The Golden Cage Page 27

  ‘This is the place,’ the dragon said. ‘I’d know it any day. Though it was more than a century and a half ago, it’s not changed. Well, apart from this.’ She reached out and shook the top of the corral as if expecting it to crumble away. ‘And I can’t see any sign of Corwen.’

  ‘Why would they come here? What’s so special about this Corwen anyway?’ Melyn walked stiffly to the ford and crouched down to cup water in his hands for a drink. It was cold and sweet, fed by the snow high up in the mountains and sheltered from the sun by many miles of thick forest. He splashed his face, washing the dust out of his bristly beard and long hair. This would be a good place to stop and rest.

  ‘Corwen teul Maddau taught Morgwm all she knew about the subtle arts. He’s a true mage, perhaps the wisest dragon I’ve ever met.’ Frecknock waited for Melyn to finish drinking before helping herself.

  ‘So that explains why Benfro would come here. But why Errol?’

  ‘Morgwm delivered Errol. Somehow he’s acquired the ability to walk the lines. I’m sure you can see how this place lures magical beings in. Perhaps it’s just coincidence that the boy ended up here.’ Frecknock waded upstream towards the waterfall, the deepening pool rising around her. Wet, the dull scales on her wings and arms gleamed with countless subtle colours like oil on water struck by the sun.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Melyn asked.

  ‘I thought I would wash some of the road dust off.’ She stood just before the crashing wall of water, her words almost lost in the din.

  ‘Later,’ Melyn said. ‘Now we have to search this clearing for your mage.’

  Somewhat reluctantly, Frecknock waded away from the waterfall and clambered out of the river. Melyn half expected her to shake herself like a dog, but the water just ran off her, the sun drying her quickly back to her usual matt black. They walked back to the corral and the cave mouth opposite. Two warrior priests stood at the entrance looking almost scared to go in.

  ‘Benfro was here.’ Frecknock stooped low to the cave entrance, sniffing the earth and the air. ‘He lived in there a while.’ She pointed at the corral. ‘But he’s been sleeping in the cave for at least a month. The boy too.’

  Melyn stooped to enter, even though the entrance was more than tall enough for him to walk through erect. Frecknock followed him, and she had no difficulty either, though the size Benfro had grown must have begun to present him with a few problems. Inside, the cave opened up to the size of a large room, dominated in the centre by a hearth. Charred ends of logs poked out from the ash-pile of a dead fire. Melyn held his hand out, palm down to the ash. It was cold, but when he pushed his finger deep into the pile he could still feel warmth.

  There were two rudimentary beds in the cave, and it wasn’t hard to tell who slept where. Errol’s low pallet lay alongside the fire, and behind it, tucked up against the stone wall of the cave, stood a stout wooden chest. Melyn conjured a light to augment the meagre illumination filtering in through the cave mouth.

  ‘I’ve seen this before.’ He held his light over the chest, pulling open the top. Inside were a few scraps of clothing, neatly folded. Rummaging around in the bottom revealed the ragged remains of a novitiate’s cloak and a coarse white cotton shirt. Someone had tried very hard to get the bloodstains out of it, without much success, and the stitching to mend the tear in the front was slapdash. But then Melyn doubted that Errol had much in the way of needles and thread. When he had disappeared from the Neuadd he had been wearing these clothes and had nothing else with him. So where had he got the chest from?

  Then Melyn remembered, the picture forming in his mind as if he were there. A home hastily departed, only this time the occupants hadn’t fared so well. A room at the back of the healer’s cottage, looking out on the woods that flowed down the hills above Pwllpeiran.

  ‘This chest has come from Errol’s home.’ Melyn turned to face Frecknock, who looked up from her inspection of the other bed in the cave, an alcove filled with dried grass and heather that reminded Melyn of nothing so much as an ill-made giant nest.

  ‘It’s possible to use the Llinellau to bring things to you.’

  ‘Yes, I know. An apple from Eirawen. It was very tasty. But this … this is different. It’s huge, for one thing.’

