The Golden Cage (51 page)

Melyn didn't think he had ever seen a horse so proud and magnificent. Like all simple creatures, its aethereal form was detailed and rich, as if it was aware of nothing but itself. It held its head high, neck arched, tail jutting out as a warning to anyone who might approach from behind. As he watched, it pranced around the arena in a wild manner, throwing its feet out and tossing its head from side to side, circling and circling the boy, eyeing him up for the kill. Clun however seemed unconcerned, almost ignoring the great beast, refusing to make eye contact, turning his back at times.

Melyn looked around and spotted the queen sitting in the gallery overlooking the action. She glowed as if someone had placed a candle inside her, and her aethereal form showed the slight swell of her belly. Without thinking, he moved across to her, settling himself down on the bench beside her.

‘Beulah.' Melyn spoke softly, in the way he had always done when trying to attract her attention to the aethereal. It was as much a game as a method of teaching, though normally she was aware of his presence even before he spoke. This time it was as if he didn't exist. The queen ignored him, her eyes only on Clun, and he felt a strange jealousy at her obvious devotion to the boy.

‘She can't sense you, Your Grace. The child growing inside her …' Frecknock stood a short distance away, trying to make herself look small.

‘I know. She's pregnant and that stops her from being able to see the aethereal.' Melyn turned his attention back to Clun. ‘We were always going to have to communicate through the boy, but it looks like he's distracted at the moment. I could always attract Beulah's attention, but Clun needs to be a bit more focused.'

‘You're very close to Her Majesty, Your Grace.'

‘Her father put her in my care when she was only eight years old.'

‘That would likely explain it. But if you will allow me, Your Grace, I should be able to alert Master Clun to our presence.'

Melyn nodded his assent, aware that once more he was depending on the dragon. He would have to kill her sooner or later, he realized; her influence on him was growing too great. But for now her aid was the only thing keeping his mission on track. And she fascinated him.

Frecknock stepped down into the arena, her aethereal form floating a hand's width off the dirt floor. Melyn watched the horse kick and stamp as it rushed round in a great circle. Then, when it was about to pass the spot where Frecknock's form stood, she stepped into its path.

The effect was instant. The stallion reared up, almost falling backwards as it recoiled. It backed off several slow paces, then stopped, staring at the dragon with wide eyes and flared nostrils. Clun watched it, an expression of concern spreading over his face, and then his gaze moved around the ring as if he were looking for something. He swept over Frecknock and Melyn, then did a double take, his eyes going out of focus for a moment before finally coming to rest on the inquisitor.

‘Mistress Frecknock. Your Grace. I'm very glad to see you.' Clun bowed, then stepped away from himself, his aethereal form leaving behind an almost identical double as still as a statue.

‘You've been practising, I see. Good.' Melyn floated his own form down to meet Clun. He was dimly aware of motion all around him: no doubt people in the arena reacting to the sudden stillness of the Duke of Abervenn. He trusted the queen would understand what was happening, but no doubt some fool would try to go to Clun's aid and distract the boy. Or get himself kicked to death by the horse.

‘Now listen to me carefully. We don't have much time.'

There was no doubt about it, the horse was magnificent. He was also completely wild. Beulah still wasn't sure why she had bought him and doubted he would ever be broken. But he might be put to some of the more tractable mares, she supposed. Foals with a bit of Gomoran fire in them would make fine warhorses.

Still, Clun was determined to try, and he was going about the task in a most unusual manner. It had taken ten men with ropes and a great deal of swearing to bring the stallion from the stone stable he had been trying to destroy and down to this training arena. At least two of the stable hands had broken arms, and by the way a third was walking his ribs were badly cracked. Those brave enough to watch had climbed to the back of the raised seating around the arena. Only Beulah herself dared to lean over the railings; Captain Celtin sat nervously behind her.

Clun stood in the middle of the ring as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be so close to an animal that could run him down in an instant. The stallion's hooves were each the size of his head, and tore up great clumps of dirt as he pounded round. And yet the horse didn't attack him, just ran and ran. Round and round.

