Dreamwalker (7 page)

‘So you would have known my father,’ he said, then wished he hadn’t as the old dragon stiffened visibly. Benfro cursed himself for being so impetuous. If there was one good way to have his inquisitiveness snubbed it was to bring up this subject.

‘I met your father once, yes,’ Ynys Môn said, gravely. Benfro wasn’t sure what it was he could hear in the old dragon’s voice. Was it regret, or disapproval? There was a story there to be told, but he bit his lip, suppressing the urge to ask further.

‘He came along much later, though.’ Ynys Môn continued. ‘I… We… Well, he’s dead now, so let’s leave it at that, eh.’

Though he longed to know more about his father, bitter experience had taught Benfro not to push the matter.

‘What became of the king?’ He asked in a small voice, hoping to recreate the earlier mood. It seemed to work, or maybe Ynys Môn was looking for a subject, any subject to talk about other than Benfro’s father.

‘Divitie, yes,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘Well, one day, the king was out hunting, not far from here, when he got separated from his followers chasing a great big vicious tusker. I’ve already told you how it gouged me. Well it killed Divitie’s horse and would’ve finished him off too if I hadn’t been hunting it through the same part of the forest. I don’t know why I helped him. Maybe I was so angry at that boar for the injury it’d caused me I just wanted to kill it myself before someone else robbed me of my revenge. Maybe your mother’s magic had lulled me into believing the threat from men was over.’

Benfro started at the words. His mother’s magic. What was the old dragon saying? He had said she could have been a powerful mage too. Suddenly he began to see her in a different light, one that he longed to explore further. But he knew too well what would happen if he interrupted Ynys Môn now. With supreme effort, he choked down the question before it could burst from his lips. Seemingly oblivious to his internal battle, the old dragon continued with his tale.

‘Between the two of us we managed to kill the beast, though not without injury. The king was wounded in the leg and could hardly stand, let alone walk. He said he would grant me a boon if I would help him. I ask that he abolish the aurddraig and he laughed, saying he was going to do that anyway. He was a good man, Divitie.

‘I helped him back here. That caused a bit of a stir. A whole troop of warrior priests surrounding me with their blades of light held high. You can imagine how I felt. Pretty foolish for allowing a man to get me to trust him, for one thing. But he was good to his word. There in front of them all he declared an end to the aurddraig and said that henceforth anyone found persecuting our kind would be put to the sword. He even went as far as to say we would be welcome in his court.

‘For a few years, whilst Divitie still lived, there was a peace of sorts between the men and us. Some of them came to see what they could learn from us and left amazed that they could have been ignorant for so long. Others continued to distrust and hate us, though there were few actual killings. The Order of the High Frydd, the warrior priests, were the worst. They were set up to eliminate dragonkind from the world. It’s written into their holy charter. But Divitie held them in check. He even executed a few Inquisitors, though I suspect that was more because they challenged his power than because they persecuted us.

‘The problem with men, or the blessing, I suppose, is that they live such short lives. I’m not that old in dragon terms, Benfro, but I’ve lived ten men’s lives and hope to live at least fifty more. King Divitie died at a ripe old age for a man. He was eighty-eight, I’m told. His son took the throne and his son after him, as is their way. None of them undid his proclamation, but with each passing generation, so we were forced to be more and more accountable to the royal court. First we had to be counted, then we had to pay homage to the king, taxes to the treasury. And worst indignity of all, any of our kitlings must be presented to the king’s master of dragons before they reached three years of age.

‘The current king is Diseverin and he is a weak man, overfond of strong drink. Under his reign things have begun to slip back to the old ways. When he took the throne he introduced a law requiring us to seek his permission to have hatchlings. We don’t breed often, as you know, but long ago we decided this was an imposition too far. So Morgwm reworked the protective spell on the village. Men cannot find it; no matter how hard they try, if they follow the paths or hack their way through the trees, they will always end up in the clearing where you and your mother live.’

