The Year of the Dragon Omnibus

by James Calbraith

  Bran let the insult towards Emrys go.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “By the by, would you like to see your father?”

  “He’s here?”

  “I believe so, I’ve seen him heading for the Chambers of Precision.”

  Bran hesitated.

  “I… I’m sure he wouldn’t like to be disturbed at work.”

  “As you wish. Now, you must excuse me.” The doctor sighed, reaching for a pile of densely scribbled documents. “I do have a few divinations to prepare for tonight…”

  CHAPTER VI

  Gwynedd, August, 2606 ab urbe condita

  Bran raised his ring to the light, straining his True Sight to the limits. There wasn’t even a trace of magic to it.

  “Something wrong with it, is it?” Rhian asked.

  “Nothing,” he lied. “Where did tadcu get this ring?”

  Dylan had given it to him on his eleventh birthday, just before Bran’s entrance to the Academy; he had worn it on a cord around his neck then, his little hands much too small for the piece of jewellery.

  “Oh, Ifor brought it from one of his travels,” Rhian answered vaguely, “he kept bringing us trinkets like this all the time, he did.”

  “So why was I given this one?”

  “Before he left, he insisted you be given this ring. I don’t really like it myself — a Prydain boy should wear a torc. ”

  “What was he like, grandfather?”

  “Shouldn’t you ask your taid about that?”

  Bran shrugged.

  “Father never tells me anything. You know what he’s like.”

  Rhian smiled and pulled up a chair.

  “You know, you’re beginning to look a bit like young Ifor on the True Images, you are,” she said, “soon you’ll start growing a tidy moustache then you’ll be the same dap exactly.”

  “Father’s not wearing a moustache.”

  “Ah, well, he’s in the Lloegr Navy now, he is. They like ‘em clean-shaven.” She laughed briefly, but then turned serious. “Ifor was… a funny old man, as we call them down south. He never was much of a family man. You could tell he was a sailor through and through. I don’t know why he decided to settle here in Gwynedd after Dylan went to school — it was obvious he wasn’t in his oils on land.”

  “Is that why he ran away?”

  Rhian brushed a dark lock from her brow.

  “Well, he did not run away — he promised us that he would return, one day, but he wasn’t all there at the end.”

  “What did he think of Father going to Llambed?”

  “Oh, tamping mad, he was! At least that’s what Dylan told me. He hated wizards — superstitious, like all sailors. He wanted Dylan to be a Sun Priest.”

  Bran’s eyes widened.

  “A Sun Priest?”

  There was still a mithraeum in Caer Wyddno, serving the small community of Old Faithers, but Bran had never seen his father as much as go near the cavernous building.

  “Aye. Only the Unconquered Sun will save us when the Abomination returns, he used to say. I don’t know what he meant. He had the house painted red, to ward off evil. I told you — funny old man.”

  Abomination?

  “I had no idea about that.”

  “You’ll find there are many reasons why Dylan is not eager to talk about his family. Now see, it’s getting late — I’ll run the bath, shall I?”

  “Yes, please!” Bran agreed.

  Rhian stood up and thought for a second.

  “If you really want to find out more about your tadcu, have a tidy in the attic. There’s bound to be something interesting up there. I don’t think even Dylan has ever looked through everything that’s in those chests.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Will you come to watch the Ellylldani dance?”

  Bran smiled. When he was little, he loved to observe the tiny Fire Fairies — Salamandrae Inferiores, as the biology teacher called them — frolic under the bathtub as the water boiled above their heads.

  “I think I’m a little too old for that, Mam.”

  “Yes, of course, son.”

  Rhian smiled, but Bran could see sadness in her eyes.

  A couple of old navy trunks of thick leather hidden away in the corner of the attic contained a treasure trove of books, scrolls and old papers, printed long before Bran’s birth. Most of them were accounts of trade negotiations and maritime treaties, but there was among them a collection of fascinating reports on mysterious lands of the Far East, including a volume on Eastern dragons, long-bodied, wingless creatures that very few Western Dracologists had a chance to see and research. Bran searched through the books, trying to discover any clues on Ifor from notes on the margins, but they were all written in strange scribbly markings of some unknown Oriental script.

