The afternoon soon bled its light into evening as he climbed ever upwards. It didn’t take long for Benfro to go beyond the furthest point he could recall easily and on into rarely-visited territory. The river was now little more than a babbling stream but he kept it close by for reference and because his pack contained no water skin. There were few animals about, most of the birds had flown south for the winter and he caught only glimpses of deer fleeing, the occasional sign of wild boar scrapings at the bases of the trees. It was as well he had plenty of food, he thought, and he was grateful too that Ynys Môn was not there to chide him for his sloppy forest craft.
Darkness had begun to fall and he was beginning to resign himself to a night under the cold stars when he stumbled across the cave. It was almost as if he had been drawn to it, though it was well hidden. Inside it was as black as pitch, but warmer than out. Benfro felt around in his satchel for his tinder box and soon had a small flame going. As he built it up, the fire illuminated a large cavern with a flat, sandy floor that sloped gently upwards towards the back. There was evidence of fires having been built in the cave before, though not for many months. It looked like another dragon had spent time there, making a comfortable bed of heather that had dried completely but still gave off a pleasant aroma. The fire did not cast enough light to see how far the cave went, so Benfro took up a brand and set off to explore.
A tunnel wound its way into the hillside from the entrance. Looking at the walls, Benfro could not tell whether it was natural or had been hewn. However it had been formed, it twisted and turned so that he lost all sense of direction after only a few minutes. The brand he held burned ever lower, threatening to go out and plunge him into total darkness, yet he felt no anxiety. The place was oddly warm and welcoming. He felt safe as if his mother was watching over him. More than that he felt as if old friends long forgotten had returned to ease his troubles.
When he finally made it to the end of the tunnel and entered the cavern, Benfro was not surprised by what he saw. The realisation of where he was had been growing unnoticed at the back of his mind as he walked. Nevertheless he was awed by it. The tunnel widened out into a new cavern and though Benfro’s makeshift torch had all but extinguished itself, he no longer needed it to see. The whole space was lit by the living glow of hundreds of white jewels piled high on the floor.
*
‘Master Defaid, might I have the honour of a dance?’
Melyn watched as Beulah shrugged off her boredom like it was a heavy travel cloak. He knew that she would rather leave this place at once and ride straight for home, but she was ever the professional. Godric and Hennas had shown no inclination to be parted yet and he needed time alone with the healer. The princess had finally decided that she would have to make the trader an offer he couldn’t refuse. As the awestruck man made his way onto the dancefloor, more led than leading, the Inquisitor stepped into the space he had left.
‘You should be careful with your new husband, Mistress. My lady is not to be trusted with a handsome man,’ Melyn said, fixing the healer with a stare and trying to remember how to smile. He need not have worried. Hennas was full of a giddy intoxication, part alcohol, part amazement at her good fortune. Her mind was an open book, ready to read and rewrite.
‘Your Grace,’ she said, trying to leap to her feet and curtsey at the same time.
‘Please, don’t stand on my account,’ Melyn said, settling himself into the seat beside her. ‘This is your celebration, not mine. And beside, I wanted to have a word.’
‘Oh,’ Hennas said, and as he peered into her thoughts he could see a glimmer of defiance. It was a small thing now, battered by too many events. He could easily overcome it.
‘Your son, Errol,’ Melyn said, searching her mind for an image of the boy’s father. ‘He’s not like the other villagers. I take it his father was from the north-east.’
A frown spread over Hennas’ face, the lightest of creases around her eyes. Melyn sent calming thoughts to her, an image of trustworthiness. She relaxed as if a great weight had been taken from her shoulders.
‘It was a silly thing, a wild romance. He was so kind, so different, so wise,’ she said. ‘But we couldn’t settle. Everywhere we went there was hatred. They hated that I could heal, even though they needed my help. But most of all they hated him for being born a Llanwennog. They’re not all bad, Inquisitor. You must know that. Mordecai was a good man.’
Melyn could see an image of a man, an older version of Errol. Similar in many ways to Prince Balch, yet different enough to be another person. Probably a bastard off-cast of the royal house; that would explain the boy’s aptitude for magic. He made a mental note to look up the name when he returned to the monastery.
