The Golden Cage (5 page)

He was in a vast chamber carved from the rock. Pillars held up the ceiling, marching off into darkness in all directions. Only the area immediately in front of him was lit, and that by an enormous pile of jewels, luminous and white. The noise seemed to be coming from the other side of the pile, and Errol took a tentative step, unsure whether he would be able to move or not. His view shifted, though it didn't feel like he had moved at all, and now he could see.

Benfro
sat on the floor in front of the mountain of jewels, his tail tucked around him like a patient dog waiting to be fed. Behind him a huge old writing desk looked like it had been pushed to one side, long-extinguished candles little more than globs of shiny wax in their sconces. At his feet were three small piles of the white crystals, and he was pulling more from the vast heap, weighing them in his palm one by one, before either adding it to one of the piles or returning it to the heap. Errol had not met many dragons, and wasn't an expert on their expressions, but even he could see the terrible pain that this task seemed to be causing Benfro. His arms moved with a reluctant rigidity, as if he were fighting his own actions with all his strength. He held himself awkwardly, back pressed against the writing desk, pushing it hard with the base of his wing.

And then Benfro stopped his sorting. Oblivious to Errol's presence, he scooped up all the jewels from one small pile, hauled himself to his feet and set off with them into the darkness. Errol followed him bodilessly, devoid of any sensation of movement except his changing viewpoint. They passed down a long aisle between two rows of columns, coming finally to a wall carved with little holes. Some of these, Errol saw, were filled with the pale white jewels – less luminous here, almost dead. Benfro slowly poured the jewels he was carrying into an empty hole, leaning forward and resting his head against the cold stone as he did so, his whole body racked with sobs. All the while he seemed to be fighting, twisting around as if he wanted to smash his back against the wall and
demolish it, tumble the jewels all back together. And yet he was powerless to do anything but head back to the large pile at the centre of the room.

Too late Errol realized he was standing in the way. Benfro would have to trample him to get past. But the dragon simply walked straight through him. And at that moment of contact Errol felt a terrible presence all around him, a malignant evil that grew into a form visible in the darkness of the vaulted ceiling. It was a dragon's head larger than any he had ever seen, and it stared into him, through him, with eyes as red as burning coals. It reached out for him with massive hands, fingers tipped with razor-sharp talons. Instinctively Errol took a step backwards, tripped over something and overbalanced. As he fell, he thought he heard an enraged scream, those crushing hands grasping the air where his head had just been. Then, with a great jerk of motion that nearly threw him out of his bed, he woke up.

Melyn brushed a low-hanging branch aside, causing a cascade of rainwater to pour over his cloak, saddle and horse. The track through the trees was a lot more overgrown than he remembered, though scarcely a year had passed since last he had come this way.

‘Is there no end to this forest?' He ducked under yet another branch, precipitating another deluge of water down the back of his neck. The icy cold against his skin brought his anger to the surface, and with a quick flick of the wrist he conjured up a blade of light, using it to hack away the branches ahead of him. When he saw that this was merely dislodging more water, he stopped, but not
before his horse was soaked to the skin, his cloak a sopping rag pulling heavily at his shoulders.

‘Your Grace, I think we're here.' Captain Osgal wheeled his own horse to face the inquisitor. Melyn was pleased to see that the captain was just as wet as him, the rest of the troop possibly wetter. He spurred his horse forward under one more overhanging branch and out into the clearing.

At first he wasn't entirely sure it was the same place. The track that ran through the village to the green and the great hall was completely overrun with moss, grass and weeds; the burned-out shells of the houses had crumbled almost to nothing, made barely recognizable by encroaching vegetation. They rode through the jungle in silence. Of the troop only he and Osgal had been present during the previous visit, but everyone knew they were looking at the sort of growth that should have taken a decade, not a year.

The green in front of the great hall was a sea of grass that tickled the bellies of the horses as they rode through it. The hall itself still stood, in frame at least. Its roof had collapsed, the plaster infill between the oak beams turned brittle and crumbly. Leaded glass windows sagged in their frames, loosed panes lying broken on the ground.

Melyn dismounted, handing his reins to a warrior priest before pushing his way through the long grass to the heavy doors, still standing in their twisted, blackened frames. They sagged half open, and as he pushed on the weathered oak they swung inwards with a smooth action quite at odds with everything else in the ruined village.

