The Broken World (18 page)

‘What happened to him, Malkin? What happened to Errol?' He paced back and forth at the edge of the clearing, trying to see through the thick shrubs that marked its edge. The squirrel still perched on his shoulder rocked back and forth with each change of direction, digging its claws into his neck.

‘Malkin not know Errol. Malkin just look for dragons. Malkin find dragons.'

‘Yes. Yes, you did. Thank you. But my friend is out there still, being hunted by men.'

‘I am afraid that they have captured your friend,
Benfro. I'm sorry, but he was too far away, and there were too many for me to hide him from them all.'

Benfro swung round so fast that Malkin almost flew off his shoulder. Standing just a few paces away from him, the mother tree bowed her slender head in sorrow, and for a moment it felt like the clearing had been plunged into winter. Then she looked up again, and the night sky filled with light. It was hard to be worried in her presence. She filled him with a sense of peace and calm.

The other dragon seemed less impressed. He sauntered up to where she stood, sniffed loudly and offered her a flower he had just plucked. ‘I am Magog, Son of the Summer Moon,' he said. ‘And this is my brother Gog. We are the greatest dragons ever to have lived, you know.'

‘I don't think so, Sir Tremadog. You are a better dragon by far than Magog ever was.'

‘Sir Tremadog? Eh? Who's he then?' The dragon blustered, but Benfro could see a change in him, as if the name had woken some deep-buried memory. Memory. The old dragon's jewels. He looked down and saw, still clasped tightly in his hand, the small wooden box that Errol had given him. How had he managed to hold on to it all this time?

‘They took his jewels out, one by one. Can you put them back?' He offered the box to the mother tree. She took it from him, opening it and picking out one of the tiny red jewels.

‘I could, Benfro. And I can see that you have only the noblest of aims when you suggest it. But to do so would render him quite mad.'

‘But he's mad already.' Benfro tried to speak softly,
though the other dragon was paying no attention to them any more, having wandered off to talk to some rabbits hopping around in the grass.

‘He's confused, simple. He doesn't remember anything of his past. But he's not mad. If I were to put these back in his head, it would be filled with unconnected images, memories of great pain and torture, of loss and betrayal. They would plunge him into a madness such as you cannot imagine.'

‘Is there anything you can do for him?'

‘Of course, Benfro. I can keep him here, where he will come to no harm. In time he will get better, though he'll never be the proud dragon I remember. But come. You look starved, both of you. Let us eat, and you can tell me your tale.'

A table laden with food appeared in front of him, filling the air with a smell that made his mouth water and his stomach gurgle. Benfro couldn't remember when last he had eaten, and breathing fire had left him completely empty. But even as his legs propelled him towards the feast, he remembered the world outside this unreal bubble.

‘I can't,' he said. ‘I've got to try and find Errol. I have to help him.'

For a moment the whole scene shimmered, fading away. Ranks of tall trees overlaid the clearing like ghostly shadows, packed so tight together even the starlight couldn't penetrate. Benfro wondered if he had done something wrong. Had anyone ever refused the mother tree before? She looked at him with a glare that reminded him of his mother and then relented. The moment passed.

‘You must eat, Benfro. You'll be no use to your friend
if you're weak with hunger. Now sit and tell me about this young man. I'm surprised that you would befriend one of his kind after what they've done to you.'

‘He's different. He helped me fight off Magog when he didn't need to.' Benfro glanced nervously at the point in the air between his eyes, though he couldn't see his aura just then. He was tired, not thinking straight. He should have checked his mental defences as soon as he had thrown off Loghtan's control. But it was difficult to stay worried for any length of time here. Benfro could feel nothing of Magog's presence. Something kept it away for now, so he might as well make the most of it.

The mother tree took her seat at the head of the table, long white hair tumbling over her shoulders, slender, angular ears protruding through it on either side of her head. She took an apple in her long-fingered hand, caressing its shiny red skin but not eating. On the other side of the table Sir Tremadog had settled himself down and was tucking in noisily.

