The Rose Cord

by J. D. Oswald

  He searched the whole clearing, wading through the long grass at the bottom end, trying to convince himself that the scattered rocks might be the remains of some kind of dwelling. But there was no way the great boulders had ever been walls. What cataclysm had wrenched them from the mountain and thrown them into the clearing like a child’s discarded toys, he couldn’t even begin to guess. From near where he had searched in vain for Malkin’s drowned body the night before, he could see the pointed tip of the great peak rising out of the treeline as it climbed away from him. Even though he was hundreds of leagues closer to it than he had been while circling Magog’s castle, it still looked so distant as to be almost unreachable, its features undefined and misty. Yet it dominated the view as if it were beside the next valley, casting a shadow over the glade that chilled him inside even while the sun warmed his bones. He stared at it nevertheless, lost in the sheer grandeur of the spectacle. He knew, deep down, that he would have to get closer to that great mountain, to scale its snowy peak, to conquer it. Yet he didn’t even know its name. Didn’t even know if it had a name.

  The morning was a memory, afternoon half spent when Benfro decided that his search was fruitless. Eventually hunger got the better of him. It was almost a wrench to stop checking for signs of a concealed path leading to a hidden cottage nearby. He was astonished to see how far the day had progressed, in marked contrast to his own endeavours. Still, there was the stream, and it had a series of deep brown pools. It was only to be expected that he would find some fish.

  Retreating to the cave with his gutted and cleaned catch wrapped in broadleaves for baking, Benfro set about starting a fire on the hearth. The wood on the stack was brittle with age, tinder dry. With some dried grass he soon had a merry blaze going. To his delight, what little smoke the wood gave off rose straight up, pooling only slightly under the high ceiling before escaping through the crack and into the forest. Soon he had a glowing bed of embers and the hearthstone was too hot to touch. He laid the slabs of wrapped fish on the coals to cook and went to fetch his bag of vegetables.

  It wasn’t there.

  He rushed around the cavern, hearts hammering in his chest. Lit by the flickering light of the fire he could see it much more clearly now. Yet there was only one ledge that he could have put his bag on, only one ledge in the whole cave, as it turned out. It was empty. He looked at the head of the makeshift bed he had prepared. His leather satchel filled with gold still sat there, unmoved. He paced once more around the cavern, but there was nowhere that could hide even one of the vegetables it carried, let alone the whole bag. The bag containing Magog’s jewel.

  Benfro stood up uncertainly. He had not tried to get rid of the gem, but it was gone. He did not know where it was. He remembered all too well the debilitating pain and dizziness that had struck him when he had flung the thing from him, yet for now at least he could still function. Had it lost its power over him? After all he had completely forgotten about it for the whole of the day, and had wandered over a mile from the cave. Perhaps his time at the castle had somehow severed the link, freed him from the curse. Or maybe he was far enough away from the centre of the monster’s power that it could no longer control him the way it had done.

  Benfro went to the cave mouth and looked out across the clearing. The evening sky had faded to night, but the moon was not yet risen. In the pale starlight the waving grass was a luminescing white mass, the rocks black enemies creeping slowly towards him. He shook his head to get rid of the image. They were just stones that had rolled down from the mountain long ago. He stepped out into the cool air and sniffed, trying to catch an aroma on the breeze, of what he was not sure. There were many smells: the clinging woodsmoke of his fire, the tarry dampness of the leaves, curling and blackening around the fish, the strange spicy tang of the soil and the sweet fragrance of the pines that struggled to grow on the rocky cliff face above him. The roar of the waterfall and the constant whispering of water on stone blanked out most of the sounds of the forest, but he could hear the occasional bark of a fox and the elegant songs of night birds. Apart from the stars, the only light came from the cave mouth, yet it was enough to see the track, scuffed and marked by his day’s restless searching. Perhaps some bold creature from the forest, attracted by the smell of the food in the bag, had come down into the cave and carried it off. That would certainly account for its disappearance. There was no way he could follow such an animal in the dark, and even if it were daylight he doubted he could make out any tracks from the mess of his own comings and goings. Further from the cave entrance there might be clearer signs, but any search would have to wait until the morning.

