The Broken World (25 page)

Benfro heard the voices as if he were underwater, the words booming and fading in waves. He couldn't see anything but then realized that was because his eyes were closed. He tried to open them, but nothing seemed to work.

‘I think he's waking up, Myfanwy. Look.'

Benfro sensed more than saw the movement around him, then he felt a hand on his forehead again, talons clicking against his scales. He was as weak as a newly hatched kitling, helpless to do anything about it as his eyelid was forced delicately open and he found himself staring at the blurred image of a dragon's head.

‘Wha—'

‘Shhh. You're not done healing yet.' The face moved
away from his vision, but his eye stayed open. Without moving his head, Benfro couldn't see much, but he could tell he was inside a room, the ceiling overhead hung with drying herbs. As he thought this, so their aromas began to present themselves to him: fragrant rosemary and thyme, the bitterness of wormwood root and the sharp tang of cedar bark. Other smells added to the mix, putting him in mind of the smoke in the cave where the circus master, Loghtan, had captured him. That had rendered him senseless, robbed him of what little skill in the subtle arts he had. Now he felt much the same and struggled against the shackles in his mind.

‘Calm yourself, Benfro. You need all your strength to mend that hand. Best you don't move at all. Let Myfanwy's healings work their magic.' More movement, and Benfro felt the presence of another dragon slide alongside him. A smaller hand rested on his shoulder, and then a wing extended, wrapping him tight as his mother had done when he was still small and the night terrors came.

‘I'll stay with him. Make sure he doesn't do himself any harm.'

‘Tsk. Young things. You might want to hold your breath a moment then.'

Benfro was about to ask why, but a soft scent of smoke tickled his nose, causing him to sneeze then breathe in deeply. He should have been panicked, but instead he felt safe and warm, wrapped in his mother's embrace as he drifted off into a deep, deep sleep.

‘It was never meant for a man to sit in, was it?'

Prince Dafydd stood in the middle of the Neuadd and stared up at the vast bulk of the Obsidian Throne. Beside him, Usel the medic was fidgeting with his brown robes, obviously uncomfortable in the great open space. Dafydd could only sympathize; the place was so awash with the Grym it was hard to concentrate. And it all focused on that one huge chair.

‘Take away the later additions and its design is remarkably similar to the chairs that dragons use. You can go around and see, sire. There's no proper back to it, just a space for a tail.'

‘Dragons sit in chairs?' Apart from occasional visits to the circus as a boy, and their brief encounter with the dragon on the island in the Caldy archipelago, Dafydd had never really considered the creatures. At best he would have thought them wild, like large carrion birds or the mountain lions that stole sheep from the upland flocks. But that didn't square with the magnificent wings and courtly manners of Merriel, daughter of Earith.

‘Most prefer benches. They're easier to get on and off.
Some designs are more elaborate than others, but this is most definitely a dragon's chair.'

Dafydd paced slowly around the dais on which the throne sat. Once you started looking it was easy to see what was original and what were later additions. ‘But it's so big. Surely no dragon was ever this size.'

‘Not in this realm, true. And not for very many centuries. But once dragons ruled supreme. And I've a feeling they are going to be back soon.'

‘Ah, the old gods return. I've read my
Mad Goronwy
, Usel. I didn't have you pegged as one of those Guardians of the Throne fanatics.'

Usel managed to look shocked. ‘I have nothing to do with them.' Then he smiled. ‘Well, maybe not nothing. I am part of an order that predates the so-called Guardians of the Throne by centuries, but we both have similar goals. Only where they seek to hasten the end by killing anyone who doesn't agree with them, we just try to make sure there is a throne still here when the true king returns.'

‘By which you mean a bloody big dragon, I take it.'

‘Well. The throne would suggest as much.'

Dafydd walked to the front of the throne and stared up again, following the line of its tall back, those twin spires of purest black, as they rose towards the vaulted ceiling high overhead. The Neuadd was so large it felt like it had its own climate. For men to have built it, thousands of years ago, was inconceivable. That it might have been built by dragons, however vast they might have been, wasn't much easier to accept.

