Dreamwalker

by Oswald, J. D.

  So he had thought about it, endlessly, for several more days, until it had finally dawned on him. The lines. Thinking about them had troubled him. His memories told him fat Father Kewick had taught him about them, but he knew that could not be the case. Still, he had summoned up all his scant energy and searched for them, trying to recall the exact way that he had felt when he had managed to see them before. They had appeared faint at first, like gossamer threads of spider web seen out of the corner of his eye. Looking straight at them only made them disappear. But at least he knew they were there and finally he had been able to connect with one, how he was not sure, and pull the warming energy of it into him.

  Since then life had become easier. It was still cold, but it was as if he sat indoors beside a fire whilst the frost deepened outside. And the loneliness he had felt since he had seen Clun being led away eased slightly as each night bought the whispering of many thousands of voices to his mind.

  And so he lay, staring in the near-total darkness at the slats above him, drawing warmth from the line that passed directly under this bunk and trying to make out some sense in the myriad murmuring sounds of the great fortress monastery.

  A noise from outside his own head woke Errol from the semi-slumber that he had drifted into. A crack of light grew around the massive door as it was pushed open and a tall figure stepped in.

  ‘Errol Ramsbottom?’ It said. Errol scrambled out of his bed and pulled on his boots, walking the short distance to the door. As the light fell on the face of the man who had called him, Errol could see it was Captain Osgal. The warrior priest looked him up and down quickly, as if selecting a lamb for slaughter.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said, turning and heading out the door.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Errol asked, struggling to keep up with the tall man’s stride.

  ‘Don’t ask questions,’ Osgal said, then fell silent again. Errol followed him along open corridors, up great flights of stairs and through enormous halls until his feet began to hurt. Still they carried on, always climbing, and as they progressed so he saw more people, most in the dull brown cassock uniform of the order, some in the garb of common people. Finally they reached a long courtyard and for the first time in what seemed like years, Errol saw the sky.

  It was only a small patch, high above him and framed with the rising height of tall buildings on all sides, but it was the sky. It was night and clear, stars winking in the blue-black, and it was the most magical sight Errol had ever seen. He even recognised the loping form of the Wolf Running, which meant that he was looking north. It was a small thing, but to get his bearings even slightly was a joy like finding out he had been given keys to his own palace.

  ‘Stop dawdling Ramsbottom. You’re late, and he don’t like it when people’re late.’ Osgal’s voice was further away than it should have been and Errol realised he had stopped following. Running, he crossed the courtyard and entered the building on the other side.

  It was a stark contrast from the parts of the monastery he had already seen. For a start the doorway seemed tiny, he ducked involuntarily as he stepped through, even though the lintel was several feet above his head. The corridor they entered was claustrophobic after the great vaulted tunnels in the other buildings of the complex. The stonework here looked almost shoddy, the bocks large but manageable, with mortar showing in their finger-wide joints. Errol stubbed the toe of his boot on the uneven flagstones trying to keep up with Captain Osgal, who marched down the middle of the corridor brushing aside any who didn’t see him soon enough to get out of his way.

  They reached the end of the corridor and climbed a stone spiral staircase. Errol had barely slept after a long day in the library and now he had been half running to keep up with the captain for what seemed like hours. His legs creaked and burned as he pushed himself ever onwards and upwards and the thin air rasped in his lungs as if it were laced with sand. He could feel himself getting weaker with each step.

  Finally, when he thought he could go no further and was about to call out to the captain to stop, they reached the top of the stairs and a short corridor. There were only a few doors and no people. Captain Osgal stopped at the far end and knocked. There was an indistinct noise, then he opened the door, motioning for Errol to step in.

  ‘Ah, Errol, there you are. I’m glad you could make it.’

  Inquisitor Melyn sat in a large, leather-faced seat behind an even larger desk. Two windows behind him were dark eyes and Errol had to work hard to stop himself from staring out, trying to catch a glimpse of the night sky.

  ‘Thankyou captain,’ the Inquisitor said. ‘You may go now.’ Osgal closed the door leaving Errol standing in the brightly-lit room. A fire burned in a large fireplace set into one wall of the room, and he wondered if he might be able to sit by it for a while. Half running the long distance from the library to this high room had kept him warm, but now the damp sweat in his clothing was making him shiver. Instinctively, he reached out for the lines, seeking a warming connection. To his surprise he could see none in the room. A shiver of panic ran through him. He was so used to seeing them that their absence was as if he had been struck blind.

  ‘I can see I was right to choose you, in spite of your youth, Errol,’ the Inquisitor said. The old man stood and walked over to the fireplace. A heavy pewter jug sat on a trivet close to the flames. As he poured a steaming dark red liquid from it into two goblets, Errol smelled a heady aroma of cinnamon, cloves and other exotic spices. It put him in mind of his mother and the wonderful-smelling salves she used to make.

  ‘Come, have a seat. Drink some mulled wine,’ Melyn said. Errol hurried towards the fireplace, accepting the proffered mug but waiting for the Inquisitor to settle into his own chair before perching himself on the edge of his, as close to the fire as he could get.

