The Broken World (19 page)

‘I don't know how.'

‘No, you wouldn't. He'd hardly share that information with his servants. Same as he won't let me wander free when he's not here to keep an eye on me. Well, perhaps you could throw some logs on the fire; it's freezing in here.'

He went over to the fireplace, hauled some logs from where they were stacked and placed them on the charred remains. Flames licked up immediately, but it would take a lot more than that to heat up the room.

‘Why don't you tap the Grym?'

The question came to his lips along with an under
standing of what he had been doing but not how he had learned, who had taught him. Martha snapped her head around when she heard the words.

‘This cage cuts me off from everything. And what would you know of the Grym anyway, Xando? I thought old Gog forbade our kind from knowing anything of the subtle arts.'

‘I … I don't know. I just … knew.'

Martha leaned as far out of her cage as she could, straining her neck to get a better look at him. He was happy to stare back, drinking in her radiance. Even half-starved, caked in grime and unwashed, she was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her green eyes were like forest pools, deep and calm, and he remembered dragging her lifeless body from the water, a stern voice commanding him, telling him how to save her, the taste of her cold lips on his.

‘Errol? Is that you?'

He opened his mouth to reply, but something that had been nagging him for as long as he could remember began to make itself known. His head was sore, as if he had been hit hard with something unyielding, and now the pain was growing impossible to ignore. His thoughts were cloudy, muddled. He remembered another girl – older, dressed in red. He had loved her, hadn't he? Or had he been a novitiate, sworn to uphold the charter and serve his inquisitor with unswerving loyalty?

‘How is it that you're doing this?' Martha's voice was an anchor, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything. Waves of tiredness and nausea pulled at him. Then rough invisible hands began to shake him.

‘Where are you, Errol? Are you close?'

He tried to answer, but he seemed to have lost the ability to speak. And now his vision was fading too, blackening at the edges, so that all he could see was Martha's face staring at him. The edge of panic in her voice was a double blow: she was the one who always knew what was happening, was always in control. If she couldn't deal with this situation, then what chance did he have?

‘Don't go. Please. Fight it.'

He tried, but he knew he was going to fail. With the last of his will he reached out, seeing someone else's hand respond to his command. Martha stretched her arm out of the cage towards him, but he knew as well as she did that the distance between them was too great.

‘Errol.' Her voice flattened, the emotion draining from it as his vision darkened to almost nothing. Her face was just a memory as he felt a mixture of happiness that he had found her, that she was still alive, and deepest despair that he couldn't reach her.

‘Errol. Wake up now.' The voice was different, male. It came with more shaking, sending pulses of red pain through his head. He gasped and tasted a different air, warmer, filled with the smell of unwashed men and polished wood.

‘I know you're awake, Errol.' This time the voice spoke directly into his head. It was all over him, probing his thoughts, looking for memories that weren't there, digging out that last hopeless image.

‘So you're still moping after that girl, eh? I should have known she was trouble the first time I saw her.'

He tensed against the invasion, trying to force whoever
it was raiding his thoughts out of his mind. But he knew it was hopeless. He was outclassed, captured, defeated. He had enjoyed the briefest of respites, but now he was finished. He just hoped the end would be relatively painless.

Errol opened his eyes, saw a distant ornate plaster ceiling softened by tears. Rough hands held him pinned to the floor, and then a hated face moved into his ill-focused vision.

‘I'm so glad you could join us.' Melyn flexed his hands, and Errol saw a ring on one index finger. It glowed with a malevolent light mirrored within the inquisitor's eyes. ‘It's time to find out what goes on inside that head of yours.'

For a moment Benfro thought the mother tree had played the cruellest of tricks on him. He was back in Magog's repository underneath the ruined castle of Cenobus. The alcoves, carved into the rock, covered every available surface, climbing the thick pillars and lining the walls. They contained the work of his dreamwalking – the returned jewels he had sorted through in the months of restless nights before he had swallowed his pride enough to accept Errol's help. He was reaching for the first set, about to begin the task of putting them all back in the great pile at the centre, when he finally saw the crucial difference.

These jewels were all red.

He snatched his hand back, the jewels untouched. Bad enough that Magog's had made Benfro's life a misery; there were tens of thousands here. He walked slowly along the aisles, hugging his wings close to his body, holding his tail straight and rigid, terrified lest he accidentally brush against some unreckoned memories.

