The Broken World (41 page)

‘Perhaps you'd prefer a sip of the ginger beer? Best brew in all of Gwlad.'

‘Really? I'd heard that the best ginger came from Talarddeg.' Benfro wasn't quite sure why he said it, most likely because he wasn't used to conversing with people. The ginger seller gave him an odd look in return.

‘Talarddeg? Sir must be a lot older than he looks. Hasn't been a living soul in that city in thousands of years. And you'd be hard pressed to grow anything up in all that ice and snow. Let alone sweet, sweet ginger root.'

‘Benfro is not from these parts, Master Boggs. The Talarddeg he knows is very different from the one you may have read about, I suspect.' Earith reached into the leather satchel she had slung around her neck and pulled out a
shiny silver disc, offering it to the man. ‘We'll have some of your ginger beer though, I think. It's a hot day, after all, and I'm told there is none more refreshing.'

‘I thank you for the offer of your coin, M'lady, but I wouldn't dream of taking it.' The ginger seller produced two large wooden buckets from under his counter as he spoke, filling first one then the other from the barrels at his back. ‘You won't get finer anywhere. Trust me.'

Earith inclined her head towards him slightly by way of thanks, then reached for the first bucket, passing it to Benfro. ‘Don't drink too fast,' was all she said.

Benfro sniffed the slightly bubbling surface of the liquid within, smelling the aroma, familiar but somehow sharper. He took a tentative sip, then a slightly larger gulp as the flavour exploded on his tongue. The drink was cold and refreshing, but the bubbles seemed to go up his nose and make him sneeze.

‘Not too fast, I said.' Earith scolded him but with a smile on her face. ‘Come. Let us sit a while.'

She led him to the edge of the square, where dragon-sized stone benches were shaded by more of the tall thin trees that Benfro had first seen on the beach. Earith set her ginger beer down beside her before speaking again.

‘How strong are you feeling, Benfro?'

‘How strong? Perhaps as strong as I was before Magog gifted me with my wings. Not as strong as I was when I fled Corwen's clearing. I'm sure I could walk all day if I had to, but I don't think these wings are up to much at the moment.' He opened them tentatively, stretching them only a little way, expecting the pain to jab into him at any
moment as it had done every other time he had tried. It didn't come, but his joints were stiff and the muscles in his back felt the weight on them instantly.

‘In my youth I would have healed you much faster, Benfro. Alas, I am old and can no longer summon the energy as once I did.'

‘I have no complaints, Lady Earith. Quite the opposite. You saved my life, took me in. I am for ever in your debt.'

Earith looked at him, her head half-cocked to one side in a manner that reminded Benfro of Meirionydd and sent a pang of sorrow through his hearts at her loss.

‘Your mother raised you well, Benfro. You are a credit to her. Never lose sight of what she taught you. Too many of the dragons in this world have done that, as you know.'

‘Fflint.'

‘He is but one example. There are few now who study the subtle arts. We have lost our connection with the Grym, with Gwlad herself. I've felt it for a long time, a slow dying as if our race is coming to an end. But you have changed things, Benfro. You are here when you shouldn't be. And you give me hope.'

Unsure what to say, Benfro took another drink. He followed Earith's gaze, trying to see what she saw in the same way he had tried to see what Ynys Môn saw in the forest when they were out hunting. He looked out across the square, impressed by just how well it had been designed to accommodate both men and dragons. He'd wandered through much of the rest of the city too, and it was all built that way. What he didn't see was many dragons. Lots of men, women and children going about their business, yes. But when they had entered the square there had only
been two others of his kind at the market. Now there were none.

‘How many dragons live here? In Pallestre?'

‘You've noticed. That's something else about you, Benfro.' Earith sighed and the sky seemed to darken a little despite the burning sun overhead. ‘When Gog and Magog broke the world, I brought my people here. Men and women as well as dragons. We left behind so much, but there wasn't enough time to do anything other than flee. Over the years we've built something of what we once had. This city is very much like a dozen that used to grace the shores of Eirawen. But we dragons are few now, whereas men increase in number with each new day, it sometimes seems.'

‘It was the same in my village,' Benfro said. ‘I was the first dragon hatched in a century at least.'

