The Broken World, page 40
‘But Benfro is born of Magog’s world and yet here he is,’ Earith said. ‘Surely the magic that tore Gwlad apart is unravelling now. And if what Benfro has told me, if Magog truly is dead, then it can only be a matter of time before the spell collapses completely.’
‘Not while Gog still lives. Nor while Magog’s jewels spread their unreckoned influence across his world. The two Gwlads will remain apart, but closer than they have ever been. Dragons, men, places long lost. All of these have begun slipping between the worlds, in both directions. I can feel myself, my other self, in a way I’ve not for millennia.’ The mother tree shuddered as she spoke, as if some degenerative disease were eating away at her.
‘Are you not the same then?’ Benfro paused with a perfect roast potato poised in front of his mouth. ‘Not the mother tree I met in the great forest of the Ffrydd? Nor the one who helped me escape from the warrior priests at Tynhelyg?’
‘The same, but not. It is hard for me to put into words, Benfro. When Gog and Magog split the worlds, they split me too, for I am Gwlad in many ways. I am incomplete. You cannot imagine what agony that is for me.’
Benfro put the potato back down on his plate somewhat unwillingly. He had some small notion of the pain the mother tree must have endured. Had he not watched helplessly as his own body sorted through the pile of jewels in Magog’s repository? Had he not suffered the cruel influence of the rose cord that connected him to the dead mage?
‘You have suffered much, Benfro. There can be no denying it. But I have been in this terrible limbo for many thousands of years. And now I can finally see a way to be whole.’ The mother tree – or was she really Ammorgwm? – fixed Benfro with a sad, serious look. ‘But I will need your help.’
‘My help?’ Benfro swallowed even though there was nothing in his mouth. All eyes were on him, even Malkin and Sir Tremadog had stopped their self-absorbed feasting and now stared his way. ‘What can I do? I’m just …’
‘You are the last of Magog’s line, Benfro. And you are joined to him, joined to his essence more fundamentally even than that.’ The mother tree’s eyes shifted ever so slightly to that point in his forehead where the rose cord had attached itself to his aura.
‘But it’s gone. He has no influence over me here.’
The mother tree dropped her stare, let her head droop. ‘It is true he cannot reach you here in Gog’s world. Not while the Old One lives at least, and not while Magog is so distracted elsewhere. You disrupted his plans when you scattered his jewels from their nest in Mount Arnahi, but the link between the two of you is still there. Even if you cannot see it.’
Benfro couldn’t stop himself from reaching up to his face, as if he could touch the insubstantial loop that linked him to Magog. He could see his own aura, healthier now than it had been for days. It flowed around him constantly, pulsing with strength. He could see the lines of the Grym, almost too bright for his aethereal sight in this most magical of places, but of the rose cord he could see no sign. Of Magog’s influence he could sense nothing.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘As sure as anything.’ The mother tree waved her arm, in the same instant transforming from the image of Ammorgwm into the slender white-haired creature Benfro had seen once before. The Grym shivered as she moved, as if it lay on the surface of a pond and someone was stirring the water. And then he saw it, motionless where all around was motion, the palest shade of pink in among the blinding white.
‘I am sorry, Benfro, but you will never be free of Magog until his jewels are reckoned. Even then something of him will remain with you, but it will have no power over you.’
‘Then I have no choice. I must find Gog, persuade him to take me to the place of his hatching. Magog’s bones are there. I can breathe the Fflam Gwir. I just need …’ And then Benfro remembered the one thing that was missing. ‘The jewel. I don’t have it. Not my mother’s either.’
‘You don’t have them?’ A flicker of worry spread over the mother tree’s pale face, and the sun dipped behind a cloud, dropping the temperature in the clearing in an instant. ‘Where are they?’
Benfro tried to think back past the beating he had taken from Fflint, past losing his hand to Melyn’s blade of fire, past the rage that had cleared his mind at the circus and the long weeks he had spent with Loghtan, Tegwin and the crew. It felt like a lifetime ago that he and Errol had fled Corwen’s clearing, and then Errol had gone back for the jewels. Errol had taken charge of them, wrapped in cloth and hidden at the bottom of his hastily made bag. But the last time he had seen Errol, watched the boy fade away along the lines to the moon-knew-where, there had been no cloth bag slung around his shoulders.
