The Broken World, page 39
Melyn stopped scratching at his chest, only then realizing that he had been doing so. ‘No, Frecknock. That won’t be necessary. It’s healed fine. I cannot fathom why the Shepherd felt the need to remind me so of the creature that struck me in the first place, but his reasons are often mysterious to us.’
‘It would be presumptuous indeed to even try to understand him. I am grateful every day only for his continued protection.’
Melyn looked for irony in the dragon’s words but could find none. She might once have been a creature of the Wolf, but she was his to command now, as loyal as any warrior priest.
‘What do you make of this throne?’ He ran his hands over the arms of the great carved wooden chair, feeling the heat of the Grym course through them and into him.
‘It is very much like the Obsidian Throne back at the Neuadd, Your Grace. Although more human in scale. I suspect it has a similar function, focusing an unnatural nexus of the Grym and allowing those with adequately trained minds to channel that force for their own subtle arts. Someone attuned to its magics but not as strong-willed as yourself would surely be driven mad by it. Or lose themselves entirely.’
Melyn stood, not because of Frecknock’s words, although he could see the truth in them. The throne had a certain quality about it that made it all too easy to let the mind wander. All too easy for it to go so far it might never find its way back. And yet she was right too about the unnatural feel of it. Something powered this throne, and if it was the same as flowed in the Neuadd he had a suspicion he knew what that would be.
‘When Benfro appeared here, just before he attacked me, where did he come from?’
‘Behind this screen, Your Grace.’ Frecknock stood and walked to the carved wooden relief that formed a backdrop to the dais on which the throne stood. ‘I assumed he had come here by the same subtle art with which he escaped. Something he should not even know about, let alone be able to perform. But … Oh.’
Melyn went over to see what she had found. His warrior priests had checked every inch of the throne room for hidden doors, finding several allowing servants to come and go unseen and one that led to a series of hidden passageways to various royal apartments. No one had discovered anything behind the throne though. Now Frecknock stood beside an archway in the wall that he could have sworn hadn’t been there a moment earlier. Stone steps climbed downwards, spiralling out of sight, and a dull red glow reflected off masonry walls, not flickering like torchlight but solid and unwavering.
‘I didn’t see this before, Your Grace. I’m sorry. It was hidden by the most sophisticated of subtle arts.’
‘If what I suspect is down there, then they would have to be. Come, we shall see.’
Melyn set off down the steps, feeling the air thicken around him. He stopped after a while, looked back and saw Frecknock still standing at the top.
‘I said come, Frecknock. This is something you should see.’
‘Your Grace. It is forbidden. I—’
‘Will accompany me.’
The dragon paused a moment longer, then nodded once before treading carefully down the steps. The passageway was just wide enough for her to follow as Melyn led the way. The stairs spiralled deep beneath the castle, into the rock upon which it was built, before opening out into a vast cavern. Pillars cut in the rock held up the high vaulted ceiling, and into each of these had been cut hundreds, thousands, of small alcoves. Every one was piled with glowing red jewels.
A week of walking through the strange forest, and Errol was beginning to wonder if they would ever see the mountains. It wasn’t hard going; there was a fairly well-worn track that worked steadily north, deviating only to skirt around the larger hills. They crossed rushing rivers on sturdy stone bridges, well made but clearly ancient. They slept during the heat of the day in caves, under massive rocks tumbled from the hillsides or in the root bowls of the vast trees that spread away in all directions. Walking was easier at night, when the air was cooler and there was less chance of being spotted from above, although neither Errol nor Nellore had seen a dragon since the day the village had been destroyed.
The young girl was fascinated by the jewel she had found in the ashes, so Errol spent the time teaching her all he knew of dragons, their magic and the memories that crystallized in their brains. He taught her of the Grym and told her of the world he had grown up in, though whether she believed him or not he couldn’t be sure. It was a good way to organize his experiences in his own mind, Errol found, to begin unpicking the mess Melyn had made of his memories. Nellore was a quick learner too, mastering the art of seeing the lines far more quickly than he had. Perhaps the jewel helped her in that respect, but it didn’t seem to dominate her the way the single white stone from Benfro’s mother had transformed the young dragon. Neither did it sink its magical tendrils into her like Magog’s unreckoned gem. Both of them weighed heavily in Errol’s pockets, nestling with the pure glass globe he had taken from Loghtan; he was sure he could hear them calling to him as he slept.