‘We have never been as prolific as men when it comes to breeding, but I can remember a time when there were hatchings every month.' Earith shook her head slowly. ‘Gog and Magog did something to us when they tore Gwlad apart. Whether they meant to or not, I don't know. But dragons have never been the same since that terrible day. And now it is all unravelling, I fear for us all.'

‘Unravelling?'

‘Have you not seen it? No, of course you haven't. You're too young. Too close. But some of us remember Gwlad when she was whole, before the split. Something of that is coming back. And it gives me hope, in a small way.'

‘I'm sorry, Lady Earith, but I don't understand.'

Earith laughed again. ‘You do not need to call me
‘Lady', Benfro. You of all dragons. Not when you bring me hope. You see, I lost a dear friend recently. A dragon, my daughter Merriel. She flew off to visit the islands of the archipelago, off up to the north, and never came back. She is not dead, I would know it if she were. Instead it was as if she had simply disappeared. I feared she had been carried off by the likes of Fflint, somehow seduced into their way of thinking. Now I suspect I know what has happened to her.'

‘She is in my world.'

‘Exactly so. The walls between the two are beginning to crumble. You are over here, so she is over there. I suspect others have gone that way too, and more will find themselves in this land. If they are men and they meet the likes of Fflint, then I fear for them, truly I do.'

Benfro remembered the cave where he had slept while with Fflint's fold. The dragon who had lived there before had disappeared over a year earlier. Fflint's father, Caradoc, had gone too. Had they somehow slipped through the veil that parted Gog's world from Magog's? Were they wandering confused in a land populated by men who would hunt them down and kill them? He held up his newly grown hand. ‘My world is not exactly friendly to dragons. It was a man who took this.'

‘Which is why I asked you if you were feeling strong, Benfro. I fear you will need to be in the coming days, weeks and months. I have put the word out that I would speak with the mother tree, and tomorrow we will go in search of her. The time has come to put right the wrong done to her so long ago.'

‘You wish to petition the queen for more favourable trading conditions? Tell me, gentlemen, where were you when the former Duke of Abervenn was fomenting rebellion in the south? Were you enjoying favourable trading conditions with him?'

Melyn sat on King Ballah's throne, basking in the power that it radiated. It hadn't taken long for the news of Prince Geraint's death and the near-total massacre of his army to reach the city. With no hope of rescue from Tordu's scattered forces in the south and less chance of any organized resistance in the north, the people of Llanwennog had bowed to the inevitable and accepted they were now subjects of Queen Beulah. Some were more openly cooperative than others, most notably the merchants, who sensed an opportunity to renegotiate duties now they were no longer trading with a foreign country. And so here he was, facing yet another delegation of self-important pompous idiots who thought that just
because he wasn't born of the royal house he couldn't read their thoughts as clearly as if they were written in big letters above their heads.

‘Your Grace, Her Majesty the queen is a wise and noble ruler, but even she must realize that this war has cost both countries dear.' An odious fellow by the name of Squiler presented the case for all of them, affecting an easy familiarity that anyone who knew Melyn would have known was a mistake. Perhaps it had worked with the palace major domo, or even someone lower down the food chain, but it was never going to work with him. By the Wolf he wished he had a few predicants of the Candle to hand this work to.

‘Which is precisely why I am maintaining taxes as they are. Pray I don't decide they need raising to pay for defences against this new dragon menace.' Melyn could see a weak counter-argument forming in Squiler's mind and pushed it aside with a thought, planted firmly in the minds of all the merchants, that they needed to leave now before things got worse for them. ‘Now it is time for you all to go. I have much to do.'

Squiler opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He bowed deeply, backed away from the throne through the midst of his fellow merchants, then turned and left, the rest of them scurrying after him.

‘They will be back, Your Grace.' Beside the throne, Frecknock had been lying silent during the morning's appeals. It pleased Melyn to watch the faces of the people presenting their cases when they saw her. None had seen the dragons that had torn their army to pieces and he wasn't about to explain that the largest had been ten times
her size. Let the citizens imagine that he controlled the beasts, that they were his weapon to use at any time should they become too unruly.

‘Alas, this is very true. I can only hope that Seneschal Padraig can send me some of his predicants soon. This bureaucracy gives me a headache at the best of times.'

‘Does your wound still bother you, sire? I can look at it for you if you would like.'