  ‘I saw Sir Frynwy fetch an entire cow once. Size is not necessarily a problem.’

  ‘But could you do it?’

  ‘No, but the boy must have.’

  ‘How so?’ Melyn could see Frecknock’s expression in the glow from his conjured flame. She looked, if anything, disgusted. As if the thought of someone other than a dragon performing such magic offended her. Or perhaps it was jealousy that someone so young could do something it had taken her years to master.

  ‘The chest is a very personal thing,’ she said after a short pause. ‘To bring something so specific, you would have to know where it was, know its setting intimately. And of course it’s not alive, which would have made it many times more difficult.’

  ‘So how did he do it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Corwen must have taught him how. But he must be some kind of freak to be able to master the subtle arts with such ease.’

  The offspring of a union between the house of Ballah and the house of Balwen. Perhaps Mad Goronwy had been right when she had warned against any such thing ever taking place. And now there would be a second child to contend with, if nothing could be done to prevent Princess Iolwen from carrying her unborn baby to term.

  ‘So where is this Corwen?’ Melyn was suddenly angry at the endless delays, the endless failures. He should have been through the pass and into Llanwennog by now, not chasing dragons across the forest.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Frecknock was choosing her words carefully, no doubt aware of his mood. ‘It was a long time ago when my parents brought me through here. I was barely a hatchling. I remember a very old dragon with a scarred face and one tooth broken, and I remember a cave where the light swirled and danced. But I don’t think it was here. This is too small, and there’s no furniture.’

  ‘But you said you were sure this was the right place.’

  ‘It is the right clearing, just the wrong cave.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I only saw one entrance from outside.’

  ‘Maybe it’s hidden then.’

  Melyn paused, an instant from throwing his conjured flame at the dragon. She was infuriating, loathsome and calm where he was boiling with anger. And yet she had all the knowledge he needed, even seemed prepared to give it to him, but only when he found the right way to ask. She was right too. This whole clearing was a centre of great magical power, yet the cave in which they stood was nothing special. He could feel that without having to slip into a trance. But in the aethereal he might be able to track the source, to find the place where this mysterious Corwen was hiding.

  Settling down on Errol’s bed, Melyn extinguished his conjured light and focused his mind. Eyes closed, the cave exploded into patterns of light. Across from him, Frecknock stood, waiting patiently. She was less pathetic-looking in the aethereal, though still small, as if fear had driven much of the life out of her.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said in the same way he would have spoken to Beulah when in this form. He rose from his body and headed towards the cave mouth. For an instant Frecknock did nothing, then she shrugged free of her self and floated towards him.

  Melyn looked away, feeling uncomfortable. Outside the cave two warrior priests were pale self-images, little more than candles flickering against the midday sun. The rest of the troop were similarly nondescript as they searched the clearing. It annoyed him that his best soldiers had so little skill in the aethereal, bothered him that dragons seemed to possess it naturally. And not the mindless self-assurance of common beasts either, not like dogs or horses, which appeared exactly the same however he looked at them.

  Pushing the thought away, Melyn sought the telltale signs of magical working. He might as well have looked for a specific grain of rice in a bowlful.
The clearing was awash with controlled power. He had already seen how the path that crossed it was part of some vast web, but the more he looked around, the more he was overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the spells cast on the place. Magic so thick he could taste it swirled around him like a fog of colour, pulled him this way and that as if toying with him. He set his mind against it, erected his barriers until the forces that spun around him narrowed and darkened. He picked one at random, a red pulsing snake that writhed between him and Frecknock, and reached out to grasp it.

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend you do that,’ the dragon said.

  ‘Why not?

  ‘You’re very vulnerable in this form, and that’s a powerful spell of compulsion. Would you want to spend the rest of your life unable to stop yourself coming back to this clearing?’

  Melyn felt like a young novitiate scolded in class for suggesting something foolish. Frecknock’s tone took him back to his childhood; his anger returned to him.

