The Golden Cage (39 page)

And
then she disappeared.

Melyn hovered above the water, looking around. Frecknock had been nowhere near the cliff face, nor had she turned away from her headlong flight towards it. She had simply vanished. Slowly he inched forward, noticing as he did how the surface of the lake was mirror-smooth and black. Then something stopped him. It was as if he had walked into an invisible wall. He could feel nothing, see nothing, sense nothing, but try as he might he could get no closer to the cliff. Turning away, he floated back towards the point where the stream flowed out of the lake. That was easy, as was weaving from side to side, up and down. But when he pushed forward again, that same unflinching and unknown barrier held him back.

‘I thought you were following me.' Melyn looked to one side, seeing Frecknock once more hovering in the air. She beat her wings slowly, quite unlike the frenzied motion of hummingbirds and insects, and it occurred to him that the action was more for show than necessity. An aethereal form was limited in its actions only by the imagination and skill of the adept who conjured it, or so he had been taught all those years ago by Inquisitor Hardy. But if Frecknock was showing off, then why? And to whom? Not him, surely.

‘Where did you go?'

‘Through the wards into the valley beyond.' Frecknock's answer was matter of fact, as if she found the question surprising.

‘What wards? I can see nothing here.' Melyn strained his sight, searching the air for any indication of magical
workings. He could see none, even though he knew that there must be something stopping him.

‘Here, take my hand.' Frecknock flew swiftly towards him, her large hand held out, talons withdrawn. Her touch was warm, her skin softer than its leathery appearance might have suggested. As soon as she had a firm grasp, she pushed herself forward with a solid sweep of her wings.

Melyn felt himself pulled with her towards the unseen barrier, and then she began to disappear through it like an arm pushed into the surface of a still pond. He watched as more and more of her disappeared, until he felt again that strange sensation of being stopped, only this time it was subtly different, softer. The unseen barrier gave way slowly and a tingling sensation passed over his whole aethereal body as he was pulled through to the other side.

The valley continued on, winding its slow way up to a low point between two of the peaks that formed the horizon. Now there was no cliff face, only a lake formed by a silt dam choking the river flow where the valley narrowed behind them. Melyn looked for any sign of the magic that formed the illusion, but even in the aethereal he could make out no trace of its working whatsoever.

‘How is it you can see this when I cannot?'

‘It was made to hide the pass from men, not dragons.' Frecknock's air was not smug as much as proud, and Melyn could see from her expression that she was genuinely pleased to have been able to show him this, as if it vindicated the trust he had put in her by not killing her along with the rest of her extended family. He was reminded of young novitiates mastering their first spells
and shyly showing them to their quaisters. The way she had thrown herself wholeheartedly into his service fascinated him. Had he been in her place, he would have been constantly searching for ways to thwart his captors, and yet she strove to be as helpful as possible. He would never have revealed his secrets, yet she seemed happy to teach him and his warrior priests magics which no man had ever known.

All his life Melyn had believed dragons to be base creatures, possessed of just enough intelligence to communicate with men but with an inherent ability to manipulate the Grym. He knew they were destructive and would steal rather than work to gain the things they wanted. That much had not changed, but now he was beginning to realize something else about them. They weren't just men with no moral scruples, nor children with the power of demi-gods. Dragons were different beasts entirely, with their own way of looking at the world, a way completely at odds with his own. It was a wonder men and dragons had ever managed to coexist peacefully; they were just too different.

He was about to ask Frecknock how he might be able to see the magic that had held him back, but before he could form the words, a terrible pain seared through his head. It felt like his mind was being ripped from his body, as if someone had prised open his skull and was pulling out great chunks of his brain. Everything dimmed to black, and had he not been holding Frecknock's hand still, he might have lost himself completely.

‘Inquisitor? Your Grace?' Her voice centred him, though the pain still came in sickening waves.

‘Got
to get back.' Melyn forced the words through gritted teeth, even though his body had no physical form in the aethereal. None but that point of contact between himself and the dragon.

