The Rose Cord

by J. D. Oswald

  Her mind was in such turmoil that at first Beulah didn’t notice the different atmosphere in the bedchamber. But as she closed the door quietly behind her she felt an electric sensation, a cleansing that brushed away the concerns in her mind and filled her with energy. It was something she had felt only very occasionally before, and then only in the inquisitor’s chapel at Emmass Fawr. The presence of her god.

  Clun stood beside the bed, naked as the day he was born. His muscles were relaxed, his stance easy, but a red glow burned behind his eyes as he spoke in two voices: his own overlaid with something richer, deeper and more powerful, a voice that made her knees weak and sent flutters of anticipation through her belly.

  ‘My lady, you worry over nothing,’ he said. ‘The boy you have locked up in the dungeons is not my brother. He sold his soul to the Wolf and now there is a demon where once Errol Ramsbottom stood.’

  ‘Is this true?’ Beulah asked, crossing the floor to where her lover waited. He radiated a fierce heat, and a sheen of sweat glossed his skin.

  ‘He must die,’ Clun said. ‘And I will grieve for the brother I have lost. But he was lost to me a long time ago. Only now have I discovered the truth.’

  Beulah turned towards the door, uncertain whether she should find a guard and order the deed done. But before she could take a step, Clun had reached out and clasped her arm. It wasn’t a rough grip, but insistent nonetheless.

  ‘My lady.’ He pulled her close to him. His heat was intoxicating, the glow in his eyes seemed to burn into her brain, filling her not with pain but with joy. She could lose herself in him like she had never lost herself before. With a tiny whimper of pleasure she let herself be pulled down on to the bed and kissed the fiery mouth of her lover, her god.

  They were like the jewel he had retrieved from the river, but ten times the size and blood-red rather than pale. Benfro could not count their number, but it was more than two dozen. They sat on a circle cut into the stone, which was smooth as marble and carved with strange runes he could not read from his awkward angle. The circle reminded him of a bird’s nest, that of some great raptor, perched high on an inaccessible pinnacle. But if this was a nest, then where was its guardian?

  Benfro lunged upwards, catching the top of the pillar. The space was small and he was tired, his arms barely strong enough to hold his bulk. With a sickening sense of having done something really stupid, he overbalanced and crashed into the gemstones. They scattered like marbles, cracking together and rolling around the circle. Several tumbled over the edge, falling with a series of horrific clatters as they bounced off the steps, then hitting the water far below. The echoes ripped through the great cavern like the screams of some mortally wounded animal.

  And then the screaming merged into one great wail. Benfro looked up and saw a huge dragon flying towards him. Its legs were extended in attack, talons ready to kill. Its eyes blazed with such hatred and anger as he could not imagine. Even Inquisitor Melyn’s eyes had not burned with such violence.

  ‘What have you done?’ The voice of Magog shook the whole cavern and loosened Benfro’s already tenuous grip. The great beast, far more feral than he had appeared before, landed on the top of the pillar and tried to gather the stones back into the circle. But it was an insubstantial image, a pale shadow of its former self. Only the wind from its wings had any true substance, that and the shaking of the whole mountain. Several more of the jewels tumbled over the edge, leaving only six scattered haphazardly about the small area.

  Incandescent with rage, the image of Magog, the memory of the greatest mage that had ever lived, turned on Benfro. Its red eyes were so dark they were almost black, sucking the life out of everything around them with an irresistible force. It crouched low until its nose was so close to his that he imagined he could feel its breath, hot and threatening.

  ‘You will suffer for this, stripling.’ All semblance of reason was gone from the beast now. Benfro recognized the madness that had tried to drown him at the Silent Stone. This was the true Magog, vengeful and bitter, driven by the need to live for ever at the expense of the souls of others.

  ‘Four thousand years of toil went into this place,’ he shrieked. ‘The greatest work of magic ever undertaken. Even my foul hag of a brother couldn’t conceive of such a spell. And you think to destroy it through idle curiosity?’

