Dreamwalker (10 page)

Inside it was warm, a cheery fire crackling in the hearth. Errol went straight to it, peeling off Clun’s now moist coat and holding his hands out to the flames. Now he was home and safe the cold and exhaustion swept over him as if sheer force of will had been holding it back.

‘Go change, Errol,’ Hennas said, not unkindly. You’ll catch a chill standing there in those wet clothes. ‘Clun, you go with him. I’ll hang your coat up to dry awhile before you leave.’

Reluctantly Errol took a candle from the mantel and trudged out of the room into the back of the cottage. Clun hesitated for a moment, then followed, leaving the adults alone.

‘So this is where ye live,’ Clun said, stepping into the small room. Errol felt uneasy, waiting for the snide comment to come. Instead, Clun just looked around at the small bed in the corner, the wooden chest full of clothes and the big table, set under the window and covered in scraps of parchment, books and quill pens. ‘It’s not bad, really,’ he said. ‘Better than I was expectin’.’

‘Where’d you think I lived, a pigsty?’ Errol asked, slightly more bitterly than he felt. He peeled off his clothes, still soaked but no longer dripping wet, and rubbed his cold skin with a rough towel before pulling on clean trousers and a heavy cotton shirt. He was still cold and wanted to get back to the warm living room at the front of the house, but Clun stopped him.

‘Give ‘em a bit longer,’ he said.

‘Why?’ Errol asked, then the realisation hit him. ‘Oh.’

‘Yeah,’ Clun smiled. ‘It’s kind’ve weird really. We could be step-brothers soon.’

‘Is that why you started being nice to me?’ Errol asked.

‘Partly, I guess,’ Clun replied. ‘Mostly ‘cause ye stood up for yersel'. I was getting that sick’ve Trell, goin’ on like his dad was King or summat when he’s really jes’ a self-righteous little shit. He goes on about yer mam bein’ a witch and all but ye know what happened when he got his own daughter up the duff. Came running up here like a scalded cat, beggin’ fer help.’

Errol remembered the visit well. He had kept to his room but the cottage wasn’t so big that he couldn’t hear every word of the heated conversation, even over the hysterical sobbing of Trell’s sister, Maggs. Hennas had refused to even countenance what the Alderman had asked, insisting it was Maggs’ choice to make and not something she could be browbeaten into by her father. Errol had feared for his mother’s safety, such was the Alderman’s rage at her. He had learned a few words that weren’t in the big dictionary in the school library that evening, but finally Maggs had pulled herself together enough to order her father out of the room. After that things had gone very quiet, but nine months later there were no new Clussters. On her sixteenth birthday, not half a year ago, Maggs had left the village and gone to stay with her aunt in Candlehall. Or at least that was what the gossip said.

‘Wait a minute,’ Errol said, Clun’s words finally sinking in. ‘Alderman Clusster was the father? His own daughter? That’s...that’s..!’

‘T’aint as uncommon as ye might think,’ Clun said. ‘Ye never wondered why half a’ the villagers look the same?’

Errol had, on many occasions. He nodded.

‘Yeah, well, that’s why most of them don’t like ye. Ye’re diff’rent.’

‘Martha said I looked like a Llanwennog,’ Errol said, recalling the incident with a clarity that surprised him.

‘Couldn’t say,’ Clun said. ‘Never met one. But it’s not just yer looks, Errol. Ye’re smart, ye can read an’ write, ye speak proper like. And yer mam’s got a power over everyone. It’s weird. She helps ‘em, heals ‘em, gets rid ‘a their little problems, and they hate her fer it. Well, some ‘a them, anyway.’

Errol wondered what Clun was going on about. Was this just a delaying tactic to give his father more time to press his suit? He’d never had such a long conversation with anyone other than his mother before. Except with Martha, of course. But that was different, somehow.

‘I can’t wait to get out ‘a this place,’ Clun said after a while. ‘This whole village. It’s too small. Everyone’s in each other’s business the whole time. What d’ye reckon my chances are inna choosin’ this year?’

Errol was taken aback by the question, coming as it did out of nowhere.

‘The choosing? Are you old enough?’ He asked.

‘More’n old enough. Ye’ve gotta be fourteen but there weren’t no choosin’ last year. I’ll be fifteen next week.’ Clun replied.

