by Anne Brooke
Now he was alive again, as in the quiet of the snows she heard his breathing, the cries of joy, saw that moment of true betrayal from the mouth of their supposed Lord. The injustice of it took her insides and twisted them so Jemelda could no longer name any of the emotions within her blood. It was as if she had created the best meal she could imagine and laid it out on a pure linen tablecloth and then the wood-wolves had satisfied their hunger on it.
It was beyond her endurance. She became aware Frankel was gripping her hand and must have been beside her for some time.
“Jemelda,” he whispered. “Jemelda, my love?”
Behind his simple words lay something deeper, a plea, but she refused to acknowledge it. She had gone too far down this road of vengeance to turn back and, besides, she owed it to the decimated villagers. Somebody had to die: an ancient law but a true one. She slipped her hand from her husband’s and took a step away from him.
Various emotions chased their way over his face and for several heartbeats it felt as if they were the only two people in the whole of Lammas. She did not want to explore what he might want to say.
“Please, Jemelda …”
She shook her head, still stepping back. “No.”
The sharpness of her retort drew the attention of the small group huddled by the man she had tried and failed to kill. The Lammas Lord stared right at her, blocking her view of the murderer, the red-haired woman and the frail old man. She did not know either of these last two and did not think they were Lammassers but neither did she want to know them. She counted them as the enemy.
“Jemelda, stay with us, please.”
“No,” she said again, not even looking at her husband, but keeping her eyes fixed on Lord Tregannon. So many year-cycles of her life she had spent serving him and his household, as had her mother and her mother before her. Not only that, but she had stayed here at the castle, with Frankel, after the terrible war was over when most others had fled. She had cooked for the Lammas Lord, and though it had only been a short while before the murderous scribe had returned, she knew she had intended to cook for him for as long as she could scrape the herbs from the ground and the crops from the storage, and for as long as the breath remained to her. Today he had thrown her kindness and loyalty into the wind, and all her steadfastness had gone. She would serve the Tregannons no more. Her allegiance with them was finished and she had other, more necessary, work to perform.
As if he had penetrated her thoughts, the Lammas Lord flinched and stood up, laying the murderer gently on the ground as if he were precious goods. He took a few paces towards her and stretched out his arms. She could see him swallow before he spoke, and the slight shake of his legs as he tried to remain still.
“I cannot explain what has happened, Jemelda,” he said. “And you have every right to hate me, and Simon also, but for the sake of this village I have abandoned so badly, won’t you stay, as your husband asks you?”
Jemelda didn’t hesitate, although her heart trembled at the casting aside of so many year-cycles of tradition ingrained within her.
“It is too late for such words,” she said, almost adding his title at the end but saving herself just in time. “My decision is made. You have used unnatural magic to win your day, but it cannot last forever. From now on, I will work my utmost with those I have called together today to destroy the man I have planned to destroy. Only in that way can our land be saved, through the will of the people, not by tricks and deceit. You will not see me here again until I come to destroy that murderer of yours and all those who follow him.”
With that, she turned away and began to walk towards the more welcoming woods. Silently, the blacksmith went with her, but she made no comment and neither did he speak. As she walked away, Jemelda paid no heed to Frankel’s cry, nor to the strange sounds of the great bird flapping slow wings in the grey skies above her. She simply kept on walking, leaving behind the life she thought was hers, feeling the harsh beat of her heart at the thought of parting from her husband, bearing the shock of the water at her legs as she waded across the stream and seeing the wood drawing ever closer.
Ralph
Again he fails his people; Jemelda has gone, to do the gods and stars know what with the rest of the villagers in the woods. The Lammas Lord shakes his head, displacing the snow gathered on his shoulders. He cannot help his people for the time-cycle now and immediately to come, but what he can do is try to keep the scribe alive. The very fact Simon has somehow returned to the living galvanises Ralph and he turns back to the scene before him: the fallen man, his frail father, and the Gathandrian First Elder. Not to mention the mind-cane and the emeralds.
He hunkers down next to Simon, who is breathing more regularly, he is glad to see, though the scribe’s eyes remain shut.
“Look after the old man, Hallsfoot,” Ralph commands, with something of his former authority. “I will take Simon to shelter.”
Annyeke makes no move to obey, but merely raises her eyebrows at him. “Interesting,” she murmurs.
“Interesting? How so?” Ralph snaps back, keen to take action now he considers he may actually have something useful to do.
“The fact Simon lives seems to have given you a new lease of life also,” she comments, her gaze fixed on him. “But there are ways and ways of exercising your power, Lammasser. You are not the only leader here.”
Ralph has the grace to blush but will not be thwarted from his purpose. “Forgive me, but we must keep him warm and dry, and I can brook no argument to that.”
“So I see.” Annyeke allows Ralph to gather the scribe up into his arms and instead tends to the old man. Frankel and Apolyon, both of whom Ralph has all but forgotten up until this moment, help her. “And the Lost One’s father’s name is Bradyn. Perhaps it would be good for you to remember it.”
