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
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
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