The Rose Cord

by J. D. Oswald

  And then what? It was almost a voice in his head asking the question, a small nugget of reason trying to make itself heard. Benfro had no idea how he had come to be in this cloister. He had not flown, had not even left the cave as far as he was aware. And yet here he was.

  ‘I’ve heard a rumour she’s thinking of making him Duke of Abervenn,’ one of the men was saying. ‘Then she’s going to take him as her consort.’

  ‘Nonsense, Verrid. Queen Beulah wouldn’t do anything so reckless. She’s just rewarding the man who saved her life.’

  ‘Boy, more like. I understand he’s not seen twenty summers yet.’

  Benfro only half-understood the words. He was aware that the men were coming ever closer, and looking around he could see that only the lie of the shadows was keeping him from view. There was nothing to hide behind and no exit from the cloister nearby save for into the courtyard through the arches. Could he cross the cloister and make it over the low stone wall before they saw him? It was unlikely. Indecision had him paralysed, and before he knew it the two men were alongside him.

  With a desperate lunge, Benfro tried to knock them both to the ground. He had no plan, only to kill them both before the alarm was raised. Instead, his hand and outstretched talons passed right through them as if they weren’t there.

  ‘Did you feel that?’ the man called Verrid asked.

  ‘Feel what?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was like … well, like someone had just walked over my grave.’

  ‘Honestly, Verrid, I don’t know where you get these notions.’ His companion shook his head. ‘Now come on, we don’t want to be late.’

  Benfro watched, astonished, as the two elderly men trotted off up the cloister, disappearing through a doorway at the far end. He held out one hand in front of him, bringing the other up to it and touching them together. They felt as he would have expected them to. He reached out for the wall, patted it lightly. It didn’t yield.

  Bemused, he walked quickly up the cloister towards the doorway through which the men had left, his feet making no sound on the ground. He kept to the solid wall and its shadow, senses straining for any feeling that there might be other people about. Two large wooden doors stood open, and sounds of activity spilled out from beyond them. There were voices raised in the high-pitched shouts of urgent business, the clattering of metal on wood, the stomach-gurgling smell of fresh-baked bread and roasting meat. Benfro felt the presence of dozens of men. He wasn’t prepared to take the chance that none of them could see him.

  Turning from the doors, Benfro saw that opposite them the cloister opened up, a wide stone path leading across the exposed ground to the great building at its centre. There was something about the structure that both repelled and intrigued him. He knew he shouldn’t be here, knew that he should be getting as far away as possible, as quickly as possible, before he was found out. But at the same time the building called to him. It was utterly unlike the cloister surrounding it. Majestic, it was built on a completely different scale, with intricate carvings wrought into the stone as if it were soft butter.

  The carvings were as crisp as if they had been newly sculpted. Benfro saw epic battles, great hunts and scenes from a mythology he knew all too well. This was a dragon palace. There was Rasalene himself, wooing proud Arhelion. There surely was Palisander at the Deepening Pools. Other stories were depicted in intricate detail, and he strained to make everything out in the evening shadows. With a start he realized he was standing quite close to the building. He had crossed the open courtyard somehow and now stood in front of the great wooden doors that barred entry.

  Then, with a deep creaking groan that he felt through his feet, the doors swung inward. He could see nothing in the darkness of the great hall until a man, tiny in the enormous space, walked, backwards, out of the shadows and down the uncomfortably large steps. His head was bowed, and he passed Benfro without a glance before finally turning and heading off across the courtyard towards the refectory.

  Curiosity was ever Benfro’s undoing. He knew it always got him into trouble and yet he couldn’t resist the invitation of the open doors. Treading lightly, he stepped up and into the gloom.

  16

  Gwlad is a big place, and those you might be seeking could be anywhere in it. So why set out in search of your foe when you can have him come to you?

