Dreamwalker (2 page)
Father Gideon lowered his head, his shoulders sagging under the burden of responsibility. ‘As her physician I carry that blame already,’ he said. ‘But what of the child? He can’t go to Ystumtuen.’
‘No, he cannot. He would be killed within the week. I’ll take the boy to a village a few days from here. Their wise woman seeks my counsel from time to time. She’ll see to it that the boy is well raised.’
Morgwm took up the pot of poultice from beside the fire and crossed to the dead form of the princess. With a complicated motion of her hand, she conjured a homunculus from the air and placed it where the child had so recently lain. Then she took a needle and fine thread, sewing up the gash. Finally she worked the poultice into the scar, chanting under her breath as she went.
‘The poultice will take the colour of her skin,’ she said, gently pulling the princess’ bed dress back down over her nakedness. ‘No one will see the scar.’
She lifted the near weightless body from the table and handed it back to Father Gideon. ‘Now you must go.’
‘What should we tell the child?’ Gideon said. ‘He’s the rightful heir to the Obsidian Throne.’
‘You should tell him nothing. I should tell him nothing,’ Morgwm said. ‘And if he’s lucky he’ll grow up to be a happy and healthy young man. Only then, and only if it is truly necessary, will we tell him of his birthright.’
*
Morgwm sat up all the night and on into the morning, pondering the events that had transpired. She knew that Gideon had seen the egg, knew also that he would never reveal her secret. Quietly, so as not to disturb the sleeping infant, she knelt beside the basket and peeled back the layers of blankets, laying a hand on the warm shell.
Her own hatchling, the first new dragon born for many decades, at least in this part of the world. Humans may have hunted dragons down for thousands of years but that wasn’t the only reason their numbers were so few. Something had gone out of the heart of them millennia ago, before even she had been hatched, so that now to be a dragon was to be a pale shadow of the former glory that once had ruled the world.
Or so Sir Frynwy’s stories would have it. Morgwm could not be sure that life hadn’t always been the way it was, that dragons bred seldom and were more likely than not to be unsuccessful in the attempt. Maybe the tales of old were just that, tales. An imaginative diversion to alleviate the drudgery of daily existence.
The egg juddered slightly as the tiny creature inside it responded to the close proximity of its mother. It had been growing slowly stronger over the days. Hatching would be very soon. And now there was an added complication. The child would have to be taken to Pwllpeiran, and that was a good two days forced march away, probably longer as she would have to keep well away from any roads travelled by men. The death of the princess would bring them flocking to Ystumtuen like geese to winter pastures. No, she would have to take the forest tracks and that would take her at least a week.
Unless, of course, she used the Llinellau.
Sighing, Morgwm re-covered the egg, checked that the infant child was sleeping safely in its makeshift cot in front of the fire and went out to prepare for her journey.
Picking her way through the cabbage patch, Morgwm noticed the sky darkening and a chill descending on the clearing. She had been sure that the storm was past, the morning sky had been clear. Glancing up at the sun, climbing high into the late morning sky her normal reserve dissolved and her mouth dropped open like an idiot.
It was too early, surely. Not for another week. Or had she been so wrapped up in her work she had forgotten the passing days?
A semi-circular disc was beginning to bite into the glowing yellow orb of the sun as the moon, great Rasalene himself, moved into the position of the confluence. Dumbstruck, Morgwm stared at the darkening sky, watching as Arhelion was slowly covered. Deep in her bones she could feel the ecstasy of that great mating.
Noise burst across the clearing as all the birds flew into the trees and settled themselves down for the coming night. Never mind that only a few hours had passed since dawn, their chittering and song fell away far quicker than any evening chorus should. The wind that had been tumbling around the clearing like an unruly child died down to a scolded nothing. The cold deepened with the gloom, a strangely surreal darkness that glowed at the edges, as if the air fizzed with light somehow trapped. Inch by slow inch the dark moon spread itself across the receptive sun until, with an almost audible pop, the cover was complete.
Morgwm stood in the near-total darkness, staring up at the perfect black circle scribed by a halo of flickering white. She was transfixed by the beauty of the sight, a deep-seated calm washing over her as if a wrong done aeons ago had finally been put right. All the cares and worries of her long life were gone, all forgotten in that one, endless perfect moment.
Then a terrible crash broke through her reverie, followed by the wailing of a healthy pair of lungs. The child! She had completely forgotten him.
Morgwm hurried back to the cottage, fearing the silence that fell once more upon the dark clearing. She swept in through the door and took everything in a single glance, astonished for the second time that day, the second time in half a lifetime.
The basket by the fire had tipped over and even now the edge of the blanket was singeing, a charred smell of burnt hair filling the room. Pieces of egg-shell lay scattered over the floor, and for a terrible instant Morgwm imagined the infant, somehow able to move even though it was just hours old, knocking over the basket, spilling its priceless contents on the floor.
But there was no dead kitling on the floor, no mess of unfinished yolk. And the child still lay in its makeshift cot, gurgling in a contented, happy way, its blankets all awry.
Confused, and with her hearts in her mouth, Morgwm stepped closer, her vast feet avoiding the broken shell as if to tread on it might somehow cause harm to the dragon kit that should still have been lying within. The baby boy’s eyes were open and a broad smile spread across his face as she approached. Then he squealed a happy cry and something far larger than his tiny body moved under the blankets. Morgwm pulled them away, half her mind confused, the other already knowing what lay beneath.
It was a dragon, twice the size of the baby boy yet still miniscule. Perfectly formed, its skin was still smooth, the first scales no more than the faintest of dimples rippling over its chest as it breathed. It lay on its back, neck extended along the baby’s side, seeking warmth and companionship to the infant’s obvious delight. Tiny taloned feet worked back and forth and its wings fluttered gently, far bigger in proportion to its body than those of any full-grown dragon.