After about half an hour of this, the horse began to settle down, perhaps no longer afraid of the strange situation, but more likely just bored. Beulah wasn't sure such a creature knew what fear was. At this point Clun turned his back on the beast and Beulah felt a surge of trepidation. Surely that would invite an attack. But the horse continued its pacing, snorting and shaking its great flowing mane. Then, finally, it stopped, breathed heavily a few times, and walked slowly towards the centre.

Whether he sensed the approach or just heard a change in the beast's breathing, Beulah didn't know, but when the stallion was within ten paces of him, Clun turned and faced it, eyes with an expression of cold fury that reminded her of the battle he had fought with the dragon. The stallion kicked up instantly, but instead of attacking, backed away, resuming his mad running round the arena. And all the while Clun kept his eyes on him, swivelling slowly on his heels to mark the endless circles.

Beulah watched, fascinated. She had never seen anything like it before. Breaking horses was a brutal business, she knew. This horse should have been haltered and hobbled, then made to accept a breaking saddle; then brave men would have attempted to ride it until it was beaten into submission. Until its spirit was broken. That was how it had always been done at Emmass Fawr and Candlehall. But experience said Gomoran stallions could never be broken that way. At least no one had ever succeeded. What Clun was doing was completely different, and apart from the fact that he was as yet unharmed, seemed to be completely ineffectual. Since he had never before owned a horse, let alone tried to break one, what surprised her most of all was that he should even be trying.

‘By the Shepherd!' Beulah jumped and felt Celtin behind her tense as the stallion suddenly reared, almost falling over in its desperation to get away from something she couldn't see. Clun looked confused, as if this was not something he had expected. He looked around the ring, and then his eyes seemed to go out of focus. His hands dropped slackly to his sides and his head drooped so much she thought he was going to collapse. But he stayed on his feet, looking for all the world like he dangled from an invisible rope with his feet just touching the ground.

Captain Celtin was the first to move, stepping reluctantly forward to jump down into the ring. Beulah stopped him, her touch making him visibly flinch.

‘No, Captain. Wait a moment. I think I know what's happening.' She looked once more at Clun, then back at Celtin. ‘Do you have any skill at the aethereal?'

‘No, ma'am. I'm sorry.'

Beulah cursed her pregnancy once more. She tried to sink into the trance, tried to sense the presence she expected, but it was as if her head was wrapped in blankets. She looked around the arena, half expecting something to appear to her normal sight, but there was nothing to see apart from the curiously dangling Clun and the remarkable sight of a Gomoran stallion held motionless by fear.

‘Be not alarmed, my lady. Inquisitor Melyn is here.' The words sounded distant, echoing from Clun's mouth without his lips moving. They were hard to hear above the muttering of the crowd. Beulah shouted, ‘Silence!' and a strange quiet fell upon the place. Even the stallion stopped his snorting.

‘How is it you can speak, my love? Are you not in the aethereal?'

‘I have news from His Grace the inquisitor, my lady.' Clun either hadn't heard the question or chose not to answer it. ‘He has reached the northlands and will begin his planned actions in a few days' time.'

‘Has he killed the dragons?' There was a prolonged pause after Beulah asked the question, minutes passing as if some long conversation were being held elsewhere.

Finally Clun spoke again. ‘No. The wild creature Caradoc escaped, as did Benfro. Frecknock is helping the inquisitor.'

‘She's with him? Here, in the aethereal?'

‘She is, my lady.'

For some unaccountable reason this made Beulah shudder. She hated not being able to see and move about the aethereal herself. It was a double torment to know that dragons might be spying on her, influencing her while she was so vulnerable. And why was Melyn allowing the dragon to accompany him? What could possibly have happened that could have made him trust her so? She longed to ask him more, but she was constrained both by the crowd of nobles who had come with her to the arena, and by the knowledge that anything she said would be heard by the dragon too.

‘Tell Melyn that we will leave here tomorrow and sail directly for Abervenn. And tell him he would be wise to remember what we discussed before we parted. He knows what I mean.'

