The Obsidian Throne Page 34

  Beulah scowled, then looked once more at the dragon. She had taken a few steps back, almost disappearing into the shadows in the corner of the room. It was a useful skill, to be able to divert attention from yourself like that, but it was a cowardly thing too.

  ‘You should not speak of such things in front of her, my love.’ She slipped an arm under his, felt him lean his weight against her, and then walked him slowly over to the window. Outside, purple-grey clouds scudded over a sky that was more winter than autumn, the air cold and with the fresh smell of promised snow about it. Only a week ago they had been basking in summer sun, hopeful of many long warm days to come. Now it was as if the year had jumped to its end in the blink of an eye.

  Clun leaned towards the window, resting his hands on the stone sill as he lifted his head to the light and breathed in deeply.

  ‘Frecknock is not our enemy, my lady.’

  ‘She is a dragon. It is enough.’ Beulah stared out the window in the same direction as her husband. The room they were in overlooked the parade ground in front of the palace, and she could see a motley assemblage of dragons lazing around on the hard-packed earth. She had watched them before; they didn’t seem to do much except sleep, occasionally fly off presumably in search of food, and every so often fight among themselves. The other dragons, the ones that had sworn fealty to Clun, kept themselves to the top of the hill, in the courtyard surrounding the Neuadd. She hadn’t been back there since the incident with Caradoc, but word had reached her of immense damage to the place, and of the hall itself being used as a latrine by the beasts. Yet one more reason not to trust them.

  ‘They understand violence well enough.’ She turned to Clun, who shifted his head slightly towards her, the better to hear. Beulah wanted him to stare at her with that wonder and devotion she craved. She wanted to see that handsome face again but knew it would be ever more marred by those milky white eyes. ‘But they know you are injured, weakened. How long before one mounts a challenge? And what real chance do we have when they do? With Melyn away and you like this?’

  Clun turned then, reached up and gently brushed the side of Beulah’s face with his hand. It was soft, and steady as a rock. ‘Then I will crush them, my lady.’

  He pushed himself away from the window, and for a moment Beulah thought he was going to fall over. It wasn’t so much that his legs were weak, she realized, as that his balance was off. It was almost as if he were controlling his body from a point a few paces away, learning how to walk all over again. She suppressed the urge to help him, just watched as he crossed the room, avoiding every possible obstacle in his way. At the door a guard came to attention, saluted. Clun spoke to him for a few moments, words lost to Beulah as the princess began to cry softly in her cot nearby.

  ‘Just a little wind, I think, ma’am.’ The maid was at the side of the cot before Beulah had even decided to go and see what the problem was. She lifted up the baby, cradling it expertly against her chest, her shoulder already covered with a fresh white towel. A couple of pats on the back and Princess Ellyn let out a tiny belch, followed by a dribble of semi-digested milk that soured the air with its smell. Moments later a richer aroma made things worse. Beulah looked back to the door, where Clun now stood alone, the guard gone.

  ‘See to her,’ she said to the maid before heading away from the source of the odour as quickly as was proper for a queen.

  Clun turned at her approach. ‘I would like to get some air, I think. We should maybe go down to the parade ground.’

  He set off at a far greater speed than Beulah had expected, successfully navigating his way through the palace as she bustled to keep up at a most un-queenlike trot. The further he left behind the sickroom, the more he stood upright and moved like the young man she had first fallen for. When he finally stopped at the bottom of the steps and turned to face her, she was distraught to see his eyes still the same. For a while she had half believed they might have magically healed.

  ‘Why are we here, my love?’ Beulah asked. Clun opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak a commotion from the far side of the parade ground distracted them all. A group of warrior priests and some of the queen’s own guards were wrestling with the great black stallion, Godric. They almost had him under control, but then the horse must have caught a scent on the breeze. With a great snort that could be heard all the way from the palace, he reared up on his hind legs, kicking out until all had backed away. He bucked a couple of times just to make sure no ropes held him down, then burst into a gallop. Godric crossed the parade ground in moments before slowing to a trot, then a walk, tossing his magnificent head this way and that, eyes wide with triumph as finally he came to a halt right in front of Clun, who lifted a hand up for him to sniff, then patted him gently on the nose. The beast lowered his head further, sniffing at the man he considered his master, and Beulah sensed the concern in his simple, proud mind.

