The Obsidian Throne Page 3

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  That ancient hall of the Neuadd has stood atop Candlehall’s rocky hill since time immemorial. Some say King Balwen himself commanded it forth from the very living rock, but there are those who know it to be older even than he. Generations of his house raised the castle that surrounds the hall itself, extending and rebuilding into the great palace we see today.

  There is no doubting the tactical advantages of the location of Candlehall and the Neuadd. Sat atop its steep-sided hill and overlooking the plains for leagues in all directions, it can be easily supplied by boats on the River Abheinn and so withstand even a protracted siege. In all its history there have been few direct attacks upon the city and never has it fallen, save through the treachery of Prince Lonk during the turmoil that was the Brumal Wars. And even then the true heir to the Obsidian Throne survived, escaped to gather his forces and retake his city.

  How the prince could escape when the city was surrounded by an army a hundred thousand strong is one of the enduring myths that have grown around the House of Balwen and the magic that runs through its veins. The truth is both more prosaic and yet more wondrous, for it is said there exists beneath the solid rock of Candlehall hill a series of tunnels protected by ancient and powerful spells accessible only to those of royal blood. The magics needed to construct and maintain such powerful spells are beyond the comprehension of most, but it is no coincidence that the Inquisitor of the Order of the High Ffrydd, the most powerful mage in the Twin Kingdoms, spends as much time at Candlehall as at his order’s mountain-top monastery, Emmass Fawr.

  Barrod Sheepshead,

  A History of the House of Balwen

  ‘Hold still, won’t you? I need to be very careful with this. Haven’t ever had to heal a dragon before.’

  Benfro lay on the sleeping platform, surrounded by animal skins that were more dust than fur. He couldn’t have said when last this room had been occupied, but it was a long time ago. There was no trace of a scent of any previous visitor, just the background odour of cold stone, damp rugs and freshly broken timbers. It was cold, not helped by the large hole in the ceiling through which they had all fallen. Looking over at it, he could see tiny flakes of snow cascading down from outside. Since they had to get through the attic first, there must have been quite a snowstorm outside.

  He gasped as an ice-cold knife of pain seared through his side. The young woman, Martha, bent to the task of removing the shaft of broken timber that had somehow slid past his scales and pierced his leathery skin. Benfro remembered all too well the agonies he had suffered at the hands of Fflint, but this was somehow worse. At least with his aethereal sight he could see the extent of the damage, guide his healer as she used all her strength to pull out the wood. As long as he could keep concentrating over the agony.

  ‘Can I help?’

  The young boy stood to one side, his arm splinted and hanging in a sling. Benfro had insisted Martha tend to him first, but even with her obvious skill both as a healer and at manipulating the Grym, he was going to take a while mending. They lacked the herbs and minerals needed to make the right poultices, and Benfro was too distracted by the pain to help. At least for now.

  ‘See if you can find some kindling, Xando. Get a fire going.’ Martha rocked back on her heels, rubbed her hands together for some heat. The Grym was all around them, she could easily have tapped it for warmth in the same way Benfro was already using it to heal his more minor injuries. He could see the wisdom behind her suggestion though. The boy was slowly coming out of his shock. He needed something to focus on, and he didn’t seem to have any great skill in the subtle arts. A little bit of heat to help keep off the damp wouldn’t have gone amiss either.

  ‘Right then, dragon. Let’s see if we can’t get this out of your side.’

  ‘Benfro.’

  ‘I know. Sir Benfro. Your friend Ynys Môn told me many tales about you.’

  For a moment Benfro was confused. ‘Ynys Môn? How could you know him?’ And then he remembered the jewels tumbling from his grasp as he flew over the palace gardens. But that had been him dreamwalking, not real. He had been sorting the jewels in Magog’s repository, found his old friend among the ever-dwindling pile, fought against the control Magog had over him, and somehow found himself in this world.

  ‘It makes no sense,’ he said.

  ‘Course it does. His jewels were reckoned. You did that. He was no more difficult to talk to than Sir Radnor. Much more chatty too.’