Melyn stopped scratching at his chest, only then realizing that he had been doing so. ‘No, Frecknock. That won't be necessary. It's healed fine. I cannot fathom why the Shepherd felt the need to remind me so of the creature that struck me in the first place, but his reasons are often mysterious to us.'

‘It would be presumptuous indeed to even try to understand him. I am grateful every day only for his continued protection.'

Melyn looked for irony in the dragon's words but could find none. She might once have been a creature of the Wolf, but she was his to command now, as loyal as any warrior priest.

‘What do you make of this throne?' He ran his hands over the arms of the great carved wooden chair, feeling the heat of the Grym course through them and into him.

‘It is very much like the Obsidian Throne back at the Neuadd, Your Grace. Although more human in scale. I suspect it has a similar function, focusing an unnatural nexus of the Grym and allowing those with adequately trained minds to channel that force for their own subtle arts. Someone attuned to its magics but not as strong-willed as
yourself would surely be driven mad by it. Or lose themselves entirely.'

Melyn stood, not because of Frecknock's words, although he could see the truth in them. The throne had a certain quality about it that made it all too easy to let the mind wander. All too easy for it to go so far it might never find its way back. And yet she was right too about the unnatural feel of it. Something powered this throne, and if it was the same as flowed in the Neuadd he had a suspicion he knew what that would be.

‘When Benfro appeared here, just before he attacked me, where did he come from?'

‘Behind this screen, Your Grace.' Frecknock stood and walked to the carved wooden relief that formed a backdrop to the dais on which the throne stood. ‘I assumed he had come here by the same subtle art with which he escaped. Something he should not even know about, let alone be able to perform. But … Oh.'

Melyn went over to see what she had found. His warrior priests had checked every inch of the throne room for hidden doors, finding several allowing servants to come and go unseen and one that led to a series of hidden passageways to various royal apartments. No one had discovered anything behind the throne though. Now Frecknock stood beside an archway in the wall that he could have sworn hadn't been there a moment earlier. Stone steps climbed downwards, spiralling out of sight, and a dull red glow reflected off masonry walls, not flickering like torchlight but solid and unwavering.

‘I didn't see this before, Your Grace. I'm sorry. It was hidden by the most sophisticated of subtle arts.'

‘If what I suspect is down there, then they would have to be. Come, we shall see.'

Melyn set off down the steps, feeling the air thicken around him. He stopped after a while, looked back and saw Frecknock still standing at the top.

‘I said come, Frecknock. This is something you should see.'

‘Your Grace. It is forbidden. I—'

‘Will accompany me.'

The dragon paused a moment longer, then nodded once before treading carefully down the steps. The passageway was just wide enough for her to follow as Melyn led the way. The stairs spiralled deep beneath the castle, into the rock upon which it was built, before opening out into a vast cavern. Pillars cut in the rock held up the high vaulted ceiling, and into each of these had been cut hundreds, thousands, of small alcoves. Every one was piled with glowing red jewels.

A week of walking through the strange forest, and Errol was beginning to wonder if they would ever see the mountains. It wasn't hard going; there was a fairly well-worn track that worked steadily north, deviating only to skirt around the larger hills. They crossed rushing rivers on sturdy stone bridges, well made but clearly ancient. They slept during the heat of the day in caves, under massive rocks tumbled from the hillsides or in the root bowls of the vast trees that spread away in all directions. Walking was easier at night, when the air was cooler and there was less chance of being spotted from above, although neither Errol nor Nellore had seen a dragon since the day the village had been destroyed.

The young girl was fascinated by the jewel she had found in the ashes, so Errol spent the time teaching her all he knew of dragons, their magic and the memories that crystallized in their brains. He taught her of the Grym and told her of the world he had grown up in, though whether she believed him or not he couldn't be sure. It was a good way to organize his experiences in his own mind, Errol found, to begin unpicking the mess Melyn had made of his memories. Nellore was a quick learner too, mastering the art of seeing the lines far more quickly than he had. Perhaps the jewel helped her in that respect, but it didn't seem to dominate her the way the single white stone from Benfro's mother had transformed the young dragon. Neither did it sink its magical tendrils into her like Magog's unreckoned gem. Both of them weighed heavily in Errol's pockets, nestling with the pure glass globe he had taken from Loghtan; he was sure he could hear them calling to him as he slept.

