The Rose Cord

by J. D. Oswald

  Beulah travelled the Calling Road at the speed of thought. Her aethereal form sparkled with the power she drew from the Obsidian Throne. Where it clashed with the glamours of the road, strange colours rippled and eddied the scenery, as if it were painted on great canvasses blowing in an unseen wind. She could see that the road had been strengthened recently, no doubt in an attempt to attract the wayward dragon. Its pull was insidious, almost undeniable, but she shrugged it off. She was heading where it wanted her to go anyway.

  In scarcely a dozen heartbeats she was upon the great building, more fortress than monastery. Its protective wards welled up at her presence, but she knew how to deal with them and slipped easily inside. She found the inquisitor in his private chapel, his aethereal form swathed in ruby light, his attention almost completely absorbed. Only as she stood directly behind him, within touching distance if such a concept was meaningful in the dream state, did he stiffen a little, sense her presence and then relax.

  ‘I meant to contact you later this evening, Your Majesty. You’ve saved me the effort.’ He shrugged off the red glow, turned to face her. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘I was speaking to Clun this afternoon,’ Beulah said. ‘His wounds are almost healed, by the way. But we got to talking about his life. Believe me, it’s like drawing teeth trying to get him to speak to me. He’s so shy.’

  ‘It’s a wonder you even try,’ Melyn said, and Beulah was sure there was a hint of bitterness in his voice. ‘What would you want with the likes of him, a merchant’s son from the back country?’

  ‘He took an assassin’s bolt meant for me,’ Beulah said. ‘And besides, he’s young and strong, handsome too. He’s not stupid, and he’s not scheming like all the nobles, who spend their lives stabbing each other in the back. I like him.’

  ‘Of course,’ Melyn said. ‘But you don’t need to nurse him yourself. It’s demeaning.’

  ‘Far from it,’ Beulah said. ‘You of all people should understand that. He’s a commoner, yes. But by tending him myself I show everyone how much I value my people. All of my people, not just the rich or the powerful.’

  ‘So what was it you and he talked about?’ Melyn asked.

  ‘About his home, Pwllpeiran,’ Beulah said. ‘And about his stepbrother, Errol. I must confess that I’d quite forgotten him and all that nonsense with Lleyn’s body. Tell me it was all nonsense, Melyn.’

  ‘I always thought it was, otherwise I’d have mentioned him earlier,’ Melyn said. ‘The post-mortem confirmed the unborn child died with its mother. Either Prince Balch fathered the boy on another woman or Errol just happens to look a lot like him.’

  ‘The Balch I remember wouldn’t even look at another woman once he met Lleyn. He mooched over her like a lovesick puppy. So the boy’s likely a bastard of his retinue. There were a number of royal cousins, I seem to recall. Perhaps we should nurture him; he might make a good puppet king in Tynhelyg. So what were you going to talk to me about?’

  ‘Strangely enough, the boy Errol,’ Melyn said. ‘I sent him off to Tynhelyg as a spy to find out what Iolwen’s doing. He should be there still, but our insider turned him over to the king.’

  ‘Poor boy. It will crush Clun to know his stepbrother’s dead.’

  ‘He’s not dead,’ Melyn said. ‘At least not yet. King Ballah’s got him locked up in the palace, apparently. But that’s not the worst of it. Your sister Iolwen is to marry Prince Dafydd within the month, and she already carries his child.’

  ‘Iolwen? How could she? How could she sell out her own family?’

  ‘We’re as much to blame, I fear, Your Majesty,’ Melyn said. ‘We sent her to live with the enemy when she was scarce six years old. Is it surprising that she’s come to regard her captors as more family than those who gave her away in the first place?’

  ‘But a child, Melyn. King Ballah must be aware how much that would upset the balance of power.’

  ‘Would that be the balance you’re so keen on tipping in your favour?’

  ‘We must hasten preparations for war.’ Beulah ignored the taunt. ‘Ballah won’t be slow in launching an offensive as soon as he has a great grandson with a claim to my throne.’

