by Anne Brooke
Safe.
The word floats, a deeper green framing it. Safe. Ralph reaches for it. Not with his hand, but with his thought. Somehow it captures him and for a long, long moment, all the life he has led since this morning, all the memories he has of this one day—the horse ride, the steward, the hidden library—are bound within its strength.
The emeralds, he thinks, this must be to do with the emeralds.
Then Gelahn lets go.
The darkness draws itself together and seeps away. Ralph knows it can’t be real and it’s simply his imagination, but he almost believes he can see it creeping home into Duncan Gelahn’s eyes. Odd how when he’s able to breathe again the day outside is as it should be. The winter sun is shining and there’s a crisp edge to the air in the room.
Gelahn speaks. “You have found it hard to hold your lands together then.”
This is not of course a question, but Ralph answers as if it is.
“The wars with Gathandria have all but destroyed us,” he says, knowing the wars are not the worst of it. “Each battle fought in the mind on our journey there and back has carved out its mirror image in blood and death and grief here. And when our defeat came …”
The executioner holds up his hand. Fearful of what his enemy might still discover in him, even now, Ralph falls silent. Gelahn leans forward, and the Overlord can see strange grey lights in his eyes.
“It is not a defeat,” he whispers, but there is no gentleness in his tone. “It is not a defeat when the battle has not yet truly begun. It is a setback only, no more.”
Ralph cannot help himself. He laughs. “A setback that has torn down so many of our buildings that there is barely an untouched one left, set our fields on fire so our planting is lost and we face starvation, scattered the Lammas people to the lands around us and incited the desire to rebel in those who remain. Forgive me, but, for me, that is far more than a setback. I …”
Even while he’s speaking, the mind-executioner knocks him to his knees, and Ralph feels the constriction in his throat. Gelahn hasn’t moved. The lack of the mind-cane has not drained his power in personal combat. That much is obvious.
This time when Gelahn speaks, it is directly to Ralph’s mind, and the Overlord closes his eyes and tries to breathe through the pain.
Do not insult me again, or what you think of now as disaster will be as nothing compared to what will happen to you and to your people. Do you understand?
Beyond speech, all Ralph can do is nod. When Gelahn lets go, he turns his back to the Overlord as if he is nothing and strolls over to the window. Ralph clambers to his feet, rubs the soreness at his throat and wishes for wine.
In the silence, he waits for his conqueror to speak first. He does not trust his voice not to shake. He can still hear Gelahn’s dogs. Outside, thank the gods and stars. Ralph hopes they are harming nobody, but understands that if he makes any more mistakes then deaths will occur.
What the executioner says is not what Ralph expects.
“You still have your fighting troops then.”
Ralph blinks. “Yes. Some of them.”
Gelahn turns then and fixes him with his gaze. The Overlord is unable to look away.
“That wasn’t a question, Lord Tregannon,” he says. “I had already gleaned that from your mind. You have always been so open to me. I trust that good wisdom you show will continue, now that we are more in need of each other.”
Ralph longs to ask how he can possibly need Gelahn when all he has caused is disaster and pain. He expects him to pick up on those thoughts, but the green glow that lurks in the corner of Ralph’s mind is still there and swallows them up. His heart beats faster.
Gelahn does not react, but simply pauses for a moment and then continues speaking. “Yes, you are in need of me as, without me, your power and command over your people will be nothing. And I …”
“Yes, Lord Gelahn?”
“I am in need of you for the men you possess, however few. And most of all for the military skills you have.”
Ralph laughs and the mind-executioner cocks his head. After a moment or so, when the Overlord is silent, Gelahn inspects his fingernails, waiting for him to speak.
“I cannot believe that to be true,” Ralph says at last. “You have power enough, even without the mind-cane. You can destroy us all.”
The mind-executioner’s answer makes Ralph’s thoughts grow as dark as his arrival made the sky outside.
“That is correct,” he says in a way that makes Ralph shiver. “And, again, you are wise to note it. But this time, Tregannon, the battle will be fought not only in the realm of the mind, but also in the physical realm. This time, the blood that we shed will be first and foremost in the flesh and the death we deal our enemies will be permanent.”
Chapter Three: A new companion
Annyeke
In the small home of the Acting Elder of Gathandria, surrounded by the remains of bread and with two worried men to soothe, Annyeke was about to say something inspirational if she only knew what that might be.
But the sound of shouting from the street outside stopped her, then the noise of wood scraping on stone. The next moment, her front door was slammed open, the entrance curtain torn down, and a vast mass of wild white terror launched itself through the room towards the table. Blood poured from its frame, and she and Talus and the two men flung themselves out of the way as the beast skittered across the floor and skidded to a halt.
In the shocking silence following this onslaught, as Talus clung to her, the mind-cane began to hum.
Annyeke had always hated birds and, by the gods and stars, especially legendary ones. So she stared at the great white snow-raven from the Kingdom of the Air now sprawled on the stone floor against her eating table and shuddered. The beast was almost the size of a grown man, with the span of its wings nearly doubling that length. It brought with it a strange smell of cinnamon and lime which turned her stomach. She could feel the swift tumbling of Talus’ mind against hers and fought for balance for them both.
