Dreamwalker (26 page)

‘Well, never mind,’ Morgwm said. ‘We can’t hang around here all day anyway, it’s a long way home.’ She stepped back up to the path. Benfro took one last look at the rock and the pool, still fighting the compulsion that would not let him speak of what had happened there. It would not budge and he gave up in disgust, clambering up where his mother had gone and running to catch up with her as she passed through the endless winter trees.

*

Errol lay on his bunk staring at the rough slats that held the thin mattress of the bed above him. The vast dormitory was dark and so he had to assume it was night time. As he had not seen sunlight since the day before entering the great stone expanse of Emmass Fawr, he could not be sure.

After his initial surprise introduction to Danno and the stables, Errol had quickly settled into a routine in the monastery. He would spend a couple of hours in the morning helping out with the horses, and then the rest of the day in the library. Or at least he assumed it was morning when he was woken.

For uncounted weeks now he had been happy, in a melancholic sort of way. Danno was a simple-minded man, not much given to conversation. Nonetheless, the exercise kept Errol focussed and he learnt a great deal about horses.  But it was once the stable work was done that he really came alive.

Surrounded by books, writings, maps and pictures, it felt like he had died and gone to the gathering fields. There was so much knowledge to be gleaned here that he could have easily spent ten lifetimes and only scratched the surface. And that was only the books written in saesneg. There were dozens of other languages whose meanings he could only guess at, though he was beginning to learn. Andro, the head librarian, had seen to that from day one, as soon as the old man had realised that Errol could read and understand the ancient scripts from the early centuries of the House of Balwen.

Errol liked Andro. He was impossibly old, his skin and hair white with a lifetime spent in the dark vaults. But he was full of knowledge, both mundane and obscure. He knew about distant lands, about foreign people, about magic and about dragons. And he seemed happy, delighted even, to answer Errol’s endless questions even as he taught him the ways and rules of the library.

Errol had learned about the different filing systems used. He had recited the rules about naked flames until they tripped around his skull like meaningless sounds. ‘You will never carry an unguarded flame beyond the first portal. Covered lanterns may be used in the second and third portals. Only adepts of the fifth order may enter the higher portals. The punishment for any transgression of these rules is to be cast from the Elden Tower into the Faaeren Chasm.’ Errol had no idea where either of these places was, but he didn’t doubt the fall would be fatal. It seemed a harsh punishment until he saw, and smelled, the endless racks of dusty dry parchment that filled the racks. A stray spark could set a fire that would likely burn for decades.

Every day was hard work: lifting and carrying tomes that weighed almost as much as he did; deciphering spidery hands; compiling indexes and trying to catalogue subjects that had no meaning to him. And all the while he was kept in the dark, his only light a hooded lantern. By the time Andro released him from his duties, presumably at the end of a day, all Errol cold think of was getting a quick meal from the librarians refectory and then crawling into his bed in his cold dormitory.

No one else slept here. He had to himself a room big enough to house a hundred or more. There was a great fireplace at one end of the room, though he had never seen a flame burning in it. Like all the other rooms he had seen so far in the vastness of Emmass Fawr, this one had no windows and its walls were formed from huge, square blocks, perfectly cut and set. The ceiling was higher than many of the ancient trees Errol knew from home, its vaulted arches cast in strange shadows by the one torch he was allowed. The floor was stone, smoothed by the tread of uncounted feet. Everything was cold with the constant chill of a cave. For the first few nights he had lain awake shivering in misery, huddling into the one inadequate blanket that had been given to him. Searching the room had yielded nothing, so he had slept in his rough cassock. Then after a day hugging the heat of a single lantern whilst he struggled with a book written in a very ancient form of saesneg, barely recognisable as the same language he spoke every day, he had finally summoned up the courage to speak to Andro about his miserable nights. The old man had simply smiled at him and said. ‘You wouldn’t have been chosen to be here if you didn’t know how to cope with a little cold. Think about it Errol. You’ve dealt with it before.’

