The Broken World, page 43
‘But what?’
‘There was his dreamwalking, sire. That puzzled even Sir Frynwy. He shouldn’t have been able to do it. Our dreams are when we are at our most helpless and vulnerable. And yet Benfro walked them as if he had been born there. He didn’t even know how.’
A memory stirred then: Queen Beulah noticing a dragon form flying around Candlehall in the aethereal. Melyn had encountered it himself, recognized the dragon Benfro had become. That dragon had breathed fire at him too.
‘So Benfro walks the aethereal in his dreams yet lacks the skill to see the Grym. He is a kitling of just seventeen years but can fly like no other dragon. He breathes fire that burns only what he wants it to, as poor Captain Osgal found to his cost. How do you suppose he has learned to do all these things in only a year?’
‘I cannot say. Even Sir Frynwy couldn’t do these things, and he was over a thousand years old. And he had the Llyfr Draconius to help him.’ As if she anticipated his asking for it, Frecknock pulled the heavy book out of her shoulder bag and handed it to him.
Melyn took it, feeling the weight of more than leather and parchment and ink. The knowledge contained in its pages had its own destiny, tugging at his mind and adding to the chaos of thoughts and images bubbling away just under the surface. Only the mental discipline from all his years in the Order of the High Ffrydd kept him from going completely mad. And that same mental discipline would help him bring order to it, claim it all for his own. His entire life up to this moment might have been built on a lie, but Melyn knew an opportunity when he saw one. He laid it across his lap and took up the heart stone once more, feeling the heat build within it.
‘Who do you suppose wrote your precious Llyfr Draconius?’ he asked of no one in particular. A face seemed to swim into view in the red-tinged darkness, the ancient dragon who lived at the top of a tall tower in a vast castle. Somewhere Melyn knew but didn’t know.
‘It is said to have been begun by Gog, Son of the Winter Moon, though many others have added to it down the generations. I’ve always believed Gog to be a myth though, like Arhelion and Rasalene, Palisander of the Spreading Span and Ammorgwm the Fair.’
With each name Frecknock spoke, so Melyn saw another dragon’s face in front of him. Some old, some young, but all vast and magnificent. In his long life he had hunted and killed their kind almost to the edge of extinction, but never had he seen any as majestic as these. Nor had he understood the rage and hatred of their kind that had driven him to do so. It had just always been that way. Until now.
‘They all existed, long ago. All the tales are true. It’s the ones they don’t tell you that are more interesting though. The acts of petty jealousy, greed and lust. I thought us men were bloodthirsty, but we are amateurs compared to your kind.’
Melyn stood again, suddenly anxious to do something. Or possibly just to dispel the ghosts of long-dead dragons. The turmoil in his mind was settling down now, his new understanding of Gwlad and his place in it beginning to make sense. And as he examined that sense, that place, so his old friend anger began to heat up.
‘Here, take this.’ He handed the Llyfr Draconius back to Frecknock. ‘Show me how you use the lines to travel. It needn’t be far, but I want to watch you.’
‘Of course, Your Grace.’ Frecknock nodded, putting one hand flat on the cover of the book for a moment before tucking it back into her bag. As she did so, Melyn summoned the trance state that would let him see the aethereal, bringing the lines to his vision at the same time. There was a brief instant when Frecknock appeared to him as she saw herself – a far more pleasing shape even he had to admit. And then that form was leached of its vibrant colours, becoming the same hue as the Grym itself. There was the briefest of hesitations, then the dragon dissolved in front of his eyes, reappearing a few dozen paces across the room. First as her ghostly Grym outline, then solidifying into her mundane self.
‘Again,’ Melyn commanded, and he watched her perform the trick once more.
‘Again. And again. And again.’ He studied closely as Frecknock performed like a well-trained dog. And then finally, when he was sure he knew what she was doing, he reached into the Grym, concentrating on the spot where she now stood halfway across the throne room, and stepped forward.