‘But I’ve never seen a man,’ Benfro said. ‘Let alone been presented to any master of dragons.’

‘Your mother’s a skilled mage, Benfro. Even if she doesn’t show it off.’ Ynys Môn said. ‘She can sense when men are coming. That’s why she sends you away to stay with us.’

‘So they’re at my home now?’ Benfro asked, a sudden flurry of panic spurring him to his feet.

‘What do you think you’re doing, young dragon?’ Ynys Môn said.

‘We’ve got to get back. We’ve got to help her. They could be killing her.’

‘Sit down, Benfro,’ Yns Môn said.

‘But...’ Benfro protested.

‘What can you do?’ Ynys Môn asked. ‘You can barely hunt a deer without making a mess of it. How’re you going to defend your mother against a troop of warrior priests? I won’t lie to you, Benfro. Morgwm is in danger every time a man comes to her clearing. They might decide to kill her on a whim. Men are like that.’

~~~~

Chapter Four

Perhaps the first spell a young kitling might be encouraged to learn is that of concealment. Any dragon skilled in the subtle arts will easily see through it, but the mental exercise is a good grounding for later workings, and a novice can safely be left to practise unsupervised. It is also of great use in hunting, and in avoiding the unexpected attention of men.

Aderyn’s Educational Notes for the Young.

The rock jutted out over the stream, creating a permanent shade on one corner of the deep pool where huge old salmon hid, lazily waiting for the next great spate. Errol had sat for many an hour here in his childhood, staring at the water and trying to glimpse those elusive fish. The villagers occasionally tried to catch them using nets or lines. But ever since old Ben Coulter had been found face down in the pool, his net still clutched in one hand and a gaping wound on the side of his face seeping dark blood into the calm waters, the villagers shunned the place as haunted and evil. It had taken Errol less than five minutes to piece together what had really happened. It was obvious that the man had slipped whilst trying to sweep his net around the base of the great rock, banged his head open and fallen unconscious into the water. The current eddied around the deepest part of the pool in a continuous slow circle which could have kept the dead body in place for days if there was no rain.

Errol kept his deductions to himself, happy for the villagers to treat the place as if it were cursed. It was a strange place anyway, though he had never felt afraid there. There were stories of people hearing voices. Some told tall tales of dragons coming down out of the woods to drink from the waters, though Errol had never experienced either. He liked the place for its aura of peace and calm. Even when storm winds shook the nearby trees and threw dead leaves and branches across the ground, the flat space on top of the rock always seemed sheltered. He had never known it to be cold there either.

He sat there now, perched on the edge above a twelve foot drop into the black water below, his legs dangling as he watched the sunlight sparkle on the surface. Evening was fast fading and the birds were a riot of noise in the trees, competing with the rush and babble as the stream scrambled over rocks and gurgled its never-ending downward journey. It wasn’t a dangerous pool, really, he mused. It was deep where the rock jutted out over it, but a little further downstream it shallowed and a bank of sand formed a small beach. If only old Ben had kept his wits about him he would probably have survived his fall and hauled himself out there, but he must have been knocked senseless.

‘Wotcher thinkin’ about Errol Ramsbottom?’ The voice startled him for an instant. He had heard no one approaching, but by the time he turned to see who spoke he already knew.

Martha seemed to be stalking him these days. And she had the irritating ability to move around as if invisible. She would turn up in the most unexpected of places, always with her curious questioning and her oddly formal way of addressing him by his full name. He never knew when she would appear. Sometimes a week or two would go without him hearing her voice, sometimes she would pop up two or three times a day. He hadn’t seen her for several days now and he was surprised to find his spirits lifted by her arrival.

‘You seen the lines prop’ly yet?’ She asked, not unkindly though the question sent a small shudder of resentment through him. Try as he might, Errol couldn’t see anything that the book had promised would appear to the diligent student. In recent weeks he had become ever more despondent at his failure, to the point where he had all but given up trying. And yet he was still drawn to this place by the possibility.