Water wasn't a problem for the first ten days. Nellore's special knife gave them all they needed from the massive-trunked Bondaris trees. As they moved towards the end of their second week of walking though, these petered out, replaced by more familiar stands of oak and beech, huge elms and hemlocks. There were enough streams and rills that they didn't go thirsty, but Errol was all too aware they had no water skins. The food they had scavenged from the ruins of the village had only lasted a couple of days, but the forest provided, and Nellore was well versed in its lore. The further north they travelled though, the less she recognized and the thinner their meals became.

‘I'm hungry,' she said as they lay side by side at the base
of a massive tree in the heat of the afternoon on their fourteenth day. It wasn't the first time she had said it either.

‘We need to hunt,' Errol said, though in truth he wasn't sure how. And neither had they seen much in the way of wildlife on their journey, though that might have had something to do with their lack of stealth.

‘Why don't you just reach out and take what you want? From the lines?'

Errol almost laughed. He'd told Nellore about Benfro, of course, and he'd told Benfro's stories of how his extended family had provided for themselves. What he hadn't told her was the other part of the tale, of how Benfro had only managed to fetch a raw turnip when he'd tried. And Errol had never managed to bring food to himself. Didn't begin to know how.

Except that he did. He'd done it before, reached out along the lines to bring dry clothes from his home back to Corwen's clearing. Only he'd brought the whole chest instead of just the tunic and breeks he was looking for.

‘I could try. But I don't know where to start. I don't even know where I am, let alone anything else.'

‘Well how do you s'pose your friend did it then? Benfro?'

‘OK. Let me think.' Errol shuffled himself until he was sitting upright, his back against the tree trunk. The shade made it easier to see the lines as he conjured up the vision. They were rich here, but static. The place teemed with life, most of it plant based. Only the tiny intense flickers of insects hovering under the canopy and the occasional higher bursts of birds in flight were moving at all. But the
lines were all interconnected, the trees and the shrubs and the insects and the birds. And yes, he and Nellore, and the dragons over the Twmp. Everything was joined, all part of Gwlad.

Without realizing he had done it, Errol found himself reaching out into the lines. For a moment he panicked; he knew all too well what happened to people who ventured too far away from themselves. But he could still feel the tree at his back, hear Nellore's soft breathing beside him. Using that centre to focus himself, he pushed out further.

The forest went on for miles, but at the speed of thought it was but a blink to the foothills. Still there was nothing with that spark of intelligence that would suggest domesticity and food. For a moment Errol wondered if he should have gone the other way, to the Twmp, where the dragons lived. But then he'd seen what they ate and how they behaved. He didn't want anything from them. And while Fflint might not have shown much in the way of magic, there was nothing to say some of the others might not sense him, track him down.

Then he started to feel them: thoughts that were not his own. An unmistakable clatter of noise that reminded him of Emmass Fawr. Concentrating harder, he tried to single out one voice, one person. Someone hungry but anticipating they would soon be fed.

Errol had his eyes closed tight, and now he saw as if he was in a dream. Or maybe stumbling through one of the dreadful swirling fogs that occasionally spilled out of the great woods and swamped Pwllpeiran for days. Pwllpeiran! Why hadn't he thought of that? He knew Clun's house like his own, knew the store at the back where the
cured meats hung, the barrels of apples were kept. For that matter, there was his own house out on the edge of the forest. His mother always kept a well-stocked larder.

The vision faded, and Errol could feel the ropey bark of the cedar tree cutting into his back. He was losing it, dropping whatever connection he had found. With a last push of effort, he tried to get it back.

And found himself looking down at a pair of hands that weren't his own. Young hands, their fingernails worn smooth and short by hard work. There was something familiar about them. Was this the boy whose mind he had ridden in his dreams? But he wasn't asleep now. So where was he?

As if answering his question, the view changed, revealing a long wide corridor. Stone walls rose into a vaulted ceiling high overhead. More like a great hall than a passageway. The hands reached up for a heavy iron ring set into a wooden door, twisted it and pushed. Inside was an empty room, a long refectory table taking up most of the middle. A line of silver serving dishes sat on a sideboard along one wall, and at the end of them a large piece of roast meat was dripping on to a carving board. Errol could see the glistening fat, the crisp burned skin. He could almost smell it. All he needed to do was—