  ‘But he was in Magog’s world. I was there. And then I was here. That’s not possible.’

  ‘Silly dragon. You’re here now. I’m here. There were always ways between the two worlds. You just needed to find them. Or for them to find you. It’s them we pushed out the other side I’m worried about.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Benfro asked.

  Martha stood up for a moment. Facing him, Benfro couldn’t help but see the blood soaking her forearms and smeared across her forehead where she had wiped her hair out of the way. His blood, and far too much of it for comfort.

  ‘Has to be balance, see?’ she said. ‘Things slip back and forth all the time, but mostly they’re simple-minded beasts and the like. When a dragon, or a person, stumbles across, well, something of equal power has to go the other way. You, me, Errol if he’s in this world like he was trying. All that Grym has to be displaced back the other way. I imagine there’s a fair few dragons find themselves in Llanwennog or the Twin Kingdoms not really knowing how they got there. Or where they are.’

  Something about her manner reminded Benfro of Corwen. Martha seemed incapable of understanding how he couldn’t understand. And much like the old dragon mage, she seemed to find great amusement in his ignorance. Well, there were more important things to worry about. At least for now. He turned his attention back to the wound in his side, the broken rafter digging deep into his flesh.

  ‘Hold still now. This may hurt a little.’ Martha took firm hold of the short piece protruding from between two of his scales and pulled with all her might. The pain darkened Benfro’s vision, even as it made his aethereal sight clearer. He could see the wood, his flesh and the organs deep inside his body. The point had missed anything vital, but only just. It lay far too close to one of his hearts for comfort. And there was something else about it.

  ‘Stop!’ The word burst from his mouth just as Martha began another heave. She let go instantly, falling back on to the heap of animal skins in a great billow of dust. When she stood up again her tangled black hair was streaked grey with it.

  ‘What? I nearly had it.’

  ‘There’s a piece broken off inside.’ Benfro closed his good eye and concentrated on what the missing one was showing him. ‘When you pull the other bit, it’s dragging it towards my heart.’

  ‘I thought dragons had two hearts,’ Martha said.

  ‘We do. But they work together. I need both.’ Benfro moved as carefully as he could manage until he was in a more comfortable position, the wound well out of reach. He could feel the splinter working its way through him, little jabs of pain counting down the time until it would be too late. What would happen when that tiny piece of wood reached its target? Would he have any warning? It wasn’t as if he could watch it all the time.

  ‘This is beyond me. We’re going to have to find a more skilled healer.’ Martha stood up and shook her head, dust flying in all directions. She hopped down off the sleeping platform and approached the circle of broken timbers and plaster which was fast becoming covered in snow. Craning her neck, she looked up then backed away. ‘But first we need to move. Won’t be long ’til old Melyn comes looking for us.’

  Melyn. The name sent a shiver through Benfro’s whole body, from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail. How could he have forgotten Melyn? But in the chaos of the crash landing and his injury, the reason for their hurried escape had quite slipped his mind.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain, he rolled back over on to his front. It took all his strength just to lever himse
lf upright, get his feet underneath himself and stand. The room swayed back and forth, lightening and dimming in time to the throbbing in his side, but at least this way up the splinter of wood was pointing downwards. The tension between his scales held it in place and the blood appeared to have clotted around the wound.

  ‘Where can we go?’ he asked. Even the door seemed an impossibly long way away, the thought of walking with this impromptu spear in his side almost too much to bear. He remembered the fiery red light in Melyn’s eyes, the twin blades of fire, the terrible, familiar rage. ‘You saw what he was like. He can go anywhere. He knows everything. Where can we possibly hope to hide?’

  ‘Your Highness, we can’t stay here. It’s not safe.’

