The Rose Cord

by J. D. Oswald

  ‘I wasn’t born yesterday, Melyn,’ Beulah said. ‘It’s bad enough that I’ve got to produce an heir; I’ll not do anything to cast doubt on his legitimacy. But I’m guessing that’s not what you came looking for me to talk about.’

  ‘Perceptive as ever, Your Majesty,’ Melyn said, and for the first time since his appearance Beulah realized that he was talking to her while riding a horse. In the darkened aethereal bedroom his legs were hidden by the bed, and he was gently rocking back and forth as if playing with himself. It was both funny and curiously unsettling.

  ‘I’m on my way to Candlehall as we speak,’ Melyn continued. ‘I have the boy Errol with me. Or should I say your nephew Errol.’

  ‘What!’ Beulah dipped back into her conscious body for a moment, losing the image of the inquisitor. Cursing, she let herself sink back down into the mattress and willed herself to relax. Melyn rippled back into view as she slowly tuned her mind back.

  ‘You shouldn’t rely so much on the throne to help you, Beulah,’ the old man said. ‘It makes you feel powerful, but you’ll end up like your father if you let it get too deep a grip on you. Soon you won’t be able to perform even the simplest of spells without it to help you.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Beulah said. ‘You can lecture me on the uses and abuses of power any time. Tell me about the boy.’

  She listened intently as the story unfolded, not interrupting the inquisitor with all the questions that flooded her mind. Only when he had finished did she speak.

  ‘You’re right to bring him here,’ she said. ‘Together we should be able to break down whatever natural defences he has. I’ve no doubt we can uncover his little secret. But you mustn’t let anyone know his true parentage.’

  ‘Don’t worry yourself on that account, Your Majesty,’ the inquisitor said. ‘We’ll find Usel; he can’t have got far. And I’ll soon root out any traitors at Emmass Fawr.’

  ‘I was thinking of Errol’s mother,’ Beulah said, glancing over at the sleeping Clun beside her. His aethereal form was, if anything, even more perfect than his physical body. ‘It’s a pity, really. But you’d better deal with her husband as well. You never know what she might have told him on their pillows.’

  ‘It will be done,’ the inquisitor said. ‘I’ll send Captain Osgal. He’s dependable. Terrible, what bandits in the western woods can do to a merchant’s caravan. We should be with you by the end of the week. I expect Clun will receive the bad news about his father a few days later.’

  ‘Make it quick and painless,’ Beulah said, not quite knowing why she cared.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ Melyn nodded his acceptance of her order and faded from sight. Beulah stayed in the aethereal for a few moments, letting her mind slip through the palace nearby. There were few souls awake, guards mostly, though further away the city bubbled with life. Her people, her subjects, and she intended to keep it that way.

  23

  Perhaps the most difficult magic a dragon can perform is that which is focused on himself. History is littered with tales of hopeless young lads desperate to win favour with their beloveds attempting to improve the hand that fate and heredity have dealt them. In the more harmless examples, such as that of Sir Blinedig, the result was no worse than that every animal for a ten-mile radius became besotted with him and could not leave him alone. Myfanwy of the Crimson Scales was so disgusted by the constant trail of beasts that she left the valley where he lived and fled to a faraway land. For the rest of his long life Sir Blinedig had only the animals as his companions.

  More salutary, perhaps, is the tale of Godrwys teul Gwynhyfyr, who tired of the taunts of his peers that he was weak both in body and in the ways of the Grym. In attempting to prove them wrong he succeeded only in turning himself into stone. To this day his statue resides at Cenobus, its unreckoned jewels unreachable and slowly fading away into nothing, his memories lost for ever to dragonkind.

  Yet the most remarkable and daring magic turned upon the self concerns the great mage Magog, and none knows if the story be truth or yet another of the myriad legends that have grown around his mysterious disappearance. For it is said that he found a way to take some of his own jewels, the sum of his being, and hide them in a place of great power. Here, it is said, they watch over the world, experiencing everything, influencing everyone and waiting for one to rise who might act as a vessel for the great mage’s return. It is to be hoped that this is mere myth, for if true it is the most monstrous of all magics.