‘I have to get rid of Magog,' Benfro said, ‘and I need to find a way to Gog's world. Even if Gog's dead, there must be other dragon mages there who would know how to break the curse. Or how to find my way back to the place of the standing stone. Magog's bones lie there; with them I could reckon his jewel and be free of him.'

‘Gog's world, eh?' Sir Tremadog said. ‘I knew a dragon once who was trying to find a way there. Looked all over Gwlad for it, he did.'

‘But you told me the window was at Candlehall,' Benfro said. ‘I even saw it. Or at least I saw something.'

‘Old Gog's forgotten again, hasn't he. I can't go
anywhere near the hall of candles. Makes me ill just to think of the place. But I can't let you have your world and not know what's going on. So I made me a window too, in a place where you won't know about it.'

It took Benfro a moment to work out what the dragon was saying. Benfro had never accepted the roles of Gog and Magog that Loghtan had given them. And until a few seconds ago he had forgotten the incident when Sir Tremadog had begun to tell him of the windows between the worlds.

‘Where did you make this window?'

‘Well I'm hardly going to tell you, brother mine. After what you did to me.'

‘Perhaps then, good sir dragon, you would tell me?' The mother tree leaned forward, and in the same motion she changed, once more taking on that shape of perfect dragon beauty.

‘Ammorgwm?' Sir Tremadog dropped the handful of food he had been transporting to his mouth. It landed on the table with a dull
plop
as he stared intently at the vision in front of him. ‘You came back?'

‘I want you to tell me about the window that you made between the two worlds. Where is it?'

‘Close. Not far at all. But I can't tell. Not with Gog listening. He mustn't know about it. Oh no. That would spoil the surprise.'

‘I'm not Gog.' Benfro dropped his head to the table. ‘I'm not your brother. I'm Benfro, son of Morgwm the Green and Sir Trefaldwyn of the Great Span.'

‘He will take time to adjust, time to reorder what memories he has.' Benfro felt a hand on his arm and looked up
into the great black eyes of Ammorgwm, the mother tree. He was tired, the effort of their escape and the trauma of his captivity beginning to catch up with him. It would be so easy to surrender to those eyes, to let sleep take him over, but the last time he had done that, he had lost months. Errol could be dead in hours.

Shaking his head to try and clear it of sleep, he pushed thoughts of rest as far from his mind as possible.

‘O Benfro, I should know better than to argue with a dragon whose mind is made up. Here, eat these. They will give you the strength you need.'

The mother tree waved her hand and a plate piled with strange fruit appeared in front of him. He hesitated, but she nodded her head. Mindful of his manners and conscious that he really did need to eat, Benfro took a piece and bit into it. His mouth was filled with a wonderful flavour. As he swallowed, he could feel his strength building in a way that only emphasized how weak and tired he had been. He took another piece. It was better than the first and it filled his stomach with a warm glow. The third was tastier still, and he started cramming the food into his mouth. Only after some minutes did he remember his manners, put down the last piece of fruit uneaten and push the plate away.

‘Thank you,' he said, all too aware that the mother tree, still wearing the form of Ammorgwm the Fair, had watched him like an indulgent mother might watch a hatchling. ‘I could eat more, but then I'd fall asleep. Already it's been too long; I must go back for Errol.'

‘You won't find him in the forest. If he were here, I would be able to help him.' The mother tree stood and
Benfro automatically got up from his bench. ‘They've taken him to the city, where my influence is diminished. But there are ways. Please, follow me.'

Benfro found himself beside the great tree that towered over the centre of the clearing. It had been distant while he had eaten, although he had hardly walked more than a half-dozen paces, yet now he could reach out and touch the rough bark. It split beneath his fingers, opening up into a dark cleft.

‘You'll find what you seek inside.'

He looked back, seeing the table still laden with food. Sir Tremadog sat on the bench, his back to them, his arms working away as he fed himself.

‘He'll be all right?' Benfro asked.

‘You don't need to take responsibility for every dragon, Benfro. I will look after Sir Tremadog. He will be happy here. Now find your friend. There's much still you have to do.'

