The Broken World, page 28
And then he saw that it wasn’t rock, or at least not natural. This was a tower, built by someone. Or something. And there was a terrible familiarity about it.
Closer still and he began to recognize details. He had been here before, somehow flown here with Ynys Môn’s jewels. Three dragons had attacked him and he had dropped his precious hoard. They had fallen inside the wall that he could now see surrounding a building so large it made Inquisitor Melyn’s monastery at Emmass Fawr seem tiny. Benfro scanned the skies as he approached, looking for any sign of impending attack. He could see nothing, not even a bird. Only the tower reaching ever upwards from the sprawling mass of buildings.
He flew over the wall as low as he dared, tail barely missing the topmost parapet. Even so it was several hundred feet to the ground. He tried to remember the previous occasion he had been here. If he had been here at all. How did the dreamwalk work? He was not physically here, surely. He was back in the cave asleep. With—
Benfro almost crashed into the ground, almost woke up. Cerys had come to him in the night. She had climbed into his nest of heather and dry grass, put her wing around him like she had done when he was still sick, like his mother had done when he was still a kitling. He had fallen asleep with her warmth all around him, her intoxicating scent.
He shook his head to get rid of the image, furled his wings and came in for a perfect landing. The ground between the wall and the vast buildings it surrounded was laid to grass mostly, perfectly flat and cropped short. Hard paths criss-crossed the area, and wide, square lakes of still black water, but there were no trees. Benfro looked around, tried to get his bearings. Somewhere near where he now stood Ynys Môn’s jewels had fallen to the ground. He could see them in his mind’s eye, tumbling down.
But that had been months ago. They surely wouldn’t be here any more. One or other of the dragons would have found them, collected them up. Taken them where, though? Almost unbidden, his eyes looked up, following the climb of the buildings, their roofs topped with dark grey slate. Behind them the tower pierced the clouds, so tall that he could scarcely make out its top. And he knew with dreadful certainty exactly where he would find his old friend.
Benfro leaped into the air, beat down with his wings until he was aloft. In the dream it was all so easy. No need to run and jump like some fledgling bird. No fear of broken bones or, worse, injured pride. Soon he was higher than the buildings, climbing strongly and swiftly. Still it took long minutes to cross the endless miles of dark roofs, the thousand thousand sightless window eyes. He was certain somebody was watching him, but scanning the skies revealed nothing. Wherever this place was, he was alone in it.
Climbing the tower in a spiral around its outer wall was hard work even in his dreaming state. It was almost as if some invisible force were pushing him away, but Benfro pressed on regardless. He had survived the thin air of Magog’s retreat at the top of Mount Arnahi. Surely this tower could not be as high as the tallest mountain on the Rim? And anyway he was not here. Not really. He was back in the cave asleep. Or was he here after all? Was this real or some parallel plane?
Higher and higher he climbed, flying against what felt like a storm. The closer he came to the top, the harder the going. And then the pressure against him was gone, as if someone had closed a window. His last powerful wingbeat shot him up beyond the top of the tower so that he had to swoop around and dive back down. A wide balcony circled the entire structure, two large glass-paned doors opposite each other giving access to a room inside. Benfro had always been curious, and this was the most intriguing puzzle of them all. He was certain this was the lair of some great dragon mage. Perhaps it was Gog’s own retreat.
Movement behind the glass panes caught his eye, and Benfro circled to land. There was a feeling to the place he couldn’t quite describe. Peering through the nearest door, he saw a room filled with huge tables, strange metal equipment, piles of wooden chests, things he had no names for. Hanging from a rafter off to one side, where it would be out of the draught from the door if it were open, a heavy cage appeared to be made of gold. Too small for a dragon, he couldn’t see if anything was inside it, as the bars had been woven through with strips of cloth and blankets to form a den for whatever animal had been trapped inside. Or maybe not trapped; a long knotted rope draped down from the cage to the floor. Nearby, a huge fireplace glowed with the embers of a dying fire, and sitting in front of it was a tiny figure.
‘By the moon! It cannot be!’
