by Anne Brooke
Part of her wanted to pull him back and make him choose, no matter what, but there was no sense in it; she had to redeem the time-cycle she had wasted as soon her people would be waiting for her at the edge of the houses where she had asked them to be. Her task was still to complete. The old man could wait and in any case if he spoke of what he had seen he looked foolish and fond enough that no-one left would believe him.
Jemelda ran the rest of the way, the strange encounter still pulsating in her bones. She knew him, but she did not know him. It was a strange night for them all. At the castle stream, she stopped her maddened flight and waded across as quietly as she could. She felt hot even in this winter-cycle night, and her blood was pounding in her head. Here was where her faithless husband dwelt, and here were the supplies she needed to steal for her mission: a terrible contradiction. Above all, she hoped Frankel would be sleeping peacefully and would never realise she was there.
At the kitchen, she lifted the curtain and entered, her senses on the alert for any movement. She and Frankel were accustomed to sleep in a small room next to the kitchen, but her husband was a light sleeper and she would need to be careful. Once the curtain fell back behind her, the moonlight was lost, so she waited a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Not that she didn’t know every span of her own domain as she had left it, but she could not guarantee Frankel would not have moved something in her absence.
When she was ready, she made her way as quietly as she could around the great table and towards the firewood store at the far side of the room. A few small branches were all she would need, along with the fire-oil which would make the flame spark more quickly. They wouldn’t have a story-full of time. Once on her knees and scrabbling amongst the wood, she thought there were fewer branches than there should be but then again they would have had to heat water to salve the murderer’s wounds. She wondered where he was and if she might indeed finish the task she had begun in a different way. But if death wouldn’t hold the scribe, and he had the power of the mind-cane with him, what would be the point? No, she’d been right in her original plans and she would keep to them. Besides, within the castle and after the law of their land had had its way and been found wanting, he would be well protected and her time was not yet.
She gathered what she could, all the time listening out for any stirrings from the bed-chamber. When she had enough branches, she took three pots of fire-oil and tied them to her belt, making sure the stoppers were fully in place. Then she turned to make her way to freedom again, but this time something stopped her. She couldn’t bear to be so near her husband, no matter his betrayal of her cause, without at least glimpsing him again. They had been joined for so long. Taking a breath, she laid her burdens on the table, making sure she could gather them together again easily, and crept over to the sleep-chamber. For a moment she listened and caught the sound of quiet breathing. Frankel was safely asleep. She edged the thin curtain aside and blinked until she could see the blurred shape of him in the dark. He was lying in his usual position: on his back with one gnarled arm flung out to one side, his head turned towards it, away from her. With all her heart, Jemelda wished it was possible to step forward, remove her cloak and lie down next to him, safe at his side again. But it could not be so; she had made her choice, and he his, and the two of them must complete the decisions they had made, apart rather than together. How she hated the wars that had brought them to this, and most of all how she hated the scribe. He should never have returned to them, no matter the reasons he might have had, and he would die as soon as she could bring her mission to fulfilment. No other options remained to her: the recipe was written and must be made.
But this night at this moment compelled her to be still and gaze. She longed to speak to Frankel simply for the joy of hearing his voice in response. It didn’t matter what he might have to say, all the wrongs he would no doubt accuse her of. She wished she could persuade him to change his mind and follow her, to lead her army into the battle they faced, but she knew Frankel of old. She understood his decision, once made, would not be lightly cast aside. If she woke him, he might even call for the Lammas Lord and the villagers who remained, and cast her into the dungeons, as the scribe had once been cast there. She had no wish to become a prisoner and face an unjust judgement. She must go.
Before she did, she reached out and stroked her husband’s cheek. His skin felt rough with the growth of whiskers and she couldn’t help but smile. Odd how her face felt wet, but she did not try to wipe the wetness away. Some scars were honour-bound to remain, would likely never vanish. Her gesture did not cause Frankel to wake, but she hoped he would remember something of her presence, perhaps in a dream that would last into this coming morning and all the day-cycles beyond it. She wanted it to be something to soothe him in the hard hours ahead.
Jemelda said goodbye to him in the privacy of her mind and turned to go. A slight sound caused her to turn back again but no, she must have been mistaken as she saw no movement and her husband did not challenge her. She knew if he were truly awake, he could not have helped but speak. Swiftly, she gathered her store of wood, checked the fire-oil bottles remained secure and walked across the kitchen towards the outer curtain. For the sake of her land, she refused to linger any more in this place where she had lived and worked for so long, and instead, lifted the curtain and entered once more into the night. The most dangerous part of the mission was still to come and she would, by all she held true, be ready for it.
Behind her, if she had but known it, Frankel raised himself from his sleepless bed and gazed after her in utter silence.
Simon
Something woke him in the night, but it wasn’t pain. He’d grown used to a low level of that over the last few hour-cycles and had even managed to sleep now and again, so the Lost One was puzzled when he opened his eyes and stared upwards at the broken ceiling. From instinct he glanced at the cane and saw it glowed faintly in the darkness but it wasn’t moving or trying to attract his attention. It was as if whatever it, and he, had sensed was something it had expected to happen. Simon wished he knew what this was, and he also wished he had not woken from a dream of Ralph he blushed to recall. But it could not be helped; he was still a man. He shook the memory away and gazed more fully at the mind-cane. No, the glow had faded even in such a short space of time and he was the only one awake in this star-forsaken hour.