  Corwen teul Maddau,On the Application of the

  Subtle Arts

  Errol remembered almost nothing of his journey to the Neuadd. Laid on a straw pallet in the back of a wagon, he slept as much as he could, and whenever he woke enough to talk, someone would force a sleeping draught down his throat. He didn’t really mind; asleep he could forget about the pain, escape from his endless cycle of woes. In his dreams he flew with dragons and walked the forests with Martha by his side.

  At Candlehall they had the decency to wash him and give him fresh clothes. Someone even replaced the bloody bandages around his ankles. His hair was still wet when a pair of guards carried him through the courtyards and into the great hall of the Neuadd. Melyn walked in front of them as they approached the huge throne, and in any other circumstances Errol would have been fascinated by the place. Now, however, his mind was dull with days of drugged sleep. He couldn’t stand unaided, so when the guards stopped at the edge of the dais leading up to the throne, he crumpled to the ground in an untidy heap.

  ‘This is the boy?’ a female voice asked.

  ‘Errol Ramsbottom, Your Majesty,’ the inquisitor said.

  ‘Stand, Ramsbottom.’ Errol felt a command behind the voice, but he was used to such manipulation and shrugged it off. Looking up, he stared at the face he had first seen on his mother’s wedding day. She looked older, though not much more than a year had passed since then.

  ‘I said stand, Errol.’ Again he felt the compulsion behind the words. Shaking his head he noticed for the first time a dragon sitting at the side of the throne, her head bowed as if in deep shame. She was bedraggled, thin and totally pathetic, tethered to the throne by a silver chain. It was such an incongruous sight that he thought he was dreaming it. Then the beast looked up and caught his eye. He recognized the dragon who had appeared to him in that strange trance outside the inquisitor’s study so many months ago.

  ‘Frecknock,’ he said, and the dragon’s eyes widened in surprise.

  ‘How dare you ignore your queen,’ Beulah said. ‘Stand. I command you.’

  Errol dragged his gaze away from the dragon and addressed the queen.

  ‘Your Majesty, I can’t stand. Both my ankles are broken.’

  ‘Bring him here,’ the queen commanded the guards. Errol winced as he was once more lifted and then carried up the steps, closer to Beulah and her pet dragon.

  ‘Why can’t you be like your brother?’ the queen asked.

  ‘I don’t have a brother … Oh, you mean Clun?’

  ‘Yes, Clun. Honourable, brave and handsome Clun. He took a crossbow bolt that was meant for me. Did you know that?’

  ‘I … No … Is he all right?’ Errol was confused. One moment the queen was anger personified, the next she seemed sweetly innocent.

  ‘He is now,’ she said. ‘After I nursed him back to health. Now I’m minded to reward him for his selflessness by making him a duke and taking him as my consort.’

  Errol’s head reeled. Without knowing quite why, he turned once more to the dragon and asked, ‘Is this true? Is Clun here?’ For her part, Frecknock seemed to shrink at his words, burying her head under her arm.

  ‘What did you say?’ Beulah snapped, not friendly any more.

  ‘He asked if what you said was true.’ The inquisitor stepped forward and grasped Errol’s chin, dragging his head round so he could stare into his eyes. ‘Where did you learn Draigiaith, boy?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Errol said. ‘It just seemed the right thing to say. To a dragon.�
�

  ‘And how many dragons have you met in your life?’

  ‘None. Well, unless you count the one that escaped from Ruthin’s Grove. I only saw him.’

  ‘You’re a poor liar, Errol,’ Melyn said. ‘Yet somehow you manage to keep the truth from me. Well that ends here. Your Majesty?’

  Errol felt a surge of fear as Beulah fixed him with a sneer. ‘Go,’ she said to the guards. Unsupported, Errol fell to his knees. ‘All of you, leave,’ the queen said. ‘Except you, Melyn. I might need your help with this.’

