Dreamwalker (29 page)

It had occurred to Benfro, as the weeks went past and the year turned, that he might be able to break Frecknock’s spell by telling of his experiences in this new language. Magic, however, was not so easily fooled, and his attempt had only ended in another episode of deep embarrassment and frustration. And so it was that he sat in his favourite tree, overlooking the path to the village, as the wind swung him back and forth.

A movement in the corner of Benfro’s eyes caught his attention. Someone was moving along the edge of the track, keeping to the shadows even though the afternoon sky was darkening and heavy with clouds. He recognised the furtive movements in an instant. It was Frecknock and the sight of her filled him with a terrible anger. Bad enough that she had made his life an impossible torment these past months, but her vanity and selfish obsession was putting everyone at risk. And here she was, trotting along the path towards Morgwm’s cottage, no doubt looking to replenish her stocks of scale polish and other strange unguents, preening herself that she might be a more tempting lure for the attentions of the bold and gallant Sir Felyn.

He had to tell her, Benfro realised. There was no one else he could warn, but he must surely be able to tell Frecknock what he suspected, no, what he knew to be true. She might not believe him, she might even try to punish him for his temerity, but she would have to listen to him. And maybe the next time she made her selfish, foolish calling, she would be a bit more circumspect.

Hauling himself out of his seat, Benfro dropped down to the leaf-mulched ground and trotted through the skeletal trees to the edge of the path. Frecknock had already passed but she was not far away.

‘Frecknock!’ He called. She froze in her tracks, seeming to huddle down into herself as if she could become invisible. He walked towards her slowly, hesitant to open himself to her wrath but at the same time convinced this was the only way to resolve his dilemma. As he approached her, he wondered why he had not thought to do so before. But then she was the architect of his misfortune, the dragon who had dedicated her life to making his miserable. It was hardly surprising that he had taken so long to come to her.

‘Frecknock,’ he said again. ‘Please, it’s only me.’

Frecknock turned slowly to face him, her stare as hostile and penetrating as ever. She looked him over like she might a piece of meat waiting to be cooked, her eyes darting back and forth before lingering on his feet. Benfro glanced down to see mud and dead leaves clinging to his talons.

‘Been spying on me again, squirt?’ Frecknock said.

‘No!’ Benfro said. ‘I was just sitting and thinking when you came past.’

‘Hah, likely story,’ Frecknock said. She pulled herself back up to her normal height and Benfro realised that he had grown. She no longer towered over him the way she had done before. Or maybe it was that she had done her worst to him and he had survived.

‘What do you want, squirt?’ Frecknock asked. ‘Some of us have better things to do with our lives than mooning around in the forest you know.’

‘I need to talk to you about…’ Benfro began. Then the familiar feeling crept up on him. His tongue tied and the words so prominent in his mind would not come out. ‘That is, I think…’ 

‘Spit it out, squirt. What are you trying to say?’ Frecknock asked. She looked at him with her normal, nose in the air disdain, as if he were something she would rather not have to see at all. Benfro’s anger grew. It was her stupid pride and arrogance that was putting everyone in danger. He latched onto his rage, using it to push the words he wanted to say to the front of his mind.

‘You stupid cow. Can’t you see what you’ve done…’ Was all that came out and as he heard what he had said, Benfro’s hearts almost stopped. For an instant, terrible outrage flickered across Frecknock’s face. Her eyes widened in shock, then narrowed into a deep scowl; her nostrils flared, almost steaming in the cold winter air; her ears flicked back, hugging the side of her head as she leaned forwards closer and closer to Benfro’s own face. In turn he shrank back, aware that he had not so much crossed a line as trampled his way over it and on into the next country. He tensed himself for the blows, both physical and mental, that he knew would come, but Frecknock just stared at him, her black eyes limpid and calm. Then she let out a great barking snort of laughter.

‘You can’t say it, can you squirt,’ she said, chuckling to herself. Benfro relaxed a little, realising that he would not be punished. His anger was still hot within him.

