Dreamwalker (19 page)

Neither was Frecknock at the meeting, he noticed. Surely that would be suspicious. Hope surged through Benfro then. If Frecknock was confronted by Sir Frynwy then surely she must admit to what she had done. She might even lift whatever strange compulsion she had put on him.

The small door at the corner of the hall which led to the kitchen and stores opened almost unnoticed. Benfro’s hearts dropped as he saw his tormentor slip into the room. She had nothing with her and the look of terrible defiance she gave him on seeing his stare convinced him that there was no chance of her ever admitting to her deeds. Still, Sir Frynwy and Meirionydd were both old and wise in the subtle arts. Perhaps they would be able to see the duplicity in her. They must surely ask her why she was late to such an important meeting. With a terrible sinking feeling, Benfro watched as Frecknock made her way across the hall towards him.

‘Hello there, squirt,’ she said. ‘Are you enjoying the Inquisition?’

‘Where have you been?’ Benfro asked, unable to voice the question he really wanted to ask: what have you done to me?

‘Hah! As if I’d tell you what I was doing,’ Frecknock said. ‘You’re a nosey little squit of a thing who’ll probably be the ruin of us all. The less you know about anything the better, as far as I’m concerned. Better you just wander off into the forest and let the rest of us get back to our old lives.’

‘Now Frecknock, there’s no reason to be rude.’ Sir Frynwy said from behind her. Benfro had watched his approach with a delighted sense of triumph.

‘Sir Frynwy,’ Frecknock said, turning and nodding her head to her senior.

‘I have been around everyone now, save you Frecknock,’ he said. ‘You were late for the meeting, I noticed. Do you know why I called it?’

‘You have lost your book, Sir Frynwy,’ Frecknock said. For an instant the old dragon’s eyes seemed to light up with relief. ‘At least that’s what Benfro told me this morning. I was headed into the forest to collect some special herbs,’ she added. Benfro watched the conversation intently. As Frecknock mentioned herbs, Sir Frynwy’s eye twitched slightly and he dropped his head a fraction, as if embarrassed by something.

‘Well, you’re here now,’ he said finally. ‘And you of all should know how important it is that we find the book. You’ve studied it with Meirionydd for some years now, after all.’

‘As you say, I know it well,’ Frecknock said. Benfro could tell from her posture that she considered this high praise indeed. He saw too just how vain she was. The safety of the village, the lives of the other villagers, were of less worth to her than that she was considered important.

‘But have you seen the book?’ Benfro asked, knowing full well the answer but unable to voice it. Frecknock stared at him with the closest thing to true hatred he had ever seen; a cold, murderous look that lasted only a second but chilled him to the core. Then in an instant it was gone, replaced by a sickly, unctuous and false smile.

‘Of course not, Benfro,’ she said. ‘At least not since last week when Meirionydd and I went through the Aleydine Codex. You wouldn’t know what that was though.’

‘What would someone want the book for, Sir Frynwy?’ Benfro asked, ignoring Frecknock’s taunt. He couldn’t tell the old dragon directly what he had seen, but he might be able to make him think around the problem.

‘Almost anything, Benfro,’ Sir Frynwy said. ‘It contains the fundamental knowledge of the subtle arts. When you’re older, and provided your mother approves, Meirionydd and I will introduce you to its mysteries. But we must find it first. And since none of us have seen it since last week, I’ll have to arrange a search of the village. I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but there’s no option. It’s too dangerous not to know where it lies.’

Sir Frynwy turned away from Benfro and Frecknock, climbing once more onto the raised dais at the end of the hall. The voices of the villagers dwindled to almost nothing, expectant in their hush.

‘Friends, we are all here, save Morgwm of course, and I have spoken with her already. None has seen the book, yet it can’t have gone far. So we will have to search the village, house by house. Some of us are not as good at remembering things as we once were, so it may have quite innocently been forgotten. Since I’m charged with looking after the book, we’ll start at my house. Benfro, you and Frecknock will accompany me and aid in the search.’