Benfro whirled, almost toppling off the ledge. Above him, far too close for comfort, a huge dragon hung in the air as if suspended on an invisible rope. Darkest black, with just the faintest shimmer of colour to his scales like oil spread across the surface of a winter pool, he sparked a memory deep in Benfro’s mind. This was one of the creatures who had attacked him before, when he had dropped Ynys Môn’s jewels in his dreams. Could the others be far away?
The dragon seemed not to need to flap his wings to stay aloft, drew them together far too soon to land on the balcony and yet still glided gently to the stone. Benfro felt a great wave of anger and hatred boiling off the beast, for beast was surely what he was. No great dragon mage but a warrior, battle-scarred and mad with rage. Benfro backed away, feeling first his tail slip over the edge, then his heels. He could go no further without fleeing, and there was no way he could hope to outrun such a powerful creature.
‘How dare you sully this place with your presence?’ The enormous dragon advanced ever closer, reaching out to him with powerful talons. The fear swamping Benfro was worse by far than anything Melyn and his warrior priests had ever produced in him. It froze him almost completely, just blind instinct making him flinch back as those claws whipped out and raked across his chest.
And then he was falling over the edge, tumbling out of control, a howl of rage and frustration ringing in his ears.
‘Beulah and Clun, they are still in Tochers?’
Melyn sat in Ballah’s chair at the king’s old desk, letting the Grym soothe away the pain that still flared across his chest with every intake of breath. He was suppressing the cough that wanted to shake loose the liquid pooling in his lungs, but there was only so long he could manage that for. Then the agony would overcome him once more. He cursed dragons of all kinds, Benfro in particular.
‘They are, Your Grace. I believe they are making preparations for the army to march out soon.’
Well, maybe not all dragons. Curled up beside the shuttered windows, Frecknock was a dark shadow in the gloom, only her large round eyes reflecting the waxy yellow candlelight.
‘I must speak with them. You will help me make contact.’
Frecknock raised her head to his eye level but remained lying down. ‘Sire, is that wise? You are not strong—’
‘You will do as I command, Frecknock.’ Melyn felt the anger surging up in him and bit down hard on the cough that it wanted to bring with it.
‘Of course, sire.’ The dragon rose in a lithe, fluid motion, crossed the room to where he sat, held out her hand. ‘If you would join me in the aethereal.’
Melyn swallowed against the bubbling in his throat and lungs, settled his mind as best he could and slipped into the trance. It brought a moment’s relief to be apart from his physical body, but he knew that Frecknock spoke the truth. He was not healing because he was not resting. Just a pity he had to be injured so deep inside enemy territory and with so much to do.
‘Take my hand, sire. It will be quicker this way.’ Frecknock’s aethereal appearance was so much more magnificent than her drab, worldly self. Her voice had more self-confidence about it too, speaking directly to his mind. Melyn’s mental defences were instinctive, and yet he knew that she would never try to take advantage of his weakened state. He reached out, feeling the warmth in her scaly palm, the strength she lent him so that he might be able to make the trip. And then with a blink, they were there.
Melyn knew Tochers from old. It was a miserable town, centred around a miserable castle with miserable, cold, dark rooms. Built to defend the pass from possible Llanwennog invasion, it was designed to be impregnable rather than comfortable. Not the best place for the heir to the Obsidian Throne to be born.
The room to which Frecknock had somehow instantly transported him was one of the more pleasant ones in the castle. It had two windows where most had barely an arrow slit, and a fire roared away merrily in a vast fireplace. The queen lay in a large four-poster bed, propped up on pillows and cradling in her arms the tiniest baby Melyn had ever seen. There was a healthy glow to both mother and child though, which gave him heart. The queen’s skill at magic was still hampered by her recent pregnancy, but it remained intact if she could be so easily recognized. The child, too, appeared fully formed, as children sometimes did, especially those of royal blood. Clun sat in a chair beside a large fireplace, but an image of him stood up, seeming to split into two people the instant Melyn turned to face him.