‘Your Grace. How is this possible?’ Frecknock caught him as his knees buckled. He was close to her, too close, and the smell of her was strangely intoxicating, her cradling arms strong as they wrapped around him. It brought back yet more memories, the life before he came to Emmass Fawr that his initiation into the order had all but obliterated. Still seeing the aethereal and the Grym, Melyn shook himself free of her with greater reluctance than he expected, turning back to face the throne some twenty paces away. He had crossed that distance with a thought, but it wasn’t the first time he had done that.
‘When Benfro escaped, did you see which way he went?’ Melyn scanned the edge of Frecknock’s thoughts as he asked her the question, seeing her memory of the event in a blur of motion and concern. Concern for her own safety, for his, and yes, for the young dragon as well. Even though she had despised him all his short life, still she had not wanted to see him dead. He could understand that, up to a point, but it didn’t help his rising temper. All his life he had been lied to, manipulated by her kind, but it went back to that first, great betrayal.
‘He was moving towards the throne, Your Grace. I think he saw something there. It all happened too quickly.’
Melyn pushed out with senses he couldn’t put a name to, feeling the lines and the power of the Grym coursing through them. There was a flavour to their ebb and flow, like the smell of the cold stone corridors in the depths of the monastery, the river as it flowed past the great rock upon which the Neuadd was built, the trees in Ruthin’s Grove. And there, above the throne, was a different scent. As if someone had opened a window on to another world. Tantalizingly familiar.
And then he noticed the heart stone, sitting on the arm of the throne. It glowed with a fiery light, echoing that of the two rings on his fingers. Melyn felt a familiar surge of power, and the Shepherd was within him. Only it wasn’t the Shepherd at all. He tried to push it away, but it was far too late for that. It had been far too late for most of his life.
Stepping away from Frecknock, Melyn flowed into the Grym and was gone.
‘Damn it, where is he?’
Beulah woke herself from the aethereal trance, coming back to her real body with a snap that had her leaping out of her chair as if she’d been stung. A quick look out the barge window showed that the sun was low in the evening sky. She had been searching for Inquisitor Melyn for hours, pushing further and further into the unknown, driven by an insatiable need to know the truth. Haunted by the dying image Lady Dilyth had planted in her mind.
A soft gurgling cry told her what had broken her trance. Young Ellyn was awake and would need feeding. She wasn’t a bad child, really. Quiet most of the time, almost diffident in her requests for feeding and cleaning. Clun doted on her in a way that made Beulah almost jealous, but the queen herself couldn’t feel the same stirrings of unconditional love. Not for the first time on their journey she mourned the loss of the wet nurse Blodwyn and hoped that a new one could be found soon.
‘You may enter.’ Beulah sensed the hovering presence of her maidservant, another from the Hendry, though not as competent as Alicia. The door opened hesitantly, and the girl shuffled in. She curtsied nervously, then went straight to the baby’s cot. Beulah was about to complain that she hadn’t closed the door when it pushed open further and Clun stepped through.
‘No luck, my lady?’
‘None. It’s as if he has closed his mind off completely. And all this damned water doesn’t help.’
Beulah looked through the window again, watching the grassy bank slide by. Lord Beylin’s barges were much swifter running up the river than they had been creeping around the coast to Abervenn, but it had still taken them several days, held back by the bulk of the army still travelling on foot.
‘I’m sure he’s fine. If anything had happened to him we would have heard by now. I’m certain he isn’t dead; I’d have felt that. All the warrior priests would have felt that.’
Beulah thought about reminding Clun that he was not a fully trained warrior priest, but in truth his connections to the Grym and the aethereal were so strong he would likely have been the first to feel something like that. She was distracted from commenting by the maidservant, bowing nervously and presenting the newly clean Princess Ellyn. Beulah took the infant, wondering how long it would take for her to feel anything but mild annoyance at the child, then shrugged open her blouse and let her feed.
‘We have some news at least. Birds from General Otheng. His troops have secured Tynewydd, so the Rhedeg pass is open. He is waiting for confirmation from Cachog on the situation at Wrthol, but the last he heard, Prince Geraint had turned back to Tynhelyg.’