  The first step in achieving your goal is to know your enemy. This is as true in employing magic against him as it is in any other strategy of war. For the weak-willed it is enough simply to plant the command ‘Come!’ into their mind and they will. For others it may be necessary to take a more subtle approach. Use the mental discipline you have learned to study your opponent, to find out his needs and desires. Then play to these feelings, suggesting they may be fulfilled if he but come to a certain place or agree to do a certain thing. With practice you can influence even the most iron-willed of enemies until he stands, alone and unarmed, at your door.

  A note of caution should be added here, although it applies to all practical applications of magic. Be aware that while you are seeking to manipulate others, they may very well be seeking to manipulate you. In a battle of wills it is for you to recognize the foreignness of thoughts placed in your mind even as you plant suggestions in the minds of others. Rid yourself of base desires, idle fancies and loose emotions, and your enemy will have much less with which to tempt you.

  Father Castlemilk, An Introduction to the Order of the

  High Ffrydd

  Candlehall was not Melyn’s favourite place in Gwlad. There were too many people ill disciplined in their daily habits, ill disciplined in their thinking. Stray thoughts and emotions battered him like a blizzard so that he had to tune down his sensitivity. It made him uncomfortable knowing that there was so much out there he could not sense, so much swamped by the bland banality of daily existence.

  It hadn’t always been so. When he’d first risen to the position of inquisitor, the capital city had been a place of infinite possibilities. The babbling of emotions, passions and intrigue had been a murmur then, something to be dipped into like a well-written reference book. He had used his gift to weed out dissent among the ranks of the nobles, to vet the endless stream of merchants who begged the crown for favourable trading agreements, even to gently manipulate both the king and the other orders.

  But as the years had passed, so the city had swollen ever larger, the cumulative thoughts growing from a whisper to a shout. Or was it that he’d grown more sensitive to it all, cooped up in his mountaintop retreat? It was of no matter. He was here now and he’d just have to put up with it.

  It was a relief to get off his horse once they had finally made it through the city and into the palace courtyard. Melyn’s joints ached and creaked as he flexed his legs. The rest of the troop sat on their horses awaiting his command. He could sense their weariness too, but they showed no outward sign.

  ‘Billet the men, get some food and rest,’ Melyn said to Captain Osgal, handing him the reins of his horse as he did so. The captain saluted but said nothing. With a nod, the whole troop turned as one and trotted off towards the palace stables. Trying not to be jealous of the rest they would have, the inquisitor climbed the stone steps to the palace entrance.

  ‘Inquisitor Melyn, what a pleasure.’ Seneschal Padraig stood in the doorway, his smile not reaching his eyes.

  ‘Padraig.’ Melyn nodded the most minimal of greetings. Inside the hall was dark, torches not yet lit despite the encroaching evening.

  ‘I have to admit it was a masterstroke,’ Padraig said as they headed into the depths of the palace. ‘Not even I saw it coming. You must have schooled the boy excellently.’

  ‘What are you talking about? What boy?’ For a moment Melyn thought there must be more news about Errol, but he knew that any such information would have reached him first.

  ‘Why, Clun, of course,’ Padraig said. ‘And hiding him behind the gift of the dragon. If I hadn’t sound intelligence to the contrary, I’d suspect
you’d even set up the assassination attempt.’

  ‘Ah Padraig, you see your own level of sophistication in every scheme,’ Melyn said. ‘I sent the young man to escort the dragon. It was his idea to give it to the queen as a gift in the first place. Anything that occurred after that is the Shepherd’s doing.’

  ‘Well, he certainly moves in mysterious ways,’ the seneschal said. ‘The whole palace is abuzz with rumours about the queen and the commoner.’

  ‘All of them true, I’ve no doubt. You know Beulah as well as I do. Once she’s made her mind up about a thing, there’s no changing her. And I for one don’t think we should try.’

  ‘You would say that. He’s one of yours after all,’ Padraig said.

  ‘It’s true he’s a novitiate of the High Ffrydd,’ Melyn said. ‘But I’d hardly say he’s one of mine. He’s only been in the order a year. He’s not even a warrior priest.’

