The Broken World (24 page)

The woman stared at him as if he were mad, then shook her head. ‘Of course you don't. Silly me. I'm Murta. Pleased to meet you. Now sit! Eat!'

The meal was perhaps the finest he had ever tasted. To be fair, it could have been thin gruel and stale bread and he would have thought it was a feast, but even with hunger dulling his senses, the food was unlike any Errol had eaten before. There was a hot spiciness to the gravy, and the meat had a tender texture that suggested it had been hung for a good while before being cooked long and slow. Remembering how the drink from the tree had left him bloated, he forced himself to eat slowly, savouring each mouthful. And all the while Murta watched him but said
nothing. In many ways she reminded Errol of his mother. She had that same no-nonsense air about her, a pragmatism borne of experience. He wondered how Hennas was, how her new life with Godric Defaid was working out, and a wave of homesickness swept over him.

‘Oh my, Errol. You look fit to collapse.'

The feeling passed as quickly as it had come. ‘Just a bit woozy,' he said. ‘I got hit on the back of the head.'

Without asking, Murta walked around behind him and began inspecting the wound. ‘You've a nasty lump. I don't doubt your brain's all a bit mixed up in there. Best thing you can do is get some rest.'

‘I really need to find my friend,' Errol protested, even though he knew it was a waste of time. Murta was right. He needed to rest, and everything would be clearer in the morning.

‘Nonsense. You'll sleep here, and I'll go help Nellore look out some more suitable clothes for you. The gods know she needs to sort out that house of hers.'

Errol stood up slowly, aware that his balance wasn't as good as it should be. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his travelling cloak, hoping to find the money Lord Gremmil had given him what seemed like a lifetime ago. He felt the small leather purse, then beneath it a rough bundle of cloth. The strange glass orb he'd taken from Loghtan's wagon. There was a similar bundle in his other pocket, and he was halfway to feeling what was wrapped inside it before he remembered. The two jewels, one white from Benfro's mother, one red and evil from Magog. Hastily he shoved them back, pulling the purse out instead.

‘You'll at least let me give you something for your
trouble,' he said, fishing around for a coin. It was Llanwennog money, but it was also pure silver. There were also a few pieces of gold.

‘There's no need, Errol. But it's mighty fine of you to offer. There's plenty wouldn't even say thank you.' Murta nodded her head in the direction of the door, and incidentally the house across the street where old man Sorrenson was again dozing in his rocking chair.

‘Well, if there's anything I can do. Cleaning up, carrying logs.'

‘Best you can do now is get some rest. Come.' Murta pushed through a rope-curtained doorway at the back of the room and Errol followed. A narrow corridor led to the back of the house and a view of a sun-baked yard. Either side of it, more doors opened on to smaller rooms. The one nearest the back was sparsely furnished, just a wooden storage chest, a simple chair and a low bed with a bare mattress on it.

‘My boy slept in there when he was still with us. He's with the gods now, bless him. You can have his bed for the now. The outhouse is in the yard and there's water in the well. Sleep as long as you need.'

‘Thank you,' Errol said as he finished a slow turn, taking in the whole room. But Murta had already left.

Three days into his recuperation, and Melyn was beginning to regret having killed King Ballah. It had to be done, of course. There was no way peace could ever exist between the two nations, and no way they could become one while the house of Ballah still existed. But the old king's living apartments, far from being the luxurious and
ostentatious waste of money he had expected were actually surprisingly small and sparse. They suggested a man who shared Melyn's asceticism and distaste of opulence, a man with whom in other circumstances it might have been pleasant to have spent some time.

Ballah's bedchamber was perhaps no bigger than Melyn's own back at Emmass Fawr, its walls hung with tapestries which depicted ancient hunting scenes and kept out the worst of the chill. A single window looked out over the formal gardens, not at their best as the summer slid gently into autumn. Most tellingly, the bed was close to but not situated upon a major nexus in the Grym. That lay beyond the bedchamber, in a small reception room where the king had no doubt conducted his important and private business. The apartments also contained a bathroom, which Melyn might have considered an unnecessary luxury were it not for the need to keep himself scrupulously clean while he healed. There was also a large library, and he longed to spend time there. An all-too-brief perusal of its shelves had revealed an eclectic mix of literature and many treatises on the forms of magic that made his natural curiosity burn bright.