  ‘I’m well acquainted with the magic of compulsion. This is not so different from the spell that makes the Calling Road so irresistible to your kind. I have every intention of following it to its source.’ But he didn’t touch it, instead allowing his aethereal form to follow it as it looped and dived in among all the other magic. It was hard to make out the real from the conjured, a strain to relate what his sight showed him with his memory of the clearing, but eventually he came to the point where everything seemed to merge. He looked around, trying to get his bearings in a world that was turned inside out. Only Frecknock, standing calmly by his side as if she saw such turbulent conjurings every day, looked remotely like he would expect to see with his normal sight. Only more colourful, less dowdy and black.

  Unbidden, an image of her in the water came to his mind, the wetness making her scales gleam and sparkle. Wading towards the waterfall.

  Melyn snapped back into his body. The whole experience had been unsettling to say the least, but he had found what he was looking for.

  ‘Come with me.’ He didn’t wait to see if the two warrior priests followed, but strode down to the ford, then into the water. It was deep as he pushed his way upstream, coming first to his knees, then his waist, then his chest as he entered the bubbling, roiling froth right in front of the cascade.

  Taking a deep breath, he stepped through.

  Errol heard Benfro’s approach long before he saw him flying in over the trees that fringed the clearing. He had regained some of his strength, but even so he didn’t fancy more walking. His legs ached with months of too little use, even his daily swim was not enough to prepare him for this kind of exercise, and the bones in his ankles felt weak, like they might break again at any moment. He was wearily preparing himself for the inevitable when the dragon’s hurried, ungainly landing made him pause. Picking himself up off the ground, Benfro rushed over.

  ‘Melyn. He was there. He arrived just as I did.’

  ‘Did you get the jewels?’ Errol already knew the answer; it was written all over Benfro’s face.

  ‘There was no time. I didn’t even land.’

  ‘They’re well hidden. He’ll never find them. Corwen will keep them safe.’ Even as he said it, Errol had his doubts. Inquisitor Melyn was both tenacious and a very powerful magician. He would surely see through the ancient spells that protected the cave behind the waterfall.

  ‘He’s got Frecknock with him. I don’t know why, but she seems to be helping him. If he finds them all is lost. I’ll never be free of Magog, and I’ll lose my mother.’ In his panic Benfro had come right up to where Errol still sat with the bags. The dragon towered over him like a small tree, shading out the sun.

  ‘Well, we can’t go back if the clearing’s full of warrior priests. We have to get as far away as possible.’

  ‘I have to get them.’ Benfro flopped down on to the ground beside Errol, who felt the shock through his bones like thunder overhead. ‘I can’t leave them behind.’

  ‘What about the Llinellau?’ Errol let his focus slip until the lines swam into view, thick and full of the life that filled the forest. ‘Couldn’t you use them to bring the jewels to you? Like I did with the chest?’

  Benfro dropped his head into his hands. ‘I only managed that once before, back in Magog’s retreat. And now whenever I try to use the subtle arts, he’s there waiting for me. If I try to do anything with the Llinellau I fear I’ll end up back at the top of the mountain.’ He looked up at the imposing bulk towering over them. Errol followed his gaze, trying to see the peak, imagining the little room on top of the world.

  ‘What if I were to watch over you?’

  ‘It wouldn’t work. I don’t know where the jewels are. Oh, I know they’re in the back of the cave behind the waterfall, but I’ve never seen them. It’s hopeless. Why did we leave them behind? How could I have left them behind?’ Benfro dropped his head down into his hands, sobbing.

  ‘I’ve seen them. And I managed to use the lines to bring that chest to the clearing. I’ll do it.’ Errol sounded far more confident than he felt, but he had to do something. At least try.

  ‘You will?’ Benfro’s voice quavered as he looked down at Errol. Then he shook his head. ‘No, you can’t. It’s too risky. You might fall under Magog’s influence too.’

  ‘But I might not, especially if I’m careful. I shan’t touch his jewel if I can help it. And anyway, what’s the alternative?’

