The Broken World (44 page)

‘Your queen, yes. I wonder what the good people of the Twin Kingdoms would think about her if they knew half the things I know. How her sister Lleyn really died, for instance. Gallweed, wasn't it? Very hard for a young girl to come by.'

‘I think there's little to be gained from continuing this interrogation, if all you're going to do is bring up old gossip about my sister.' Beulah pushed hard at Lady
Dilyth's mental barriers, feeling her begin to struggle. Something gave, and a few images, snippets of ideas started to leak out.

‘Half-sister.' The old woman relaxed and Beulah almost tumbled into her memories, trampling around them like a novice. Too late she realized that this was what Lady Dilyth had planned all along.

‘What do you mean, half-sister?' Clun asked.

‘Did you not know? Why, it was quite the scandal back in the day. Queen Ellyn's dalliance. Oh, there's no doubting old Diseverin fathered Lleyn on her, but he was in no fit state by the time it came to your beloved. Couldn't cope with the throne, poor man. It takes some that way.'

Beulah tried to speak but found herself tongue-tied and horrified as the words came backed with solid images of the court, of her mother still young and alive, of her father still hale and hearty but passed out with drink. And there, in the background, someone else keeping a firm hand on the reins of power. Keeping the Twin Kingdoms together.

‘You see it now, don't you, dear?' Lady Dilyth's voice was all around her, and Beulah cursed herself for being so fooled. ‘Oh, he rallied, after a while. I've no doubt Iolwen is his; she has his nose after all. You've always taken more after your mother. Well, up to a point. You have your father's temperament, his scheming nature. His eyes too, now I come to think of it.'

‘Make … Make her stop.' Beulah only whispered the words, but Clun was already there. With the faintest of whispering noises, a slight chilling as the Grym leached out of everything nearby, he conjured a short blade of fire
and slid it swiftly into Lady Dilyth's chest, through her heart. Riding her thoughts as she died, Beulah saw one last image. The view through a partially opened door, a spy's view of a familiar bedchamber. She knew it, had visited her father there on the last day of his life. A couple were in the throes of passion there, his strong naked back scarred by some ancient injury. In those final moments Beulah saw her mother sit up, drape an arm around the neck of her lover, caress his chest as he took her again. And then, as the light began to fade and Lady Dilyth's essence was sucked back into the Grym, the man turned side on, looked briefly towards her and winked. His face young but unmistakably that of Inquisitor Melyn.

The beef lasted them three days, supplemented by the increasingly familiar plants and herbs Errol was now finding. The trees were more and more like the great forest back home, and the land began to climb, undulating ever upward into the foothills. They caught glimpses of the mountains beyond, rising grey and menacing against a darkening sky. Bad weather was on its way, winter with it.

‘I'm cold. What's happened to the sun?' Nellore sat in the shelter of a rock tumbled across the path from a nearby cliff face. A chill wind had picked up since dawn and the clouds were doing their best to end the day early. Errol wondered if they could chance a fire. It was unlikely they'd attract any dragons this far from the Twmp. Unless there were other groups out there.

‘I told you about the Grym, didn't I? Just tap the lines to keep yourself warm.' He'd fallen back on his novitiate training and the earlier foundation he'd learned from Sir
Radnor, but Nellore didn't have the same knack. She could see the lines, was fascinated by them and constantly pointed them out to him. And yet she found it impossible to get her head around using them.

‘I'm sick of this place. Sick of walking and walking. Are we ever going to get there?'

‘I don't know, Nellore. I don't even know where there is. But it's got to be better than …' Errol turned, looking back down the track the way they had come.

‘Still cold.' Nellore rubbed at her legs. She wasn't dressed for the mountains, and neither was Errol really, though at least he had his travelling cloak.

‘We'll stop here, OK? There's not much daylight left, and I'd rather find somewhere dry to camp before the rain comes.'

‘Rain?' Errol wouldn't have thought it possible to put so much despair into one word, but Nellore managed it.

‘There's bound to be caves in those cliffs. Let's find one we can use. I'll gather some wood and we can light a fire. I'll even see if I can get us some more food.'