He doesn’t respond to this jibe, as already he is carrying the scribe across the icy courtyard, taking care not to fall, and hurrying towards the kitchen. Behind him, Ralph can hear Frankel and Annyeke pacifying Bradyn, who seems hardly to understand what has just happened. Not that he can blame anyone for this, as he is experiencing an equally difficult time understanding it himself.
Simon lies heavily in his arms, and Ralph finds his legs are shaking by the time he reaches the table in the middle of the castle kitchen. He is weak from lack of food and regular exercise. Still, he deposits the sleeping man as gently as possible onto the wooden surface, glad for the feeble light which glitters through the small window above the washing area. He hears the faint hum of the mind-cane as it follows them, keeping as close as possible to its master, but he does not turn round to square up to this new potential threat. Not yet.
Instead he leans closer to the scribe’s face. “I am sorry for it all,” he whispers. “Only let me have the chance to redeem myself in your mind for what I have done and I …”
The words run from his tongue and he knows he cannot finish them. Even assuming he knows what it is he most wants to say. He would start again, use other words, but the time for it is fast vanishing. He hears the sound of footsteps growing louder, the harsh chattering of the old man, Simon’s father, and the softer murmuring of Annyeke. Frankel and Apolyon are silent.
By the time all four of them stand just within the kitchen’s threshold, blocking out the light, Ralph has stood and taken a small step away from the table. Only his hand remains on Simon’s shoulder. Indeed it is entirely impossible for him to remove it. The mind-cane floats to the other side of the table and stays there, a fact for which Ralph is grateful. Even though the mind-executioner is no longer with them, the cane’s power is not to be mocked. It has brought a dead man back to life.
Annyeke makes to speak but the old man plunges across them and all but collapses next to the scribe.
“Please, please,” he says over and over again. “My son, what has happened to my son?”
Knowing something of Simon’s history with his father, and what the man did to the scribe so many year-cycles ago, Ralph g
rimaces. He is paying the price for his cruelty but, then again, so is Ralph. That realisation makes the Lammas Lord turn away as Annyeke and Frankel endeavour to calm Bradyn.
It is then for no apparent reason that the mind-cane attacks him. By the time Annyeke calls out a warning, Ralph’s mind is a storm of black and silver heat. He can’t help but scream and fall to his knees where the stone floor bites into his skin. The fire from the cane overwhelms his thoughts and he gasps for breath which doesn’t come. A jumble of impressions: Simon’s face; the mind-executioner; the Lammas soldiers; his own father; and finally the Tregannon castle that has both protected him and trapped him.
The fire disappears, though he doesn’t know why. Doesn’t it want to kill him for what he has done to its master? As he struggles to his feet, the ache in his leg almost as fierce as the mind-cane’s fury, the scribe suddenly speaks. Low tones, so low Ralph can scarcely catch them, but the urgency of the words somehow makes the sound carry.
“Leave him be.”
“Simon?...” Ralph can’t hide the need which flies at once from his thoughts straight into the scribe’s understanding. Neither can he help the fact his weakness is obvious to everyone else in the kitchen – to Annyeke and, how much worse, to Frankel and Apolyon, his servants. This is not the behaviour expected of any Lammas Lord and he draws himself back, coughing as the cane hovers around him.
Annyeke shrugs and soothes down the scribe’s hair from his face. Simon is blinking himself awake, and Ralph can see the slight tremble of his body. Again the realisation hits him: this man was dead and is alive again. He died, but he has returned.
Still, when Ralph reaches out to the scribe, the cane snaps and fizzes, forcing him to retreat. Simon sighs.
“Leave him,” he says again. “Please.”
The scribe opens his hand and the mind-cane floats down into it. As his fingers close over the artefact, the cane’s brightness dims and the silver fizzing ceases. Ralph gains the impression something like a wild and dangerous bird has flown back to its handler’s grasp and is at peace again, although for how long he has no notion.
“Simon …” he says again, testing the mind-cane’s patience, as by the gods and stars he has much to say and to his own surprise no longer cares who else is here to witness it.
“Ralph,” the scribe speaks and his voice is stronger now. He is half-twisted towards Ralph, supported by Annyeke and with Frankel and Apolyon skulking in the background. “Lord Tregannon, I don’t wish to hear whatever you have to tell me. It is not the time and, besides, I need to sleep.”
Then, without another word, the scribe falls back again onto the table and, after a few moments, his steady breathing begins again.
That’s it, Ralph thinks. He has his answer, and the scribe is right, of course he is: the past is over and it is time he starts acting not like a foolish lover but like a Tregannon Lord. The opportunity for rebuilding the land is here, and it is up to him to take it.
Before he can fully respond to this, Annyeke touches his hand. “Are you all right?”
Her sympathy is written in her eyes, but Ralph is not ready for it. He isn’t sure he will ever want to be, so his answer is sharper than it should be.
“Yes,” he says, “the mind-cane has left me unharmed. Which is a mercy as there is much we must do, if hope for the future of Lammas has been granted to us.”
That is, he knows, not what the First Elder of Gathandria was asking, but her true question is not something he wishes to consider. For a moment, she frowns and seems as if she’d ask more, but then, thank the stars, her expression closes and she lets him go. He can’t help wondering if she has read him, however, and hopes to the gods she has not; he does not even wish to read himself.
