The Temptation of Dragons (Penny White Book 1)

by Chrys Cymri

  ‘In the tafarn Diwedd y hedfan, I should think. In the harpy section of Llanbedr city.’

  ‘You’ve heard from him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how do you know he’ll be there?’

  ‘Because,’ she said sadly, ‘that’s where he went after Seren died. By now he will be quite drunk and picking fights with harpies.’

  A head suddenly appeared over the fence. ‘Hi, Rev. Going to do so some work in your garden?’

  ‘Hi, Albert.’ I quickly fished my iPhone out of my pocket and held it to my ear. ‘I’m on the phone right now. Maybe later.’

  ‘At least give it a good mow,’ Albert grumbled. ‘I’d be ashamed if my garden was in that state.’

  ‘It’s good for wildlife.’ But he had dropped back down into his own over-tended sanctuary. I turned my attention back to my visitor. ‘What do we do now? Should I go and get him?’

  Bishop Aeron smiled at me. ‘I am going.’

  I found myself gaping. ‘You? In person?’

  ‘Certainly.’ She lowered her head to me. ‘At my ordination to the episcopate, I vowed to follow the example of the Good Shepherd and to seek out the lost. Trahaearneifion is in my care. It’s my place to bring him home. Would your bishop not do the same for one of his ministers?’

  I tried to think of a human equivalent of searching for a grief-stricken gryphon in a bar of harpies. ‘Yes. I think so.’

  ‘Will you come with me, Father Penny? I was hoping your presence might help persuade him to come home.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But it’s a long way to Nenehampton.’

  ‘There is a thin place not far from here. We can cross over, and my chaplain will fly you to the city.’ She chuckled. ‘Not that I think that a bishop is above carrying a human, but my spines wouldn’t allow you any room on my back.’

  Another dragon flight. At this rate I was going to become a regular dragonrider. ‘So I’ll drive and meet you there?’

  ‘Yes. Come to the church at Ashtrew. You know where that is?’ I nodded. It was only ten miles away. ‘And you should also touch me first.’ At my questioning look, she continued, ‘Your Associate has been gone for five days. We don’t want you to lose the Sight.’

  I swallowed hard. I’d become so accustomed to seeing the denizens of Lloegyr that I’d forgotten why Morey was with me in the first place. As I went into the house and pulled on boots and a coat, I wondered what would happen if I were to be separated from the Bishop and become lost in Lloegyr. What if I went for a week without physical contact from one of that world’s inhabitants? The idea of being, in effect, blind did not appeal.

  So I dug out an old camera pouch, lined it with a plastic bag, and went to Clyde’s tank. He waved his tentacles at me as I grabbed his shell and lifted him out. ‘We’re going on a trip,’ I told him as I showed him the small bag. ‘We’re going to find Morey.’

  ‘Morey? Find Morey?’

  ‘Yes. And if you go in this, you can come with me.’

  He touched the material with one eyespot. Then he flowed inside. I folded the top over, fastened down the Velcro closure, and draped the strap over my shoulder. I could only hope that snail sharks weren’t prone to motion sickness. But, in the absence of Morey, Clyde would have to serve as my Associate.

  I forced myself to concentrate on driving, rather than glance out the window to look for an orange-red dragon. Ashtrew church was down a narrow road in a small village. As I walked up the gravel path, I could only hope that the building was unlocked. How could I explain to a keyholder, ‘Please could you unlock the church? No, please don't wait until I’ve finished looking around. I’m going to disappear into another world, and I don’t know when I’ll be back.’

  I walked through the porch and pushed hard at the heavy wooden door. To my relief it swung inwards. As ever, I felt a shudder go down my spine as I entered the ancient church.

  The Bishop was already inside. Her perceptive eyes had not missed my physical reaction to the building. ‘You feel it?’

  ‘A sense of darkness and foreboding? I always have.’ I forced myself to smile. ‘The village has associations with the men behind the Gunpowder Plot, the plan to blow up the English Houses of Parliament. I often wondered if that’s why I get a cold feeling in this church.’ Then a thought struck me. ‘The thin place. Is that what I feel?’

  ‘What you feel might have created the thin place. Our scholars argue that thin places are formed at the site of tragic events.’