‘You… I can’t…’ He said. Frecknock just laughed more deeply.

‘Of course you can’t, kitling,’ Frecknock said. ‘I made it so.’

‘But… But… I need…’ Benfro battled against the compulsion that choked the words off in his mouth even as he tried to say them.

‘You need to mind your own business, squirt,’ Frecknock said, her face lit up with glee at his discomfort. ‘Now I suggest you go and climb a tree or something. I’m busy and I don’t want to have you following me around like some love-sick puppy.’

For an instant Benfro thought he was going to hit her. He had never been prone to violence, it was not in his nature. His mother was always kind, patient and accepting. The villagers were, in the main, good-natured and tolerant of his constant questioning. He had grown up with their peaceful ways and they had formed him into the unassuming and easy-going dragon that he was. Faced by Frecknock’s mocking laughter, her casual abuse of a power he could not understand, he wanted to lash out with his claws, kick with his talons and throw the sort of tantrum a kitling would be ashamed of. But he knew even as the possibility filled him with energy that physical violence would gain him very little and cost him immeasurably more. He took a little solace in the knowledge that he was a fast learner. Had it not taken him only a few weeks to learn the language of men? Tomorrow was his hatchday, and then he could start to learn magic. Soon he would be able to throw off whatever dark spell it was that Frecknock had cast on him. He could warn the others about her folly and put a stop to it. He could save them all. If it wasn’t too late.

‘You really don’t know how stupid you’re being,’ he said finally, taking a small satisfaction from the look of annoyance that spread over Frecknock’s face as she digested his words. Then before she could say anything, or worse cast another glamour over him, he turned on his heels and strode off down the path, headed for the village.

*

Halfway through her party Princess Beulah realised she had enjoyed herself more at the little village wedding where she and Melyn had discovered the Llanwennog boy. What was his name? Errol something? At least there the people had been determined to enjoy themselves. Here, in the great hall of the Neuadd, everyone was too nervous, too anxious to show themselves off in the best light. It was a parade of  the shallow and insecure and Beulah was bored of it all.

She understood the importance of show. The various noble houses that owed their existence to the House of Balwen needed constant reminding that the royal household was still in control, lest they start to get ideas. The Brumal Wars were not so far in the past that they could be easily forgotten, and her father’s reign had not been so glorious that she could take every duke and earl’s support for granted. Even so, it would be a brave man who tried anything direct, given her well-known connections to the Order of the High Ffrydd.

So all the nobility of the twin kingdoms was here in the great Neuadd of Candlehall to congratulate her on successfully reaching her twenty-first birthday, as if that were some great achievement. The wiser amongst them could already see the balance of power sliding from Seneschal Padraig and his acolytes of the Candle to her and Inquisitor Melyn. The boldest amongst the wise had pampered and preened their unmarried sons and even now were presenting them like show-cockerels to the king as suitable consorts for his daughter.

Beulah felt like a prize heifer at some backwoods agricultural fair. This was supposed to be her celebration, and yet it was more like she was on display before an auction. Soon the wealthy and influential would begin to place their bids. Her father the king, more alert than he had been for years thanks to the gift she had given him that morning, was enjoying the attention he had never been sober enough to notice before. She had to endure the endless round of hopeful young faces asking her to dance, mindful that she should spurn no-one important nor raise anyone’s hopes too high by showing unequal attention. The whole affair was a dance in itself, infinitely more intricate than any of the set pieces played out on the floor of the great hall. Better by far the simple, enthusiastic revelling of the hill country villagers; their only concern who might bed who that night.

The music came to an end with a flourish and the young man who had been her partner for this dance released her, bowing extravagantly. Beulah smiled at him as sweetly as she could manage. She couldn’t remember his name.

