Dreamwalker (31 page)

Errol was still reading the account of the fateful expedition when Andro came into the room some hours later. Guiltily, he looked across at the clean, empty pages of the reckoning book and the pile of parchments gathered around the reading desk.

‘Let me guess,’ the old man said, smiling. ‘Father Keoldale’s account of Prince Lonk’s search for Cenobus.’

‘How did you..?’ Errol asked, but Andro merely waved him silent.

‘It’s no sin to be curious, Errol,’ he said. ‘And of all the fascinating tales waiting to be discovered in this room, that one at least holds some historical relevance. There are lessons to be learnt from it. The folly of pursuing impossible dreams when there’s much to recommend the life you already have, for instance.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Errol said.

‘Lonk was heir to the throne,’ Andro said. ‘The Twin Kingdoms were experiencing a period of peace and prosperity such as they never had before. We even had a sketchy peace with Llanwennog. Our merchants travelled the world, dealing in the most exotic of goods. It was a time when Candlehall grew from a small citadel around the Neuadd into the great metropolis that it is today. Prince Lonk stood to inherit that, but instead he chose to follow a madman’s words on a fool’s quest. And his father let him. It was perhaps no bad thing that Weddelm’s line ended there. It was a weak-willed and idiot branch of the House of Balwen.

‘But I didn’t come here to give you a history lesson, Errol. It’s late and you should be getting your rest.’

Was it late? Errol didn’t feel tired. His head was filled with Father Keoldale’s words, his account of the terrible journey they had made through the great forest of the Ffrydd and the weird creatures they had encountered on their way. It seemed like only a few hours since he had begun the day’s work. Still, if Andro told him it was time to go, he would have to go.

Scooping up the scrolls, Errol placed them in the rack on the side of his reading desk, ready for archiving properly the next day. He extinguished the covered lamps that had been his daylight and followed the old man out of the room.

‘How did you know what I was reading?’ He asked as they walked the long dark corridors of the library archive, the only light coming from Andro’s covered lantern, its glow revealing row upon row of dark-spined books in black-oak shelves.

‘I remember the first time I came across that parchment myself,’ the old man said. ‘Back when I was a novitiate, oh, too many years ago to even think about.’

‘You’ve already archived that room?’ Errol asked, astonished that he could have spent the uncounted days of his labour on a task already completed.

‘Oh don’t look so shocked, Errol,’ Andro said. ‘Archiving is not something done once and then finished with. It’s endless. Many years have passed since I last sorted that room. Parchments have been taken out and returned to the wrong stacks, or not returned at all. New scrolls have been added and some things just put there because whichever librarian was on duty that day couldn’t be bothered walking any further. Time has a habit of making chaos from the most perfect order. You’d do well to remember that.’

They had reached the refectory and Errol noticed it was unusually empty. Was it really so late that all the other librarians had eaten already? It was so hard to keep track of time down in the depths of the great monastery, away from the sun and the true passing of the days.

‘I have to leave you now,’ Andro said. ‘Inquisitor Melyn has need of my services. Don’t tarry long, Errol. Tomorrow will be a long day and it will begin earlier than you’re accustomed to.’ Smiling as if at some inner joke, the old man hung his lantern on the hook by the door that led to Errol’s lonely dormitory and then left the room.

Errol grabbed himself some bread and cheese from the store cupboard, wishing that there were some stew in the pot by the fire. Empty, the refectory was a depressing, lightless place and he had no great desire to sit there eating on his own. Part of him was tempted to take the lantern and return to the room. There were still several parchments of Father Keoldale’s account to read, but he knew that he would be in trouble if he were found out. Reluctantly he took up his meagre meal, lifted the lantern off the hook and made his way along the corridor towards his bed.

It felt different even before he reached the dormitory door. He had grown used to the quiet presence of the other librarians over time, forgetting the sense he had always relied on to tell him when others were nearby. The monastery was full of people, four thousand or more he had heard tell. But there was something at once familiar and foreign that made Errol pause before stepping into the empty dark room.