  Benfro gripped the rock as hard as he could. He didn’t know why, but he knew then he had to get rid of those last six stones. Perhaps he could lunge at them and sweep them all from the top, but to do that he needed a secure foothold. He was hanging on by the tips of his talons, and even in his terror and pain that still calm voice in the back of his head was counting the seconds until his arms gave up.

  ‘You have no idea how long it’s taken to get you here,’ the image said. ‘Dragonkind was almost wiped out by that scab of a brother of mine when he unleashed men on this world. I’ve sacrificed everything to keep your family alive. To keep my family alive. You can’t conceive of the time I’ve waited for your mother, sweet Morgwm, finally to fulfil her duty. Daughter of Biel, who was daughter of Ymlaen, daughter of Eirwen, daughter of Galadrel, daughter of Myfanwy, who was fathered by me. You’re the first male dragon to be born since my spiteful brother cast his curse upon my world. And what a disappointment you have turned out to be.

  ‘Well, I’ve been patient enough.’ Magog’s image was almost translucent now. ‘I cannot wait any longer for you to decide to learn what you should already know. Better for me to take you now. Goodbye, Benfro. It’s time for Magog, Son of the Summer Moon, to live again.’

  The image lunged forward. Benfro recoiled from the the long scaly fingers reaching towards him, but there was nowhere for him to go. Pain battered at his head like nothing he had ever felt before as Magog reached into his mind, peeling away layer upon layer of the experiences, memories and emotions that were his essence. It felt like his skull was going to explode, too small to contain the millennia of hatred, envy, greed and lust that made up the great mage.

  Then it occurred to him what to do, as if a voice had spoken in his mind. Trying to ignore the probing of Magog’s memories as they slid their evil fingers into his brain, he imagined his own aura stretching over his body like a second skin, soft and flowing but hard as steel and able to encase fire. With a thought he snapped it tight around his head, relishing the surprise on the mage’s face.

  ‘Finally, at the end, you fight,’ the image said, astonishment turning into an almost childlike delight. ‘And you’ve learned too, though it will do you no good. My hold on you is total. But struggle by all means. It makes victory all the sweeter.’

  Benfro paid no heed to the words, glad only that the feeling of having his mind flayed had evaporated. He concentrated on extending his aura down from his dangling feet and tail to the ledge below. He could not see what he was doing, and dared not look round lest he betray his intention, but the image of Magog was too wrapped up in its monomaniacal glee to notice.

  ‘The world will know fear when I rise again,’ it said, bringing to Benfro’s mind the oft-stated aphorism his mother had used about chickens and eggs. ‘These pathetic wingless creatures that try to be dragons will be destroyed. I will create a new proud and ruthless race in its place. And we will hunt, oh how we’ll hunt. What better prey than one that knows fear, one that can anticipate its doom? These men will be sport indeed for my new master race.’

  Benfro could feel it now, not quite like he was actually standing on the ledge, but a lessening of the weight on his fingers, a relaxing in his arms that stilled the traitorous counting voice in the back of his head. It was enough to strengthen his resolve. Already he could feel the probing memories cracking the shell of protection he had so hastily thrown up around himself. Without a second thought he tensed his legs and threw himself forward, sweeping out with his arm.

  ‘What?’ was all the image of Magog could say before the last six jewels shot off the top of the pillar and arced away into the darkness. As they fell a ter
rible screaming rocked the whole cavern, loud enough to deafen Benfro and shake his grip loose from the stone. The image stood up, wings wide, screeching with rage, then it leaped from the pillar after the jewels. Benfro watched it go, fading away to nothing as its screams dwindled too. Silence amplified by the ringing in his ears, He tried once more to extend his aura down, hoping to lower himself that way. Too late. His fingers slipped and he crashed back to the narrow ledge, already knowing what was going to happen next. With a sickening crack the ledge broke away from the pillar and he plunged backwards into the abyss.

  Errol heard the grating of the key in the lock and felt the squeal of rusty metal as his cell door opened. He didn’t move. Even if he could have stood, he wouldn’t have bothered. There was no point. They were clearly going to kill him. It was just a question of time. Then it would be all over and he could rest.

