Dreamwalker (38 page)

‘Errol,’ Errol said. ‘Errol Ramsbottom.’

‘Well, Errol Ramsbottom. If you’d stuck to the teachings of mother church, I’d still be looking for someone to help me. That would’ve made me angry and wasted both of our precious time. In here.’ He opened a door and they descended yet more steps, the permanent chill of the monastery deepening as they entered the lowest levels Errol had yet encountered. The walls here were carved from the rock, not built up. They were deep inside the mountain

‘Where are we going?’ Errol ventured to ask.

‘To the mortuary,’ the medic said. ‘Like I said, I don’t think our combined medical skills will save this patient, since she’s been dead for quite a long time. Our good leader, the Inquisitor, is keen to know more about the condition she was in at the time of her death. Such secrets are there to be uncovered, if you just know how to look. Still, I’d rather be helping the sick than disturbing the dead.’

Errol stared at the back of the medic’s head as they twisted their way into the dark recesses of the mountain. He had never heard anyone, not even Andro, speak of the Inquisitor in such a flippant manner.

‘Umm, who are you?’ Errol asked, not wanting to offend, but not knowing how else to make sense of what was happening around him.

‘Oh yes, names,’ the man said, stopping. ‘I keep forgetting. I’m Usel, the surgeon.’ He held out a hand as if someone had once told him that was what you did on meeting a stranger but he couldn’t quite understand why. Errol shook it briefly and they continued down the winding steps into the depths.

Eventually, when Errol was beginning to wonder if they would ever stop, the steps opened out into a large hall. Torches hung in sconces along the walls, their flickering light lending a slightly hellish air to the scene.

It was cold, fogging his breaths as he recovered from the long climb down. Instinctively, Errol reached out for the lines, trying to draw the warmth of nearby living things into him. It seemed to be more difficult than he recalled, as if he had forgotten how the most basic of novitiate’s skills was performed. Concentrating, he tried to see the lines criss-crossing the room.

There were none.

‘Ah, yes, I probably should’ve warned you about that,’ Usel said. ‘We’re too deep within the bedrock of the mountain to use the grym. I dare say even Melyn would have a hard time conjuring his blade of light down here. That’s why we have to use the torches.’

An uneasiness crept over Errol as he stepped into the room. It had nothing to do with the cold, or the rows of alcoves carved into the rock wall that could have only housed one thing. Neither was it the smell of bleach that filled the air, not quite hiding a more unpleasant aroma that reminded him of the mornings back in Pwllpeiran when someone was butchering a wild boar in the yard behind the schoolhouse. More it was a feeling of total isolation, of being cut off from the whole world, that sent shivers running up his spine.

‘Here, put this on,’ Usel said, handing Errol a robe similar to his own, only less stained. For the first time since being accosted in the corridor somewhere high above, Errol had the chance to see the man’s face properly and revised the age upwards by twenty years. Usel’s skin was pale and smooth, his mouth twisted into a permanent, quizzical grin that made him look like a mischievous schoolboy. His hair was flecked with tiny flashes of white, his eyes were pale grey and creased around the edges. They held Errol in a penetrating stare for long moments before releasing him.

‘Your father was a Llanwennog,’ he said. ‘From the north-east of the country if I’m not mistaken.’

‘I never knew my father,’ Errol said.

‘Of course not,’ Usel said. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. No doubt you were chosen to be a spy. It’s not a job I’d like. Who was at your choosing, Lentin? Old Father Crassock?’

‘Inquisitor Melyn came to my village, with Princess Beulah,’ Errol said. Usel raised an eyebrow.

‘Old Melyn actually got out there amongst the masses?’ He said. ‘And you’ve met the queen. Well, well. You’re an important fellow, Errol Ramsbottom. I can remember when Beulah was younger even than you. She used to wander the corridors like she owned this place. I guess now she does.’

‘What was Princess… Queen Beulah doing here as a child?’ Errol asked, pulling his robe over his head.

