protect me.’ He picked up his shirt, which had almost dried in the sun. It crackled stiffly in his hands as he inspected it. ‘I wish I had a mending kit.’
‘Why not just get a new shirt?’
‘Where from? There’s no shirt maker for hundreds of miles, and I haven’t any coin to pay him with even if there was.’
‘But there are shirt makers in Gwlad, and tailors,
cobblers – craftsmen whose purpose in life is to fashion clothes and boots for others. I remember a man in Talarddeg who used to make funny little hats with tassels on the top.’
‘But they’re not here, are they.’ Errol hauled his breeches from the water and squeezed them out a last time. Some bloodstains would never shift, he realized, and pretty soon the knees would be gone.
‘Neither were you, four weeks ago, and yet here you are now. Did you walk here, Errol?’
Errol could remember very little of his arrival apart from the pain. He had walked the lines, that much he knew. But he had intended to go home to Pwllpeiran, where his mother could heal him. Instead he had heard Sir Radnor’s voice, felt a gentle but firm force push him elsewhere, and then he had woken up in the cave with Corwen staring down at him.
‘So I could go back,’ he said. ‘I could go home and pick up some clothes. Check on my mother. Let her know I’m all right.’
‘That would be one way. Inadvisable but possible.’
‘Except I’ve never managed to do it on purpose. I’ve always had help. Or it’s been a matter of life and death, and I don’t want to end up in Ruthin’s Grove again. Or Melyn’s chapel.’ Errol shuddered at the thought of being back in that cold miserable place.
‘You don’t have to go anywhere at all, Errol.’ The old dragon sat himself down on the rock, resting his feet in the water, where they made no impression whatsoever. ‘You can reach out to a place and bring what’s there to you. It’s one of the first of the subtle arts a dragon learns.’
‘I’m
not a dragon.’
‘So you keep saying. And as long as that’s how you think of yourself, you never will be. But humour me. Since Benfro has gone off on one of his sulks in the woods, I’ve no one to teach right now. Perhaps you’d like to learn something new.’
‘Of course,’ Errol said. ‘Always.’
‘Well then, try this for me. Close your eyes and imagine your mother’s house. Imagine the room where you used to sleep and the chest where all your clothes are stored.’
Errol tried to build the picture in his mind, finding it remarkably hard. He knew the house so well that he couldn’t remember ever having studied it in any great detail. Nor did it help that his memories of home had been comprehensively rewritten by Inquisitor Melyn. Errol thought he had sorted out the truth from the jumble of incongruous images, but there was always that doubt at the back of his mind.
‘Concentrate, Errol. Describe the chest. See it.’ Corwen’s voice was inside him, all around him, and in that instant Errol felt himself slip from his physical body. His eyes were still closed, but suddenly he could see everything around him – the clearing, the trees, the river cascading over the falls past the rock on which he sat and on towards the forest. And he could see the lines linking everything, painting the form of Gwlad, each point linked to every other.
He looked south, in the approximate direction of his mother’s house so many hundreds of miles away. It was daft to think that he could see it, but suddenly he was there, standing outside the front door. It looked
dilapidated, lifeless. He supposed that made sense; his mother would have moved into Godric’s house in the village. He wondered if she would have taken his things with her, and with that thought he was standing in his bedroom.
It was dark and dusty, even to his strange new sight, but everything seemed to be pretty much where he had left it. His small collection of books sat on the shelf above his narrow bed, and
‘Why not just get a new shirt?’
‘Where from? There’s no shirt maker for hundreds of miles, and I haven’t any coin to pay him with even if there was.’
‘But there are shirt makers in Gwlad, and tailors,
cobblers – craftsmen whose purpose in life is to fashion clothes and boots for others. I remember a man in Talarddeg who used to make funny little hats with tassels on the top.’
‘But they’re not here, are they.’ Errol hauled his breeches from the water and squeezed them out a last time. Some bloodstains would never shift, he realized, and pretty soon the knees would be gone.
‘Neither were you, four weeks ago, and yet here you are now. Did you walk here, Errol?’
Errol could remember very little of his arrival apart from the pain. He had walked the lines, that much he knew. But he had intended to go home to Pwllpeiran, where his mother could heal him. Instead he had heard Sir Radnor’s voice, felt a gentle but firm force push him elsewhere, and then he had woken up in the cave with Corwen staring down at him.
‘So I could go back,’ he said. ‘I could go home and pick up some clothes. Check on my mother. Let her know I’m all right.’
‘That would be one way. Inadvisable but possible.’
‘Except I’ve never managed to do it on purpose. I’ve always had help. Or it’s been a matter of life and death, and I don’t want to end up in Ruthin’s Grove again. Or Melyn’s chapel.’ Errol shuddered at the thought of being back in that cold miserable place.
‘You don’t have to go anywhere at all, Errol.’ The old dragon sat himself down on the rock, resting his feet in the water, where they made no impression whatsoever. ‘You can reach out to a place and bring what’s there to you. It’s one of the first of the subtle arts a dragon learns.’
‘I’m
not a dragon.’
‘So you keep saying. And as long as that’s how you think of yourself, you never will be. But humour me. Since Benfro has gone off on one of his sulks in the woods, I’ve no one to teach right now. Perhaps you’d like to learn something new.’
‘Of course,’ Errol said. ‘Always.’
‘Well then, try this for me. Close your eyes and imagine your mother’s house. Imagine the room where you used to sleep and the chest where all your clothes are stored.’
Errol tried to build the picture in his mind, finding it remarkably hard. He knew the house so well that he couldn’t remember ever having studied it in any great detail. Nor did it help that his memories of home had been comprehensively rewritten by Inquisitor Melyn. Errol thought he had sorted out the truth from the jumble of incongruous images, but there was always that doubt at the back of his mind.
‘Concentrate, Errol. Describe the chest. See it.’ Corwen’s voice was inside him, all around him, and in that instant Errol felt himself slip from his physical body. His eyes were still closed, but suddenly he could see everything around him – the clearing, the trees, the river cascading over the falls past the rock on which he sat and on towards the forest. And he could see the lines linking everything, painting the form of Gwlad, each point linked to every other.
He looked south, in the approximate direction of his mother’s house so many hundreds of miles away. It was daft to think that he could see it, but suddenly he was there, standing outside the front door. It looked
dilapidated, lifeless. He supposed that made sense; his mother would have moved into Godric’s house in the village. He wondered if she would have taken his things with her, and with that thought he was standing in his bedroom.
It was dark and dusty, even to his strange new sight, but everything seemed to be pretty much where he had left it. His small collection of books sat on the shelf above his narrow bed, and
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