Dreamwalker (18 page)

Errol had never been overly concerned about material wealth. His mother had raised him to appreciate what little they had, and their cottage out in the woods had always seemed more than adequate. He wanted for little, apart from books, and even they could be returned once he had read them. Clothes were necessary to keep him warm, food for sustenance, but neither were something he gave very much thought to. Godric on the other hand was possibly the richest man in the village and seemed determined to let everyone know. So Errol was dressed in the finest clothes he had ever seen.

It was nice to wear a pair of boots that fit properly and kept out the creeping autumn cold. The trousers were soft, supple leather, far warmer than his old ripped and mended rough cloth rags, but the cotton shirt was stiff around the collar and made him itch. The jacket was apparently the latest fashion from Candlehall, but Errol thought it made him look like a cockerel strutting round the yard after the hens. As he stood at the entrance of the village hall, next to an equally embarrassed looking Clun, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with people who had only ever cursed him before in his life, he longed to escape back to the cottage, his old clothes, his old life.

Perhaps it was the people. The whole village had turned out for the marriage of Godric Defaid, expecting to be well fed and entertained. Hennas had no relatives, but Godric’s extended family had all made the journey, swelling the ranks even more. Errol was not used to the company of so many, preferring the solitude of the woods or the company of just his mother. Or Martha. The milling faces made his head swim, each new person’s false smile adding to the sea of people until he felt he must surely drown.

‘Ye’ve come up a bit in the world boy.’ Errol started out of his daydreaming at the voice, looking up from the massive, powerful hand that clasped his and into the wide face of the smith, Tom Tydfil. ‘Still, I never thought I’d see Godric so happy. Not since Molly died, anyway. I guess I’ve ter thank yer mam for that.’ It was a strange, almost grudging compliment. Then Errol remembered that Tom, too had lost his wife. Only where Godric had sought out and found a new partner, Tom Tydfil had turned to the bottle for solace.

‘Ye’ll mind me daughter, Martha,’ the smith said. Errol looked across from the smith to the figure who stood beside him, almost hidden by his bulk, and nearly fell over.

She was wearing a long dress, the first time Errol could recall not seeing her in trousers. Autumn leaf green, it was embroidered on the top half with twining patterns that might have been simply pleasing shapes, or might have been two dragons, climbing into the sky with great wings, their curling tails hanging down in mirrored curves that crossed at a point at the base of her stomach, their heads rising with the cut of the dress to emphasise the slight swell of her breasts. Her shoulders were bare, covered with a loose shawl of fine green silk and she wore long gloves of the same material that came two thirds of the way up her arms. She had taken her jet black hair out of its normal ponytail and tied it up around her head in a swirl that made her seem both older and taller than her thirteen years. Smiling that mischievous grin he knew so well, she raised one hand for him to take.

‘Errol, we meet again,’ Martha said. ‘And not so wet this time.’

Errol was confused, both by this unsettling vision of beauty before him and by her words. He had been with her just yesterday, after all. They had been discussing the endless preparations for the wedding and then Sir Radnor had recited to them a passage from Sir Rhudian’s Marriage of Gwynhyfyr, one of the oldest dragon tales. Errol had even managed to walk the lines for a short distance in the afternoon, though the effort still left him dizzy and he needed Martha’s presence to anchor him from the infinite distractions of the grym. Martha had told him she would see him at the wedding, then disappeared in front of his eyes. Yet now she was acting as if she hadn’t seen him for years.

Martha’s eyes flicked away from Errol’s face to her father’s and back as he stood there holding her hand like it was a wet fish. Then it dawned on Errol that Tom Tydfil really knew nothing of their daily meetings.

‘There’s to be dancing later on,’ Martha said, breaking the uneasy silence.

‘Martha, don’t be so forward,’ her father said, taking her by the elbow and making to steer her along the line to where Clun was watching with interest.

‘I hope you’ll do me the honour,’ Errol said, letting go of her hand reluctantly. Martha smiled back, giving him a little wink before allowing herself to be introduced to Clun, who bowed deeply, took her hand and planted a chaste kiss on her fingers. Errol felt a curious pang of jealousy and animosity towards his step-brother.