He would have pondered that, had he not been fighting to keep a hold on his very being. Frecknock looked at him strangely, then tugged him back in the direction they had come. The sensation of passing through the barrier was agony now, adding to the sense of being pulled apart. But at least it was short-lived. Once through, Frecknock picked up the pace, flying far more swiftly than any wings would have allowed, back down the valley and out across the forest towards the clearing where the army was camped. It wasn't difficult to find.

Magic pooled over the camp like a thundercloud of contrasting colours. It writhed and pulsed, piling ever higher, bulging out at the top as if whatever controlled it was trying to flatten the warrior priests. As they approached it, ever faster, Melyn wondered if he would be able fight his way through and back to his body. Somehow he knew that this concentration of enchantment was what caused him such agony. But what had drawn it to this spot?

‘Hold tight.' Frecknock's voice was distant, lost in a rushing wind that battered his senses. He could see nothing but the swirling colours of the magic all around him, pummelling him like hailstones, screaming like tortured babies. It was hard to think, hard to remember even who he was. There was just that one point of contact, that warm hand engulfing his own.

‘Relax, Your Grace. We're back.' The voice was
different this time, closer, clearer, and he heard it with his ears rather than his mind. The turmoil began to subside, like the slow return of normal hearing after a deafening thunderclap. Melyn realized that his eyes were screwed tight shut, and he opened them to see flames flickering as they turned logs into ash. He let out a long slow breath, feeling himself breathe for the first time since he had entered his trance. And then he slowly turned to face the dragon lying beside him.

She was looking up into his face, concern in her large eyes. And still in one great leathery fist she held his own small fragile hand.

‘Please, forgive me.' She let go as he snatched it back, but he didn't have the heart to chastise her. And as he began to recover, so he noticed the activity going on around him. He could hear horses nickering, their unrest palpable in the evening gloom. The air felt sticky and electric, as if a storm were brewing, and when Melyn looked up he could see a great cloud overhead, dark and menacing. Yet over on the horizon the sky was clear.

‘How far is that pass?' Melyn scrambled to his feet, swaying slightly as his sense of balance tried to catch up. Frecknock stood as well, shaking her pathetic wings in a manner that made her aethereal form seem all the more ridiculous.

‘About four miles, I'd say.'

‘And you can lead us there?'

‘Of course.'

‘And when we get out of the forest, up into the hills, we'll be away from this cursed magic?'

‘I
think so.'

‘Good. Then prepare to run. I've a nasty feeling we've upset something.'

Frecknock stood calmly in the midst of the turmoil of the camp. Melyn could hear voices shouting, see warrior priests running to catch horses that had pulled free of their tethers. Panic flew around the camp like a swarm of bees.

‘You took Corwen's jewels from their resting place. His power was all that was keeping the forest at bay.'

Errol wandered along the edge of the ridge, searching for a way down into Llanwennog as the sun rose slowly over the distant plains. It had looked promising to the south, but only because the clear air and bright light conspired to make things seem smaller and closer than they truly were. After an hour's hard walking, he had been forced to turn back by yet more sheer cliffs.

The ridge to the north was not much better. It wasn't sheer as it ran towards the peak, but it climbed so high that he had to crane his neck to see beyond it, the cliff only getting taller as it went, the mountain peak plunging to the land far below as if it had been hacked off with one clean blow of an enormous blade.

His stomach grumbled, filled with nothing more than melted snow since they had left Corwen's clearing what seemed like a lifetime ago. Errol couldn't be sure whether it was two days or one, but it was more than enough to make him feel weak. The thin air didn't help. At least his ankles were only sore now, not feeling like they might snap at any moment.

The
wind ruffled his hair, cold on his face as he stared into the distance and rubbed at his legs. With a single thought he reached out for the nearest lines and drew the warmth of the Grym to him. It could sustain him for a while, but sooner or later he would need some of the food that they had packed, some of the food that was even now disappearing down the hill in a bag slung over Benfro's shoulders.

