by Anne Brooke
Without her, I would not have had the courage to turn from my background and the many sculptors whose bloodline mixes with my thoughts, and to become the elder you see before you now, Annyeke. It was always Iffenia who thought I could do anything, she who believed in me. For such a gift, I gave her what little wood-learning I could and she far surpassed my skills in it. In her, I found my own peace of mind, and the place I should be. Without Iffenia, I would never have thought to offer myself as an elder to this once-mighty city of ours – it was she alone who gave me the confidence and heart to do so. But, by the great stars, I wish with all my mind I had not done it. For look where we elders have taken Gathandria now.
But that is in the past and we must look to the future, or else we will never survive, neither ourselves nor the countries and people under our jurisdiction. How we restore our streets and buildings and people is a decision you, Annyeke, must take and we must support. Still, I want you to know whatever Iffenia did, or tried to do, she did because of me. I miss her with every thought, with every breath, with every dream. The moments you knew of her are not the wholeness of the person my bond-partner was. She will be with me always. Remember that when you look into people’s minds, Annyeke. Because in life and in death, Iffenia and I have kept faith with each other, and nothing else truly matters. We have kept faith.
*****
As he finished speaking, the Chair Maker’s eyes filled with tears, and Annyeke stretched out her hand to touch his arm. He might have been about to say something else, she wasn’t sure, but the next moment a loud cry came from the direction of the parkland – a cry not just of the voice but of the mind too – and she spun round towards it. Jagged ribbons of mind-colour swung through the air – yellow, crimson, black – and for a wild heartbeat Annyeke thought the mind-executioner had returned. But no, that was impossible. He was dead, truly dead, and his blood was on her hands alone. It could not be him.
Allowing herself one glance only at the elder beside her, she began to run towards the park. A moment’s hesitation, and she heard the sound of his feet behind her. And beyond him, the noise of the gathered people accompanying them. Both she and the Chair Maker struggled and slipped on the packed snow lining the streets. Under her breath and as the noise of pain became louder, Annyeke cursed the war which meant the street-cleaners no longer plied their trade.
When she turned the corner near the winter-pines, she almost fell, but the steadying hand of the elder kept her from harm. That brought back an echo of memory – of she and Iffenia in the snow at the battle – and by the time she acknowledged it she was too late to stop the widower from catching her thought.
I’m sorry. She launched the words at him, hoping he would see them for what they were, but there was no time for any other nicety. Because scrabbling like wood-cats under the trees were several Gathandrians and two of the returning elders. The Maker of Gardens and the Silent One. It was the latter who was screaming – in thought only – but the shouts had come from the people of the city. Annyeke could hear their words plunging through her blood: traitors! cowards! murderers!
All of which was arguably true, she had to admit, but the Gathandrians prided themselves on being a peaceful people – the arbiters of what was right. Or they had done so once. This terrible anger, understandable though it was, would be useless to them. Perhaps it was the most destructive force of all.
Now she was close enough to pull the fighting men apart. Shutting down the high-pitched screams in her head, she reached forward. And found herself held back by something, by someone.
No, the Chair Maker whispered, his voice seeming to come from the depths of her own blood. They could harm you.
She swung round and shook off his restraining hand. All her sympathy for him vanished temporarily away. Do you think we haven’t all been harmed enough by other forces? And do you think I care if they injure me?
And the truth was she didn’t. Annyeke knew this fight must stop. For if the people rose up against their former elders, then there might never be peace, or at least not in her lifetime. So, with that, she lunged at the nearest fighter – one of the Gathandrians – and tried to drag him away from the beleaguered elders. It was then she realised that even though short red-haired women were on any other occasion a great force to be reckoned with, they were not, sadly, any match for a Gathandrian male in the prime of life. She found herself kicked and scratched and beaten in the body, whilst her mind tackled the combined and unfocused rage of the city people.
By the gods, perhaps the elder’s warning had been wiser than she’d given him credit for. She didn’t want Johan and Talus to be mourning her loss before they’d even properly begun to be a family. Sending out a small mind-pinch, which she used to push her assailants away without harming them, Annyeke managed to struggle clear of the fray.
Gasping for breath, she rose to her feet and blinked. The Chair Maker was standing nearby. She thought there might be a look of wry amusement on his face but he said nothing, neither out loud nor in the mind. His expression did not change one flicker as he handed her the branch he must have discovered under the wood-pines. Annyeke nodded her thanks. She took the strange offering, turned round to the battle, tried not to think of the last time she’d wielded a weapon far more dangerous than this, and swept it across the writhing backs of the men.
She did this not just with her own physical power, but with all the sharpness of her mind. Not only that, but as the wood-pine’s rugged branch slashed into the fighting men, she realised the colours flowing over her skin were not just the calming colours of green and lilac, but possessed an added darkness from the elder also. For a heartbeat, such darkness puzzled her and made her think of things, even legends, she should not think of, but she crushed the thought as it gave her the edge she needed. The combined forces split open the angry crimson of the scrapping Gathandrians, bringing a temporary respite to the pointless fighting. The mind-screaming ceased and Annyeke felt the sudden return of peace to her thoughts like a welcome river over a thirsty land.