  ‘She can’t marry him,’ the seneschal said. ‘He’s a merchant’s son from some backwater village no one’s ever heard of. The noble houses are close to revolt.’

  ‘I think you’re exaggerating a little, Padraig. Besides, she could always make him Duke of Abervenn. I believe that title’s going begging at the moment.’

  ‘You’re as bad as she is,’ Padraig said. ‘You’ve no idea the work I have to do just keeping this place together. Quite apart from finding the gold for your war. It’s a wonder we haven’t had more unrest. Beulah’s not as popular as her father was, you know. There’s a limit to how much you can raise taxes. And how many sons you can conscript.’

  ‘So what the Twin Kingdoms need is a reason to celebrate, something to bring the people together. Something to make them love their queen. Something like a royal wedding.’

  ‘You’ve thought it all through, haven’t you, Melyn,’ Padraig said

  ‘I’ve been on a horse for the last two weeks with no one to talk to except Captain Osgal.’ Melyn laughed. ‘Of course I’ve thought it through. And how we’re going to overthrow the House of Ballah.’

  ‘I’m all ears,’ Padraig said, the old contempt scarcely hidden in his voice. They had passed through the great hall and were approaching the administrative wing, the seneschal’s own little kingdom. ‘I just can’t wait to hear this great plan.’

  ‘So you can pass it on to Ballah’s spies?’ Melyn said. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ The seneschal stopped in his tracks. ‘How could you even imply—’

  ‘Go back to running the palace, Padraig. Start organizing a royal wedding. Do what you’re good at. Leave the war making to us old warriors.’ Melyn sent a quick rough mental command to the seneschal, noting with a mixture of satisfaction and sadness how slow the man was to react. Padraig stiffened, then marshalled his reflexes enough to push Melyn away, though not before the inquisitor had seen past his outrage to the calculating schemes never far behind.

  ‘One of these days you’ll go too far, Melyn,’ Padraig said, but he sank into a chair nearby and Melyn could see that he no longer intended following him to the Neuadd. He said nothing, simply taking his leave and heading out across the palace.

  It was a long walk to the great hall, but Melyn had plenty to think about. He had seen from that briefest of glimpses that Padraig was already resigned to Clun becoming consort; he was just making as much noise about it as he could while he manipulated public opinion. No doubt several noble houses were being offered all manner of favours in return for welcoming the queen’s choice. In a month or two everyone would be saying how wise and generous Beulah was to pick the lowliest of her subjects for the highest of offices. It would be a modern-day fairy tale.

  Benfro felt like he was in a different world. Over the threshold was light and warm as if the collected sunlight of a thousand years were trapped by something even more impenetrable than those great oak doors. The entire interior of the building was one great hall, its ceiling high overhead supported by massive stone beams carved into a huge vault. The tall windows he had seen from outside seemed even bigger from within. They were intricately glazed with coloured panes, cut and fitted to show scenes from legend. The whole hall was a great story book just waiting to be read, but for now it was all he could manage to keep his mouth shut as he stared at the ever shifting light that played through the epic pictures and on to the floor.

  And what a floor. It was stone as white as bleached bones and polished to a mirror-smooth surface. The individual blocks were as big as his mother’s house, and he could only just make out the narrowest of joints. It took him a while to realize what was wrong as he looked down, so overpowering was the perfection of the craftsmanship. He could see the arched ceiling reflected overhead, and the great windows too. But he could see no reflection of himself. It was as if he wasn’t really there.

  His hearts stuttered in his chest like trapped rats, and a rushing sense of vertigo threatened to topple him. Snapping his eyes away from his non-image, Benfro froze, wondering why he hadn’t noticed it before. As soon as he had entered the building.