Inside, daylight flooded through the ruined roof to reveal a heap of burned and charred timbers, heavy stone
slates and half-collapsed walls. In the middle of the room a huge table lay smashed in half. Benches along either side had been broken into so much firewood by the collapsing roof. Only the large carved wooden chair at the head of the table was unscathed, miraculously missed by falling masonry. Rain-streaked and weathered, it was otherwise almost perfect.

Except for the sapling growing from the wood of its seat, reaching for the open ceiling and already twice as tall as a man.

Melyn trod carefully over the debris, testing beams and huge stone slabs for stability before trusting his weight to them. He scrabbled over to the great table, even though he knew there was no point. There should have been the charred skeletons of thirty dragons in here, their skulls weakened by exposure and ready for splitting, their jewels waiting to be scooped from within. Instead there were more saplings, each one where a dragon might have been expected to sit.

‘Where did they go?' Captain Osgal bent forward and pulled one of the saplings towards him, then cursed, let it go and put his hand to his mouth.

‘Bastard thing's got thorns.' Osgal held out his finger and Melyn could see a long ragged-edged tear in the skin. Blood welled out of the new cut, splashing to the floor to mix with the damp dust and ash.

‘Let's get out of here.' Melyn retraced his steps to the door, Osgal following and grumbling all the while.

As he climbed back on to his horse, Melyn felt a shudder run through him, as if someone were watching him in the aethereal. Slipping into the trance state with practised
ease, he looked around the clearing for Queen Beulah's form; he doubted anyone else could master the skill well enough to find him here and was surprised that even she had managed.

She was nowhere to be seen, but the clearing looked completely different from his new perspective. For a start it was whole, undamaged and unclaimed by the surrounding forest. The hall was better than it had been when he had set it aflame, crisp and new like the day it was completed. The green below his horse's feet was smooth and flat, the grass neatly trimmed. Over the arrow-straight and smooth-cobbled track, the houses stood solid and welcoming, the nearest and largest seeming to glow as if someone lived within.

‘Inquisitor?' Melyn dropped out of his trance, turning to face the captain, who had wrapped his hand in a white cloth that even now was turning red with his blood.

‘What is it, Captain?'

‘Should we search the area? Try to find who took the jewels?'

Melyn felt a surge of irritation at the man. He was a skilled warrior, if rather brutal in his manipulation of the Grym, but he was singularly lacking in imagination.

‘No, Captain,' he said. ‘That would be a waste of time. The jewels are gone. Leave it at that. I should have sent a party to collect them earlier, but I had other things on my mind. I let myself get distracted. I shan't make that mistake again.'

He turned away from the captain and looked back in the direction of the glowing house that he had seen in his trance state. It stood taller than those around it, some of
its shape still visible under the heavy blanket of brambles, bushes and ivy. Spurring his horse forward, he crossed the fast-disappearing track, using the animal's bulk to force his way as close to the front door as possible. When he could go no further without risking injury, he conjured a blade of light and hacked at the vegetation. Silently, without being commanded, the warrior priests appeared at his side and began to help.

It took a good half-hour to clear a path wide enough. The building had burned, but the fire had only consumed the top storey, leaving the ground floor largely intact. Melyn forced the door open to reveal a weed-choked hall with two further doors leading off. A scorched staircase climbed to the clouds.

The first door opened on to a mass of leaves where a thick bush had grown to fill the available space. Beyond the staircase the fire had eaten away most of the back of the building, but the other door still stood firm. He tried to open it, but it was locked. His blade of fire should have made short work of the wood, but as he brought it to bear, it fizzled out and died. Astonished, Melyn looked more closely. The frame was dark and ornately carved with strange stick-like sigils – Draigiaith. As written by the dragons themselves, it was a poor alphabet and difficult to decipher, so many words being depicted by the same symbol. He really needed Andro to read it, or at least give him some idea of what he was dealing with.

Slipping once more into his trance, Melyn studied the doorway as he would study the Grym, and sure enough he could make out protections weaved over the room beyond. They would have been all but impossible to break
had the creature that had woven them been still alive, but any spell began to unravel and lose its potency once its creator died; all he needed to find was the right point to start.