Water wasn’t a problem for the first ten days. Nellore’s special knife gave them all they needed from the massive-trunked Bondaris trees. As they moved towards the end of their second week of walking though, these petered out, replaced by more familiar stands of oak and beech, huge elms and hemlocks. There were enough streams and rills that they didn’t go thirsty, but Errol was all too aware they had no water skins. The food they had scavenged from the ruins of the village had only lasted a couple of days, but the forest provided, and Nellore was well versed in its lore. The further north they travelled though, the less she recognized and the thinner their meals became.
‘I’m hungry,’ she said as they lay side by side at the base of a massive tree in the heat of the afternoon on their fourteenth day. It wasn’t the first time she had said it either.
‘We need to hunt,’ Errol said, though in truth he wasn’t sure how. And neither had they seen much in the way of wildlife on their journey, though that might have had something to do with their lack of stealth.
‘Why don’t you just reach out and take what you want? From the lines?’
Errol almost laughed. He’d told Nellore about Benfro, of course, and he’d told Benfro’s stories of how his extended family had provided for themselves. What he hadn’t told her was the other part of the tale, of how Benfro had only managed to fetch a raw turnip when he’d tried. And Errol had never managed to bring food to himself. Didn’t begin to know how.
Except that he did. He’d done it before, reached out along the lines to bring dry clothes from his home back to Corwen’s clearing. Only he’d brought the whole chest instead of just the tunic and breeks he was looking for.
‘I could try. But I don’t know where to start. I don’t even know where I am, let alone anything else.’
‘Well how do you s’pose your friend did it then? Benfro?’
‘OK. Let me think.’ Errol shuffled himself until he was sitting upright, his back against the tree trunk. The shade made it easier to see the lines as he conjured up the vision. They were rich here, but static. The place teemed with life, most of it plant based. Only the tiny intense flickers of insects hovering under the canopy and the occasional higher bursts of birds in flight were moving at all. But the lines were all interconnected, the trees and the shrubs and the insects and the birds. And yes, he and Nellore, and the dragons over the Twmp. Everything was joined, all part of Gwlad.
Without realizing he had done it, Errol found himself reaching out into the lines. For a moment he panicked; he knew all too well what happened to people who ventured too far away from themselves. But he could still feel the tree at his back, hear Nellore’s soft breathing beside him. Using that centre to focus himself, he pushed out further.
The forest went on for miles, but at the speed of thought it was but a blink to the foothills. Still there was nothing with that spark of intelligence that would suggest domesticity and food. For a moment Errol wondered if he should have gone the other way, to the Twmp, where the dragons lived. But then he’d seen what they ate and how they behaved. He didn’t want anything from them. And while Fflint might not have shown much in the way of magic, there was nothing to say some of the others might not sense him, track him down.
Then he started to feel them: thoughts that were not his own. An unmistakable clatter of noise that reminded him of Emmass Fawr. Concentrating harder, he tried to single out one voice, one person. Someone hungry but anticipating they would soon be fed.
Errol had his eyes closed tight, and now he saw as if he was in a dream. Or maybe stumbling through one of the dreadful swirling fogs that occasionally spilled out of the great woods and swamped Pwllpeiran for days. Pwllpeiran! Why hadn’t he thought of that? He knew Clun’s house like his own, knew the store at the back where the cured meats hung, the barrels of apples were kept. For that matter, there was his own house out on the edge of the forest. His mother always kept a well-stocked larder.
The vision faded, and Errol could feel the ropey bark of the cedar tree cutting into his back. He was losing it, dropping whatever connection he had found. With a last push of effort, he tried to get it back.