  ‘Andro tells me that you’re a promising student,’ Melyn said, fixing Errol with a stare that held him as securely as ropes. ‘Tell me Errol, do you enjoy working in the library?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Errol replied, the truth easy, slipping out of his mouth like rainwater from a storm-filled barrel.

  ‘Has Andro shown you beyond the third portal yet?’ The Inquisitor asked, lifting his goblet to his lips. Errol did the same, but the smell brought back memories of confusion, hangover and misery in a lurching wagon. He needed his wits about him, so he merely swirled the dark, heady liquid against his closed lips, swallowed air. Watching Melyn he had the curious impression that the old man was doing the same.

  ‘Not even novitiates are allowed beyond the third portal,’ Errol said, the rules and the terrible punishment that went with them fixed firmly in his mind.

  ‘Ah, but you’re not yet a novitiate, Errol,’ Melyn said. ‘And still you’ve mastered both the sight and rudiments of manipulating the lines. You’ve the skills of one twice your age. How is this possible? Who taught you these things?’

  Those eyes burrowed into Errol. They were like yellow lights, flickering and whirling, growing ever larger. Or maybe it was just that the room was darkening and shrinking around him so that all he could see was that stare.

  ‘Drink, Errol, drink,’ Melyn said and without any conscious thought, Errol felt the goblet once more at his lips, tilting. Something of his will remained, for he still did no more than sip, a little of the mulled wine spilling around his mouth, down his chin and onto his clothes.

  All unbidden an image sprang into his mind of the party after his mother’s wedding to Godric. He was being introduced to the Inquisitor, staring into those intense eyes as he did now. They tunnelled into him like worms, seeking the centre of his being. And yet something anchored him, gave him the strength to fight off the invasion. His hand was warm, clenched around something. Another hand. There was a smell of garden flowers and fresh hay, a feeling of green.

  A frown spread across the Inquisitor’s face and Errol realised he was back in the old man’s study, sitting on the edge of his chair beside the fire, a goblet of mulled wine in his hand. Melyn still st
ared at him, but those eyes were no longer the only thing in the room. Errol held them in his gaze still. Somehow he knew that he must do that or risk being discovered. But discovered at what?

  ‘Drink,’ a voice said deep in his head, almost silent. ‘Drink, but drink slowly. Let him think he is in charge.’ Errol nearly jumped but he managed to raise his goblet to his mouth and let a thin trickle of the wine into his mouth. It was cooling fast and no longer filled his head with alcoholic fumes.

  The Inquisitor said nothing, still fixing him with his stare. Errol found his mind wandering. He was back at the party again, dancing energetically with Maggs. He was sitting in the cold classroom listening to fat Father Kewick telling the rapt class stories of dragons and how their mindless aggression had almost led to the destruction of the world, and how brave King Brynceri had waged war upon them, founding the Order of the High Ffrydd to protect the realm and carry out the work of The Shepherd. He was sitting on a bank overlooking the river, discussing with Clun how he would be chosen for the Order of the High Ffrydd and become a warrior priest. He was watching the sunset from the rock at Jagged Leap with Maggs Clusster by his side, holding his hand. All these images and more tumbled through Errol’s mind and he watched them pass as a spectator might watch a parade. It didn’t take long for him to realise that they weren’t his memories. Or at least that they weren’t his true memories. Somehow the Inquisitor had taken what he knew and twisted it, editing out crucial details, putting the wrong people in places and times, doing things they couldn’t possibly have done but which, taken as a whole, added up to a plausible version of the truth.

  More images flickered through his head, reinforcing the Inquisitor’s version of the truth. It was a bit like a dream, Errol realised. Only in this dream he was aware he was dreaming. A part of him watched from a distance, noting the inconsistencies and pondering on the gaps that still blotted his memory.

  ‘Well, it’s been nice having this little chat, Errol,’ Inquisitor Melyn said and with the words, Errol was back in his head properly. He could feel the edge of the chair hard against his legs, the solid, heavy weight of the goblet in his hands. And he was free to move his eyes away from the Inquisitor’s piercing stare. His mouth felt dry and he instinctively raised the goblet to his lips once more, drinking deeply.

  ‘It’ll be your birthday soon,’ Melyn said. ‘Then you can be initiated into the order. Once you’ve performed the ceremony you will be able to join the other novitiates in their training.’

  ‘Soon?’ Errol said. ‘But... It can’t be... I mean it was just last week I... How long have I been here?’