Slowly, tentatively, Morgwm reached down and stroked the infant dragon’s belly. Its lazy eyes opened and it looked up into the face of its mother. A grimacing smile spread across its mouth, revealing sharp fangs. Then it belched, an absurd little noise that had the baby boy alongside wriggling with amused pleasure. Morgwm cupped her hatchling in her hand and lifted it away from the cot. Its miniature hands grasped at her fingers with surprising strength and she lifted it up to the light, the better to see what she and Sir Trefaldwyn had done.
A strange sadness filled her that she had missed the hatching, but it was swept away at the realisation that it must have occurred at the height of the Confluence. This then was a true child of Rasalene and Arhelion. And she could barely contain her excitement as she inspected the kitling minutely for defects, appraising her offspring with the detached professionalism of a healer. It was perfect. He was perfect.
He.
The first male dragon to be hatched in a thousand years.
~~~~
Chapter One
Not much is known of the natural death of dragons, for none have been observed in advanced age. Like other beasts of the wild, it is most probable they meet violent ends when they no longer have the strength to defend themselves. No decaying dragon carcasses have ever been found, however, so it may be that, like the fabled elephants of Eirawen, they take themselves off to a secret graveyard to die. If this is the case, then whatever man finds this place will be rich beyond measure, for the ground will surely be strewn with the discarded jewels that grow within every dragon’s brain.
Beasts of the Ffrydd by Barrod Sheepshead
Benfro hid in the bushes at the edge of the clearing, watching the cottage forty yards away. Thin smoke wafted up from the chimney and a heavy wooden chair propped open the doorway. Straining his senses, he tried to catch a whiff on the breeze of whatever it was that was being prepared inside.
He could smell the rich loaminess of the earth nearby, where the potatoes had been dug earlier in the day. The cabbages were a sulphur reek and all around the flowers were a riot of aromas, but they were a distraction. He had to practise, to single out the least from the overwhelming mass. So he concentrated harder.
The smoke from the chimney wafted downwards on the lightest of winds, spreading away from him and hugging the far ground. Still Benfro could tell that it was the beech wood that was burning, its distinctive lemon-acid reek was unmistakeable. For an instant it dominated all his senses, but he pushed it aside and sought further inside.
There was an aroma of cedar, very delicate as if powdered. Other spices presented themselves to his nose, cloves, cinnamon, maker-bark. As he identified each ingredient, Benfro could see its pot in the storeroom where it was kept. He could read the copperplate script neatly describing its contents. He knew that storeroom better than anything in his life, knew exactly where everything should be. It was essential, his mother had told him at least twenty times every day of his short life, that he know what was where. Too young yet to know what everything was for, but he could fetch anything and return it to its correct place blindfolded.
This potion was new to him and it piqued his curiosity. Breathing out a great snort to clear the myriad fragrances, Benfro clambered out of the bush and made his way across the clearing back to the house.
‘I wondered how long you were going to spend in that bush,’ Morgwm said as he stepped lightly through the door. Benfro smiled, he still tried to keep his actions secret from his mother, but she always knew what he had been doing.
She sat at the great table by the window, mixing ingredients in a vast stone mortar. The brass scales stood beside a collection of jars, its polished silver weights shining in the sun. This must be an important potion, for nine times out of ten Morgwm would measure by eye. Benfro was fairly sure that way was usually more accurate than the scales.
‘What are you making?’ He asked, settling himself down on the bench to watch. Across the wooden expanse, his mother smiled at him, but her green eyes were sad, her shoulders a little slumped.
‘Oh Benfro, you’re really too young to be burdened with such things.’
Benfro sighed. For all that he was ten years old, his mother and all the villagers still treated him like an infant. He made to get up, resigned to learning nothing today, but his mother reached out her arm and touched his.
‘Stay, little one,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t have to learn this, but I fear you will need to sooner or later.’
‘What are you making?’ Benfro asked, excited again.
‘Vitae Mortis, the reckoning powder,’ Morgwm said, her eyes again downcast. ‘Old Ystrad Fflur died this morning. We must perform the ceremony so that his spirit can move on to the next world.’
Benfro sat with his mouth agape. Ystrad Fflur. Dead. But he’d been talking to the old dragon just a couple of days ago. So he was slow and short-sighted, but then most of the villagers were that way. Did that mean they were all going to die? A lump formed in his throat at the thought of losing his friends, his family. A tear swelled in the corner of each eye and dripped down the scaly mass of his cheeks.
‘Ah, Benfro, to weep over someone you have known for such a short time. But then you’ve known him all your life whilst I’ve only known him for a fraction of mine.’
‘How did he die?’ Benfro asked. He didn’t know how to react. Should he be all sombre and quiet, or should he ask questions? His mother had always encouraged him to question everything but even so this didn’t seem like the right time.
‘He decided not to go on living,’ Morgwm said, a matter-of-fact tone in her voice not quite matching the sadness in her eyes. She tipped the contents of the mortar into a small glass jar and put it in the leather bag lying alongside her on the table. ‘Now run and put these away,’ she indicated the pots of ingredients. ‘And bring me back one of the amphorae of Delyn oil.’
By the time Benfro returned with the oil, his mother was standing in the doorway, the bag slung over her shoulder, her long, heavy-headed walking stick clasped in the other hand. He made to hand the heavy clay jar over to her, but she waved it away.
‘No, you should carry it to the village, as a mark of respect,’ she said. ‘And to show the villagers that you’re ready to take on some of the responsibilities of a healer.’
Benfro said nothing in reply, but as he followed his mother out of the house and across the clearing, three fast steps to one of her strides, his head felt giddy with pride.