  Benfro didn’t answer, and Errol took that as permission to proceed. He wasn’t really sure what he was doing, but he remembered some of the things Corwen had taught him. He tried to picture the darkened cavern deep in the rock behind the waterfall, and at the same time he let his mind open to the Grym, feeling out along the lines for the one that fitted.

  Slowly, piece by piece, he built the image up in his head, walking around and adding detail as he remembered it. All the while the Grym was a clamour of voices, smells, flashes of scenes that threatened to undo the one calm scene in his mind. Corwen’s cave was nearby. They hadn’t even walked a full day, and he knew all too well that his pace had been slow. It should be a strong connection.

  Bit by bit, the image of the cavern came together, and as it did so the distractions ebbed away to a dull background susurrus. Errol could see it all now, a perfect replica in his mind’s eye. And there, in the middle, the rock dais with its pile of pale white jewels, one lone white gem sitting to one side, one red one to the other, spreading its bloody glow over everything.

  He reached out, meaning to pick up Morgwm’s jewel, seeing his hand in front of him. And then everything changed. His brain told him he was sitting, but his balance said he was upright. His feet were tangled beneath him and he pitched forward, crashing to the floor. The hard earth floor with that familiar spicy scent. He tried to open his eyes, to replace the image he had built with that of the clearing. But all he could see was the cavern lit by the glow coming from the jewels themselves. He hadn’t reached out along the lines at all; he had walked himself back to Corwen’s cave.

  For a moment he panicked. He knew that the warrior priests were outside. What if they had already discovered the cave, were even now creeping along the winding tunnel that led to this sanctuary? He strained his ears, certain he could hear footsteps scraping on the floor. And was that the faintest glow of light, a flickering torch outlining the exit?

  He was imagining it, he told himself. The cave was silent save for the quiet rush of his breath and the hammering of his heart. He was as safe here as anywhere; didn’t Corwen’s magics protect it from casual discovery? Melyn would find the other cave, know that he had fled and set off through the forest in pursuit.

  But how long would it take him to find Benfro? How long could he afford to spend sitting around here fretting? He had to get back and take the jewels with him.

  Errol stood up, his eyes accustomed to the low light now. As he approached the stone pedestal, he could see how far Magog’s influence had spread. Corwen’s own jewels numbered two dozen or more, and none of them touche
d the small irregular red gem, yet at least ten of them had changed from clear white to a bloody pink, those nearest almost crimson. The cavern was silent, but Errol fancied he could sense an echo of some great struggle, just past hearing. That Corwen had not appeared was proof enough of the battle taking place.

  Errol reached into his pocket and brought out a strip of cloth hacked from one of his old shirts. He folded it double over his hand and reached out for the red jewel. Something invisible pushed back against him. He pushed harder, and the force opposing him grew in strength, so that it felt like he was trying to move solid rock. However hard he tried, he couldn’t get his hand any closer to the red jewel.

  He put away the cloth, reaching out with bare fingers. For a moment the pressure was there again, a tingling against his skin. He felt the brush of something against his head, as if a bat had flown past him in the darkness. Startled, he almost closed his hand on the jewel. It now sucked him towards it where before it had repelled, but at the last moment he snatched his hand away.

  Taking the cloth in his other hand, he stared down at the jewel. Remembering his lessons back at Emmass Fawr, he tried to close his mind to outside influences, and as he did so realized just how open he had allowed it to become. One by one he went through the exercises he had learned, and with each repeated mantra, so the clamour quietened. The lines came to his vision, pulsing and glowing throughout the cavern. Then he saw the glow of his aura around him and the swirling patterns of the magics that filled the place, surrounding Magog’s withered gem, spreading out from it in a foul miasma, thin tendrils of red snaking out to the lines and into the pile of Corwen’s jewels.

  They moved constantly, probing the air and curling around the colourful shapes and swirls that Errol knew were Corwen’s defences, constantly testing them, trying to break through. One particularly fat strand looped into a line on the floor that speared off into the rock, fading from red to palest rose as it went. He could imagine all too easily where that line went.