‘The likes a’ her aren’t fer the likes a’ yer, boy.’ Errol turned back to the line, now finally nearing its end. Alderman Clusster looked at him with barely concealed distaste and did not offer his hand to be shaken. Beside him, Trell glared sullenly. He was wearing a black outfit not unlike that of a predicant of the Order of the Candle, and beside him, his sister Maggs looked on nervously. Errol smiled at her in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. It must have been four years now since she had been dragged up to his mother’s cottage, in tears and terrified. She would be eighteen now, he thought. She looked a lot older, but before he could say anything they had moved on.

Errol was beginning to feel hungry. He could smell the roasting meat of a whole cow that had been slaughtered for the occasion, and it reminded him that breakfast had been a long time ago, lunch an opportunity missed in the hectic round of last minute panics. The line had almost finished, just a few close friends of Godric taking their time to gossip about trivial matters whilst they tried to ingratiate themselves with his new wife. He wondered if he could slip away and find Martha before the feast began. Then he noticed the doors swing open. Two strangers, a man and a woman, entered the room. By their clothes he could tell they had been travelling for most of the day, perhaps more. They stood in the entrance, looking back and forth, then, noticing his stare, the man beckoned him over.

As he approached, Errol could see that the man was old, at least sixty and probably more. His face was lined and leathery, his hair white but full. He stood over six feet in his riding boots and radiated a quiet sense of power and authority. The woman was considerably younger, perhaps in her early twenties and stood as tall as the man. Her riding cloak was as fine as any Errol had ever seen and embroidered with sigils he recognised but couldn’t quite place. Her face was not beautiful but neither was it ugly, marred only by a band of brown freckles that spread across her upper cheeks and nose like a muddy splash. She looked straight at him, her eyes seeming to bore into his, with what he could only think of as an expression of fascinated horror.

‘Inquisitor Melyn! Your Highness!’ Errol was thrust aside by the bustling figure of Father Kewick, who crossed the distance between him and the door in a couple of frantic bounds before crashing to one knee. The old man allowed his hand to be taken and the priest kissed the single large ring as if continued existence depended on it.

‘I am Father Kewick,’ he said. ‘Of the Order of the Candle. No one told me…’

‘Enough, Kewick,’ the old man said. ‘Our visit was not announced. You need feel no shame. But tell me, what is this celebration? Surely the choosing is not until tomorrow.’

‘The choosing, yes.’ Father Kewick seemed flustered. ‘We are celebrating a marriage, your grace. Goodman Godric Defaid and Hennas Ramsbottom, the village healer, he pointed to the happy couple, still oblivious to the new arrival.

‘Then we’ve arrived at an auspicious time,’ the old man said. ‘For both the happy couple and ourselves, since it looks like we’ll be well fed. Come, Kewick, introduce us.’ He pulled his cloak off, revealing the simple cloth garb of a warrior priest, and handed it to the flustered Kewick, who took it as if it might explode, or transmute into some wild beast. All the while he bobbed up and down, dipping his head in obeisance, then snatching a nervous glance at each of the newcomers.

Errol watched them walk across the room towards his mother and step-father. The young woman kept her cloak on and stared all around the room as if looking for something. Only then did it all fall into place. Kewick had called the old man Inquisitor Melyn. He was the Inquisitor of the Order of the High Ffrydd, come for tomorrow’s choosing. So Clun would get his chance after all. But Kewick had called the woman Your Highness, and that was why Errol had recognised the sigils on her cloak. She must surely be the heir to the Obsidian Throne. Princess Beulah of the Speckled Face. He had never seen her before, which was hardly surprising given his background and upbringing. She could never have seen him before. So why she was staring at him as if he had just thrown a glass of wine in her face?

*

‘Thank you all for coming at such short notice,’ Sir Frynwy said, his voice as serious as Benfro had ever heard it. The great hall in the centre of the village was packed; he hadn’t seen it so full since they had all come to see the reckoning of Ystrad Fflur. That time he had stood at the front, the centre of attention. This time, delayed by his strange encounter with Frecknock, Benfro had to content himself with squeezing in at the back where he could see little through the crush of bodies.