  ‘It’s all right. I’m fine.’ Clun moved around to the horse’s side, his hands sweeping over that massive neck and those glossy, black flanks. Not for the first time, Beulah felt a pang of jealousy at just how easily her husband made friends. With this horse she had bought for him, with the dragon Frecknock, even with their daughter.

  ‘He is pleased to see you, my love,’ she said, surprised when he looked blindly towards her to see tears in his white eyes.

  ‘And I to see him.’ Clun reached up to the great thick mane that tumbled from the stallion’s neck, took a great handful and tried to heave himself on to the animal’s back. Beulah had seen him do it before, but this time his strength failed him. Godric bent his head round, sniffing his concern, then slowly knelt so that Clun could clamber aboard.

  ‘Is that wise?’ Beulah asked. A fall from the stallion’s back on to the packed earth of the parade ground could very easily break Clun’s neck, and would certainly undo all the forced healing he had been put through since Caradoc’s attack.

  ‘Probably not, my lady. But I need to feel the wind on my face again.’ Clun climbed on to Godric’s back, leaning close to the stallion’s neck as he stood.

  ‘But your eyes. How can you see?’

  ‘I see fine. Better now than I could before.’ He squeezed Godric’s flanks gently, and the horse turned this way and that, dancing like the most highly trained dressage animal. Beulah noticed Sir Gwair watching with astonishment and, looking over at the rest of his fold, she saw that they too were fascinated. Had they never seen a man ride a horse before?

  ‘Frecknock?’ She turned to the small dragon, who was still trying hard not to be noticed. ‘Stay with him. See he comes to no harm.’

  Frecknock bowed her assent, alarm evident in her expression as she walked down the steps and trotted towards Clun and Godric. Beulah had intended asking one of her guards to fetch her own horse, but the men who had brought Godric out now reappeared leading the white filly. She recognized Captain Celtin at their head, couldn’t help but notice the fresh bruising around his eye where he had not managed to get out of Godric’s way quickly enough.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ He thumped a fist to his chest by way of salute. ‘His Grace the Duke of Abervenn thought you might like to go for a ride.’

  Beulah looked over to where Clun was still sitting astride Godric’s back. He was staring back at her with sightless eyes, a grin on his face. ‘We’ve both of us been cooped up inside too long,’ he said. ‘Fresh air is by far the best healer.’

  ‘Your Grace, it is good to see you again.’

  Melyn looked up at the open door to see the face of Father Andro. The senior librarian was frail, closer to his end now than he had ever seemed. The inquisitor could only remember Andro as being old. He had been in his sixth decade, maybe even seventh when Melyn had first arrived at Emmass Fawr. The touch of the Grym sometimes extended the life of a man beyond its natural span, but even so Andro was an exception. He must have been approaching a hundred and thirty but it was beginning to show.

  ‘Andro, please. Come in. Have a seat. Perhaps a
drink.’

  Melyn beckoned from his simple chair in his austere room, a goblet of wine in his other hand. He had lit the fire for perhaps the first time in a generation, the heat taking its time to soak into the old stone walls before it bothered with him. When he had truly believed in the Shepherd, denying himself the pleasures of the flesh had been a way of measuring his devotion. Now he knew the true nature of his god, now that he had become one with him, such austerity struck him as a waste. There were so many things in life to enjoy; denying them was perverse. And of course the Grym was too wild to tap for warmth, so a flame was ever welcome.

  ‘Are you well, Melyn?’ Andro looked from inquistor to fire to goblet as he stepped into the room, approaching with the same caution a cat approaches a sleeping dog.

  ‘Should I not be, old friend?’

  ‘I don’t know. So much has changed.’ Andro took the only other chair in the room, moving it slightly closer to the fire, which Melyn couldn’t help but notice meant also moving it further away from him. Andro didn’t sit though, just leaned against its back. ‘Did you really kill King Ballah?’

  So much had passed since the taking of Tynhelyg that Melyn was thrown by the question, unable to answer for a while.