‘She was sent here by her father, just after her mother died. Melyn was her tutor.’

‘But I thought the secrets of the order were forbidden to women,’ Errol said, recalling the words of Father Castlemilk in his Introduction to the Order of the High Ffrydd.

‘Here’s a lesson for you then, Errol,’ Usel said. ‘It’s true that the order doesn’t let women into its ranks. But Queen Beulah, well. She’s royalty; one of only two descendents of the House of Balwen left. Gender’s not an issue when you’re royal. She can do whatever she pleases. Often does, from what I’ve heard.’

‘Two?’ Errol asked. ‘Who’s the other?’

‘Princess Iolwen, Beulah’s little sister,’ Usel said. ‘She was sent to Llanwennog as a hostage to continued peace. As far as I know she’s still alive. She’d be nineteen now, if memory serves. King Diseverin gave her over to the tender ministrations of Seneschal Padraig and his order. He was probably trying to appease King Ballah after Prince Balch died.’

‘Prince Balch?’ Errol asked, feeling like he was an echo.

‘Ah, now there’s a story,’ Usel said. ‘And it’s part of why we’re here. After all, Beulah wasn’t always first in line to the Obsidian Throne. It’s this poor girl should’ve been crowned last month, not lying down here unlamented on the fourteenth anniversary of her death.’ He turned, sweeping his arm across the room to where a wheeled trolley stood beside a narrow table and lit by a candelabra hanging on a chain from the dark recesses of the ceiling. On the trolley, no doubt placed there by a troop of strong men, lay a stone casket, ornately carved and with dried earth still clinging to it.

*

Benfro could see the ground getting clearer, closer, with every passing moment. Confusion addled his thinking more than fear. He couldn’t remember how to fly. But then he couldn’t fly, so that was hardly surprising. Except that he was airborne and had got here, wherever here was, using his wings. His magnificent, wide, powerful wings. His pathetic, thin scraps of leather that hung awkwardly by his side.

It all seemed unreal, yet at the same time he was certain that hitting the ground at the speed he was falling would hurt, albeit very briefly. He doubted he’d be alive long enough to feel pain for more than a few seconds.

Get a grip on yourself. Fly.

The words were deep within his head, though Benfro was sure that they were not his. With them came an sudden impulse to flex his wings, so powerful he could only watch in amazement as he righted himself, stopped his downward plummet and came to a hovering stop just yards above the flagstones. Once more he seemed to be in complete control; perhaps even greater control for he’d never felt so confident and strong before. The ground was not far away, but he had denied it.

‘Who are you?’ The voice startled him out of his daydreaming so suddenly that he almost tumbled the last few feet to the barren stony ground that surrounded the hall. Scrabbling for purchase against the slippery air, Benfro turned once more and looked at the open mouth of those two great doors. A small figure stood there, like a man only somehow different. But then the only man he had ever met was Gideon. Who was to say they all looked alike? This one was as tall as the wandering priest, but thinner. Something about it reminded him of his mother, Meirionydd, even Frecknock. He had never thought much about it before, but it made sense that there would be female men as well. This then must be one them, but who was she and how could she see him when he wasn’t really there?

‘Who are you?’ The figure asked again and Benfro was gripped with a compulsion to tell her everything. He began to descend towards the doorway and the long, wide flagstone path that led from it to the surrounding buildings. But he really didn’t want to do that. Like his earlier dream, something told him that to land was to surrender. That if his feet touched the ground they would never again leave it. Struggling, he rose once more into the air, feeling the fear that had gripped him turn into a hot rage. He was reminded of Frecknock in one of her more petulant outbursts and the memory of the young dragon gave him added strength. He had learned to live with her inexplicable hatred of him. He had even survived her latest attempt to make his life a misery.

‘You will come to me,’ the figure said. ‘You will tell me who you are, where you came from.’

‘I… will not,’ Benfro said, not without difficulty. The sound of his voice was almost an echo, as if it were far distant, but the familiar sound anchored him. Somewhere away from here he was safe. He just had to get back there.

