The Rose Cord Page 4

  ‘Of course, my queen,’ Padraig said, bowing his defeat.

  ‘I want all Llanwennog emissaries out of the city by nightfall,’ Beulah said, ‘and out of the country by Suldith at the latest.’

  Padraig’s face dropped further still, but he didn’t argue. Bowing his acquiescence, he dismissed the prostrated guards. They scuttled away to the great entrance doors, and as they exited a single stooped figure stepped through. Duke Angor of Abervenn looked like he had ridden all the way from his castle without stopping. He limped up towards the throne, falling to his knees in a cloud of dust.

  ‘My queen, I came as soon as I heard,’ he said. ‘Is it true? Is my son really dead?’

  ‘Didn’t you see his head on the traitors’ gate?’

  ‘Traitor? What?’ the old man blustered, his pale face reddening as he rose to his feet.

  ‘No one told you?’ Beulah asked, lounging in the throne as best she could, putting on an air of indifference as she brushed the edges of the duke’s confused thoughts for signs of complicity.

  ‘Tell me what?’ the duke asked, turning to Padraig. ‘Seneschal, what’s going on here?’

  ‘Young Merrl was part of a plot to assassinate our good Queen Beulah and place young Iolwen on the throne,’ Padraig said. ‘He nearly succeeded too.’

  ‘But this is preposterous,’ Angor said, blustering. ‘Merrl would never … No son of Abervenn would ever …’

  ‘But he did,’ Beulah said, and in the front of the duke’s mind she could see a meeting – indistinct faces, purses of money changing hands. ‘Tell me, Angor,’ she continued. ‘How much have you made this last year in your trading with Llanwennog?’

  ‘I … I wouldn’t know,’ Angor said. ‘I don’t have much to do with the day-to-day running of things. I’d have to ask my major domo.’

  ‘But ten thousand gold flocks would be a fair estimate?’ Beulah saw the figure in the old man’s head, an image of a great pile of wealth spread out on a wooden table in front of him.

  ‘Abervenn contributes handsomely to the royal treasuries,’ the duke said. His posture was changing; for an old man he gathered his wits quickly, Beulah could see. His eyes darted from side to side, searching for guards, no doubt. At the moment there were none in the great hall, Beulah had seen to that.

  ‘And would it continue to do so, if the throne were subservient to Tynhelyg?’ she asked. ‘Or would it switch its allegiance more openly to Ballah and his clutch of little princes?’

  ‘My queen … these accusations …’ Beulah noticed how with each word Angor took a step closer to the great throne. She hadn’t seen him step up on to the dais, but now he was no more than a couple of paces away. He held up his left hand in supplication, making strange distracting motions in the air with his outstretched fingers like a cheap conjuror. But Beulah knew the first rule of false magic and ignored the diversion. She saw in his mind exactly what he planned and watched in appreciation at his skill as he palmed a thin blade with his right hand.

  ‘I don’t think we need to pretend any more, Angor,’ she said. ‘You never wanted war with Llanwennog; that would disrupt your lucrative trade. You’d much rather see the kingdoms united. Well, I’d like to see that as well, but under my rule.’

  ‘You’ll destroy us all. I’m doing the kingdom a favour,’ the duke said. His words weren’t even finished before he sprung into the air with surprising agility, stiletto ready to plunge. Padraig let out a frightened yelp of alarm, but Beulah simply smiled. She conjured a blade of light with a lazy thought, swinging it in an arc faster than a blink, back and forth with a thrill at the power she wielded. Momentum carried the duke forward still, but he landed on the floor at her feet in several wet pieces.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ the seneschal said after a long silence.

  ‘Oh come now, Padraig. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen someone wield a blade of light before.’

  ‘But, my queen. You’re –’

  ‘A woman, Padraig? I know you’ve taken a vow of chastity, but I assume you know something of the difference between the sexes?’

  ‘But it’s not permitted. It’s not –’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Beulah said. ‘It’s no more than bigotry and superstition that prevents women learning magic. I am queen; I will do as I please.’

  ‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ Padraig said, his eyes fixed on the glimmering blade. Beulah extinguished the light, feeling a heady surge of power as she absorbed it back into her self.

  ‘Now, a proclamation. From this moment forth all Abervenn lands are forfeit to the crown, as is the title that goes with them. Find me Melyn; I need him to dispatch a trusted captain to oversee the dukedom until I’ve rooted out this subversion.’

  ‘Your Majesty, I thought you could communicate with the inquisitor at will,’ Padraig said.

  ‘And yet you complain about the blade?’ Beulah laughed. ‘It’s true I can contact Melyn, but I need to know where he is first. Otherwise I’ll just waste too much time trying to find him. The last I heard he’d gone off on some dragon hunt. Send word to Emmass Fawr that I must talk with him urgently. I need to find out what’s going on in Llanwennog.’

  ‘I’ll send someone immediately,’ Padraig said, bowing.

  ‘Good.’ Beulah slumped back into the throne. ‘And get someone in to clean up this mess.’

  It seemed to take longer than it should have done for him to hit the surface of the water. Benfro had spent many a happy afternoon diving off rocks into the river, chasing and occasionally catching fish; he knew instinctively how fast he should plummet. Perhaps it was the darkness making distance seem shorter than it really was. The muscles between his shoulders at the roots of his wings felt heavy and strained, wind tugging at the folds of skin as if he might have actually flown. When he hit the water, it was not a triumphant pool-emptying eruption so much as an almost graceful controlled entry. Still, he had fallen a long way, and the force of his impact knocked most of the wind out of his lungs. The water parted for him, then closed in over his head and sucked him down deep.

  Surprisingly warm, the dark pool embraced Benfro like his mother. He was weightless after what seemed like an eternity of aches and pains. The grief and fear fled his mind and left him with a glow of contentment. All he wanted to do was drift slowly to the bottom and the sleeping friend who waited there for him. So he couldn’t breathe. Well, breathing was overrated really. Much better to just relax, settle into the depths with his new friend. Soon they could be together for ever.

  Down and down he drifted, calm and relaxed. There was something he ought to be doing, he was sure, but it couldn’t be that important or he would be able to remember. So he just settled, the silty bottom of the pool easing aside to accept the bulk of his battered, drained body.

  In the murk he could see strange ghostly shapes spread out around him. They looked like sticks reaching out of the sand. Strangely symmetrical fingers strung with gently swaying fronds of weed. Closer, a rock caught his eye, such was the perfection of its whiteness. It was domed at one end, tapering to a thick truncated tube at the other. Black spots of pondweed on its surface looked like eye sockets, nostrils, perhaps an earhole and a jagged, violent crack where someone had taken a heavy axe to a sleeping skull, rolling the murdered body into the welcome embrace of the pool. With a gasp that sent the last few precious bubbles of air spiralling up from his nostrils, Benfro realized that he was looking at the skeleton of a long-dead dragon, discarded like some twisted rag doll on the bed of the pool. And deep within the broken skull a single small shining jewel glowed a bitter red. He lurched back awkwardly and half breathed, half gulped with surprise, suddenly all too aware that he was completely immersed in water.

  Benfro’s stomach churned. The pain rolled up through his throat; he tasted bile at the back of his mouth. He couldn’t breathe. A dreadful weariness pulled at him. His mind started to dull again; thoughts so hard to force through the jelly that was setting all around him. All he could see was a pale light, far away
and murky. It was a misshaped disc blotched with darker grey, the image of a dragon with improbably large outstretched wings. The moon. He had to reach for the moon.

  The image was turning fuzzy, hard to focus on through the thick, warm, enveloping goo that surrounded him. Yet somewhere Benfro could feel a rhythmic pulsing ache. Was it his hearts? Could they beat so slowly? No, something else surged against his back, pushing him forward, up towards the light. Away from his new friend.

  It cried to him, pleading for him to come back, digging talons of love and want deep into his soul. But it was a cruel, selfish want, Benfro knew then. It was a heartless lonely thing that wanted only to possess him. He concentrated instead on the pulsing rhythm, each beat dimming his sight but bringing him closer to the moon.