  Archdeacon Ian had said something similar. I was fascinated. ‘So maybe when people see ghosts in houses where there’s been a murder, that might actually be a manifestation of a thin place? Has anyone researched this from our side?’

  ‘I’m certain you can make enquires when your Associate has been located and brought home.’ Her tone was gentle but firm. ‘The thin place is--’

  ‘Forgive me, Bishop, but don’t tell me.’ I opened the top of the camera bag, and Clyde stared up at me. ‘Do you want to find Morey?’

  ‘Find Morey,’ he agreed.

  He flowed onto my hand. The Bishop’s spines shuddered, but I ignored her as I lifted the snail pup above my head. ‘Clyde, find thin place. Then we can find Morey.’

  ‘Thin place? Man tenau?’

  I glanced at the dragon to confirm the Welsh term meant the same as the English. She dipped her head in a nod, although several teeth were exposed in disapproval. So I replied, ‘Ie. Man tenau.’

  Clyde stretched up, tentacles waving as I walked slowly through the church. He muttered to himself in Welsh, too low and quick for me to understand. I went up the aisle, around the altar, then down the side aisle. As I came near the back he began to tremble against my palm. His head reached forward, shifting left. ‘Chwith.’ I headed left, towards the wall painting of a skeleton. ‘Gadawodd.’ Further left, towards the minstrels’ gallery. ‘Aros.’ I stopped. I was between the baptismal font and the gallery, and trying not to shiver at the dread I felt.

  The tentacles rose and fell. ‘Man tenau. Up. Thin place up.’

  ‘The snail pup is right.’ Bishop Aeron’s ears were pricked forwards and the spines were once again resting flat against neck and back. ‘I’ve known that they can find thin places, but I’ve never heard of anyone actually using one to do so. You said his name is Clyde?’

  I nodded. To her great credit, the Bishop came forward and lowered her head. ‘Well done, Clyde. Good boy.’

  The snail shark opened his mouth in the imitation of a smile. Which, since this exposed the double row of sharp teeth, was more alarming than charming. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Good boy. Back into your pouch.’

  ‘The thin place is up,’ the Bishop confirmed. ‘You’ll need to enter it from the gallery.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ll fly in, of course.’

  Of course. I walked up the stairs and onto the wooden platform, the planks creaking under my weight. Just as well that a dragon didn’t need to come up here. ‘And now?’

  ‘Where is the coldness?’

  That was easy. ‘Around the font.’

  ‘Precisely. Above the font where you need to step.’

  Which meant stepping out into thin air. I’ve never been afraid of heights, but the floor was six feet away and made of stone. ‘And on the other side?’

  ‘It’s higher than this side. Which is why you had to go up to the gallery.’

  Well, that made sense. Why should thin places be the same height on both sides? I pulled over a chair and climbed on top. There was nothing in front of me to indicate that I would step onto solid ground. ‘I feel an Indiana Jones moment coming on,’ I joked weakly.

  ‘Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.’ And the Bishop winked at me. ‘The grail isn’t on the other side, but your faith will still be rewarded.’

  If you can’t trust a bishop, whom can you trust? I tried not to think about the question too deeply. I lifted my left foot over the edge of the balcony. My toes hit something solid. So I kicked of
f from the chair and swung my right foot forward.

  Cold and darkness howled around me. I nearly lost my balance. The minstrels’ gallery hovered four feet below me. My arms swung as I fought to move forward, away from the ordinary sight of window-dimmed light and faded wood and towards the gloom ahead. My legs were heavy as I forced them onwards. Several of the conspirators in the Gunpowder Plot had been hung, drawn, and quartered, and I was certain that their agony was screaming into my ears. Blood was metallic on my lips and every breath burned my lungs.

  Then I emerged onto a grassy hillside. Bright sun caressed my face, and flower-scented air eased my throat. I staggered, then lowered myself onto the warm ground. Of all my transitions through thin places, that had been the worst. I wouldn’t use that one again in a hurry.

  ‘Father Penny?’ I looked up at the muzzle of a yellow dragon. ‘I’m Aldred, Bishop Aeron’s chaplain. May I suggest that you move to one side? So that the Bishop doesn’t land on you when she comes through.’

