The Golden Cage (11 page)

The
knock at the door was so quiet Dafydd couldn't be sure it hadn't been going on for minutes. It dragged his attention back to the room, the hypnotic swirls of the flames becoming just fire flickering as it consumed the logs. He focused his mind and reached out to the figure who stood without, trying to work out who it was from the colour of their thoughts.

There was nobody there.

Another knock, slightly louder this time, came from the door.

‘Who's there?' Dafydd brought forth his puissant sword, feeling the power of it surge through him. He crossed to the door in a half-dozen paces. Still he could sense no one standing on the other side. Or was there something? He reached out with his mind again, visualising the corridor outside. He knew it well enough, but now there was something different. A shadow in the darkness, perhaps. Or a hole the shape and size of a man.

Dafydd whipped the door open, blade forward. For an instant he saw nothing but the corridor, he was certain. And then there was a hooded figure in front of him, motionless, waiting.

‘Who are you?' Dafydd raised his blade to the man's throat. Unperturbed, the stranger held up his hands, palms outward in a gesture of peace, then slowly reached up to his hood, pulling it back to reveal his features.

‘My name is Usel, Your Highness. I mean you no harm. Quite the opposite in fact.'

Dafydd almost dropped his blade in surprise. The man who stood before him was quite plainly a southerner, from the Twin Kingdoms. He wore the simple robes of
one of their travelling monks, a healer coenobite of the Order of the Ram. His face was pale, as if he didn't often see the sun; his skin smooth save for a light fuzz of stubble, his dark hair streaked with white; but it was his eyes that held Dafydd's gaze. They were palest grey, bright with intelligence. As he looked at the man, those eyes shifted focus to behind him and creased at the edges with a warm smile.

‘I heard voices … Oh.' Dafydd looked around to see Iolwen, wrapped in silk bedclothes and a heavy shawl, standing in the middle of the room, staring.

‘Princess Iolwen. It's good to see you again. I hope you're well.' The stranger spoke softly, but his voice carried. Dafydd cursed himself for being distracted like a novice. He whipped his head back round, tensed for an attack, but there was no need. Their unannounced visitor had not moved.

‘Usel, what in the Shepherd's name are you doing here?' Iolwen said.

‘You know this man?' Dafydd asked.

‘Of course, love. So do you. He's Usel. He was with the party that brought me here. He stayed almost a year while I settled in. I cried for a week when he was called away, when it was just me and my ladies-in-waiting.'

‘Your Highness, might I ask you lower your blade? And might I come in? I don't want to be seen by the guards if at all possible.'

Dafydd didn't know whether to be offended by the request or amused. He remembered little of the arrival of Iolwen at Tynhelyg; he had been only eight, far more interested in games of war. Perhaps there had been a
foreign adult who had stayed longer than the rest; he supposed that it could have been this man. Whoever he was, Usel certainly had courage. To come back now and appear like this.

‘I couldn't sense you,' he said. ‘How did you do that?'

‘A trick I learned from someone in Eirawen. I'll teach you if you're willing to learn. And if you wish to sense my intentions, my mind is unguarded now.'

Dafydd concentrated, trying not to be distracted by those piercing eyes, that disarming smile. He skimmed the surface of Usel's thoughts, seeing glimpses of the man's journey through the mountains, his slow progress across a country grown hostile to people who looked like they came from the south, the shadowy and ill-defined route across the city and into the palace past guards who were supposed to protect the king and his family. And there were other images too: a hasty escape from an enormous stone building, endless damp and twisting tunnels lit only by a smoky flame from a guttering torch, a pale-faced young boy lying on a bed unconscious, his legs wrapped in white bandages turned crimson at the feet.

‘You saw the spy? Errol?' In his astonishment Dafydd let his blade extinguish itself, his hand falling to his side. ‘Where?'