And found himself looking down at a pair of hands that weren’t his own. Young hands, their fingernails worn smooth and short by hard work. There was something familiar about them. Was this the boy whose mind he had ridden in his dreams? But he wasn’t asleep now. So where was he?
As if answering his question, the view changed, revealing a long wide corridor. Stone walls rose into a vaulted ceiling high overhead. More like a great hall than a passageway. The hands reached up for a heavy iron ring set into a wooden door, twisted it and pushed. Inside was an empty room, a long refectory table taking up most of the middle. A line of silver serving dishes sat on a sideboard along one wall, and at the end of them a large piece of roast meat was dripping on to a carving board. Errol could see the glistening fat, the crisp burned skin. He could almost smell it. All he needed to do was—
‘What’re you doing in here, boy?’
Errol lunged for the roast at the same time as his view changed. The eyes he was borrowing swung round to see a large bearded man standing in the doorway. He felt the meat, hot beneath his fingers. Gripped it tight even as a terrible fear washed over him, sent him spinning back to himself.
‘Hey! You did it! Wow!’
For a moment Errol couldn’t work out where he was. Who he was. And then he couldn’t understand why it was so dark. The sun had set, nothing but shadows under the cedar tree. Nellore was sitting at his feet, cross-legged, no longer beside him though he had no memory of her moving. He could scarcely make out her expression in the darkness and had no idea how hours could have passed in what felt like seconds.
But there was no denying the rolled joint of roast beef burning his hand.
‘Malkin going home again. See mother!’
The squirrel leaped from Benfro’s shoulder on to the nearest branch, scuttling up the tree and disappearing into the canopy for what felt like the hundredth time since they had left Pallestre. Alongside him, Earith walked with a steady gait that seemed slow but nevertheless ate up the distance with surprising swiftness. Benfro had long since given up trying to talk; it took all his strength just to match the older dragon’s pace as she forged a path through the forest. His beating had left him weak as a kitling.
‘Do we know where we’re going?’ he asked, pausing for a moment and resting his arm against a massive cedar. It was the first time in a while he had noticed, but the forest here was quite unlike that through which they had first walked. When had the trees changed, the air cooled?
‘The mother tree is where she wants to be, Benfro. You should know that. If she grants you an audience, then we will find her soon enough.’ Earith didn’t pause, just swept aside the next branch and plunged on into the trees. Benfro found himself momentarily alone, only the familiar noises of the forest for company. If he ignored the aches and pains in his body and wings he could almost persuade himself that he was back home in the Ffrydd. There were stands of giant cedar not more than a couple of hours’ walk from his mother’s cottage. These could easily be them. All he needed to do was turn east, listen out for the sound of the river, perhaps pick up one of the deer trails that criss-crossed the whole area. He could go home, and his mother would be waiting for him, a look on her face that was a mixture of scolding and relief. And all this nightmare would never have happened.
‘Benfro come!’
Malkin reappeared from the branches of the nearest tree, upside down for a moment, then swinging acrobatically to leap on to Benfro’s shoulder. With a weary sigh, he pulled his heavy wings tight around him, stooped low and pushed through.
It was like stepping from night into day.
One moment he was in deep forest, surrounded by ancient cedars reaching skywards and ranging in all directions. The next he was standing at the edge of a vast clearing, the ground dropping away in a gentle grassy slope towards its middle. And there in the centre she grew, the most enormous tree possible, her branches spread wide, each sporting a different kind of leaf, a different kind of life. Confused, Benfro turned back the way he had come. He should have known better than to expect to see the forest he had been walking through. He was several paces into the clearing, and the edge was marked with dense bramble bushes, fat with juicy blackberries and pure white flowers.
‘Come, Benfro. Don’t dawdle. It doesn’t do to keep the mother tree waiting.’
Benfro turned again to see Earith just a few paces ahead of him. He could have sworn she was not there a moment earlier, but then he had been somewhat distracted by the sight of the tree. He nodded, stepped forward to join her, and together they walked down the slope to the great spread of branches. They were almost there when a voice rang out.
‘Gog! You came back!’