It happened in a whirling instant. Someone snatched the lantern from his hands, knocking the food to the floor. Someone else grabbed his arms, pulling them up sharply behind his back. A heavy cloth sack dropped down over his head. The smell of earth and raw potatoes filled his nose as a rope was swiftly wound around his middle, trapping him. Hands too numerous to count pushed and jabbed at him, spinning him around and around until he lost all sense of direction. He stumbled, tried to reach out but could not, his arms trapped by the rope. Something caught his foot and he fell headlong into darkness, but before he hit the stone floor, the hands caught him, lifting him up into the air as if he weighed nothing at all. However many people were tormenting him, they were silent, their purpose united. Errol was helpless, trapped and terrified as he was born along, out of his lonely dormitory and away to whatever fate awaited.

*

Flurries of winter rain lashed across the clearing carried by the cold northerly wind that had been blowing for a week now. Benfro looked out of the window from his seat near the fire and shuddered. It wasn’t that the cold and wet affected him, just that they made the day seem so miserable. He had hoped for sunshine and even the first snowdrops of spring appearing under the still leafless trees. Perhaps to be able to go outside without getting his feet covered in mud. This was, after all, his special day. Today he was fourteen years old.

‘Come now, Benfro. It’s time to leave. You don’t want to be late for your own party.’ Morgwm opened the door, an oiled leather bag slung over one shoulder. Benfro stood up, placed the heavy grating in front of the banked up coals and headed outside.

A brief lull in the rain saw them across the clearing and heading up the track towards the village. Heads down against the wind, it was difficult to hold much of a conversation, but as they neared the spot where Errol had met Frecknock so many months before, where she had cast her terrible spell on him, he stopped in his tracks.

‘What is it?’ His mother asked.

‘I… I can’t say,’ Benfro said, the compulsion as strong as ever. It was a constant niggling in the back of his mind now, a worry that made it increasingly hard for him to concentrate on his studies. He even found it hard at times to remember where certain herbs and potions were stored. Whenever he tried to conjure up his mental image of the store room instead all he could see was those pink, fleshy hands reaching for that silver goblet.

‘Well don’t dawdle now, Benfro,’ Morgwm said. ‘The others will all be waiting.’

‘Frecknock won’t’ Benfro said.

‘What? Of course she will,’ Morgwm said. ‘Frecknock may not like you very much, but she would never miss a feast.’

‘She won’t be there,’ Benfro said again. There was a lot more he wanted to say, about how he knew where Frecknock would be and what she would be doing, but it would not come out. Even saying her name gave him a dull ache at the back of his head.

‘Well, never mind. It’s rude to keep your guests waiting, even on your hatchday.’

They trudged on through the constant wind and occasional showers, reaching the village in companionable silence. There was no-one about, the assorted houses appearing dead and empty. A shiver ran down Benfro’s spine as if he were seeing a terrible portent; his home, his world stripped of life. For an instant, in his mind, he saw the whole village blackened and charred, smoke lofting lazily from the wrecked homes and climbing into a hazy blue sky.

‘What is it Benfro? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

Morgwm’s voice snapped him back into himself. Benfro looked at his mother’s smiling face and felt the reassurance of her presence, her open, unquestioning love for him. Despite the cold, wet winter afternoon, the terrible premonition and the constant niggling hurt of what Frecknock had done to him, he was cheered by her presence and her strength.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Just this moon-cursed rain and mud.’

‘Come on then,’ Morgwm said. ‘Let’s get inside. Ynys Môn will have built up the fire well by now.’

They strode on and were soon crossing the wet grass of the green towards the great hall. A plume of smoke rose out of its chimney like a signal and the gusting wind brought splendid aromas to Benfro’s nose. His stomach rumbled in anticipation.

