by Anne Brooke
Simon nodded. “Thank you.”
It was a dismissal, of sorts, but Ralph hesitated before turning. “Do-do you wish me to stay?”
This time his tone was softer and more hesitant, and the Lost One sensed the concern behind it, compassion too, and understood how he did not deserve this response. “No, Ralph, please, this my father and I must do without others.”
Simon watched Ralph’s lips purse into a line in the morning gloom, and then with a swirl of his thin cloak Lord Tregannon made his exit.
He and his father were alone.
Unable to look into the old man’s face, Simon reached out and drew up a stool.
“Sit,” he said. “You will have need of rest.”
For a moment, he thought his father would ignore him, but the old man sighed and did as Simon had suggested. “Would you like something to eat or drink?”
Not that there would be much of either, but his father shook his head, and it was Simon’s turn to sigh. He could have done with the brief distraction, because he found his heart was beating fast and his thoughts unable to settle. He sat down himself but his legs could not be still. Carefully, he laid the mind-cane upon his knees and felt the soothing warmth flow into his skin. It gave him some necessary ease. It was obvious that being dead and reborn by the power of the gods did not give you the insight you might have hoped for.
He coughed, and his father gazed at him. A shadow passed between them, an absence of light in the colours of their thoughts, and Simon blinked. From instinct, he grasped after whatever it might have been, but the brief darkness swirled back against him and swallowed itself up so no shadow remained. He must have imagined it, and he was only being foolish. Indeed, the mind-cane sparked a crimson flare to remind him what he was here for, and he shook himself and spoke.
“It is many year-cycles since we saw each other, father,” he said, such meaningless words to begin with but he could think of nothing else. And as he said them, in his mind he was back at the day they had last met: the smell of the crowd, the beating of the drums; his mother; the rope. Her death. And the stone his father had thrown to drive him away. A betrayal, but perhaps a mercy too, as Johan had once said. How Simon thought he had accepted this possibility, but here with his father in front of him after these long year-cycles of absence, forgiveness of any sort was another matter, one he had not even touched on in his conversation with his friend. Not in reality.
The old man groaned and rubbed one hand through his grey matted hair. Simon could see the shift in his thought-colours and the gathering darkness of shared memory, a more physical entity than whatever he had glimpsed before.
He tried again. “Do you think we might be able to find a common field between us? We share the same blood, though you never came to search for me.”
There it was. The accusation. Simon could taste the bitterness of it on his tongue. It overwhelmed him and the heat from where he gripped the mind-cane plunged upward to his lips.
“Yes, you never came,” he leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Whatever Johan suggested of how you might have loved me enough to drive me from danger, you never came looking for me after the danger was past. I was alone, and you were in the end no father to me at all.”
Without realising it, Simon had risen from his stool and was pacing the few steps it took to reach the wall of the small room Ralph had allocated them, back and forth, back and forth. Realising the pointlessness of the action, he stopped and tried to bring himself under control again. This was no way to talk to his father, however estranged, not if they wished to rebuild some kind of relationship again.
“You are right.”
The words came out of nowhere and pierced his mind like the hottest of flames. He sat down. It was the first time he had heard his father’s voice for so long and he found he had no idea how to respond to the sensations it stirred within him.
“Right about what?” he whispered.
Instead of an answer, the old man began to sway, shaking his head fiercely from side to side, and rocking on his stool so Simon feared he might fall. It would have been easy to sense his thoughts, but Simon did not wish to do it, partly from courtesy and partly from fear. His father’s mind was unstable and likely to remain so; touching him and forming a thought-link would only crush his fragility entirely, and despite everything which had happened and not happened between them he did not wish to do that.
Still, the old man was saying words, but they were so low the scribe could hardly make them out. “Please, I don’t know what you’re saying. Look at me, I can’t hear you.”
It was no use. His father was swaying dangerously now and his muttering was rising swiftly to become a chant which pierced Simon’s mind. The old man would hurt himself and then their progress, if there had been any, would be for nought. The cane sparked a greater warmth in his hand, and the Lost One brought it upwards, reaching across to touch the old man’s shoulder with the ebony tip of the artefact. At the same time, he concentrated his thoughts to provide a mind-net of safety for his father, channelling its strength through the cane and into the old man’s body. Where he was afraid to touch him, the presence of the mind-cane might provide a higher grace. With the power to kill and bring to life which lay in the cane’s sleek ebony, it was madness, but it was sanity also; what Simon could not perform, the artefact most certainly could, if he willed it so. And will it he did, as much as was in his power.
The first touch of the cane caused silver sparks to fly from his father’s skin, and the old man tried to get away but Simon held him there. I will not hurt you, he said, knowing that with the connection his father could understand him even if he would not reply. The cane is a bridge, not a sword to me. Please, have faith, as you once had faith in my mother.
His father’s eyes widened, but the sparks from the cane faded and his struggle eased. He was breathing heavily, but not too quickly, a sound that echoed Simon’s own heart as he brought the renewed power of his thought to bear on the mind-cane’s link.
The old man’s lips moved, but this time Simon could hear the words clearly. “The cane is death, it is cursed.”
