Dreamwalker (22 page)

There’s no reasoning with men, Benfro. They have a terrible power and they will kill you as soon as look at you.

Dawn saw Benfro at the escarpments where he had first seen Frecknock make her calling. Time had not lessened his inability to tell anyone about that episode and as the days had passed by, so his resentment for her had grown. Punishment he knew. Sometimes he might even have grudgingly admitted to deserving it. Like the time he had carefully collected a wasp bike from an old oak tree near the village and put it in the outhouse around the back of Ynys Bir’s house just to see what might happen. His mistake that time was to have used the carved stick given to him by Ystrad Fflur the year before on his hatchday and to leave it with the bike in the outhouse. His punishment had been swift and painful, involving the removal of the now quite angry wasps from the outhouse. Once it was over, and he had apologised to the elderly dragon, things had returned to normal.

What Frecknock had done to him was not punishment in any way he could understand. He was used to her rages at him, even when he had done no wrong, but to have this terrible secret gnawing at his insides was a torture out of all proportion to any wrong he could conceivably have caused her. Fretting about it didn’t help. If anything it only made his resentment and frustration grow. Still, they were the best company he could manage as he went deeper and deeper into the forest of the Ffrydd.

Benfro reached the top of the escarpments at midday. His mother had provisioned him well, stuffing his satchel with enough food to last a week. Gnawing on a haunch of venison he looked out to the south and wondered what Morgwm was doing right now.

He could not see the village from his vantage point, only the path of the river marked out like a scar of taller trees. All had lost their leaves to winter, save the conifers which clumped together in odd patches, black in the weak sun. The slope of the hill dropped away from him in gentle undulations. Followed ever downwards, they would lead to the villages of men on the very forest fringe and then into the twin kingdoms of the Hafod and Hendry. So much he knew from Sir Frynwy’s lessons, but he could no more imagine it than he could understand the subtle arts.

As he looked out over the land, Benfro felt an upwelling of anger quite out of keeping with his normal demeanour. How could it be fair that the world was denied to him this way? He didn’t want to spend his life in fear of creatures he had never met. He didn’t want to know about distant lands only as descriptions in books. He wanted to get away from this small corner of the world. He wanted to see things first hand, to make up his own mind about the tranquillity of the Sea of Tegid and the magnificent splendour of the Twin Spires of Idris. But most of all he wanted to fight back against the tyranny of men. To avenge the wrongs that they had visited on dragonkind over countless millennia.

A buzzard screaming overhead seemed to echo the rage that surged through him at that moment. Benfro looked up at it, soaring through the air like it belonged there and his anger turned to despair. He remembered his dreams of flying over the treetops, the sun warm on his back, his shadow a scout covering the ground ahead of him. He stretched his useless wings out, flapping the two thin scraps of skin against the cold air for a moment before folding them away again. They had been big when he was just a kitling, but as he had grown, they had stayed resolutely the same size. There was no way now that they would ever lift him off the ground.

The afternoon soon bled its light into evening as he climbed ever upwards. It didn’t take long for Benfro to go beyond the furthest point he could recall easily and on into rarely-visited territory. The river was now little more than a babbling stream but he kept it close by for reference and because his pack contained no water skin. There were few animals about, most of the birds had flown south for the winter and he caught only glimpses of deer fleeing, the occasional sign of wild boar scrapings at the bases of the trees. It was as well he had plenty of food, he thought, and he was grateful too that Ynys Môn was not there to chide him for his sloppy forest craft.

Darkness had begun to fall and he was beginning to resign himself to a night under the cold stars when he stumbled across the cave. It was almost as if he had been drawn to it, though it was well hidden. Inside it was as black as pitch, but warmer than out. Benfro felt around in his satchel for his tinder box and soon had a small flame going. As he built it up, the fire illuminated a large cavern with a flat, sandy floor that sloped gently upwards towards the back. There was evidence of fires having been built in the cave before, though not for many months. It looked like another dragon had spent time there, making a comfortable bed of heather that had dried completely but still gave off a pleasant aroma. The fire did not cast enough light to see how far the cave went, so Benfro took up a brand and set off to explore.