‘I have to find Errol. I have to go back to the village. He was there.’ Benfro pushed away his plate, stood up and looked around the clearing as if his friend might be hiding there. With a wave of her hand, the mother tree made the table and all the food vanish, much to the astonished indignation of Sir Tremadog. Earith stood more slowly, her great age showing in that one difficult movement.
‘I can take you there, Benfro. But you must realize that your friend is most probably dead. Men have not fared well in Gog’s world.’
‘No. Errol yet lives, Earith, and he is not at the village where Fflint, son of Caradoc, met his end.’ The creature that was the mother tree approached the two dragons, and as she did it was as if the vast tree itself approached too. The canopy of every kind of leaf loomed overhead, blotting out the sun, and the great trunk of the tree swelled and widened even as it drew closer and closer. Then there was just the tree; no strange, thin, white-haired woman, no Malkin, no Sir Tremadog, and when he looked around, no Earith either.
‘Where …?’
‘They will be well, Sir Benfro. Do not worry for them. Time is of the essence though. I have felt something move in this land that should not be here. You must hurry or we may all fail.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Benfro watched as a line in the trunk split open to reveal a narrow tunnel, rapidly widening. Soft green light spilled out, and he remembered his first encounter with the tree.
‘Your wings are still not healed enough to carry you. This is a quicker way to Gog’s castle. The last I saw him, the boy Errol was heading that way too. There is something there of great value to him.’
‘I should thank Earith and Malkin.’ Benfro paused at the tunnel entrance. Looked back. He could see nothing in the gloomy darkness of the canopy.
‘They do not think you rude to leave so, and neither do I. Go, Benfro. Find your friend. Together you can undo this terrible wrong.’
Whether there was some compulsion in the words of the mother tree or not, Benfro couldn’t tell, but in the end they were not necessary. He could not stay in Pallestre with Earith, could not linger with the mother tree no matter how much he wanted to. He was healed, apart from his eye, and he could see well enough. It was time now to restart his quest. Nodding his head in silent thanks, he stepped into the tunnel.
Thick black smoke spiralled in the air, making some streets all but impassable as Beulah rode through the remains of Abervenn and down to the seafront. She had spent the night sleeping fitfully between bouts of feeding young Ellyn, her dreams invaded by the screams of the dying as the second-largest city in her realm was put to fire and the sword. For too many years Abervenn had been a thorn in the side of the House of Balwen, a place whose citizens looked to the sea and the whole of Gwlad rather than to Candlehall and their rightful ruler. Now it was time to cleanse it and start afresh.
‘This is a sad day, Your Majesty.’ Captain Celtin rode alongside the queen, a guard of two dozen mounted warrior priests surrounding them and scouting ahead for any potential trouble. So far they hadn’t seen a living soul. Not even a cat or dog.
‘Sentimental, Captain? You’re not an Abervenn man, are you?’
‘No, ma’am. Emmass Fawr is my home, and the order is my family. This purge was necessary, but it still pains me to see such destruction.’
Beulah didn’t reply. He had a point, after all. They should have been putting Wrthol and Tynewydd to the torch, not their own back yard. And after Abervenn, what would she have to do to Candlehall?’
‘Your Majesty, it is good to see you well.’
They had reached the docks, where a large number of ships were moored, unloading an even larger number of men and equipment. Lord Beylin had been allowed to approach through the circle of warrior priests and knelt on one knee in front of the queen’s horse.
‘Looks like you arrived in the nick of time, Beylin. I don’t suppose you’ve seen my husband anywhere in this mayhem?’
‘His Grace the Duke of Abervenn is up at the castle.’ Lord Beylin rose, looking up in the direction of the smoking, blackened towers.
‘Has he found my sister yet?’
A dark frown spread across Beylin’s face. ‘She is nowhere to be found, ma’am. The Lady Anwyn is not here either. Only the dowager duchess, old Lady Dilyth.’