Benfro stepped into the cleft in the tree, feeling the grass give way to soft dirt beneath his feet. The opening became a narrow fissure dropping down into the earth. It smelt musty and dank, like forest loam disturbed, and behind that powerful musk there was a drier, dustier aroma reminiscent of Corwen's cave. Turning once more, he saw the entrance closing, the serene face of the mother tree watching him go.

‘Thank you, again,' he said, but whether he spoke quickly enough, he didn't know. Noiselessly the bark sealed and he was plunged into darkness.

Something of the ease and comfort of the mother tree stayed with him for a while, and Benfro felt no fear as he
descended. At first he went by touch, feeling the walls with his hands. But soon his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could see the faintest of illumination far ahead, red like the glow of dying embers. The warmth of the clearing faded slowly away, the moisture of the forest drying out with each new step, and as he moved along the tunnel, so his feeling of security dissolved like autumn mist. Unease took its place, a familiar gnawing fear that almost had him turning back.

Then the rough earth of the tunnel wall abruptly changed. Now his talons traced their course over smooth stonework, his feet felt the cold of ancient flagstones. In the gloom ahead he could make out the arched ceiling of a small aperture leading through to another space still obscured from view. One step, two steps, three. Benfro kept going, though he knew already what sight was going to greet him.

Squat pillars held up a low ceiling, marching away from where he stood and on into the indistinct darkness. The air was cold, with a scent of winter trees stripped of leaves and life, and everywhere there was that dull glow of red, too familiar to be anything but uncomfortable.

Row upon row of small alcoves had been cut into the stone, and in each one sat a pile of unreckoned crimson jewels.

The palace held far more secrets than he could have ever anticipated. There were moments when Melyn felt like he was a child once more, discovering all the wonders of the world for the first time. Each new find increased his respect for Ballah and at the same time filled him with a sense of unstoppable power. He had killed the king who ruled this domain, after all. And now all that Tynhelyg held was his to command. His to use.

Ballah's throne room was less ostentatious than the Neuadd, the great carved wooden chair a pale imitation of the splendour of the Obsidian Throne. Still he had felt a surge of power, of being connected directly to the Grym, when he sat upon it. Achieving the aethereal had been simplicity itself, and he found the whole of Gwlad laid out before him. It had been the work of moments to find Prince Geraint's army striking camp on the plains outside Wrthol. Melyn had spent some time watching the mounting chaos as the Llanwennog army prepared to march back to Tynhelyg. He was not worried; by the time
they reached here he would either have the city under his complete control and prepared for a siege, or he would have fled back to the northlands and across the mountains. Either way, the proud Llanwennog kingdom would be in ruins, and the Wrthol pass wide open to Beulah's peasant army. The queen knew what was happening; relief would come sooner rather than later.

But there was no time for resting on his laurels. Swift though the fall of the city had been, persuading the people that they were better ruled by him and his warrior priests was not going to be easy, and there was so much here in this palace to discover, he really didn't want to have to give it all up. Neither did he want to march back through the forest. Even with the dragon to help, he would lose valuable men, and time.

The dragon.

Melyn cursed, looking out the windows to the pale glint of dawn over the palace gardens.

‘Get over to the merchants' quarter. Bring the dragon Frecknock to me at once.' He watched the young warrior priest scurry out of the throne room on his errand and hoped it wasn't too late. He didn't know what had made him order Frecknock's execution. It seemed like a lifetime ago, not a few short hours. But everything had changed, and he wanted to show her just how much he had achieved.

‘Your Grace?'

Melyn looked up to see a small group of his men standing nervously several paces from the throne as if he were a terrible king whose wrath was to be feared. It was good that they were afraid of him again; the months on the
road had bred an unwelcome familiarity between the different ranks of his warrior priests.

‘What?'

‘We've brought you the king's … that is, Ballah's personal effects.' The leader of the group held up a bundle of rich velvet and cotton clothes, neatly folded. On top of them were a few items of jewellery and a small wooden box. This was a disappointment. Melyn would have liked a crown, even though he knew that Ballah had never worn one.

‘Bring them to me,' he said, not rising from his seat. The bundle was placed at his feet. ‘What of Ballah?'

