The Golden Cage (19 page)

‘I don't suppose there's any point in my arguing, is there?'

‘No, sir. Morning, Your Highness.' Teryll nodded a bow to Iolwen, then swung himself up on to the third saddled horse, taking the lead ropes of the other three. ‘Now, my lord. Where are we going?'

‘East, through Palmer's Gate.' Dafydd sighed. He had really wanted to do this alone, but he could have thought of worse company than Teryll.

They made quick progress through the empty streets, arriving at the gate before the first morning bell. Two sleepy guards stumbled to attention as they approached, stepping forward to block their path.

‘No one passes until sunrise,' one of the guards said.

‘Unless he bears the king's seal.' Dafydd tossed a roll of parchment at the man who had spoken. He dropped his halberd and scrabbled for the scroll before dropping that too. He went down on his hands and knees to retrieve both, then fumbled with them as he tried to unroll the one and balance the other in the crook of his elbow. Finally he succeeded in breaking the seal on the roll and opened it up. The look on his face as he deciphered the inscription written inside was one of supreme astonishment.

‘Beggin' pardon, sir. I wasn't told –'

‘You've no need to apologize for doing your job,' Dafydd said. ‘Just open the gate and let us through.'

‘Of course, sir. Of course.' In his hurry to obey, the guard dropped both halberd and scroll again. He looked down at them lying in the dry dirt of the track that passed
through this minor gate, then decided they were less important than an order backed up by the king's warrant. He turned for the gate and heaved at the massive beam that locked the two iron-studded oak doors closed.

As soon as the gap was wide enough for a horse, Dafydd kicked forward, leading his small party out of Tynhelyg and into the dark plain beyond. Five miles to the forest edge, three weeks to the Sea of Tegid, if the weather held. He felt a surge of excitement at the beginning of this most glorious of adventures.

‘Your Highness.'

Looking around, Dafydd let out a silent curse at his luck. At the head of a group of twenty-five mounted cavalry, Captain Pelod of the Royal Guard sat on his charger.

‘His Majesty the king thought you might choose this gate to make your exit.'

‘You're very quiet, my love. Is there something on your mind?' Beulah sat down beside Clun, who was staring from a castle window out over the rain-swept town below. The building material of choice was dirty-grey granite, with slate roofs lending everything an air of gloom under the lowering clouds. Three days of confinement in Castle Derrin and the royal party was beginning to fray at the edges.

‘I'm sorry, my lady. I was trying to see into the aethereal, like Inquisitor Melyn asked. I find it hard to focus when there are distractions.'

‘It's remarkable you can do it at all. Few have the skill. There are perhaps only three people in the whole of the Twin Kingdoms who can use it reliably to communicate.'

‘Three?'

‘Melyn, myself and Master Librarian Andro at Emmass Fawr.'

‘And no one else can see this …' Clun swept his hand
around the room, staring at things Beulah herself was denied. ' Ah, it's gone.'

She felt a moment's twinge of envy that her gift had left her, then thanked the Shepherd that he had seen fit to give her a substitute. Without any direct way of contacting Melyn, his whole plan would have to rely on message birds or even his leaky network of spies across Llanwennog. Delays would ruin any chance of surprise, and without that taking the passes without horrendous losses would be all but impossible. Clun had to be encouraged to hone his talent, but not being able to join him in the aethereal Beulah was at a loss as to how she could help.

‘My lady, can you not see this place at all?' Clun's question was well meant, but it irritated her nonetheless. Even though she knew it was hopeless, Beulah slipped into the familiar trance state she had practised many thousands of times before. Ever since Melyn had introduced her to the wonders of the aethereal as a girl of ten, she had thought of it as her personal kingdom. Lleyn had never known its splendour, and for all she knew, Iolwen was not aware of it either. Her father had shown little interest in anything other than his base senses, choosing to drown out the more subtle forces of Gwlad with endless wine. Only she had the skill, but now it failed her. The life growing in her womb tipped the balance of her mind and closed that door almost completely. Almost, but not quite. Tantalizingly, she could see flickers of the vibrant life that pulsed around everything. Clun himself was aglow, as if the sun that couldn't fight its way through Derrin's clouds instead focused entirely on him, outlining his form in fiery gold.

‘I
can see some.' Beulah let go of her trance, realizing as she did that the effort had made her tense. She breathed out deeply, stroking her belly through the heavy silk of her gown. It was still flat, no sign yet of the force that leached her skill from her. ‘But it never lasts long. I see only glimpses, like hallucinations. Who would have thought something so small could make such a difference.'