  ‘My warrior priests are on full alert, Your Majesty. And the noble houses have been building up their armouries since your coronation. But the battle plan needs to be changed. We can’t hope to break through the pass at Tynewydd any more.’

  ‘I take it you have an alternative?’

  ‘I do, but I’ll have to come to Candlehall to discuss it with the noble generals,’ Melyn said. ‘I’m leaving at first light.’

  ‘Good,’ Beulah said. ‘And it’s perhaps time I thought about doing my duty. Goodnight, Melyn. Safe journey. We’ll speak more of this when you get here.’

  Beulah snapped back into her body in an instant, such was the power and pull of the great throne. It took her a moment to compose herself, then she stood and walked out of the hall, leaving the prone, sleeping form of Frecknock the dragon. The creature was completely spineless but was also very sensitive to fluxes in the aethereal. Beulah couldn’t say why, but she felt safer travelling through the dreamscape when the dragon was beside her physical self. Keeping it nearby also helped to unsettle all those who came to the Neuadd to petition her with their petty grievances.

  Two guards, both warrior priests, she noted with quiet satisfaction, followed her across the courtyard and through the corridors to her private rooms. She told them to guard the entrance and stepped into the darkened hall.

  It was late, and what few servants she found she dismissed. Beulah was in no mood for an audience; there would be time for palace gossip later. In her chamber she bathed herself and dressed in a simple silk wrap. But she didn’t climb into her bed, instead letting herself quietly out of the room like she had as a young child sneaking out after hours.

  The room she was looking for was not far from her own; she had insisted on this. Its door was not locked and she let herself in silently, stopping on the threshold to listen. Soft breathing came from the bed across the room; he was asleep.

  Clun’s dreams were a tumble of confused images, much the same as any she had brushed with her mind. But there was a central theme to them which satisfied her ego. Beulah tending him, an association with caring and the first green shoots of a powerful selfless love for her were all in the mix of his unconscious thoughts. Unlike Merrl, there was no subterfuge, no artifice in him. He was plain-speaking, straightforward, dependable. And his wound was almost completely healed now, his strength beginning to return after long months fighting the poison that had been meant for her.

  Letting her wrap drop to the floor, Beulah climbed into the bed, feeling the warmth radiating from Clun’s sleeping body. She gently withdrew from his mind, reached out and stroked the side of his face, listening to the change in his breathing as he slowly began to wake. And then before he was truly aware, she leaned close to him, whispering in his ear as her hands wandered over his chest, felt the shiny smooth scar tissue of his wound.

  He woke slowly, almost groggily, rolling over on to his side and opening languid eyes. Perhaps he thought he was still dreaming, that in his dreams he might truly have won the heart of the queen, so impossibly high above him. Whatever the reason, he did not panic to find her in his bed. He managed only to say ‘My lady’ in a hushed whisper before she kissed him deeply and wrapped herself about his sleepy body.

  14

  It has long been the custom among dragonkind to lay the reckoned jewels of their dead to rest in great collections. Wanderers and alone in life, it is the wish of every dragon to spend eternity in the company of his ancestors, mingling thoughts and experiences. It is the final duty of the healer to bring fire to the body of a recently dead dragon, reckoning its jewels. But it is the duty of the mage to take those jewels, that precious essence, and to place them in the sacred spot. And here the departed will be welcomed to the fold, one in many and many in one, adding themselves to the repository of knowledge and wi
sdom.

  The mage is the guardian of the jewels and they are the focus of his power. He alone can know the location of the hoard, and it is his magics that protect and nurture it. Yet when the time comes for a mage to die, he will head off into the wilds and in a final act of self-immolation allow the world to take him to its cold embrace. The wise mage will choose the location of his death with great care. For only by laying himself to rest at a point where the Grym flows strongest through the earth can he hope to maintain a connection with his hoard. Even after death he will remain its protector, alone and vigilant for all time.