Too swept up by the events to be astonished, Benfro bustled out of the hall after Sir Frynwy and Frecknock, half running to keep up. The village was not large and as Elder, the old dragon’s house was close by the hall. It stood in its own yard surrounded by an abundance of wild flowers and, after the hall, was probably the biggest building in the village, though Sir Frynwy lived alone. Benfro had been inside many times before, but only into the front hall and, once, into the library. He glanced up at the wisteria-hung oak frame front, two stories high with great glass filled windows like eyes, big enough for him to climb in. The door was not locked and Sir Frynwy pushed it open before motioning for Frecknock to step over the threshold. A small crowd of dragons had clustered around the gate, peering over the fence to see what would happen next. Benfro took a last glance at them and stepped inside.

The hallway was dark, panelled in ancient oak. It smelled of Sir Frynwy, there was no other way to describe it. An old, slightly musky odour part wood, part tobacco smoke, part patrician authority that put Benfro instantly on his guard. Ahead of him the great wide staircase climbed away to the upper floor and he felt a thrill of excitement that he was going to see the whole of this house. But first there was the library, the obvious place to look for a book.

Frecknock opened the door and stepped in without waiting to be asked. Benfro was shocked at her boldness, but then she had been studying with Sir Frynwy and Meirionydd for some years now, so perhaps she felt such familiar ease was acceptable. If it annoyed Sir Frynwy, he did not show it, instead motioning for Benfro to move into the study too.

‘Come along now Benfro,’ he said. ‘The quicker we can get this whole place searched, the quicker we can eat.’

‘I…’ Benfro was desperately trying to say that he knew who had taken the book and that she was standing in front of them. ‘I don’t know where to look,’ was all that came out and Frecknock’s evil grin showed that she knew what turmoil he was in.

The library was nearly as dark as the hall, the light from the huge window almost totally obscured by hanging creepers and ivy on the wall outside. It was a big room, lined on all walls with bookcases, filled with books. An unlit fireplace broke the pattern on one wall with two comfortable looking armchairs pulled up close to its dead mouth. The only other furniture in the room was a large writing desk, strewn with parchments. A couple of sconces attached to the desk dripped wax from the stubs of candles left in them.

‘Where was it you used to keep the book, Sir Frynwy?’ Frecknock asked, crossing the room to a shelf close to the fireplace. ‘Here, wasn’t it?’

‘I’ve searched this whole room a dozen times,’ the old dragon said. ‘You won’t find it in here, really.’

‘Nevertheless, we have to look, don’t we,’ Frecknock said. ‘After all, other’s will be searching each of our houses in turn, won’t they. Each and every one from top to bottom until the book is found.’

‘It is only fair,’ Sir Frynwy said, although he didn’t sound too happy about it.

‘Well don’t just stand there like a dead sheep, Benfro,’ Frecknock said. ‘Get started on those books over there.’ She pointed to a stack by the writing desk, haphazardly piled as if Sir Frynwy had been consulting them as he wrote.

‘I don’t know what I’m looking for,’ Benfro said. It was a lie, he knew exactly the size shape and colour of the book Frecknock had been using but he wasn’t about to make life any easier for her.

‘It’s a leather bound book, Benfro,’ Sir Frynwy said, coming over to where he stood by the stack. ‘It’s very old, older than me in fact. The cover is a deep brown and the title is tooled into the spine in gold lettering.’ He began to pick up the books from the stack, one by one, his long fingers stroking them as if they were beloved pets. ‘It is much heavier than any book its size should be, something to do with the weight of knowledge it contains. And it has a very distinctive feel to it…oh.’

Benfro watched as Sir Frynwy’s expression changed in an instant. It was as if someone had stuck him with a pin and all the air flowed out of him.

‘What is it?’ He asked, noting the way the old dragon clasped the latest book tight to his scaly chest, almost as if he were trying to hide it.

‘This,’ Sir Frynwy said after a long pause. He held out the book for Benfro to take. Its cover felt strange, almost warm and as he took it from the old dragon, Benfro thought he could hear whispering voices, like an urgent conversation in the next door room. Then as Sir Frynwy let it slip fully from his grasp, Benfro nearly dropped the book he had just been given. It was as heavy as if it had been made of stone. Astonished, he looked up at the old dragon’s distraught face.

