The Obsidian Throne

by J. D. Oswald

  ‘There was still so much to do. So much to learn.’ The ghostly form of Gog seemed to have forgotten him and Nellore. It floated around the room, never going far from the pile of jewels as if it were tethered to them. Errol remembered the cave behind the waterfall in Corwen’s clearing, the nexus of the Grym and the mage’s jewels laid to rest there. Corwen had been able to appear in the clearing and looked more corporeal than Gog, but it was clear that the ghost of the dragon could not stray far from the source of his power.

  ‘But how is it that my jewels have been reckoned? Who performed the ceremony? Who conjured the Fflam Gwir? Who fetched cedarwood and Delyn oil? I see no sign of it here.’

  ‘There is one who can breathe the Fflam Gwir. I have seen him do it.’

  For a moment Errol thought his words had gone unheeded, the spirit form of Gog ignoring him completely. But then the ghostlike creature turned slowly, moved through the upturned writing desk and peered down at him.

  ‘Breathe the Fflam Gwir?’ it asked. ‘But no dragon has done that in millennia. Not since before even I was hatched. It is a magic long lost to our kind.’

  ‘Not to Benfro. I have seen him on more than one occasion. He saved me from certain death, burned the man who was attacking me to a crisp.’

  Gog’s spirit shrank back on to its haunches. ‘A burning flame is not the same as the Fflam Gwir. Our wild ancestors could produce a breath of fire, but it is not something cultured dragons do.’

  ‘The fire that killed my attacker left me unharmed. Indeed it gave me strength and healed my wounds. Is that not your Fflam Gwir, then? That can tell friend from foe?’

  Gog’s spirit scratched at his aethereal head in puzzlement. ‘It sounds very much like it. And Benfro was here. Where is he now? I must know more.’ He looked about as if his eyes still functioned like a living dragon’s. ‘I cannot sense him anywhere. But then I can sense very little. Ah, me. This is most distracting.’

  ‘Who you talking to?’ Nellore struggled upright, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. Her face was a mess of red blotches and flaky dry skin, as if she had spent too long in front of a roaring fire. Her hair still stood on end, dry and thin. She looked at Errol through puffy eyes, then followed his gaze to where the spectral image of Gog sat. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Ah. So it was your essence that woke me.’ The dragon spirit peered down at her, silent for a moment before speaking again. ‘You are Nellore Henriksdotta, from the arid plains of Stondal where the great bondaris trees grow. Your village are a superstitious lot who worship my kind as gods.’

  ‘You ain’t gods, and all my village are dead cos of you. Almost killed me too.’ She stood up on shaky legs, began to smooth out her coat then stopped when chunks of it fell off.

  ‘This is true. But now I am dead.’ Gog turned once, an action that reminded Errol strangely of a dog preparing itself to lie down and sleep. The image of the great dragon mage looked around the room, searching for a while before he finally spied the pile of jewels that marked its last resting place. He leaned over, attempted to pick them up, but his aethereal fingers simply slid through jewels and floor alike. Once, twice, three times he tried, like a child unable to comprehend why the world didn’t work the way he expected it to. Then he turned back to Errol and Nellore.

  ‘I cannot remain here. This is no resting place for a mage’s jewels. Come. Gather them for me. We shall place them where it all began.’

  Errol felt the compulsion behind the words, but it was weak. He shrugged it off easily, closing down his mind as he had been trained to at Emmass Fawr. Too late he remembered that Nellore would have no such resistance, and she had been the one to awaken the jewels, was already linked to them. She stepped quickly across the room, knelt down and scooped up the pile in her fingers. At her touch, the image of Gog faded to nothing, sucked into the jumble of stones in her hands. She turned back towards Errol, a puzzled look spreading across her face, opening her mouth to say something. And then with a faint pop she disappeared.

  He knew in an instant what had happened. Nellore had no skill at magic, although she had shown some aptitude for seeing the lines. But she had been touched by Gog, joined with his spirit in ways beyond comprehension. Clearly the dead dragon had been unable to move his own jewels and so had pressed the young girl into doing it for him. But where had they gone?

