Dreamwalker (47 page)

The men had been through the house, turning things upside down as if just for the hell of it. Pots lay broken on the floor, wet and dry contents mingled to a sticky pulp that smelled sour and sweet with the pungent odour of drying herbs. Benfro did his best to ignore it, heading instead for the store room at the back of the house.

By the time he had finished covering the prone body with Delyn oil, the moon had breached the treetops, full and fat. Its pockmarked face formed the shadow of a dragon with wings outstretched; great Rasalene, the father of them all. Except that Benfro knew no dragon could have wings that large. His own thin flappings were more of an embarrassment than anything else, a vestigial remnant of some earlier creature. Like the lore, the dragon in the moon was a pitiful, pathetic children’s tale to his current state of mind. But there was one part of being a dragon that could not be denied.

Finally he went back into the storeroom and fetched the tiny blackwood box, sliding the close fitting lid from it with trembling fingers. The powder within was darker than the night, as if it absorbed whatever light came its way. It smelled like nothing he had ever come across before, at once alien and exotic and frightening.

Benfro took a pinch between his finger and thumb, feeling its soft coolness almost numb his whole arm. His hearts were racing now, his mind a churning turmoil of grief and excitement and fear. He looked up at the moonlit night sky, seeing the thousand thousand pinprick lights of the stars and then with what he hoped was a flourish, he cast the powder over his mother’s body.

*

It was late, the night sky outside pocked with stars where it showed through the low clouds that covered the city. Beulah sat in her stateroom, an empty glass of wine in one hand as she stared out the window, thinking. She had tried to contact Melyn earlier in the day, but he was neither at Emmass Fawr nor close enough to Candlehall that she could trace him. She missed his wise counsel and realised, not for the first time, that she relied far too heavily on him. Not that she couldn’t make decisions for herself. And this was a big decision, so perhaps it was better to take it in small steps.

As she walked out of her room, two guards snapped to attention and began to follow her down the corridor, maintaining a discrete distance and trying to keep their movements quiet in the silent palace. Beulah ignored them for as long as she could, before turning on them with a fierce fury in her stare.

‘By the Shepherd, must you follow me everywhere?’ She shouted, knowing that they had been ordered to do just that and if they failed in their duty they would most likely be flayed alive. ‘Oh very well then. Come with me.’

She turned again, stalking down the corridor towards the guest wing. When she reached the door she had been looking for she stopped.

‘Now you can stand guard,’ Beulah said. ‘Make sure no one enters until I am finished in here.’

The two guards saluted and formed themselves up on either side of the door.

‘Or leaves, for that matter,’ Beulah said with a wry smile before opening the door and stepping inside.

The room was dark, only starlight picking out the rough shapes of the furniture. Quietly, Beulah stepped around a low couch and two plump armchairs, approaching the great bed that dominated the far wall. By the time she reached its edge, her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. She stood for long minutes, watching the sleeping figure of Merrl, heir to the dukedom of Abervenn.

He wore no bedclothes and the sheets covered only half of his body. His chest was broad, the muscles in his arms and shoulders well developed. His blonde hair draped across his face, boyish and relaxed in sleep. Beulah sniffed the air, noting the gentle aroma of bathing oils. He was clean and biddable; he would do.

Silently, gently, she climbed onto the bed, reaching out and stroking the light golden hairs on Merrl’s chest, feeling the tension in his stomach muscles and the powerful taughtness of his ribs. He woke slowly, which was how she had planned it. Beulah could feel the colour of his thoughts deepen and coalesce as he slowly swam up out of the depths of sleep and into the dream-zone. Here he was at his most suggestible; here she could mould him to her will. It was just a question of finding the place she already occupied in his mind, finding the image he held of her, and reinforcing it with suggestions of love, loyalty and total commitment.

It was almost too easy. Beulah found that she was already at the centre of Merrl’s thoughts and feelings. For an instant she was flattered to be the recipient of so much undivided attention. But the flavour was wrong; this was not slavish devotion. Beulah knew what that tasted like; she dined on it daily from the masses who thronged her halls. No, this was a different thing altogether, something closer to the way her own thoughts had been; dominated by images of her rotting father in the weeks and months before he had finally died. Before she had finally killed him.

Merrl didn’t love her; he wanted her dead.

Beulah probed deeper, her hands still caressing the firm body she now straddled. A tumble of images flickered past her: shadowy figures in cloaks with deep hoods standing around a fire in the darkness; an impossibly old man, yet still vital and brooding, undeniably Llanwennog, King Ballah; a young woman, still a girl in many ways, her face unmistakeable despite her foreign garb, Iolwen; a dagger, concealed in the sleeve of an elegant evening coat. The meaning was quite clear; Merrl was part of a plan to assassinate her and put her sister on the throne.

Beulah sighed. It was predictable, to be expected in many ways, but she had hoped for more from Merrl and the House of Abervenn. She knew that producing an heir was essential, however much the thought of pregnancy and childbirth disgusted her. There were other potential suitors, but none brought the huge financial benefits of a union with Abervenn. Then again, perhaps she didn’t need to worry about that anymore.

She leant close to Merrl, her silk gown brushing against his chest as she whispered quietly in his ear: ‘Wake, my love. Wake.’

Slowly Merrl’s eyelids began to flicker. His body tensed beneath her as he sensed her presence; his hands reached out to feel her soft skin. Then he opened his eyes and gazed dreamily into her face. For a split second he was all contentment and hazy joy as she pushed herself against him, feeling his drowsy pleasure. Then his whole body stiffened, his stare widened in alarm and surprise.

‘My queen... Beulah...’ he started to say. She pushed him back against the pillows, silencing him with a single finger to the lips.

‘This could have been yours,’ she said, sitting up on his stomach and caressing his cheek lazily with one hand. ‘You could have ruled by my side. In time a child of Abervenn would have sat on the Obsidian Throne. That won’t happen now.’

It was a small blade of light, short like a huntsman’s knife, but its blaze chased all shadow from the room. Merrl’s struggle was futile and short-lived, his head swiftly parted from his neck. A bloom of warm read spread out over the white sheet and sprayed across her face and arms, ruined her gown as, still riding his thoughts, Beulah felt the astonished life leach out of her would-be assassin.

~~~~

About the Author

J. D. Oswald is the author of the epic fantasy series,
The Ballad of Sir Benfro
. Currently,
Dreamwalker
,
The Rose Cord
and
The Golden Cage
are all available as Penguin ebooks. He is also the author of the Detective Inspector McLean series of crime novels under the name James Oswald.

In his spare time James runs a 350-acre livestock farm in North East Fife, where he raises pedigree Highland Cattle and New Zealand Romney Sheep.

~~~~

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Published by the Penguin Group
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First published by DevilDog Publishing 2012
Published in Penguin Books 2013

Text copyright © James Oswald, 2012
Cover © J.T. Lindroos
All rights reserved

The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

ISBN: 978–1–405–91772–8