The Rose Cord

by J. D. Oswald

  ‘And you think you can learn it all in one night?’ Cowen scoffed, a little bit of humour returning to his voice. ‘I doubt a dragon’s lifetime’s long enough to even begin. It won’t kill you to rest a while. There’s much to do in the morning.’

  ‘What about Magog’s jewel? Do you know where it is?’

  ‘It’s somewhere safe, somewhere you can’t touch it, but neither can you be rid of it. That will be a more difficult task.’

  ‘And my borrowed wings? Benfro asked, aware that he was tired, yet still desperate to know more.

  ‘Ah yes, your wings,’ Corwen said. ‘They were a gift you should not have taken, for they came with a high price attached. At the moment you have not the knowledge or experience to fly, yet you flew here. Every time you use your wings Magog is flying, not you. Every time you fly he takes a little more of your soul. You must take control of your wings, Benfro, learn to use them yourself. Tomorrow, when the sun rises, you will have to begin to earn them.’

  He flew above the trees like some improbably vast raptor in search of prey. Overhead the sun sat in a cloudless sky of perfect blue. The air was so still and clear it was as if it wasn’t there. Beneath him the trees marched off in all directions like waves of green. In the distance the great mountain rose from its bed of foothills, straining and stretching ever higher into the sky. It called him, its snow-capped peak an arrow point in his mind. He could fly to the top, easily. And from there he could conquer the world.

  ‘That’s Magog talking, Benfro. Mount Arnahi holds nothing for you. Come back down now.’ The voice was Corwen’s, but it brought to his mind an image of the tiny pink gem sitting in its wrap of browning leaves somewhere dark and mysterious. He banked without a thought, casting his gaze over the endless trees and seeking out his destination. He saw the line of the river first, a subtle change in the shade and tone of the canopy etching a zigzag route down from the mountains. Following it, he finally saw the clearing in the distance. It astonished him to think he had flown so far. Surely only a few moments had passed since he finally made that successful launch.

  Taking off had been difficult, to put it mildly. He hadn’t a clue how to go about it, and Corwen’s suggestions had seemed ludicrous. First he had simply unfolded his wings and flapped them like a pair of giant hands, pushing the air down. This was a partial success in that it took his weight off the ground, but when he had tried to convert this into forward motion, the world had turned upside down, and the next thing he knew he was lying on his back in the long grass beside the track. The old dragon’s cackling laughter in his head had not improved his mood. Neither had Corwen’s endless supply of useless suggestions, like ‘Stop thinking about it; just do it,’ and ‘It’s as natural as the sun and the moon; let it happen.’ More concrete advice would have been helpful. In the end, after running like a scared deer along the track, flapping his wings and trying to leap into the air had ended in numerous bruises and scratches but no success, he had climbed around the back of the cliff, to where the waterfall plunged forty feet into the river below, and launched himself into the air. It had been a close call, his tail sweeping through the grass and clanging off a few rocks, but he had managed, somehow, to claw his way up and away. And now he was returning.

  ‘Where will you land this time?’ Again the voice in his head was Corwen’s, but the image it conjured up was all Magog. ‘I don’t think the river’s a very good option.’

  Benfro banked and turned as he arrived over the clearing. The sun’s high angle picked out the rocks strewn through the grass and emphasized the hard-packed, unyielding surface of the track. Only the water was soft, and only relatively so. Still he knew this was something he had to do, a basic ability he had to master, like walking. But as he slowed and the ground came ever closer, his wings felt less like splendid blades that cut the air at his command and more like two great useless flaps of skin, weighing him down and making it impossible to manoeuvre.

  ‘Slower, Benfro. You’re coming in too fast.’ Corwen’s advice was little help as the ground rushed up to meet him. ‘Elegance is the key to everything. Try to be true to your nature.’

  Benfro thrust his wings forward in a great spasm that drove the wind in front of him, flattening the grass around his intended landing site and revealing a dozen or more rocks that he hadn’t realized were there. Miraculously, the move seemed to slow him, but as soon as he drew them back for another beat, his speed built up again.