  Errol studied the lines around the spot where Gog’s reckoned jewels had lain. They were thick there, swirling with the Grym. The whole tower-top room was filled with the stuff. The white gems had clearly disrupted the magic of the place, and now that the dragon’s essence had fled it surged about Errol as if looking for another outlet. He could tap it easily, feel the warmth spread through his body, his strength return as his aches and bruises disappeared. It was a heady sensation, all too easy to bask in the power that filled him, lose himself to it. But Nellore had disappeared. Gog had taken her somewhere. If he could just work out where that was, he could follow. Help her.

  Even as he thought it, so the path opened up to him. It seemed so easy, too easy, and as he focused on the task, he wondered if this was how Martha had always seen the world. She had been here, he knew. Going after Nellore meant he would not find her soon, no matter how much he longed to be with her. For a moment he hesitated and the Grym began to leach away from him, the path fading from his aethereal sight. There was no time to think; now was the time for action.

  Pulling his aura tight around him, Errol stepped into the lines.

  16

  Of all the palaces of Gwlad, none were so grand as great Claerwen, home to the line of Palisander of the Spreading Span. He who could claim direct descent from Rasalene himself. More vast city than dwelling, the palace stretched for leagues in every direction. Some say you could set out from the South Gate at dawn and fly north for a full day before clearing the far wall. Others question why any would want to, for within that vast circle of stone lay wonders collected from all the corners of the world. Why travel to Eirawen when its finest fruits and greatest artworks could be found at Claerwen? Why cross the Gwastadded Wag to the plains beyond in search of the finest beef when the kitchens of Claerwen could provide for even your most gluttonous desires? Why seek out the knowledge of the ancients when it already lay waiting for you in the greatest library ever collected?

  These at least are the claims of ancient myth, for should you seek Claerwen today you will find naught but dust. The palace is gone into memory, the kitchens nothing but a lingering aroma on the breeze, the library burned and scattered to the winds who whisper its secrets to this day.

  For Claerwen was the hatching place of Gog and Magog, those brothers of legend who warred over who should love Ammorgwm the Fair. In their battling they broke Gwlad in two, or so it is said. But before then they laid waste to their hatchright, the most magnificent palace of them all.

  Sir Frynwy,

  Tales of the Ffrydd

  It was like being submerged in a warm bath. Iolwen felt no panic, just a strange sensation of breathlessness as the darkness pressed in all around her. Sounds enveloped her, but they were muffled and hard to distinguish. Was it conversation?

  Iolwen floated above the ground, caught in a current, mid-step. She didn’t walk, couldn’t move at all, and yet she was aware of travelling a great distance even though she could not have said how she was aware. It should have been alarming, but the warmth of young Prince Iolo, clasped in her arms and one tiny hand just touching her neck, was all she needed to stay calm. This would be over soon, she understood. That was what the voices were telling her in their strange, muted language.

  When she noticed the light it was as if it had always been there, faint in the distance. It didn’t so much rush towards her as slowly increase in brightness, sharp and white so that she was forced to squint. She could feel the temperature dropping too. In the cavern beneath the Neuadd the air had been warm, smelly and muggy, breathed by thousands and laden with their mixture of personal odours. Now it was chill and fresh. There was a
smell to it that sparked a memory, but before she could place it, her foot hit the ground and she stepped out the other side.

  The memory came to her at the same time as the word. Snow. It flurried around her, whipped up by a vicious chill wind. Prince Iolo let out a wail of surprise and Iolwen could hardly blame him. Candlehall had been sunny, enjoying the last heat of autumn, but wherever the tunnel had taken them it was deepest winter and gripped in the tight embrace of a storm.

  ‘Your Majesty. Thank the Shepherd you’re safe.’

  Iolwen turned in the direction of the shouted voice and saw Usel huddled beside a massive stone wall. Looking up, she couldn’t see the top of it, which was lost somewhere in the swirling mass of white. The medic hurried over to her, and as he did, she noticed several others from their party crouched in the lee of the wall. It wasn’t providing much shelter, the wind eddying around like a drunkard, flinging snow in their faces whichever way they turned. All of them looked as cold as Iolwen felt.

  ‘Where is everyone else?’ she asked as she joined Teryll, Anwen, Captain Venner and Mercor Derridge.