‘Your time is over, dragon,’ the voice shouted. Benfro ignored it, wheeling around and scanning the horizon to try and find the way he had come. The sky which had been clear was now clouding over, great rolls of blackness speeding towards him like frightened animals, obscuring the distance and blotting out the hills.

‘You can’t escape me,’ the figure said. ‘I control this land. It’s mine.’

Benfro tried to remember his first view of the city. The hill rising up to the river had been the other way around, so he must have circled it. Then he realised, the river came down from the hills. He had followed it all the way here. All he needed to do was to retrace its course.

‘I’ll track you down,’ the figure said, its voice carrying despite the distance between them. ‘I’ll kill you. All of you. I am the only power here.’

Benfro tried his best to ignore her, but he could feel the waves of fear, anger and frustration boiling out from her. He beat his great wings hard, pushing the air from him as he tried to steer away from the city. Beneath him the river had turned a dull grey, reflecting the clouds overhead. Fat drops of rain began to splatter against his face, stinging his eyes and slicking his scales.

‘You can’t escape me,’ the voice said, too close to be still on the ground. Benfro didn’t turn, didn’t look. He shut his eyes against the storm and thrust himself onwards. It was no longer the wonderful feeling of freedom, the simple twist and flick of his tail, the flexing of his shoulders that effortlessly steered him through the air. Now it was like wading through sticky mud, swimming against a winter storm flood.

‘I am your master and you will bow to me,’ the voice said. Benfro was finding it hard to breathe now. It felt like someone had tied his legs with rope and was even now pulling him back towards that menacing black hall. Still he fought against it. This was not real. It was just a dream.

‘I… will… not,’ he said and put all of his effort into a last mighty downstroke.

Everything happened very quickly. He felt a pain in his back as if something had sunk sharp talons into it, then he heard a wail of surprise. With a deafening roar, he rushed forward at impossible speed. For an instant he opened his eyes and saw the darkened countryside flickering past him. He no longer had any control over his flight, no longer seemed to have wings at all. He just crashed head over tail, convinced he was falling to the stone road, knowing that any minute now he would smash into the ground, his bones popping and cracking. He clenched his eyes tight shut and waited for the end.

~~~~

Chapter Twenty-One

There exists above the mortal plane another place that mirrors it closely: the aethereal. Animals, plants, and even buildings occupy this space with a mindless certainty, but thinking creatures cannot easily enter it. To do so requires not so much a manipulation of the grym as the realisation of a perfect state of consciousness. It is a skill few will ever master, though all should strive so to do, for within the aethereal, the adept may communicate over vast distances with others so skilled.

As with all magic, there is a downside to this skill, for when an adept enters the aethereal, his mind leaves his body behind. The aethereal is a place of many wonders and distractions, of traps and unexpected dangers. And it is a place where time flows differently to the norm. Many a skilled warrior priest has entered the aethereal never to come back.

Magic and the Mind by Fr Andro

‘Captain Derrin of the Queen’s Guard left this here this morning,’ Usel said. ‘I’m sure they have their reasons for digging the poor woman up, but it seems a bit barbaric to me.’

‘Why’re you showing it to me?’ Errol asked.

‘Well, I can’t possibly do a proper post mortem on my own; I can’t get the lid off for one thing, and I need someone to takes notes for me as I go along. It’s much neater that way. I was on my way to the library to ask Andro if I could borrow one of his novitiates when along you popped. Couldn’t have been better, really.’

Errol thought that it could have been. He could have been out in the exercise yards enjoying the afternoon sun and practising his archery, not down in the bowels of the monastery, shivering and discomfited, with a slightly mad doctor and a royal corpse for company. On the other hand, Usel was a friendly enough person, quite unlike any of the other quaisters he had met. He also seemed to know a great deal and was happy to share his knowledge. He reminded Errol somewhat of old Father Drebble, who had always encouraged healthy curiosity and was happy to spend time with the genuinely interested.