So he had thought about it, endlessly, for several more days, until it had finally dawned on him. The lines. Thinking about them had troubled him. His memories told him fat Father Kewick had taught him about them, but he knew that could not be the case. Still, he had summoned up all his scant energy and searched for them, trying to recall the exact way that he had felt when he had managed to see them before. They had appeared faint at first, like gossamer threads of spider web seen out of the corner of his eye. Looking straight at them only made them disappear. But at least he knew they were there and finally he had been able to connect with one, how he was not sure, and pull the warming energy of it into him.

Since then life had become easier. It was still cold, but it was as if he sat indoors beside a fire whilst the frost deepened outside. And the loneliness he had felt since he had seen Clun being led away eased slightly as each night bought the whispering of many thousands of voices to his mind.

And so he lay, staring in the near-total darkness at the slats above him, drawing warmth from the line that passed directly under this bunk and trying to make out some sense in the myriad murmuring sounds of the great fortress monastery.

A noise from outside his own head woke Errol from the semi-slumber that he had drifted into. A crack of light grew around the massive door as it was pushed open and a tall figure stepped in.

‘Errol Ramsbottom?’ It said. Errol scrambled out of his bed and pulled on his boots, walking the short distance to the door. As the light fell on the face of the man who had called him, Errol could see it was Captain Osgal. The warrior priest looked him up and down quickly, as if selecting a lamb for slaughter.

‘Come with me,’ he said, turning and heading out the door.

‘Where are we going?’ Errol asked, struggling to keep up with the tall man’s stride.

‘Don’t ask questions,’ Osgal said, then fell silent again. Errol followed him along open corridors, up great flights of stairs and through enormous halls until his feet began to hurt. Still they carried on, always climbing, and as they progressed so he saw more people, most in the dull brown cassock uniform of the order, some in the garb of common people. Finally they reached a long courtyard and for the first time in what seemed like years, Errol saw the sky.

It was only a small patch, high above him and framed with the rising height of tall buildings on all sides, but it was the sky. It was night and clear, stars winking in the blue-black, and it was the most magical sight Errol had ever seen. He even recognised the loping form of the Wolf Running, which meant that he was looking north. It was a small thing, but to get his bearings even slightly was a joy like finding out he had been given keys to his own palace.

‘Stop dawdling Ramsbottom. You’re late, and he don’t like it when people’re late.’ Osgal’s voice was further away than it should have been and Errol realised he had stopped following. Running, he crossed the courtyard and entered the building on the other side.

It was a stark contrast from the parts of the monastery he had already seen. For a start the doorway seemed tiny, he ducked involuntarily as he stepped through, even though the lintel was several feet above his head. The corridor they entered was claustrophobic after the great vaulted tunnels in the other buildings of the complex. The stonework here looked almost shoddy, the bocks large but manageable, with mortar showing in their finger-wide joints. Errol stubbed the toe of his boot on the uneven flagstones trying to keep up with Captain Osgal, who marched down the middle of the corridor brushing aside any who didn’t see him soon enough to get out of his way.

They reached the end of the corridor and climbed a stone spiral staircase. Errol had barely slept after a long day in the library and now he had been half running to keep up with the captain for what seemed like hours. His legs creaked and burned as he pushed himself ever onwards and upwards and the thin air rasped in his lungs as if it were laced with sand. He could feel himself getting weaker with each step.

Finally, when he thought he could go no further and was about to call out to the captain to stop, they reached the top of the stairs and a short corridor. There were only a few doors and no people. Captain Osgal stopped at the far end and knocked. There was an indistinct noise, then he opened the door, motioning for Errol to step in.

‘Ah, Errol, there you are. I’m glad you could make it.’

Inquisitor Melyn sat in a large, leather-faced seat behind an even larger desk. Two windows behind him were dark eyes and Errol had to work hard to stop himself from staring out, trying to catch a glimpse of the night sky.

‘Thankyou captain,’ the Inquisitor said. ‘You may go now.’ Osgal closed the door leaving Errol standing in the brightly-lit room. A fire burned in a large fireplace set into one wall of the room, and he wondered if he might be able to sit by it for a while. Half running the long distance from the library to this high room had kept him warm, but now the damp sweat in his clothing was making him shiver. Instinctively, he reached out for the lines, seeking a warming connection. To his surprise he could see none in the room. A shiver of panic ran through him. He was so used to seeing them that their absence was as if he had been struck blind.