  Prince Dafydd shuddered at the words, the memory of Seneschal Padraig’s sudden violent end still fresh in his mind. He looked away from the balcony to where Usel the medic stood by the door. Usel’s observation wasn’t exactly news. The open windows let in the screams of the good people of Candlehall, the rushing of wings and crash of toppling masonry. Every so often a dark shadow would swoop past, but by and large the dragons were keeping their destruction to the lower part of the city, concentrating their efforts around the main gates. Dafydd had been watching the destruction with ever-deepening despondency. He had seen the armies of Queen Beulah form up on the plain, distracting the dragons after their first attack. Part of him had hoped that the creatures would turn to the easier target, but after a brief hiatus they had set about their terrible destruction of the city with renewed vigour. It was quite clear now that they were working on the side of the queen. He couldn’t quite bring himself to describe it as fighting; that implied there were two sides to this conflict, where in fact all the Candlehall Guard could do was flee or die.

  ‘Where can we go, Usel?’ Dafydd turned back to the window, horrified by the carnage but determined to witness it. These people had welcomed him with open arms. They were his wife’s rightful subjects, innocent men, women and children whose only fault was to wish for peace. They didn’t deserve this fate but he was powerless to do anything about it.

  ‘The cavern beneath the throne has more exits than one, sire.’

  Dafydd turned to face the medic again. In all the rush since their arrival, the ceremony in the Neuadd, the appearance of the dragons and the subsequent carnage, he’d quite forgotten the cave and its endless rows of dragon jewels. Was that what had attracted these great beasts? Were they seeking revenge for their fallen brethren, killed over millennia?

  ‘How do you mean? I thought you said there was only the one door into the place. Where are these others? Are they as well protected?’

  ‘By the most ancient and potent of magics, or so I am told. I only know stories – I have never seen them myself – but consider this: the House of Balwen has not ruled over the Twin Kingdoms for so many centuries by allowing its children to be trapped in a walled city. There have always been ways to escape from Candlehall, even under the very eyes of besiegers.’

  ‘And these secret passages. Could they let everyone out? The whole city?’

  Princess Iolwen strode into the room, closely followed by Lady Anwen, Teryll the stable lad and the remainder of the palace guard who had accompanied them on this mad quest. She had changed into travelling clothes, and carried Prince Iolo in a sling around her shoulders like some common working woman.

  ‘Your Majesty, I—’ Usel began, but Iolwen cut him short.

  ‘Enough “Majesty”. I have no throne, no more right to call myself anything other than Iolwen. And if I leave these people to their fate I don’t even have that right. Can we evacuate them all?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Usel said. ‘I don’t know how many people are left in the city, but it must number in the thousands. And the cavern, the jewels. That is a secret the House of Balwen has kept for millennia. I don’t know how we could move so many people through it and not have them disrupt the delicate balance of the place. Just one jewel taken could cause chaos.’

  ‘Look around you, Usel. Chaos is here already. It won’t be long before the gates are down. Do you think my sister will show any more mercy to her people than her dragons have done?’

  ‘If the seneschal were here—’

  ‘Padraig is dead. And he didn’t run this city on his own. There’s an army of Candles in the palace. Set them to work. I will go and unlock the door.’

  Usel paused for a moment as if weighing up his options. Dafydd could see the uncertainty in the medic’s face, the conflict between saving as many lives as he could and endangering the secret he had spent a lifetime keeping. Eventually he made his decision, nodding once.

  ‘I will have the word put out around the city. We will have to hurry though, and you will have to open the escape routes from the cavern. None but a direct descendant of Balwen himself can do that.’

  ‘Hurry then, Usel. I will meet you at the door in half an hour.’

  Dafydd watched the medic as he gave the briefest of nods, then left the room. ‘Is this wise, Iol? We can’t save them all.’

  ‘I can’t abandon them either.’ Iolwen hefted the sling into a more comfortable position, prompting a gurgling cry from the sleeping infant within. ‘But Usel is right about the jewels. I don’t care a jot about the secrets of the House of Balwen, but we can’t risk them being taken. They’re dangerous in unskilled hands.’

  Dafydd recalled the vast cavern, the endless rows of stone pillars each with their hundreds of carved alcoves and individual piles of jewels. One such gem was a thing of great power and value. What lay beneath the Neuadd was a treasure beyond counting. Could they possibly protect it?