But he had so far been confined to the king's bed, venturing out to the reception room only to receive reports from Osgal as the captain set about the task of securing the city. They didn't really have enough men for the task, even if every warrior priest was more than capable of taking on ten regular soldiers without even having to conjure a blade of light. It wasn't so much about fighting as running a city bigger even than Candlehall. The people were frightened and confused, the merchants clamouring to
know who was in charge now. It was only a matter of time before they formed an unruly mob that would be time-consuming and wasteful to deal with. For once he wished Seneschal Padraig were on hand. A few dozen Candles would soon have the place running smoothly. Maybe he should have brought some with him, across the great forest and through the mountains of the Rim. Melyn almost laughed at the thought, but the pain stopped him.

He needed to contact Clun; that was the most pressing matter. But the wound sapped his strength and concentration both, making it all but impossible to travel the aethereal even with the help of Brynceri's ring. He had taken it off anyway, unable to muster the strength to control it properly. Time would sort things out, time and Frecknock's medical knowledge. She had cleaned and stitched his wound, found ingredients and prepared a sweet-smelling poultice which had taken away the inflammation around the edges of the cut, but she could not speed up the healing process any more than that.

‘Your Grace. You're looking much better this morning. May I inspect the wound?'

As if summoned by his thoughts, Frecknock stood at the door to the bedchamber, her head bowed in that manner of hers. Self-deprecating, as if she truly thought herself worthless. Melyn suspected it was unconscious now. She shrank in on herself, made herself as small as possible whenever she was in the company of men. He tried to remember the dragon they had taken from the village all those months ago. Had she been larger then? Certainly in his mind it seemed so, although that could just have been because he was not used to seeing her
around. Or it could have been that she truly had grown smaller, that all the dragons of Gwlad had shrunk over the centuries of their persecution. The thought sent an involuntary shudder through him. If dragons had dwindled in fear of men, then what had changed to lead to the existence of Caradoc and Morwenna the Subtle? How had Benfro grown from a scrawny kitling into the massive savage creature that had attacked him?

‘Do what you must.' Melyn lay back as Frecknock approached. Her large hands and long, taloned fingers delicately peeled back his sleeping robe to expose the white linen bandages underneath. He was unaccustomed to the softness of the bedding, perhaps the one thing that made him think less of King Ballah. There might be something to be said for sleeping in comfort, but too much led to softness, woolly thinking and the lack of focus that had ultimately been the king's undoing.

‘At least everything is clean today. I think the wound has sealed itself now.'

Melyn sat up to allow Frecknock to unravel the bandages. For the past three days they had been soiled with a mixture of blood and pus, but today they had only a light crust of the healing poultice on the innermost winding. There was no smell of infection either, which had to be a good thing. The dragon took up a basin of warm water and began cleaning the gash across his chest and the smaller one below that had almost opened up his belly. Benfro had come very close to killing him indeed; Melyn could see the irony in it being another dragon who repaired the damage.

‘Why do you help me?' he asked as Frecknock gently applied a fresh poultice.

‘I swore a blood oath, Your Grace.' The dragon took up a roll of clean bandages, working more swiftly and with greater dexterity than any battle-hardened field surgeon Melyn had ever seen.

‘There's more to it than that though, isn't there?' Melyn pulled his robes back around himself as the dragon backed away, picking up the basin of dirtied water and dumping the used bandages into it, snatching up the stone mortar in which she had mixed the poultice. She was uncomfortable with the question.

‘I … I never understood before, but it is our way.'

‘Your way?'

‘Morgwm tried to explain it to me, as part of my learning. She would never turn away anyone, be they human or dragon, friend or foe. If she could help them then she would. I thought it was just her, but it's not. It's part of being a dragon.'

