The Obsidian Throne Page 28

  Except that he hadn’t taken all of her jewels. One had remained, and Benfro had performed the reckoning ceremony. He had not been able to breathe the Fflam Gwir then, or perhaps he had just not known how. But he had used the herbs and the Delyn oil. His mother’s body had been consumed by the flames and he had found one perfect white jewel in the ashes. Errol had fetched it from Corwen’s keeping when Melyn and his warrior priests had found their hideaway. Benfro remembered the way it had made him feel when he had seen Errol holding the jewel, how he had snatched it away, spurned the boy and almost frozen to death because of his foolishness. But where was it now? Had Errol still had it with him when he had come this way? Was he close by? Was the jewel?

  So many questions, and it was only as they dredged up his memories that Benfro remembered why he was here in the first place. He had been following Errol’s scent, but it ended here at the water’s edge. He struggled to his feet, feeling the numbness in his tail where it had gone cold. Checking first one end of the waterfall then the other revealed no obvious way out, so he must have gone through. Even close up to the cascade, Benfro could make out nothing of what lay beyond. He had no idea whether it was a long drop or a short one, whether there was a deep pool in which to fall or jagged rocks to break his bones upon. He tried looking with his aethereal sight, but the water messed with his vision and his tiredness was making it increasingly hard to concentrate. He could stay here and stare at the vision of his mother until the cold took him and he froze to death, or he could take his chances with the waterfall.

  He chose a spot far enough from the hanging vision that she did not disappear from him, and pushed one arm into the flow. The water was cold and fell with enough force to tug him off balance. Benfro snapped back, pulling his arm out before he plunged in unready, but not before he had felt different air on his outstretched hand. The waterfall wasn’t so thick, but it must have been falling from a fair height above the cave. Hoping that meant it didn’t have too much further to go, he took one last look at the image of his mother, drew in a deep breath and plunged into the deluge.

  The drop wasn’t as far as it could have been, but it was enough to knock the air out of him as he crashed into the pool at the base of the waterfall. The water mixed with air, bubbles of all sizes boiling around him as if he had been plunged into a vast cauldron over an even larger fire. They robbed him of his buoyancy, slowing him only slightly before his feet hit the gravel and silt of the bottom. Benfro struggled to keep upright, pushed this way and that by the swirling currents. He kept his wings clamped as tightly to his sides as he could, ignoring the pain in his side as the wound tried to rip itself open again. Taking one step, then another, he walked away from the cataract and into thicker water until his body began to rise like a cork. As his head broke the surface, he managed one huge gulp of air before the current dragged him down again, spinning him round.

  He kicked out weary legs, stiff with the cold, breaking the surface once more and stealing another breath. It took too long, but slowly, weakly, he struggled away from the waterfall and the treacherous eddies in the pool at its base until finally his feet touched the bottom while his head was still above water. With the last of his strength, Benfro waded out on to a wide beach, feeling sand beneath his feet but seeing only snow all around. He was sheltered from the wind he could hear howling high overhead, but great fat flakes floated down, settling on his head and back, leaching away what little warmth he had left.

  He flopped down, casting out for the Grym and sucking it into him like a greedy kitling. He knew it was only borrowed heat, borrowed strength. He needed to eat, to sleep and, most important, to heal, but first he needed to find shelter.

  The vision of his mother was still with him, staring back at him, hovering over the water in the middle of the pool as he checked the area for any signs of life. She was pale again, ghostlike. He could see right through her to the far bank, but as he approached the water’s edge, she didn’t move. He took a step back into the water and still she stayed where she was. His missing eye showed the Llinellau Grym and the aethereal vision of this place as a jumble of contradictory forces. The flowing water disturbed everything, but the trees glowed bright with life even though they were heavy with snow. Creatures moved about in the forest or were hunkered down waiting for the weather to change. And there in the midst of the flow, so bright it broke through the turmoil all around it, a single point of white light shone directly beneath his mother’s ghost.