That seemed to cheer the young girl up. They spent the next half-hour clambering over scree and rockfall until they found a perfect spot to camp, tucked into a narrow cave formed by a split in the cliff face. Errol even remembered to check right to the back just in case it was already occupied, then they collected all the dry wood they could find and piled it up far enough back that any firelight wouldn't be visible from afar.

Errol had seen Benfro breathe fire. He knew the warrior priests could conjure flaming blades, knew even how it was done, in theory. But it had been a long day's walk
after weeks of the same, and they'd found little food. He knew that if he were to attempt to use the Grym to set the kindling aflame it would go horribly wrong. It was remarkable enough that he'd managed to reach out along the lines and take food before. He didn't think he'd be able to do that again.

He was staring at nothing, wondering how best to go about sparking a flame, when he smelt woodsmoke wafting up through the still air of the cave. Focusing, he saw that Nellore had taken a couple of the smaller twigs and some dried leaves and somehow managed to coax them into fire. He drew up his legs, crossed them over and tried to get as comfortable as the rock and hard-packed ground would allow as the young girl nurtured her flame like a newborn babe, breathing on the embers and feeding them small twigs until they caught. Soon they had a merry, if small, fire burning away.

‘At least we'll be warm now. Be nice if we had something to cook on it.'

‘Where did you learn to do that?' Errol didn't really want to know; he just wanted to put off the inevitable.

‘Da taught me. Course we had drier wood to work with.' Nellore fed another branch to the fire, her face lit up by the flames. Outside had gone very dark with the approaching storm, and the air felt heavy as if it were being squeezed by the weight of the clouds above. Errol was glad of the shelter but worried about being stuck in the cave for any length of time without food or water. They should perhaps have collected more wood too.

‘I will see if I can find us some food,' he said after too long an expectant silence. The change in Nellore's
expression lightened up the cave and lent Errol much-needed energy. It was hard to be too morose in the company of such simple enthusiasm. ‘I'll need you to keep a watch on me and the fire both, mind you. I don't want to get lost wandering the lines.'

Nellore nodded, moving close to where he sat. Errol settled himself back against the rock and stared at the flickering flames, waiting for the lines to come to his vision. It took a while, ignoring the rumbling in his stomach and the occasional chill gust of wind that whipped around the cave. Then, when they finally did swim into view, he wondered how he could have missed them.

For all that the cave seemed a barren place, it was filled with so much Grym the lines blurred into a continuous glowing sheet, covering everything. Nellore was a bright point in the midst of it all, but Errol knew there was no point searching in her direction. He tried to relax, stretching his senses in ways they weren't used to going. He sniffed but not with his nose, listened but not with his ears. The cave was a weave of noise and smell so pervasive it was almost impossible to pick out individual threads. Still he persevered, racking his memory for the exact image of the long corridor with its vaulted stone ceiling, its heavy iron sconces and flickering yellow torches, the huge black oak door that would open on to a room full of food.

The image solidified in his mind the more he recalled of it. Errol tried to remember what it had smelled like, what noises he had heard, the feel of the cold flagstones under his feet. But these were memories of an earlier visit to this place, a different corridor and a wide stone
staircase spiralling up. He knew where that staircase led. Up to the top of the great tower and the golden cage where Martha was trapped.

A gurgling spasm ran through his gut, reminding Errol of why he was here. Not that he actually was; he was back in the cave with Nellore, and the time was surely passing swiftly there. He needed to find the dining room, hope there was food there again and hope that nobody caught him this time.

As if in a dream, the view changed from the staircase to the heavy oak door. And then before he could even worry about not actually having any hands with which to open it, he was inside. It was darker this time, but the sideboard still carried a selection of silver platters, their domed covers casting strange bulbous reflections in the half-light. There was no joint of roast meat this time, but a wooden bowl filled with ripe fruit. There was enough to feed the two of them for days, if he could just work out how to get it back to the cave.