‘Even if it means saving the life of someone who's sworn to kill you?'

‘Even so.' Frecknock dropped her head low, but it was a different kind of nod to the one she used to indicate her subservience. This was more resignation, as if she was admitting she had no control over her behaviour. Her utter spinelessness angered Melyn, although he couldn't for the life of him understand why he cared.

‘No wonder your kind are close to extinction. Here, help me up. I'll see Osgal and the others in the reception room.'

‘Are you sure, sire? After yesterday? Your cut—'

‘I will not brief my senior officers from my bed.'

‘As you command, Your Grace.' Frecknock placed the
bowl and mortar on a table under the window, then helped Melyn out of bed and into his day robes. It galled him that he needed her help, but at least she was not a warrior priest. Even Osgal, whom he had tutored since he first arrived at Emmass Fawr as a terrified young novitiate, should not be allowed to see his inquisitor so frail. Not ever, but especially not when the morale of his troop was so precariously balanced between the euphoria of their triumph and despair at being in the heart of enemy territory with little hope of any relief soon.

King Ballah's reception room was scarcely any more opulent than the bedchamber, though perhaps a little larger. It had two windows looking out on the gardens, and doors to the library and a long corridor leading to the throne room. More importantly, it had a large desk with a chair centred directly over a strong nexus in the Grym. Not as strong as the throne itself, but enough that Melyn could tap into the energy without too much effort. It was a good place to conduct the business of the city from, the thousand and one tiny details that demanded his attention and yet didn't require the ostentation of the throne room to add gravitas. It helped that the chair was comfortable too, though too much comfort could be a bad thing. Melyn set the Grym to speed his healing, knowing that he would pay for it in exhaustion later. Only once he was settled and ready did he bark the command, ‘Enter!'

Osgal had obviously been waiting out in the corridor, and for some time if the look on the captain's face was anything to go by. His face was normally florid, but now the burns dealt him by Benfro's magical flame weeped
slightly, taking their time healing. He should perhaps have used some of Frecknock's poultice on them, but Melyn reckoned Osgal would rather suffer. His disapproval of the dragon was written clearly in the scowl he directed at her as he clasped a hand across his chest in salute.

‘Your Grace.'

‘Situation report, Captain,' Melyn said. The formality irked him.

‘We have dealt with all the organized resistance in the city, sir. There is unrest among the general population, but I think that's more about not knowing who's in charge. I get the feeling there wasn't a lot of love for the House of Ballah among the common people.'

‘What about the merchants? I presume there's a delegation of them wanting to speak to me.'

Osgal managed a flicker of a smile at that. ‘They are predictable, sir. And there are many Twin Kingdoms sympathizers. Or at least free trade sympathizers. I don't think we need worry too much about them for now.'

‘And what of Prince Geraint? What of Tordu?'

‘I have sent scouts south, sir. But we can't spare many men. We never planned to take the city or kill the king. Our task was to draw the armies back north.'

Melyn felt a twinge of pain in his chest as he shifted in the seat. He tried to keep it from his face, but Frecknock must have noticed as she tensed, began to step forward, then remembered herself.

‘I am well aware of that, Captain. If necessary we will withdraw from the city and disappear into the northlands. In the meantime we must do all we can to secure Tynhelyg for a siege. Speak to the merchants. Assure them their
interests will be well served under Queen Beulah. I will see if I can't track down Geraint and his armies.'

The captain nodded his understanding, turned and headed for the door. Melyn stopped him just before he left: ‘Oh, and Osgal?'

‘Sir?'

‘Make sure the people have enough food, at least for now. Don't give them any more excuse to rebel than they already have.'

‘I expect he'll live. He's young and strong. Going to take a while to grow that hand back though. How did you find him?'

‘He just fell out of the sky. There I was minding my own business …'

‘When did you ever mind your own business, Cerys? You said you found him over Bagger's Hill way. What were you doing there?'