  Benfro stepped back into the cave and returned to the fire. There was, he realized, nothing he could do about the jewel. All he could hope was that, wherever it was, it was near enough and secure enough to let him function. Tomorrow he could search more thoroughly; now he had to eat.

  The fish was perfectly cooked, moist and pink as he peeled back the blackened leaves. All too soon it was finished. He banked up the fire, thinking as he did so that he would have to find more firewood before long. Then, tired from his long day’s searching, he lay down on his bed to sleep.

  It wouldn’t come. For long, slow, timeless moments he stared at the flames, pondering the day. After the terrible events that had set him on his path and the rigours of his journey, actually arriving at his destination seemed like a terrible letdown. It was as if he had climbed to the top of some great mountain only to discover that all he could do now was go down again. Was this what Sir Frynwy, Meirionydd and all the others had intended all along – that he should just get so far away from the warrior priests that they would never find him? Then what? Was he to live out his life as a lonely creature in a cave in the woods? No, his mother had told him to find Corwen. Meirionydd had told him too, and the mother tree had helped him to get here, although he couldn’t be sure that was not a dream.

  Benfro’s mind churned over and over the same few thoughts. He couldn’t sleep for them writhing around in his mind. It seemed unfair. He was here now, so where was Corwen? Who was Corwen, for that matter, and why was he so important that his mother had trusted Benfro’s life to him? Then there was Magog’s jewel. Just thinking of it brought a scowl to his face. He could see its dark ruby malevolence glowing somewhere not too distant. A chain of red, so thin it was invisible, yet unbreakable still, linked him to it, anchored him to wherever it lay. And all the while it was feeding on him, growing ever fatter while that spark which was Benfro faded away.

  ‘And is it so bad to become Magog, Son of the Summer Moon?’

  Benfro shot into the air as if he had been stung. His musings had lulled him into a gentle slumber, but now he was awake, hearts pounding. The fire was still glowing red, banked up in a neat circle for the night, and sitting directly opposite him was another dragon.

  Melyn was angry at himself, but that didn’t mean that anyone he came across would feel his wrath any the less. His talk with Beulah, for all that it had been brief, had reminded him of many things he should never have forgotten. Usel’s post-mortem on Lleyn, for instance. The surgeon had delivered his report just before Melyn had been due to instruct the senior warriors, which meant he had not had time to question him about it. It had been satisfactory enough, detailed and thorough like the man who had written it, but a suspicious mind might have concluded that Usel had deliberately avoided him. And someone had to have helped with the procedure, yet no one was mentioned by name. Melyn had reread the report, and now the omission glared at him like a beacon on a far-distant hill.

  This late at night there were few people around for him to bully, so all Melyn had to accompany him on his journey were his angry thoughts. It worried him that Beulah might be prompted into foolish action by his news of her sister, and her infatuation with young Clun was a potentially destabilizing factor at precisely a time when the crown needed to be secure. On the other hand, injecting a bit of common blood into the Balwen line might be no bad thing,
and the novitiate certainly had talent enough to be chosen. Perhaps the queen had thought through her actions after all; he’d never known her to act out of simple love or compassion before.

  Still, any such marriage would have to be very carefully managed, and Melyn cursed loudly to the empty corridors that this would be a job more suited to Padraig’s skills than his own. He would rather walk unarmed into Tynhelyg than cede anything to the seneschal. It was as well he was leaving for Candlehall just as soon as there was enough light for the horses to see. There would be much delicate negotiation and manoeuvring, but yes, in the end a warrior priest would be consort. His control over the House of Balwen would be strengthened.