Errol stopped rubbing at his ankles and stuck his hands in his pockets, searching for anything that he might be able to chew. Even a blade of grass or a bit of stick would have helped to take his mind off the churning in his guts, at least for a little while. But there was nothing save a wad of cloth that served him as a handkerchief. Without thinking he pulled it out to wipe the icy rime from under his nose where his breath had frozen on to his skin. A tiny red jewel dropped on to the icy ground and skittered towards the edge of the cliff.

Errol lunged for it, grasping the gem before it could tumble away. For the briefest of instants he felt something vast and ancient and unstoppable reach towards him, and he jerked his hand back, letting go of the jewel like it was a hot coal. Fear brought pinpricks of sweat to his forehead; he had come so close to losing Magog's jewel, then closer still to falling under its influence. Still he felt an echo of that enormous presence, always questing, probing. Folding the cloth over neatly several times until it was as thick as a travelling cloak, he scooped up the gem, wrapped it tight and pushed it back into his pocket.

Then he remembered Corwen's cave: how he had fled from Melyn's approach by walking the lines back to
Benfro, and how he had found his way there by following the link between the young dragon and the jewel now nestling in his pocket. It was true that Corwen had helped him, pushed him away even. And every other time he had walked the lines since Melyn had messed with his mind had been almost by accident. But before then he had managed to do it. When Martha had shown him how. Surely he could do it again, now, on his own.

Errol searched the ridge for the lines, seeing them as a pale web against the midday sun. They were thin, spread wide over the barren land as if there were no life at all for them to feed on. Certainly there was nothing here like the life force that ran up the valley from Pwllpeiran to Jagged Leap. But was size important? He didn't know.

Shifting his focus so that he could see his aura, he searched for the thin red cord that linked Benfro to the jewel. It should have appeared at his pocket, and sure enough there it was, looping away and splitting as it joined many different lines at once. Perhaps that was the answer. He would have to follow them all. Or maybe the jewel was influencing more than just Benfro. Maybe there were others out there being slowly leached of all life. Maybe there was more than one jewel, and they talked to each other.

Errol shook his head to rid it of the endless questions. He needed to be calmer, more focused. He closed his eyes and tried once more to picture the scene. It came to him as vividly as if he were looking, perhaps even more so. And now the lines swelled, those joined by the rose cord turning pink at its touch. He built up an image of Benfro:
his shape, the way he walked, his voice, his smell and the way he sat still when thinking. Relying on his memory of the dragon, Errol started to think his way out along the lines, trying to sense him among the endless possibilities presented, always keeping the feel of that overpowering vast presence in the back of his mind.

He saw images too brief to register in his mind that made no sense. Some were close, others distant; some happening now, others long past. Sights and sounds and smells mixed into one great confusion of sensation as he searched for the one needle hidden deep within the haystack. Benfro was out there, he knew. He just had to find him.

And then he felt a strange melancholy, at once alien and deeply familiar. It was like a mother's lullaby long forgotten bringing back memories of earliest childhood. It was sad and it was angry, fractured and incomplete. It wasn't Benfro, but Morgwm – lonely, confused, defiant. Errol recalled the memories he had touched when he had taken her final jewel from Corwen's cave, the strange images of Princess Lleyn's death and the child nestling with the hatchling. She had taken that infant boy and walked the lines with him, given him over to fostering. Was he that child? Was that how he had learned the power of the Grym?

Something shifted in Errol's mind. He needed to know, needed to ask. He needed to be closer to that broken memory. His head spun, and it felt like he was being pulled in every direction, but he held on to that one simple feeling of need as the whole of Gwlad rushed past him. And
then his head was filled with cotton wool. The wind stopped whistling past his ears and instead he could hear only the rush of blood in his veins. Everything external was blocked off as if he had stuck a blanket over his head. He took a breath and felt his lungs fill with a richness he had all but forgotten. The ground beneath him felt different, softer, the damp spread of melting snow soaking through his trousers.