‘Any news of the princess?' He pushed away these troubling thoughts with more pressing concerns.

‘Word has been sent to Abervenn, sire. I would expect her to be here soon.'

‘And what of Beulah? I don't doubt she's heard of our little adventure by now. I'd expect an army to be marching towards us at speed.'

Usel's brow furrowed for a moment, and Dafydd felt something in the Grym he couldn't quite put his finger on. The silence in the hall was all the more noticeable for the size of the place. There should have been echoes, the dull noise of the city beyond as it prepared itself for the inevitable siege. And yet here mundane sounds could not penetrate, only the silent roar of a thousand thousand worried thoughts.

‘My apologies, sire. My usual contacts are not as reliable at the moment as they should be.' For the first time since he had met the man, Dafydd saw something akin to worry on Usel's face.

‘So you don't know.'

‘I know she was at Tochers and she gave birth to a daughter. Beyond that, I'm drawing a blank.'

‘Perhaps we should speak to Seneschal Padraig. I'm sure he has spies everywhere. Fetch him for me, would you, Usel. But not here. I find this place a little overwhelming.'

‘I'll have him meet you in the palace reception rooms. Best to conduct business a good distance from all this.' Usel nodded his head, which was as much of a bow as could be expected of the man, then departed, walking silently across the polished marble floor. Dafydd watched him go and not for the first time wondered just whose side the medic was on. He took one last look at the
ridiculously large throne, glad he had decided it wasn't his to sit on, then followed the medic out of the great hall.

‘You're awake. Good. Time to get up and make yourself useful then.'

Benfro rolled over from where he had been sleeping, a soft nest of thin branches and dried heather that had moulded itself comfortably to his shape. His mind was clear after what felt like weeks of confusion and dream. He remembered everything. The fight with Melyn, the rush to escape, landing in a clearing and the young dragon, Cerys, who had helped him. Brought him to …

‘Myfanwy?' The elderly dragon had her back to him, her massive wings limp at her sides. Benfro struggled up into a sitting position, noticing as he did that the stump where his hand had been no longer hurt. He held it up and was amazed to see a tiny hand budding out from the wound. Instinctively he flexed his fingers and the tiny hand moved.

‘The less you play with it, the quicker it will grow.' The old dragon hadn't turned to face him, but Benfro felt the heat of embarrassment in his face anyway.

‘I'm sorry. I don't know how to thank you enough.'

‘It's nothing.' The old dragon turned finally and Benfro got another look at that face. Free of his delirium, he could see that she didn't look much like Corwen at all. Just very, very old. The scales had all fallen from her face and neck, scarred leathery skin showing where they should have been and making her look a bit like some half-plucked chicken. One of her eyes was glazed white, but the other pierced him with a stare that saw through everything. ‘I'm
forever patching up wounds. You wouldn't believe how much this lot bicker and fight. Yours was just cleaner than any I've seen in a while.'

‘Well I'm grateful anyway. For everything. You must let me know how I can repay you.'

Myfanwy cocked her ancient head to one side at Benfro's words. ‘You're not from around here, are you.' It wasn't a question.

‘I don't really know where here is,' Benfro said. ‘I had to get away, didn't know where to go, so I just kind of felt out along the lines and jumped.'

‘You travelled the Llinellau Grym? I'm impressed. Perhaps there's more to you than I thought, Benfro of the Borrowed Wings. Tell me, what was so terrible that you risked losing yourself completely? What did you do up at the castle that was so bad they took your hand?'

‘The castle? What castle?'

‘Come, Benfro. No need to be shy. None of us here have any great fondness for those stuck-up idiots and their doddering old fool of a master.' Myfanwy frowned. ‘Been a while since I heard of any new hatchlings up there, mind you. Most of them wouldn't know how it's done any more. Too swept up in their studies.'

‘I'm very sorry, but I've really no idea what you're talking about.'

‘No?' Myfanwy left the question hanging for a moment. ‘Oh well. It's no matter. You're here. Now clear out of my house so I can get some rest without having to listen to your endless snoring.'

Benfro scrambled to his feet. ‘Is there anything I can do to help? I know herbs. Could fetch you fresh ones.'