“Get up,” she said, and glared at the menfolk.
They obeyed. She allowed them no other choice. The snow began to fall more heavily but Annyeke took no notice. She dropped the branch and waited until they had finished shuffling and looking furtive.
“You are all fools,” she said at last. “I understand you, the people of Gathandria, have grievances against our elders. But do you really think fighting amongst ourselves will help any of us? It is we who have chosen those who have governed us and so in the eyes of the gods and stars above, we are all guilty in some way or other. I know we have suffered great losses, of our houses, our lands, our businesses and, above any of these, the loss of those we love. The elders too are not immune from this, as you well know. Hatred will not heal our country or our minds. When I consider it, the very fact the elders have returned to Gathandria for an accounting of their crimes is a mark of courage none of us expected to witness. I cannot myself tell whether I would have had the courage to return so quickly though I hope my mind would have guided me. I hope I would have left my pride behind.
“So we must work together to heal our city and the neighbouring countries who look to us for their safety. Today, I have no city-wide speech to give you for all the people to hear. I thought I did but I think I have sense enough to change my mind; that approach does not fit the season. But to you few Gathandrians whose passion and spirit have brought you to this place of confrontation, I say these words: you have showed how much your life and your land mean to you by fighting. And our elders have showed us how much those same things mean to them by returning. We are not so very different from each other. So speak together. Accuse them if you wish, though not with physical and mental violence, and listen. Then take the words and thoughts you have heard and travel through our ruined streets and squares with them. Talk about them to those you meet and let what good we learn today spread through Gathandria as swiftly and surely as the wind. Then when you have had and heard your
fill of reasons and words, let us decide together how we will make this city of ours, and the countries which surround us, beautiful and harmonious again. Remember the peace which fills the name of our city and let us walk in such peace together. For all our sakes.”
A silence followed Annyeke’s words. She found herself breathing heavily and clenching her fists. She hadn’t meant to say so much but the flow of it had taken her over and she had accepted it. Someone touched her shoulder and when she turned she saw it was the Chair Maker. He nodded at her, all hint of the strange darkness gone. Perhaps, she thought, it was a gifting he used only when the need was there. Still, she couldn’t help but be glad such a gift was not hers. It would surely be beyond her ability to control. After another heartbeat, the Chair Maker walked the short distance across to where the ragtaggle group of men were standing.
One of the Gathandrians took a step forward. He was frowning. Annyeke knew at once that here was the ringleader of the feud, and longed to read his mind but such an act now would be worse than intrusive. She had no wish to restart the squabble. The Chair Maker came to a halt in front of the Gathandrian. He spread his arms there in the falling snow.
“Please,” he said. “The First Elder is right. Forgive us for what we have done and failed to do. We will serve Gathandria’s people in any way we are able to, perform any task they command us to, under the First Elder’s jurisdiction. But, for forgiveness to happen and the way ahead to be clear, we must carve out a bridge of words both of us can walk across. Let us begin together and let us begin now. For the sake of the gods and stars themselves, and for the sake of Gathandria’s name.”
With that, the Chair Maker turned his arms so his palms faced his would-be opponent. He made no attempt to touch the man, and Annyeke was glad to see it; with touch, the mind of another could be more easily revealed, even where the willingness was absent.
For a long moment, the whole world seemed still. Then the lead Gathandrian nodded and gestured for the Chair Maker to walk with him. They set off across the parkland, the elder listening intently as his companion talked.
Slowly one by one the other city folk who had followed them to the park melded into groups with the rest of the elders. The uncertainty of grey and the acceptance of soft green flowed over their heads, fusing with the snow, as they departed in different directions, leaving Annyeke alone.
Not quite alone however. She didn’t need to turn to know he was there behind her. His special colours of blue and mauve wrapped her round and blended with her own. So in her mind she hardly knew where she ended and he began.
Johan took her fingers in his, and kissed them.
“I love you,” he whispered. “You are the wisest woman I have ever known, First Elder. And the most beautiful.”
She smiled up at him and held him closer, the heat of him filling her thoughts and taking away all her worries about the Chair Maker’s gift. She had done the best she could think of to do. It was up to the people now. She hoped it might be enough.
Chapter Five: Gathering
Jemelda
It took her all morning to find the few people left from the village. She searched through the fields which remained unharvested. There were none to harvest them and the crops themselves were spoilt. She searched through the woods, although Frankel had warned her to be careful. Still she kept within sight of the edge of the trees, so if she heard any wolf, she might run. The wood-wolves did not travel easily across the open snow and it was a well-known fact they only killed in the dark. The morning’s thin light should be enough to keep them away.
The first people she found were scrabbling amongst the earth at the edge of the corn field, perhaps to discover a few forgotten grains, though she knew none remained. The castle baker and his small daughter. God and stars preserve them, but they were so thin Jemelda was surprised they could move at all. She hadn’t seen them since the day the murderous scribe had been taken to the place of execution. How she wished he had died there, and the Lammas people would have been spared the pains they had gone through. But as for the baker: she had thought he and his family might be dead. Seeing the two fragile figures like this made the distant trees swim in her vision. She ran towards them, lifting her skirts to avoid the snow and calling their names.