  ‘He was old and slow.’

  The librarian merely nodded his head slightly, as if placing the piece of information into its correct alcove in the great repository of his mind. ‘And the Wolf?’

  ‘Him too, although he went by the name of the Old One at the end. Or Gog to those who have studied history.’

  ‘Gog?’ Andro’s reaction was well played, but Melyn could see the spark of recognition in the old man’s eyes. He brushed the librarian’s thoughts, skimming them with the lightest of touches. The old man seemed to be thinking of the address in Ruthin’s Hall, of the books that Melyn had found in the dragon village and sent to him, most still not yet translated. He was considering how to break to the inquisitor the tragic news of the burning of the almshouses and the death of Tormod. There were a thousand and one things concerning him, but the thoughts circling that name Gog were locked as tight as any forbidden scroll.

  ‘You must know the old tales, of Gog and Magog.’ Melyn pushed and probed at Andro’s thoughts as he spoke, using the words as levers. ‘The brothers of old who fought over the love of Ammorgwm the Fair and cared not what was destroyed in their warring?’

  Andro shook ever so slightly, the tremors of age or perhaps the strain of this battle of wills. Melyn had enjoyed sparring with the old librarian in the past, had learned so much from him over a lifetime of service to the order. But he had never managed to see into Andro’s thoughts. He had always been too strong, too skilled. And Melyn had never suspected his loyalty, at least not until now.

  ‘Did you know that Errol Ramsbottom escaped yet again?’ Melyn asked. As he had hoped, the question threw Andro off balance, random and unexpected as it was.

  ‘Errol?’ The boy’s youthful face appeared in Andro’s thoughts. He was holding a scroll between his hands, the vellum scratched with the stick-like apparently random lines of Draigiaith runes.

  ‘You knew he wasn’t the bastard son of a Llanwennog journeyman and a backwoods herbswoman, didn’t you.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘You knew he was the true heir to the Obsidian Throne.’

  Melyn almost pitied Andro. Time was the old man would have been able to breeze through a test like this, but now he was starting to slow down, and Melyn himself was sharper, stronger than ever.

  ‘I don’t—’

  But Melyn could already see his mental barriers crumbling. ‘Spare me, old man. You knew before he even came here. Princess Lleyn and that Llanwennog dog Balch? You probably knew before the child was even born. Set your Ram friends to keeping an eye on them.’

  ‘Just as well I did. You had Beulah so well trained. What was it, gallweed? That’s low, even for you.’

  Had he not been touched by Magog, given the power of the Shepherd, Melyn might well have succumbed to Andro’s attack. It was swift and brutal. And desperate. The librarian dropped his own shields to strike, and in that moment Melyn saw everything that the old man had been hiding. Not just his preference for Princess Lleyn over Beulah, but a treachery far deeper, going back far longer.

  ‘The Guardians of the Throne?’ The inquisitor almost laughed. ‘I would have thought better of you, Andro.’

  ‘Which just goes to show how little you truly know, Melyn son of Arall.’ Andro did not move a muscle, but the assault on Melyn’s mind doubled in strength. For all his age, the librarian’s mental control was remarkable. There were freshly consecrated warrior priests who had only half the youthful vigour, and none of the subtlety.

  ‘Oh, I know, Andro. We are both merely pawns in a battle begun millennia before either of us was born.’ The inquisitor shrugged off the attack with as much effort as he might use to remove a crumb from his robes. Andro rocked back on his heels as if he had been slapped, hand darting out to the nearby wall to steady himself. He stayed on his feet though, and closed his mind down to Melyn’s counter-attack.

  ‘Where did I go wrong with you, Melyn? The young lad I remember was full of wonder at the world, not hatred.’

  ‘Why assume it was ever your failing, old man? Why assume it is a failing at all?’ Melyn took a sip from his goblet, the taste sour on his tongue. Nothing like as fine as the dark red wine he had been served in Tynhelyg. Andro watched him all the while, his pale eyes inscrutable. How much had the old librarian kept from him? How many more secrets were there to be ferreted out of that bony skull? All of a sudden Melyn found he no longer cared.