  ‘Some are along the wall a bit, ma’am. Those as came through last. The rest, your guess is as good as mine.’ Captain Derridge rubbed his hands together and blew on them for warmth. ‘If I’d known we were going to the mountains I’d have worn me coat.’

  ‘Mountains?’ Iolwen asked the question, but it made sense. The air was too thin and cold for them to be anywhere else. But the nearest mountains to Candlehall were days on horseback. She had taken only one step in the tunnel.

  ‘Reckon we’d be somewhere in the Rim, up near Emmass Fawr. Winter can come early in the north, and the higher up you are the worse it gets. There’s plenty peaks there never lose their snow one year to the next.’

  Mention of the monastery that was headquarters to the Order of the High Ffrydd sent a shiver through Iolwen which had nothing to do with the cold. It was her sister’s place, and that of the hated Inquisitor Melyn. She might only have been six when her father offered her as a hostage to ongoing peace with Llanwennog, but she’d understood early on that Melyn’s voice had been a key decider in her being sent rather than Beulah. For some reason the inquisitor had always favoured the middle of King Diseverin’s three girls.

  ‘What about the tunnel? Where’s the exit?’

  ‘There is no exit, ma’am. People just appeared out of thin air. Not all in the same place neither. I was a hundred paces over that way. If it weren’t for a lull in the wind I’d probably be lost.’ Teryll shivered in his thin tunic, hugging his arms around him.

  ‘Well, we can’t stay here,’ Iolwen said. ‘We should follow the wall. There’s bound to be a gate or something.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly. We were just waiting for you to arrive.’ Of all the party, Usel was the only one who seemed unaffected by the weather. But then as an adept he could easily enough tap the Grym. Iolwen reached out for the nearest lines and did the same, clutching her son close to share some of that warmth.

  It wasn’t easy going. The snow had clearly been falling for some time, and it had piled up in drifts against the wall that in places were three or four times Iolwen’s height. Where it wasn’t plastered in thick white, the wall was featureless, built from huge blocks of smooth black granite cut so neatly and set so close together no mortar could be seen. Occasionally Iolwen would glance up at the bruised sky, straining against the wind and the swirling snow. Sometimes she thought she could see the top, when the wind died for a moment, but she could never be quite sure. What she saw was so high, so far away, as to be almost inconceivable. What manner of mason had built this?

  Some of the party were flagging badly, stumbling as they went. Iolwen saw the predicant, Trell, fall, try to stop himself with his bad hand and then disappear into a drift. When Captain Derridge hauled him out, the lad looked as pale as the snow that clung to his face and the front of his black robes.

  ‘Do predicants not have training in magic any more, lad?’ Usel asked. Trell just stared at him, but it might have been that he was simply too tired, too cold, to understand.

  ‘It’s no matter. Here.’ The medic placed the palm of his hand flat on Trell’s chest and Iolwen felt the surge in the Grym as he pushed warmth into the young man. She shook her head. It was a simple working she could do just as easily. The first magic she had learned was how to tap the Grym for warmth; the second how to pass that warmth on to others less skilled.

  ‘Everyone come close,’ she said, casting her eyes over the group to see who looked coldest. Teryll had the waxy complexion of a man about to keel over, so she went to him first.

  ‘Give me your hand,’ she said and then tried not to gasp when she took it. The stable lad was almost completely frozen, and yet he hadn’t complained at all. Iolwen reached out for the Grym, strong all around her. She took just enough for warmth and passed it through her hand into Teryll. The colour leached slowly back into his cheeks and his eyes lost their glazed expression. After a few minutes he started to cough, his breath coming out in steaming gouts.

  ‘Don’t let yourself get so cold next time.’ Iolwen patted him on the shoulder. Then she turned to Mercor Derridge, only to find that Captain Venner had already attended to him, while Lady Anwen was giving warmth to the young lad who had seen Dafydd disappear. Beyn, that was his name. He was small and skinny so had probably chilled quicker than anyone.

  ‘Is everyone warm now?’ Iolwen checked that they were before releasing the smallest amount of warmth into Prince Iolo. At least he was well wrapped, and carrying him close meant she could keep an eye on him. This wasn’t weather for babies to be out in though. They needed to find shelter soon. ‘Right. Let’s keep moving. And if anyone who knows no magic begins to feel too cold, tell us. The last thing we need is one of you collapsing.’