‘And that’s meant to make me feel better?’ Beulah shifted, trying to find a position that was comfortable and failing. ‘The larger of Ballah’s two armies is heading his way and Melyn has only five hundred warrior priests to defend a city?’
‘He has no need to defend it. He can just retreat into the northlands, cut around behind Geraint’s men and march south through either pass.’
‘Do you think Melyn would turn and run like that? That’s not his style and you know it. And he’s changed too. Somehow he’s more powerful in his magic than ever before. You felt it, didn’t you? When he dragged you into the aethereal.’
Clun frowned at the memory. ‘The dragon, Frecknock, has taught him something of their subtle arts. But there is more, as if something is standing behind him, pushing him ever further.’
‘The Shepherd?’ Beulah’s skin tingled at the thought of it. She remembered the night Clun had come to her possessed by his spirit. The night Ellyn had been conceived. As if sensing her change in mood, the infant stirred at her breast, opened her eyes and let out a tiny wail. Beulah lifted her up, stared at her tiny face and those impossibly black eyes. Was she marked by the Shepherd for great things? Would she rule over a united Gwlad?
‘Shall I take her, ma’am? Little un’s probably full now. She never takes all that much.’
Judging by the pain in her nipples, Beulah had to disagree, but she handed her child over to the maid anyway, swiftly rebuttoning her blouse. She was getting to her feet when a sharp knock at the cabin door broke the silence. Clun was there in an instant, putting himself between it and his daughter rather than his queen, Beulah noticed.
‘Enter,’ she said.
Lord Beylin stepped into the room, ducking slightly to avoid hitting his head on the low lintel. He took in the whole of the cabin with a swift sweep of his head before bowing extravagantly.
‘Your Majesty. We are approaching the lower docks. My scouts inform me that the River Gate is down and the upper docks sealed. Too much to hope we could have entered the city that easily.’
‘They’ve prepared themselves for a siege this time? I’d have thought that coward Padraig would be throwing himself upon my mercy. Anything to protect his precious city from harm.’
‘Is it not your city, ma’am?’
‘It was, Petrus. And it will be again. And I’m not going to let the people go unpunished for their treason.’
28
Many have speculated on the original craftsmen who built the Neuadd, atop Candlehall Hill. In design, architecture and construction it is markedly different from the buildings that surround it, even the ancient walls of the city and the King’s Chapel. And yet it is clearly much older even than these.
Then there is the scale of it, and that of the great Obsidian Throne within. Although many generations of the House of Balwen have sat upon it, the throne is clearly not designed for any man to occupy. In many respects it diminishes the king, making him appear small, detracting from his regal appearance.
In looking for answers, it is necessary to find comparable structures, and the closest still in common use are the great religious houses. The monastery at Emmass Fawr is of similar construction to the Neuadd, and has rooms that overwhelm the senses by their vast size in much the same way. And here is a clue as to the true purpose of the Neuadd and the Obsidian Throne – awe.
This is the Shepherd’s hall. By its vastness the primitive people who laboured on its construction were reminded of just how insignificant, how unimportant they truly were. And at the same time the great throne, visible from every corner of the enormous hall, reminds the visitor that however insignificant they may be, they can always be seen. The building is thus a metaphor for the Shepherd himself.
Father Soay, An Architectural Tour of the Twin Kingdoms
A cold breeze rustled the dying autumn leaves in Ruthin’s Grove, toying with Melyn’s hair as he stood at the edge of the cliff and gazed across the forest of the Ffrydd. To the casual observer he might have appeared a statue, so still was he on the outside. Inside was another matter.
The Grym flowed through him like nothing he had ever known before. It soothed away his aches and pains, healed old injuries he had long since grown accustomed to. It nourished him and brought him information from all over Gwlad. He could sense the thoughts of the novitiates and quaisters in the monastery nearby. Picking an individual was as easy as tuning into a conversation in a crowded hall, but he was not interested in their petty, everyday lives. Everything they stood for was a lie anyway. Now he remembered. Now he knew.