‘But do you know where to find them in this forest, eh?' Myfanwy cocked her head to one side again, another curiously bird-like gesture. ‘No. But thank you for the offer. It's more than the last ingrate I patched up ever made. Go. Make yourself useful to the fold. Just don't get yourself injured again too soon.'

It wasn't until he was outside blinking at the bright sunlight that Benfro realized he didn't really know what a fold was, let alone how he could be useful to one. That was perhaps the smallest of the things he didn't know though. He had no idea where he was, for one thing, which was a far more pressing problem. As was how he was going to even start finding Errol. Or Gog.

‘You're up. Thought you were going to sleep for ever.'

Benfro recognized the voice and was surprised at just how pleased he felt to hear it. Cerys circled overhead, her outstretched wings showing intricate patterns and whorls that it seemed somehow inappropriate to stare at. She wheeled, one wing tip almost touching the ground, then landed with perfect precision just a few paces away from him.

‘How's the hand?' she asked as she folded her wings and sauntered up. Benfro took a while to gather his wits, closing his mouth at the same time as he held his arm up for inspection.

Cerys grinned at him. ‘She's a good healer, Myfanwy. Rubbish bedside manner, mind you. Come on. Let's go meet the others. They've been asking all about you for days now.'

‘Others?' Benfro asked. ‘Days?' Cerys paid him no heed, unfurled her wings again and leaped into the air in
one swift movement that was as graceful as anything he'd ever seen.

‘Keep up now, Benfro of the Borrowed Wings. Wouldn't want you getting lost again.'

Benfro watched her climb steadily into the sky, uncertain what he should do. His last memory of flying was at the circus, whirling round and round the tent just above the ground. In the air he was fine, but he'd never quite mastered the art of getting there, and though he'd mastered landing after a fashion, that was under the influence of Loghtan's drugs. Even clear-headed he was fairly sure he'd end up on his belly in the dirt again. And yet Cerys had made it look so simple, so elegant.

He unfurled his wings, feeling their weight. The muscles in his back were stiff, and it felt good to stretch them. He tried a few experimental sweeps, judging the lift of each one. Could he really just leap into the air and head off like Cerys had done? Always before it had been a matter of running as fast as he could, hoping that he could get enough height before he ran out of open space, but was that really necessary?

‘What you still doing down there?'

Benfro looked up to see Cerys wheeling in a thermal, and all he wanted was to be up there with her. One step, two steps and his wings came down together with enough force to lift him from the ground. Enough height that he could get another wingbeat in before he came crashing back down again. Was it really that easy? Perhaps he had learned something from his time at the circus after all.

‘Why do you fly so awkwardly?' Cerys asked as he joined the thermal she was riding, gaining its lift for himself.

‘Awkwardly? I thought I was good at it. Especially given that I wasn't born with these wings.'

Cerys banked, the wind ruffling the tufts of her ears as she stared at him. Her expression was inscrutable.

‘You're a strange creature, Benfro of the Borrowed Wings. I can never tell when you're joking and when you're being serious. Come. Follow me.' And she set off away from the lines of tree houses either side of the wide road. Surprised, it took Benfro a while to get his wits together, longer to catch her. Cerys was swift in the air, as if it were her natural element.

‘Do the others not live here?' he asked.

‘Live in the woods?' The laugh in Cerys' voice only just hid the sneer. ‘Dragons don't live in the woods. Well, apart from mad ones like Myfanwy. We are creatures of the air. We live in the high places.'

She sped off, and Benfro had to work hard to keep up with her. Even so it was wonderful to be flying again, to feel the wind whipping at his face, to sense the currents with the tips of his wings. The forest spread beneath him, mile upon endless mile of green interspersed with clearings, tracks and the occasional lake. Up ahead, a ridge of rock reared up out of the trees like some fossilized leviathan, rising at one end to a sheer cliff many hundreds of feet above the canopy, birds wheeling around the peak. But as they came closer, so the scale changed. Not many hundreds of feet, but many thousands. Not birds, but dragons. Caves pocked the upper face of the cliff, and on the top a flat area sloped gently away back to the forest far beyond.