A tunnel wound its way into the hillside from the entrance. Looking at the walls, Benfro could not tell whether it was natural or had been hewn. However it had been formed, it twisted and turned so that he lost all sense of direction after only a few minutes. The brand he held burned ever lower, threatening to go out and plunge him into total darkness, yet he felt no anxiety. The place was oddly warm and welcoming. He felt safe as if his mother was watching over him. More than that he felt as if old friends long forgotten had returned to ease his troubles.

When he finally made it to the end of the tunnel and entered the cavern, Benfro was not surprised by what he saw. The realisation of where he was had been growing unnoticed at the back of his mind as he walked. Nevertheless he was awed by it. The tunnel widened out into a new cavern and though Benfro’s makeshift torch had all but extinguished itself, he no longer needed it to see. The whole space was lit by the living glow of hundreds of white jewels piled high on the floor.

*

‘Master Defaid, might I have the honour of a dance?’

Melyn watched as Beulah shrugged off her boredom like it was a heavy travel cloak. He knew that she would rather leave this place at once and ride straight for home, but she was ever the professional. Godric and Hennas had shown no inclination to be parted yet and he needed time alone with the healer. The princess had finally decided that she would have to make the trader an offer he couldn’t refuse. As the awestruck man made his way onto the dancefloor, more led than leading, the Inquisitor stepped into the space he had left.

‘You should be careful with your new husband, Mistress. My lady is not to be trusted with a handsome man,’ Melyn said, fixing the healer with a stare and trying to remember how to smile. He need not have worried. Hennas was full of a giddy intoxication, part alcohol, part amazement at her good fortune. Her mind was an open book, ready to read and rewrite.

‘Your Grace,’ she said, trying to leap to her feet and curtsey at the same time.

‘Please, don’t stand on my account,’ Melyn said, settling himself into the seat beside her. ‘This is your celebration, not mine. And beside, I wanted to have a word.’

‘Oh,’ Hennas said, and as he peered into her thoughts he could see a glimmer of defiance. It was a small thing now, battered by too many events. He could easily overcome it.

‘Your son, Errol,’ Melyn said, searching her mind for an image of the boy’s father. ‘He’s not like the other villagers. I take it his father was from the north-east.’

A frown spread over Hennas’ face, the lightest of creases around her eyes. Melyn sent calming thoughts to her, an image of trustworthiness. She relaxed as if a great weight had been taken from her shoulders.

‘It was a silly thing, a wild romance. He was so kind, so different, so wise,’ she said. ‘But we couldn’t settle. Everywhere we went there was hatred. They hated that I could heal, even though they needed my help. But most of all they hated him for being born a Llanwennog. They’re not all bad, Inquisitor. You must know that. Mordecai was a good man.’

Melyn could see an image of a man, an older version of Errol. Similar in many ways to Prince Balch, yet different enough to be another person. Probably a bastard off-cast of the royal house; that would explain the boy’s aptitude for magic. He made a mental note to look up the name when he returned to the monastery.

‘What happened?’ Melyn asked, smoothing away the healer’s distrust of him and his order as he bolstered her confidence.

‘We stayed too long at Dina,’ Hennas said, her face slackening at the memory. ‘There was an argument in a tavern. Someone had a knife. I tried to save him, but there was so much blood. He died in my arms. Errol came just eight months later.’

‘You’ve raised him well,’ Melyn said. ‘But you know as well as I do that this place is too backward for him.’

‘What?’ Hennas asked and Melyn could feel her resolve building again, her instinctive hatred of everything that was authority. He didn’t doubt that Mordecai’s death had gone unpunished. Quite probably without any investigation at all. He put a suggestion of similar fate befalling Errol into her troubled mind.