‘He's growing strong, our child. Do you feel him yet?' Clun reached over and pressed his own hand over Beulah's. It was warm, his touch sending tiny sparks through her bare skin as he radiated the power of the aethereal.

‘Not yet, but it's early still. I don't show at all.'

‘You do to me. I can see our child in your eyes, in the way you carry yourself. And when I see you the way Inquisitor Melyn taught me, it's as if there are two of you, shadowing each other. And there, in your belly, is a fire of brilliant white.'

Beulah wanted to be cheered by these words, but in truth they pained her. She had seven months or more of this weakness still to endure, and she knew that it would get worse as her pregnancy progressed. Already she woke at odd times in the night longing for foods she had always hated, or so heated with passion she had to wake Clun from his sleep and demand satisfaction. The sickness that had plagued her mornings still claimed her occasionally, although Archimandrite Cassters' medication helped with that. But more than anything she felt restless, nervous and fidgety. It was hard for her to concentrate even on the lines, and conjuring a blade of light scared her. A hideous and painful death awaited should she not be able to
maintain her self-discipline. For the first time in many years she had taken to carrying a short steel sword with her, hidden in her sleeve.

‘I think we should leave this place tomorrow. Whether the rain has stopped or not.' Beulah tried to snap her wandering mind back to the here and now. ‘It should weed out the less hardy of our followers. And I really can't stand another day cooped up like this. I was always meant to be out on the road.'

‘I agree, my lady. We should move on soon. It's a long way to Castell Glas, further still to Abervenn. If the inquisitor holds to his plan, we need to be ready to play our part.'

‘Has he contacted you?' Beulah felt an unexpected surge of hope that there might be news from Melyn. She had not realized how much she missed him, how much she had grown to rely on his counsel.

‘No, not yet. I practise as he instructed, try to hold myself in the aethereal at the appointed hour each day. But as yet he has not come to me, and I dare not move far from myself, lest I not be able to find the way back.'

Beulah shuddered, remembering the almshouses outside Emmass Fawr where the casualties of magical training were kept. The mindless. Melyn had shown them to her when she began her training. Most of them had been like the idiots that graced every village from Candlehall to Dina, drooling, moronic but capable of eating, sleeping and maintaining some control over their bodily functions. One man had been different. Young, and with the air of nobility about him, he had sat motionless, unaware of anything around him. The duty quaisters fed
him, cleaned him, walked him, but everything had to be done for him. Lift his arm and it would stay where it was put, turn his head to one side and his blank stare would gaze in that direction until someone moved his head back again. Novitiates would sometimes pose him in undignified positions, stick his hands down his loose trousers as if he were playing with himself, but he didn't care. He wasn't there any more. He had learned to see the aethereal, but before he had mastered the basic skills had chosen to explore beyond his own body. Where his mind had gone, no one could tell, but it had never come back.

‘No, my love. You must not risk that. Not without someone to watch over you while you try. When our child is born, when my skill returns, as it surely must, then I will take this training on myself. Then we will walk the aethereal together.'

Melyn squatted in the undergrowth watching the small clearing as the light fell. At the edge of the trees, hidden from view, two dozen warrior priests knelt motionless, waiting, all eyes focused on the figure huddled at the centre of their wide circle.

They were a day's ride from the main camp, where Melyn had ordered the bulk of the army to rest their horses, hunt for supplies and prepare for another long march. He had brought this elite band with him for one purpose: to kill the feral dragon. In the centre of the clearing, sitting cross-legged astride a point where two bright glowing lines of power intersected, Frecknock bowed her head in a risible parody of prayer, making her calling as she had done those many months before.

‘Hear
me, dragons of the Ffrydd, of Gwlad. It is I, Frecknock the Fair, daughter of Sir Teifi teul Albarn and Morwenna the Wise. I am alone now, seeking out the companionship of my kind.'

Melyn tuned out the pleading Draigiaith and fixed his eye instead on the darkening skies, searching for any sign of movement larger than a woodpigeon. Four hours now they had been at this task, and still nothing had happened. Soon it would be too dark to safely continue with their planned attack. Any other dragon he would have thought nothing of tackling alone, in the middle of the night, but he had seen what this one was capable of and was no longer willing to take chances.

‘Hear me, lonely souls on the long road. I would gladly join you, be your companion in your search. Answer my call and I will hasten to your side.'