It was slow work, but rewarding. The skill with which the protections had been wrought was breathtaking, certainly far more sophisticated than anything he had seen in many years. Still, he knew he could beat them, and eventually he did. With a quiet sigh of satisfaction he slid back from the aethereal and into his body, pushing forward on the door as he felt its solid form against his outstretched hand. It gave, creaking slightly as it opened on to a dark room, musty and dry smelling despite the damp and vegetation all around it.

Conjuring a light, Melyn stepped into what was quite obviously a library. Heavy leather-bound books lined the walls, and were piled on and around a wide reading desk. Two chairs, shaped for dragons to sit in, sat one each side of a large fireplace, the ashen shapes of logs still sitting on the hearth. With the door opened, a breeze kicked up the ash, crumbling it away to dust that floated up the chimney.

Melyn looked slowly around the room, wondering how it had been missed when the troop had searched the village. But then half of them had been novitiates; they would never have even seen the door, let alone been able to get past the wards that protected it. While the dragons had still lived, perhaps even he might have overlooked it.

He reached out and took a book from the pile on top of the reading desk. It was a thick volume, bound in dark leather and bearing more of those impenetrable runes
inscribed in gold on its cover. It felt too heavy in his hands, and the tips of his fingers tingled where they touched it. Voices whispered seductively in his ears as he made to open the cover and look inside.

‘Inquisitor?' Captain Osgal stood in the doorway, not daring to come in. For once Melyn forgave him the interruption. He pushed back the urge to open the book, shuddering slightly at how quickly it had gone to work on him. Pulling off his travelling cloak, he wrapped the book in it, feeling its lure diminish as physical contact was broken.

‘Gather the troop together, Captain,' he said. ‘I want all these books transported to Emmass Fawr immediately.' Andro would know what he was dealing with. He would decipher the runes, and then Melyn would understand the secrets that lay within.

Benfro wandered aimlessly through the forest. He had intended hunting, but there seemed to be little prey out in the twilight gloom. Or maybe it was just that he couldn't be bothered with stealth and silence, instead tramping through the undergrowth with all the subtlety of a herd of cattle. He was tired, bone weary in a way that made it difficult to think straight, almost impossible to maintain his control over his aura. His damaged wing was a constant niggling pain that he dared not deal with; he needed it to help him stay awake and to wake him when he did finally succumb to sleep.

He dreaded the end of each day. In the light he could
find things to do, useless tasks that took his mind off the gnawing lethargy that constantly pulled at him. But at the end of the day there was nothing, no distraction but to sit in his rude little corral, shivering with the cold. He never lit a fire; the warmth would have had him sound asleep in seconds. He would battle against the waves of tiredness that dragged him down, and sometime in the night he would lose. Magog would break through the last loose knot of his resolve and come crashing in. Sleep had once been a time of wonder for Benfro, a place of magic dreams and adventure, a safe haven from the trials of growing up. Now it was the enemy, his own private torment.

With a wail, he found himself back in Magog's repository. His first reaction was anger. How could he have fallen asleep so easily, out in the forest, walking? But soon weary resignation took over. His thoughts might be free to wander, to rail against the unfairness of it all, but he was a slave to the master of this place. It mattered nothing to Magog that Benfro's mind was addled by lack of sleep, his body weak with too little food. Perhaps the mad old mage even intended him to be that way. If Magog could control his sleep this easily, soon he might take over his waking hours too.

Wearily Benfro began his struggle against the force that made him sort the jewels. It was so difficult to concentrate; he just wanted to close his eyes and fade into oblivion. But Magog would not allow it, and the central of the three small heaps in front of him demanded he fight.

It had been building slowly over three nights, as if the
jewels he sought had burrowed their way into the pile, spreading out through the other memories rather than staying where they had been. Almost as if they had known what was coming and sought to make it as difficult for him as possible. Benfro knew that sooner or later he would start to find old friends with his traitorous hands, and now in front of him, almost complete, lay the sparkling white reckoned jewels of Sir Frynwy. He had no desire to find the final jewel, but he knew with a terrible certainty that tonight he was going to consign his old friend to a terrible lonely fate.