  One early September evening, hot and muggy, he dug down all the way to the bottom of the largest trunk, hoping to find some more forgotten mementos. There was usually something interesting at the very bottom of a chest like this, some artefact from Ifor’s journeys, either deliberately hidden or sunken through the papers over the years. A pile of documents and books grew on the floor as Bran dived farther and farther in. At last, he reached one final bunch of yellowed, densely written pieces of paper. Apart from those, the trunk was empty. Slightly disappointed, he picked up the sheets and found a small box of strange material lay underneath.

  It was neither wood nor metal, smooth to the touch, but strong like ivory, raven black with a reddish glint. On the top was a golden emblem, a diamond shape split in four.

  He lifted the box carefully and stared at it for a while, hesitant to open.

  Why had it been hidden in this chest?

  It certainly seemed more precious than any of the useless souvenirs forgotten in the attic, the unknown material glistening mysteriously in the light of the setting sun like polished onyx. The emblem, as far as he could tell, was made of real gold leaf.

  He opened it carefully. Inside, the box was split into two compartments. One of them held a golden brooch of an unusual sort, or rather a buckle tied to a slender ribbon of silk, in the shape of an Eastern dragon coiled around an irregular jagged hole, where a stone was missing. Bran pressed his ring to it — the blue stone fit snugly.

  In the other compartment lay a round silver medallion with the True Image of a young woman. The woman, gazing sadly at Bran from the thaumaturgic illustration, was unlike any the boy had ever seen. Her skin was pale and without blemish, her eyes child-like, almond-shaped beneath thin straight eyebrows, her nose small and flat, her hair black and glistening, coiffured into a tall bun intertwined with flowers and elaborate leaf-shaped ornaments.

  When he touched the surface of the image, the scribbled hieroglyphs from the margin notes appeared vertically along the side of the medallion. A translation in Prydain materialised below.

  Beloved Ōmon. Ifor, 51 Geo. III

  Whoever the woman was, she was not Bran’s grandmother. The boy remembered mamgu Branwen well as a decent Gwynedd woman with nothing remotely exotic about her.

  The yellowed crumbling papers covering the box appeared to be the pages from Ifor’s diary. Bran had found a few scattered fragments of the memoirs earlier, but these sheets had been set apart, tied together with black cord and stamped with a red ink seal of the same split diamond shape as the markings on the box.

  With racing heart Bran took them to the window, where the last rays of the setting sun cast a crimson tint on the paper.

  HMS Phaeton, Temasek, 48 Geo. III — he deciphered. Year Forty-Eight of the Mad King’s reign.

  Forty-five years ago.

  It was too dark to read the rest of it, so Bran snapped his fingers and a hovering flamespark appeared over his head. In its flickering bright light, the boy continued.

  HMS Phaeton, Temasek, 48 Geo. III (2561 a.u.c.), July 14

  We got a new Captain today. Broughton Reynolds, a brash young fellow. He’s barely nineteen and has already made a name for him
self with dauntless attacks on Bataavian ships. Looks like our two years’ holiday is over.

  HMS Phaeton, East of Bashi Channel, 48 Geo. III (2561 a.u.c.), September 23

  We are chasing a stubborn Bataavian merchantman across the South Qin Sea, and have now entered, on good wind, the uncharted waters east of Ederra. The Captain refuses to give up the chase. Where is the Bataavian going, anyway? There are no ports here other than the Qin beyond their tarian, and if he wished to cross the Ocean then we’ve already missed the currents.

  HMS Phaeton, Unknown Waters, 48 Geo. III (2561 a.u.c.), September 30

  The sea is like nothing I have ever seen. It’s calm where we sail, but mists and storm clouds are all around us. The Weatherman stands on the prow and says nothing. The navigator hasn’t left his room for days. Men say his mind is going. At least the Bataavian seems to know where he’s headed, and we’re still able to follow him.