‘His head adorns the south gate, as per your instructions, sir. His body is on the pyre with the rest of the dead.'

‘Good. Leave me. Get some rest.' Melyn dismissed the men, watching them troop out, seeing how tired some of them looked. True adepts would take the energy they needed from the Grym and had no need of sleep. Had he let his standards slip so far as to bring second-rate warrior priests with him on this mission?

Shaking the thought from his head, Melyn turned his attention to the pile of clothes and jewellery. It was much as he would have expected, except that Ballah had worn soft silk undergarments more suited to a woman than a great king. His clothes were in the main well made from the finest materials but not showy like some of the garments paraded about Candlehall. His jewellery was similarly understated, though some of the items hummed with power. He examined them carefully, looking for traps and finding several that would have certainly killed anyone trying to use them.

He was about to turn his attention to the small wooden box when a noise from the far side of the room distracted him. Looking up, Melyn saw Frecknock standing in the doorway flanked by the two warrior priests he had left as her guard. She bowed when she saw he had noticed her.

‘Your Grace.'

‘Ah, Frecknock. Come. Tell me what you think of these baubles.'

She walked briskly across the room, her talons digging into the thick carpet and pulling up small tufts with each step. Her two guards had to trot to keep up, and Melyn couldn't quite understand why he found this amusing. Nor why he was so pleased to see that she was alive. Still, there was something in the way she deferred to him completely, bowing deeply before accepting the collection of rings, amulets and other trinkets Ballah had worn about his person.

‘Some of these have been imbued with great power,' she said, swiftly discarding those items that were simply ornamental. ‘This one helps you to achieve the aethereal trance, but it's got a nasty curse on it. And this one …' She held up a plain silver ring. ‘This one has a linking spell woven into it. I suspect there are several other such rings, maybe as many as six. They would make communicating over great distances much easier than using the aethereal, particularly if you wanted to talk to someone who didn't have the skill to see in that plane, or if you were not sure where they were.'

Melyn took the ring, rolling it around in his hand, feeling its warmth. ‘But who has the others?' he asked. ‘Where does Ballah have his most important spies?'

‘I would advise caution if you are considering using the ring, sir. It's protected by some very subtle spells.'

‘I know. Perhaps you might help me in undoing them. But first let's see what Ballah kept on his person but didn't wear.' Melyn picked up the small wooden box and ran his fingers over it. There was a familiar power about it, an echo of something he couldn't quite put his finger on. But whatever it was, he could sense no danger from it. Flipping up a tiny metal latch, he opened the box.

Inside, nestling in a shaped velvet liner, lay a simple silver ring set with a single dark crimson jewel, its face cut in an ancient style. Melyn looked from it to the ring on the index finger of his right hand, the ring given to King Balwen by the Shepherd and then to Brynceri by King Balwen. The two were identical.

‘What trickery is this?' Melyn reached for Ballah's ring, then he thought better of it, handing the box to Frecknock. ‘Here, what do you make of this?'

She took the box from him, her enormous hands dwarfing it and yet somehow holding it elegantly. She didn't take the ring out but ran her dark fingers over it with soft caresses, as if feeling for blemishes on the surface of a mirror. Finally she handed the box back to him.

‘There are no curses on this, but it is a thing of great power. I cannot begin to understand how King Ballah came to have it, but it is something of your god, the Shepherd. It feels the same.'

Melyn looked at the ring again, debating with himself what it could mean. The dragons had stolen their book of magic from the Shepherd, so it was possible that Ballah's ancestors had stolen this ring. But why had he never heard
of it before? Why had the Shepherd not told him of it? It was, he knew, unwise to question the ways of God, but he couldn't help being concerned.

‘Should I touch it?' He spoke the question even though he had meant to keep it to himself.

‘There is no ill intent in it, sir. But it is an artefact of great power. One without sufficient skill in the subtle arts might well be overwhelmed by it.'

Melyn looked at the dragon, seeing her eyes properly for the first time. They were not pure black orbs, but flecked with tiny speckles of gold, like a night sky spanned with stars. It was hard to read her intent, hard to understand the strange thought patterns of a dragon. And yet he couldn't help feeling that she was on his side in this. She wanted him to master the ring as he had mastered her.

