sat back on her tail as if slapped. She backed quickly away, scolded, her hands held up in
supplication. And then Melyn heard a voice that swamped his anger, rode over any feeling other than purest joy even as it chided him.
‘Do not be so harsh on Frecknock, my servant. She has served you well so far.’
‘But my lord, she is a dragon, a creature of the Wolf.’
‘And as some of my creations have spurned me, might not his beasts turn from him? Did I not say you would find help in unexpected quarters as you pursued your quest?’
Melyn sank to his knees in the same spot where his aethereal form had settled just minutes earlier. He was humbled in the presence of his god, made to feel no better than the dribbling idiots who lived out their meaningless lives in the almshouses outside Emmass Fawr. His intellect was nothing, his skill at magic mere sleight of hand, his rise from abject poverty to the head of the most powerful order in the history of Gwlad a paltry achievement. He would have none of it without the Shepherd. And yet it troubled him that his god should be so capricious.
‘My lord, your wisdom knows no bounds. Please forgive me if I don’t fully understand.’
‘You are my instrument, Melyn son of Arall. It is not necessary for the hammer to know why the carpenter wields it, only for it to strike the nail accurately and with as much force as possible.’
‘Of course, lord.’ Melyn bowed his head yet further in supplication and received a dizzying flood of youthful energy as a reward for his humility.
‘You worry about the dragon’s magic, I see. You fear that it is the Wolf’s working and will corrupt your soul.
Fret not, my servant. You will know the Wolf when you see him. The magic Frecknock and her kind wield is my magic. Stolen from me when Gwlad was young, it’s true. But it is my magic nonetheless. Do you think I would have let you use it otherwise? Do I not watch over you at all times?’
‘Lord, you are everywhere and in everything. I am honoured to be the instrument of your will. But I see the Wolf and his demons all around me, tempting me, trying to lead me astray. It has been too long since last I prayed to you. Please forgive me.’
‘You have much on your mind, my faithful servant. Perhaps you would have been wise to consult me sooner. You think Duke Dondal lied to you. You do not believe that Tynhelyg could be so poorly defended, King Ballah so vulnerable. But it is true. I have made it so.’
Melyn’s heart surged at the words echoing in his head. His greatest triumph was within his reach, and he could not fail.
‘Ah, but you could all too easily fail, my faithful servant. King Ballah is a powerful sorcerer. He knows the evil magic of the Wolf, forged in his lair and alien to the power that runs through Gwlad. You will need all the help you can get just to reach Tynhelyg in time, and you will have to dig deep inside yourself to find the strength to defeat the Wolf’s cub who lies there.’
‘I am ready to take up that challenge, lord. It is what I’ve trained for all my life.’
‘Yes, it is. And I have been preparing you all your life for this moment. You have Brynceri’s ring with you. Take it. Place it on your own finger.’
‘But, lord. The ring is sacred. I …’
‘Are you forgetting to whom you speak, Melyn son of Arall? I forged that ring from my own breath. I gave it to Balwen so that he might protect Gwlad in my absence. It contains magic you cannot imagine. Wear it!’
Melyn felt the command as the merest hint of the agony that refusing would bring. He reached into his cloak and pulled out the slim wooden case, fumbling with the latch as he tried to open it. His hands shook as he removed the dry grey finger from its soft velvet nest. The ring hung loosely around it, the bright red polished ruby lit from within by a tiny spark that shimmered and flickered. It was the most sacred relic of the order. Only the inquisitor was allowed to handle it, and no one
supplication. And then Melyn heard a voice that swamped his anger, rode over any feeling other than purest joy even as it chided him.
‘Do not be so harsh on Frecknock, my servant. She has served you well so far.’
‘But my lord, she is a dragon, a creature of the Wolf.’
‘And as some of my creations have spurned me, might not his beasts turn from him? Did I not say you would find help in unexpected quarters as you pursued your quest?’
Melyn sank to his knees in the same spot where his aethereal form had settled just minutes earlier. He was humbled in the presence of his god, made to feel no better than the dribbling idiots who lived out their meaningless lives in the almshouses outside Emmass Fawr. His intellect was nothing, his skill at magic mere sleight of hand, his rise from abject poverty to the head of the most powerful order in the history of Gwlad a paltry achievement. He would have none of it without the Shepherd. And yet it troubled him that his god should be so capricious.
‘My lord, your wisdom knows no bounds. Please forgive me if I don’t fully understand.’
‘You are my instrument, Melyn son of Arall. It is not necessary for the hammer to know why the carpenter wields it, only for it to strike the nail accurately and with as much force as possible.’
‘Of course, lord.’ Melyn bowed his head yet further in supplication and received a dizzying flood of youthful energy as a reward for his humility.
‘You worry about the dragon’s magic, I see. You fear that it is the Wolf’s working and will corrupt your soul.
Fret not, my servant. You will know the Wolf when you see him. The magic Frecknock and her kind wield is my magic. Stolen from me when Gwlad was young, it’s true. But it is my magic nonetheless. Do you think I would have let you use it otherwise? Do I not watch over you at all times?’
‘Lord, you are everywhere and in everything. I am honoured to be the instrument of your will. But I see the Wolf and his demons all around me, tempting me, trying to lead me astray. It has been too long since last I prayed to you. Please forgive me.’
‘You have much on your mind, my faithful servant. Perhaps you would have been wise to consult me sooner. You think Duke Dondal lied to you. You do not believe that Tynhelyg could be so poorly defended, King Ballah so vulnerable. But it is true. I have made it so.’
Melyn’s heart surged at the words echoing in his head. His greatest triumph was within his reach, and he could not fail.
‘Ah, but you could all too easily fail, my faithful servant. King Ballah is a powerful sorcerer. He knows the evil magic of the Wolf, forged in his lair and alien to the power that runs through Gwlad. You will need all the help you can get just to reach Tynhelyg in time, and you will have to dig deep inside yourself to find the strength to defeat the Wolf’s cub who lies there.’
‘I am ready to take up that challenge, lord. It is what I’ve trained for all my life.’
‘Yes, it is. And I have been preparing you all your life for this moment. You have Brynceri’s ring with you. Take it. Place it on your own finger.’
‘But, lord. The ring is sacred. I …’
‘Are you forgetting to whom you speak, Melyn son of Arall? I forged that ring from my own breath. I gave it to Balwen so that he might protect Gwlad in my absence. It contains magic you cannot imagine. Wear it!’
Melyn felt the command as the merest hint of the agony that refusing would bring. He reached into his cloak and pulled out the slim wooden case, fumbling with the latch as he tried to open it. His hands shook as he removed the dry grey finger from its soft velvet nest. The ring hung loosely around it, the bright red polished ruby lit from within by a tiny spark that shimmered and flickered. It was the most sacred relic of the order. Only the inquisitor was allowed to handle it, and no one
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