Dreamwalker

by Oswald, J. D.

  ‘Where’ve you been, Martha? When did you get back?’ Errol asked. He had a thousand more questions but these ones were the first to push their way through to his mouth.

  ‘Been with my aunt in Candlehall,’ Martha said. ‘Went to see the king in his stolen hall.’

  ‘Candlehall,’ Errol said, his curiosity piqued. ‘What’s it like? Is it as big as they say? Are the streets really paved with gold?’

  Martha laughed. ‘No silly. Gold’d wear away under all those feet.’ She took his hand in the dark. ‘Walk with me,’ she said, as if he had a choice in the matter. ‘Tell me what you’ve been doing since…’ she looked over her shoulder into the darkness and back up the path towards Jagged Leap.

  ‘Not a lot,’ Errol said. ‘You know what this place is like.’ Still he told her of his mother’s now open relationship with Godric, of how Clun had befriended him and how he had been teaching the older boy about the lines.

  ‘Why’d he want to know about that?’ Martha asked, her astonishment stopping her in mid-stride.

  ‘He wants to be chosen for the Order of the High Ffrydd,’ Errol said.

  ‘Dragon slayers!’ Martha said, dropping his hand. ‘How could you help them?’

  ‘I’m not… They’re not…’ Errol said. ‘They don’t kill dragons any more. They protect the Twin Kingdoms from invasion.’

  Martha’s face was stern in the moonlight, but it softened as she looked at him. She held her hand out once more and Errol took it with perhaps a little too much haste.

  ‘I visited the old king in the Neuadd,’ she said as they resumed walking through the dark trees. ‘Dragons built that hall. They built most of the palace more’n a thousand years ago. They built the obsidian throne. It’s far too big for a man, makes the king look silly. But the men there’ve broken it all. They smashed the carvings and broke up the windows so you couldn’t see the pictures anymore. Only I could see their ghosts. They talked to me, told me all about it.’

  ‘All about what?’ Errol asked.

  ‘All about the trickery King Diseverin used to defeat the great dragon Magog. How they hunted down the others, one by one. How they cracked open their skulls and pulled out their jewels.’ Martha stopped once more, turning to face Errol, her features serious, sad and angry. They stood in the middle of a leaf-strewn clearing about thirty paces across, the shedding trees strangely well-defined in the monochrome light. At that moment he felt the first signs of the end of autumn, the first cold breath of winter on the way.

  ‘Errol they’ve got dungeons filled with the jewels of slain dragons,’ she said. Her distress was so intense that he didn’t even notice her omission of his surname.

  ‘But Sir Radnor says most dragons like their jewels to be laid together with their friends,’ he said.

  ‘Not unreckoned,’ Martha said. ‘These jewels are raw, not set. They bleed into one another, constantly in pain. The ghosts’re in torment far worse than any hell.’

  ‘I…’ Errol began, but he truly didn’t understand what Martha was saying.

  ‘Promise me you won’t go to the choosing, Errol,’ she said and this time he did notice.

  ‘I’m too young,’ he said. ‘I’d have to wait another year anyway.’

  ‘But you won’t go. Not even next year.’

  ‘No,’ Errol said, realising as he did that any desire he had once harboured to be a warrior priest, or for that matter a Coenobite of the Ram, had disappeared. He had never known anything but contempt for the Order of the Candle since Father Kewick had begun to strip the library of all its interesting books. ‘No, I don’t want anything to do with any of the orders.’

  Martha smiled a great beaming flash of white in the moonlit darkness. Then Errol felt her pull him towards her. Before he knew what was happening she had grabbed his head in both hands and was kissing him full on the lips.

  Errol was not totally naïve. At thirteen and having grown up the son of the village healer, he knew plenty about the facts of life. He had not, as yet, been in any particular hurry to investigate them further, partly because there was so much else to learn about, partly because of the steady stream of young women who came to his mother’s cottage in search of certain preparations. And so he was quite unprepared for the heady pleasure of that long, slow kiss. Neither was he prepared for the longing that began the instant it was over.

  ‘Da’ll be looking for me,’ Martha said as she broke away from their embrace. ‘I must go home.’