  My legs suddenly found energy from somewhere. I scrambled to my feet and staggered left, as that was away from the chaplain. A moment later the Bishop flew overhead, legs tucked underneath her belly. She landed at a trot, then circled to come back towards us. ‘Aldred. Good. Are you ready to carry Father Penny?’

  The chaplain lowered himself to the ground. I was beginning to see how dragons varied by more than hide colour alone. Aldred had larger ears and a narrower head than orange-red Aeron. His spines were small knobs dotted along his neck and back. A saddle rested above them, reminding me of the time I’d ridden a camel in the Sahara. I pulled myself up the handholds and swung my leg over the other side. ‘Whom else have you transported?’ I asked Aldred.

  ‘Several bishops, one prince, and a Pope,’ he replied as he rose slowly to his feet. ‘And a seven year old boy who slipped through a thin place and insisted on riding a dragon. Hold on please, Father Penny.’

  I gripped the handles at the front of the saddle as Aldred turned. The Bishop leapt into the air, but he chose a running start. It was much easier on the backside, and I wondered if I could convince Raven to do the same next time we flew together. That was, if we flew together again. Did I even want to see him again? My thoughts jangled, and I redirected my attention to the landscape passing below us.

  The green hills soon gave way to various settlements. I could see the main city hovering in the distance, the closest section a tantalising mixture of crystalline towers and squat buildings made of rock. But we were heading along the outskirts. Unicorns grazed in wide fields, rough wooden buildings alternating with clumps of trees. Then over a section of rock hewn homes, and I wasn’t surprised to see dragons on the cobbled streets. A section of rough ground separated their area from the next.

  The smell hit me first. I had once visited a pig farmer, and this was even worse. The muddy streets had gutters on either side, and I assumed that the brown liquid congealing in the channels was the source of the stench. The roofs looked to be in various states of disrepair. As the dragons backwinged to land, I saw that the houses were in desperate need of painting. Or cleaning. Or perhaps it was the dirt which actually kept the bricks from falling apart.

  I would’ve prefered to remain mounted, but Aldred lowered himself so I slipped out of the saddle. My boots sunk into what, I hoped, was only mud. A name had been smeared in black across the brown bricks of the building in front of us. Diwedd yr hedfan. The pub in which we hoped to find Morey. Loud voices were spilling out through the open door, but my Welsh teacher hadn’t seen fit to teach me some of the colourful expressions cutting across the general babble.

  ‘I’ll go in, Bishop,’ Aldred said quickly.

  She snorted. ‘You forget that I served my title in the rough end of Llundain. I should think a harpy bar will not shock me into a premature meeting with our Lord.’

  ‘And Father Penny?’

  ‘Will be safe alongside a dragon.’ The Bishop bared her teeth.

  I took a deep breath through my mouth, and then walked inside. It took me a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark interior. There was a new smell, similar to the rotten banana scent of marijuana, but undercut with deeper notes of charred wood. Wooden planks creaked under my feet, running up to a bar that was little more than another plank perched on piles of bricks. Tables were scattered across the dirty floor.

  Harpies. Everything I thought I knew from myths and folklore had not prepared me for this. They were indeed half human, half raptor, but seemed to combine the worst aspects of each. Below the knee their legs were like that of a bird, ending in large, taloned feet. Above the knee were feathers. Bare human chests gave way to wings of black, ragged feathers. Their long, fierce faces were almost but not quite human, with eyes which were a pale white under dark, straggly hair. Pointed ears swivelled as they followed conversations, and I saw one spit at another as they argued. They had no hands on their arm-wings, so they used one of their feet to bring their mugs of drink to their thin lips.

  Morey was on a nearby table. Spilled drink lapped around his claws, and feathers and fur had been flattened by grime. He was arguing with one harpy, his Welsh coming thick, fast, and rather slurred. I was unable to follow any of it, although from the tone he was being rather insulting.

  ‘Trahaearneifion.’ The Bishop could only fit her head through the doorway, but her voice cut across the many conversations. ‘Amser gadael.’

  ‘Yes, time to leave,’ I agreed. ‘Come home, Morey.’

  There was a general hiss across the pub. ‘Vampires,’ said one harpy. ‘Dyn ni ddim yn hoffi fampirod.’

