by J. D. Oswald
It may be easier, when starting this exercise, to imagine a place you know well. Keep it small, a room perhaps, and stand yourself in the middle of it. Turn slowly, noting all the objects that you can recall, their position, their condition, everything about them. Once you have them fixed in your mind, turn slowly again, filling in those things you have forgotten. Perhaps that wardrobe has a broken leg or a drawer. Maybe the fireplace is smaller and darker. Turn once more, adding yet more layers of detail to what you see. Do not forget the floor beneath your feet and the ceiling above your head. If you do not know the place as intimately as if you are actually there, then you will not be able to find it.
Once you are satisfied that you have your place perfectly represented in your mind, consider the Llinellau Grym. See how they fill the room as they fill every part of the world. See the force that flows along them, into and out of that place, never ceasing, always on the move. Now consider this. Those same Llinellau in that room are connected to the place where you are. In truth there is no distance between you and that room. All you need to do is step once and you will be there. But be warned, for while the Llinellau connect all places to your special room, they also connect your special room to all places. Step with hesitancy, unsure of your destination, and you could end up anywhere. Or worse, everywhere.
Corwen teul Maddau, On the Application of the
Subtle Arts
It was a dark place, lit only by what little sunlight could make it through the curtain of wetness splashing down. Dappled shadows flickered over the rippling surface of the pool, and beyond that, as his eyes adjusted, Benfro could make out a cave. He waded forward through the water to the pool’s edge and hauled himself out. The walls were green and slimy with algae, the floor slick and wet, but a few paces further on the rock was dry. Even the air lost its dampness, as if something protected the cave from the passage of time.
It was a far bigger space than the cave in which he had slept the previous two nights. He could feel an enormity to it even though he couldn’t see how far it went back into the hill. What he could make out in the gloom were signs of occupation, but from long ago. There were a few rough pieces of furniture: a table, its surface clear but covered in a layer of dust through which his fingers left thick tracks, one large chair and a couple of low benches, a dresser leaning forward precariously under its load of tarnished metal plates. Tucked into a recess off to one side was a huge bed and at its foot a massive chest, iron straps holding the old split wood together, a stout lock denying access.
Benfro wandered around the cave, touching and staring. It was obvious that this had been the dwelling of a dragon, and that meant it had to have been where Corwen had spent his last years. With a shudder of embarrassed guilt he realized that he was delving into his personal effects.
The far end of the cavern was black. No light penetrated there, and even his acute sight, fast adapting to the conditions, could see nothing. Yet it called to him, that blackness, like a siren in his mind. Without thinking, he found himself walking in the direction of that voice, unconcerned that he could see nothing. He could feel the faintest of breaths on is face, and the dry soil under his feet had that same strange spiced aroma as in the other, smaller cave, only here it was stronger. It got into his head, filling his brain with exotic befuddlement.
‘That’s Magog calling. I’ve placed his jewel back there, where it can do least harm,’ a calm voice said at his side. It shattered his trance, bringing Benfro back to himself with a bump almost as abrupt as his crash-landing. He was suddenly aware of how cold it was in the cavern with his skin wet and shivery. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the image of Corwen. The old dragon glowed with the same gentle light as the Llinellau Grym, and without him thinking or even squinting the lines swam into Benfro’s sight. Their soft glow showed the shape of the place as well as any candle or torch, and he could see how the various pieces of furniture had been placed where the thicker lines intersected. Only the bed was not placed directly on a nexus, its alcove curiously blank.
‘Sleep is not the best time to travel the magical pathways.’ Corwen once more saw right into Benfro’s mind. ‘I think you would agree after your experience the night before last?’
Benfro nodded but said nothing. The cave was simply breathtaking, its shape seemingly perfect, the undulations and alcoves, shelves and levels all placed exactly as he would have wanted them were it his home. He had to stay and explore, the kitling in him never far from the surface, but there was important work to do. He had to learn to fly. Turning, he headed back towards the wall of water, noticing again how its noise was strangely muted, the air of the cave unnaturally dry.