‘Errol’s a bright boy, far brighter than his peers.’ Melyn said, aware in another part of his mind that the music of the dance was coming to an end. ‘He needs to be nurtured. He needs tutoring and access to libraries. I can give him all of these things.’

‘What are you saying?’ Hennas asked. ‘You can’t mean...?’

Melyn quashed the growing fear in the healer’s mind, replacing it with a warm feeling of pride, a sense that she could undo some of the wrong of Mordecai’s death by letting her son fulfil his potential and become a novitiate in the Order of the High Ffrydd. It was, he realised, almost too easy.

‘Yes, Hennas,’ Melyn said. ‘I’ve chosen Errol for the novitiate. Clun too, if you can persuade Godric to let us take both his sons.’

*

The regular, rhythmic motion swayed Errol back from black unconsciousness to an uneasy half-sleep. His head hurt like someone had been using it for kicking practice and his mouth was full of a sickly sweet taste like fruit gone sour. He could smell stale wine and an earthy straw aroma that made his stomach churn in time with the movement. Trapped between slumber and wakefulness, it was all that he could do to lie, lurching and miserable as he tried to work out where he was.

He could remember the wedding, with its curious promises and formality. Then there had been the line, where all the villagers who had shunned him for all of his life suddenly pretended they were his best friend. Errol had most respect for those few who had still shunned him, like Alderman Clusster with his dark little secret, and the burly smith, Tom Tydfil.

Errol saw a vision of beauty in a green dress, smiling at him and no one else. He had danced with her, he remembered her confidence and the way she corrected his mistakes, the warm feel of her hands and her body close to his. Then, as if he dreamed, the scene changed and he was dancing with Maggs Clusster, her face strained, older than it should have been, her eyes always darting away from him to the dark corner of the room where her father sat with angry, glowering eyes.

But that wasn’t right, Errol thought. He hadn’t danced with Maggs. He had danced with… He couldn’t remember. And as he tried to grasp the image of the girl in the green dress, so it slipped away like water through cold fingers.

Other faces swam through his mind. He saw two travellers, an old man and a young woman. Father Kewick bustling over to them like an anxious dog. He remembered the whole party stopping to welcome the newcomers, astonished by their presence. He recalled being introduced to Princess Beulah, heir to the Obsidian Throne and he wondered why it was she looked at him as if he were something she regretted having trodden in.

And then there was the old man, Inquisitor Melyn. He had come to Errol later in the evening, offered him a post as novitiate in the Order of the High Ffrydd even though he was too young for the choosing. He remembered his mother saying what an honour it was and how he couldn’t possibly decline. He remembered accepting.

Errol sat up in a hurry, then wished he hadn’t. The pain in his head made everything dim and blurred. His stomach lurched and heaved and he crashed back down to his resting place on a pallet of straw.

‘Ah, so yer ‘wake now,’ a voice said. Errol found that if he half-opened one eye the pain was almost bearable. At least for short periods. He squinted up at a ceiling of brown canvas drawn tight over ash hoops and a familiar face peered down at him, frowning. His stepbrother. Clun.

‘Where are we?’ Errol asked. His voice was hoarse and croaky as if he had been shouting for hours. His throat burned. ‘What happened to me?’

‘Ye don’t remember?’ Clun said, a grin splitting his face wide. ‘Ye got drunk, Errol. Rip-roarin’ drunk. I’ve never seen anythin’ quite like it. Ye must’ve drunk two skinfuls of wine at least.’

‘What’re you talking about?’ Errol said. ‘I’m not allowed wine. I’m too young.’

He slowly inched his way up to a slumped sitting position, wishing all the while that his pallet would stop swaying from side to side. As he moved, the smell of stale wine grew stronger. He looked down at his clothes and saw his new shirt stained with red as if someone had slit his throat whilst he slept. His trousers were soiled and torn around the knees and he couldn’t remember what had happened to his jacket. He was sitting on a bed of straw in the back of a moving wagon. Barrels and sacks were lashed down all around and Clun was perched on a small chest alongside him. Everything stank of sour grapes.