There were no torches in the cavern, but the dark red glow from the jewels was more than enough to see by. Benfro felt the power of them filling the place, a heady thing yet tinged with bitterness like the screams of a host of tortured souls. It made him shiver to think about the terror those long-dead dragons must be enduring, locked away, slowly drained until nothing was left but the echo of a once-proud life.

After a while he began to make out something of a pattern. The aisles were arranged like the spokes of some giant wheel, and he was walking slowly towards its hub. They grew wider near the centre, and some of the piles of jewels were white here – reckoned. He wanted to go to them, take them out and pile them together, but he wasn't sure quite how he would deal with the sudden appearance of confused, alarmed and possibly quite mad memories. He also wasn't sure where to put them or indeed exactly where he was. The Llinellau ran through the room, merging at the centre, but rather than an open space, a massive black stone pillar rose to the dark ceiling.

He walked up to it and ran his hands over its glass-smooth surface, then remembered where he was, what he was doing. Instinctively he pulled back, but the pillar hadn't hurt him. It was powerful, and all over it, somehow underneath its glossy surface, were Draigiaith runes too indistinct to read.

Something pulled at Benfro's mind, and for a moment he thought that Magog was back to his old tricks. A quick look at his aura showed this wasn't so: if anything the rose cord was paler and more insubstantial than he had ever seen it. Perhaps the knot he had tied around it, still tight
despite everything he had been through, was slowly choking the life out of the connection. Maybe if he could keep it up for a bit longer, Magog would be gone altogether.

As if hearing his thoughts, the cord started to glow, pulsing slowly and arcing away from him in a wide loop. He expected it to connect to the Llinellau nearby, but instead it swooped around the pillar, and as he concentrated on it, he felt it tug at him then pull hard.

Benfro stood his ground, fighting the power for as long as he could, but the pain built up swiftly. It was as if someone had put a hook in his brain and was trying to pull it out through a tiny hole in his forehead. He took one small step forward, and instantly the agony lessened. All too soon it came again though, and he had to take another pace, and another, following the cord as it pulled him around the pillar.

On the opposite side of the pillar a doorway had been cut into the stone, leading to a narrow stairway. It reminded him of Magog's retreat under Mount Arnahi, only these steps weren't worn smooth and slippery with damp. The cord tugged him with a doomed predictability; the strength of its force must surely mean that Magog's jewel was close by. Unable to resist, Benfro climbed, circling the pillar at least twice before stepping out into a small room. Low urgent voices filtered through an opening on the other side, and his nose caught a scent he both wanted to confront and run from. The pull of the cord stopped abruptly. He stood silently, holding his breath, wondering what to do.

There was an opening in the wall to his right. Daylight fell through it, and that was where the voices were coming
from. Benfro edged his way over to it, meaning to listen, to come up with a plan. But at the last moment he tripped on a loose floorboard and stumbled into the space beyond – a great hall where Inquisitor Melyn stood over Errol, flanked by a dozen warrior priests.

And, most astonishing of all, Frecknock.

Osgal dropped Errol to the ground, perhaps rather more roughly than was necessary.

Melyn gazed down at the unconscious form of the boy. He was thin, his skin almost pale enough to pass for a Twin Kingdoms native. His hair was as long as a girl's and matted with blood at the side of his head. He wore a woman's loose shift and travelling cloak, and would have easily passed for a maid. It was a good disguise: in a crowd he would have been invisible.

‘We found him in the eastern forest, sir. Hiding at the base of a tree. There was no sign of either dragon close by, but I left a couple of troops to continue the search.' The bitterness in his voice was plain; he wanted to catch and kill Benfro. Perhaps understandably, given what the dragon had done to him.

‘Patience, Osgal. The dragon will come to us. He'll want to help the boy. Only this time Errol will be under my complete control.'

Melyn rose from Ballah's throne, feeling a slight resistance, as if he didn't really want to disengage from the warm embrace of the Grym. He broke through it, reminding himself just how easy it would be to lose his mind to the chair. He still held the small wooden box with the dead king's ring in it in his hand. That was a mystery that would have to wait for now.

‘Take this. Study it. Let me know what secrets it holds.' He thrust the box at Frecknock, who accepted it with a startled expression. Osgal scowled, his animosity towards the beast as fierce as ever. Well, he'd just have to get used to having her around.

Melyn stooped to look more closely at the boy. With
his smooth skin he looked almost younger than when he had entered the great monastery at Emmass Fawr. He'd be almost seventeen now, he supposed. Old enough to take on a man's responsibilities but still too young to shave.