The doors were closed as they approached them, which surprised Benfro, though he supposed it was just to keep the rain and wind out. Still a little matter like that was not going to keep him away from the feast. He stood in front of the great oak slabs, took a hold of the heavy iron handles and pushed.

It was locked.

Confused, Benfro turned to ask his mother what was going on.

She wasn’t there.

‘Mother?’ He asked the wind, looking from side to side. There was nowhere she could hide and there had not been time for her to reach the edge of the building. Besides, she had been at his side, he had felt her presence as surely as he knew his own wings. And then she had just gone.

A chilling sense of fear and loneliness gripped him as he stood in the cold, staring at the barred doors and the empty-faced cottages clustered around the green. With only the wind’s low, moaning song for company it felt like the whole world had deserted him. He was truly alone, a tiny speck in the vastness of all. For a moment it overwhelmed him completely. He was as paralysed as if he were made of stone, helpless and terrified. Then the swirling wind changed direction once more, bringing the aroma of cooking to his nose. Faint sounds escaped from behind the great shuttered windows and the spell was broken. This was some kind of test, he realised. Some strange ceremony that no doubt would give the villagers something to laugh about as the afternoon turned to evening and the party got into full swing.

He considered walking around the building to the back, where the kitchens were, and coming in through the small door there. He could imagine all the old dragons, clustered around the door and waiting for him. It would be a great jest to creep up behind them and give them a surprise. On the other hand, this did not seem like one of Meirionydd’s jokes, and he couldn’t remember a time when his mother had done such a thing to him. He knew that the dragons were inside the great hall, he could sense them. There was nothing to be gained from standing out in the cold and the rain. Benfro lifted his hand and rapped hard on the oak doors.

‘Who goes without?’ Came Sir Frynwy’s unmistakeable voice in all its story-telling grandeur.

‘It’s Benfro,’ Benfro said, tiring of the game before it had even started. ‘Let me in, please. It’s wet out here.’

‘What brings you to our hall, Benfro?’ Sir Frynwy asked, his tone still serious and filled with pomp.

‘It’s my hatchday. I’m fourteen today,’ Benfro said, then added under his breath, ‘there’s supposed to be a feast.’

‘Fourteen, you say,’ Sir Frynwy said. ‘And under what sign were you hatched, Benfro?’

‘You know as well as I do, Sir Frynwy. I was born at the Confluence, when the Wolf Running was in the House of Northern Cross.’

‘A Hatchling of the Confluence?’ Sir Frynwy said, his voice deep and booming through the old wood. ‘And what would you take from us, Benfro?’

‘Take from you? Nothing. Well, some food I suppose, and perhaps a story?’

‘A story?’ Sir Frynwy said. ‘That is no small thing to ask. What would you give us in return?’

‘I don’t know.’ Benfro was beginning to feel anxious. This exchange seemed like some kind of formal ceremony, at least on Sir Frynwy’s part. But Morgwm had not told him there would be anything like this. There never had been on his hatchday in the past.

‘Would you give us your respect?’ Sir Frynwy asked.

‘Of course,’ Benfro said. You already have that.’

‘Indeed? Would you give us your trust?’

For a moment Benfro had to consider. There was one of the villagers that he would not trust as far as the end of his tail, but he was certain that she was not inside the hall.

‘Yes, again. I have always trusted you,’ he said.

‘Hmm, would you give us your loyalty?’ Sir Frynwy asked. Benfro could begin to see where this was going.

‘Always,’ he said.

‘And would you give us your love?’ The old dragon asked, flinging open the doors. He stood there staring down at Benfro with a curious expression on his face. Behind him the other dragons clustered around to see.

‘I can’t give you what you already have,’ Benfro said. ‘But I wouldn’t seek to steal it from you, either.’

Sir Frynwy’s solemn face broke into a wide grin. ‘Spoken like a true dragon, Benfro,’ he said. ‘Welcome.’

As Benfro stepped into the familiar hall he felt almost as if he were a stranger newly arrived. Ynys Môn produced a basin of warm water for him to wash his feet in.