‘She still lives?’
‘As I understand it, yes. The duke had her taken to the barracks. He intends to interrogate her himself once he has finished searching the castle. I believe he has certain skills in that area.’
Beulah allowed herself a small smile. Lord Beylin had no skill at magic himself and was uncomfortable around those who did. No doubt Clun had been completely oblivious as he told his ally how he intended to conduct his search. The smile was short-lived though. Iolwen had escaped, of that Beulah was sure.
‘Accompany me, Beylin. I will speak with Lady Dilyth myself.’
Lord Beylin bowed, then turned and shouted to a group of men at the quayside. Within moments his horse was being led through the crowd. Mounted, he fell in beside the queen and together they headed towards the Kingsgate and the barracks.
‘I was delighted to hear of the safe delivery of your daughter, ma’am. You must be overjoyed.’
Beulah stared at Lord Beylin. On the face of it, the question was innocent enough, but it irritated her nonetheless. What was it that had changed in her that he felt he could be so familiar? Was it that he had brought men and ships to aid in the retaking of Candlehall? Was it that they had met once before, shared a few meals together? That she had once used his first name to address him? Or was it that the very act of giving birth made her a woman first in his eyes, queen second? She had a suspicion it was this last one, and that annoyed her more than the familiarity itself.
‘How went the battle?’ she asked, pleased to see Beylin stiffen as he heard the rebuke in her tone. He rallied quickly though; the man was all charm.
‘Better than I could have hoped. We sustained minimal casualties, and only a handful of ships slipped through our blockade.’ Beylin frowned again, as if this was a personal insult to his skills. ‘Your husband is a cunning strategist, ma’am. I don’t know who he studied warfare under, but the man is a genius.’
‘Clun claims he learned everything he knows about warfare from playing games with the other boys in his village.’ Beulah smiled at the thought of all those learned generals with their maps and strategies, pitted against someone who had spent long summers trying to capture another boy’s hideout in the woods. ‘I suspect he may have picked up one or two things at Emmass Fawr, though.’
Lord Beylin said nothing to this, and they soon arrived at the barracks. A commotion at the far end of the parade ground turned out to be the great Gomoran stallion Godric. The beast had been left untethered, as was Clun’s usual practice. Normally it would stand stock still until its master returned, moving only to threaten anyone who came too close, but now it was prancing around in a circle, throwing its head this way and that as if battling faeries.
‘Your Majesty. Perhaps it would be best if we kept our distance.’ Lord Beylin reined in his own horse a good distance from the stallion, but Beulah pressed on, her filly more excited than fearful. Too late she remembered that it was probably coming into heat.
It made no difference. The stallion was far too caught up in whatever strange battle it was fighting to notice. Beulah watched it as she came closer, beginning to see a pattern to its dance. And then she remembered a cell deep underneath the castle in Beylinstown, a mad predicant by the name of Father Tolley who had managed to hide himself in plain sight. Relaxing gently into the aethereal trance, she saw the scene differently. The stallion still pranced, even more magnificent in this plane, if that were possible, but its movements made sense now, darting and kicking out at another figure. A young man Beulah didn’t recognize and yet who had such a strong aethereal presence she could see his features as clearly as she saw Clun’s. He was too preoccupied with the horse to notice her, concentrating on not having his head caved in by one of those massive hooves.
Dismounting from her horse, Beulah glided across in her aethereal form. At her approach, the stallion calmed, settling to just a nervous pacing back and forth. The young man, sensing his opportunity, darted to the side, bringing him right in front of Beulah’s aethereal self. Only then did he seem to notice her, too late to defend himself. She reached out to his mind, unguarded in his moment of surprise, and turned it off.
‘Your Majesty. Are you all right?’
The words were the first thing she heard as she returned to her body, slumping in the saddle as the inevitable weariness hit her. Shrugging it off, Beulah dismounted, ignoring Lord Beylin’s concern as she marched towards the great stallion, now standing perfectly still, its head down and breathing heavily over the prostrate form of a young man dressed all in black.
