‘Recall, if you will, the battle of Verlamion, and the moment when Maskull vanished. Do you know where I sent him? It was into the Realm Below. He has remained for years lost there, trapped in that great maze that was made by the fae when they withdrew from the light. My hope and belief was that Maskull would take far longer to find his way clear of those myriad chambers. I thought that in that time I would be able to solve the problem of the battlestones, but my hopes have proved groundless. Late last year I began to notice an uneasy presence at Trinovant and elsewhere. It warned me that Maskull had made good his escape. “By his magic, so shall ye know him!”The rede says that spells betray their makers to others who are skilled in the same arts. You see, I have known for some time about Maskull’s return. I have read his signature in much, and I have expected his power to be unleashed again. But not like this. Not like this.’
Will’s anger surfaced. ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’
‘Warn you?’ There was recrimination in Gwydion’s eyes. ‘To what end? You were already in what I believed to be the safest place there was. Living where you do, Willand, it would not have been clear to you that the spirit of the Realm has been growing steadily darker since this year’s beginning. Mistrust is burgeoning, confidence slackening. A great turbulence and greed is increasing among the lords in Trinovant. As Lord Protector, Richard of Ebor is the centre about which all now revolves, but that centre cannot hold for long. An attempt will soon be made to arrest him. His enemies are ready to move again. You see, I have had much to contend with.’
Will followed Gwydion’s words with difficulty. The shock of seeing Little Slaughter filled his mind, and his fears about Willow and Bethe and the Vale came once again to the fore. If Maskull was now at large and the lorc drawing power again, then nothing but misery could be foreseen.
Gwydion turned to survey the fuming waste they had left behind. He spent a moment deep in thought, and then measured his words carefully. ‘You may rest a little easier in your mind, my friend, for I do not believe Maskull will have quite the opportunity to do again what he has done here. Nor do I believe you were the reason he destroyed Little Slaughter.’
CHAPTER THREE
WHAT LIES WITHIN
Gwydion led Will some way back eastward, heading towards the Four-shire Stone before the light died. This was no battlestone, but a benign landmark that showed the place where four earldoms met. On the way they spoke of the strife that was growing among the lords at Trinovant. The trouble, Gwydion explained, had not come solely out of the queen’s viciousness. Richard of Ebor had also played his part.
‘That is not what I required of the man whom I chose to be Lord Protector,’ Gwydion said ruefully. ‘He is by nature a ruler, and usually dedicated to good governance, but as long as a year ago I began to look for reasons why his nature might have been turned. I now ask myself whether leakage of harm from the Dragon Stone might not be to blame, for when I told him I wished to visit Foderingham Castle to inspect the Dragon Stone, he denied me out of hand. “No one,” said he, “is to go near that stone.”’
Will listened with mounting alarm, and also a pang of guilt. He already knew, from having lived among the duke’s family, that Richard of Ebor was a man who treated his duties seriously. He was not a crudely ambitious man. He did regard himself as the rightful king of the Realm, but that was more out of respect for the laws of blood than any personal desire for power. Following the battle at Verlamion he had been prepared to agree to Gwydion’s compromise, which was to content himself with the modest title of Lord Protector and to take on the day-to-day running of the Realm. For the sake of peace, he had allowed the weak usurper-king, Hal, to continue on the throne as figurehead despite his having fallen twice into further bouts of incapacity and madness.
But things must have soured a great deal, Will told himself, if Duke Richard won’t allow Gwydion to see the Dragon Stone.
As for Will’s uncomfortable pang of guilt, that came because he had never admitted an incident when one night he and Edward, the duke’s eldest son, had led the other Ebor children down to look at what Edward had called ‘the magic stone’.
‘Duke Richard has not been quite himself lately,’ Gwydion said.
‘Do you think he’s hiding something? About the Dragon Stone, I mean.’