  Once more he slammed his wings down, lifting his head up and away from the rapidly approaching ground. As if by magic, his body rotated around the fulcrum in the middle of his back, that hard knot of muscle and sinew that he was only just beginning to grow accustomed to. His feet shot forward and down, ready to accept the hard embrace of the ground, still twenty feet away, but it was the tips of his wings, almost touching on their downward stroke, that were closest. He could feel the ends of the tall grass stems with them and instinctively whipped them back for one final beat to settle him slowly.

  Instead he accelerated, covering the last few feet far too quickly to be able to sweep them forward once more. Wings still halfway up their backward stroke, he hit the ground with an almighty crash, driving the wind out of his lungs. Momentum carried him forward, tipping him head first towards the rocks. Instinct took over then, the life-saving gut reaction of a thousand childhood falls from trees and banks. He let his legs crumple and tucked his head in close to his chest, turning the fall into a roll. He tumbled over and over, crushing the grass and flattening small bushes. Finally, battered and bruised, he came to a rest upside down against a large boulder a hundred feet away from his chosen landing place.

  For some moments he just lay there, gazing at the upturned trees and the sun, curiously low for the hour. Dazed, it was a while before he realized he couldn’t breathe, a while longer before he realized that, yes, he could breathe, he had just forgotten to do so. Coughing and spluttering he took great gulps of air, clearing the fuddle in his mind before setting about the task of pulling himself together. This took longer than anticipated as he had somehow managed to wrap his arms around his knees and his wings were twisted awkwardly behind his back.

  ‘Splendid,’ the voice of Corwen said, and then the old dragon himself appeared in his view. ‘You almost had it there. Just a matter of timing. You want to get the last downstroke to stop you dead just as your feet tickle the ground. It’ll come with practice, I’m sure.’

  ‘What is that mountain?’ Benfro asked, recalling the way it had called to him, beckoned him to fly towards it.

  ‘That is Mount Arnahi,’ Corwen said. ‘The mightiest of the mountains of the Rim. Some say it’s the tallest mountain in the whole of Gwlad. It held a certain fascination for Magog, if the tales are to be believed.’

  ‘Why would he want me to go there?’ Benfro asked, debating with himself whether he had the energy to get up or not. The ground wasn’t that uncomfortable, really. Groaning, he managed to roll himself the right way up. He sat with his back against the rock, checking for bruises, breaks and any cuts, but apart from a few chipped scales he was remarkably undamaged. Even his wings, which could so easily have been ripped and torn, were intact. He stretched them wide from his sitting position, catching the sun and letting its warmth soothe the aches away.

  ‘I suspect it was your wings that called you to that place,’ Corwen said. ‘I’ll say this much for Magog: when he makes someone a gift, he doesn’t do it one-heartedly. You’ll have to work very hard to earn those, young Benfro. Very hard indeed. So I suggest you stop lazing about in the sun and get back up in the air.’

  ‘What, now?’ Benfro asked incredulously.

  ‘Straight away now,’ Corwen insisted. ‘While the memory is strong in your mind. If you must leap from a cliff to take off, so be it for now. We shall concentrate on learning to land, which I think you will agree is by far the most important skill to master. Come on now, up!’

  Weary and aching, Benfro pulled himself to his feet and started o
ut across the clearing in the direction of the cave. He was covered from head to toe in fine dust from his crash landing, and his throat was dry from the cold clean air and the hot sun. So, instead of climbing through the trees and making his way around the back to the top of the cliff, he strode past the cave mouth and its pile of logs and on into the river, wading upstream from the ford and into the deep pool where the waterfall cascaded down. It was cold and refreshing, and he dunked his head under the water, drinking great draughts. He swam against the current until he could feel the cascade above him washing away all the grime and sweat of his exertions. Setting his feet on the slimy bottom, he stood upright, pushing his head and neck above the surface and into the cataract itself. The water bubbled and frothed over his head, making it hard to breathe, so he took a step back and opened his eyes.

  He wasn’t in the clearing.

  Errol preferred his suite of rooms in the west wing.

