The Golden Cage (18 page)

‘No, Benfro. You must leave that here. It will only be a burden to you.' Corwen's voice was gone completely, his thoughts barely brushing the turmoil in Benfro's mind. ‘We will endure, but I won't be able to appear to you any more. I realize now what I should have seen years ago. Your father's quest – he was looking for another world. I thought it a stupid fantasy, but it makes perfect sense. If
everything else said about Magog is true, then why not this? His brother made a world apart, and he still lives there. Your father believed there was a way to get to it. He went north, to Llanwennog. You must find him. Find a way back to Magog's bones.'

‘But how can I find him? I don't know where to begin. I don't even know what he looks like.' Benfro spoke out loud, and the sound of his own voice seemed to pull him back into himself. He was standing in the corner of the cave where Corwen had first appeared, staring at the rock wall, his hand reaching out for something that wasn't there.

Melyn had never much liked the great forest of the Ffrydd, not since the first time he had entered its uncharted depths as a novitiate too many years ago now to even try to remember. There was something oppressive about the endless ranks of trees blocking off a decent view of the sky. He preferred to be above the world, looking down, not skulking around in the undergrowth like some rodent.

There were tracks through the forest. At the southern edge these snaked into the trees for miles and some of them were reasonably well mapped. Mostly they were used by hunters and trappers, though a few hardy woodsmen lived among the trees far from civilization. And dragons had taken to the woods of course, seeking their protection centuries ago. Few lived there now, only two that he knew of, and neither of them would survive this foray if he had anything to do with it.

From his earlier expedition, and others like it that the warrior priests occasionally mounted, Melyn knew that
the forest was not entirely close-grown trees. There were clearings all over the place, some as large as the agricultural estates of minor nobles, others no bigger than the rude garden that Morgwm the Green had tended. In places the wood was thick, the undergrowth all but impassable; then it might open up into good hunting country, huge ancient broadleaves each surrounded by hundreds of paces of clear grass, saplings kept down by vast herds of deer.

The paths that wound their way uphill towards the interior of the forest were in the main narrow, although wide enough for a cart to make good progress. Three or four men could ride abreast along the clearest of them, narrowing to maybe only two at the worst. Still Melyn forced his small army on at a relentless pace, setting destinations from his memory and using teams of warrior priests to hack the path wider where necessary. From the air, he had no doubt, the mark of their passage would be a wide scar of destruction, spearing towards the heart of the forest. For some reason that image made him happy.

They were a week into their long march before the tracks began to betray them. Melyn detected the subtlest play of ancient magics, tricking compasses, fooling even the most competent of navigators. Parties sent forward to scout out likely watering holes and good grazing would appear hours later, galloping from the rear of the column in confusion, certain they should be miles ahead. Still he pushed on, measuring the army's progress by the position of the stars at night.

This was the confused time. He had read enough of Father Keoldale's account of Prince Lonk's failed
expedition to know what to expect. He even remembered it from his own journey all those years ago. Father Helnas, leading the troop of novitiates on what was meant to have been a month-long dragon hunt, had almost lost his mind as they looped back on themselves, headed east and ended up west, climbed hills only to find themselves looking down on the evidence of their earlier passage ahead of them. Melyn had learned more from the healer on the trip, Father Colter. He had known how to read the stars, and he was the one who had led them out of the forest, on to the calling road some three months after they had left.

During the day, as the column made its slow progress, Melyn would slip into the aethereal and scout ahead. Freed from the constraints of his body, he could soar above the highest trees and look down on the mass of ill-formed self-images riding their solid-bodied horses through the woodland. He could see far enough ahead to plot out their course and pass adjustments on to Osgal, but it was exhausting work.

The army started with first light and pushed on well into the gloaming of each day, and it was all Melyn could manage to sit up long enough to eat the rations prepared for him before he crawled into his bedroll and slept. Never before had he felt his age so much. He began to worry that he had made a rash decision. So many before him had tried to tame the forest, and all had failed. But he was different. He didn't want to search out treasures or cut down the trees for cultivation; he wanted to pass right through and out the other side. As quickly as possible. If the rumours were true and the Ffrydd really did have a
rudimentary mind of its own, then he hoped that it would realize its best course of action was to let him through. He had no intention of ever coming back.