‘It has been many hundreds of years since the first of us came to this village,’ Sir Frynwy continued. ‘Since then we have lived as the mother expected, as we agreed when we took the choice. We have seen old friends depart and new friends arrive. We have had hatchings, too few I must admit. But the latest gives us cause to hope. You all know that young Benfro is the first male dragon to be born in living memory.’

Was he? Benfro felt a chill shiver run through him as those dragons closest, who had registered his late arrival, turned to look at him. He knew them all. He had known them all his life. Yet now they seemed almost like strangers.

‘You also know that he is curious and impatient to learn all manner of things, most especially with regard to the subtle arts. So be aware that I have already spoken with him and know him to be innocent in this matter,’ Sir Frynwy said. ‘For someone has been into my house and taken from it my copy, the last remaining copy, of the Llyfr Draconius.’

Ripples of shocked murmuring bounced around the hall. Meirionydd, who stood near the back and had seen Benfro come in, pushed her way through the throng to his side.

‘You knew of this, Benfro?’ She asked.

‘Sir Frynwy came to our house last night,’ he said. ‘I didn’t take it. I don’t even know what it is.’ He wanted to say but I think Frecknock has it. I saw her with a book and she was doing some kind of spell, but all that came out of his frustrated mouth was ‘I didn’t take it.’

‘I believe you, Benfro,’ Meirionydd said. ‘And if Sir Frynwy’s convinced of your innocence then there’s no argument about it. But it would have been easier for all of us if this were just a case of your curiosity getting the better of you. The Llyfr Draconius is a dangerous thing in the hands of one not trained in its use. And if the warrior priests should find it...’ she did not finish the sentence.

‘But what is it?’ Benfro asked, his ignorance made unbearable by his burning need to tell anyone what he had seen. Yet he was unable to say anything about Frecknock and his encounter the day before. It felt like he was trapped inside his own head and he searched frantically for a way out.

‘Why would someone take it?’ He asked again, trying to work around the block in his mind.

‘I don’t know,’ Meirionydd said. ‘We’re happy here. We all chose to be here. And we know what would happen if the men found our village. Messing around with the subtle arts is just too risky.’

‘But the men don’t hunt us any more,’ Benfro said.

‘No, not as they once did. Their king doesn’t pay them in gold for our heads anymore. But they still hate us and try to control us. We’re not allowed to use what they call magic; we can’t breed without their licence; we’re not meant to live in groups of more than four; we have to pay a tithe to their treasury every year.’

‘But the village is four dozen strong,’ Benfro said, looking at the collection of dragons around him, all in heated discussion. ‘At least that.’

‘We are forty-seven, your mother and yourself included,’ Meirionydd said. ‘And the men know nothing of our existence.’

‘But they come here from time to time. That’s why Ynys Môn takes me on long hunting trips. He said so.’

‘Not here, Benfro,’ Meirionydd said. ‘They come to your mother’s house. They think she lives alone. And if someone comes to her with ill-intent, the road will lead them nowhere. Such is the power that protects us all.’

Benfro wanted to ask more, but Sir Frynwy’s strong voice cut through the hubbub like a rumble of thunder.

‘My friends, please,’ he said. ‘I know this is difficult. I don’t want to accuse any of you and it may well be that none of you are guilty. But you must understand how serious this is. Anyone dabbling in the subtle arts risks harming us all. Even Meirionydd, who is by far the most skilled mage amongst us, would not risk the delicate balance that keeps us hidden. So please, be patient. Think back over the last few weeks and try to remember anything that you might have seen. I will come to each of you in turn. We will find the book before the day is finished. Then we’ll put all of this behind us and come together for a feast.’

Meirionydd left him then and Benfro found a place to sit where he could watch as she and Sir Frynwy went from dragon to dragon, talking quietly. Each one was the same, a shake of the head or a short suggestion soon dismissed. Benfro wanted to shout out that he knew where the book was, that he knew it had already been used. But whatever it was Frecknock had done to him, it stopped him from saying anything on the matter.