  He struggled to focus on the steady beat that rippled along his body. All he could feel was the water sliding over his scales and the dreadful lonely longing that wanted to pull him back down to its despair, a companion in misery for all eternity below.

  With a last effort that he was almost unaware of making, he burst from the surface of the pool like an osprey. His wings, which had propelled his bulk through the thick water, grabbed at the too-thin air, dragging him almost fully clear before his strength failed entirely. Still, they carried him far enough to crash into the shallows, sending a huge wave of water up the sandy beach. Crouched on all fours, it was all he could do to lift his head above the ripples, but somehow he managed it. He coughed up what seemed like gallons of water, retching with the effort of clearing his lungs. Then, finally, he could breathe in great gulps of night air.

  He sat, eventually, in the cooling stream, just breathing deep breaths and occasionally turning to cough and retch out more water from his lungs and stomach. For a long while it was quiet, only the gentle night breeze stirring the grass and bushes close to the water. As his mind cleared and he recalled his dreamlike experience under the water, Benfro was not really surprised to hear the voice come back to him.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ it said, sounding a little less like a petulant kitling, a little more scary. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve been impressed.’

  ‘How long?’ Benfro asked. ‘How long have you been down there – here – wherever you are?’

  ‘I don’t know. Days are just days when you’re dead.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Benfro asked. ‘What are you?’

  ‘Why should I tell you? You’ve given me nothing.’

  ‘You tried to kill me. I think you owe me an explanation at least.’ Benfro shivered, only partly in fear. The water was cold now, sapping what little heat his empty body could muster. Slowly, painfully, he began to inch forward towards the beach. Each movement was an incredible effort of will and brought with it only increasing weight as he hauled himself on to dry land. The gentle night breeze had stiffened now, its chill tendrils plucking at his wet scales and skin.

  ‘True.’ The voice seemed oblivious to his plight. ‘But I’m still not going to tell you my name. A name is a powerful thing. If I give you that you could just give it to anyone you meet.’

  ‘So?’ Benfro asked. ‘What if I did? How many dragons have come this way since you died? How many men?’

  ‘Men?’ the voice said. ‘What would I care of men? Other than for a nice meal of an evening. Oh yes, time was I could eat a dozen young maidens and still be hungry. Ah me, those were the days.’

  Confused and weary beyond his comprehension, a sudden mad thought flitted through Benfro’s mind then. ‘Are you Corwen?’ he asked. Silence greeted his question and for a moment he thought he had been hallucinating, had dreamed the whole episode. Then the voice came back with a spiteful little cackle.

  ‘Corwen? Hah! What kind of a name is that? Come, little dragon child, you can do better than that if you’re going to play guessing games. Try something a bit grander. Try Palisander of the Spreading Span, or Llys Frôn the Munificent.’

  Benfro recognized the names from Sir Frynwy’s tales. They were the bedrock of all dragon mythology. ‘You must be the great Gog, Son of the Winter Moon, then,’ he said, picking the first name from one of the stories that came to his mind.

  The water in the pool started to glow red, a darkening of the star-pocked night blackness above that grew from dull blood through the angry heat of burning coals to the full-blooded rage of a forest fire. The water boiled, first great bubbles, rising and bursting singly, then smaller eruptions spreading over the pool’s surface like a sudden shower of rain. Steam billowed into the cold night air as a heaving foam erupted. Violent orange light flooded over the slopes that climbed away to the distant trees, picking out the accusing rock in sharp relief. Benfro could feel the heat emanating from the pool even as he scrabbled away from the edge as fast as his weary legs and arms would take him. He backed up into the night, realizing too late that his path was blocked by thick undergrowth and he could go no further. Had he looked round he might have found an escape route but he could not take his eyes from the sight in front of him, could scarcely move for fear.