  It was a long ride to Candlehall, and not one he looked forward to. Melyn much preferred to control things from Emmass Fawr, like a great spider at the centre of a web that spread halfway around Gwlad. In any other situation he would have spoken directly to the queen. There were few enough adept at communicating through the aethereal; it made no sense to have more than one at the Neuadd with the skill. But he could hardly ask Beulah to pass on a message to Padraig about how best to deal with the diplomatic ripples caused by her choice of consort.

  At least that meant there were two reasons for going to Candlehall. Not that he took much comfort from the thought. It would still hurt his old bones just as much to make the journey.

  Melyn’s ill humour carried him all the way to the infirmary. Inside a low light glowed on a desk at the far wall and behind it, poring over a long manuscript, sat Usel.

  ‘Inquisitor,’ the medic said, half rising from his chair but not offering any kind of salute. ‘What can I do for you at this late hour? Have you need of some medication?’

  ‘I’m in rude health, Usel,’ the inquisitor said, trying not to let his anger rise. ‘But something has been bothering me lately and it’s possible you might be able to help.’

  ‘In that case, could I help outside?’ Usel asked. ‘Only there are patients in here who need all the rest they can get.’

  Fuming, Melyn allowed himself to be led into the corridor. Everything about Usel’s manner screamed lack of due respect, though nothing the medic actually did could be taken as offensive. It was more his manner.

  ‘You carried out the post-mortem on Lleyn,’ Melyn said.

  Usel nodded.

  ‘You found the remains of her unborn child?’ Usel nodded again and Melyn stared deep into the man’s eyes, trying to see the lie if it was there.

  ‘I did,’ Usel said. ‘As you asked. She was near to term so the baby had formed some rudimentary bones. There wasn’t much left, but something in the casket had preserved both mother and unborn child quite remarkably.’

  Melyn could almost see the autopsy room: quick flashes of surgical instruments, the coffin on a wheeled trolley, jars full of pickling fluid, a young man dressed in too-large medic’s robes.

  ‘Who helped you?’ Melyn knew the answer even before the image coalesced in the surgeon’s mind.

  ‘It was young Ramsbottom, actually,’ Usel said. ‘I hijacked him in a corridor. He said he’d been called to your office and then dismissed for the afternoon. That was the first time I met him. Remarkable lad. Very bright. Very quick. I’m just annoyed Andro got to him first. I could make a great surgeon out of him. Except that you’ve got him as your latest spy now, haven’t you.’

  ‘He saw the body?’ Melyn asked, storing up the jibe for a time when the medic was no longer quite so useful to the order.

  ‘Of course,’ Usel said, and the images flickered uncertainly in his mind. ‘He helped me take her out of the coffin, passed me instruments when I asked for them, weighed bits. Took notes.’

  ‘And did he ask questions?’

  ‘Of course. Like I said, he’s very inquisitive and very bright. Most boys his age would be put off by the thought of cutting up a dead body, but he was fascinated. Then again, his mother’s a healer, by all accounts.’

  ‘He told you his mother was a healer?’ Melyn said, and he could see the conversation play itself in Usel’s memory.

  ‘I told him that the order was all the mother and father he would ever know or need,’ Usel said. ‘I’m sure novitiates have been forgiven greater errors in the past.’

  Melyn glowered at the medic. There was something he was missing, but he wasn’t going to find out about it from Usel. The man was infuriating. Even if, technically, Errol should have been expelled for speaking of his past life, it was true that the law was more of a tradition and more honoured in the breach than in the observance. But there was nothing in the incident to indicate anything unusual. No spark of recognition. No magic

  ‘Have I put your mind at ease, Inquisitor,’ Usel asked, ‘or is there something else you’d like to know?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘On either score. Get back to your patients, Usel. At least you’re of some use to them.’

  15

  Perhaps the most difficult skill to master is that of dreamwalking. Many mages adept at manipulating the Llinellau Grym never attain this ability; many more never even attempt it.