‘It may be nothing more than Friend Richard’s woebegotten attempt to haggle with me. He is inclined to treat everything as if it might become part of a political bargain. He often says: “I will do something for you, Master Gwydion, if you will do something for me.” Though he must know well enough by now that magic cannot be traded that way.’
‘That would be a hard lesson for any lord to learn,’ Will said. ‘It seems to me that Duke Richard is not a man who’ll ever understand magic.’
Gwydion grunted. ‘You are right, for the trading of favours is how men of power try to gain advantage over one another. What self-seeking fools they are, when trust and selflessness are what is truly needed. So little magic is left in the world that men have lost their taste for it. Even the greatest exercise of magic does not stick for long in the memory. It fades from men’s minds – speak today with anyone who fought at Verlamion and they will keenly remember arrow and sword, but they will have little recollection of the beams of fire that burst so scorchingly over their heads as the fighting raged below.’
Will thought about that, hearing a note of regret in the wizard’s voice, and realizing that his own memories were vivid enough. A sudden suspicion prickled him. ‘Were you by any chance on your way to Foderingham when I conjured you?’
‘In truth I was already there – passing through the inner bailey and about to reclaim my wayward charge.’
Will blinked. ‘You were going to take the Dragon Stone away without the duke’s permission?’
The wizard made a dismissive gesture. ‘I had not yet made my decision.’
Will wondered at what Gwydion knew and what he needed to know concerning the Dragon Stone. He had always said there was no such thing as coincidence, that every weft thread in the great tapestry of fate touched every warp thread and vice-versa, and from all those touches was made the great picture of existence.
Will’s thoughts returned to what had happened that night at Foderingham when he had last clapped eyes on the Dragon Stone. ‘Gwydion, I think there’s something I ought to tell you…’
He explained how he and Edward, and all the Ebor children, had got more than their curiosities had bargained for. The stone’s writhing surface had terrified them. It had begun by posing a morbid riddle for Edward, and had finished by attacking Edmund, the duke’s second son, sending him into a swoon from which he had never fully recovered. He told of how he had wrestled with the stone and how it had almost overcome him, before cringing back at the mention of its true name.
When Will had finished explaining, the wizard leaned heavily on his staff and said, ‘Let us overnight here. We shall talk more on this after supper, though it would have been better for all concerned if you had told me about this sooner.’
‘I couldn’t break a confidence,’ Will said lamely.
‘You are breaking it now.’
‘That’s because Edward is boastful and very close to his father. He may have told tales about the powers that dwell in the stone. That might be the reason the duke is behaving this way.’
Gwydion turned sharply. ‘You think Friend Richard seeks to use the battlestone’s power for himself?’
Will knit his brows over the suggestion. ‘I don’t think he would ever be that foolhardy.’
‘Hmmm. It would depend on how desperate he became.’
Here, east of the Slaver road, the air was cleaner and the grass greener. At their backs a slim crescent moon was following the sun down over the western horizon. Their camp was made on a rise close by the manor of Swell. Once again Gwydion had avoided the villages and farms that nestled nearby. He chose the best ground and then carefully cut away the turf to make a fire pit and piled up enough dry
sticks to give them good cheer until they should fall asleep. Will was very hungry, and glad of old dry bread and a delicious soup of dried roots and morels that Gwydion cooked up from ingredients he took from his crane bag.
Will’s eyes drooped as, with a full belly, he listened to the crackle of burning wood and the calls of night creatures. The ground was hard under his elbow and hip bone. He smelled the drowsy perfume of cow parsley and meadowsweet and bruised grass, and felt pleased to be back in the wider world.
‘My First in the West shall Marry…’ he said, stirring himself to recite the riddle that had appeared in the skin of the Dragon Stone.
‘My first in the West shall marry,
My second a king shall be.
My third upon a bridge lies dead.
My fourth far in the East shall wed.
My fifth over the seas shall send.
My sixth in wine shall meet his end.
My seventh, whom none now fears,
Shall be reviled five hundred years.’
‘What are we to make of that?’ Gwydion asked.