They were making camp in a vast clearing, the horses enjoying a rich feed of spring grass and plentiful water from a wide river, when Osgal came to Melyn in the deepening gloom one night. If he had to make a guess, Melyn would have said they'd been in the saddle for almost three weeks. They should have been roughly halfway across, but he was too tired from a day battling against waves of disorienting colours that flowed across the aethereal like some improbable camouflage. Little things like where they were and how long they had taken to get there were not nearly as important as sleep to him right now. The sight of the captain approaching with what was probably bad news put him in an instant ill humour.

‘What is it, Osgal?' Melyn's voice was too tired even to show the anger and irritation he felt.

‘Your Grace, the dragon Frecknock has asked if it might speak with you.' Osgal's dislike of their captive was unwavering, a constant rock in a sea of change. Melyn found himself oddly grateful for that small certainty, even if he had no intention of ever voicing his gratitude. Still, mention of the dragon bothered him. He had meant to speak to her weeks earlier, to force her to swear an oath to serve him just as the Shepherd had commanded, but he disliked her presence and hated even more the thought of letting her touch Brynceri's ring. If there were any other way to bind her to his will …

‘What does she want?'

‘It
says it has information regarding the feral dragon that attacked the queen, sir.'

Melyn took a swig of water from his bottle, wishing it were wine. He could do with something to lift the cloud of weariness from his mind. He needed his wits about him.

‘Bring her to me,' he said, then slumped against the trunk of the large oak tree under which he had unrolled his bedding. The evening was warm, the sky part obscured by high cloud that promised a mild night, so he had not bothered with his tent. Noises from the growing camp spoiled what otherwise might have been an idyllic spot.

‘Your Grace?' Melyn looked up to see the dragon standing beside his fire. Weeks on the road had slimmed her down, turned some of her flab to muscle, but she was filthy with dust and the very sight of her disgusted him.

‘You have information for me?'

‘Indeed yes, Your Grace. I have been around this clearing and I believe the feral beast, Caradoc, was here not more than two days ago.'

‘What makes you think that?' Melyn wanted to ask by whose authority she had been wandering around the camp, but that was a question for someone else. A punishment for someone else.

‘Over where the track fords the river there is a hearth. There are freshly blackened logs on it. The fire was left to go out by itself, not banked up. And it only burned out recently.'

‘So there have been woodsmen here. This is a good place for a camp. There's water and fish from the river, plenty of dry wood under these old trees, grazing for horses.'

‘This
hearth is about the size of one of your arm spans, sir. I don't think a trapper would build something so large. Nor would he easily have lifted the logs that have been burned.'

Melyn looked at the dragon, his hatred of her kind mixing with irritation and, oddly, gratitude. He would have to see this hearth for himself. His bedroll would stay cold for an hour or more still. But this was something that none of his highly trained warrior priests had noticed. Or more likely had been too tired, too preoccupied with finding forage for their horses, a meal for themselves and somewhere to lay their heads to notice.

‘Show me.' He hauled himself to his feet. For her part, Frecknock seemed light-footed, full of energy as she walked back through the camp towards the river. The warrior priests ignored her as if their sacred oath to King Brynceri's charter and the teachings of the Shepherd meant nothing. Most of them, Melyn realized, had stopped thinking of her as a dragon. Forced to march at the rear of the column, with the packhorses, she had become part of the army. It was dangerous thinking, he knew, but also seductively appealing. An army that marched with a tame dragon in its midst was surely invincible. But was she tame?

‘See, here.' Frecknock stopped in the shade of a tree whose canopy reached out over the flowing river. The hearth was much as she had described it, perhaps even larger. One vast stone had been dragged out of the river and dug into a hole in the ground. Smaller but still substantial boulders were arranged around it in a circle to form a fire pit, now choked with black ash and chunks of
dried logs twice the width of a man's thigh and at least ten paces long. This was no trapper's campsite fire.