Benfro struggled with all his might, trying to keep his hands from the large pile of jewels. In the back of his head he could hear Magog laughing. Or was it just that he felt the old mage's glee more strongly with each passing hour? Either way, he was powerless to do anything but watch as he reached for the first jewel, picking it out with rock-steady fingers and hefting it in his palm.

It wasn't Sir Frynwy.

It wasn't either of the other dragons whose smaller piles lay in front of him, but a fourth memory, as yet unchosen, still free to commune with the other souls that Magog had trapped so many thousands of years before. Benfro placed the jewel back on the heap, slightly off to one side, then reached for another.

The progress was painfully slow. He didn't know how many nights he had come back to the repository and sorted jewels. It would have been madness to count. He could see that the great pile had diminished, but it wasn't yet half the size it had been when he and Malkin had first created it. There were some nights, joyous nights, when
he found no complete sets of jewels before he managed to shake off Magog's influence and wake himself. But even as he fought against it, a part of his mind couldn't help thinking that there must be a more efficient means of sorting. Then again, if Magog wanted him ground down by a slow process of crushing tedium and demoralization, this was probably the best way to do it.

His fingers brushed another jewel, shaking Benfro out of his musings. He cursed himself for being sidetracked from fighting at the same time as his hearts sank in defeat. There was no mistaking the dragon whose memories he held; he shared many of them himself. Slowly, shaking as he tried to stop himself, Benfro lowered Sir Frynwy's last jewel down to the pile in front of him, forcing out a whisper through reluctant lips as he did so.

‘I'm sorry.'

His body no more than a puppet, Benfro got to his feet, bending to scoop up the completed collection. This was the worst bit, when the dragon whose memories he held would speak to him, chide him, plead with him to stop what he was doing.

‘You need to fight him, Benfro.' Sir Frynwy's voice was in his head, as clear as if he stood beside him.

‘You don't know what it's like.' Benfro replied only in his mind, his lips locked shut in a grimace. ‘He's so powerful.'

‘I know, but you're powerful too. You fought him off before, and you can do it again.'

‘But I'm so tired. I can't think straight half the time. It's like fighting your own shadow.'

‘Listen, Benfro. Remember how Frecknock put that
glamour on you, to stop you from telling anyone what she was doing.'

Benfro felt a momentary surge of anger at the mention of Frecknock's name. It was her fault that the villagers were all dead, that his mother had been slaughtered in front of his own eyes, that he was in the mess he was now in.

‘Yes, she has a lot to answer for.' Sir Frynwy's voice seemed unreasonably forgiving. ‘But think about how you dealt with that. You fought it as hard as you could; you tried every trick you could think of to get round the spell. I remember thinking you'd gone quite mad, the way you kept coming up to me and asking odd questions. Of course, once I knew what had happened to you, they all made sense.'

‘But it's hopeless.' Benfro wailed the words in his head. He could see the stone wall with its collection of alcoves all too close now as he walked with stiff legs towards it. ‘I couldn't break her spell. It took months for any of you to see what was wrong. And by then it was too late.'

‘Benfro, it was too late before you were hatched, long before Frecknock even came to our village. Don't be so quick to condemn her. Us old dragons had chosen to live together; she was forced. Some day you'll understand what that means. But that's not the point. The point is, you had a problem you couldn't solve on your own, so you brought it to us. You brought it to your friends.'

Benfro was at the wall now, leaning towards the nearest empty alcove. Tears welled up in his eyes as he reached out with his cupped hands to drop the jewels in.

‘I'm sorry, Sir Frynwy. I don't want to do this, but I can't stop.'

‘I
know you can't, Benfro. Not on your own. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine in here on my own for a while, and I know you'll win. You'll defeat Magog and come back here to free us all again. But remember what I said. You don't have to fight him alone. You have friends out there who can help you. If you'll just ask.'

‘What friends? Who are you talking about?' Benfro screamed out the questions in his head, but the last jewel had tumbled from his hands into the alcove, and the voice of Sir Frynwy fell silent.

The Neuadd was considerably less than half full. Admittedly it was almost impossible to fill it entirely, so vast was the area it covered, but nevertheless Beulah felt it would have lent more gravitas to the occasion had her people shown a bit more enthusiasm. Perhaps she should have insisted that the city merchants pay their respects in person.