  HMS Phaeton, Unknown Port, 48 Geo. III (2561 a.u.c.), October 4

  We have entered a pleasant warm bay surrounded by green hills. A great city sprawls on all sides, with all dwellings made of dark wood and whitewashed stone. The Bataavian anchored at a fan-shaped island in the middle of the bay, connected with the mainland only through a narrow bridge and a gate. There is a multitude of Qin and other ships in the harbour, all very primitive.

  Both the island and the city are within range of our guns. There seem to be no proper cannons defending the bay whatsoever. We are flying Bataavian colours.

  HMS Phaeton, Keeyo, 48 Geo. III (2561 a.u.c.), October 5

  The Bataavian officials entered the ship to inspect it. The Captain ordered them captured for hostages and to fly the Imperial Jack.

  We’ve learned from our prisoners that the island is called “Dejeema”, the city is “Keeyo” and the country is that of “Yamato”. I have sailed these oceans for the best part of my life, but I’ve never heard of this port. Where in Annwn are we?

  The merchantman was running empty, so to gain anything from the adventure, the Captain demanded the Bataavians to provide us with supplies and some silver bullion, of which we know the red-heads always keep plenty. Our Carron guns gave a warning shot and, judging from the reaction of the locals, this was the first time they had ever seen or heard such devices. The authorities of this Keeyo seem unable to stage any sort of effective defence, so it looks like the matter will be resolved only between us and the Bataavians.

  HMS Phaeton, Keeyo, 48 Geo. III (2561 a.u.c.), October 6

  A most unexpected development. Today a boat approached our ship and a local woman‌—‌very pretty, I must add, and wearing the finest of silks‌—‌begged to be let on board. She spoke good Bataavian. The Captain took pity on her. He is now discoursing with her in his cabin. What can all this mean?

  Later today another boat arrived and a local official, through an interpreter, demanded the release of the woman in a very haughty tone. We’ve “released” a musketful of lead shot instead, and he turned tail.

  HMS Phaeton, Keeyo, 48 Geo. III (2561 a.u.c.), October 7

  Out of the blue, the Captain ordered us to set sail in the morning, even before we received all the supplies we asked for.

  As we were about to lift the anchor, there was an explosion on the island and a raging fire spread quickly throughout the wooden buildings. The Bataavians and locals alike fled from the flames to the boats. Soon there was only one man left standing on the shore. I looked at him through the spyglass to see what manner of fool he was.

  It felt like he was looking straight at me, even though the ship was by now a good half a league away from the island. He wore a flowing crimson robe, his hair was long, dark, flowing in the wind and his eyes‌—‌I swear‌—‌gleamed like nuggets of pure gold. He raised his hand and pointed accusingly at the Phaeton.

  I shiver even now writing about this queer incident. I am glad we’ve left the wretched place behind.

  HMS Phaeton, South Qin Sea, 48 Geo. III (2561 a.u.c.), October 10

  As soon as we had left Keeyo harbour, a strong north-easterly carried us towards charted waters. We should be back in Temasek much sooner than we hoped.

  Saw the Yamato girl promenading the deck with the Captain. She really is the most striking beauty. Like all her kin, she seems to belong to the same race as the people of Qin or Siam, but her skin is very smooth and pale, almost glowing. We exchanged glances and she smiled.

  There is sadness in her brown eyes, and she is looking sickly, as if she was carrying some heavy burden on her heart. I hope we can get her to a safe harbour soon.

  That was the last page. There was no mention of the pendant or the medallion. Bran could only guess what happened next, but the inscription on the locket proved Ifor and the mysterious woman at some point had grown closer. Their happiness, however, could not last long. Dylan had been born two years after the True Image’s creation, and he was definitely the son of Branwen, Ifor’s first and only wife. Something must have separated Ifor from his beloved Ōmon… Perhaps she had at last succumbed to the sickness mentioned in the diary. On the other side was a rough sketch of a map. He studied it carefully, read aloud the names he had barely recognised. Where the easternmost verge of the vast Varyaga Empire met the mysterious land of Qin out in the ocean, on the other side of the globe from Dracaland, there was a red question mark signed Yamato.