‘Errol was never a spy.' Usel stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. ‘He appeared quite unexpectedly in Ruthin's Grove, just beneath the monastery at Emmass Fawr some months ago. I was trying to treat his injuries, but he kept on disappearing, ending up in the most unlikely places. He has a rather unique talent, that boy. Something I don't really understand.'

‘Is
he all right?' Iolwen settled herself into a chair by the fire.

‘The last I heard, he was being taken to Candlehall to be questioned by Queen Beulah. I'm sorry to say I failed him. I was forced to flee before I could help him escape. Melyn uncovered his secret, you see. Something I'd tried to cover up.'

‘His secret? What secret?' Dafydd heard the concern in Iolwen's voice and felt a moment's irrational jealousy.

‘He's Lleyn's child. And Balch's too, Prince Dafydd. Your cousin, both of you.'

Dafydd strode down the narrow streets of Tynhelyg, marvelling at how well the foreigner, Usel, seemed to know his way around. He was taking a circuitous route, avoiding areas where there might be more than a few people, keeping to the narrow streets overhung with tall buildings, their upper storeys canted out until they almost touched in the middle. The shadows seemed to swallow him, so that Dafydd had to strain every sense to keep track of him. He recalled the way the man had hidden before, how he had managed to sneak into the royal
palace and evade guards who were meant to be skilled in throwing off magical glamours. Usel had said he would teach Dafydd the trick, and he was very keen to learn.

They were heading for the merchant quarter, passing elegant houses that appeared lifeless, their lower windows shuttered tight, iron bolts barring entry. These were the houses of Twin Kingdoms traders, empty now save for a few servants. Few men from the south dared show their faces in public these days.

‘Your Highness, may I beg a favour of you?'

Dafydd stopped short, nearly bumping into Usel, who loomed out of the darkness in a completely different place to where he had thought him to be.

‘I came alone because Iolwen said you could be trusted. Is that not favour enough?'

‘You're right, of course. Perhaps favour is the wrong word. Perhaps I should just say that the people you're going to meet have put their lives on the line for you. If they're found here, they'll be executed. If their actions are uncovered at home, their families will be executed.'

‘I'll hear what they have to say. As long as they do nothing to antagonize me, I'll say nothing about their presence here. You can all go home and no one need be the wiser.'

‘Thank you, sir. I could ask for no more.' Usel disappeared once more into the gloom, and a door opened, spilling muted light into the alleyway. Dafydd followed the healer into a low-ceilinged rear entrance hall of the sort more often frequented by tradesmen and servants. He was led through an empty kitchen, along a corridor with a creaking wooden floor covered in a threadbare rug, and
out into the more formal area of the house. Usel opened a door leading into a small but richly appointed reception room. Dafydd stepped through to see a small group: four men he did not recognize, and one young woman he did.

‘Lady Anwyn, I was distraught at the news of your father and brother. Please accept my heartfelt condolences.' Dafydd bowed. Behind him Usel closed the door and turned the key in the lock.

‘Your Highness.' Anwyn curtsied, flustered. ‘I had hoped you would come, but I never dared believe … I'm sorry, please let me introduce Lord Ansey, Lord Meygrim and Count Vespil. And this is Master Holgrum.'

‘The spice merchant,' Dafydd said, as he nodded in turn to each of the men.

‘You know of me, Your Highness?' Holgrum asked, his piggy face flushed, though whether this was from alarm or the man's natural complexion, Dafydd couldn't be sure.

‘I know of your business. It's said that you're richer than King Ballah himself.'

‘Would that it were so, sir. Would that it were so. But please, have a seat. Can I get you come wine?' The merchant bustled over to a side table and poured rich dark liquid into fine crystal glasses without waiting for an answer.

‘Healer Usel tells me you have a proposition to make.' Dafydd accepted the offered wine but didn't drink. ‘It must be something important for you all to have risked coming here to make it in person.'

‘Indeed it is,' Anwyn said, settling herself down in a chair by the fire. ‘I come to offer you Abervenn.'