‘Clear the room, Osgal. I need to concentrate.' Melyn knelt beside Errol's unconscious form, noting for the first time how much he looked like his mother in the shape of his nose and the set of his eyes. Or maybe it was just the way the long hair framed his face, the way Lleyn's always had.

‘Your Grace, you should have some men with you at all times. The city may not be totally safe yet.'

Melyn looked up at Osgal. There was a time when he would have reduced the man in rank and had him publicly flogged for questioning an order. But he was right. The palace was riddled with unmapped corridors populated by servants who might yet harbour some lethal loyalty to their dead king. And he needed to concentrate totally to get back into Errol's mind.

‘The dragon will protect me with her life,' he said finally. ‘You can remain with a few men. But I don't want to be disturbed. Understand?'

‘Sir.' Osgal clattered his fist off his breast in salute, then turned away to give his orders. A half-dozen of the warrior priests who had entered with him formed a neat line behind Osgal a short distance from the throne. The rest left the room without a sound.

Turning his attention back to the boy, Melyn felt out along the lines nearby, drawing the power of the Grym into him and the ring on his finger. He reached forward, touched Errol's forehead and slowly closed his own eyes.

Unconscious subjects had no barriers to keep him out, but it was more difficult to make sense of the disjointed images, to weave them into a false memory. Melyn had hoped that his earlier work would help; he knew his way around Errol's thoughts. But what came to him was even more disjointed and disorientating than he had expected.

He saw a landscape of mountains and steep-sided valleys at once completely foreign and yet hauntingly familiar. High in a cloud-flecked sky dark shapes twisted and turned like carrion birds circling over a dying animal. But he knew they were not birds. He saw a castle, impossibly large, covering the whole of a mountain top, its tallest tower reaching for the sun. No such place existed in the whole of Gwlad, of that he was certain. And yet it stirred ancient memories deep inside him.

Picking his way through the images, sifting and searching, Melyn began to wonder whether this actually was Errol. For what seemed like an age he could find nothing of the boy who had caught his attention at a rustic wedding in the Ffrydd foothills. There was no imagery of Emmass Fawr, nothing of the time he had spent here in Tynhelyg, nor of the dragon Benfro or the great forest. There was just more of the castle: its interior, the faces of people linked to feelings of fear or hatred, an ancient but huge old dragon hunched over a writing desk in a vast and cluttered room, a cage with bars of gold hanging from the rafters and in it a girl.

Melyn smiled to himself, knowing he had found what he was looking for. Here was Errol, hiding deep in his make-believe world. With a bit of patience and skill he
could rebuild the boy's memories, fix his loyalty to the order and then unravel his greatest secret.

He started with a simple idea, pride at being chosen for the novitiate. It was something Errol had always wanted, something he had worked hard to achieve. And he had succeeded where so many from his village had failed. Errol responded, the whirl of images beginning to include scenes, snippets and people Melyn recognized. Where he saw himself and the warrior priests he tried to spread a sense of calm and trust, but it was getting harder to maintain control as the boy slowly began to regain consciousness. He pushed a little harder, drawing more power through the ring. He could feel it warm on his finger, knew that it glowed even though his eyes were tight shut.

And then the boy started to slip away from him. It was like nothing he had ever encountered before. Errol's memories faded to darkness, leaving him with just the other images, of the castle and the girl. For an instant Melyn felt like his mind was being stretched over an incalculable distance, as if his soul were being sucked into the Grym. Instinct and training kicked in together, and he snapped his own mental shields up, pulled back out of Errol's mind with such force that he lurched backwards.

‘Wake him,' he said. Osgal stepped forward, knelt and shook the boy hard.

Melyn watched for a moment, then slid back into Errol's thoughts. He saw the girl again, only this was a much earlier memory. They were both cold and wet, and he was kissing her. The intimacy repulsed him, but it also showed him he would never be able to overcome Errol by
stealth. Theirs would have to be a battle of wits, but Melyn was confident he could crush the boy's spirit.

Osgal shook the boy once more, and Melyn sensed that he was about to wake. He leaned over just as Errol opened his eyes; it was important he was the first thing the boy saw and that he was overcome with a sense of helplessness and defeat. It was no use fighting any more, might as well surrender to the inevitable.

Just as he was starting on Errol, just as he was about to break him down and unravel his secrets, a noise distracted him. Melyn looked up and saw the dragon Benfro stumble out from behind the throne, trying to stay on his feet. Indoors he looked bigger than ever, his folded wings reaching up towards the ceiling. He must have been fully the size of Caradoc, and his eyes blazed with a cold fury.