  Healer Trefnog, The Apothecarium

  Noise clamoured at Benfro’s ears, the rushing bubbling cacophony of the waves as they crashed over him on their return from the banks, the river refilling the hole he had punched in its surface. For confusing moments he didn’t know which way was up and which was down. He had no breath in his lungs and water filled his nose, his mouth. He wanted to cough and retch, but he could only breathe liquid.

  And then his feet hit the riverbed. A thin layer of soft silt covered hard rock. It was a solid anchor that snapped the spinning world back into place. Balance returned, and Benfro pushed himself upright in a great heave, broke the surface like a fountain bursting forth. He expected to sink back, to have to tread water while he tried to clear his airways, but he was still on the rock. Standing upright, he discovered the surface of the river came only to his chest.

  Coughing and spluttering, water dripping from his nose and mouth, he felt over his shoulder for Malkin. There was no sign of the little creature. He cast this way and that, splashing the surface in his search. The river had healed already from the wound of his landing, no ripples betraying a drowning squirrel. Long thin fronds of grass overhung the banks on both sides, hiding anything that might have lodged there. He wanted to call out, but he was still gasping and retching up the water he had breathed, so he could only manage a hoarse whisper.

  ‘Malkin?’ he croaked, but expected no reply. From where he stood, waist deep in the slow flow, he could not see over the slight rise of the riverbank. Perhaps the squirrel had been thrown clear of the water and had landed in the springy grass. He waded upstream, heading for the point a hundred feet or so away where the track dipped into a shallow ford as it crossed the stream. The water grew progressively shallower, the surface beginning to break over stones and small boulders. He scanned the clearing as best he could, but the last light was fading from the sky, red painted over the strips of cloud so high overhead.

  ‘Malkin?’ Benfro called out again, more strongly this time, though his throat burned with the forced swallowing of too much water. Still there was no reply. With mounting concern he pulled himself from the river and picked out a path back downstream to the point where he had hit. He could see nothing. Slowly he searched along the river, through the whole clearing and on into the woods where the water once more became shallow. He crossed, peering under the overhanging banks and feeling about in the black pools between rocks where a floating body would surely have come to rest. A body. There could be little hope that he might find Malkin alive now.

  Miserable, Benfro waded back up the river towards the track and the cave, hoping he might spot something from there. His hearts leaped whenever he heard a noise, but it was always some bird chirping a greeting to its mate or a startled frog croaking into the grass. By the time he reached the bags, lying in the thick grass, he had given up all hope, a well of grief opening up as great as that he had felt at the death of the villagers and the cruel murder of his mother. Perhaps it was all part of the same thing. It was so terribly unfair. Everyone around him died and yet he survived. Why?

  There were no answers as the night crept over the glade. His only company was the endless song of the wind in the trees and the occasional cries of nocturnal animals about their dark business. The stars shone bright overhead, clearer than he remembered ever having seen them, but there was no joy in their majesty. With a heavy heart, he opened the food bag and pulled its contents out, checking for damage. The fruit and vegetables were mostly well preserved, cushioned by the grass. He felt no hunger, only sadness and a deep fatigue that would not go away. More out of habit than anything else, he ate the last slivers of fish and swallowed a few leaves. A collection of nuts lay at the bottom of the bag, surrounding the leaf-wrapped jewel that had brought him so much trouble. They should have been Malkin’s, he realized. They were not dragon food but provisions for the small creature. Once more he raised himself from the ground and cried out to the darkness, ‘Malkin, where are you?’ Once more the trees whispered a faint echo then returned to their endless gossip.

  Benfro slumped down into the grass, desolate. Tears welled up in his eyes and he let them flow. There was no shame in his sorrow, and even if there had been he was too far gone to care. The night passed slowly by and a thin sliver of moon rose into the sky, casting a silvery light over the clearing. Whether he slept or not, he could not be sure. The weariness that crept over him as he flew had been blown away by the excitement of his landing and the desperate futility of his later search. Now, as he lay swaddled only in his grief, it returned, numbing him for timeless moments before being swept away by the pinprick realization of what had happened. It grew cold and ever colder as the night progressed and yet he just lay where he was, paralysed by grief.