‘As
I understood it, Queen Beulah took back those lands and titles when she declared your family traitors.'

‘The people of Abervenn were loyal first to my father. They loved him, and they loved Merrl too. They've no loyalty to Beulah. Ansey, Meygrim and Vespil control all the towns in the province; I command the city itself. We can bring together a sizeable army, well equipped and far better trained than the rabble being pressed to serve in the queen's name.'

‘And why would they fight their own? Why would they help the likes of me?'

‘Because you are Iolwen's husband.'

Dafydd took a chair beside the fire opposite Anwyn. She was far younger than he had thought, still in her teens, but her face was hard, her eyes wary. He skimmed her thoughts, trying to sense her sincerity, but he was overwhelmed by her desperate hope and behind that an obsessive hatred for the woman who had destroyed her family.

‘My father always believed Beulah's claim to the Obsidian Throne was false,' she said.

‘Why would he believe that? Surely Beulah's the oldest.'

‘You've never met her, have you?' It was Lord Ansey who spoke. ‘Of Diseverin's three daughters, Lleyn and Iolwen were like twins, only born years apart. Beulah was different in so many ways, not least her complexion. I remember well the intrigue in court leading up to her birth and after she was born. More than one whisper said that Queen Ellyn had cuckolded her husband.'

‘Really?' Dafydd was intrigued. ‘With whom?'

‘Inquisitor
Melyn spent a lot of time at Candlehall in those days. And he gained great influence in court too.'

‘I knew nothing of this,' Dafydd said.

‘The rumour died as quick as it began,' Lord Ansey said. ‘People accepted Beulah as princess because the alternative was unthinkable. But Duke Angor thought otherwise, and he was close to Ellyn. The only person who knows the truth is Melyn, and I doubt he'd tell.'

Dafydd looked from the three noblemen to Lady Anwyn and back, absentmindedly taking a sip of his wine – an excellent vintage, he noted. It stood to reason that these noblemen would dislike Queen Beulah, but their willingness to commit treason, to sell out their own country to the enemy, seemed too much. It almost offended him that they had no loyalty, no sense of honour. Skulking about with plots and intrigue was not the way of a soldier. But then soldiers died on the battlefield, with their guts spilled out on the ground and ravens pecking out their eyeballs. Wars were won by strategists, by people prepared to compromise their morals.

‘So you say you can give me Abervenn,' he said. ‘What you really mean is you can give Iolwen Abervenn, but I'll accept that. The question is, what do you want me to do with it?'

‘Queen Beulah is scouring the whole of the Twin Kingdoms for men to fight in her armies,' Lord Ansey said. ‘She intends to force her way through the passes by sheer weight of numbers. You can ask Master Holgrum here how the taxes have grown since she took the throne. There's only so long she can continue like that before
there's open revolt through all the provinces. But if her plan succeeds, if she makes it to Tynewydd or Wrthol, then her people will love her.'

‘She'll never make it through the passes,' Dafydd said. ‘No one ever has.'

‘Don't underestimate her, sir. And don't forget Melyn. His warrior priests are a force to be reckoned with. But if her invasion can be delayed to next winter, then her army will disintegrate. She'll have a hard time holding the Twin Kingdoms together when that happens.'

‘So you want me to delay her by attacking from the rear.'

‘Exactly.'

‘It won't work. At least not the way you think.'

‘Why not?' Anwyn asked.

‘You say you can give me Abervenn, but I don't think you can. Even if your captains tell the people to follow me, they won't be happy about it. And a reluctant army's less use than no army at all. No, they need Iolwen to return. To stand at my side. They need to see that I command them in her name.'

‘Your Highness, may I make a suggestion?' Dafydd turned to where Usel still stood at the door, as if on guard. He remembered the sound of the key turning in the lock and wondered if it were to keep others out, or him in.

‘Go ahead,' he said.