‘Your Grace. You look unwell.’ Clun’s aethereal self was indistinguishable from his mundane, save for the liminal glow around him. He was far more at ease in this place than most long-practised adepts, and not for the first time Melyn wondered how a country boy from the back end of nowhere could be so strong in the Grym. And yet he’d been a country boy from the back end of nowhere himself. All those years ago.
‘A little problem with the dragon Benfro. I’ll live.’ Melyn nodded towards Beulah, who was staring up at her husband now, still not seeing him. ‘You are a father, I see. Congratulations.’
‘A girl, yes. We have named her Ellyn, after her grandmother. She came earlier than we expected, but she is healthy enough.’
Melyn winced at the choice of name and the unbidden memories it raised like ghosts. He forced them away, concentrating on the present. ‘The queen? How fares Beulah?’
Clun appeared to consider his words. ‘It wasn’t an easy birth, sire. And the queen has not yet come to terms with the change in her situation, I fear.’
‘You fear? Speak your mind, boy. This is the heir to the Obsidian Throne we’re discussing.’
‘I’m sorry, Your Grace. I don’t know how to … The queen … my lady has not taken to the child the way I would have expected a mother to. In truth she has scarcely moved from her bedchamber since she was born.’
‘It will pass. Her mother was the same with both Lleyn and Beulah, though less so with Iolwen. It would be best perhaps if she returned to Candlehall. I take it our armies are marching through the passes as we speak?’
Melyn could see the anxiety as a darkening of Clun’s aura, and the pause before answering was enough to tell him all was not well.
‘Do I need to remind you we will soon be confronted by Prince Geraint’s army?’
‘It’s not that, sir. General Otheng should be through the Wrthol pass by now, and a smaller army is making its way to Tynewydd from here. Tordu’s army was routed by a pair of dragons, so it’s unlikely they will meet much resistance.’
‘Then what’s the problem, boy?’ Melyn’s chest flared with pain, threatening to drag him back to his body.
‘It’s Candlehall, sir. It’s been taken by an army of Abervenn men, led by Prince Dafydd and Princess Iolwen.’
Melyn struggled to stay in the room in Tochers, that same grey mist he had encountered in Ballah’s private apartments swirling around him. The pain in his chest was even more severe now; he could feel each breath as a wheeze, the liquid filling his lungs and threatening to drown him in his own blood. And then a hand touched his shoulder, softly anchoring him, lending him the strength he needed to finish.
‘Damn that boy. I should have known. What are your plans?’
‘We will march as soon as the queen is able. The plan is to secure Abervenn first; it will have fewer men defending it. Duke Beylin and Duke Glas are sending reinforcements. Together we will take back Candlehall.’
Melyn coughed, and the pain came back double. Even Frecknock’s strength was not enough, and he could sense himself losing control. Damn it, he had wanted to search the aethereal for Prince Geraint again. Their last foray had shown only that the army was leaving Wrthol. It could be halfway to Tynhelyg by now.
‘Beulah knows the secret ways into the Neuadd. Use that knowledge, Clun. And keep the queen safe.’
‘Always, Your Grace.’ Clun bowed his head, clapped his arm across his chest in salute, but Melyn was already moving, hurtling backwards as if on a rope pulled behind a galloping horse. He could hear a voice muttering in Draigiaith, the words strangely soothing to his ears as he tensed for the inevitable bone-crushing impact as his aetheral self met his physical body in the worst possible way.
And then there was only blackness.
19
Wise Earith was the greatest of healers, or so the fables say. Where Balwen gained the Shepherd’s wisdom and skill, Grendel and Malco his strength and cunning, Earith gained his ability to heal. Such was her skill, and such her generosity, that people came from far and wide with their ailments, seeking her cures. By and large she was happy to help, for the true healer does not distinguish between friend or foe, only those who are in need and those who are not.