Something tugged at him, like a distant cry of alarm. Errol felt himself losing the trance again, and stretched out with invisible hands for the bowl. He thought he could feel something, but the scene darkened, fading away into a whirl of blackness and stars as he crashed back into himself. Such was the force of his return, he jerked his head back, cracking it against the rock of the cave wall. Dazed, it took a while for him to see that the fire had burned low, longer still to notice the bowl, still full of fruit, lying in his lap.

‘Well, well, well. What have we here then?'

In his stupor Errol registered that the voice speaking
was male, but he couldn't see who spoke. He was desperately tired, confused and hungry. Too late he realized what a male voice meant.

‘Who?' He shook his head, hoping to clear it enough to work out what was going on. And then he saw them, three men dressed in dark cloaks sitting on the other side of the fire. One of them had Nellore held tight, a leather-gloved hand over her mouth to stop her screaming. Errol struggled to get to his feet, tipping the bowl and its precious fruit on to the cave floor.

‘Let her go.' His voice was hoarse, throat cracked and dry. Nellore's eyes were wide with terror, darting from his face to a point above his right shoulder and back again. He understood the warning, but he was too exhausted to do anything about it. Too slow. As he turned to see the man standing behind him, the fist connected with his face and everything exploded into blackness.

‘The people await, Your Highness. Your people await.'

Prince Dafydd looked up from the desk in the royal apartments where he had been composing a coded letter to send back to his grandfather, but the announcement was not intended for him. Seneschal Padraig stood at the door to the reception room flanked by two Llanwennog palace guards.

‘Is it time, then?' Princess Iolwen greeted the old man nervously. She had not brought much in the way of formal wear on their travels, and she had not fancied borrowing any of her sister's clothes. In the end they had found a room full of dresses that must have belonged to her mother, and then Iolwen had closeted herself away for days with an army of seamstresses, trying to decide what would be most appropriate to wear in front of the people of Candlehall and then altering and cutting. The dress she had finally emerged with was stunning, but she didn't look comfortable in it. Dafydd could only sympathize; he
wasn't too keen on formal wear himself. This was the hard part of being a ruler. Living up to the expectations of the people.

‘It is, ma'am. Would you like me to accompany you?' The seneschal shook gently as if he was frightened, but Dafydd knew it was not fear. He was an old man, close to his end. Perhaps another reason why he had been so ready to cede control of the city to them.

‘That won't be necessary, Padraig. This isn't a coronation. I am not queen. Go and see to the preparations. It cannot be long before my sister comes back for her throne. We need to be ready and well stocked for the siege.'

Padraig nodded, the relief evident in the lines of his old face. He turned away, walking somewhat more briskly from the room than at his arrival. Dafydd almost laughed.

‘Let's get it over with then.' Iolwen held out her hand to him, and Dafydd escorted his wife from the room. Guards went on ahead, and they were followed closely by yet more, even though the palace had been checked for potential assassins. Usel was never far away, though the medic often disappeared from view, flitting from shadow to shadow as he double-checked their route. After the death of Captain Pelod, no one was taking any chances with security.

Their route took them through the cloisters where Jarius had died, and Dafydd felt a pang of loss for his old friend as they passed the spot. The air seemed colder here too, as if the death were imprinted on the stones and the captain's ghost haunted the open walkway. He shook away the superstition, concentrating on the great bulk of the Neuadd, rising above them all in impossible splendour.
Those huge oak doors were open as they approached, and Dafydd could sense the thoughts of hundreds, maybe thousands of people within. He dropped back a couple of paces so that he was following Iolwen rather than leading her. This was her realm after all, not his.

Conversation buzzed around the great hall as they climbed the wide stone steps to the entrance, but it fell to hushed, expectant silence the moment the first guard crossed the threshhold. A little behind her, Dafydd watched as Iolwen was swallowed by the shadows, and a moment's panic swept over him. Then he too was inside, eyes adjusting to the scene.

It couldn't have been the entire population of Candlehall, but it felt like that many people thronged the hall. A wide aisle had been left for them, leading straight to the dais upon which the Obsidian Throne sat empty. Dafydd remembered the cavern deep below their feet and the panic rose again. What if the floor collapsed, plunging them all to their deaths? It was foolish, of course. Just the effect of being in such a crowded space, the sense of anticipation that hung heavy in the air.