  ‘Me too, I suppose,’ Errol said. ‘Though it’s not as if mother will miss me. She’s too wrapped up with Godric these days to notice if I’m there or not.’

  ‘Meet me here tomorrow at midday,’ Martha said. ‘We’ll go and see old Sir Radnor together.’

  ‘Won’t your father be angry?’ Errol asked.

  ‘Not if he doesn’t know,’ Martha said, smiling in that mischievous way that made Errol’s heart skip. ‘Go now, quick.’

  ‘Tomorrow then,’ Errol said. He turned away, walking toward the trees with an uncharacteristic lightness of step, headed in the direction he knew would take him home. After no more than half a dozen paces, he stopped. He had to say something, to tell Martha how much he had missed her and how good it was now she was back. But when he turned she was nowhere to be seen.

  ~~~~

  Chapter Nine

  Perhaps the most powerful of all the books on the subtle arts is the Llyfr Draconius. The name of the mage who first began this work is lost in the mists of time, but whoever it was they were possessed of uncanny ability and foresight. For whilst the book itself never changes, it has absorbed the knowledge of all who have used it down countless millennia. It is dense with the power of the grym.

  But there is a dark side to the Llyfr Draconius, and a danger too. It is all too easy for an unskilled reader to find themselves drawn into the book; their whole life sucked into its enchanted pages. Rather than taking what knowledge they might need from it, and giving that which they have themselves learned in return, the unwary may lose their mind just trying to read the ancient runes. It is even said that in the depths of night the book can be heard wailing with the screams of apprentice mages who foolishly thought themselves ready to seek its advice.

  More dangerous, perhaps, is the novice who has learned to read the book, but not yet understood fully what it contains. There are temptations within its pages that few have the strength of will to resist.

  On The Application Of The Subtle Arts by Corwen teul Maddau

  Benfro knew as soon as he stepped into the cottage that he was in trouble. His mother stood with her back to the fireplace, arms folded across her chest and a stern look on her face that left no room for a more cheerful interpretation. It might have been merely that he was considerably later coming home than he should have been, though evening was only now descending into night and he knew the forest for miles around like he knew his own tail. It couldn’t have been that he had failed in his search for herbs, since his satchel fairly bulged with the day’s gathering. Whatever it was must have been serious though, for old Sir Frynwy sat silent at the table.

  ‘Come in Benfro,’ Morgwm said as he hesitated on the threshold. ‘Sir Frynwy would like a word.’

  Benfro stepped inside, dropping the satchel to the floor where it landed with a soft, damp slap.

  ‘What’s happening?’ He asked.

  ‘Sit down, Benfro,’ Sir Frynwy said, pointing to the bench opposite him. The tabletop, usually covered in the makings of potions, bunches of herbs for sorting and tying and other paraphernalia of Morgwm’s trade, was empty and scrubbed clean. It made the room look somehow threatening, as if it were somebody else’s house, not the warm comfortable room where he had lived these last thirteen years. With a dreadful sense of impending punishment, Benfro slid onto the wide bench across from the old dragon. He caught those wise eyes looking straight at him and lowered his own to the rough wooden surface of the table.

  ‘Look at me, please, Benfro,’ Sir Frynwy said. His tone
was not accusatory, not angry, but neither was it the normal bright and cheerful voice the village elder normally used when addressing him.

  ‘Meirionydd tells me that you’re very interested in magic,’ the old dragon said. ‘You’re constantly asking her to teach you about it, are you not?’

  ‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t…’ Benfro began, but Sir Frynwy lifted a hand to silence him.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with a healthy curiosity, Benfro,’ he said. ‘I’m not here to castigate you for being curious. But tell me, what has Meirionydd said to your repeated requests?’

  ‘She says that she’ll teach me when mother says I’m old enough to learn,’ Benfro said.

  ‘And do you not think your mother’s wisdom in such matters is greater than yours?’

  ‘But I’m not a kitling any more,’ Benfro said. ‘I’m thirteen!’

  ‘And I’m very nearly eighteen hundred years old, Benfro. Can you even begin to comprehend how long that is?’