Will looked into the night. ‘If the Black Book said there were many battlestones, maybe it’s the Dragon Stone’s way of giving clues about its brothers. Maybe one of the stones is fated to be reunited with its sister-stone in the West – that might fit with the piece you sailed over to your friend Cormac in the Blessed Isle. Or maybe that’s the second stone mentioned, because it stood in the shadow of the King’s Stone. It could be that the third will be found, or drained, on a bridge. Or maybe it lies near a place called Deadbridge – oh, you know better than I how riddles go.’
Gwydion settled back, watching the last rosy blink of moonset. He said distantly, ‘It may be that the Dragon Stone is more important than we have so far supposed.’
‘Why did you choose to lodge it with Duke Richard?’ Will asked, unable to keep the criticism from his voice.
‘You think that was a mistake. In truth, it was no choice of mine, but a course forced on me by events. There was nowhere better to lodge a battlestone at the time. Do you know that time itself has a most curious character? I have discussed it much with the loremaster who lives at the Castle of Sundials. Though he speaks of “time’s arrow”, its nature, he says, is not straight so much as turning ever and again upon itself – wheels within wheels, like the cogs that turn within his confounded engines. As the rede of time says, “History repeateth.” Thus, if we are wise, we may learn from the past—’
‘Gwydion,’ Will knew when he was being distracted, ‘what are we going to do?’
The wizard stirred restlessly. ‘Rather than return to Foderingham, let us find out first if it has been put back in its original resting place. That is my greatest fear. And in any case we must go by Nadderstone if we would go to Foderingham by the shortest way.’
‘Who would want to re-bury the stone at Nadderstone?’
‘Who do you think? If it has come to Maskull’s notice, and if he is making it his business to tamper with the lorc, then we should know about that.’
‘What if we find it’s been put back?’
‘Then the time will have come for me to drain it. For, whatever the other merits of your midnight visit to the Dragon Stone, you have certainly given us a great advantage by discovering its true name.’
‘Oh, no, Gwydion,’ Will said, feeling dismay blow through him. ‘Please promise me you won’t try another draining.’
‘I must do what I must do,’ Gwydion said, then added with a note of finality, ‘Do not worry about it yet. It may never come to that.’
Will blew out a long breath. He watched the flames of their little camp fire and wished himself back at the Blazing, but the coils of intrigue seemed to have wound themselves more tightly about him than any serpent. He said doggedly, ‘Gwydion, before I set off anywhere else, I must get a message to Willow.’
‘As a matter of fact, Willand,’ the wizard said archly, ‘I have already sent word to her explaining your absence. Good night.’
After three days’ walk along highways and byways they came at last to the village of Eiton. There were many harvest carts about the lanes and straw was blowing everywhere along the dusty road that led to the Plough Inn. Gwydion looked for signs that the Sightless Ones were out overseeing the tithe, but he saw nothing.
The Plough was a much-praised alehouse and inn, and one that Will knew well. It was a long, low building set to the side of the road, with a walled yard, a great spreading thatch and a big square sign swinging between two stout posts. It glowed now in the mellow golden light of an August evening. A straw cockerel stood guard on the rooftree and seemed to tell the world that all were welcome, except troublemakers.
The inn was frequented by travellers and local folk alike. It was far bigger and busier than the Green Man, and had not changed at all since Will had come here last. A dozen churlish folk were slaking harvest thirsts in the homely, rush-scattered room.
The man who kept house was called Dimmet. He was a big man, very busy and jolly, the sort who folk took care not to upset. When he looked up his welcome could not have been warmer. ‘Now then, if it ain’t my lucky day! Master Gwydion! How nice! How nice!’ He roared with delight as he came to greet them. ‘Duffred! Come down here and see who’s paid us the honour of yet another visit!’
The innkeeper’s grown son poked his curly, ginger head in at the door and grinned broadly. ‘Hey-ho, Master Gwydion! How goes it with you?’