He should turn to sleep again and for a few moments he tried to follow his own advice. It did not succeed. So, cursing softly under his breath, he struggled to a sitting position on the pillows Ralph had somehow found for him. The warning, whatever it was, pulsated in his head and he could not gainsay it. Besides, if he was the Lost One and the only one awake, then he needed to know what danger might lurk for them here.
Getting up took longer than he’d expected. Each stretch of his limbs and even each harsh breath brought him pain. As his foot finally touched the stone floor, he gasped at the chill and at the sudden burst of crimson flooding his thoughts, and the sound must have woken the mind-cane, if sleep was familiar to it, as the next breath found the artefact trembling at his right hand. Simon ignored it, unsure if any other movement might whirl him to an inner darkness, and instead placed both hands, palm down, on his knees.
I need to get to the window, were the thoughts that sprang from his mind, and he knew the cane understood them, I need to see what’s out there but in a moment or two when I am stronger.
You are strong now, were the words that returned to him, framed in silver and black.
So you say, but you do not have flesh and blood as I do.
The cane hummed briefly, and Simon almost smiled to hear the note of disapproval in its song. He gave himself another few breaths to recover and only then eased his fingers round the cane’s silver carving.
Come then, I can bear your help now.
Standing upright made him dizzy and he found he needed the mind-cane for its practical support for the first time he could remember. Still its sha
pe in his palm warmed his skin and he could feel the flashes of green and blue sparking between them. His heart beat faster and he couldn’t help but wonder at how natural the cane felt to him now, and in spite of the pain that still dogged him.
He took a breath and began to walk, or rather hobble, towards the window. No doubt by the time he arrived there whatever it was which had awoken him would have vanished, but he felt no sense of urgency. In fact he felt he had all the time in the lands to do whatever he wished. Would that were true, even for a heartbeat. At the window, the cold night air stirred his borrowed undershirt and he shivered. He had not thought to reach for a cloak, even if one were to hand.
He steadied himself on the broken frame, managing to avoid the worst of the jagged stonework, and gazed outside. Clouds covered most of their stars but the moon was full and cast an eerie and shadowy light over the courtyard. He could see nothing so perhaps he had been wrong and he should have hurried to look outwards. No matter, what was done was done and he was nothing but a fool. He sighed and was about to make the journey back to the bed when the mind-cane twitched and a flare of heat flashed upwards through his arm.
He turned back and gazed outside, blinking. For another moment or two, he saw nothing. Then a shadowy figure came round the castle corner and began to hurry across the courtyard in front of him, every now and then looking back as if in fear of pursuit. He debated whether to call out, bring their presence here out into the open as surely whoever it was could not be here for any legitimate reason. The Lammassers rarely travelled at night as it was too dangerous, or had been before and during the wars.
However, he himself had been an interloper once, so what right did he have to call attention to another? But he needed to know who it was, come what may. He leant further out of the window but still could not see enough, only that it was a woman and she was carrying something in her arms. By now she was nearly at the stream and then his chance would have gone, and something in his mind and the way the cane was flooding its warmth through him told him more than anything how important this might be.
At the last moment, before she disappeared from view, white feathers swept across the moon and dazzled the water where the unknown woman was poised to cross. The snow-raven flew onwards but as the woman glanced up, Simon could clearly see it was Jemelda, and then a few heartbeats later she was gone.
The only reason she could be here was to work against them, that much he was sure of and that much he had already understood from his brief brush with Ralph’s mind. It had been easy, being as it was at the forefront of the Lammas Lord’s thoughts. The cook must have taken something from the castle back to wherever she and her people were hiding. Unless she’d come to try to persuade Frankel to join her, a mission which had proved unsuccessful, bearing in mind she’d left alone. But no, it was more: she had been carrying something with her and, in any case, the colours flowing round his thought were red and the deepest brown, the shades of purpose and determination, not the shades of plea and defeat.
She was planning something. He wondered briefly whether to rouse his host to let him know what he had seen but it was the middle of the night and they would be better able to face whatever mission Jemelda was involved with in the morning. He grasped the cane more firmly to make the journey back to the makeshift bed but a further movement at the edge of his eye caught his attention. Someone else was walking slowly across the courtyard. By the time Simon caught sight of him, the figure was already in the middle of the stone flags, and he could see grey beard and a stooped physique. The Lost One swallowed hard and let go of the cane which would have fallen if it had been in any way ordinary but, as it was, the artefact danced across the room sparking a darker fire against the gloom. He let it dance, his mind and eye gripped by the old man still walking across his vision below. His father. He’d known it even before he’d fully understood the old man was there. Odd how their colours of blue and silver were similar, although his were pale and his father’s were dark, and wilder.
