forgotten.’

  ‘Heolydd … what?’ Dafydd leaned back against the bed, his legs not quite strong enough to hold him upright. He should have been alarmed, being addressed by such a creature, but that was too much effort.

  ‘The loose translation in your tongue is “invisible roads”, I believe. They are an old magic, not something we have much use for any more. Well maintained, they allow those not skilled in the subtle arts to travel along the Llinellau Grym between distant points. When not well maintained, they either fail altogether or draw their power from those using them rather than the Grym itself.’

  Dafydd shook his head gently, hoping that might help. It didn’t. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about. Or, indeed, who you are.’

  ‘My apologies. It is only natural you will have forgotten. I am Earith, and this is my home in the city of Pallestre.’ The dragon made a bow, arms spread wide as she bent her head towards the ground. Dafydd felt his ears burn with embarrassment as he understood that the dragon was his hostess. It still made no sense to him, but there were some things that were universal and courtesy was one.

  ‘I am sorry.’ He tried to bow but gave up when he realized committing properly to the gesture would see him fall over. ‘I am Dafydd, son of Geraint, Prince of the House of Ballah. I am very grateful for your hospitality.’

  The dragon clapped her hands once, and two young men appeared from a door Dafydd hadn’t even noticed. One held a white robe over his arm and the other pushed a strange contraption that looked like a chair fitted with small cartwheels. They smiled at him, the first offering the robe and the second pointing at the chair as if to indicate he should sit. Both spoke,
but the words meant nothing to him, jarring on his ears and filled with odd throaty noises.

  ‘I do not think you are yet ready to walk very far, Dafydd, Prince of the House of Ballah.’ The dragon nodded her head slowly in the direction of the chair. ‘If you would perhaps robe yourself and allow my servants to wheel you out to the gardens, there is food waiting.’

  It was only at that point that Dafydd noticed his nakedness. He had no idea what had become of the clothes he had been wearing on the island, but someone had removed them and washed him. They had shaved his face too, now he came to think about it. How long had he slept? How soundly that these things could be done to him? And yet no one had harmed him; quite the opposite. This was a peaceful place. He was safe here.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said as much to the two young men as the dragon. He pulled on the offered robe, feeling that same soft cool material as the sheets on the bed. It was well suited to the damp, muggy warmth that hung in the air. He took a couple of experimental steps, hoping that the chair would be unnecessary, then collapsed into strong waiting arms and allowed himself to be seated. The journey across the bedroom and out into a wide courtyard was short, the young men wheeling him to a low table beside a pool of water in which swam fat golden fish. A fountain at the centre sprayed water into the air, helping to counter the oppressive heat from a blazing sun high overhead.

  ‘Eat, Dafydd. You have a lot of strength to rebuild.’ The dragon Earith sat down on a low bench on the other side of the table, waving a massive hand at the waiting food. Dafydd’s stomach gurgled in anticipation, but he couldn’t bring himself to begin. There were too many questions unanswered.

  ‘What is this place? How did I get here? How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘You have slept five days, but from the state you were in when you arrived, I would imagine you spent a good deal longer in the Heol Anweledig.’

  ‘I …’ Dafydd paused, his mind as befuddled as his body was tired. ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘Trust me. Of all the many things that could have gone wrong, this is perhaps the least terrible. The magic woven around that road should have disappeared many thousands of years ago.’ Earith reached towards the table and picked up what Dafydd had thought was a large jug. With a surprisingly delicate motion, she lifted it to her mouth and took a sip of the liquid within. He caught a whiff of ginger and was instantly taken back to Tallarddeg, the start of the great mad adventure he and Iolwen had embarked upon. Was she safe and well? How could he even begin to start looking for her?

  ‘Tell me. The place you left before arriving here. What was it like?’ Earith took another sip of her drink, and Dafydd reached for a similar but smaller cup on his side of the table. He couldn’t immediately identify the fruit that had been juiced to fill it, but it tasted wonderfully cool and refreshing. Sitting calmly, observing his every move but never threatening, the dragon left him as much time as he needed to answer her question.

  ‘It was an island at the north end of the Felem archipelago. Merrambel. At least that’s what I think Captain Azurea said. We visited it months ago, blown off course on our way to Abervenn. I guess that’s why Merriel took me there. It’s where we first met her, after all.’

  ‘Merriel?’ Earith stood up so swiftly she sloshed liquid out of her cup, but seemed not to notice. ‘You saw Merriel? You spoke to her?’

  ‘She saved my life. At Candlehall, when I was separated from the others. Thought I was going to end up being eaten like poor old Seneschal Padraig, but Merriel appeared. She saw off the other dragons and then whisked me away to the island. I’ve still no idea how she did that.’

  ‘She used the Llinellau Grym, of course. But if she could use them to get to your island, then why not use them to return home?’

  ‘Home?’ It was Dafydd’s turn to look surprised, but then his tired brain caught up with him. ‘Merriel, daughter of Earith. That’s what Usel said her name was. So she’s your daughter?’

  ‘She is indeed. And she has been missing for over a year.’ Earith placed her cup back down on the table, wiping away the dampness on her hand as she spoke. ‘I searched for her, called for her, but it was as if she had ceased to exist. And yet I would have known if she had died.’

  ‘The last I saw of her, she was going back to Candlehall to save Iolwen, my wife.’