Frecknock had assured him that Caradoc would be nearby. He would have found himself a place where he would be comfortable for months. Not a simple camp, but perhaps a cave or a bower formed by a fallen tree that he could take shelter in when it rained. Food was plentiful in the forest, and the only other thing he needed to heal was rest. As night fell Melyn wondered if the beast hadn't drifted off into a sleep so deep he couldn't hear Frecknock's ceaseless whining.

‘Enough. Stop now. We'll try again at first light.' He tapped into the dragon's calling and sent his own words back at her, unsure quite how it was he did it. It was not unlike the way he communicated with the Shepherd, though his presence was nothing like that of the pathetic creature who sat up stiffly at the centre of the clearing.
Motioning to the other warrior priests nearby to follow him, Melyn levered himself to his feet, joints creaking in protest at being made to move after so long motionless.

‘Well. Where was he?'

‘Your Grace, I tried my best.' Frecknock had shrunken in on herself again, Melyn noticed. It was a defence mechanism, he supposed, remembering the time back at Candlehall when assassins had attacked Clun. Then she had almost disappeared. Another secret he intended to extract from her.

‘But your best wasn't good enough. When you called before, it was like a lasso around a steer, tugging any who heard towards you. I remember it well. Even I wanted to rush to your side. Yet today all I heard was words. Where was the passion?'

‘Sir, I had … help then.' Melyn noticed the hesitation. So the dragon was holding something back.

‘Don't play games with me, Frecknock. I don't need you to show me the way through the mountains. I can find that myself. It's enough to know the pass exists. I won't hesitate to leave your body here in this clearing if you don't give me your complete cooperation.' Melyn conjured a blade of light, letting it sizzle in the night air, pointed at the ground. Reflected in its light, Frecknock's face was a gaunt picture of fear.

‘Please, Your Grace, I don't mean to trick you. I had a … a magic book when I made my calling before. It acts as a focus for the spell. It increases my allure. I'm trying my hardest. Please trust me when I say no one wants this feral monster killed more than I do. But without the book … I'm not a skilled mage.'

‘Osgal,
fetch the horses.' Melyn ignored Frecknock's whining protestations, keeping his blade low, letting it sputter like a blacksmith's forge. The other warrior priests followed their captain back towards the trees, one by one disappearing from view. Melyn waited a moment, unsure why he wanted to be alone with the beast, save that he could enjoy the power he had over her. Finally the silence began to unnerve him. ‘Come. Let's get out of here. I don't want to make camp near our trap.'

He led the dragon back across the clearing to the trees, her obvious obedience going some way to lessen his anger at the wasted evening. As they pushed through the undergrowth towards the nearby path, Melyn turned back to Frecknock.

‘How long had you been calling before you found me?'

‘Years without the book,' Frecknock said. ‘As soon as I learned the spell I tried it out.'

‘Why? Why risk your family in that way?'

‘They weren't my family. You killed my family. They were just the first dragons I stumbled across after a year of wandering this cursed forest on my own. I had hoped they might take me away from it, but no. They were set in their ways, slowly fading away into senility. Even Morgwm. She was younger than most of them – she could have been anything – but she chose to settle, to serve. She healed the old ones, and she healed men who came to her as well. I couldn't stand that, seeing her help the people who had wiped out our race.'

‘And yet you help me now.' For a moment Melyn had seen a spark in Frecknock's eyes, an anger that almost matched his own. It was a fleeting thing, but it cheered
him to know she had some life in her. There was no challenge in breaking a creature that had no spirit.

‘I have no choice, do I?' The dragon wilted in front of his eyes, her wings drooping by her sides like dead leaves on an autumn tree. ‘There is no one out there to come to my rescue. My only potential saviour is a monster from my worst nightmares, a feral beast. If I help you I stay alive. If I don't I die. I'd rather live in fear or in the service of my enemy. I'm not like the old dragons you killed in the village. They had made their choice. They had settled. If you hadn't found them they would have faded away to nothing in time.'

They broke through the undergrowth on to the path to find Captain Osgal waiting with the horses. Frecknock fell silent in the company of the other warrior priests, and Melyn wondered if she hadn't decided to adopt him as her companion anyway. In an odd manner it seemed appropriate. He had answered her call, after all. He had come, as she had requested, and taken her from her life of drudgery, as he had promised. It was almost laughable had there not been that knowledge, right in the forefront of his mind, that there was far more to the dragon than he could see.