  ‘I’m not a kitling any more,’ Benfro repeated, realising as he said it that he did sound very much like one.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Sir Frynwy said. ‘But take some advice from one who’s lived a bit longer than you. Don’t be in such a rush to grow up. When it comes, you’ll wish it hadn’t happened so quickly. Which brings me to why I’m here. Something of mine has gone missing, something both valuable and dangerous. I am confident that none of the villagers would meddle with it, since they know well what it can do. You, on the other hand Benfro, don’t have our experience.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Benfro asked. ‘I haven’t taken anything.’

  ‘Come now, young Benfro,’ Sir Frynwy said. ‘I’ve already told you I don’t want to discourage your curiosity. A willingness to learn is the greatest of gifts. But the Llyfr Draconius is too dangerous for your young mind. Trust me on this and when the time is right I myself will introduce you to its mysteries.’

  ‘I haven’t… I don’t… How could I have taken something when I don’t even know what it is?’

  Sir Frynwy sighed the same exasperated sound that Benfro’s mother always made when he was slow to identify his herbs or when he inadvertently mixed the wrong ingredients and filled the cottage with the smell of rotting eggs.

  ‘I’m not going to punish you, Benfro,’ Sir Frynwy said, then looked up at Morgwm who still stood motionless by the fire, the light of the flames casting her face and expression in inscrutable shadow. ‘And neither is your mother. This is too important for that. But I must insist that you give the book back. It will do you no good, even if you can read it. And it could cause us all great harm.’

  A book, Benfro thought. Sir Frynwy’s talking about a book. But he hadn’t taken anything from the old dragon. He had never taken anything from any of the villagers that they hadn’t explicitly told him he could, nor had it ever occurred to him to do so. The only books he had ever so much as touched were the ones his mother kept on the long shelves at the back of this room. His eyes darted towards them and their familiar dark leather spines: Healer Trefnog’s Apothecarium; Aderyn’s Educational Notes for the Young; and his favourite, Sir Cadrigal’s Beast of Gwlad with its bizarre pictures of creatures that couldn’t possibly exist. There were dozens, maybe even a hundred and he had read them all, though most were dry descriptions of plants and potions.

  ‘I haven’t taken anything from you, Sir Frynwy,’ Benfro said. ‘Honestly.’

  The old dragon stared hard at him, straight into Benfro’s eyes so that he felt trapped and could not look away. Stuck there, motionless for long moments that felt like hours, Benfro couldn’t help but notice how old Sir Frynwy looked. His face was pocked with missing scales, his eyes slightly misty as if time had faded their black pupils like a badly cured skin. He had lost one fang at some time in the past, but the dimple where it had pushed down from his jaw still held its shape, showing a gash of black-streaked pink gum. The other fang still held, but the end had been chipped off, leaving a cracked and yellowing stump. Thin white hairs sprouted from Sir Frynwy’s nostrils and ears in tiny clumps and his whole face looked shrunken and withered, like the last apple at winter’s end.

  ‘I’m sorry, Benfro,’ he said finally, the words breaking the spell. Slightly dizzy, Benfro took in a deep breath, the first he could remember for a long while.

  ‘It would have been easier if it was you,’ the old dragon continued. ‘But I can see now that you’re innocent of this charge. I must look elsewhere.’ He stood up; an action which did not come easily, Benfro noticed.

  ‘Please, Sir Frynwy,’ Morgwm said, finally moving from her place by the fire. ‘You’ll stay for some supper at least.’

  ‘No Morgwm, thankyou,’ Sir Frynwy said. ‘I must get back to the village. If there’s a chance I’ve simply mislaid the book…’

  ‘Then you wouldn’t have come here with your accusations,’ Morgwm said.

  ‘I didn’t mean to insult Benfro,’ Sir Frynwy said. ‘Nor you, Morgwm. But you of all people know how dangerous the Llyfr Draconius could be if it fell into the hands of someone… inexperienced.’

  ‘Which is why I recommended you destroy it years ago, Sir Frynwy,’ Morgwm said.