He saw the figure stop, straighten and gaze upwards at his window. It was impossible for anyone to see where he stood trembling so far up, but Simon had the sense his father saw him, nonetheless. His throat constricted and his skin felt cold, colder even than this winter night warranted. He did not want his father to watch him. Simon had not seen him since the day so many year-cycles ago when his mother had been murdered and his father had driven him away. Yes, he knew how, recently, during their long and arduous journey to Gathandria, he had told Johan everything about that day and had walked some way towards forgiveness, of a sort. But it was one thing to forgive in principle and quite another to retain the same generosity when the man who had wronged him was actually here. How he understood this now. There was a wide gap between plans for a book and the actual scribing of it. Nonetheless he did not turn away from his father’s strange perusal but gazed back into the gloom.
One heartbeat his father was there, and the next he had continued on his slow progression towards the edge of the castle, almost without Simon noticing the change. He should go to bed, get the sleep he needed without this introspection. Tomorrow he would tell Ralph of what he had seen and warn the remaining Lammassers to take care, and he would talk to his father. He was no longer a child. He was the Lost One and he should have courage enough to face personal matters as well as more wide-ranging ones. So should it be.
Jemelda
She was the last one back to the old well and, as she approached, the cook could see her people hiding in the shadows, the women crouching down on the most part with the men keeping a look-out. None of them were speaking, and she couldn’t even hear the faint echo of whispering. They had obeyed her instructions to draw as little attention to themselves as possible. She hoped they had had as much success with the goods she had sent them to steal. Though steal wasn’t the word she was searching for: using what was theirs in truth would be better.
“Is it done?” she whispered, gazing at them in turn as they parted to let her through. “Do you have what we came for?”
“Yes,” said Thomas, his voice nothing but a low growl in her ear. “I checked with each of us as we arrived.”
“Good. Then let us to work,” she said.
They didn’t take long in arriving at the first of the fields, the one most often used for corn although every fifth year-cycle the men would burn the stubble and re-sow the next season for wheat or oats. Jemelda knew this was the field where the menfolk had been trying most recently to sow the poor seed left to them in the hope there might still be a harvest in the next year-cycle. In the hope that the crops, however poor the yield, might be enough to allow them to live in their homes and to rebuild their lives as best they could. She had hardened her heart to this short-term view and now she was baking a different recipe, something to nourish them all in the end. Because she understood, more than any of those she had taken so long to persuade and who accompanied her this night, that if the hope of food to come was destroyed and in such a way so none could be in doubt of it, then the people would be forced to forage in the woods and wilder meadows. Even perhaps towards the once-majestic mountain. It was war, and this was the only way she knew how to fight it, seeing as she and her people would never be soldiers, though she would do her utmost to ensure that no innocent person died for this. So she would find the scribe and his allies when they fled to search for nourishment. She would find them and she would kill them. Away from the village and perhaps parted from the bird and the cane, the murderer’s power would be weakened and she would kill him. If some of her own people were marked by the gods for death, she would have to accept that also. Then, when the threat to them all was finally destroyed, they would leave and make another home for themselves elsewhere. Away from the cruelty of memory.
Now her people gathered round her. This close she could see they had enough supplies.
She nodded. “Let us begin.”
Between them it took less than the length of a summer story, perhaps even one for th
e children, to cover most of the field with wood, ashes and scraps of cloth. It was astounding how much of use could be found in a village devastated by war. When this was done, Jemelda scattered the fire-oil across the wintry ground, all the while praying the ancient song of burning, the song the villagers used to chant on the bitterest night-seasons:
Let the fire-gods and sky-gods unite
and give us the blessings of fire.
Then may we burn up what is useless
and give back the heat to our skin and the sky.
As she began the song, the villagers around her grew quiet to pay their respects to those gods people rarely worshipped in these times, and perhaps also to better hear the words as Jemelda kept her voice low, nothing but a chanted whisper. At the last two lines however, Thomas’ gruff voice joined hers and doubled the blessing. It was fitting because blacksmiths were used to fire. It was their livelihood. Finally she had done as much as she thought was necessary and she laid her hand on Thomas’ shoulder.
“Make the fire a good one,” she said.
He made no answer but she thought he might have nodded. Her grip on him tightened for a moment before she let him go and he turned to take the fire-sticks from his belt. She saw him run his hand over them as if communicating in some way with the treated wood, and then she caught the flash of white teeth as he smiled. She thought it might be the first time she’d seen him smile since she’d found him again in the woods.
The blacksmith spat on his hands and wiped them over the sticks. Then he took the final drop of fire-oil Jemelda had saved for him and brushed it over the wood also. She heard his muttered prayers as he rubbed the fire-sticks together. For a moment or two, she wondered if it would work, but of course it always did. The sparks came quickly and a tiny arrow of flame fell onto the field where it licked its way into a tongue of fire and began to spread along the trail of ashes and wood they had laid for it. Jemelda watched in wonder as the flames progressed. She had only ever used fire herself for baking or keeping warm but to see it used here as an act of destruction made her heart beat faster and her throat tighten. She didn’t know whether that was fear or elation, perhaps both.