‘Despite his age, King Ballah shows every sign of living for many a year yet. Prince Geraint is, if anything, healthier still. Provided he doesn't get himself killed in some battle, he'll likely rule just as long as his father. You'll be an old man before your turn comes along. But you could rule
the Twin Kingdoms at Iolwen's side. And your child would be rightful heir to both thrones.'

It was a tempting thought. Dafydd well knew that he would have to wait many years to be king in Tynhelyg. The thought of ruling alongside Iolwen in Candlehall was beguiling. He could bring an end to the petty bickering between the two countries that so often spilled over into needless bloody war. But it would be no easy thing overcoming centuries of hostility, the almost inbred antipathy of men from the north to their paler cousins in the south, and the other way around. Some might see his marriage to the princess as evidence the two peoples could live in harmony. Others would see it as something entirely different, a corruption of the Twin Kingdoms' most pure and innocent soul, their young princess, by the evil heathen northerners. That would be the battle: to show that his wife was not under some demon spell.

‘You seem very certain that the people of Abervenn would follow Iolwen.' Dafydd chose his words carefully. ‘But she's been among my kind for more than fourteen years now. And our child will have my looks, you can be sure of that. Would the Twin Kingdoms be ready to accept such a one as their ruler?'

Usel bowed slightly, and Dafydd got the distinct impression this was the point the healer had been trying to get across all along.

‘Yes. I believe they would. If the child were born in Abervenn.'

Benfro didn't know where he was, but neither did he care. He was warm, comfortable. The ache at the root of his
wing had gone, and he lay curled up on the edge of dreamless sleep.

A tiny niggle of unease spoiled his perfect rest. Sleep was bad. Sleep was when Magog came to him, forced him to be his slave. But Benfro could sense nothing of the long-dead dragon mage. Maybe he wasn't asleep then. But if that were the case, where was he? He felt more rested, more relaxed than he could remember.

Sounds seeped back to him: the rush of water over stone, wind in trees still putting out their first spring leaves, the crackle of flames. He could smell acrid smoke and a rich spicy aroma that was instantly recognizable. He knew where he was, and with that realization came the memories of his strange dream. His flight, his fight and the headlong plummet towards the ground.

Snapping his eyes open, Benfro sat up in a rush, as if doing so would stop him crashing into the flagstones. But he had never reached that ground; that impact had never come. He had gone … somewhere. He didn't know where. Nor did he know how long he had been there; only that it had been time enough to rest.

‘You have wakened. That is good.' Benfro looked round to see Errol sitting against the rock wall of the cave. His voice sounded strange as he tried to speak Draigiaith, and it occurred to Benfro that men's mouths were not well shaped for the task.

Shaking the last of the sleep from his face, Benfro looked around the cave. He was sitting between the fire and the makeshift mattress of dried grass, exactly where he had settled himself down to attend to Errol's broken ankles. As he thought of them, Benfro looked at the boy's
legs, then at the fire. The cauldron sat a little away from the flames, the last of the poultice he had mixed turned dry and flaky inside it.

‘I must thank you,' Errol said, ‘for what you did to my ankles. The pain is gone now.'

‘It was nothing. You'll need to keep the weight off them for a while though. No more trying to drag heavy wooden chests across the clearing.' Benfro looked out of the cave entrance to a sunlit day well progressed. The storm had blown through, and bright sunlight painted shadows on grass strewn with branches torn from the surrounding trees. ‘How long was I asleep?'

‘I am not know … I don't know.' Errol corrected his mistake and Benfro realized quite how much effort the boy was putting into Draigiaith. ‘I woke at dawn. You have been sleeping for some hours since then. I tried to keep the bad dragon away from you. Did it work?'

‘I …' Benfro thought back to his strange dream, and then before that when he had been in Magog's repository. ‘I … Yes. I saw you. And then I was somewhere else. How did you do that?'

‘I'm not sure.' Errol slipped back into the language of men. ‘I tried to close off the link he has with you, like I've seen you do sometimes, with your aura. I didn't know if I'd be able to do it.'