‘What happened?’ Melyn asked, smoothing away the healer’s distrust of him and his order as he bolstered her confidence.
‘We stayed too long at Dina,’ Hennas said, her face slackening at the memory. ‘There was an argument in a tavern. Someone had a knife. I tried to save him, but there was so much blood. He died in my arms. Errol came just eight months later.’
‘You’ve raised him well,’ Melyn said. ‘But you know as well as I do that this place is too backward for him.’
‘What?’ Hennas asked and Melyn could feel her resolve building again, her instinctive hatred of everything that was authority. He didn’t doubt that Mordecai’s death had gone unpunished. Quite probably without any investigation at all. He put a suggestion of similar fate befalling Errol into her troubled mind.
‘Errol’s a bright boy, far brighter than his peers.’ Melyn said, aware in another part of his mind that the music of the dance was coming to an end. ‘He needs to be nurtured. He needs tutoring and access to libraries. I can give him all of these things.’
‘What are you saying?’ Hennas asked. ‘You can’t mean...?’
Melyn quashed the growing fear in the healer’s mind, replacing it with a warm feeling of pride, a sense that she could undo some of the wrong of Mordecai’s death by letting her son fulfil his potential and become a novitiate in the Order of the High Ffrydd. It was, he realised, almost too easy.
‘Yes, Hennas,’ Melyn said. ‘I’ve chosen Errol for the novitiate. Clun too, if you can persuade Godric to let us take both his sons.’
*
The regular, rhythmic motion swayed Errol back from black unconsciousness to an uneasy half-sleep. His head hurt like someone had been using it for kicking practice and his mouth was full of a sickly sweet taste like fruit gone sour. He could smell stale wine and an earthy straw aroma that made his stomach churn in time with the movement. Trapped between slumber and wakefulness, it was all that he could do to lie, lurching and miserable as he tried to work out where he was.
He could remember the wedding, with its curious promises and formality. Then there had been the line, where all the villagers who had shunned him for all of his life suddenly pretended they were his best friend. Errol had most respect for those few who had still shunned him, like Alderman Clusster with his dark little secret, and the burly smith, Tom Tydfil.
Errol saw a vision of beauty in a green dress, smiling at him and no one else. He had danced with her, he remembered her confidence and the way she corrected his mistakes, the warm feel of her hands and her body close to his. Then, as if he dreamed, the scene changed and he was dancing with Maggs Clusster, her face strained, older than it should have been, her eyes always darting away from him to the dark corner of the room where her father sat with angry, glowering eyes.
But that wasn’t right, Errol thought. He hadn’t danced with Maggs. He had danced with… He couldn’t remember. And as he tried to grasp the image of the girl in the green dress, so it slipped away like water through cold fingers.
Other faces swam through his mind. He saw two travellers, an old man and a young woman. Father Kewick bustling over to them like an anxious dog. He remembered the whole party stopping to welcome the newcomers, astonished by their presence. He recalled being introduced to Princess
Beulah, heir to the Obsidian Throne and he wondered why it was she looked at him as if he were something she regretted having trodden in.
And then there was the old man, Inquisitor Melyn. He had come to Errol later in the evening, offered him a post as novitiate in the Order of the High Ffrydd even though he was too young for the choosing. He remembered his mother saying what an honour it was and how he couldn’t possibly decline. He remembered accepting.
Errol sat up in a hurry, then wished he hadn’t. The pain in his head made everything dim and blurred. His stomach lurched and heaved and he crashed back down to his resting place on a pallet of straw.
‘Ah, so yer ‘wake now,’ a voice said. Errol found that if he half-opened one eye the pain was almost bearable. At least for short periods. He squinted up at a ceiling of brown canvas drawn tight over ash hoops and a familiar face peered down at him, frowning. His stepbrother. Clun.
‘Where are we?’ Errol asked. His voice was hoarse and croaky as if he had been shouting for hours. His throat burned. ‘What happened to me?’