‘He looks like a man what’s footsore and road-weary to me. And properly in need of a drop of my best ale – if you’ll take the hint, my son.’
‘That is very kind,’ Gwydion said.
‘And a jar of ale for the young feller too, I’d guess?’
The Plough’s big, black mastiff dog came out to see what the excitement was. Being fond of dogs, Will put out an open palm to help it decide he was more friend than foe. It sniffed at his feet, then began to lick his toes.
‘It’s a big, old dog you have here,’ Will said. ‘Maybe you should put some water out for him.’
‘Pack that up, Bolt!’ Duffred called, pulling on the dog’s iron collar. ‘Out in the yard with you. Go on, now.’
Will grinned and shook Dimmet’s huge, freckled hand.
‘Glad to meet you.’
‘They call me Will.’
‘Do they now? Then, we shall have to do the same.’
‘He don’t recall you,’ Duffred said impishly from the taps. ‘Cider still more to your taste than ale, is it?’
Will nodded vigorously, pleased to be recognized after so long.
‘I never forgets a face!’ Dimmet touched a finger to his chin. ‘Wait a bit! Are you not the young lad who came here that time Master Gwydion led our horse, Bessie, off on some business or another up by Nadderstone?’
‘That’s it.’
‘You see! I never do forget a face. Though you was a mere lad then, and not so filled out. Must have been all of five or six year ago.’
‘I hope Bessie got back safe to you.’
‘That she did.’ Duffred set down two tankards. ‘She was fetched back by a man in my Lord of Ebor’s livery as I recall.’
‘Always happy to render Master Gwydion a service if I can.’ Dimmet glanced shrewdly at the wizard. ‘And in return he’ll often put a good word on my vats, or he makes sure my thatch don’t catch fire.’
Duffred tugged at his father’s sleeve and said, lowering his voice, ‘You might think to tell them about the odd one who’s been sat in the snug all day.’
Will looked sharply to Gwydion, knowing it was not usually possible to get into the snug.
‘Easy, Will,’ Gwydion said, as if reading his mind. ‘The Sightless Ones do not agree with the drinking of wine or ale. Nor would Dimmet here take kindly to one of them poking his nose in at the Plough, much less getting into his snug.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Dimmet said. ‘He’s a shifty one. Got wilted primroses on his hat, though I don’t know where he got them. Said he wanted �
�privacy”, if you please!’
Dimmet’s eyes rolled as he made the last remark. The last reason anyone would come to the Plough, Will thought, was to be alone. He looked to Gwydion again in puzzlement, but then followed the wizard into the passageway and along a swept stone floor that was so footworn it shone.
They passed a great oaken table that was stacked with platters and bowls as if a celebration had only just been cleared away. In the middle was a trencher decked with flowers and a large pig’s head with a red apple in its mouth. The head seemed to be grinning. It reminded Will of Lord Strange.
When they came to the great empty hearth with its stone chimney and inglenooks on either side, Gwydion paused and raised his arms. Then he muttered words and laid a spell on the little room that lay behind the chimney breast.
‘What are you doing?’ Will mouthed, suddenly anxious about what might be lying in wait for them inside.
The wizard looked around, then whispered, ‘Calling down a defence against eavesdroppers.’ Then he ushered Will through the hidden entrance.
The snug was cool and dark, for it was summer and the little grate was empty. The only light came from a small window and the polished oak boards that made it seem like a ship’s cabin gave the room a rare cosiness. At the table sat a man Will was delighted to recognize.
‘Tilwin!’
The dark-haired travelling man rose with a heartening greeting and gave him a bear hug. His eyes were as blue as chips of summer sky. ‘How are you now, Willand?’ he said. ‘And Master Gwydion, well met, my old friend!’
Then Will heard Tilwin utter words half under his breath to the wizard, and something made him think that a formula had been spoken in the true tongue, words of recognition, a greeting between men who stood tall in one another’s esteem. He watched them embrace briefly, then all three sat down together.
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