  Benfro needed no more prompting. He waded into the water, ignoring the jab of pain in his chest and the ache of muscles close to cramping. The current tugged at him, but it was lazy here, lacking the urgency of the falls upstream. Three paces on firm gravel brought him to the point, the water reaching up to his stomach, not so deep as to make him float. There was not enough light left to see the bottom with his good eye, but the missing one showed him all he needed to know. One deep breath and he plunged down, arm outstretched towards that point of light. It lay among the gravel like any other stone casually tumbled by the flow. Or dropped by a young man struggling for his life. His hand dug deep in the grit, then closed around the light. And as he touched it, so he recognized the feeling of his mother’s jewel, felt the joy in it as it reconnected with him.

  He burst through the surface like a salmon at the spawning falls. And then Benfro just stood, letting the flow push past him as he basked in the warmth of his mother’s embrace. He clutched the jewel tightly to his chest, unheeding of the tears that trickled down his cheek, unaware of the cold that crept into his legs and froze his tail. Nothing mattered now. He had found his mother’s jewel.

  And then slowly, as if his thoughts had grown sluggish too, he began to notice something. Not the deathly cold but the presence nearby of many men hidden by the subtle arts. Slowly so as not to cause any more noise than the babbling of the water over rocks, Benfro sunk down low into the stream. His feet were deep in the gravel now, and he used that contact, pulled the Grym into him to ward off the chill. At the same time he scanned the woods with his missing eye, searching for the hidden. Then, with a shimmer, some appeared on the beach, popping into sight as if they had just stepped out from behind an invisible wall. He didn’t know them individually, but he recognized all too well the clothing they wore.

  Warrior priests of the Order of the High Ffrydd.

  23

  Most workings of magic live only as long as their conjuror. The Grym, which is the source of all life and all magic, is a fluid thing. It shifts and changes constantly, so that only the living can mould it to their will.

  There are some materials which are naturally resilient however, both resisting magical influence but, once imprinted with it by one with sufficient skill, retaining it for centuries or even millennia. Crystal jewels are renowned for their ability to trap the Grym, especially those found growing in the brains of dragons. Pure metals such as gold and silver are also potent repositories of magical influence.

  It would be heartening to think that this knowledge is used for the betterment of mankind, that the Grym is stored in a benign form to aid those at their weakest and most needy. Such would be the better part of our nature, but is all too uncommon. More often high-value objects such as rings and amulets are cast with curses bound up with such life energy that when the touch of some unwary fellow releases it they are more often than not consumed entirely by the ensuing conflagration.

  Father Andro, Magic and the Mind

  Melyn paced the corridors of the palace like a caged animal, frustration gnawing at him from all sides. He could feel the presence of the Shepherd – of Magog, he corrected himself – all around. These halls were steeped in the dragon mage’s power. Everywhere he turned there was a reminder of the great lie that had shaped the Twin Kingdoms. Tapestries brought to life the ancient story of how the Wolf had taunted the Shepherd, how it had tempted his people to turn from his teachings. Like all such stories, Melyn could see the moral in it, the warning not to stray from the true path or
risk eternal damnation. But he could also see the parallels with what had actually happened and how the long march of years had twisted the tale into its current form.

  ‘All stories are teachings. It is our way.’

  The voice was deep inside his head. Melyn might once have fought against it, when he was young and wilful and swift to anger. Had he known at his initiation into the Order of the High Ffrydd that the god who had chosen him was false, then he would have done anything in his power to drive that voice away. But he hadn’t known. He had welcomed the Shepherd into him with open arms, blessed by the attention that none of his fellow novitiates appeared to have received. He had been selected for great things, his innate abilities recognized, his swift rise to the top of the order inevitable. For all the lies, his life had not been a bad one to live. Now he was more powerful than any man in Gwlad. He had the secrets of the Shepherd, the knowledge and skills honed over millennia. And he was the one alive, the one in control.

  ‘We will do great things together, Melyn son of Arall. But only together. It is true I am dead, but without me you are nothing. Your power is nothing.’