Representatives of all the noble houses were there, of course. The court hangers-on were jockeying for position, still playing the game as if her father were alive. She watched them from her vantage point on the Obsidian Throne, trying to work out who was sleeping with whom, trying to remember some of their names.

Seneschal Padraig sat on a simple wooden chair to one side of the throne, Archimandrite Cassters alongside him. Beulah wished that Melyn was here too. Not that she needed his support or even his approval, but he was her power base. Without him she felt the responsibility of state rested on her shoulders alone. She had tried to contact him, but the one thing Cassters' potions had not been
able to cure was her frustrating inability to achieve the trance state necessary to reach the aethereal. And she had no idea where the inquisitor might be right now.

A few latecomers darted through the doors at the far end of the hall, no doubt hoping their tardiness went unnoticed. Beulah knew that Padraig had scribes posted throughout the citadel; she would be presented with a list of all those who had attended and all those who had not, along with their excuses or lack thereof some time in the next week. With the raising of an army throughout the Twin Kingdoms, plenty of the heads of the noble houses had a reasonable excuse for their absence – at least this time. Still disappointed at the attendance, she decided it was time and nodded at the seneschal to get the proceedings under way.

Padraig shuffled to his feet, a sheaf of papers in his hand as if he needed reminding of what he was going to say.

‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen. You have been called here for an important royal proclamation.' He tried to project his voice across the hall, Beulah noticed, but he didn't have the skill, nor the power of the Obsidian Throne behind him. It was likely that most of the gathered audience couldn't hear a word he was saying.

‘As you all well know, the ducal House of Abervenn was recently implicated in a plot to overthrow our beloved Queen Beulah, a plot backed and financed by the godless Llanwennogs.' Looking down at his sheaf of papers, Padraig's voice faltered slightly at these words. He glanced briefly over at her and Beulah scowled at him. Clearing his throat quietly, he continued.

‘This
unprovoked attack is an act of war on the Twin Kingdoms, and it will not go unanswered. Even now armies are being recruited and trained. We will bring the queen's enlightened rule to the lands of the north.'

A muted ruffle of sound fluttered around the great hall, losing itself in its own echoes as the seneschal's words were relayed from person to person. It wasn't news to anyone: the draft had been pulling able-bodied men from villages and towns across the land for weeks now.

‘By his treason Duke Angor has forfeited all the lands and titles of Abervenn. His co-conspirators have been rounded up and executed, his wife and daughter stripped of their titles and privileges. This is the punishment any can expect who plot with our enemies.'

Beulah cast her mind out over the crowd, judging the mood as Padraig droned on. She had read his speech earlier, added to it herself the passages he seemed to have most difficulty with. Now she wished he would just hurry up and get to the point.

‘It is the right of the queen to bestow lands and titles as she sees fit, and it is for this reason that she has brought you all here today. Come forward, Clun Defaid.'

He had been standing in the front row, his nervousness at complete odds with the studied nonchalance and self-confidence of the nobles surrounding him. At his name Clun stiffened as if someone had poked him with a sharp stick. Beulah could feel his unease beginning to turn to fear, and she sent calming thoughts towards him. He still looked like a rabbit hearing the shriek of the raptor, but he seemed to pull himself together enough to take first one step, then another, and another, each one easier
than the last until he reached the podium. A low bench had been placed in front of the throne, and he knelt upon it on both knees, bowing his head.

Beulah stood and the whole hall rose with her. She looked over Clun's prostrate figure and fixed her audience with her gaze. She paused just long enough to make people feel uncomfortable, the silence hanging heavy in the vast space of the Neuadd, then with a single thought conjured up a thin blade of light.

A palpable gasp ran through the crowd. All eyes were on her – she could feel their full attention as she reached out with the power of the throne, projecting her words so that everyone would hear as if she stood alongside them.

‘Clun Defaid. You have proven yourself selfless in service to the House of Balwen. As a warrior priest of the Order of the High Ffrydd, I would expect no less.' Beulah noted Clun's involuntary flinch at the inappropriate rank. She couldn't very well introduce him to the other noble houses as a mere novitiate. Melyn might not like it, but Clun would be his equal soon, so the inquisitor would just have to promote him to a full warrior priest, and the traditions of the order be damned.