  ‘And you know that I couldn’t do such a thing,’ the old dragon said. Forgotten, Benfro listened to the conversation with growing intrigue. This was obviously an argument his mother and the village elder had been conducting for a long time now, but its subject was fascinating to him. He loved books, particularly those with pictures of exotic lands and strange creatures in them. Even some of the books of herbs his mother had used to teach him to read were fascinating in their own way. But the idea that a book could be dangerous was something that had never occurred to Benfro. He longed to know more, to understand how a collection of words on parchment could be so perilous that his mother, who would scream at him for getting a single page smudged with dirty fingers, could argue for it to be destroyed.

  ‘What does it look like, this book?’ He asked.

  ‘It’s not something you need concern yourself with, Benfro,’ Sir Frynwy said. ‘I’m sorry that I ever suspected you. You’ve been brought up to respect your elders and tell the truth at all times. I can see that now.’

  ‘I could help you find it,’ Benfro said, trying to think where he had seen a book recently. Meirionydd had hundreds in her study, though he had never been allowed to even touch them and Ynys Môn kept a few bestiaries and tales of hunting exotic game.

  ‘Don’t worry yourself,’ Sir Frynwy said. He had crossed the room and now held the door open. ‘I’ll convene a meeting of the whole village tomorrow afternoon. You can come too, if you’d like Benfro. If your mother will release you from your chores.’

  ‘Can I go?’ Benfro asked his mother, excited at the prospect of a meeting in the great hall. There had been none he had attended yet which hadn’t ended with a feast.

  Morgwm smiled at him.

  ‘Let me see how well you did gathering today,’ she said. ‘Then if you can make a start on the potions before lunchtime we’ll see about letting you have an afternoon off.’

  ‘Well, I’ll head back to the village then,’ Sir Frynwy said, nodding towards Morgwm by way of a goodbye. ‘Tomorrow, Benfro,’ he said with a smile and a wink. Then he turned and left.

  ‘Your satchel, young dragon,’ Morgwm said as Benfro made to settle down at the table. It had been a long day and he was hungry, a state which was not helped by the anticipation of a feast tomorrow. Still, if he got started with sorting and washing the plants tonight, then surely his mother would have to let him go to the meeting.

  Sliding off the bench, Benfro picked up the leather bag and showed it to his mother. She took it from him, opening it and pulling out some of the soft fronds, sniffing them and squeezing the rubbery leaves between her fingers before hefting the satchel to gauge how much was in it. Finally after much frowning and poking around at the contents, she smiled.

  ‘Not a bad day’s haul,’ she said. ‘And you
went all the way up to the falling pools, I’m impressed. Did you see anyone up there?’

  ‘No,’ Benfro said. ‘I haven’t seen anyone all day. Why?’

  ‘Oh, no reason,’ Morgwm answered. ‘Meirionydd mentioned that Frecknock was going there to practice some of her charms. She wouldn’t have liked it much if you’d disturbed her.’

  A worry niggled at the back of Benfro’s mind, as if he had forgotten something important. But, since he had forgotten it, he had no idea what it could have been. With a shrug, he set the plates and cups on the table in anticipation of food.

  *

  Errol would remember those few short weeks as the happiest of his life. Clun was wrapped up in his battle games, having found a book in the library about the strategy of war. Errol had read it and could only assume that Father Kewick had left it behind because of the chapters on the organisation of supply trails and the importance of good book-keeping. Whatever the reason, he was grateful, as it meant that his soon-to-be step-brother left him alone for most of the day. Hennas had accepted Godric’s proposal of marriage and spent most of her time planning for their wedding feast. For his part, Godric was immersed in the preparations for the choosing, along with Alderman Clusster and Tom Tydfil. Father Kewick had abandoned lessons for all but his select few students. All of which meant that Errol was left to his own devices.

  He would meet Martha in the woods close to Jagged Leap every morning and together they would spend the day listening to Sir Radnor’s tales of ancient times, or just walk through the ever more skeletal trees, holding hands and enjoying each other’s company. As the days passed, the temperature dropped steadily but the first rains of winter held off, and so they spent the days in heated discussion or comfortable silence away from the hustle of the village and the prying eyes of the villagers. Every evening, as the sun left only its orange echo across the darkening sky, they would return to the same clearing and part, Errol for the cottage in the woods which he expected would not be his home for much longer, Martha for the smithy and her over-protective father.