  ‘Candlehall.’ Earith rolled the word around as if it was unfamiliar, then switched to her own tongue. ‘Y Neuadd y Ganhwyllau, of course. Gog’s favourite place aside from his beloved Nantgrafanglach. But it was Palisander’s palace, so it stayed in Magog’s world when they cast their wicked spell.’ She turned her gaze back on Dafydd, hunger for knowledge in her eyes. ‘You live in this Candlehall?’

  ‘No. Quite the reverse. We sought to capture it from Queen Beulah while her attention was focused on the north. We succeeded, but then the dragons turned up and made an alliance with her.’

  ‘These dragons. You mentioned them before. What were they like? Were they like me?’

  ‘Not at all. They are brutish and violent. They killed hundreds of the people in the city. Maybe thousands. One of them ate Seneschal Padraig.’ Dafydd paused a moment, recalling the terrible incident. ‘But they are your size. Bigger even. The dragons I knew as a boy were little bigger than a horse. And they couldn’t fly.’

  Earith said nothing for a while, just sat back down and took up her cup again. Dafydd drank some more, then turned his attention to the food that had been prepared for him. Most of it he couldn’t identify, but it smelled good and tasted even better. His stomach was tender though, as if he were recovering from a long illness, and he could eat only a little before feeling sick.

  ‘It begins to make sense, as much as anything makes sense any more. I suppose I should have seen it when Benfro arrived, but I thought …’

  ‘Benfro?’ Dafydd asked. Earith appeared to be talking to herself, but focused on him at his question.

  ‘A young dragon who I think would be more at home in your world than mine. Only I fear there is no longer any difference between the two.’

  ‘I don’t understand. My world?’

  Earith let out a sigh and put down her cup again. ‘Long ago, Gwlad was riven in two by a pair of warring dragon brothers. Gog and Magog were their names. I ended up in Gog’s world. He was the less mad of the two, I suppose. But the Hall of Candles stayed with Magog. Even the most powerful of magics must fade in time, especially if the dragon who wove it can no longer maintain it. This is what I suspect has happened with Gog and Magog’s great spell. I had thought it would unravel slowly, but something has sped that process up. Old hidden roads are reappearing. Dragons disappear and others appear in their place. Men come from nowhere, speaking a tongue that none can understand. I should have felt it. I should have known.’

  ‘Should have known what?’ Dafydd asked.

  ‘That Gog is dead. And now worlds that have been divided for over two thousand years are merging back together again.’

  For long moments all he could do was stare. Somewhere in the back of his mind Benfro was aware his mouth was hanging open. He could almost hear Ynys Môn saying, ‘That’s a good way to catch flies,’ as the old dragon had a hundred and more times back on their hunting trips. Slowly he drew it closed, never once taking his eye off the impossible apparition in front of him.

  She was motionless, scarcely visible at all. For a moment he wondered if he was hallucinating. It had been a long time since last he had eaten or drunk anything, and he had breathed the Fflam Gwir, which always left him empty. The caverns and tunnels he had stumbled through had been unsettling too, places so devoid of any Grym it was as if they had sucked out his will to live. But he had survived. He had escaped, and even as he thought it, he could feel the life flowing back into him. He glanced briefly up at the point in front of his eyes where the rose cord that linked him to Magog’s jewel hung in a loop in the air. It was so pale as to be almost invisible, the dragon mage no doubt concentrating on business elsewhere. Benfro looped hi
s aura around it anyway, tugging the knot as tight as he could without losing sight of the vision in front of him.

  ‘Is it really you?’ he asked. The dragon made no reply, did not move at all. Benfro took a step closer and she seemed to recede from him. Another step and she was hanging in the curtain of water. He took two steps back and she followed him, hanging in the air.

  ‘How is this possible?’

  Still she didn’t answer, and Benfro began to doubt himself again. Tired and hungry, dirty with the grime and filth of the caverns, he was so thirsty he could barely speak above a whisper. Keeping his eye on the vision, he paced in a wide arc until he could reach out and touch the water. He washed away the worst of the muck from his hands before cupping them under the flow and then raising them to his mouth. Nothing had ever tasted quite so sweet and refreshing. Colder than ice, it chilled his throat and made his stomach clench, but he went back for another handful, and another and another. It gave him a little strength, and with it the image of his mother grew steadily more solid. Still she did not move, did not look at him, just hung in the air, her feet a hand’s width from the wet stone floor.

  Benfro took a step towards her again, and once more she receded. It was infuriating, the worst kind of torture. To be reminded of her was bad enough; he couldn’t look at her without seeing that terrible fiery white blade slicing through the air, without hearing that horrible thud as her head hit the ground and the slower sigh as her body crumpled.

  ‘Why are you doing this to me? What do you want?’

  The vision gave no answer, and all Benfro could do was sit, stare at her and sob.

  It wasn’t until much later that he became aware of the Llinellau. They had been there all along, his missing eye showing him the Grym and the aethereal layered on top of the mundane. He had grown so used to them that he scarcely noticed them any more. He had looked for the rose cord, of course. Knotted it tight with his aura even though there was no sense of Magog. He hadn’t paid much attention to any of the other lines, the patterns they made about the cave and the way they curved around the vision as if she were a puppet and they were her strings. Corwen would have chided him for his lack of observation, but the old dragon was gone, his jewels taken by Melyn, just as the inquisitor had taken Morgwm’s.