‘Ye don’t remember?’ Clun said, a grin splitting his face wide. ‘Ye got drunk, Errol. Rip-roarin’ drunk. I’ve never seen anythin’ quite like it. Ye must’ve drunk two skinfuls of wine at least.’
‘What’re you talking about?’ Errol said. ‘I’m not allowed wine. I’m too young.’
He slowly inched his way up to a slumped sitting position, wishing all the while that his pallet would stop swaying from side to side. As he moved, the smell of stale wine grew stronger. He looked down at his clothes and saw his new shirt stained with red as if someone had slit his throat whilst he slept. His trousers were soiled and torn around the knees and he couldn’t remember what had happened to his jacket. He was sitting on a bed of straw in the back of a moving wagon. Barrels and sacks were lashed down all around and Clun was perched on a small chest alongside him. Everything stank of sour grapes.
‘I guess ye broke the rules then,’ his stepbrother said, still grinning at Errol’s discomfort.
‘Where are we?’ Errol asked again.
‘On our way to Emmass Fawr,’ Clun said. ‘We did it Errol, both’ve us. We’ve bin chosen.’
Errol found it difficult to share his step-brother’s enthusiasm. It wasn’t just that his head hurt like a thunderstorm was raging in it. He could remember a time when he had wanted nothing more than to be a warrior priest of the High Ffrydd, but that was a different Errol. Something had changed, he had changed, but he couldn’t remember when, or why. It was all a muddle, but he knew one thing over all. He no longer wanted anything to do with the Order of the High Ffrydd.
Slowly, trying not to move his head too much, Errol rolled onto all fours and crawled along the bed of the wagon to its end. The canvas flap was tied shut, but there was enough of a gap for him to see out. The troop of warrior priests rode behind the wagon in formation and they appeared to be travelling along a wide, stone-paved road with thick trees on either side.
‘So, you’re awake now,’ a gruff voice said. Looking sideways with a wince, Errol saw the figure of Inquisitor Melyn astride his horse. It was a fine beast with a mottled grey coat and wide, soup-plate feet. The Inquisitor looked small on it, out of proportion as if he were a child riding a large pony. Nevertheless he was in complete control of the animal. With barely a touch on the reins, it moved closer to the wagon end.
‘Judging by your face, you’ve received punishment enough for your drunkenness.’ The Inquisitor said. ‘I hope you’ll learn your lesson from the experience. Lesser candidates have been expelled from the monastery for such behaviour.’
‘Your Grace, I’m sorry,’ Errol said. ‘I don’t remember drinking.’
‘Alcohol has that effect, boy,’ Melyn said, leaning forward in his saddle. ‘I’m guessing you can’t remember much from last night. Not you mother’s distress at your behaviour in front of the princess, not your boastful announcement to the whole of your village that you would return some day as Inquisitor?’
‘I didn’t… Did I say that?’ Errol flushed with embarrassment. He could remember nothing of the sort, but there were large gaps in his memory. The Inquisitor turned to the nearest of the troop.
‘Captain Osgal,’ he said. ‘Do you recall the young lad’s exact words before he passed out last night?’
The captain looked distinctly uncomfortable, Errol thought, as if he feared the Inquisitor. His eyes flicked between Errol and the old priest rapidly as he came to a decision.
‘His exact words were difficult to make out, your grace,’ he said eventually. ‘But the gist of it was that he was going to be the most famous Inquisitor the Order had ever known. When the princess asked him if he meant to be greater even than Ruthin, who drove the dragons out of Emmass Fawr and claimed it for himself, he said that he would happily perform any task she might set him.’
Errol stared at the sergeant in disbelief. Why would he do such a thing? It made no sense at all.
‘Princess Beulah wasn’t looking for a champion,’ Melyn said. ‘But it seems she’s got one. You’ll have to work very hard indeed young Ramsbottom if you want to come even close to being selected for the Royal Guard.’
‘I… I’m sorry,’ Errol said, not sure what else he could do. ‘The princess, is she…?’
‘She’s returned to Candlehall,’ the Inquisitor said. ‘King Diseverin’s not well. She needs to be close to her father at this difficult time.’