  They set off in the same direction as before, and soon the wind began to die down, the snow falling in straight lines rather than being thrown in their faces. Then it stopped, and they could see the wall more clearly. It stretched away into the gloom in an unbroken arc. For as far as she could see, Iolwen spotted no towers, no gates, not even a buttress. Skywards, it climbed at least two hundred spans, looming over them like a black curse. She said nothing, but the others had eyes too and it was clear that none of them saw much hope in their situation either. What had become of the rest of the people who had escaped from Candlehall was a mystery.

  Something flickered in the corner of Iolwen’s sight, high up and inside the wall. She stopped walking, straining through a brief flurry of fat snowflakes to try and see what it was. Just the clouds moving in the wind higher up, perhaps? But no, it had moved differently to a cloud. Then something roared overhead with a thunderous sound that shook snow from the stone and sent it crashing down around them. More snow exploded from a drift a few dozen paces ahead of them as noise erupted behind and to the side. Too late Iolwen understood. They had all stopped in their tracks at the first sound, and now they huddled together. No one even breathed as they all tried to force themselves into the unyielding granite at their backs. Desperate to get away, to hide.

  Desperate not to be eaten by the three enormous dragons that had them trapped.

  The first thing he noticed was the warmth.

  Still dressed only in a nightshirt, Errol felt the wind tugging at the loose garment, whistling over his shaven head and brushing the tips of his ears, but it wasn’t the ice chill of Gog’s tower or the snow on the riverbank where Nellore had found him. This was a summer afternoon, a hot sun high in a sky so cloudless and blue it was almost black.

  The second thing he noticed was the stone.

  It poked up out of the ground like the point of a spear broken off after a giant’s stab at the heart of Gwlad. Deepest black, leaning at a slight angle, it rose in a series of jagged steps. The land around it undulated gently into a hazy distance, covered in low scrubby bushes and little else. Was that trees he could see? Errol couldn’t be sure. The heat of the day made the air shimmer so t
hat it was almost impossible to make out anything more than a few tens of paces away.

  The third thing he noticed was Nellore.

  She knelt at the base of the stone, hunched over so that at first Errol couldn’t see her head. He started walking towards her, which was when he realized how hot the ground was beneath his bare feet. The sun had baked the sandy soil hard where the spiky shrubs didn’t cover it, and sharp stones poked out of the surface here and there to catch out the unwary. He hopped from foot to foot, moving forward in a series of jumps that brought him finally to Nellore’s side and a shallow beach leading down to a wide pool. Sluggish water trickled in one end and out the other, but the surface in the middle was as flat and calm as mirror. The sun reflecting off it dazzled his eyes.

  ‘You all right?’ Errol asked as he turned away from the water to where Nellore knelt. She was scooping away at the sand with her bare hands, the pile of Gog’s jewels lying just to one side. He didn’t think she could have been here for more than a few minutes, and yet in that time she had dug deep. Now water was leaching in from the pool, slowing her down and crumbling away the edges of her hole. So intent was she on the task, she didn’t seem to hear him, so he reached out to put a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Do not touch her!’

  The voice filled Errol’s head like a thunderclap. At the same time some invisible force shoved him back so that he sprawled in the sand. One hand flung out to break his fall slapped the surface of the water, and the sound disturbed a flock of pigeons roosting among the stones. They clattered away on noisy wings, whirling around in the air for a while before warily coming back to rest. Errol found himself breathing heavily, as if he had just run up the many steps to Inquisitor Melyn’s rooms at the top of Emmass Fawr.

  The water was cool on his hand, easing away the heat of the day. Gathering himself together after the shock of the voice, he shuffled around and dipped his bare feet in it, startled when a large, fat fish swam idly up to see what they were. He kicked out at it, but it just circled, not scared in the least. Reaching out with one hand, he tickled it under its chin, something that seemed to send it into a stupor. Errol pulled his hand and feet from the water, and looked around the calm spot, the still pool and jagged rock. The faintest of winds rustled the bushes, adding a high note to the quiet trickle of the stream. The only other sound was the noise of Nellore digging.