  In its dreaming state the mind is much more attuned to the subtle nuances of the Grym, much better able to filter out the onslaught of unnecessary information and focus on the task at hand. And yet at the same time the mind at rest is at its least disciplined, allowing all the hopes and worries, desires and frustrations of life to come to the fore. Without the restraints of discipline to keep these in check, an inexperienced mage might find himself wandering endlessly through the ethereal realms in search of an idea. Or waiting endlessly for a loved one to arrive in a place that only exists in his imagination for an assignation that was never arranged.

  The true dreamwalker is unaffected by these distractions. That is not to say that he does not have them, for to be without such concerns is to be devoid of all that makes a dragon intelligent, all that separates him from the base beasts of the forest. No, a dreamwalker knows all these things but also has control of his dreams, so that even asleep he can see with a clear focus, even asleep he can direct his actions. And so he can use the stillness of sleep to increase his reach or go to places that might otherwise be closed to him, cut off from the Grym by the manipulations of others. In his dreams he can go back to the source without losing his mind.

  Corwen teul Maddau, On the Application of the

  Subtle Arts

  The dragon was impossibly old. His face was sunken, one chipped fang protruding from his mouth where an ancient scar had puckered his lip. His ears were gnarled and bitten like a tomcat’s, and what few scales still stuck to his cheeks were chipped and cracked, their sheen long faded to matt. In the gaps his skin was leathery and brittle. Only his eyes were bright, twin spots of life glowing in the reflected red of the firelight. Benfro shivered as he looked at them. It was as if his mind were an open book to be read.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘He was a great dragon, Magog, if the tales are to be believed. Some would say he was the greatest mage that ever walked this earth. Would it be so terrible to become him, to let him reign once more? He could destroy the men that killed your mother. He could destroy all mankind.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Benfro asked again, not daring to hope that he knew the answer, not understanding how this ancient dragon could have appeared in front of him.

  ‘But there would be no you any more.’ The withered creature ignored his question. ‘No, Magog could only rise again if you were prepared to surrender yourself completely to him. There’d be nothing left of your mind once you did that, nothing left of your self. And what good is revenge if you’re not around to savour it.’

  ‘Corwen?’ Benfro asked. ‘Are you Corwen? Only, if you are, I’ve been looking for you. My mother –’

  ‘Morgwm the Green. I knew her as a hatchling,’ the dragon said. ‘She was a promising student, a powerful dragon in her own right. But she was afraid. In the end her fear was her undoing. Now only a fraction of what she was – what she could have been – remain
s. Tied there, sitting in your bag.’ His finger bony and long, its talon black and grimy, blunt at the end, he pointed at the leather satchel that still sat at the end of Benfro’s bed. ‘She feared the warrior priests, perhaps wisely since she had foreseen her death at their hands. And yet she helped the people. I always thought her kindness would be her undoing.’

  Unthinkingly Benfro reached towards the bag, stroked the pocket on its side. Touching it brought memories of his mother flooding back: the smell of her skin after she had been preparing herbs, her indulgent smile when he correctly recited a recipe, the lilt of her voice when she was singing him a lullaby. All these memories and more washed over him like a warm blanket. And behind them all was a sense of pride in his achievements tempered with a maternal worry that longed to protect, could never quite give up.

  ‘Stop that at once!’ the dragon snapped, and where before its voice had been neutral, perhaps even nostalgic in its reminiscences, now it was harsh, commanding and carried with it a force that could not be denied. Chastised, Benfro whipped his hand away from the bag, still snatching at the feelings of home as they slipped away like eels through his fingers.

  ‘You can’t afford to cling to the past, Benfro,’ the old dragon said. ‘Those memories you carry with you are not your mother. They’re not even a pale imitation of what your mother once was. But they’ll suck you in just as surely as Magog. Even now you long for that touch, but be warned. A dragon’s jewels are not to be trifled with. Remove one from its fellows and only ill can come of it.’

  ‘But I thought it was safe now,’ Benfro said, beginning to reach for the pocket again. He stopped himself when he saw the scowl appear on the old dragon’s face. ‘I performed the rite of reckoning. I burned her remains.’