The Golden Cage (38 page)

‘All right, who'll give me five hundred? No? Four fifty? Four hundred?'

‘Two hundred and fifty.' Beulah looked around for the person who had spoken, then realized it was herself. The auctioneer's eyes swept the room, trying to locate her. She waited until his eyes met hers, then nodded once.

‘I have a bid of two fifty from the lady in the fourth row. Do I hear any higher?'

‘Your Majesty, is this wise? Gomoran stallions are renowned for being unbreakable. In all my years I've never seen one ridden.' Lord Beylin spoke under his
breath as if he were worried about being overheard in the echoing noisy barn.

‘There are more ways to break a horse than brute strength, Beylin.'

‘Any more bids? It's a crime to let a splendid beast go for such a price.' The auctioneer was waving his gavel back and forth across the crowd, desperately trying to pluck more money from the air. Most eyes were cast down, or fixed on the stallion as he tossed and turned, pulling his handlers about as if they weighed no more than air. Beulah tried to study the beast using her aethereal sight, but she couldn't find the trance. She reached out to him with her mind, as she had done to Father Tolley. She didn't expect the horse to have much in the way of thoughts, but she wanted to calm him, to reassure him that no harm would come his way. He was a simple thing, driven by the most basic of needs. She soothed him with promises of food, the companionship of other horses and a return to the open fields where he could see the sky overhead.

‘Well, if we're all done bidding here?' The auctioneer's voice was distant, unimportant. Beulah stared only at the horse, his wide black eyes locked on her own.

‘At two hundred and fifty crowns. Going once.' Nostrils flared, flecked with foam.

‘Going twice.' Hind legs quivered as muscles fought against restraining hobbles. Tail arched, flicked this way and that, cracking like a whip.

‘Gone! Sold to the lady in the fourth row. Your name, madam?'

Beulah sent a firm command to the horse. Be still. As
she rose to her feet, it snorted, pawed the ground with its front feet, then stopped, silent, motionless.

‘I am Beulah, Queen of the Twin Kingdoms.' Now there was silence in the room. The auctioneer's mouth hung open for long seconds until, finally, he closed it with an audible snap. He looked down to his assistant, who had stood up, then back at his queen.

‘Your Majesty. I had no idea. If I had but known –'

‘You'd have what? Taken a few bids off the wall to up the price?' Beulah enjoyed the look of horrified injury on the man's face. Around her she noticed that everyone else was standing or kneeling. ‘This is why I didn't announce myself. How can you hold an auction when you're all on your knees? And who would dare to bid against their queen? Go about your business, gentlemen. I shan't get in your way any more.' And with that she stepped down to the ring to inspect her purchase.

The horse towered over her, a mass of barely controlled energy wrapped up in a glossy black coat. The two men holding his halter ropes nodded to her as she approached, but didn't kneel or let go. Still reaching out to the beast's mind, she tried not to let her own trepidation feed into his fear. It was strange trying to calm an animal, when she had been trained by Melyn to use her talents to unsettle.

‘Your Majesty. Is this wise?' Captain Celtin made to accompany her into the ring. Almost instantly the stallion's neck arched, its muscles tensing.

‘Stay back, Captain. I'll be all right.' Beulah didn't look to see if her order was followed, but the great beast relaxed again. She took a couple of steps closer, holding
herself upright but not looking the animal in the eye any more. Finally, when she was within reach, she put out her hand, low and flat as Melyn had taught her so many years before when he had presented her with her first horse. Slowly, and with much snorting, the stallion lowered his head until he could smell the proffered hand.

Beulah stood there for several minutes, just letting the beast get to know her smell while at the same time she filled its mind with as much comfort as she could manage. It was exhausting, far more difficult than spreading fear and confusion. All around her the hall was silent, and she could feel the weight of every eye on her. This was how legends were begun, she realized, aware of how this must look. The pale thin queen conquering the savage beast. Finally, she dropped her hand down and stepped away.

‘Take him back out. Let him be with other horses.' As she spoke the words, she sent the idea to the horse that he should go with the men. Snorting and bucking but still more tractable than when he had been brought in, the stallion allowed himself to be led out. As the doors closed on the auction ring, a huge cheer went up, the people rejoicing in their queen.