  Melyn felt the twinge in his joints and a pressure in his forehead, just the barest hint of discomfort that nevertheless promised much agony should he try to do anything of which Magog disapproved. With a laugh that disturbed Frecknock, standing a few paces behind him, he shook the feeling away. It was true the dragon mage had power over him, but with each passing day he grew more confident in his own abilities. And besides, their aims were very much aligned.

  ‘Is there something troubles you, Your Grace?’ Frecknock asked. Melyn turned away from the tapestry to face her. She was his constant companion now. Perhaps the only one he felt he could trust. The warrior priests looked at him with awe and fear, it was true, but he wasn’t sure he had their respect any more. Even Beulah was distant, though that might have had something to do with the pain from her broken leg and her worry about Clun. It surprised him just how much she genuinely seemed to love the lad; he had thought her quite incapable of anything so uncalculating.

  ‘There is much that troubles me and much we must do. The whole of Gwlad is in flux. Can you not feel it?’

  Frecknock paused a moment before answering. She was always thoughtful, he noticed. She considered her answers before voicing them, unlike all too many of the captains and warrior priests under his command.

  ‘The Llinellau, the lines as you have them, are in turmoil. I have never seen anything like it, except maybe in the forest of the Ffrydd. There great magics were unravelling. It had been a slow process, probably begun when Magog died, but Corwen’s jewels held it all in check. When you removed them from their resting place, everything collapsed more swiftly, and … well … you remember what happened there, Your Grace. At the lake. It is much the same now, only where before it was the forest that was affected, now it is the whole of Gwlad. Things that have been hidden for millennia even from dragons are reappearing. Gog’s world is merging with Magog’s and it isn’t an easy reunion. There is too much difference between the two for them to simply snap back together unnoticed.’

  ‘Like these dragons that have been appearing all over the place. They are exactly the menace the Order of the High Ffrydd was tasked to deal with.’ Melyn cast his aethereal sight out through the tall windows that overlooked the parade ground to the front of the palace. A strange collection of dragons lay there, basking in the weak sun, creatures that had arrived with Caradoc but sworn allegiance to the inquisitor the moment he had slain their leader. The beasts that considered Clun their leader had all taken up residence in the courtyard surrounding the Neuadd. The two groups – folds as they would call themselves – were very suspicious of each other. It reminded him of nothing so much as two packs of wolves. As long as there was someone stronger than both of them, they would behave, but he had to be constantly on his guard for any challenge. He didn’t like the way they all sneered at Frecknock either.

  ‘You would kill us all?’ Her voice was level, but Melyn could hear the anxiety in it, the shock and horror.

  ‘It would be foolish even to try. My warrior priests are too few in number for one thing, and they lack the skills to tackle such powerful beasts, even if they have shunned your subtle arts. Many of these dragons are more skilled than they let on. Sir Gwair, for instance. He wears the Grym around him like a cloak of armour. He has skills he is not willing to show in front of anyone. Oh, the youngsters are all headstrong brawn and no discipline; they would be easy enough to dispatch. But there are too many wily ones, old and skilled. They will flee if I attack, regroup and wait until the time is right to overthrow us. And these are not the ones that worry me. These beasts are predictable. Give them plenty of food, forest to hunt in, and they are happy. I am more concerned with the learned ones. Gog’s kin in their mountain palace are too powerful, too arrogant and distant to mix easily with a world where men wield the power we do. They will try to take the Grym away from us, and that is not something I can allow.’

  ‘You think like a dragon, Your Grace.’ Frecknock bowed her head as she spoke, then raised it again suddenly. ‘I meant no disrespect by that, sire.’

  Melyn laughed where once he might well have conjured a blade of fire and cleaved her head from her shoulders. ‘Is it any wonder? When I carry deep inside me the essence of the greatest dragon ever to have lived? He took me as a young boy and moulded me into what I am today. I have been thinking like a dragon all my life, just never realized until now.’