At that moment Melyn knew that Frecknock was truly his creature to command. She could no more see him come to harm than she could throw herself from a cliff on to broken rocks. Her secrets, her knowledge of magic, were his for the asking. And this ring, this enigma, was just the beginning.

He was reaching for it, about to pluck it from its velvet cushion, when the double doors to the throne room burst open. Captain Osgal pushed his way through, dragging something behind him. His face was dark, his cheeks bloodied and torn as if he had been fighting some wild animal. As he came closer, Melyn could see his robes were ripped, hanging from his large frame in tatters.

‘My men are still hunting the dragon,' Osgal said, hauling his cargo round and dumping it on the floor in front of the throne, ‘but we caught this one.'

Melyn looked down at the unconscious form curled up like a hibernating caterpillar. For some unaccountable reason wearing women's clothes. Errol Ramsbottom. With Brynceri's ring helping him, the boy's secret would soon be his.

He ran down the corridor, no thought for the noise of his feet on the flagstones, which echoed through the emptiness. It was important he get wherever he was going as quickly as possible, though he wasn't sure whether it was fear that drove him on or desperation. In truth, he wasn't quite sure where he was at all; it seemed familiar, like something from a dream perhaps. But it was too real to be a dream. His breath was too short, the cold stone beneath his feet too hard, the oily smoke from the far-spaced torches too acrid as it burned his throat and eyes. He looked down at his hands, seeing them as if for the first time. The fingers seemed too slender, the skin paler than he remembered.

Stopping at the end of the corridor, he bent down, hands on knees, gulping down deep breaths as he tried to sort out the tumble of images and memories in his head. He knew this castle, knew the people who lived in the lower levels and the dragons who walked the upper halls. But there was something wrong about that too. Men hunted dragons, had all but wiped them out. It made no sense for them to be living together like this, even less for the dragons to be the masters.

The staircase rose from the other side of the hall formed by the intersection of two corridors. He knew that he had to climb all the way to the top. That was where the old dragon lived, and the dragon had told him to come
as soon as he felt the slightest strange thing happening to him. Well, this must count as strange, otherwise why would he be running? And yet he couldn't actually remember the old dragon speaking to him.

The stairs were uncomfortably large for his short legs, and it wasn't long before they began to ache. Thin cold air rasped his throat as he climbed ever upward. All his focus was on the climb; there was nothing left to spare for thought. Only when he finally reached the top and stood in the freezing wind that blew across the great room from one open window to another did he realize that he couldn't remember his name.

Had he been in a dark wood? There was some memory of that and of fear, of hiding. Then pain. He tried to remember, but his mind was a blank.

‘Hello?'

The voice sent shivers down his spine that had nothing to do with the icy breeze. That one word cut through him. He had been searching for something for a long time now, and that voice was surely it.

‘Hello? Is there someone there? Is that you, Xando?'

Xando? He supposed that might be him. It seemed to fit, even though it wasn't quite right.

‘I … Where are you?' He looked around the room, expecting to see the dragon, but something told him the open windows meant he was away. There was no telling how long he would be gone either.

‘Up here, stupid. Where I've always been.'

He scanned the room, looking finally up into the rafters, where a cage of thick gold bars hung from a long chain. It swayed slightly, and a head poked out through
the bars. The head belonged to a young woman, not much more than a girl really, her long black hair matted and unkempt. But the sight of her made his heart soar. He even knew her name.

‘Martha.'

‘Well done, Xando. That's only what, six months it's taken you to remember?'

He twisted through the clutter of giant tables and drawers, benches and strange apparatus that filled the room, finally stepping out into a clear area directly underneath the cage. A few logs had burned down to almost nothing in a huge open fireplace. What little heat they gave off was lost in the chill air that swirled from the open windows. There was a smell of fresh snow, and he remembered another castle, different, more terrifying.

‘I don't suppose you could let me out of here?'

He looked up again, seeing the young woman peering down at him. She fixed him with a gaze that seemed to go straight to his soul.