  He wasn’t sure why King Ballah had suddenly decided he was dangerous. Perhaps it was the return of Prince Dafydd. Melyn had always intended Errol to kill the prince and maybe there was something planted deep in his brain that would make him try. There was enough other rubbish in there that the inquisitor had used to smother his true memories, after all.

  At least he now had time to try and sort some of those memories out. He lay on a hard pallet fixed to the cold stone wall of a dungeon cell somewhere far beneath the oldest part of the palace. Without any windows, it was difficult to gauge the passing of time, but judging by the meagre meals brought to him at intervals, several days had passed. It would have been nice if someone had told him what was happening, but he had seen no one since being dragged from the throne room. His food appeared through a small hole in the door, which also provided the only light for the cell. Whoever brought it said nothing, and the only noise was the scuttling of rats.

  Shivering, he looked for the lines, trying to draw some warmth into himself. But they were nowhere to be seen, or he had forgotten how to find them. It was too long since he had used any of that magic; now, like a door with rusty hinges, he couldn’t seem to get his head to move in the right way. Miserable, Errol curled up into a ball to try and conserve some heat.

  A key scraping in the lock of the dungeon door woke him from an uncomfortable sleep. Before he had time to gather his wits, two guards had grabbed him and hauled him to his feet. He was dragged out of the door and down a long dark corridor lit intermittently by smoky torches that gave the air a burned-tar reek. He didn’t fight, couldn’t see the point, even when they brought him into a large room and dumped him on a high-backed wooden chair with arms.

  It was a round room, bare stone walls hung with chains and shackles. The chair was not quite in the centre, and overhead Errol could see a round skylight with grey clouds beyond. It was more comfortable than his pallet bed, at least at first, but rough hands grabbed his arms and legs, strapping them down with wide leather belts. Too late the stupor that had smothered his reason leached away, a rising fear taking its place.

  ‘You’re an interesting diversion, Errol Ramsbottom. That much I’ll give you. But then maybe that’s all you are – a diversion to keep me occupied while Melyn moves his other pieces about the board.’

  Errol tried to look round, but the chair held him fast, high boards at his neck restricting the movement of his head. He knew the voice well enough: King Ballah.

  ‘But I can’t quite believe that Melyn would let you go if he wasn’t confident he had you under his complete control,’ the king continued. ‘Oh, I’ve no doubt that you reckon you’ve outsmarted him, but think about it. You, a fifteen-year-old boy, pitting his wits against the most powerful mage the Twin Kingdoms has ever produced.’

  ‘I don’t work for Melyn,’ Errol said quietly. With a sudden violent motion the chair pivoted, and he was facing the king. For all his great age, Ballah was an imposing figure and strong. He was flanked by the two guards who had brought Errol from the west wing, and behind them stood the major domo, Tordu. None of them was smiling.

  ‘So you say,’ the king said. ‘And it’s possible that you don’t even know what his plans for you are. But they’re in your head somewhere and I mean to get them out.’

  Errol felt the king’s mind invade his own, digging down into his memories, rifling through them like a pig rooting out truffles in the autumn woods. It was far heavier-handed than his earlier subtle probing, a bit like Dafydd’s crude attempt. But where the prince had been unskilled, Ballah was simply ruthless, digging through his memories in a thorough search.

  Without quite knowing how he did it, Errol gathered the foreign tendrils of thought together and pushed them away from him, hard. The king rocked back on his heels, blanching as if he had just been punched in the gut.

  ‘Still the fighter, eh? Well, we’ll soon put a stop to that.’ He motioned to one of the guards, who went to the wall and came back with a heavy hammer.

  ‘Ankle, I think,’ the king said. ‘That way he won’t be able to run away.’

  The guard nodded silently, then raised the hammer and brought it down sharply on Errol’s left ankle. Pain smashed through him the like of which he had never known. He heard bones break, and all the air seemed to disappear from his lungs. Somewhere he could hear someone screaming. For a moment he wished they would stop; the noise just seemed to make the pain worse. Then he realized that it was coming from his own mouth. Strapped into the chair, all he could do was gulp back his sobs and bite his lip until it bled.