Iolwen paused just over the threshold as if she too was having difficulty accepting the reality of her situation. Their plan had always been to make sure their son, Iolo, was born in the Twin Kingdoms, to cement his claim to this throne in later years. Neither of them could have anticipated that they would get this far, achieve this much.

‘Leave me. I am safe among these people.' Iolwen dismissed her guards, who obeyed despite their obvious trepidation. Then she walked slowly up the aisle to the dais. Dafydd followed but kept well back. She would invite
him up once she had claimed the throne. For now he would stay just close enough to help should trouble arise. Relaxing his mind and feeling out across the collected audience the way his grandfather had taught him, he sensed that trouble was unlikely, at least for now. These people were rapt, their anticipation of something wonderful almost palpable. It didn't say much for Beulah that her sister's return could be greeted with such enthusiasm.

Like the steps to the door, those that rose to the dais were low and wide. Iolwen took her time climbing them. If Dafydd hadn't known her better he'd have said she was milking the moment, but it wasn't showmanship holding her back so much as fear. She stopped in front of the great throne, stared up at it, her head tilting slowly back as she looked all the way to the top of the ornately carved back. Then, even more slowly, she turned and faced the crowd.

‘I was only five years old the last time I saw this place. My mother had just died and my father thought it would help foster peace with our neighbours to the north if I was sent to live with them.' Normally Iolwen's voice was quiet, but something about the acoustics of the Neuadd and the power of the throne behind her made it sound as if she was standing right in front of Dafydd. He looked around and, judging by the expressions on the faces close by, the effect was the same for everyone present.

‘Despite what you may have heard to the contrary, the people of Llanwennog are friendly, peaceful and warm-hearted. I was welcomed at King Ballah's court, treated as an equal and raised as if I were his own daughter. I won't say it was easy, but I grew to love them, and
one of them won my heart.' Iolwen held out an arm towards Dafydd, beckoning him to her. He felt the heat rise in his face as all eyes turned to him, but there was no backing out now. Climbing the steps to stand beside her was more difficult than any part of their journey all the way from Tynhelyg.

‘Prince Dafydd is second in line to the throne of Llanwennog, and he is also my husband. The father of my son, Prince Iolo. One day, perhaps soon – I certainly hope soon – our two nations will be one and we can stop this petty warring.'

That brought a cheer from part of the crowd, which spread around the hall to become a chant of ‘Queen Iolwen! Queen Iolwen!' which went on for quite some time, until Iolwen herself raised both hands and called for quiet.

‘I am not queen. My sister is queen. And I cannot take this throne from her just by sitting on it. I will not sit on it.'

Silence filled the vast expanse of the Neuadd as a thousand people held their collective breath. Dafydd wanted to ask what she was doing, but one look at Iolwen's face stilled the question in his throat. She had seen what he had seen, deep beneath their feet. And she knew the history of the Obsidian Throne, how it had driven kings mad. Her fear of it was obvious, but it wasn't that which was keeping her from climbing the steps cut in the black stone up to the uncomfortable seat. It was one thing to sit in a chair, no matter how big that chair was, quite another to rule a kingdom.

‘My sister has forfeited her right to rule the Twin Kingdoms by waging unnecessary war. Let me end that war
first, and then I will take this throne and all the responsibilities that go with it. Until then let no one sit upon it.'

Iolwen's words echoed across the Neuadd, falling away to nothing as the crowd took in what she had said. And then a lone voice near the back started a chant: ‘Iolwen! Iolwen!' It didn't take long for everyone to join in, the volume rising to uncomfortable levels. Dafydd took his wife's hand and squeezed it tight, drinking in the adulation like the most intoxicating of fine wines. This audience wasn't exactly the whole of the Twin Kingdoms, but it was evidence nonetheless that she had solid support. Her sister was not loved anywhere near as much.