  The hall was dominated by a massive throne. It sat upon a dais at the far end, a heavy affair carved from rock as black as the night and yet glistening as if it were wet. Although it had been altered for a smaller occupant, it was plainly the throne of a dragon, and one of great size at that. But the only live dragon in the place lay curled up on the dais at the foot of the great chair. She was a miserable thing, no spirit left in her at all. A fetid aura clung to her skin like a coat of greyish-black slime. A halter of leather was around her neck and a thin silver chain led up from this to the dark recesses of the throne. Stepping forward, Benfro approached the dais and climbed the huge stone steps until he stood before the throne. Sensing his approach, the miserable dragon lifted a heavy head but looked straight through him. For a moment Benfro didn’t recognize his old foe, so changed was she since last they had sparred. Frecknock had not fared well at the hands of her captors. Once proud of her appearance to the point of dandiness, now she was a shrivelled, pathetic figure, her scales limp and lifeless, her wings ragged and torn.

  ‘What is it disturbs you, my little pet?’ A voice spoke from the dark recesses of the throne. The silver chain pulled at Frecknock’s neck, and the enslaved dragon looked around, a mixture of fear and hatred on her face.

  ‘I thought I felt a presence, my queen.’ Her voice was so obsequious, for a moment Benfro doubted it truly was Frecknock speaking. Gone was the haughty indifference and arrogant self-confidence. Here was a creature now completely subjugated, a broken, pathetic thing. He took no satisfaction from knowing she suffered so.

  ‘A presence, indeed.’ Something moved in the darkness, leaning forward from the great throne. A young woman appeared, dwarfed by the size of the seat she claimed for her own.

  Benfro had seen her once before, but not this close. Queen Beulah of the Speckled Face was small even for one of her kind. Her face was not ruddy and bearded, like the warrior priests she commanded, but rather pale pink and speckled with random spots of brown as if some terrible disease had struck her in childhood. She was studying the area where he stood, cold black eyes glinting as she turned her head slightly as if to catch an image in the corner of her vision.

  ‘Why, yes.’ She tugged the silver leash with a thought. Benfro could see its end hanging in the air by her head, no heavier than a mote of dust. Her hands were clasped together over her stomach, as if she could not bear to touch the leash. ‘Clever little dragon. There is someone here, and well hidden. Is it a suitor, come to try his luck? Don’t be shy now, warrior. You obviously have great skill to come so to this place. Show yourself that I might appraise your physical worth.’

  Frozen by the growing sense of fear that filled the great hall like ice, Benfro could do nothing but stand and stare, transfixed by the vision of the tiny woman and her tame dragon. It began to dawn on him that power was not necessarily reflected by size. Queen Beulah was small, true, but she radiated an evil more terrible even than that of Inquisitor
Melyn.

  ‘No?’ the queen asked. ‘Perhaps you’re too shy? Or maybe you lack the skill. Did you come here by accident and don’t know how to get home?’ She peered almost myopically in his direction, again turning her head as if doing so might make him clear. Then she stopped, lifted her head in a sniffing motion, opened her mouth and almost tasted the air in front of her.

  ‘This is no suitor come to give himself to his queen,’ she snorted, anger flushing her speckled face. ‘No wonder you sensed him first, my pretty little Frecknock. I smell dragon!’ She backed away from the flickering lights into the darker recesses of the throne, shouting, ‘Melyn! Inquisitor! Are you asleep? There is a dragon in our midst, an infiltrator!’

  Benfro felt something hot on his back. He looked around and saw a figure that at once struck terror into his hearts and filled them to bursting with rage. Melyn strode across the hall towards the throne, his eyes blazing red as he scanned back and forth. Those twin points of loathing did not have his focus yet, could not seem to see him even though he stood in the open. He turned away from the throne, intending to flee the way he had come, but the great doors, much further away than he recalled, swung shut with an earth-shaking crash.

  ‘Find him! Find him now!’ the queen screeched from the safety of her stolen throne. Her voice was an angry bleating thing, demanding, not used to being thwarted. Benfro leaped down the steps, running over the polished floor with all the speed he could muster. Somewhere there was a cave in a clearing where he felt safe. He had to find his way back there. Straining his ears, Benfro listened for the conversation of the villagers. Somehow he knew they were the key to his safe return.