‘Ah me, what a fool I am,’ he said. ‘It’s the Llyfr Draconius. It was here all along.’

Benfro held the magic book tightly in his grasp, wishing it would wash away the spell that Frecknock had cast on him that morning. He wanted to shout that she had taken it, that she must have sneaked in as the meeting began and put it where it would be found. His mouth stayed shut, clamped by a force he couldn’t overcome. All he could do was seethe as Frecknock looked on at his frustration and Sir Frynwy’s mortification with an air of malicious glee.

~~~~

Chapter Eleven

Proud sheep in the house of hazel and thorns,

Fey white-foot exiled from the ruined hall,

The blood of the north and the blood of the south,

Mixed will turn both to dust.

The Prophecies of Mad Goronwy

Darkness had almost completely fallen by the time Benfro made his way home. The trees silhouetted against the grey-black sky were like the skin-stripped skeletons of mythical beasts. As the wind pulled them back and forth, it seemed like they still lived, tethered cruelly to the earth, thrashing to break free. Trapped by Frecknock’s spell, he could well imagine the torment they might feel, desperate to explode with the truth yet shackled and bound by forces he could not even see, let alone understand.

It had been a poor feast, after all the anticipation. There was general relief amongst the villagers that the book had been found, but Sir Frynwy himself, after apologising in person to each of the villagers in turn, had retreated to his house. With no telling of the great histories to look forward to, the party soon broke up. And even before then it had been a sombre affair. Ynys Môn had tried to lessen some of Sir Frynwy’s shame by telling all who would listen of the time he had managed to become entangled in one of his own traps, hanging from a tree for three days before he was rescued, but on the whole it had been a quite miserable evening. Only Frecknock seemed happy, telling all who would listen how she thought it was time someone else took over the guardianship of the book, someone young and with all their faculties about them. Benfro had avoided her as best he could, going from dragon to dragon trying to tell them what he had seen and what she had done to him. Each time the result was the same. He could talk around the subject but as soon as he tried to say exactly what had happened, he seemed to lose the ability to form words. After a final embarrassed conversation with Meirionydd, he had made his excuses and left.

No moon shone and clouds obscured the stars so that the darkness was almost total. He had chosen to walk through the forest, still unsettled by his encounter with Frecknock on the path that morning, but he could have made the journey home blindfolded. He knew the woods around the village better than anything, each tree and bush, animal track, spring and grotto. The ground underfoot was soft with dead leaves and each footfall brought a whiff of autumn decay to his nose. Winter would soon be here.

The smell of burning wood was the first sign that he neared home. Then he caught a glimpse of light through the thinning undergrowth and minutes later he was stepping quietly through the almost empty vegetable patch. There would be a lot of work to do preparing the beds for the winter crops and digging in last years compost. It struck Benfro as he walked that none of the villagers grew any of their own vegetables. As far as he was aware, only Ynys Môn hunted regularly. And yet they always had food, and exotic food at that. Even that evening’s sombre feast had seen a good spread of mutton and beef, venison and turkey. And there had been flatbreads flavoured with roasted nuts and garlic; steamed asparagus tips as thick as his thumb and yet still tender and sweet; platters of fruits that he had eaten a thousand times before and yet never seen growing in the forest around the village. The other dragons had drunk mead and wine, though none would let him try any. Benfro had no idea where they got it from. But what bothered him more was that it had never occurred to him before.

‘So Sir Frynwy had the book all along,’ Morgwm said to him as he stepped into the house. She was sitting in her favourite chair by the fire, a steaming bowl of tea on the table beside her. Benfro had been about to ask about the food, but as ever she had said the one thing that could knock him off his train of thought. He fell back on his earlier trouble with Frecknock. As far has he was concerned, she was the villain of the piece, not Sir Frynwy. She had stolen the book, then hidden it in his study where he would be most embarrassed by its recovery. She wanted it for herself so that she could spend her days looking for a mate.