So I thought once, he said, believe me. But it sings to me and I listen.
“Your mother used to sing. She sang like the winter-lark.”
The Lost One blinked away tears, the cane trembling in his hand. Yes, she did. I remember, always.
“Because of you, Charis died.”
Simon flinched. There was so much injustice in that statement he could not find words enough to gainsay it. But it was true too, wasn’t it? In a fashion.
Because of you also, he countered.
“No.” A sudden flash of colour poured through the cane and up into Simon’s thought. At once everything in his mind turned to nothing so only a shadow he couldn’t interpret remained. At the same time, his father twisted sideways and launched himself at Simon so the two of them landed on the floor with a clatter, the old man beating at Simon’s body like a man possessed. By the gods, this is lunacy, the Lost One thought, glad he could think at all, and it was a matter of moments only for him to roll his father over and hold down his arms against the floor.
Be still, will you.
A few more breaths when Simon could see the rebellion in his father’s mind and then his colours faded out of all sensing. The old man cackled with laughter and began to speak again, but it was nothing but gibberish and child’s talk. Was this the way that madness dwelt?
“What are you doing, Simon?”
From behind him, Ralph’s voice cut in to the room like a scythe cutting through corn. What does it look like, Lammas Lord?
A snort of laughter, barely suppressed. “It does not look like talking.”
“No,” Simon said, relieved to let his mouth take the burden of words this time. “But though you may not believe it, I was doing my best.”
He rose to his feet and, together, he and Ralph helped his father get up. By now, the old man was shaking and stabbing at his own body with
gnarled fingers while a long dribble of saliva dropped slowly from his chin. They sat him down on the stool and Ralph fetched a beaker of water, the stars knew from where. The Lost One’s father drank some of it but then refused to drink any more, letting the water run down from his mouth, like the saliva. Simon used the edge of his cloak to wipe it away.
“He needs to sleep,” he said, “and perhaps I shouldn’t have been so minded to talk with him in the first place. We are both beyond tired.”
“It was not your fault,” Ralph said roughly, turning his face away. “I persuaded you.”
This was true, in a sense, but Simon knew he himself was the most at fault. “Do not take my guilt upon yourself, Lord Tregannon, when we each have enough of our own to carry.”
His words had more of the tone of command in them than he had wished to convey, but that too was good; it brought Ralph’s attention back to him, and Simon needed his help.
“Show me where my father can lie down. Since I have started this conversation with him and it has disturbed him so, the burden of responsibility is mine. As it should be.”
Simon could see the natural inclination in Ralph to dispute the order, but he was in no mood to be conciliatory and neither, it seemed, was the mind-cane, which flashed a brief silver across its frame and danced its way to his hand.
The Lammas Lord shrugged. “You fall naturally into command, Scribe, but do not forget who is master of this castle, whatever I have done to it. Come then, I will, for the lack of any servant with me, find a place to act as refuge for your father.”
With that, he set off, one steady hand at Simon’s father’s elbow, as the Lost One himself hurried to take the other. He could not help but smile to himself at Ralph’s haughty words. There was indeed much to think of.
Ralph
He isn’t certain what he hoped to achieve by bringing together Simon and his father, but it surely isn’t this. When he enters the room, the jagged auras around both men almost send him out again and he curses himself for his own foolishness. What has this attempt been but an effort to make things right with his own father, an impossible mission? He should have left well alone, but the proximity of the scribe is setting him on edge in ways he doesn’t wish to consider deeply.
The only thing they can do now is wait and regain strength. In the morning, he will take the best of the people who have stayed and search for Jemelda until he finds her. She cannot be allowed to destroy the crops and drive them to starvation and beyond, when they are barely keeping their grasp on life as it is. He will not permit her to win.
At his side, Simon stops abruptly, bringing the three of them to a halt, and coughs. “You cannot do all things at once, Ralph. Even Lammas at its best wasn’t formed in one day-cycle.”
How Ralph easily forgets that the scribe can read him so, and he snorts a response. “But it has been brought to its knees in almost less than that, and I have not been instrumental in stopping our fall. You cannot blame me for wanting to right a wrong.”
“Indeed not, my good Lord, but for that, as you so wisely think, we need rest and then a plan. Jemelda cannot fire your fields twice in one day-cycle. She will at the very least need more fire-oil.”
Something else flashes in Simon’s eyes, and Ralph catches his breath, already knowing the answering desire rushing through his blood. He breaks the man’s gaze and turns away. Such thoughts are not fitting, although for a moment he longs for nothing more than to take Simon to his bed, such as it is, and show him how little the concept of rest is on his mind. By the stars above, this latest disaster has shaken him too much. And there is so much he wants to say to Simon but not in the presence of his father, though by the gods he will say it soon.
He shakes his head and continues walking. The old man stumbles but manages to stay upright, and Ralph slows his pace to compensate. The conversation with Simon has made him forget for a moment the needs of his father. The scribe of course makes no comment.
At last, Ralph arrives at a small room in the servants’ quarters which has, barely, survived the war’s onslaught. It does however have the advantage of a roof and a few threadbare blankets that can be used for a man’s rest. Simon nods.