  Frecknock bowed her head again, but he could see her thoughts clearly enough. Not every dragon, they said. And she was right. Not all dragons shared Magog’s lust for power, but Melyn did. Not all dragons trampled over the feelings and desires of others in their pursuit of that power, but Melyn did. That was the true nature of Magog, a far cry from the loving, caring Shepherd.

  ‘Come, Frecknock. We will pay Master Clun a visit. I need you to stay with him, speed up his recovery.’ He strode past the dragon, noting the look of worry on her face as she made to follow him.

  ‘Is it wise to push him so, Your Grace? Time is always the best healer, especially when damage is severe.’

  ‘If I had the time, I would leave him be. The queen is preoccupied with his recovery, and that is as good a diversion for her as any. You will stay with them while I am gone, administer to their needs. Heal them as you healed me.’

  ‘You mean to leave here? To leave me?’ Frecknock’s panic was almost palpable. Understandable perhaps, given that outside she was at the mercy of dragons twice her size and more, curious and hostile. Inside she ran the risk of offending a warrior priest, and they were all enough on edge to do something rash. But he could not always protect her, and her skills were needed here.

  ‘I must return to Emmass Fawr, and possibly Tynhelyg too. There is much preparation and training needed if the warrior priests are to be an effective force against the dragons of Gog’s world. None will harm you while I am gone, and if you heal both queen and consort you will have two more powerful allies. The time of mindless persecution of all dragons is over, Frecknock. Now we fight only to bring peace.’

  For the first time in what felt like weeks Dafydd woke feeling refreshed and strong. He rose from the massive bed, his muscles firm as he walked across the room and out into the warm courtyard beyond. It had only been a few days since he had arrived weak and thin, but Earith’s magic had worked wonders on him.

  ‘You are looking well, Prince Dafydd.’ Earith was waiting for him as she had been every morning since he had first woken here, sitting on her low bench in front of the breakfast table.

  ‘Thank you, Lady Earith. I feel much better now.’ Dafydd took up a small earthenware pot that he knew would be full of a strong, dark and bitter liquid that ought to have been disgusting and yet was curiously delicious. Lifting the lid, he took a deep sniff before pouring some into a tiny cup and finally taking a sip.

  ‘So much so that I should really start trying to work out how to g
et home.’ He put the cup back down and surveyed the foods laid out. It was mainly fruit, some grains, nuts and berries, but no meat. For all her imposing fangs and talons surely designed for hunting, Earith appeared to favour a vegetable diet. Dafydd wasn’t about to upset her by either commenting on it or asking for something different to the fare he had been offered though. He was all too aware of how dependent on this dragon he was.

  Earith took up a slice of something that looked like melon but was green-skinned and had flesh the colour of a new wound. Dafydd had tried it himself, finding it rather tasteless and watery. ‘That will be no easy task,’ she said after carefully swallowing her mouthful. ‘The Hall of Candles lies many thousands of miles to the north, across the Southern Sea. And that is assuming the Gwlad I knew is still the same now.’

  ‘How can it not be? Surely the land cannot change.’

  ‘On some scales you are right, of course. Eirawen is as it ever was, and the land you call Llanwennog, the Hafod and the Hendry is much as I recall from my youth. The mountains and islands are the same, but the climate is very different. The Ffrydd I have known for two thousand years and more is a blasted desert where nothing grows, yet Benfro knew it as a lush forest full of enchantments.’

  ‘Benfro?’ Dafydd asked. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t say why. ‘You mentioned that name before. Who is he?’

  ‘A dragon from your world. From Magog’s world, I should say. He stumbled into this Gwlad and fell in with a bad bunch. I patched him up and took him to see the mother tree, but where she sent him I know not.’ Earith paused a while as if considering something, another piece of the red and green melon hanging from her loose grip. ‘I suppose we could go and look for her again, but she has never shown much interest in the ways of men.’ She focused her attention on Dafydd again. ‘I mean this as no insult, but your kind do not have the skills to perceive her. At least, you don’t have in this world. I very much doubt you would be able to comprehend what you were seeing should you find yourself in the presence of the Mother Tree.’