Returning to the town and the castle, Lord Beylin seemed oddly distracted. He wouldn't catch Beulah's eye, and she had the distinct impression he was trying to avoid talking to her. As they disembarked from his private barge, she confronted him.

‘What, Petrus? Do you disapprove of my taste in horses?'

‘It's not that, Your Majesty. Though I see many months, even years of trouble from that horse.'

‘Then what? You've been avoiding my eye ever since I bought the animal. Why?'

Beylin seemed to consider his answer for a while as they walked the short distance up the hill to the castle gates. ‘I'm sorry, ma'am. I truly am. When you came to me this morning, I lied to you.'

‘Lied to me? About what?'

‘About not knowing where the Duke of Abervenn had gone. About not having seen him this morning. He begged me to do it. It was his idea that I take you to the livestock markets. I made certain that various merchants would say they had seen him heading that way. But I never intended that you should buy a horse.'

‘What's so wrong with buying a horse?' Beulah felt a moment of unease as they entered the castle, stepping from sunshine to shade and then back into the sun. There was something afoot, and she didn't like the way she was being manipulated.

‘I think you should ask His Grace that yourself, ma'am.' Beylin bowed and indicated to his left.

Beulah looked over to where he pointed to see Clun standing alone in the courtyard. He had changed back into more formal garments, and the sun glinted in his blond hair giving the impression of a halo. As he saw her, he walked forward, and out of the shadows followed two of the most beautiful mares she had ever seen. They were palest yellow in colour, slim and athletic. Obviously well broken and docile, yet they held their heads high, ears pricked and alert, eyes bright to everything going on around them.

‘My lady, I'm sorry for the subterfuge.' Clun's face was
broad with a grin she had not seen on him before, a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘I'd heard that the best horses in the whole of Gwlad came from these parts. So I thought I would buy you a pair.'

Even
though he walked a path beaten by Benfro's tail, Errol still found the going almost impossible. The snow was soft and powdery, with a thin crust on top that mostly held his weight but occasionally gave way. He might walk for a hundred paces with only the whistling wind to contend with, then without warning he would find himself engulfed in frozen white. Each time it happened he lost his concentration and his tenuous connection with the Grym, letting the bitter cold eat at his exposed face and hands. And each time he struggled to haul himself out of the hole back on to the crust where the dragon had passed.

He had tried walking on the snow to the side of Benfro's trail, but this was if anything more treacherous still. And all the while the thin air made breathing difficult, every small effort like climbing to the highest tower in Emmass Fawr. Still he pressed on, drawing what strength he could from the Grym and praying all the while that Benfro's tracks wouldn't suddenly disappear. If the dragon took off and flew away into the night, then Errol would never find him.

Errol wondered at Benfro's mood change. His rescue had been truly heroic, and even when they had landed the dragon had been full of concern. But as soon as he saw the jewels he had flipped. Or was it as soon as he saw his mother's jewel? Or as soon as he took it? Errol knew the dangers that dragon jewels posed, but surely they were less for a dragon himself? Unless the bond was too close, like mother to son.

The night wore on as he pondered the questions. Perhaps, he thought, it was Magog trying to reassert his
influence, now that his jewel had been removed from Corwen's cave. But if that was the case, then it was crucial he find Benfro before it was too late. He remembered all too well Corwen's words when he had first seen the old dragon's jewels: ‘
You'll know when there's nothing left of Benfro and Magog has taken his place. If that moment comes, you must kill him
.'

Shivering as much at the cold as at the thought, Errol pressed on through the snow, climbing yet another in a seemingly endless series of shallow rises. Ahead he could see the first pink tinges of dawn fading out the night stars. How long had he been walking? Not that long surely. But then he was far further north than he had ever been before, and he had read of the frozen sea where the sun never set in the summer, nor rose in the winter.