  His heart pounded madly. He looked out through the attic window, where the Sun traced scarlet the edge of a long line of dunes. Beyond the dunes lay the endless sea, the slow humming of its waves clearly audible in the twilight. He imagined himself on that sea, on a ship bound for uncharted shores, sailing to Bharata, Temasek or even Qin. The low hills and forests of his homeland appeared too familiar, boring, suffocating. Now he knew why his father — and his father’s father — had abandoned the friendly plains of Prydain and sailed the wide oceans; the wanderlust stirred within him and there was no escaping its call.

  Sweat streamed down Dylan’s furrowed forehead in thick rivulets, even though the Chamber of Precision was always cooled to exactly sixteen point four degrees centigrade. He stared at the floating needle intently, without blinking.

  The silver needle entered a tiny hole in the side of a bronze cylinder, alongside a hundred other identical needles.

  The last one.

  As it settled in with a barely audible click, Dylan sighed and fell back onto his leather chair.

  “Fantastic work, Master Dylan.” The assistant, wearing the white and blue mantle of a thaumaturgist, clapped his hands. “Without your help, assembling this lightning capacitor would have taken us a month!”

  “It’s nothing. I’m glad to be useful.”

  “There is always a use for one with such talent. If I may be so bold, why didn’t you stay at the Academy, Sir?”

  Dylan looked at the boy and smiled.

  “How old are you, son?”

  “Nineteen this year, Sir.”

  “Ah, you’ve got your baccalaureate then?”

  “Just this June.”

  “I can see by the way you wear your coat that you are used to wielding a sword. Second faculty in Dracology?”

  “My first, actually. I’ve only taken up thaumaturgy as an alderman, but I much prefer it here in the Tower of Research.”

  “Yet you still fly sometimes?”

  “Oh, yes, Sir, once in a while,” the boy said with a nod, “I don’t have a dragon, but I borrow one from the Academy stables.”

  “Are you a good rider?”

  “So I’ve been told, Sir.”

  “Then you understand what it’s like to have a passion for one thing and ability for another. I won’t give up the feeling of hot wind on my face, or the smell of the sea any less than you would give up your experiments.”

  The assistant’s face lightened.

  “To take pleasure from what you do for a living is a great gift, boy,” Dylan added. “You and I are both very lucky to have it this way.”

  “I can’t disagree with that, Sir.
”

  Dylan nodded to himself. The boy seemed happy enough where he was. Why Bran couldn’t be more like him? Dylan wished to give Bran the same simple happiness, the joy of living his life doing what he was best at but his son’s lingering uncertainty irritated him.

  He must grow up.

  The heavy faer iron door to the Chamber of Precision hissed open and Doctor Campion entered with a bundle of notes.

  “Here are the divinations you asked for, Dylan.”

  “Ah, excellent, give them to the gentleman here,” he said, pointing to the assistant. “You know what to do with it, boy?”

  “Of course, Sir, the calculations of Solar and Jovian tides are of the utmost importance to our work.”

  “By the by,” the astrologer said, turning from the door, “I keep forgetting to tell you — about week ago I’ve seen your son.”

  “What, here?”

  “Well, yes. He stumbled upon some lich dragon in the marshes and wanted to know what it was.”

  Dylan frowned.

  “A lich dragon?”

  He never said anything…

  “The swamps up here are full of those remains, you know — all the monsters escaped from the Ruin of Aberteifi.”

  “And have you… told him?”

  “About the Abominations? As much as we are allowed to divulge, yes.”

  Dylan scratched his scar in thought.

  “Was he all right?”

  “He was unscathed as far as I could tell. He is a very brave lad, Dylan. I told him not to worry.”

  “Did he know I was here?”

  “He said he didn’t wish to disturb you. That sounded like a sensible idea.”

  Dylan stood up abruptly and glanced first at the lightning capacitor then at the assistant.

  “You’ll be all right with that on your own?”

  “Of course, Sir, but — ”

  “I’m going home. I think I need to talk to my son.”

  Dylan wanted to talk about the bone dragon, but Bran would hear nothing of it.