‘Where are you going?’ Corwen asked.
‘Back outside.’
‘Do you want to get wet again?’
‘I don’t mind. It’s sunny outside. I’ll soon dry off.’
‘But there’s no need,’ Corwen said. ‘Tell me, in what direction does the other cave lie?’
Benfro considered this for a moment. He knew the angle of the river to the track, could easily picture the scene as he had seen it from the air. So if the waterfall was in that direction it meant that the other cave would be …
‘Over there.’ He pointed.
‘And you can see the Llinellau running to that wall?’ The old dragon’s voice was quiet and patient. Benfro looked and noticed for the first time the pattern behind the grid. There were seemingly countless gossamer-thin threads, spreading over everything like a web. This network stretched between thicker lines, which formed a larger grid of their own, and this in turn was the filling for an even larger grid. The intersection of two of the thickest lines lay beneath the one chair at the head of the table. One of the lines came from outside, through the pool and the waterfall, and continued on down the dark tunnel, not so much disappearing into the dark as becoming impossible to see, as if it were obscured by something intangible. The other line speared right through the wall he had just pointed at.
‘Now remember last night,’ Corwen said. ‘Remember what you saw in the cave.’
Benfro closed his eyes and tried to picture the scene. He had a good head for that sort of thing and he was confident that the image he conjured up in his mind was an accurate replica of the previous night’s revelation. He could see the Llinellau forming the same intricate pattern of nodes, small growing to large. If he concentrated on the small grid, then the large faded away to nothing. Focusing on the large blurred the small until it was no more than a haze. For a moment his head spun as he tried to see it all at the same time, then, with a mental shrug, he gave up and concentrated only on the largest grid.
Like the cavern in which he stood, there was only one intersection. It met under the hearth, with one line coming straight through the entrance. The other met it at a right angle, spearing away through his bed of dried grass and towards him through the solid rock of the mountainside. He could see it then, as a continuous unbroken whole, as if there were nothing between the point where he stood, astride it, and the small pile of glowing embers banked up for the day. It was as if he could just take a single step forward and …
‘Ouch!’ he shouted as his feet started to burn. He opened his eyes and looked down. He was standing on the hearth. There was no way he could be where his eyes were telling him he was. Then instinct took over and he ran from the cave, hopping from scaly foot to scaly foot before jumping into the river. Steam hissed and sizzled as the water cooled his burned scales.
‘Maybe you wanted to get wet anyway.’ Corwen appeared by his side, laughter in his voice and his eyes.
‘How? What? Where?’ Benfro looked up and saw the sun, still high but beginning to drop towards the evening. The clearing was as he remembered it, the river too. Glancing to his side he could see the waterfall still crashing down from the cliff top, obscuring the entrance he knew he had not come back out of.
‘Young Benfro, you’re a natural,’ Corwen said, scarcely able to contain his glee. ‘It took me years of
training to do what you just did.’
‘What did I just do?’
‘You travelled the Llinellau Grym, young mage. Stepped from the physical plane for an instant.’
‘I just … The lines …’ Benfro searched for words to describe what he had felt. ‘I could see where I wanted to be and where I was. They were joined by the light. It was just a step forward.’
‘Ah, if only every pupil found it so easy,’ Corwen began, then a thoughtful look clouded his eyes and furrowed his brow. ‘And yet it was almost too easy. Are you sure Magog was not helping you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Benfro said. ‘How would I know?’
‘Were you aware of what you were doing?’ the old dragon asked. ‘Describe it to me in detail.’
Benfro said what he had done, how he had built the picture in his mind, seen the connection between the two caves.
‘That’s a great talent you have. To accurately remember a place down to such detail is usually the hardest thing for a student of the magic arts to master. And yet you did it without thinking. Have you always had this talent? Think, young Benfro, for it is very important.’