The air seared in his throat, escaping from his Grym-warmed body in gusts of steam that hung about him as he trudged towards the top of the rise. He could see the U-shaped indentation made by Benfro as he had passed earlier. Errol was all for giving up, digging himself a shelter in the snow and going to sleep, but he knew if he did that he would likely never wake up. So he struggled on, slower and slower, hoping that this last ridge would be the top and that he could go downhill for a change. Foot after foot, every muscle in his body creaking and protesting at the strain, it was all he could do to keep his eyes focused on the ground in front of him, trying to guess when next the crust would give way.

And then his foot landed lower than he expected. For an instant Errol tensed, then relaxed, accepting the inevitable plummet, the blast of icy cold as he lost his link to the lines, the desperate struggle to pull himself out of
waist-deep powder. It never came, and before he could register surprise, he had started his next step, his body acting without any input from his mind. Again his foot landed lower than he was expecting, and again he tensed for the drop through the crust. This time he jarred his knee badly, sending a shock right up through his body all the way to his jaw. Crunching teeth woke him from his stupor and Errol stopped walking, looked up, gasped.

He stood on a narrow ridge where the wind had ripped the snow away, leaving hard rock underfoot. Ahead of him, difficult to make out in the gloom, a cliff dropped away into the darkness, but he was only dimly aware of it as something not to fall over. All his attention was focused on the view straight ahead.

He was looking north and east towards the rising sun, far distant and limning the horizon with orange fire. Closer, the mountains dropped away in a series of steep-sided gullies, plunging to foothills that quickly levelled off into a smooth plain. He stood motionless, heedless of the cold wind ripping at him, chilling his hands and face as he forgot all about the Grym. For that first moment, before the sun's distant glare defined the perspective, it seemed as if he could see the whole of Llanwennog laid out in front of him. Then the light shifted and the scene changed. Still breathtaking, it was somehow less magnificent and at the same time more terrifying.

The ridge on which he stood curved away north and south, heading towards higher mountains on either side. Ahead there was a vertical drop of several hundred paces. Behind, still in shadow, the trail he had followed from Benfro's landing point snaked away across snowfields
glistening and glinting in the reflected light. The trail ended here, at this cliff top.

Edging forward, Errol watched as the line of sunlight moved slowly down the cliff, cracks and crevices contrasting black against the ice-rimed rock. Down below, perhaps a hundred paces from the point where the drifts lapped up against the cliff like frozen waves, there was a deep indentation in the snow, then the beaten path of Benfro's passage carried on down in a series of gentle loops. Exhausted, Errol sank to his knees. The tears froze on his cheeks, but he no longer cared.

There was no sign of the dragon at all.

‘Ho, Captain Pelquin! Well met.'

Melyn relaxed in his saddle as he and his troop rode out of the forest into a clearing filled with warrior priests. It had taken them far longer to rendezvous with the army than expected. He had thought with Corwen's jewels firmly ensconced in his saddlebags the magics in the forest that confused the unwary traveller would have dissipated. But if anything their intensity had increased, almost as if the forest were fighting against him, as if the dead dragon had actually been holding back something much wilder.

He had spent most of the time in his aethereal trance, high above the canopy and looking down through the magic to the trees and paths below. At least with Frecknock able to hear him in that form, he had been able to relay commands to Osgal, keeping his men on the right track. Still, he didn't like spending so much time out of his body, fearful that he might not be able to make it back. He
would be much happier when they left the forest and reached the mountain pass.

‘Your Grace, it's good to see you again. I swear we've marched through the same bit of forest a dozen times since you left us.' Captain Pelquin looked as relieved to see him as Melyn felt. Looking around the camp, he could see that morale among the warrior priests was not high either.

‘I don't doubt that you have. These woods are thick with enchantments. I've never seen anything like them before.'

‘Did you catch your dragon, sire?'

Melyn's mood darkened. He had tried not to think too hard about Errol and Benfro's escape, consoling himself with the prize of the jewels.

‘No, Pelquin. I didn't. Neither did I catch the traitor Errol Ramsbottom, even though he was there. They both escaped into the mountains. But I suspect I know where they're going. We'll catch them yet.'

We're ready to march on your orders. I reckon the men would be happy to get out of these trees.'

‘I don't doubt it. But I need to rest a while. We'll camp here the night and head out at first light.'