“Caitlin! Madred!”
At the sound of their names, the baker and his daughter spun round to face her fully. For a heartbeat or two, as her breath pummelled her throat, Jemelda thought they might run. She stopped her pursuit at once and held out her hands to show she had no weapons. Although why they might imagine an old woman such as herself should have weapons of any sort was outside her comprehension.
“It’s me,” she said. “Jemelda, the cook from the Lammas castle. Please, I mean you no harm.”
As she continued to approach, Madred pushed his daughter behind him, her fair hair peeking out from the ragged scarf she wore around her head. The child must be half-frozen, the cook thought, perhaps worse. The baker’s habitually round face was sunken in on itself, and his generous mouth nothing but a tense line.
“Stay where you are,” Madred spoke softly, his voice sounding raw and different, and Jemelda did as commanded. A rare occurrence but these were difficult times. “I know you, or what you appear to be. What are you doing here and what do you want with us?”
Jemelda licked her lips. “I am here because I need to gather the people of the Lammas village again, what little there are left of us.”
“Do you have food?” Madred’s eyes shone more fiercely and little Caitlin gave a low moan. It sounded as if the pair of them had been repeating that question for many day-cycles, with little or no satisfaction.
With all her heart, Jemelda wished to answer the demand in the positive, but it was impossible. She shook her head.
“I have another kind of food to offer, however, which might satisfy you for a while,” she said. “It might even change the way things are. The murderous one, the scribe who was the cause of all our sorrow, has returned. He says he wishes to make amends, but the time for that has past. He has agreed to put himself before the judgement of those he has wronged, and then the punishment for all the pain and death he has caused us will be our choice, and ours alone. As Frankel and I are the only ones left in the castle who are able to make decisions, we have chosen the midday hour for the murderer to speak and for him to hear our voices. Then what must be done will be done, may the stars above guide us in what is right.
“I am a biased judge, as I believe the scribe must die for us to be free and able to live again. But I know, and my husband would be quick to tell me if I denied it, that the judgement is not mine alone, but it belongs to all of us. Please, Madred, will you help me to search for those who can cleanse our land from the curse which hangs so heavy in our skies and takes the food from our mouths as we search for it?”
When she’d finished speaking, the baker at first said nothing. Jemelda’s heart pounded and she wondered whether her plans would in the end come to nothing. If the people she met were as near to the end of hope as Madred, then perhaps even their desire for the land to be cleansed of the crimes committed within it had faded away. She did not think she could bear it if the murderer lived, and did not pay for what he had done. By the gods, if this was likely to happen, she would knock him down and tear him apart slowly herself. No matter what the cane and the raven might do to her to protect him.
Finally, Madred stepped forward and lifted up his head as if this were the last thing he was likely to say and he would therefore say it bravely. Jemelda admired courage in any form, a preference which would explain even further her hatred of the scribe who had always been a coward.
“Prove to me who you are,” Madred said, his voice still sounding hoarse. “Then I might help you do this act you say will give us hope, and food. For there are rumours of creatures who can deceive the mind so what they seem to be is what they are not. When we fall into the trap, they kill us. How do I know you are not one of these?”
&nbs
p; Jemelda had not heard such whisperings, but then again she and Frankel had seen nobody but the Lammas Lord since the wars. She did not believe such foolishness herself, but in the times they lived through, who could tell what was true and what was a lie? She closed her eyes to try to think of what would convince the baker and his daughter.
“Because I remember the first time you came to the castle to ply your trade,” she said, opening her eyes again. “Caitlin must have been about six months old. You were carrying her in one hand and pulling a cart filled with grain and a baking oven behind you. Caitlin was dressed in yellow and you told me it was a remnant from your dead wife’s favourite gown. She’d died in childbirth. You never told me her name and, later, it seemed too intrusive to ask. You looked almost as you do now: beaten down by life and wondering if there would be a future anything like the past you’d known. I ran and brought you a cup of wheat-broth from the Lammas Master’s meal and some milk for your daughter. You were trembling so much you spilled the broth and I had to run to fetch another. Frankel and some of the off-duty soldiers helped you find a booth, and the armourer’s wife took care of Caitlin while you set out your bakery. The first loaf you ever baked in the cast you gave to me, and the second to the armourer. It was the most delicious bread I’d ever tasted. Apart from my own, that is.”
She stopped, unsure what else she could say to convince the man. If he believed in strange creatures who altered their appearance to deceive others, would he not also believe the very thoughts of the people might be stolen also? The mind-cane was in the land, though it had not been here for long. Jemelda did not know what influence it might have.
Unexpectedly, Madred smiled, and coughed. Caitlin appeared from behind him as he spoke and gazed up at Jemelda.
“All these things are true,” the baker said. “Yet the truth that tells me it is indeed yourself is your assumption your bread is better than mine. For I tell you it is not.”