  ‘Nearly six months, Errol. You’ve been with us half a year.’

  ~~~~

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Obsidian Throne, in the Neuadd at Candlehall, is a powerful magical artefact. Some say that it stood on the top of the Hill of Kings, open to the elements, for millennia before King Brynceri built the hall that still surrounds it to this day. Inquisitor Ruthin insisted that it had been put there by The Shepherd himself, so that Balwen might have somewhere to rest after he had driven the Godless across the Gwahanfa Ranges into Llanwennog. Whatever its true history, there is no denying the power it contains. But that power, whilst it has guarded the Twin Kingdoms for many centuries, can also be brutally destructive.

  King Weddelm II was crowned when he was only nineteen, after his father had been killed in a hunting accident. Within six months of his coronation, he had been driven insane by the power of the throne, plunging the land into a decade of terrible war. Diseverin II, who was only eighteen when he came to power, wasted half of the manhood of the kingdom on his futile attempts to drive an army through the Wrthol pass. Other young kings have threatened the stability of the Twin Kingdoms down the years, all through the corrupting influence of the throne.

  After almost a century of bloody warring, King Diseverin IV finally made the royal edict that stands to this day. No heir of Balwen may assume the throne until after his twenty-first birthday. Should a king die before his eldest son reaches that age, then the senior amongst the leaders of the three orders, the Candle, the Ram and the High Ffrydd shall act as regent until the heir comes of age. In the four hundred years since Diseverin’s reign, only once has a regent ruled over the Twin Kingdoms, and that for only six months.

  A History of the House of Balwen by Barrod Sheepshead

  Benfro sat at the table, staring out of the window at the endless rain. He was bored. He hated winter with its storms and wind, its short days and long, dark nights. The cold didn’t bother him much, though he preferred to bask in the heat of the sun. But what was worst about the whole wretched season was that there was so little to do.

  There were plenty of chores: firewood to be collected and stacked; water to be carted from the stream; dishes to be washed; floors to be cleaned. And on top of that his mother had set him the task of making copies of several of her books on herbs. But the bad weather meant no trips to the village, no hunting in the woods, no climbing trees in search of nests to raid, no exploring. So he sat at the table with several sheets of parchment, a bottle of ink and a long quill pen, scratching out the letters one by one in precise, neat script, just as he had been taught. He had long since given up reading the words, preferring to stare out the window and lose himself in thoughts.

  Weeks had passed since he had awoken in the cave from his strange dream. He could still remember the fear and helplessness, but it was fading now, outshone by the wondrous feeling of flight. He longed for more dreams, to the point where he often went to his bed early and lay for what seemed like hours staring at the dark ceiling, waiting for sleep to come, yet trying to keep a hold of his consciousness. Always he woke the next morning, early, with no memory of anything but the wooden beams overhead. It puzzled him, since he had always dreamt and always been able to remember dreaming. Now it was as if someone had put a fence around his sleeping mind.

  Despite his mother’s earlier promises, Benfro had learned nothing of the subtle arts since his misadventure. She had spoken to Sir Frynwy and Meirionydd, as she had promised, but the answer had come back from both of them the same. He could not begin until his fourteenth hatchday had passed. He had only Ynys Môn’s spell of hiding to practice, and that seemed more of a sleight of hand than a proper spell.

  The constant patter of rain on the roof almost masked the sound of a footfall creaking on the wooden floor of the veranda outside the front door. In his distracted musings, it took Benfro a moment to register the noise. Even then, he thought he might have imagined it but for the feeling that there was something outside, someone outside. It was almost as if there was a silent hole in the background roar.

  Quietly, Benfro rose to his feet and crossed to the door. His mother was out in the forest somewhere. She was not far, he knew; she never went any great distance without either taking him with her or sending him to the village. Whoever, whatever stood outside was no dragon, however. He could tell without knowing how he knew. Or perhaps it was that the tread had been so light that it could only have been made by something much smaller even than him. Benfro reached for the latch and was surprised to find that his arm was trembling slightly. Taking a deep breath, he swung open the door.

  The figure standing on the threshold was unlike any he had ever seen before, but Benfro knew instantly that it was a man. No witless beast would come near a house such as this, nor would it clothe itself in what appeared to be dark brown cloth, similar to that with which Frecknock occasionally bedecked herself. Benfro had heard of clothes, but with his thick hide and close-lapping scales they were not something he had ever entertained the thought of wearing. The man, on the other hand, seemed to be almost completely enveloped in them.

  He was surprisingly short and slight, much smaller than Benfro had imagined the creatures who inspired such fear in his mother and the villagers would be. Yet there was an otherness about him that sent a shiver down Benfro’s spine to the very tip of his tail. The man was obviously as star
tled to see him, for he took a step backwards, gabbling something incomprehensible.

  ‘Who are you?’ Benfro asked. ‘What do you want?’

  The man stopped gabbling, lifted pale pink hands from the folds of his cloak and reached up to pull back his hood. With a start, Benfro realised he had seen such hands before.

  ‘You do not speak our tongue?’ the man said and Benfro’s attention snapped back to his head. It was strange, fleshy pink and round, with a thinning mop of grey hair settled on the top a bit like a crow’s nest in a tall tree. Two small eyes looked up at him, not unkindly.

  ‘You are Morgwm’s hatchling,’ the man said. ‘I was not sure. I did not think even she would do something so bold.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Benfro asked.

  ‘Forgive me, please,’ the man said. ‘It is a long time since I have heard the ancient language, longer still ere last I tried to speak it. I came here in search for Morgwm the Green. My name is Gideon.’

  ‘My mother has mentioned you,’ Benfro said, remembering the name. ‘She said that she trusted you.’

  ‘She does me a very great honour then,’ Gideon said. He was still standing outside, and although the veranda was covered, water dripped from his cloak to the wooden boards. Benfro looked around the clearing, hoping that his mother might be somewhere near, but she was nowhere to be seen.