Something crashed to the ground outside with a force that rattled the massive, jumbled windows and cut the chant off like an executioner's axe. The palace guards at the doors ran outside, well trained to the last. Everyone in the great hall heard their screams. Then the huge doors were shoved aside, and in that instant Dafydd finally accepted that it was dragons who had built the Neuadd, that the scale of the place was entirely appropriate for their size. The creature blocking all the sunlight from the doorway loomed over the crowd like a giant surveying a meeting of pygmies. It opened its mouth, unintelligible sounds spilling forth in waves so loud they could have shattered glass.

And then the screaming really started.

‘Your Grace, the men are getting restless. Winter approaches, and they want to know if we are staying here or moving back to Emmass Fawr.'

Three days since he had discovered the cavern
underneath King Ballah's throne room. Three days since he had held the heart of the Shepherd in his hands and understood a truth too horrible to admit. Three days since he had either eaten or slept, and Inquisitor Melyn was still in no mood for company.

‘Are they not trained warrior priests, Osgal? Are they so lacking in initiative they cannot find tasks to keep themselves occupied? Are you so lacking in leadership skills you can think of nothing either?'

Captain Osgal had been standing at the foot of the dais, his head at Melyn's waist height, bowed slightly as was only proper in the presence of his inquisitor. Now he climbed the shallow steps until he was on the same level as the throne, forcing Melyn to crane his neck.

‘Sir, you are not yourself. You sit here for hours on end with no one for company save this … this dragon.' Osgal indicated Frecknock with a dismissive sweep of his hand. She was lying curled up beside the throne, but raised her head as he spoke. Melyn reached out a hand and patted her between the ears. Sooner or later he would be angry. That was how he should have been reacting, a part of him knew. He'd been waiting three days for it to come now, but all he felt was a vague annoyance. The mindless chattering presence of all these people in this city was like a swarm of flies he couldn't bat away, buzzing around his head when all he wanted was some peace and quiet, time to take in all that he had learned and decide what he would do about it.

‘Frecknock has proved her loyalty beyond doubt, Captain. She has saved my life many times, saved all of our lives in the forest. Even yours. Are you forgetting that?'

‘No, sir.' Osgal choked the words out as if he would
rather eat his own shoes than admit any kind of debt to a dragon.

Melyn almost laughed at the irony, letting out something more like the bark of a kicked dog instead. The captain stood up straighter at the sound, taking it as a rebuke.

‘I will tell the men to barrack themselves for the winter, sir. Start allocating some administrative work. I take it we won't be seeing any predicants of the Candle soon, with the situation at Candlehall?'

Melyn found it hard to concentrate on the captain's words, hard to concentrate on anything much at all. But the man just stood there, looming over him like some giant mindless oaf, waiting for an answer.

‘What? Oh. Yes. Organize them, Osgal. And I suppose you'd better start vetting the Llanwennog administrators too. We'll need them to run things eventually, and I doubt we'll be seeing any Candles soon, as you say. Now leave me. I have much to think about.'

Osgal looked for a moment as if he was going to speak, then thought better of it. He nodded briefly, making a half-hearted salute with his fist, turned and left. It was some distance to the great double doors that opened out into the main reception hall, but the captain disappeared into the gloom long before he reached them. Melyn had ordered the windows shuttered, the only light in the whole room emanating from his two rings and the single large red stone sitting on one arm of the throne. The heart of the Shepherd.

‘Is it wise to treat your men so, Your Grace? They need your leadership now, more than ever surely.'

Melyn picked up the heart stone, feeling the weight of
it in his hand. Closer to King Balwen's ring, they both glowed brighter, the ruby light spreading over Frecknock's dull grey scales and turning them so black she almost disappeared. Only the twin orbs of her eyes reflected back the power that swelled in the room.

‘Did you know?' Melyn asked. ‘Have you been laughing at me all this time?'

Frecknock's eyes widened in fear. ‘No, Your Grace. Never. I don't even know now. Not fully. This jewel means something to you, but I don't know what.'

‘This jewel.' Melyn lifted up the stone. It was as big as his closed fist, heavy like solid glass and roughly shaped. It might have looked a bit like a heart, or like a squashed ball that had been chipped away in a couple of places. ‘Interesting choice of word. You think it a jewel. A dragon jewel no less.'