Simon was backed up against the wall, the mind-cane abandoned at his side and his hand touching his cheek. No, more than touching it. For a reason she couldn’t fathom he looked as if he was protecting it. Why would he wish to do that? The bird, whatever it might be in reality, was at the moment no danger. In fact, it looked as if it might even be dead, which would be a good thing. There was certainly enough blood for that to be true. The stonework must have somehow torn through its feathers.
Johan was already there, his hands touching the fallen bird, firm but gentle. Annyeke sighed, then shook her head to dispel the thought.
“Is it dead?” she asked, easing Talus away from her but keeping her hand on his arm.
“I don’t think so.” Johan frowned but didn’t look up, continuing his examination of the bird.
“Am I right? It looks like a…”
“…a snow-raven.” Simon confirmed it, his voice low, and Annyeke blinked.
She’d been right, although she couldn’t understand why it should be here at all. She herself had never seen such a bird directly, though many of her fellows had. They were the stuff of Gathandrian legend, talked about in all the ancient tales and many of the modern ones. She’d glimpsed them with the Elders by means of the mind-circle’s power when she was watching Johan take his long, hard journey home with Simon but, because of the light that emanated from them, Annyeke had never seen one in any detail. It had been an impression of whiteness and song.
“It’s dying,” Johan said.
“He,” was the Scribe’s hissed response. “Their leader is a he.”
“I can’t sense anything,” Johan turned to Simon, raising one eyebrow. “You can’t know that for sure.”
“I know. It’s the raven leader, and he’s not dead.”
Time to intervene, Annyeke thought. Even though she hated birds, she didn’t particularly want a dead one in her home. A dead bird would somehow be even more horrific than a living one, legend or no leg
end. And the men were, once again, doing nothing to stop this possibility.
She steeled herself for compassionate action. “Talus, take the largest jug and fetch water from the street well. Simon, give me your tunic. Johan? Can you put the bird on the table? It will be…”
“He,” Simon said again.
“…he will be easier to tend to there.”
A small storm of activity ensued as her companions hurried to obey her commands. In spite of everything, it felt good to be doing something at last, however unsuccessful it might be, because she was tired of doing nothing.
In a matter of moments, the bird was on the table and Annyeke, heart skittering a staccato rhythm, was dipping a piece of Simon’s tunic, torn into strips, into clear water, almost as if this was an everyday occurrence.
As she began to clear up the blood, at arms’ length and with her face half turned away, she distracted herself from the fact that she was all but touching the bird directly by concentrating on Simon.
“How do you know he’s not dead?” she asked, praying that whatever happened, the still raven under her hands would not suddenly stir or open its eye at her. If it did, she was sure she’d scream and flee. Not a good plan for the Elders’ chosen leader.
“I can hear him,” the Scribe answered simply. “In my head.”
Unable to stop herself, Annyeke made a quick pass through the top level of Simon’s thoughts. She couldn’t sense anything out of place there. Whatever he was experiencing must be somewhere deeper or it was hidden by the mind-cane. She didn’t think he was lying.
“I’m sorry,” Johan said. “I can’t sense any life at all.”
“No.” As the scribe spoke, Annyeke felt a sudden jab in her mind, as if someone had slapped her. At the same time, Simon pushed past her and put his hand on the raven’s snowy back. Johan began to speak, his voice low, reaching out towards the scribe, but she never got to hear what he might have wanted to say.
Simon
He knew the raven wasn’t dead. The bird couldn’t be dead. Thoughts and images, a jumble of sea and sky, feather, mountain and desert, were filling his mind. Simon’s heart beat fast and he could feel the muscles in his shoulders begin to ache. If the snow-raven was dead, where were the pictures coming from?
Nor did he want the raven to be alive. The memory of his strange encounter with the bird, the questions Simon had had to answer to save his life, the attack and the agonising healing of the scar on his face, made him shiver.
Still, when Annyeke asked him, he took off his tunic, trying to ignore the sudden chill against his skin, and tore it into strips for her. But it was Johan’s refusal to believe the truths that throbbed in his head which drove him to action. Pushing between the woman and the table, he put his hand on the bird. An instinctive gesture only, he hadn’t thought what it might do.
It woke the raven.
The bird reared up, its massive beak only a hair’s breadth from Simon’s eye. Wings came up also, spattering blood onto wood and stone. A raucous shriek filled the air. The bird launched itself at him and the scribe ducked. In spite of this, solid claws slammed into his shoulder and he fell, scrabbling at the floor. All the images and strange words in his head disappeared. He could no longer hear the raven within him at all.
Johan flung himself after the bird, though Simon had no idea what his friend might do if he caught the raven. He missed. At the same time, Annyeke grabbed Talus and pushed him roughly through the door. He wondered whether they should all do the same, though, knowing Gathandrians, that probably wasn’t an option. Meanwhile the raven flew, still shrieking, between walls and ceiling and floor. The table was overturned, jugs and pots fell with a clatter, some smashing to pieces, and an acrid smell of herbs filled the room, almost overpowering the scent of blood.