  One by one the guards and other servants left the great hall. Errol heard their footsteps echoing on the shiny floor, fainter and fainter until only he, the queen, Melyn and the dragon remained. He felt the tendrils of thought in his mind long before anyone said anything. They were different to Melyn’s as much as they were different to King Ballah’s. They were gentle, almost subtle and soothing, reminding him of his mother looking after him when he had a cold. But they were also insidious and powerful, picking open memories he had forgotten himself.

  ‘Sir Radnor,’ Beulah said after a long silence. ‘These dragons do like to give themselves honorifics. But surely to be a knight you must have a king. Where’s the king of the dragons now?’

  ‘It’s a sign of recognition and respect. it means you’re recognized as the head of your family.’ Errol remembered everything now. It was as if the queen had unpicked a seam, and now all the stuffing of his past life was tumbling out. A confused mass of images that had been locked away. It swept up the false past that Melyn had created for him, the past he had been trying to unravel and separate from what he remembered as true. He couldn’t think, had no control over the cascade of images that whirled about inside him. He could feel the tendrils of Beulah’s mind whipping about inside his head, trying to get a grip on the maelstrom with little success. The more she failed, the more frantic she became and the more power she thrust into him. It was discomfiting at the start, but soon the sensation began to burn. He could feel his fingers twitching, out of control. Then his arms began to spasm, his torso and legs. And still the queen pushed harder into his mind.

  The queen.

  Beulah.

  An image flashed through Errol’s mind, and with the last of his will he latched on to it, held it like he had never held anything before. A young body, fit and curved and naked. Sweat sheening toned healthy skin, freckled face flushed, lip bitten with concentration, eyes savagely triumphant.

  The queen.

  She gave a little shriek of angry surprise. Shouted, ‘Why you …’ And then the tendrils in his mind turned out the lights.

  ‘You can’t begin to understand the subtle arts until you’ve learned what it means to be a dragon,’ Magog said as Benfro tried hard not to complain about having to memorize passages from an archaic leather-bound tome called Educational Notes for the Young written by some dragon called Aderyn. Along with several history books it was all he had read in days. The great mage had taught him no more tricks since he had conjured the flame, insisting instead that he learn about his heritage.

  ‘But I am a dragon,’ he said.

  ‘Are you?’ Magog asked. ‘Were you a true dragon before I gifted you your wings? Even now you don’t know how to fly properly. And what if I was to ask you to fetch me a borguril, would you know where to find it? Do you even know what it is?’

  Benfro didn’t answer. As ever Magog was right, but it wasn’t easy to admit it.

  ‘I know it’s hard, Benfro,’ the mage said. ‘I may be old, but I remember when I was your age. I wanted everything to happen now. And I was certain I knew better than my elders.’

  ‘I don’t think that,’ Benfro said. ‘I just want …’ He stopped as the great mage froze. Magog held himself perfectly still, and something seemed to go from the room for a moment. Then he shuddered and dissolved into nothing.

  ‘I must attend to a small matter.’ His voice echoed in Benfro’s mind. ‘Keep studying that book. Learn what it means to be a true dragon. I will return soon.’

  And he was gone.

  It wasn’t like the times when the mage had simply not been visible. Even then Benfro had been able to sense his presence. He hadn’t realized it until now, but Magog had always been there in some indefinable manner. And now he was gone. Utterly. Benfro sat at his reading desk, staring at the space where the great dragon had been. Where the image of the great dragon had been, he reminded himself. Magog was dead; what he saw was a memory of him. Like Corwen.

  But he couldn’t be like Corwen, could he? Corwen’s jewels had been reckoned and placed at a nexus of the Llinellau. Magog’s one remaining jewel had lain at the bottom of a pool for thousands of years. How could the mage be here in this place at all?

  Gazing down at his hands and arms, Benfro could see his aura dancing with livid colours – yellows and greens and violets. And there, snaking away from him like some monstrous leash, the thinnest of tethers hung pale as a water-washed wound. It looped through the air as if it had been twirled and had not yet fallen back into shape. A rose cord tying him to Magog. He followed its progress across the room, but he didn’t need to look to see where it went. The flickering slippery spot just behind the chair sucked at his very essence like a drain, making his head spin just to think about it.