“Good,” she says, her voice as brittle as a dead tree. “In that case, I must go. The Lost One is alive and has fallen into your care, as the Spirit seems to wish it. You have, as you say, much to do here, and perhaps even internal battles to prepare for, and I should not delay you. Let me have some of the emeralds and I will return to Gathandria, for there is much to do there also. From what I have experienced recently, I no longer believe our wars are over, though I fear what the worst might be, I tell you.”
He wonders what she might mean and, despite his relief that she plans to go, as no land can bear two leaders at the same time, Ralph hesitates. He has enough of his father’s political skills to see beyond his own preferences and, for once, he is grateful. He opens his arms, a gesture of openness and vulnerability he hopes she will understand.
“Of course,” he nods. “You are right and I would not wish to keep you here, First Elder, but it strikes me a relationship between our two countries might be beneficial to both, immersed as we are in rebuilding our lands after war. Would you consider a formal alliance?”
It is a daring request, bearing in mind the battle was between their two countries and Lammas has been the loser, but the fact everything has changed has given Ralph the kind of boldness he has not had for many days. Annyeke, meanwhile, widens her eyes, and the sensation of her surprise hits him when he least expects it. Then she laughs, and he knows that, yes, this time she has read him indeed.
He waits for her to finish laughing and to speak.
“You are more complex than I anticipated, Lammas Lord,” she says. “Though, knowing the Lost One, I should have expected it. Your offer is heard, on behalf of all Gathandrians, and we will consider it. But for now, any alliance we have should, I believe, remain informal. Agreed?”
He nods, as it is a better result than he deserves. By the gods, she knows that too.
“Good,” she says again. “Then I must begin my journey home.”
Annyeke accepts the two emeralds he hands to her with a brief nod. He hopes they will be enough, but something inside him has faith in the power she has to make them so.
Then, with a soft word of farewell to Simon and his now silent father, and an unexpectedly affectionate embrace for Ralph’s two servants, she steps outside into crisp air, and throws the emeralds into the sky. They form a perfect circle of green. The First Elder turns round to where Ralph watches her, and says five words only that he hears as clear as truth. He opens his mouth to reply but already she is stepping into the circle and the next moment she is truly gone.
It surprises him how her absence makes him tremble. It is time for him to carry the mantle of leadership once more and to carry it alone, bearing her closing words in mind:
Look after the Lost One, she said.
He will make certain he hearkens in full to Annyeke’s plea.
Fifth Gathandrian Interlude
Annyeke
She landed with a thud on hard stone, all the breath punched out of her. By the gods and stars, this was no way for a modern woman to travel, but sometimes the gods and stars walked mysterious paths and would, no doubt, not listen to her.
“Annyeke.” She snatched the emeralds and hugged them safely to her as strong arms lifted her up and carried her to the nearest stool. There she perched, not entirely steadily, while Johan held her and gazed into her eyes. That she liked a great deal, oh yes. “What happened? Where have you been?”
Hard to explain all that in just a few words but she would do her best. The emeralds, she began, dispensing entirely with the need for speech, they took me to the Lammas Lands, or at least I was in a strange place of no world first and then in the Lammas Lands. Ralph Tregannon was there too. Tregannon is greatly troubled, as well he might be. Together we found the Lost One’s father, an old man called Bradyn. I had not realised he was alive, but he is wandering in his thoughts and will need much care if he is to live. Then we found the Lost One …
“And?... her life-partner prompted her. What then?
Knowing the new-found family connection between Johan and the Lost One, and the friendship forged on their perilous journey to save Gathandria, Annyeke paused and took both Johan’s hands in her own, as much as she could.
Do not despair but he died, at first, s
he said simply. The Lammas villagers tortured him at their place of execution and he died but ….
“No!” With the shock of her explanation turning the colours of his mind to the deepest gloom, Johan did not wait to catch Annyeke’s further thoughts and wrenched himself backwards, speaking aloud once more and almost causing her to fall from her seat. “That cannot be. It is not what he returned to Lammas to do, it is unimaginable.”
“Wait, please,” she begged him, realising for the first time Talus was also present, hiding in a shadowy corner staring up at them both, and all but forgotten. She had best take care what she said; some things were not for the young. “That is not the end of it, Johan, please listen. And Talus too. Come.”
She stood next to Johan and gripped his shoulder, trying to ease the sudden and shocking outpouring of black grief from his mind. With her other hand, she reached for Talus, and the boy ran to her. Close to, his softer colours brushed over her thoughts.
“It is not the end of it,” she said. “I do not know how, so do not ask it of me, and I have not seen any such matter in our legends, but somehow the Lost One lives again. He was dead, but with the power of the mind-cane and the Tregannon emeralds, he lives once more. He was lost, but now is more fully found. The Gathandrian Spirit has done more for us than we could ever ask or imagine, and we should be happy for it. We should have no need, yet, for grief.”
Despite her words, the sadness and confusion of her menfolk overwhelmed her. Johan was, understandably, the first to recover.
“How can that be? There is nothing in the legends of the Lost One to indicate such an event. Simon came back from the dead?”