‘As you command, sire.' Pelquin saluted and headed off into the camp. Melyn dismissed the rest of his small troop, letting them find what food they could from their companions; there had been no time for hunting since they had left the clearing. Only Frecknock remained, standing slightly behind him as she always did. He turned towards her, wondering when it was that the sight of her had stopped sickening him.

‘This
pass of yours. It's not far, I take it?'

‘If Your Grace feels able to assume his aethereal form once more, I will show the way. It is well hidden.'

Melyn sighed. He really wanted to rest, but it was more important to be certain where they were going. Leading his army blindly into the hills could cost them precious days, and they had already wasted too much time in the forest.

‘Very well. Let me get settled.' He walked across to the nearest fire, sitting down on the ground with a tree at his back. Frecknock followed, curling herself down beside him like some improbably huge and loyal hound. The firelight flickered, reflecting off her scales and her eyes. Melyn tore his gaze away, centring himself and slipping into the trance.

The flames took on that strangely alive quality they had when seen in the aethereal. All around him the trees and shrubs, grass and herbs seemed to become more solid, anchored in the stuff of Gwlad, while the forms of the warrior priests dwindled and thinned, some fading to no more than will-o'-the-wisps.

‘Please follow me.' Melyn turned his aethereal self to look at Frecknock. She was no longer lying down, but stood a little further off than before. As he watched, she spread wings far larger than her real ones and soared gracefully into the air. Too astonished to be angry, he rose to follow her. They climbed high over the treetops and looked down on the camp, the forest, the endless magics twisting and twining in and out of each other.

‘Legend says that two great dragons warred here, casting such terrible spells that Gwlad herself was split in two.
The magic you see all around is the echo of that long-ended battle. The skilled, those with the sight like yourself, can find their way through. Some can even bend the workings to their own will, but most who enter the Ffrydd are at its mercy.'

‘I care very little for your legends, Frecknock. It's enough to know that this place is awash with raw magic. Dealing with it is my only concern right now. Getting out of this place.'

‘Of course, Your Grace. I too grow tired of the endless contradictory spells. In the village where … where I lived, the magic was tamed, ordered. It flowed smoothly around us all, and we were able to ignore it like you can ignore the sound of the wind in the leaves or water in a brook. But here the storm never ends; the river is in spate.'

Frecknock flew higher still, as if wanting to get above the colourful formless patterns that eddied back and forth below. The further they climbed the more difficult it was to make out the forest, everything blurred into the mass of swirling magic as if it was descending on the assembled army, pulled in from the surrounding forest like insects to a naked light. Perhaps it was just the concentrated power of so many warrior priests acting as a magnet, but from up here it looked as if the forest was alive. And angry.

‘Where are you going?' Melyn shook the thought away, rushing to catch up with Frecknock, who had risen higher still on the aethereal wind.

‘I need to get my bearings. It's been many years since I came through here, and I was just a kitling then.'

‘So
how could you have seen it like this? Were you hatched with the ability to walk the aethereal?'

‘Far from it, Your Grace. It has taken many years of study to master the art. But I do recall the shapes of the mountains. And I remember my father saying that the pass was protected. If I can find the right location, I should be able to see the spells that hide the entrance and hopefully undo them for long enough to get through.'

‘Well, hurry up about it. I'm not happy with the way things are looking down there.' Melyn peered into the swirling mass of colour that flowed around and over the army's camp. He could make out very little through it now, only an occasional glimpse of firelight and a few horses, their heads down as they grazed. His body was somewhere underneath all that magic; he would have to pass through it to get back. And all the while more and more flowed into the area.

‘This way. I'm sure of it.' Frecknock tipped forward, folding her wings into a dive as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Taken by surprise, Melyn had to rush to catch up as she plunged towards the trees to the north of the camp. They travelled perhaps three miles up a narrow-sided valley with a small stream running down it from the mountains above. At its head some ancient cataclysm had carved out a wide bowl, and a round lake sat beneath an impassable cliff, rising a hundred spans or more into the air. It was just the sort of dead-end valley Melyn expected to find in the foothills of the Rim mountains; the land near Emmass Fawr was full of them. But Frecknock didn't stop, instead heading straight for the sheer wall of rock.