Clun fell silent once more, still dangling like a puppet in the exact centre of the ring. Again Beulah strained her senses to catch anything of the inquisitor, or even the dragon. Was that why the stallion had reacted to fearfully? Was it an ethereal presence that it sensed, that had it almost cowering? Beulah had thought herself an adept, a master of the skill, but now she realized she knew very little about the worlds of magic at all.

‘My lady, they are gone.' Clun's voice was back to normal now, and he pulled himself upright, turning to face her. ‘The inquisitor said to tell you that he hasn't forgotten your words. He will carry out your orders when he feels the time is right.'

‘Did he say why he had brought the dragon with him?'

‘Mistress Frecknock has sworn a blood oath to protect the inquisitor. She wants to stay alive, and she knows the only way she can do that is by being useful. She is teaching Melyn and his men what magic she can to help them with their campaign, and she's doing everything she can to protect the inquisitor himself. I suspect she knows that if he dies, she will lose her head soon afterwards.'

If he dies
. The enormity of what Melyn was doing hit home with those three short words. Beulah knew that the mission was a brave one, if not plain foolhardy. Five hundred warrior priests against an entire nation was not good odds. And the whole plan depended on them drawing the attention of a large proportion of Ballah's army. It would be a miracle if any of them survived.

‘Do not fear, my lady. His Grace is very resourceful. He has his best warrior priests with him, and now he has new magic to help too. You'll see him again. I know it.' Something about Clun's voice, his choice of words, made Beulah believe him. There was more to the Duke of Abervenn than the brave young man who had captured her heart.

Beulah's gaze was so fixed on him that she completely forgot about the stallion on the other side of the ring. Only when he moved did she notice him, no longer afraid but striding into the centre. The horse was huge, his coat black and shiny with sweat. He had an aura of unstoppable power, of untapped menace and single-minded obstinacy. And before she could shout a warning, it was upon Clun, who simply turned, calmly staring into those huge eyes, reaching up with his hand, letting the horse get his scent.

Slowly, calmly, the stallion lowered his head and allowed his ears to be scratched.

There was something wrong with his head. No matter how hard he tried to think, how much he shook the water out of his ears, still Benfro felt like he was muffled in thick, soft blankets. Neither was he quite sure where he was, though oddly that didn't seem to worry him much. Wherever it was, it was moving, lurching from side to side with a monotonous rhythm that swirled the fog around his brain and made it harder still to concentrate.

He tried to see what was going on, but wherever he was it was dark. A tiny sliver of light splayed in through a hole high above him, painting a fan-like pattern on a ceiling that appeared to be made of wood. But that couldn't be right. Hadn't he been sleeping in a cave? He'd lit a fire. No, he hadn't lit a fire, but there had been smoke. He was fairly sure of that. Or had he dreamed it? He remembered being tired, heavy, like he'd eaten too much. But he'd only had a couple of fish, and not that big. He remembered catching them in the river, filleting some to cook later when Errol got back.

Benfro started to piece things back together, bit by bit, memory by memory. It was slow work; he seemed to be able to hold only a few things in his mind at once. He had no idea how long it was since he had been in the cave, nor how long he had been in this moving wooden box.

This cage.

The idea came to him at the same time as he started to notice the sensations in his arms and legs. It was as if he had forgotten what discomfort was and it had taken him that long to put a name to the feeling. Now that he had made the connection, he realized he had been uncomfortable ever since … when? He couldn't remember waking any more than he could remember going to sleep. But he must have done both at some point.

Benfro shifted his body, tried to sit up from the unusual lying position he found himself in. It was harder than it should have been. Not only was his sense of balance not working, but his arms and legs appeared to be tied together. He rocked back and forth, rolled over on to his front so that he could lever himself upright, but in the confines of the cage it was near impossible given the way he seemed to feel things only long moments after he had touched them. Finally he managed to reach some sort of tipping point, realizing as he did so that he had no way of staying upright. With a graceless certainty he toppled over, landing partially on something slightly softer than the wooden floor.