‘So what does this tell me?' Melyn asked. ‘Other than that this beast was here and that it had a good meal of fish from the river.' He nodded towards a pile of fish bones in the grass beside the fire pit.

‘He was here quite recently, or crows would have taken those bones. He stayed here for several days judging by the ash in the fire. And he was trying to get his hand to regrow.'

‘Regrow? Is that possible?'

‘Morgwm could have done it.' Melyn heard the rebuke in Frecknock's tone but chose to ignore it. This was fascinating information, worth far more than his anger.

‘It's not an easy healing,' Frecknock continued. ‘And it's not quick either. Even properly done it might take six months for something the size of the arm and hand you showed me to grow back completely.'

‘And how do you know that's what he was doing?' Melyn stepped closer to the fire pit, wishing he had brought a torch with him. He was weary and the thought of conjuring a flame filled him with foreboding. Magic was always best performed with a clear head, especially where fire was involved.

‘Here, and here.' Frecknock pointed at the darkening grass around the base of the tree trunk. The day's light had all gone now, and only the faint glow from the stars and a sliver of pale moon lit the scene. Melyn felt he might as well have been in the fifth portal of the library back at Emmass Fawr for all he could see.

‘What am I looking at?'

Frecknock
whispered something under her breath that made his skin crawl, and bright light appeared in her outstretched hand. Beneath it Melyn could see a number of flat-sided stones laid in a circle on the grass about ten paces across. Perhaps just big enough for a very large dragon to sit within. Some of the stones were discoloured in odd patches.

‘He's set out the ingredients for the potion in the correct order. And here there's some left over.' Frecknock moved towards the tree, reached into the hollow between two massive roots and pulled out a handful of something that looked like mud and straw but smelled of brimstone. She dropped it back into the hollow with a wet slapping sound, then pulled something dry and powdery out of another. ‘He must have searched all over the forest for these herbs and minerals. The … magic part of it is best done on a new moon. That was three nights ago, was it not?'

‘How would a beast that eats people know about this healing? That's not the action of a wild creature.'

‘I don't know, sir. It's almost like the field surgery your men perform. I think Caradoc has done this kind of thing before, but I don't know of anywhere a dragon might learn these skills.' Frecknock had almost glowed as she showed Melyn the evidence, proud that she had discovered something of use to him, almost like a shy pupil seeking praise from her teacher. But now she pulled in on herself again as if expecting to be punished. He truly didn't understand her. She should have been surly and uncooperative, or passively accepting of her death like the
others in her village, and yet she seemed genuinely to want to help him.

‘Well then, keep looking.' He wanted to be angry with her but found he couldn't. There were warrior priests who would feel his wrath this night, but he would use the dragon far more for scouting from now on.

The horses awaited them in the dark alleyway Usel had taken him down just days earlier. Dafydd led Iolwen through the shadows though she was quite capable of looking after herself. Her child showed as the tiniest of bumps; an uncharitable soul might have said she was putting on a bit of weight from too many dinner parties.

The horses that Teryll had chosen were solid beasts, well capable of long distances and reasonable speed. They were harnessed for comfort rather than fashion, and the luggage beasts bore capacious leather saddlebags that would doubtless hold a fortnight's travel provisions and camp gear. Besides them, their own meagre travelling bags seemed paltry as Dafydd roped them in place.

Looking around to see if he was being watched, he helped Iolwen up into her side saddle, then made to climb on to his own horse. Only then did he notice that there were six beasts, not the four he had asked for.

‘Well, you didn't think I was going to let you go riding off on your own, did you? Not with six of my best horses.' Teryll stepped from the dark doorway of a nearby house and Dafydd cursed himself, both for not noticing the two extra mounts, or realizing the horses were unnaturally calm. Had they been left alone, as he had requested,
they would have been more skittish and nervous at his approach.