  Steadying himself, Benfro sat down and rested his head on his hands, elbows splayed over the tabletop. The book laid out in front of him was a history of the Ffrydd, but he no longer had any stomach for tales of Magog and Gog forging the world to their own warped way of living. The subtext he had not seen before was plain to him now. Those two all-powerful mages had taken a peaceful and harmonious place and ripped it apart out of sheer blinkered arrogance. He couldn’t even see how dragons had benefited from their excesses. And now one of them was trying to destroy his soul.

  Slamming the book shut, he carried it over to the bookshelf and put it back where it belonged. Then he picked out another at random, taking it to the desk before even reading the title.

  It was old, and felt heavier than it should have done, a bit like the Llyfr Draconius that Frecknock had stolen from Sir Frynwy. Benfro wondered what had become of the old dragon’s library. Had it burned with his house, or had the men taken it away? And what terrible secrets would they glean from it if they had?

  His momentary panic was cut short as he noticed the title of the book he had taken from the shelf. It was called The Llyfr Cyfareddol, as far as he could work out from the constantly shifting words and letters on its dark leather cover. There was apparently no author, just ancient runes packed so close on the pages they seemed to dance with each other. It was almost a foreign language. He knew the words, and if he thought hard, short phrases and even whole sentences made sense, but only until he moved on to the next line, when what had been evident to him before slipped away like a quiet thief. And yet he was fascinated by the book, unable to stop reading.

  He lost track of time, sitting there and turning page after page. Sometimes he would flick through with great speed; at other times he stared blankly at one page of shifting runes for half an hour or more. It didn’t occur to him that he had not eaten, nor that Magog was still nowhere to be seen. He was completely absorbed by the book.

  And then, finally, he turned the last page and closed the leather cover. He couldn’t recall any of the book’s contents, was not even sure that he had read anything at all. But he felt a curious satisfaction at having completed something. Much like he had felt a lifetime ago when he had put the last stone in place and completed the animal pen. A pleasant weariness overcame him then and he leaned back in the chair, head tilting to gaze up at the ceiling.

  The room was ablaze with power.

  Melyn knelt in the austere chapel deep beneath the Neuadd. It wasn’t quite right, this place of worship used by the royal family. He had been here before, but never felt as at ease as he did back at Emmass Fawr. Perhaps it was the weight of rock above him, or maybe it was the halls of jewels he had to pass through to ge
t to it, the festering power of countless thousands of dragons slain down the generations for the glory of the House of Balwen. It was difficult to dismiss the thought that there were a thousand thousand conversations going on around him, just out of earshot. And in a way there were. The Neuadd was a place of great power, sitting at a perfect nexus of the lines. The jewels directed and refined that energy, making it possible for an adept such as himself or the queen to tap into the thoughts of anyone in Candlehall or even further away. So it shouldn’t have surprised him that here, right at the centre of it all and surrounded by the crystal hoard, he should have had difficulty in shutting out the thoughts of an entire city.

  But he had to shut them out. He had come here to meditate, to pray and perhaps to communicate with the Shepherd. And this chapel, for all that it unsettled him, was the most powerful place outside Emmass Fawr that he could use. If only he could understand the boy’s secret. Then he could move between Candlehall and Emmass Fawr in the blinking of an eye. And if others could be trained to do it too, then they could infiltrate the enemy’s castles, take out key people, overthrow King Ballah. But if the Llanwennogs uncovered the secret first …

  Wrenching his mind back to his prayer, Melyn focused on Brynceri’s ringed finger. He carried it with him all the time now, a little piece of the Shepherd’s beneficence wherever he went. Here in the catacombs, surrounded by endless ranks of long-dead dragon jewels, its single ruby reminded him of the true path, the power and glory of the Shepherd. It glowed with an inner fire that filled him with joy to behold.

  For perhaps the first time in his life Melyn felt that he truly needed to speak to his god. The work of a lifetime was starting to unravel at the edges. All this time he had been doing the Shepherd’s bidding, purging the world of his enemies, guarding against the Wolf. And now, when it should all have been coming together, when the final reward should have been in sight, unexpected difficulties were popping up: the boy, the queen’s sudden infatuation with a young commoner, the dragon.