‘My thanks, Godric. That’s another one I owe you.’ Beulah held her hand out to the beast and it dipped its head to her before scraping a hoof against the hard-packed ground and shaking in triumph.
‘Secure this man. Keep him sedated.’ Beulah shouted the command to the warrior priests guarding her, none of whom seemed all that keen to get too close to the horse.
Finally Captain Celtin shouldered his way through, marching up with a good impression of fearlessness even though his regular glances at the stallion gainsaid his confidence. He rolled the unconscious man over, pulling his arms behind his back.
‘See he is brought with the army to Candlehall,’ Beulah said. ‘I will interrogate him once we have taken the city and I have my throne back. I grow tired of these so-called Guardians and their secrets.’
26
And the Shepherd went away from his people, meaning to draw the Wolf from its lair. But in his thoughts he was troubled, for the Wolf was cunning and powerful. He had no fear that he could not defeat his foe, only that the Wolf might leave behind creatures of its own foul creation to wreak havoc in its name. And so the Shepherd reached deep into his own chest and drew out his heart, the heart of all Gwlad. And he took his heart and hid it in a place no man would ever find, guarded by forces of wonder and amazement. Then, when he was sure the land was safe, protected by his heart, he set off in search of the lair of the Wolf.
The Book of the Shepherd
Melyn had only taken a few steps across the smooth floor towards the nearest alcoves and their collections of jewels before Frecknock called out to him: ‘Your Grace. You must not touch them. It is not safe.’
He looked back to see the dragon standing on the bottom step of the staircase as if she didn’t dare trust herself to the floor.
‘Do not worry, Frecknock. I have handled many dragon jewels before.’
‘But these are unreckoned. Raw. To touch them is to bind oneself to the poor beast from whom they have been taken. Why have they not been reckoned? Why are they all separated like this?’
‘Why do you think men have hunted dragons all these centuries, millennia? For their jewels and the power that lies within them, of course.’ Melyn walked up to the nearest alcove and took one ruby-red jewel out. It was as big as a hen’s egg, but jagged on the edges. It pulsed with a life of its own, random thoughts and feelings jumbled together. True, someone with no skill or training might be entranced by the whirling images, the sensation of flying or deep ecstasy a dragon’s jewel could bring, but he knew how to block those parts and concentrate on the raw Grym that flowed through it.
Frecknock finally committed herself to the floor. ‘This place is the work of men?’ She stepped as lightly as Melyn had ever seen across the shiny, polished marble and peered at the alcoves from a healthy distance. He could feel the fear boiling off her, but it was a different flavour to the terror-panic that she had shown around him and the warrior priests during the early days of her capture. This was a deeper fear, something in her bones. It unsettled him that she could feel this way here.
‘Does it upset you, to see this?’
For a moment Frecknock didn’t answer, and Melyn had the distinct impression she hadn’t heard him. Then she turned away from the alcoves, making sure no part of her body, not even her tail, came within more than a wide pace of the stone pillars.
‘It is the most horrific thing I have ever seen. Imagine, if you will, coming across a hall piled high with the bones of your warrior priests. Knowing that they had all died a slow, terrible death and yet were still in some manner alive. This … This is a hundred times worse.’
Melyn placed the jewel back in its alcove, feeling a fleeting sense of panic as he released it. He had handled hundreds, thousands of dragon jewels in his lifetime, but something of Frecknock’s fear rubbed off on him then. He dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
‘This place is a focus for the Grym, nothing more. The dragons who gave up these jewels are long dead. You have nothing to fear from them.’
Frecknock had turned back to the steps and was looking up at the massive black pillar around which they wrapped. Melyn noticed for the first time the inscriptions carved in its surface, recognized something of the language and the story they told. He had seen something similar out in the northlands, he realized. That old disused chapel in Lord Gremmil’s castle. The godless Llanwennogs might have taken over this place, corrupted it to the ways of the Wolf, but it had once been a shrine to the Shepherd. No, more than that. His god had once lived in this place. He was sure of it.