Other thoughts babbled close by, the stable hands, workmen, cooks and a hundred different professions who kept the monastery working. Outside it, the village that had grown up in the shadow of the great arch muttered contentedly to itself at the approach of evening and the end of a hard day’s work. Only the almshouses where the mindless failed novitiates lived were quiet. No thought there, just empty husks waiting to be fed and watered and cleaned, as if that was somehow kinder than just putting them out of their misery.
With a single step Melyn was outside the long stone building that served as the almshouses’ central refectory. Anywhere else the complex would have seemed big, but against the massive hulk of the monastery the buildings looked little more than doll’s houses. Inside, upwards of a hundred men would be sitting patiently in their chairs. Soon the youngest novitiates would come out from the monastery to tend them, feeding them thin gruel before taking them back to their beds. He wasn’t here to see any of this, could scarcely bring himself to care. He knew so much more about the Grym now it was hard to feel sad for people who had lost their minds to it.
The door was locked as usual; most of the inmates were catatonic, but a few had been known to wander around, aimless as cattle and just as destructive. Melyn pulled on the stout rope that rang the bell, waited patiently for it to be answered. All his life he had chafed at the slowness of others, their slowness at learning, slowness at responding to his commands, slowness at understanding his skill and acknowledging his superiority. Now he knew better, understood just how unimportant time was. His anger still burned bright, but it was controlled, directed. In time he would unleash it, and the whole of Gwlad would tremble at his fury.
‘Your Grace? I thought …’ The man who opened the door was dressed in the plain brown robes of a novitiate, but he was older than the inquisitor by many years. Few who had been candled by the order remained in its service; most slunk home with heads low or moved far away to build new lives for themselves. One or two in each generation hung around, maybe hoping for a second chance, and every so often they might be given it, although they would never again set foot inside the great monastery. Tending to the mindless was considered a high honour, although Melyn couldn’t begin to understand why. Wiping another man’s arse was not something he would undertake.
‘That I was away? That I might not survive? I would have thought you knew me better than that, Eifion.’ Melyn pushed past the old man into the entrance hall of the building. The smell that confronted him was at once familiar and dreadful, the stench of soiled bodies and rot. He headed straight for the door that would take him to Eifion’s office. The air would be slightly clearer there, away from the mindless.
‘No, sire. Of course not. I just hadn’t heard the warrior priests returning. Normally the noise echoes from miles out. Not that these old ears are up to much these days. None of us is getting any younger.’ The old man shuffled along after Melyn, complaining all the while. He closed the door firmly behind them, then went straight to a low sideboard where a tray held a jug and a couple of goblets. ‘Wine?’
‘The army is still in Tynhelyg. I came here alone.’ Melyn took the offered drink, savouring the smell of it before slaking his thirst. How Eifion managed to get hold of the good stuff was anyone’s guess, and it had been a while since the inquisitor had drunk anything as fine. ‘I needed to see you.’
‘Me? Why?’ The old man slumped into his seat behind the untidy desk that sat by the only window in the room and took a drink from his own goblet. Melyn felt the stirrings of his old anger at the overfamiliarity and suppressed it. True, Eifion was no longer a member of the order as such, but even so he should have shown a little more deference. Then again the old man had known him longer than most.
‘I have some questions. About how I came here, how I joined the order. My family before that.’
Melyn saw Eifion’s eyes widen in surprise, rode that sensation into the old man’s thoughts. It wasn’t as if he needed to use subtlety; the man was an open book.
‘Your Grace, surely the order is—’
‘The only mother and father I will ever need. Yes, I know. I also know the order was founded to serve the Shepherd, to defend Gwlad from the creatures of the Wolf, to prepare for the time when he would come and take us to the safe pastures. Yes, Eifion old friend, I know the scriptures and I know they’re bunk. So, tell me about my family. Tell me where I came from.’
Too late the old man tried to put up a fight. He was hopelessly outclassed, no better than a wet-behind-the-ears novitiate. Worse even, with his brain addled by age and wine. Melyn’s questions brought the images, the memories, to the front of his mind. So easy to read, so easy to see. But far from the relief he craved, the release from the madness, Eifion’s answers only compounded it.