  If they didn’t like vampires, they’d probably like humans even less. I kept my lips over my blunt teeth as I walked over to the table. Morey lifted his head to watch me. He definitely needed a bath. ‘Let me take you home.’

  ‘Home was with Seren,’ he said fiercely. ‘And she was murdered.’

  I placed my hands on the table and leaned forward. Alcohol seeped into my coat, but I needed a new one anyway. I kept my gaze on Morey, on this annoying, sarcastic, judgemental gryphon who had come into my life without my say so, and whom I had missed terribly over the last few days. Now I knew why Bishop Aeron had brought me here. ‘If home is where people live who care about you, then your home is now with me.’

  For a long moment he studied me. The tafarn was quiet, the harpies watching with interest the drama unfolding in front of them. Then Morey staggered forward. With some difficulty he climbed up the slick sleeves of my coat and tucked himself under my left ear. ‘Ddrwg gen i, bawb, ond mae'r gêm ar ben,’ he called out. And I thought, Game over? How could he call this a game?

  The Bishop backed out of the door and I followed her to the street outside. Unfortunately, so did a harpy. She was the one who had been arguing with Morey, and she seemed unwilling to let him go. ‘Nid anghofiaf sarhad,’ she snarled, dropping into an aggressive stance, wings outstretched.

  Morey hopped from my shoulder to the ground, landing heavily on the mud. ‘You think that was an insult? I wasn’t even trying.’

  Her wings drew back, and sharp teeth were exposed as she hissed. She was human sized, so many times larger than Morey, and I suddenly feared for the gryphon. He fluffed feathers and fur, growling back at the harpy. I was torn between worry for his safety and admiration for his courage, even if it were alcohol fueled.

  There was the sound of velcro ripping apart, and then Clyde was flowing down my leg and onto the street. ‘Morey!’ he called out, as if it were a battle cry. He surged forward and sank shark teeth into the harpy’s leg.

  The harpy screeched. She jumped into the air, shaking her foot. The snail pup let go and was flung through the air. In a move which impressed even me, I lunged forward and managed to catch him by the shell. Playing cricket as a teenager had finally paid off.

  But Clyde merely dashed down my arms and back to the ground, where his tentacles waved angrily at the harpy. She shifted her weight to one leg, pulling the injured one back to strike at the
snail pup.

  Then Morey was between them, his tail lashing in anger. ‘Os brifwch chi fy malwen, bydd fy nghyd-griffoniaid yn eich hela i lawr!’

  ‘You hurt my snail, and my gryphon clan will hunt you down,’ Bishop Aeron helpfully translated into my ear.

  ‘And that,’ I told her, ‘isn’t a sentence you hear every day.’

  Clyde moved around to rest next to Morey, and exposed his teeth. Muttering words which the Bishop decided not to translate, the harpy backed away and went back into the pub.

  ‘Morey! Morey! Morey!’ The snail shark was nearly hopping in his excitement.

  ‘All right, kid,’ the gryphon said gruffily. ‘Go back to Black. Don’t worry, I’m coming home with you.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  The trip home was trickier than the one out. I didn’t trust Morey, in his current state, to hang on to either me or a dragon. So only one hand was free to hold the grip on the saddle, as with the other I cradled the gryphon to my chest. Clyde wanted to travel alongside him, and I had to be very clear and firm in two languages that he was to stay in his pouch.

  Aldred decided that he would take us through the thin space. I felt the cold darkness pass over my shoulders, and then the wooden platform of the gallery was creaking under his weight. With a poise which led me to suspect that he’d come this way before, he wheeled on his hindlegs, then leapt over the railings and into the body of the church. His trot up the aisle jarred my back and I tightened my grip on the semi-conscious gryphon.

  The Bishop arrived a moment later and made the same manoeuvre. I winced, wondering how often the ministrels’ gallery had taken the weight of dragons, and how often it could do so before collapsing. But there was no way I could warn the local parish priest.

  Aldred walked up the chancel, giving me room to dismount. I shifted Morey to both arms, trying not to get my nose too close to him. He reeked of harpy bar, a mixture of alcohol and whatever they had been smoking. I carried him out of the church, placed him carefully in the passenger seat, then put my coat into a nearby dustbin.