  His head still hurt from whatever drug had kept him unconscious all the way from Emmass Fawr. His ankles had lost the edge of their initial pain and now just ached constantly. He wasn’t sure whether he could feel his toes any more and was disinclined to try wiggling them. His broken ribs still grated with every breath, but their pain had become an old friend. Until he was picked up.

  Two guards dragged him through corridors and up stairs. He briefly saw the morning sky and wondered at the light reflecting off the glass windows of the vast Neuadd. But before he had time to collect his thoughts, he was being swallowed up by its open doorway, gulped down into the belly of the beast.

  It was much as it had been before. There were few people in the vast hall. Guards stood to attention at all the doors; a thin-faced elderly man sat at a desk to one side of the dais, and in the huge black throne Queen Beulah lounged against one massive stone arm. Inquisitor Melyn sat upon a small wooden chair. The dragon was curled up as small as she could manage, trying to find a spot behind the throne where she wouldn’t be noticed. Another man stood beside the queen, tall and strong, and as he was dragged closer, Errol recognized him.

  ‘Clun.’ His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, but his stepbrother would not meet his eye, turning instead and gazing at the queen.

  ‘Do you know this traitor?’ she asked him.

  ‘No, my lady.’ It was unmistakably Clun’s voice, and yet different too, as if someone else was operating him. Someone who didn’t know how Clun spoke. ‘I knew a boy once who looked like this one, but he died a long time ago.’

  ‘What? Clun, it’s me. Errol. Look.’ He would have said more, but one of the guards cuffed him hard across the face.

  ‘Don’t speak unless ye’re spoken to,’ he hissed.

  ‘Bring him here,’ Beulah said, and once more Errol found himself being lugged up on to the dais.

  ‘Hold him up.’ The queen stepped down from her throne and walked towards him. She was dressed simply but elegantly, in clothes that were practical rather than the ornate frippery normally associated with royal courts. Errol couldn’t read her face, and he really didn’t want to feel her walking through his mind. Desperate, he cast his head sideways, taking in the details of the Neuadd he had missed before: the elegantly carved walls, their details smashed away; the massive stained-glass windows, all random pieces like a jigsaw puzzle hammered together by an impatient toddler. Even the floor slabs bore the marks of some great design, but they had been lifted and replaced so as to obliterate it almost completely.

  ‘What happened to this place?’ he asked. His reward was another fist to the face. Dazed by the blow, he looked down at the floor and spat out a bloody tooth. Then he noticed something that hadn’t been there before. The pattern on the floor was a curling tail, and the slab next to it continued the motif. Looking up, he saw the windows made whole, their many-coloured panes depicting a scene that sparked memories of a tale he had been told of dragons ruling the world. Names came to him: Rasalene and Arhelion, Palisander of the Spreading Span, Maddau the Wise. They were here in glass, their tales unfolding from window to window. The carvings on the walls continued the telling so that the whole fabric of the Neuadd was one great story.

  ‘Dragons.’ He tried not to laugh because that only made his ribs hurt even more. With the words and the pain the reality of the vandalized hall reasserted itself. But he knew that what he had seen was the truth. ‘Dragons built this place. Like they built Emmass Fawr. We’re just rats scurrying around in their halls after they’ve gone.’

  He sensed the blow coming and tensed for it, closing his eyes. There was a loud slapping noise, but he felt nothing, and when looked again it was to see Queen Beulah standing close to him, her hand clasped around the guard’s gauntleted arm.

  ‘Enough,’ she said, then turned her attention to him. ‘Are you really a rat, Errol Ramsbottom,’ she asked, ‘or are you just a traitor?’

  ‘I’m no traitor, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Just a rat then.’ Beulah smiled a cold heart-stopping smile. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ Errol said.

  ‘Well, let me enlighten you then,’ the queen said. ‘You’re here because you have deceived your order. Normally a novitiate would be cast into the Faaeren Chasm for that, but I understand you already have been, and survived. How is that possible, Errol Ramsbottom?’