  ‘Your precious Guardians should worship the ground on which I walk. The Shepherd has returned and he is inside me. Together we have slain the Wolf. Once his followers are dealt with I will take my rightful place on the Obsidian Throne. Then all Gwlad will be mine.’

  Andro moved with such swiftness, Melyn almost didn’t see it coming. He said nothing, simply stepped forward, arm swinging in an arc as he conjured his blade of fire for a killing blow. Had he been a pace closer and not hindered by the chair he had been leaning on, he might even have succeeded. As it was, Melyn felt his flesh burn as the tip of the blade cut a line across his face, instantly blinding one eye. He stumbled backwards, knocking chair and wine over in the process.

  ‘You dare strike me?’ Rage flooded through him, swamping the shock that might have paralysed a lesser man. Melyn conjured his own blade, fiery red and ragged. He could feel the Grym rebounding and coiling, pulsing and ebbing to some impossible rhythm, the heartbeat of a world in flux. Riding that chaos, he fed more power into his blade, and more. His hand burned with the heat of it, but his scales were much more resilient than the flesh they had replaced. Pain meant nothing; there was only anger and the old librarian.

  ‘I am not afraid of you, Melyn.’ Andro moved with the ease and agility of a much younger man. Melyn wondered how long he had been playing a part. What magic did he know that could hold back the effects of ageing so well?

  ‘You should be.’ He advanced on the old man at the same time as he conjured a second blade. It was more difficult to control, with the power surging and falling all around him, but he had Magog’s skill and knowledge to guide him. A flicker of a frown ghosted across Andro’s face. A less-experienced warrior might have fallen for the bluff, but Melyn had killed far more skilful fighters. Had he not bested King Ballah himself?

  Andro took a step back, clearly expecting Melyn to strike at the opening he was offering. Instead the inquisitor crossed his twin blades and then let them extinguish, pushing the Grym out towards the lines that the librarian was struggling to tap for his own weapon. The effect was as dramatic as it was instant. Andro’s blade flared bright in the room, the heat washing over everything as all the energy sought somewhere to dissipate. And then it turned in on itself, consuming the old man from the inside. His mental walls shattered, and for a few seconds Melyn was able to dig deep, pulling out secrets like a desperate thief. Faces spra
ng into view: Father Gideon and Usel the Medic were hardly a surprise, but Seneschal Padraig’s collusion was unexpected. There were very few traitors in the Order of the High Frydd, his men were loyal both to him and Queen Beulah, but the scope of the conspiracy was a revelation.

  Melyn became aware of a keening sound and realized that it was Andro’s dying scream. Ignoring it, he dug deeper, through layers of memory, searching for anything that was relevant, knowing that he had too little time. Better to have taken the old librarian alive. A few weeks on the rack would have had him spilling all his secrets. But Andro was too wily for that. Melyn could see now that the attack had been quite deliberate. Either he would succeed and Melyn’s threat would be neutralized, or he would fail and die swiftly.

  ‘Unless I do this.’ The inquisitor reached for the Grym that was burning the old librarian alive and pulled it out of him, sending it hurtling off into the lines. The walls around him glowed with the heat of it, cracks spreading over the stone with a crackling sound. The thick glass in the narrow windows shattered. And Father Andro dropped first to his knees, then slowly toppled to the floor.

  28

  Of all the great religious orders of the House of Balwen, it is the Order of the Ram that is held in the highest esteem by the common people of the Twin Kingdoms. The clerks of the Candle are responsible for taxation and present the grey, implacable face of the state. The warrior priests of the High Ffrydd bring with them a reputation for ruthlessness that makes grown men quake in their boots. Only the medics of the Ram are welcomed without hesitation, for they bring healing to the sick and teaching to the young.

  Unlike their fellow orders, Rams are wanderers. Their headquarters is the great hospital on the western wall of Candlehall, but in the main they serve their ministry travelling and learning. Often spending years on the road away from the central authority of their archimandrite, Rams are an independent lot, open to new ideas and always experimenting with new magics. It is perhaps no coincidence that whenever the bloodline of Balwen weakens and the Guardians of the Throne work their mischief it is the Order of the Ram that has the ear of the king.