‘What does Kewick think?’ Errol asked.

‘He don’t know. Nobody knows, not even da. Anyway, Kewick’d want me to go for the Candles. I don’t want to end up like him.’

‘What then, be a Ram like old Father Drebble?’ Errol tried to imagine Clun travelling the long road, teaching the words of The Shepherd and healing the sick. It wasn’t an easy task. That left only one real option.

‘Nah, I wanna be a warrior priest, join the High Ffrydd an’ fight,’ Clun said. Errol choked back a laugh but couldn’t help the smile from spreading across his face.

‘What’s so funny?’ Clun asked angrily. ‘You think I couldn’t make the grade?’

‘No, that’s not it,’ Errol said. ‘Well, maybe, but there’s still a few months to go before it comes around. I can help you with the tests, if you want.’

‘You, help me?’ Clun asked, incredulity on his face. ‘What would you know about it?’

Errol reached over to the table and picked up An Introduction to the Order of the High Ffrydd. He had made a half-hearted attempt to repair it but lacked both the materials and the skills.

‘It got a bit damaged in that fight when I broke Trell’s nose,’ he said, handing it over to Clun. The older boy took the book, opened it at random and peered at the tiny, archaic letters as Errol held up the fluttering candle for light. After a very short moment Clun snapped the book shut, inspected the scuffed, scratched cover and threw it down on the bed.

‘I can’t make any sense’ve it,’ he said. ‘An’ there’s pages missing.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Errol tapped his head with a finger. ‘I’ve got it all up here. I could recite the whole thing if I wanted. And Father Kewick never even realised it was in the library.’

‘Ye’d teach me, help me,’ Clun said. ‘Why?’