  ‘I don’t know, ma’am.’ Errol wished that she would just get on with whatever it was she intended doing.

  ‘Do you think the Shepherd saved you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t presume to know his will, ma’am.’

  ‘Or have you sold out to King Ballah, given your soul to the Wolf?’ The words hit Errol with brutal force. Queen Beulah wanted him to confess, here in front of witnesses. Then she could take him out into the city and have him ritually executed. It would be a long drawn-out process of excruciating pain. Suddenly he wanted to live, to escape. Anywhere had to be better than here. If he could just find a way.

  He searched for the lines, casting out with his mind, ignoring all the distractions around him. They swam into his vision like great fat fish. Huge coils of unimaginable power radiated from all directions. And all of them converged on the great mass of the throne. It was a vast powerhouse, tapping the energy of the whole world, and he could use it to go anywhere. If he could just work out how to do it.

  A red-hot fire blossomed in Errol’s chest as he felt along the nearest line for escape. It suddenly became hard to breathe, and the fat lines of power faded from his sight. His eyes snapped into focus on the queen once more. She was shaking her head slightly, her eyes looking below his face towards his chest. The strength seemed to leach out of his neck, and his gaze dropped too, to where Beulah’s outstretched arm stretched towards him.

  ‘Can’t let you run off like that.’

  Her hand was wrapped around the hilt of a short silver dagger. The rest of it was buried in his chest. Errol could feel the life ebbing away from him, the room darkening. He wanted to say, ‘Thank you,’ but he lacked the strength even to mumble that much. The last words he heard were the queen’s.

  ‘Throw his body to the dogs,’ she said.

  Benfro plunged through the black, tumbling head over tail. Instinct had pushed him away from the pillar as he lost his balance, so at least he wasn’t crashing into it as he plummeted. When he swept the last of the jewels away, the light had faded, the red spokes of the lines winking out as if they had never been. Now he fell in darkness with only the swirling colours of his aura for company.

  He wondered why he did not spread his wings. He had leaped off the cliff top in Corwen’s clearing so many times he could now do it with his eyes closed. He tried to open them slightly, angling to catch the air enough to right himself, though in truth he could not be sure which way was up. The action took more effort than he expected and he had to extend his wings to their full reach just to slow himself. The air was not just thin to breathe, he realized, it was thin to hold him up as well.

  Trying to build a picture of the cavern in his mind, he brought his wings together in a great sweep ag
ainst the direction of his fall. Miraculously he didn’t crash into a wall or the pillar, but he was flying blind. The effort of holding his wings open was almost too much for him to bear. He didn’t know how far he had fallen or how much further there was to go. And while he knew there was water below, he didn’t know how deep it was. Some instinct flickered in his mind then and he banked away. His tail clattered off stone, sending stabs of pain up his spine. It was hard to tell if his sight was working, because everything was black about him, but his head certainly felt like the life was being leached from it, and the knot of muscle in his back burned with a fierce agony.

  At first he thought he was seeing spots in front of his eyes. Tiny pinpricks of red winked and shimmered below him, coming ever closer as he plummeted. Then he realized he was seeing the scattered jewels spread over the cavern floor. He tried to flap his wings to slow his descent now that he had some reference point. Nothing much happened and it was all he could do to keep them outstretched. At least the jewels gave him a general idea of where the pillar and walls were.

  He remembered the water too late.

  He hit belly first, and valuable seconds of stunned astonishment passed as he tried to understand what had happened. Cold as ice and crystal clear, he had not seen the perfectly still surface and had flown straight into it. Water crashed into his face, forcing its way down his throat and gullet as his impact drove all the air from his lungs. His outstretched wings, too tired to fold into his sides, took the force of his momentum and wrenched painfully in their sockets, but they kept him afloat.

  Spluttering and gasping, Benfro thrashed around in the darkness. He couldn’t think, and the water was so cold it was sapping his remaining strength. He could feel it dragging him down, and there was no fight left in him to oppose its relentless pull.