Do something then.
The words were Johan’s.
How? Simon answered, astonished he could still create a mind-link, however small and tenuous.
You brought the raven to life. Now you need to calm it again. Soon.
Breaking the mind-link and wishing he’d never got out of bed since it seemed to have brought nothing but danger and noise upon the whole household, Simon cursed aloud and hauled himself to his feet. In mid flight, the raven all but knocked him down again.
Simon.
The link hadn’t been broken then. All right.
As Annyeke tried to save the rest of her household crockery, Johan sprang after the destroyer of houses once more. His efforts knocked the bird off balance, and the raven fell back towards Simon.
Heart beating far too much out of control, the scribe stretched out his arms, wrapped them in vain round the great boulder of white feathered power, and man and bird tumbled together to the floor.
He understood several different things at once. First, the boy, Talus, had gone beyond any sense of fear and was starting, from his relatively safe position outside the door peering in, to enjoy the whole adventure. Simon wasn’t sure how this might help, but at the very least it meant less sense of jaggedness to fight against. And his mind needed all the respite it could seize. Secondly, he realised how much Annyeke hated birds, though he couldn’t fathom why. Thirdly, he found that he, like Talus, was enjoying having something other than himself and the likely fate of Gathandria to focus on. And, finally, he realised exactly how blank and unstable his own mind was.
As the scribe tumbled down with the enraged bird, he could see Annyeke holding Johan back despite his stature.
Wait, Simon heard in his mind, a thought shared only between the two of them but which somehow he also could hear.
At the same time, the bird’s shrieks stopped. Instead of the raucous thought piercing sound, he heard only silence.
From where he lay on the floor, the raven overpowering him, the scribe saw Johan reach out, take Annyeke’s hand where it rested on his arm and pat it once before letting go. Then Johan took the two strides necessary to reach him and hunkered down.
The raven twisted where he lay in Simon’s grip and stared at Johan. The black eye blinked, and it felt as if a spate of dark water had tumbled through the scribe’s mind and he gasped. Johan, too, almost fell except Simon grabbed him, keeping him safe.
The raven flapped free, then hopped up onto the table, opened his beak noiselessly and gazed for a moment or two at them all. When her turn came, Annyeke stepped back and Simon could sense her fear once more.
Finally, the raven stretched out the wing nearest the scribe and brushed his shoulder with it. The mind-cane, all but forgotten in the corner, quivered, hummed for a heartbeat before it, too, fell silent.
It was Annyeke who spoke first, with more than a slight tremor in her voice.
“I-I think you’ve found another companion, Simon,” she said.
Chapter Four: A kind of preparation
Annyeke
It was the first thing that came out of her mouth. And in her years on Gathandrian soil, she’d learned that sometimes it was best to trust what you said. Anything was better than thinking things through too much and trying to be logical. Unlike Johan, Annyeke liked to work from her instincts.
“Some companion,” Johan snorted. “He all but killed us.”
“No, he didn’t,” Talus interrupted, as he sidled in from the door. “The bird was frightened, that was all.”
“How do you know that?” Annyeke asked, sensing the growing calm and curiosity of the boy’s mind.
He gazed up at her.
“Birds are always frightened indoors,” he said.
She nodded, thinking they weren’t the only ones.
“He’s not frightened now,” Simon said quietly. “You’re right. He’s come to be with me.”
When she looked across the table at him, Annyeke could see how pale the scribe’s face was. All the time, the snow-raven continued to stare at the four of them, his wing still resting on Simon’s shoulder.
It came to her that it was time to take up the cloak of leadership the Elders had bequeathed
to her. She was no longer protecting a sick man and waiting for an absent one. She was in charge of a small band looking to her for guidance. However, before squaring her shoulders and opening her mouth, Annyeke couldn’t help glancing at Johan. He smiled briefly at her, but his eyes were bleak.
She turned away.
“What I think we should do is this,” she said and then, before she fully understood it, everything became clear. “We need to prepare for the battle Gelahn will bring upon us. That much is obvious. To do that, we need strength, both mental and physical. Because, without the mind-cane, Gelahn’s mental power will be weaker, and he must compensate for that elsewhere. The only action he can take—the action I’d take—is to fight with a combination of both. He’ll do anything to get his power back. Here, in Gathandria, he spent so long without it.”
“In the Elders’ prison, you mean?” Johan interrupted, a frown on his handsome face.
She nodded. The knowledge of the cage in the Underground Library, the books and all she had discovered from them swept over her once more—Gelahn’s attempt at power, his imprisonment, the Elders’ cruelty and how they had allowed him to escape. And why. There in her home she opened her mind to them and finally told the full story of what she had found and what it had meant to them all, even Talus, though for her young charge she threaded her mind-words with comfort. The harshness of some acts should only be truly felt by the adult world.
When she’d finished, the mind-cane began to hum and the raven hopped elegantly off the table, its wounds even now beginning to vanish, and half flew to stand next to the cane, though not too near. The humming faded to nothing.