‘It’s something my mother taught me to do.’ He tried without success to stifle the tremor that came into his voice, dam the tears that welled up in his eyes. ‘I had to learn where all the different herbs and potions lived even before I learned to read. I used to fetch them with my eyes closed.’
‘There’s no shame in grieving for loved ones lost. Your mother may have had her faults, but she is worthy of your tears. And if she taught you this one thing then I can rejoice that she learned something of importance from her time with me.’
‘I will reunite her memories.’ Benfro walked slowly back to the cave. ‘I don’t know how I’ll do it, or when, but I won’t rest until she’s at peace, joined with the ones she loved.’ He picked up the leather bag of purloined gold and looked once more at the lone white jewel. He didn’t touch it, but he could feel its presence. He placed the bag on the narrow stone shelf, and as he released his hold, he felt a change in his mind. It was not the lonely feeling that had been with him since he had left the village, not the dull aching loss that had seeped into him as the shock and trauma of his mother’s death slowly morphed into a permanent dull pain. Instead it was the excitement-tinged sadness of leaving home on his own terms. He was off to search for fame and fortune like all the great heroes of legend, but he would be back some day to prove he was worthy.
Stepping back out of the cave, he could see the figure of Corwen waiting patiently by the ford as if he had known what Benfro was doing and understood his need for solitude at that moment. The old dragon seemed even smaller now than when first they had met, yet Benfro could see power emanating from him, a heat like the sun but warming his mind rather than tired muscles and aching joints.
‘That’s a brave and wise thing you’ve done,’ Corwen said. ‘Memories should be held dear but not carried around like a great burden. Your mother would have been proud.’
‘She is proud,’ Benfro said. ‘And I’ll make her even prouder when I add all her memories to the great gathering at Magog’s castle.’
Corwen released a deep resigned sigh. ‘Your promise is admirable, young Benfro,’ he said. ‘But I warned you before not to make such undertakings lightly. A dragon’s word is his bond, and a mage’s word even more so. No dragon has ever been able to overcome the inquisitors. I fear you may become just another of their victims.’
‘You yourself told me that the warrior priests have their power from us,’ Benfro said, an almost drunken bravado sweeping over him. He had tasted a tiny fraction of the power that coursed through the veins of the world. Everything was possible now. ‘I will find a way to take that power back.’
‘So be it.’ Corwen’s mood lightened as if he too had made an important decision, and the choice now taken had lifted the weight of uncertainty from his shoulders. ‘But you’re not ready to begin your task, my young pupil. Not by a long way. So get back up that cliff. You have to learn to fly.’
Errol lost track of time, lying in the damp straw on the floor of his cell. There was only pain to keep him company; even the rats had deserted the place, as if they knew his fate and wanted no part of it. He seemed to have lost control of his limbs. All he could do was lie and wait. And hurt.
When they finally came for him he had no idea whether it was a day or a year or a lifetime later. It was almost as if he were detached from his body, floating overhead and watching as the curiously nondescript guards hauled him up by his arms and dragged him away. It should have been painful, he thought, wincing at the the angles his feet made with his legs. But he felt nothing at all.
A part of him wanted to stay where it was, numb and unfeeling, floating somewhere in the cell, but his body was being dragged away and he was curious to know what would become of it. So he followed the faceless guards through the maze of corridors, up flights of stairs, along back corridors less opulent than those he had seen earlier, and finally into a familiar courtyard, now filled with noisy people. In the centre of this stood a scaffold standing clear above the heads of the tallest spectators. As his body was half carried, half dragged across the courtyard, the crowd moved aside to let it through before coming together again, like water parting around a rock in a stream. Their noise was indistinct, raucous; he couldn’t make out what they were saying. And when he tried to focus on any individual, they seemed to fade away. Only the mass made any sense.