Benfro stopped mid-stride as a dragon appeared from under the canopy. He was shabby, limped badly on the leg that had been shackled for so long, and his wings were never going to lift his body from the ground, but he had a grin on his face that wasn’t the mad thing Benfro remembered.
‘The lady said you would be here soon. She is very kind to me, you know.’ Sir Tremadog waddled up to Earith and sniffed her much the way a dog sniffs a lamp post. ‘You are not the lady.’
‘Sir Tremadog, this is Earith the Wise.’ Benfro distracted the old dragon before he did something embarrassing.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Sir Tremadog said, then wandered off across the grass, stooping every now and then to collect flowers.
‘What’s the matter with him?’ Earith asked.
‘He was captured by a circus. They took his jewels out, one by one, to make him biddable.’
‘Actually I meant his wings, his size. He’s an old dragon but he’s barely bigger than a kitling. And he could never hope to fly.’
Benfro remembered the circus arena, Sir Tremadog in his guise as Magog running around in circles, flapping his stubby wings and leaping into the air like a cockerel. ‘He is big for a dragon from my world. And his wings are much the same size as most. We are small, drawn in on ourselves to avoid being noticed. Our wings were never big enough to fly, at least not until Magog gifted me with these.’
‘Actually they were, Sir Benfro. But Gog played a cruel trick on his brother’s kin when the two of them broke the world apart.’
Benfro and Earith both looked up to see the mother tree standing in front of them. She wore the guise of the dragon Ammorgwm, though she appeared aged from the vision of perfect beauty Benfro recalled at their first meeting.
‘Lady Earith, it is good to see you again. And thank you for nursing young Benfro back to health. He has a dreadful habit of injuring himself.’
‘I suspected you might have sent him my way. Young Malkin only ever visits when you are near.’
‘I am always near.’ The mother tree smiled, the fine glittery scales around her eyes sparkling in the sunlight as they moved. ‘But you are right. I’ve had my eye on Benfro for a while. He holds the key to undoing the great wrong his ancestor wrought on the land.’
‘He … I … What?’ Benfro looked from Earith to the mother tree and back again. Sir Tremadog wandered up, a bunch of flowers in one hand. He seemed perplexed by the presence of two female dragons, holding up the flowers and waving them slowly from side to side as if unsure who he should be giving them to. After a few seconds of this he shrugged, then pushed the whole bunch into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
‘Let us sit a while, and perhaps eat something a little more savoury.’ The mother tree waved, and behind her now there was a table laden with food. Benfro’s stomach growled, empty after half a day’s trek through the deep forest. He tried not to appear too eager as he clambered on to one of the low benches and cast a hungry eye over the incredible selection on offer.
‘To be young and have such an appetite.’ Earith smiled as she took her place alongside him more slowly. The mother tree herself seemed not to walk so much as slide from where she had been standing and into her chair. Sir Tremadog, tiring of his flowers, lumbered around to the other side of the table and began helping himself, humming a little tune as he did so.
The mother tree watched him indulgently, then turned to Benfro and Earith. ‘Please, eat. You have travelled far to get here, and Benfro needs to build up his strength.’
Benfro needed no second telling. He was perhaps a little less hasty in his eating than Sir Tremadog, but he had a powerful hunger nonetheless. As he worked his way through a plate heaped high with delicious-smelling vegetables, the mother tree spoke, her voice slow and measured.
‘You know the story of Gog and Magog, Benfro,’ she said. ‘You know Sir Frynwy thought of it merely as a tale. Told to warn of the perils of too much power and pride, but a story nonetheless. And you also know that it is much more than that. You know that it is true. What you don’t know is the cruel trick Gog played on his brother when the worlds were split. And you, dear Earith, don’t know the extent of Magog’s evil concerning his brother. Gog gave knowledge of the subtle arts to the men in his brother’s world, set them on the path of destruction that has seen Benfro’s kin all but wiped out. And Magog sowed the seeds in his brother’s line that you see flowering today. The abandonment of study in favour of hunting and feasting. The loss of all connection with the Grym and the subtle arts. These are his gifts.’