And yet Wise Earith was not without a limit to her patience. A man who injures himself once is unfortunate; he who repeats the same mistake twice a fool. And so in her healing she would sometimes leave a reminder of the cause of the injury. For some this was as simple as a scar left where she had the skill to heal a wound without a trace. A man who would insist on picking fights she might leave weak in the shoulders, another gored by a boar after too much time spent hunting might find he had grown a fine sward of bristle where the wound had healed. These and other reminders were her gift not so much to the patient as to their family. For the careless man harms not only himself by his recklessness, but all those for whom he is responsible.
Archimandrite Zwartble, Healing through the Ages
Benfro woke with a start, sitting bolt upright. His hand went to his chest, felt the scales there, expecting them to be scored deep where those claws had ripped at them. Had he felt pain as the black dragon swung at him? It was all falling away as the dream faded, but he could feel the faintest of scratch marks and his hearts were thundering away as if he had run a mile.
‘Where do you go, when you sleep?’
He looked up, seeing the light of dawn painting the sky outside the cave mouth in shades of pink and orange. Half blocking the view, Cerys stood with her back to him. Her wings were not folded neatly but hung limply from her back, as if she had only just crawled out of her nest. His nest. Or was it the nest of the dragon who had left this cave one day and never come back?
‘I don’t go anywhere, do I?’ Benfro felt at the scratch across his scales, unsure whether it had been there before. He’d been in plenty of situations where he could have damaged himself and not noticed, after all. Drugged into compliance at the circus, for one.
‘Not your body, no. But you were gone. You went somewhere and I couldn’t sense you any more.’ Cerys turned, pulling her wings in tight around her as she walked back across the cave to where he sat. ‘If it hadn’t been for your hearts beating I might have thought you’d died.’
‘What do you know of dreamwalking?’ Benfro stretched as he had done every morning of his life on waking, and for the first time felt awkward and self-conscious about it. He was used to the close proximity of dragons, up to a point. His mother had never been far from him until the day she died, and the villagers had always been happy enough to ruffle his ears, but this was very different. He hardly knew Cerys and had no experience whatsoever of dragons his own age.
‘Dreamwalking? Isn’t that, like, really advanced subtle arts?’ Cerys dropped down on the heather and grass beside him as if that was the most natural thing in the world to do. ‘I’ve heard Sir Gwair talk about it. Apparently the Old One can do it, and some of his cronies. But it’s really hard.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Benfro studied his hands, trying to see whether the new one had grown at all. He was both uncomfortable and excited, and just didn’t know how to deal with Cerys. ‘Who’s the Old One? Sir Gwair was talking about him last night too.’
‘You’re joking, right? How can you not know about the Old One?’
‘I …’ Benfro started to speak, then remembered his dream. His dreamwalk, if that truly was what he had done. ‘I don’t even know where this place is. Where’s the Ffrydd from here?’
‘The Ffrydd? Why do you want to know about that place?’
‘Because it’s where I’m from. Or you could tell me how to get to Tynhelyg in Llanwennog. That’s where I last saw my friend. I’d really like to find him. Make sure he’s safe.’
‘I really don’t know … Oh no. Someone’s coming. I’m not here, OK?’ Cerys shuffled herself to the back of the alcove, tucking herself behind the rock so she couldn’t be seen from the cave mouth. Benfro frowned, looked at her with a quizzical expression and was about to ask her what she was playing at when another voice distracted him.
‘Hey! Benfro of the Borrowed Wings. You in there?’
He looked towards the cave mouth, seeing the silhouette of a dragon standing there. For a moment he thought it was Sir Gwair, but the shape was wrong. Then he tasted the scent on the air.
‘Fflint?’ Benfro stood, glancing sideways at Cerys, who seemed to be trying to push herself into the rock of the alcove. He left her to whatever games she was playing and headed to the entrance.
‘Thought you might have picked this place. Einar was a loner too.’
‘Einar?’
‘The dragon who lived here. He flew off hunting a year or so ago. Never came back. Figured he’d just got bored of our company, but a lot of the fold have gone missing recently.’ Fflint rolled his shoulders, flexing his powerful neck as if it ached. He peered into the darkness of the cave, sniffed but didn’t enter. ‘You seen Cerys about?’