  Then the tendrils were back, softer this time, as if the king had regained some of his patience. They were like gossamer webs blowing through the wind of his thoughts. Every so often they would alight somewhere, examine the memory they found, then fly off again. Errol screwed up his eyes, focused on the agony swelling up his entire leg and threw it back at the king.

  This time the guards had to pick Ballah up off the floor. Errol saw them helping him to his feet as he opened his eyes once more. He knew he shouldn’t anger the king, knew he should just let the old man rummage around in his head until he found what he was looking for, if it was there at all. But he couldn’t help himself: he wanted to keep his memories private.

  But Ballah wasn’t angry. He was smiling.

  ‘Do you know, that’s the first time anyone’s done that to me since I was a boy,’ he said. ‘It’s a pity you let yourself get caught. With a few more years’ training you could have been a great warrior. But I will break you, Errol Ramsbottom. And then I’ll find what it is your precious inquisitor has hidden behind your defences. The other ankle, Milo.’

  Errol knew what to expect now, which only made the pain worse. This time though he could feel himself slipping into unconsciousness before the king managed to get a grip on his thoughts. He let oblivion cover him like a warm, comforting blanket, thinking of the times his mother had nursed him through sickness and injury.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t.’ The words were accompanied by a sharp blow to the side of his head that crazed Errol’s mind while knocking him back to his senses. He opened his eyes but couldn’t focus enough to stop the king from swaying round and round in his vision. He suddenly remembered Trell Clusster pushing him to the ground, and the time he had lashed out and broken his nose, earning Clun’s respect. He could see the whole scene playing out in front of him. First the melee of bodies, kicking and punching him; then the book lying torn and broken-backed on the ground; then the surge of anger and grabbing someone, Trell’s face and the sound his nose had made as it broke. And, riding it all, viewing it as an outsider, that same strange feeling that he knew must be King Ballah.

  Struggling against his restraints, Errol thrashed his head from side to side, trying to throw the king out of his mind. But the guards were working him over now, punching him in the ribs and stomach, twisting his ruined ankles. The pain was everywhere, and through it all ran the stream of his memories.

  And then he was seeing things that hadn’t happened, the memories Melyn had implanted in his mind. H
e danced with Maggs Clusster, drank too much, pledged his allegiance to a bored-looking Princess Beulah and promised he would some day become inquisitor. He ran like a mad thing through stubble fields playing games of war with the other village boys. He practised magic, swordcraft and archery in the halls and courtyards of Emmass Fawr. He sat in Melyn’s study listening intently as the old man told him how he might infiltrate the palace at Tynhelyg, how Duke Dondal would almost certainly turn him over as soon as he had the chance. The talk of stopping Iolwen from marrying Dafydd was just a cover to get him in. Once there he should spin a tale of coercion, do whatever was necessary to get Ballah to accept him. It shouldn’t be too hard, since he had the looks of Llanwennog royalty already. It might take months or even years. He should be patient, bide his time, learn as much as he could and be ready for when the call came.

  It was everything Ballah wanted to see, all the king’s worst fears confirmed, and watching from a distant corner of his mind Errol wondered whether this was the final truth or just another layer of lies.

  Barely conscious, Errol scarcely registered that the beating had stopped. The pain surrounding him was warm and friendly now, something to be embraced; the sound of the king’s words an irritant to be swatted away like flies on a summer evening. But somewhere deep in his mind he registered being unstrapped from the chair, lifted between the two guards, dragged away back to his cell and thrown on to the straw-strewn floor. He couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to, so he just lay shivering and somewhere else, the final words of the king whirling around in his head in search of some sense.

  ‘I’ve got from him all I need. Take him away. Prepare the block. We’ll execute him in the morning.’

  18

  Build up a picture in your mind of the place you wish to go. Try to see it as clearly as if you were there already. No, see it more clearly than that. Sense all the tiny details that go to make up a place: the shape of a doorway and the detailing of its architrave, the smell of the floor as you walk across it, the sound of the room when it is empty, the feel of its air playing across your face and body. You must remember the way the light falls on the walls, the pattern of shadows. You must remember every detail.