‘Kill him!' Melyn barked the order, but it wasn't necessary. All the warrior priests sprang forward, and the inquisitor felt the drain on the Grym as they conjured their blades of light. Only Frecknock stood like a statue, her mouth slightly agape.

Melyn pulled Errol to his feet. The boy's head lolled woozily as the inquisitor dragged him away from Benfro. And now Melyn felt something even more strange, a twisting in his mind that made his ears resonate. The ring on his finger burned so bright and hot that the pain made him yelp. He let go of Errol, watching as the boy slumped back down, his eyes barely open, but before he hit the floor, before he was even halfway there, he simply vanished. Melyn had barely enough time to register what had happened when someone screamed an alarm. He turned
to where his warrior priests should have been surrounding the dragon and cutting it down, only to see a wall of flame rush towards him.

Benfro leaped forward, talons outstretched, wings unfurling as the inquisitor's warrior priests conjured their blades and ran to meet him. He had no time to think, no time to be afraid of them. He brought his wings together in front of him with such force that his claws cut grooves in the wooden floor as he was pushed backwards. A great wind sent the warrior priests sprawling. Ignoring them, he headed for the inquisitor, who held Errol in his arms and was trying to drag him away.

Then Errol disappeared, and without even thinking Benfro let out a great belch of flame. As it billowed towards the inquisitor he could hear Frecknock shriek and had a second to wonder what she was doing here, why she was still alive. But Melyn raised his hand in an almost contemptuous wave, and the flame washed out around him, dissipating into nothing.

‘You'll have to do better than that, little dragon.' Melyn was unscathed. His eyes blazed red, and the room was suddenly filled with fear. ‘I killed your mother, and I'll do the same to you.'

Melyn conjured a blade of fire, and only then did Benfro remember the warrior priests behind him. He whirled, lashing out with his tail as they struggled to their feet. Another burst of flame and several were howling in agony as their flesh melted away. Turning back, he ducked just in time to feel Melyn's blade swing through the air where his neck had been. But the inquisitor's stroke had brought
him in close, and Benfro was ready. He lunged forward, talons outstretched, ripping them through cloth and flesh.

Melyn fell back, his face white with shock. Still he was quicker than Benfro had anticipated, swinging his blade back around in an ugly arc. Benfro knew even before it hit that he could do nothing about it. The blade swept through his wrist as if it wasn't there.

It was curiously painless. He watched astonished as his hand fell to the floor. There was no blood, and as he lifted his arm to look, his aura swam into vision. He could see how it flowed and bunched over the damage, as if trying to stop anything from leaking out.

‘Kill him, you idiots!' The inquisitor's voice penetrated his shock. Benfro swung round again, belching out more flame at the warrior priests. They screamed like children as they burned.

‘You can't beat them all, Benfro. You have to run.' Frecknock's voice was in his head. He looked to where she had been standing and found instead that she was kneeling beside the inquisitor, tending to his wounds. His rage at her doubled. How could she ally herself with the man who had slaughtered her entire family?

‘I do what I must, Benfro. Now go before anyone sees I'm helping you.'

The doors burst open at the far end of the room. Warrior priests swarmed in like wasps. Too many of them for Benfro to take on, and his stomach was gurgling and empty now. He had to escape, but how? If he went back down to the cavern beneath the throne room, he would be trapped.

‘Use the Llinellau, Benfro. I know you've done it before.' Frecknock's voice was calm, quite unlike the
hectoring tone he remembered. It reminded him more of Corwen and the first time he had seen the Grym. Unbidden the Llinellau appeared in front of him, thick and powerful and converging on the throne. He gazed at the lines and at the aethereal overlaying everything else, and there, behind the throne, just like he had seen in Candlehall, was a small window. One strand of the Grym snaked its way through, one strand that didn't lead straight back to Magog's retreat at the top of Mount Arnahi.

‘Benfro, you have to hurry.' Now Frecknock sounded more like her old self. He looked at her and then across just long enough to see that the warrior priests had reached the dais and were almost upon him. She was sheltering Melyn, who sat on the floor shaking, but she looked up and winked at him, just once.

‘Go!'

Benfro turned his attention back to the Grym, feeling out along the line that must surely take him to Gog's world. But where on Gog's world? He didn't know any place to go. How could he walk the Llinellau to somewhere he had never seen? Then he remembered the strange dream he had shared with Errol, of flying over a huge castle, being attacked by other dragons. He had dropped Ynys Môn's jewels. Somewhere out there his friend and mentor was waiting for him.