“Thank you. This will be sufficient, I hope.”
With that, Simon turns and helps his father to sit on the softest of the blankets. It looks as if he will busy himself with the task of persuading the old man, who has begun to shake and mutter once more, to sleep, and Ralph suspects this will not be an easy prospect. He has to speak to the scribe.
In front of the man’s father, he cannot find the words, so instead he does the only thing he can think of. He takes the couple of strides needed to bring him to Simon’s side, reaches up and places shaking fingers on his former lover’s head.
Simon flinches, brings his hand up and grasps Ralph’s arm, whether to shake him off or draw him closer the Lammas Lord can’t tell, but in any case it’s already too late. The link between them is forged, the colours of it red and blue and the brightest of silver, and the intensity of it sharp enough to divide them at the heart, or forge them together. The mind-cane in Simon’s care begins to sing a piercing note and Ralph gasps.
You fool. The mind-voice is Simon’s, which is welcome although the tone of it is distinctly not. You cannot simply meddle with my thoughts without warning.
It takes a while for Ralph to find his own thought-words for lack of recent usage, but he keeps his hold on the scribe while he battles for the necessary strength, and all the time the cane next to them is humming a rising song.
Why so? he manages at last. Have you become so important than none may reach you without permission? Do you expect me to beg an audience with my Scribe?
That is most definitely not what Ralph has meant to say, but Simon’s first mind-words have riled him beyond the reasonable limits of patience. Odd how he has meant to be conciliatory, after his fashion, and already they are arguing. It was never like that in the past.
Unexpectedly Simon laughs, and Ralph can feel the echo of it within his mind, like a sudden rush of the warmest water. That is because in the past it was I who had to beg an audience, or any acknowledgement, from you, Lammas Lord. But I do not warn you because I am proud, or at least I hope I am not. I do not know how the mind-cane will react to your presence, that is all. I am not as much in control of its power as you may think.
With that, Simon twists Ralph’s hand away from his head and the link is shattered. Both men are breathing hard. Ralph notices the cane is pulsating and the silver carving is sparking with fire, and he keeps a wary eye for whatever it has decided to do to him for his impulsiveness. The scribe turns his back on him and murmurs something Ralph can’t hear to the artefact. Then he brings it up to his forehead and places it where Ralph has been touching him. Simon shuts his eyes, takes an unsteady breath, and slowly the mind-cane’s wild movement and song begin to vanish.
Ralph brushes his hand over his face, bringing away sweat which chills on his skin, and waits until both man and cane seem more composed. He sighs. It appears as if he must speak his thought aloud after all, no matter who is present. A quick glance at Simon’s father, however, shows the old man is lying down, eyes staring straight ahead at something Ralph can’t see, and still muttering words impossible to catch. By the gods and stars, the Hartstongues are a strange family, but then so too are the Tregannons. Perhaps there is nothing he can say in judgement at all.
Simon nods, a quirk still on his lips, and to Ralph’s surprise takes him by the arm and draws them both out into the chill of the corridor.
“My father will do himself no harm for a little while,” he says. “Speak, my good Lord, and say aloud whatever is on your mind tonight.”
Ralph blinks. He has never known the scribe so seemingly confident or at ease with himself. He does not know how it has happened, but he envies it. No matter. For now he has something to say and he will say it.
“We have history, you and I,” he says, speaking quietly at first but his vo
ice gathering a greater strength as he continues. “Everyone knows it, and we know it. I have done things I am not proud of, and so have you, much of it at my bidding, but we cannot think of these now. You have changed, grown stronger, whereas I have the least power I have ever known. Nonetheless, I intend to build peace in my lands if I have to die to get it, and your presence here, with the mind-cane, has the ability to help achieve that. So, no matter what Jemelda believes or what she does, you must survive and rebuild this land again.”
Simon laughs and steps back. “And if your former servant destroys what little there is left to build on, how can I and the mind-cane help then? Assuming we even understood what it was we could do.”
“You will do what is needful when the time arrives, Simon,” Ralph replies, feeling in his blood both the truth of it and his companion’s confusion. “Tomorrow I will take a few of those left here and go to find Jemelda. You must take the seeds which remain and try to make them grow, the gods and stars know how but I see no other solution. The cane, and perhaps my emeralds, will help you. The important thing is that I do not destroy the land my father bequeathed me, Simon, because above all else I cannot countenance that shame.”
When Ralph finishes speaking, his hands are clenched into fists and his skin feels hot. He did not mean for the conversation to turn to these matters so soon, as he meant to speak only about Simon, but he finds he could not and his only escape route is in the matters of the land, which itself rightly clamours for his attention.
Simon’s reaction is not what he expects. The man slams him back into the wall behind and the jagged stone digs into his body. The mind-cane shines a piercing silver and Ralph cannot look directly at it because of the intensity.
Do not speak of shame, Simon tells him mind to mind with no speech needed, when we both have shame enough to last us a life-cycle beyond measure, and when you yourself have barely the taste of it on your tongue. Believe me when I say you know nothing of shame.