‘Why not?’ Errol said, wondering the same thing as he said it. ‘Like you said, we might well be step-brothers soon. And I’ll be fourteen in time for the choosing next year. I can join you then.’

~~~~

Chapter Six

In the earliest days of the Twin Kingdoms, King Brynceri was constantly under threat from marauding dragons. Perhaps the fiercest of these was Maddau, who lived in the mountains at the edge of the Graith Fawr. As was his way, Brynceri sought out Maddau and challenged the beast to combat. It was a fierce battle, and in the heat of the fray, the dragon bit off the king’s ring finger, swallowing it whole.

Now Brynceri was a powerful magician and skilled warrior, but he also drew power from the ring, passed down the line of kings from Balwen himself. It was said that The Shepherd Himself had given it to Balwen when he had gifted him with the knowledge of magic, and without it, Brynceri was momentarily weakened.

The dragon Maddau might have bested him, had not the wandering monk Ruthin chanced upon the scene. Focussing the essence of the grym into a pure blade of fire, Ruthin rushed to his king’s aid, and together they slayed the dragon. Brynceri took his sword and slit open the belly of the beast, retrieving his ring and severed finger. These he gave to Ruthin, marking him Inquisitor and charging him with exterminating every dragon in Gwlad.

Thus was born the Order of the High Ffrydd, and its sacred mission continues to this day.

An Introduction to the Order of the High Ffrydd by Fr Castlemilk

Spring turned to summer and then on towards autumn, time marching its unstoppable course marked out in the changing colours, smells and sounds of the land. Father Kewick began grooming some of the more capable students for the approaching choosing, leaning heavily on his own areas of expertise in bureaucracy. Too young to be included in this elite group, Errol spent most of his class time reading and re-reading the ever-decreasing number of books in the library. He suspected that Kewick was slowly working his way through them, cataloguing what was there and removing anything he thought unsuitable, which was almost everything that wasn’t directly relevant to the history or organisation of the Order of the Candle.

Alderman Clusster had gone very quiet following the incident at Jagged Leap, and Trell’s position as Father Kewick’s favourite, picked for special attention and extra tuition, meant he had little time to bother Errol. Tom Tydfil glowered at him every time he passed by the smithy, but Martha must have told her father what had really happened that night as no more was said of the incident. Martha herself disappeared, and it wasn’t until a month of frustrated looking had passed that Errol found out she had been sent away to stay with her aunt for the summer.

And so Errol spent most of his free time with Clun, much to Godric’s delight since it gave him plenty of opportunity to walk up to Hennas’ cottage in the forest and pay his respects. For her part, Errol’s mother seemed to be slowly relenting to the man’s persistence and more than once Errol heard her whistling a simple tune to herself as she went about preparing her healing herbs or simply cleaning the house. She tended to shout at him less often for neglecting his chores and would often just tell him to go out and play.

An Introduction to the Order of the High Ffrydd had not said anything specific about the choosing, and the two boys would spend long hours debating exactly what form the tests might take. Clun was of the opinion that they would be physical.

‘They’re a fighting order,’ he said one afternoon as they sat on the banks of the river some way downstream of Jagged Leap. ‘They’re bound to want to know how good ye’re inna scrap. Yer’ll have to beef up a bit ‘fore yer choosin’ or they’ll laugh yer out ‘a the first test.’

‘There’s more to fighting than brute strength,’ Errol said, flicking a stone into the water. ‘You need an appreciation of tactics, good intelligence. And besides, you have to be able to use the grym. That’s all to do with sharpness of mind, not the size of your muscles.’

‘So ye keep on saying,’ the older boy said. ‘But I can’t see any use ‘a this  grym of yours. It’s jes’ lines onna ground.’

‘At least you can see them now,’ Errol said. ‘That’s got to count for something when the Inquisitor comes.’ Having spent so long trying to see the lines himself, Errol was amazed and a little jealous at how easily his new friend had acquired the skill.

‘I guess,’ Clun said, his usual cheery demeanour dropping away suddenly. ‘Then again it might all be a waste ‘a time.’

‘What do you mean?’ Errol asked.

‘Da say’s there ain’t gonna be no warrior priest this year, no Coenobite neither. Just a Predicant from the Order of the Candle. Kewick’s fixed it so’s only his own order’s represented. He’s been coachin’ Trell and Wendell and the others to be good little book-keepers, jes’ like himself.’

‘They’ll come,’ Errol said, not knowing how he knew it was true, but certain nonetheless. ‘You’ll get your chance, Clun. And you’ll be the first to make the order from this village in over thirty years.’

Clun smiled then, but it was a weak thing, smothered in self-doubt.

‘I’ve gotta go,’ he said, scrambling to his feet and brushing the dirt from his trousers. ‘Da’s got a shipment comin’ in from Candlehall this afternoon and he’ll want help with unloading. Yer wanna come?’

Errol considered for all of three seconds. A hot sunny afternoon spent hefting wooden crates off the back of a wagon and into the gloomy storeroom at the back of Godric’s shop was not his idea of time profitably spent, even if he would earn a coin or two in the process.

‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll just lie here in the sun and meditate.’

‘Suit yersel',’ Clun said, and with no more than a backward glance he trotted off down the hill towards the village. Errol watched him go for a while and then settled back against the warm rock, his bare feet dangling into the cool water. It was almost perfect, he thought, as he closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face. There was just one thing missing.

‘Errol!’ The voice was loud. As if it was right inside his head.

‘Martha?’ He opened his eyes, tried to leap to his feet, and only then remembered where he was sitting. Scrabbling for a foothold, or something to catch with his hand, Errol plunged once more into the cold waters of the river.

*

Inquisitor Melyn strode through the long stone corridors of the monastery in a terrible rage. Novitiates darted into alcoves and side rooms at his approach, and even battle-hardened warrior priests flattened themselves against the walls, their heavy leather boots cracking against the polished tiles as they came swiftly to attention. He ignored them all, too annoyed even to take out his anger on his subordinates.

It was always this way when he returned from Candlehall, Melyn fumed. Having to deal with the soft city bureaucrats and their endless meetings wore him down to the point where he needed to lash out at things, and the long, tiring ride back to Emmass Fawr didn’t help. He longed to drag old Padraig up here, to the roof of the world, the border with Llanwennog. No more than a day’s hard trek from the monastery to the outer watchtowers and the senile old seneschal would be able to see for himself the steadily growing population on the Caenant plain. But the stupid old man insisted on pursuing his diplomatic insanity. Could he not see that there was no future in it? The only way to be properly rid of the Llanwennog menace was invasion. And if they left it much longer old Ballah would have his forces ready for them, ready to make his own foray through the uncharted rim mountains, deep into the Ffrydd and on down into the Hafod and Hendry. Then they’d sit up and listen to him, with violent death at their doors.