Ignoring his silence, Martha sat herself down beside him, swinging her legs over the drop. Errol was all too aware of how close she was and couldn’t make up his mind whether her familiarity was pleasant or unsettling. Deciding on the latter, he tried to inch a small gap between them, but she just leant closer, resting the weight of her head against his shoulder so that he had to support her or let her fall over.

‘You hain’t seen ‘em yet, have you,’ she said.

‘No,’ Errol conceded. ‘I haven’t. Sometimes I think they’re nothing but figments of an overactive imagination.’

Martha looked up at him, mercifully leaning away as she did. She seemed to be studying his features in the decaying light and he wondered if he should look back at her, deciding it was easier to concentrate on the scrubby trees that dotted the far bank of the river.

‘That’s why you don’t see ‘em, Errol Ramsbottom,’ she said eventually, with a little triumphant flourish in her voice. ‘There’s a part of you don’t want ‘em to exist. So they don’t.’

‘What’re you saying? I have to believe in these lines to see them?’

‘That’d help,’ Martha said. She pointed at the trees, picking out one far upstream first and then going to the next and the next in succession. ‘I can see the grym flowing between each of those trees. That one there,’ she pointed to one almost directly across from where they sat, ‘that one’s dying. The grym’s all weak around it, kind’ve broken up. It’s only still alive ‘cause of the nexus.’

‘The nexus?’ Errol asked despite himself. He always found his curiosity at Martha’s seemingly endless knowledge was greater than his irritation at her.

‘Ain’t you never wondered ‘bout this place, what makes it so special?’ She asked, without expecting an answer. ‘It’s a junction between two powerful lines of the grym. That’s why I said you’d see ‘em here. They’re so bright, I thought you’d see ‘em easily.’

‘I can’t see anything,’ Errol said sadly. ‘There must be something wrong with me.’

‘Only in your thinkin’,’ Martha said, suddenly grabbing his hand and pointing it into the darkening distance. Her grip was warm and comforting in a manner that both alarmed and exhilarated him. ‘Look over there, towards that big oak. The west line goes straight through it, over the ground to where we’re sitting. An’ there,’ she pulled his hand around so that he was forced to turn and face her, to smell her dark hair and the subtle aroma that rose from her skin. ‘The north line comes in through that gap in the shrub-cover and follows the line of the river downstream. Follow it now,’ she pushed his arm around, leaning out dangerously over the drop to the water below until she reached around him, her small body pressed closer still to his. ‘All the way down the slope with the river until the bend. It carries on straight. I don’t know where, same as I don’t know where it comes from. Someday, when I’m a bit older, I’m goin’ to find out.’

Errol strained his eyes in the darkness, trying to make out anything whilst trying not to think about how much he was enjoying Martha’s close company. He could see the water, white as it splashed across the rocks below the pool and tumbled down towards the bend about fifty yards away. It was difficult to make out anything as night fell completely. Overhead was cloudy, only the dullest reflection of retreating sun lending any light to the scene at all.

For a moment he thought he could see something. A tiny sliver of doubt tried to tell him that it was just the water running over rocks, but it was too still, too perfectly straight to be foam. And the more he looked at it, the more it seemed to carry on past the bend in the river and on into the forest beyond it.

‘You can see it now, can’t you,’ Martha said, her voice a soft, breathy whisper in his ear.

‘I can see something,’ Errol said, turning to face her, clinging to her hand still as if it were the solution to the problem he had been fighting with for over a year. He pointed upstream and traced the faintly glowing path of what he thought he could make out above the dark, fast-flowing stream. ‘It comes from there, all the way to here, where we’re sitting.’ He looked quickly back across the water. ‘And yes, I can see it swelling up from the roots of the oak. That must be why the tree’s so big. It’s feeding on the grym!’