  The water rose up out of the pool in a glowing red column. It piled up higher and higher until it towered over the rock, swaying slightly. From his ringside seat Benfro could see great salmon writhing around in the boiling water, their eyes turned instantly white with the heat. Water splashed into the vacant pool from the stream, gushing up in great gouts of steam as it hit the bone-dry bottom and the red-hot bones of the long-dead dragon. Its skull was a blaze of fire, the jewel within an evil crimson.

  ‘You dare utter that name here?’ the voice screeched, a terrible sound that filled Benfro’s head, chased away any thoughts he might have had. The column of water spread out now, taking on the shape of a huge dragon, wings outspread as it dived on its prey. Dived on Benfro, who could do nothing but watch in helpless terror.

  Then, as suddenly as it had started, the great edifice collapsed. For an instant Benfro thought he could see thick veins of fire pulsing through the ground to focus on the pool. But as soon as he noticed them, they were snuffed out, gone as if they were no more substantial than an after-image from staring too long at the sun. Tons of scalding water plunged back into the pool. It fell with a crash that rang around the clearing for long seconds, fading finally to leave the echo of a mournful wail, a last desperate cry of rage and frustration and fear and surprise.

  4

  An unreckoned jewel is a terrible thing. Quite apart from the tragedy of any dragon dying alone and so far from others of his kind that no healer can be informed of his demise, a dragon’s jewel not cleansed and set by the living flame will slowly melt away as its essence leaches back into the Grym. Jewels thus left still hunger for experience, but with time the good nature of the dragon is gone; only his base desires are left, and with them a desperate, mad craving for survival. Unreckoned jewels glow red with a thirst to know everything, and should you inadvertently touch one that has lain for more than a few years, it will latch itself on to you with a power few know how to break. Unchecked, such a jewel will slowly inveigle the corrupted character and personality of its dead owner into your self. This process is insidious and often unnoticeable until it is too late to rectify. In time you will cease to be, and an evil shadow of the dragon whose jewel you have touched will live again in you.

  The only sure way to reverse this process, or at least halt it, is to conjure up the living flame and reckon the jewel. Such should as a matter of course be done with all haste when a fallen dragon is found, but in those rare cases where there is nothing left of the body, or where the jewels have been removed to a distance and the remains left unmapped to rot, then reckoning will not work. For the living flame must have both body and jewel to set the two together. There are mages who profess a knowledge of how to untie the binding between an unreckoned jewel and the dragon it is trying to usurp, but they are few and spread far in all the realms of Gwlad.

  Healer Trefnog, The Apothecarium

  Errol didn’t see the inquisitor ride into the main courtyard with his
troop of novitiates and warrior priests. He was tucked away in his room, deep in the library archives with Andro, practising the art of thinking deception. It wasn’t until word came down that his presence was required in Melyn’s study that he realized his time had come.

  ‘You can do it, Errol. Believe me,’ Andro said. ‘Just stay focused; don’t let your mind wander.’

  Put like that, it sounds easy, Errol thought as he hurried through the cold stone buildings ever upward to the tall building where the inquisitor’s private rooms were situated. The truth of it was far more complicated, and he spent the time reinforcing the view of the world that he had constructed until he almost completely believed the lie.

  ‘Come,’ Melyn said the moment Errol knocked on the black oak door. He entered and found the inquisitor slouched in a low-slung leather chair, a goblet of wine in his hand.

  ‘Errol, it’s good to see you,’ he said in perfect Llanwennog.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve returned unharmed,’ Errol replied in the same tongue. It was not the test he had been expecting, but then he remembered their last meeting, when the inquisitor had bid him learn the language of the enemy so he could become a spy.

  ‘Have a drink, lad.’ The inquisitor pointed to where a jug stood beside an empty goblet on the table. Errol poured a small measure of wine and took an even smaller sip.

  ‘How was your hunt, Your Grace?’ he asked, again in Llanwennog. ‘And how is my stepbrother, Clun?’

  ‘So you know about that,’ Melyn said, fixing Errol with his yellow stare. Errol felt the itching in his brain that told him the inquisitor was trying to probe his mind. Concealing his disgust with all his will, he tried to imagine a lust for the kill, a burning desire to destroy all dragons.