‘Can I get a message to her?’ Errol realised as he asked the question just how stupid it sounded. ‘I must apologise. I have to…’
‘You have much to learn about royalty. You’d do well not to remind her that you exist. Besides, you’ve more pressing things to worry about. Get some rest, take this chance to sleep off your hangover. You won’t find me so forgiving once we arrive at Emmass Fawr.’
The Inquisitor spurred his horse into a trot that took it ahead of the wagon, effectively ending the conversation. Errol peered out the back of the wagon wondering what he had got himself into. Surrounded by strangers he suddenly felt a pang of longing for home, his mother and the simple life of the village.
‘You’ve got the Shepherd’s luck,’ Captain Osgal said. Errol looked up at the warrior priest. He was tall and thin, with a narrow face and thin straggly hair, younger than Errol had at first thought.
‘I’ve seen his grace kill men for less than you did last night,’ he continued. ‘You be very careful around him, boy. He’s got you marked for something.’
*
‘Benfro, welcome. What a pleasant surprise.’ The voice was in his head, but there was no mistaking the dragon who spoke.
‘Ystrad Fflur?’ Benfro asked, bewildered. ‘Where are you? Aren’t you..?’
‘Dead?’ The voice said. ‘Of course I am. You were at my reckoning weren’t you? Or was that some other young dragon performing the ceremony?’
‘But how?’ Benfro asked.
‘Dear me, youngling. Do they not teach you anything? This is our nest, where all our jewels are laid to rest in peaceful companionship. We sit on a nexus in the grym and observe the world.’
‘We?’ Benfro asked. ‘Grym?’
‘My fellow departed,’ the voice of Ystrad Fflur said. ‘I may have lived a long time but these are not all my jewels. No, dragons have been nested in this spot for many thousands of years. But you should know all this, Benfro. Else why are you here?’
‘Mother sent me away from the house,’ Benfro explained. ‘She said men were coming and I had to hide out in the forest for a couple of days.’
‘And you came here,’ Ystrad Fflur said. ‘How interesting. But men you say. Strange. We didn’t see them coming. Well, Morgwm always was much more sensitive to these things, and she’s still alive which helps.’
Benfro found himself transported back to Ystrad Fflur’s dark and cosy study, where he had spent many a happy afternoon listening to the old dragon’s stories and eating sweetly sugared pieces of ginger from a seemingly endless supply. He under
stood now where it had come from, purloined by magic from some far-distant place.
‘The merchants of Talarddeg always had the best ginger,’ Ystrad Fflur said, seemingly able to read Benfro’s thoughts. ‘Time was when I could walk the streets, going from shop to shop, sampling the wares and haggling over the price. I always felt bad, helping myself without paying. But the long road was too dangerous, our numbers too few. The choice was no choice at all. In the end.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Benfro said. ‘You travelled to this place, Talarddeg?’
‘Oh, I travelled all over Gwlad, young Benfro. There’s not many places Ystrad Fflur hasn’t been. But I’ve always had a soft spot for Talarddeg. It’s the only city in the whole world where men and dragons co-existed from the beginning. It was built for both of us and we lived happily side by side. Until those terrible priests started arriving, spouting forth nonsense about some invisible god they call the Shepherd. No room for dragons in their new world. Dragons were beasts of the Wolf, we were driven out of our homes, slaughtered if we tried to resist.’
Benfro stood in the cavern staring at the glowing pile of jewels. It was the same eerie light as the line that had connected him with Frecknock and Sir Felyn. He wondered if here, in this magic place, he might be able to throw off the compulsion and tell Ystrad Fflur what he had seen. The images were in his head, he could think about what Frecknock had done, and the old dragon had seemed able to read his thoughts. The silence hung heavy as he struggled to say the words he wanted to say. But nothing would come out.
‘You seem troubled, Benfro,’ Ystrad Fflur’s voice came back after a while. ‘Is there something you want to ask?’
‘Can’t you read my mind?’ Benfro asked.
‘Not as you might understand it, no,’ the old dragon said. ‘I can see something of your thoughts, especially those you are actively pursuing, but your mind is safe, believe me. And even if I could, I wouldn’t rummage around in another dragon’s thoughts. It would be impolite.’
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