  ‘Might I make a suggestion, ma’am?’

  All eyes turned to Teryll, perhaps as much because he spoke Llanwennog rather than Saesneg. The young man had been taking lessons in the language of the Twin Kingdoms from the princess, indeed had reinvented himself as something of a servant to her alongside his duties of looking after their horses. He was still hesitant, overwhelmed by the situation he had put himself in.

  ‘I am always open to suggestions, Teryll. Not so sure about being called “ma’am” any more than “Majesty”.’

  ‘Sorry.’ The stable lad made a half-bow, half-nod. ‘It’s just sometimes when we’ve to move young fillies that spook at everything, we cover up the walkways so they don’t get distracted. And sometimes, when they’re too spooked even for that, there’s some of the old trainers have a way with the Grym. There’s an old saying – “In the brain, down the rein” – and it works just as well with people. Long as you’re calm yourself, you can spread that feeling out.’

  Iolwen let out a short laugh. ‘Why is it that it takes a common man to show us the sensible way? You’re right, of course, Teryll. We need to cover up as much of the distraction as possible, and then I can work to keep everyone calm. Like I did when the dragons first arrived.’

  ‘Can you do that, Iol?’ Dafydd didn’t want to doubt his wife, but he was all too aware of the enormity of the task. ‘It’s not an easy thing to calm a few hundred. There’ll be thousands of people and they’ll all be frightened.’

  Iolwen hefted the sling over her head, cradling her infant son close so she could kiss him gently on the forehead before handing him over to Lady Anwen. ‘Not on my own, no. It’s too much. I’ll need your help, Dafydd. And I’ll need the Obsidian Throne.’

  ‘Is he dead? Think he’s dead. Skinny wee runt of a thing. Dint reckon he’d last long. Dibs on his cloak, aye?’

  ‘Saw ’im first, dint I? Is mine by right.’

  Errol heard the voices in the darkness, their accents so thick as to be almost incomprehensible. He wasn’t sure where he was at first, but then the smell hit him and brought the memories with it.

  ‘Bin ’ere longer, int I? I gets first go.’

  He opened his eyes slowly, feeling the crusty muck on his face. At first he thought he was blind. The darkness was almost complete, just a slight lessening in the shadows overhead, a subtle sense of
movement. He was so cold, so tired, he just wanted to lie here and sleep. But the ground was hard under his back, the smell made breathing difficult, and the voices were getting louder, closer.

  ‘Fight you for it. Good cloak like that don’t come round often. Reckon it’s worth a fight.’

  With a low groan, Errol struggled upright. His hand touched rough cloth, cracked long-dead bones underneath. He remembered the dead man, all the dead bodies lying strewn about the floor like so much garbage. The fear was gone though. There were no ghosts here, just empty husks. Sitting up, he saw the fire still burning low, the pot of stew on its tripod hanging over the embers. Two figures stood to one side, frozen like schoolboys caught in some guilty act. Like everything else in this place, they were covered in a thick layer of dung, but he could see the whites of their eyes, wide with surprise.

  ‘Wh … where am I? What is this place?’ Errol’s words came out thick and slurred, and only as they were gone did he realize he’d spoken in Saesneg. The two dark figures grasped each other, blinking. One let out a shout of alarm, then the other joined him, and finally they both ran from the cavern. Their screams echoed down the passageway for long moments before slowly dying away.

  Bemused, Errol struggled to his feet. His head felt too light, as if it might pop off at any moment and float to the ceiling high overhead. He staggered across to the nearest wall, held out his hand to the cold stone for support. The touch sent a tiny jolt of energy up his arm, the merest hint of the Grym, which nevertheless felt like a draught of the freshest water he had ever tasted, a bite of the most delicious food. Instinctively he pressed his hand hard to the rock, seeking out the source of that power, but it was gone as fleetingly as it had come, leaving him a little more awake, a little stronger, but still without hope.