  She came to him before the dawn, walking a few inches above the grass as if that was the most natural thing in the world. She glowed with the light of the moon, her skin as pale as her hair, her eyes twin dark orbs that could swallow anyone who dared to stare into them too long. Her form was the same as she had appeared to him before – elegant, thin and tall, with that sharply angled slender face and long pointed ears. On her shoulder, looking as if nothing had happened, sat Malkin.

  ‘Don’t despair, Benfro; your friend has come to no harm,’ she said. ‘I asked him to join you on your journey as a guide. Now you’ve reached your destination he has returned to me.’

  Benfro wanted to reply, wanted to ask a thousand questions. He needed to thank the lady for her help, but he was immobile, speechless. All he could do was watch as she stood before him.

  ‘Tell Corwen he owes me one now,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘And as for you, little dragon, I’ve no doubt we’ll meet again.’

  The moon was behind her, a thin slip of silver light against the speckled black of the sky. It set into the trees, and Benfro watched in awe as the figure faded away into its light, an image of her smile lingering in his memory long after she was gone. He lay perfectly still, at peace for the first time in far too long. His grief was still a real feeling, but the blind panic at losing his guide was gone now, replaced with a joy at knowing it was back where it belonged. It was only as the rising sun began to pick out the treetops that he realized he had slept the night through in a kind of waking dream.

  Picking himself up from his resting place, Benfro stretched away the kinks in his spine, resolving to find himself somewhere more comfortable to spend the next night. He surveyed the clearing, noting the steep slope that broke down from the north side towards him, the low cliff with its waterfall and cave mouth. It was exactly as he had imagined it. He knew this was where he was supposed to come. Even the mother tree had confirmed that for him.

  Now all he had to do was find Corwen.

  The clearing was perhaps five hundred paces from side to side across the slope, a little more from the topmost corner where the river emerged to the spot where it plunged once more into the trees. Benfro spent the whole day quartering it, this way and that, searching for any clue as to the whereabouts of Corwen.

  The first place he looked was the cave. It would make a good place to sleep, he decided, warm and dry despite the rush of the waterfall a few feet from its mouth. This was only just big enough for him to squeeze through, but the cavern widened out beyond, arching up and back to a point where a shaft of light speared down from a hole in the forest above. Directly beneath this, placed with a great dea
l of care, a circle of flat stones had been built into a hearth. There was a stack of firewood against the rock wall near the fireplace, dry and cracked with age. Only the faintest cover of ash dusted the hearth. It was the only sign that anyone had ever been in this place – but not for a very long time.

  The floor was a silty earth, dark and with a faint spicy aroma he couldn’t identify. Still it was pleasant enough, scenting the air as he explored. It didn’t take long to measure the full extent of the place, and it seemed to him that no dragon had ever lived there. He set about collecting as much dry grass and heather as he could from the clearing, piling it up in a corner close but not too close to the hearth so that he might make a more comfortable night of it. The satchel of gold coins he placed at the head of this makeshift bed, his food bag on a ledge in the stone wall.

  Outside, Benfro tried shouting for Corwen, but quite apart from feeling he was being terribly rude, he was fairly certain that yelling would not get him any response. For a moment he was worried that he had come to the wrong place, but the dream of the mother tree, Malkin perched happily on her shoulder, reassured him. She had said he had succeeded in his quest, so this must be the place. Equally he was sure that the dragon was here, somewhere. His friends would not have sent him to the other side of the world for nothing.

  The nagging worry set in at about midday, when it occurred to him that men might have found this place before him. Had he not lost months in the keeping of the mother tree and under Magog’s malign influence? There was a certain implacable inevitability about Melyn, the inquisitor. Benfro could remember all too well the wave of incandescent fury that had grasped at him as he jumped from the cliff top and made good his escape. There was no way the old warrior would leave things at that. Benfro knew that somewhere out there a troop at least was scouring the forest in search of him. Perhaps they had come to this place months ago and carted off the old dragon. The thought filled him with a terrible sense of guilty dread. If he hadn’t done whatever it was he had done to offend the men, they would never have come this far.