‘Would your highness honour me with another dance,’ the man said. Beulah revised her opinion, he was little more than a boy, though tall and well-built. His face was smooth and unlined, she doubted it had ever seen a razor, and his shoulder-length hair was the colour of old straw, tinged with the ruddiness that marked him as a southerner. His face was a picture of earnest hope, as if his whole life had been building up to this day. And maybe it had been. Her position as heir to the Obsidian Throne had been known since she was seven, after all. Any sensible noble family would be grooming its eligible sons for the possibility of an alliance. Beulah shuddered at the thought of being married to this boy, of waking up in the same bed as him.

‘I am tired of dancing,’ Beulah said, aware that the boy was still waiting for an answer from her. ‘Perhaps later. Now I would sit with my father.’

‘May I take you to him?’ The boy bowed once more and held out his arm to take hers. Scowling, Beulah realised that he was going to be more difficult to rid herself of him than to purge an old street stray of fleas. Perhaps it would be as well to show him some favour. After all, she had no intention of marrying any of the young men her father might think suitable. She had no intention of leaving any such decision up to him. If she seemed to have chosen this fey youth, at least the others would give her some peace for a while.

The young man was sweating nervously as he led Beulah by the arm across the hall and up the stone steps to the foot of the great Obsidian Throne where King Diseverin sat in his customary pose, slumped against one massive arm with a goblet of wine in his hand. Seneschal Padraig stood by the old king’s side, whispering something in his ear. Diseverin seemed to be listening intently to the seneschal, his eyes unusually bright and focussed. Beulah hoped that she had not overdone her earlier work. Her plan required her father to be more true to his normal self.

‘Ah. Beulah,’ the king said as she approached, now leading the obviously terrified boy who clung desperately to her arm. She almost felt sympathy for him. No quiet upbringing in sleepy, coastal Abervenn could have possibly prepared him for this encounter. One of his tutors must have succeeded somewhere, for just when it was beginning to look like he would be dragged away for insulting the monarch, he dropped to his knee, bowed his head and spoke.

‘Your highness, may I return your daughter, Princess Beulah to your safekeeping.’

‘Eh? Oh yes, of course,’ King Diseverin said, distractedly waving his goblet. A page hurried to refill it, another brought a single chair, setting it alongside the massive throne for Beulah to sit in. The young man released her hand and she settled herself in the seat, feeling like a child beside the black stone edifice. Her would-be suitor still knelt on one knee, his head bowed, unmoving save for the slight tremor of fear that shuddered up and down his form.

‘Who are you?’ The king asked after a long, uncomfortable pause.

‘Merrl, eldest son of Duke Angor of Abervenn,’ the youth said without raising his head.

‘Angor, eh?’ The king said, turning his attention to his daughter. ‘What need have I of ships, boy? There’s no enemy in the southern seas’ He took a deep swig from his goblet, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. ‘You may go now,’ he said to the young Merrl. The youth scuttled backwards, still not looking up at his king, dropped down the steps before turning and fleeing into the crowd.

‘He’s not bad, I suppose’ Diseverin said. ‘And the house of Angor is nothing if not rich. Still, you might want to think a bit more strategically in your alliances Beulah. Look to the north. Dina and beyond.’

The Princess looked up at him, noting the lines on his face, the bloodshot stain to his eyes and the shaking in his hand as it clasped his goblet. Yet for all his death-wish alcoholism, King Diseverin had been tutored in statecraft from a very early age. Some of that wisdom learnt still remained. Just a pity that he was too weak-willed to make anything of it.

‘How can I possibly find a suitable partner if you insist on scaring them all away,’ Beulah said, though she was glad to be rid of the simpering Merrl. After all, she had work to do.

‘Dance with me, father,’ she said, turning to face the king, looking up from her lower seat into his unsteady eyes.

‘Eh? What?’ The king asked.

‘Dance with me. Just once,’ Beulah said. ‘It’s my birthday after all.’

‘I don’t know,’ the king said. ‘I’ve not really done anything like that in a long while.’

‘All the more reason why you should,’ Beulah said, standing and holding out her hand. ‘Perhaps if you danced some more, you wouldn’t be so sad all the time.’