There were three people awaiting him on the scaffold. Tordu, the major domo, stood shivering in the chill. Duke Dondal stood to one side, his distaste at being in the same place as Tordu evident in his every movement. Finally there was a brawny man with a black hood pulled over his head leaning on the haft of a huge double-edged axe. Errol found himself disappointed that King Ballah could not be bothered to turn up to the execution he had ordered, but it was an abstract disappointment, a feeling removed from its source. The whole scenario felt unreal. He was going to die, his head parted from his body, and somehow he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Time seemed to come in chunks. One moment he was floating over the crowd, the next he was kneeling at the block, staring intently at the myriad nicks and chunks hewn out of it over many years of use. Tordu was saying something, but for all his mastery of the Llanwennog tongue, Errol couldn’t understand a word of it. He knew he should be utterly terrified, but he felt nothing. Then he glanced up at the windows of the West Tower, to the suite that had been his first prison. Two faces peered down from the window. Princess Iolwen’s pale face was aghast, and as she met Errol’s eyes she turned away. But the other figure stayed, and with a surge of astonishment he recognized her. Martha.
How could he have forgotten her? A huge wave of emotion engulfed him at the sight of her face. She was looking at him with that same half-smile, half-frown that she always had when she was trying to understand why he couldn’t see what was so obvious to her. She wasn’t concerned at his plight beyond wondering why he had allowed himself to get into it. Getting out was simple. He knew what to do.
The shock of seeing her slammed him back into his body. Suddenly he was kneeling at the block, listening to the major domo read out a long list of crimes – too many by far for him to have committed in his short life – and his whole body was a blinding mess of pain. He looked up towards the tower through eyelids swollen and bruised, but it was too far away over the heads of the baying crowd for him to make out any detail. How could he possibly have seen anyone there?
But he had seen her, hadn’t he? Or was his mind playing last-minute wishful-thinking games with him? No. He had felt her with him, like she had been with him in the forest back home, standing at his side and helping him to master the lines.
The lines. He could walk the lines. He could escape even from here. But to where? And how? Beside him Errol could hear Tordu come to the end of his litany of evils perpetrated against the House of Ballah. Then rough hands shoved his head down onto the bl
ock. His thin neck felt cold against the wood as a rope was wound around it to stop him moving. Trying to suppress his panic, he searched out for the lines. They were everywhere, went everywhere. He didn’t know what to do, where to go.
The last thing he heard was the swish of the axe as it cut through the air.
Benfro lost track of the days he spent in the clearing. They melted into one endless round of work. There was flying every day, and with time he began if not to master the intricacies of taking off and landing, then at least to limit the damage he caused in his attempts.
Corwen pushed him hard, making him perform endless physical tasks that seemed pointless. He had cleared vast areas of the forest of dead wood, piling it around the feet of the larger conifers. He had rebuilt the weir that crossed the stream just upstream of the ford, making the crossing easier even when the rains came, although since his arrival he had seen no one other than himself and the old dragon who might benefit.
For a month he collected all the rocks from the clearing that were bigger than his fist yet small enough for him to move and piled them on the side of the track opposite the mouth of his cave. Following Corwen’s instructions, he then used them to build a small low-walled enclosure with a single entrance, though he couldn’t begin to guess what it was for. At least there were large stretches of the clearing that were stone free now, though the impact of his variable landings meant they were pretty much grass free as well, the ground battered and churned into a fine dusty dirt that got between his scales and itched like he was crawling with tiny bugs.
The woods around the clearing were rich with game; the deer were so tame it was almost a shame to trap and kill them. The river salmon were becoming more wary, however, keeping to the wispy fronds of waterweed or hiding under the overhanging banks whenever he swam. He had slowly increased the length of time he could hold his breath to the point where he could sit motionless on the riverbed for upwards of half an hour. Usually one, sometimes two fish were curious enough to approach, but they were jittery, and there were evenings he had to dine only on the vegetation he could scavenge from the under the trees.