‘I can see I was right to choose you, in spite of your youth, Errol,’ the Inquisitor said. The old man stood and walked over to the fireplace. A heavy pewter jug sat on a trivet close to the flames. As he poured a steaming dark red liquid from it into two goblets, Errol smelled a heady aroma of cinnamon, cloves and other exotic spices. It put him in mind of his mother and the wonderful-smelling salves she used to make.

‘Come, have a seat. Drink some mulled wine,’ Melyn said. Errol hurried towards the fireplace, accepting the proffered mug but waiting for the Inquisitor to settle into his own chair before perching himself on the edge of his, as close to the fire as he could get.

‘Andro tells me that you’re a promising student,’ Melyn said, fixing Errol with a stare that held him as securely as ropes. ‘Tell me Errol, do you enjoy working in the library?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Errol replied, the truth easy, slipping out of his mouth like rainwater from a storm-filled barrel.

‘Has Andro shown you beyond the third portal yet?’ The Inquisitor asked, lifting his goblet to his lips. Errol did the same, but the smell brought back memories of confusion, hangover and misery in a lurching wagon. He needed his wits about him, so he merely swirled the dark, heady liquid against his closed lips, swallowed air. Watching Melyn he had the curious impression that the old man was doing the same.

‘Not even novitiates are allowed beyond the third portal,’ Errol said, the rules and the terrible punishment that went with them fixed firmly in his mind.

‘Ah, but you’re not yet a novitiate, Errol,’ Melyn said. ‘And still you’ve mastered both the sight and rudiments of manipulating the lines. You’ve the skills of one twice your age. How is this possible? Who taught you these things?’

Those eyes burrowed into Errol. They were like yellow lights, flickering and whirling, growing ever larger. Or maybe it was just that the room was darkening and shrinking around him so that all he could see was that stare.

‘Drink, Errol, drink,’ Melyn said and without any conscious thought, Errol felt the goblet once more at his lips, tilting. Something of his will remained, for he still did no more than sip, a little of the mulled wine spilling around his mouth, down his chin and onto his clothes.

All unbidden an image sprang into his mind of the party after his mother’s wedding to Godric. He was being introduced to the Inquisitor, staring into those intense eyes as he did now. They tunnelled into him like worms, seeking the centre of his being. And yet something anchored him, gave him the strength to fight off the invasion. His hand was warm, clenched around something. Another hand. There was a smell of garden flowers and fresh hay, a feeling of green.

A frown spread across the Inquisitor’s face and Errol realised he was back in the old man’s study, sitting on the edge of his chair beside the fire, a goblet of mulled wine in his hand. Melyn still stared at him, but those eyes were no longer the only thing in the room. Errol held them in his gaze still. Somehow he knew that he must do that or risk being discovered. But discovered at what?

‘Drink,’ a voice said deep in his head, almost silent. ‘Drink, but drink slowly. Let him think he is in charge.’ Errol nearly jumped but he managed to raise his goblet to his mouth and let a thin trickle of the wine into his mouth. It was cooling fast and no longer filled his head with alcoholic fumes.

The Inquisitor said nothing, still fixing him with his stare. Errol found his mind wandering. He was back at the party again, dancing energetically with Maggs. He was sitting in the cold classroom listening to fat Father Kewick telling the rapt class stories of dragons and how their mindless aggression had almost led to the destruction of the world, and how brave King Brynceri had waged war upon them, founding the Order of the High Ffrydd to protect the realm and carry out the work of The Shepherd. He was sitting on a bank overlooking the river, discussing with Clun how he would be chosen for the Order of the High Ffrydd and become a warrior priest. He was watching the sunset from the rock at Jagged Leap with Maggs Clusster by his side, holding his hand. All these images and more tumbled through Errol’s mind and he watched them pass as a spectator might watch a parade. It didn’t take long for him to realise that they weren’t his memories. Or at least that they weren’t his true memories. Somehow the Inquisitor had taken what he knew and twisted it, editing out crucial details, putting the wrong people in places and times, doing things they couldn’t possibly have done but which, taken as a whole, added up to a plausible version of the truth.