by Anne Brooke
“I hadn’t known the depths and depravity of it,” Johan whispered, and she could hear the shock and grief in his voice, the same feelings she had experienced at first seeing Gelahn’s prison.
“I know. I’m sorry,” she replied, once again laying her fingers on his arm for a moment or two. The touch of him warmed her and she let him go before he could realise it.
Simon gave her a sharp glance and a brief smile before speaking. “So he’s more like me than we thought?”
“How so?” This from Johan as he took two or three paces towards the scribe. Annyeke winced as he stepped onto one of her already broken dishes. It cracked into unsalvageable pieces. “You are nothing like the mind-executioner. Nothing at all!”
The raven unfurled his wings and hissed at Johan. The mind-cane began to tremble.
The scribe moved quickly to put himself between them and Johan. “You think so? Well, perhaps the fact I’m only half Gathandrian gives me a different point of view. Your Elders release Gelahn in order to bring things to a conclusion. Unfortunately, what they get is a ruined city, destroyed neighbours…and me. And I’ve done nobody any good so far, so all I can think is they must have been wrong in their assumptions about us both. Not only that but, as far as I can see, the mind-executioner has been driven by pain to take up the course of life he’s chosen. When I was with Ralph Tregannon, was I really that different? And, if so, how exactly?”
The two men glared at each other. Annyeke had never experienced such waves of anger as those crackling in the air between them.
“It doesn’t matter, does it?” she interrupted before the chaos in her eating area that the raven had instigated began again. “However, unlike the background, what matters is what you’ve done with it, and what matters more than anything is the current time. Yes, I know you’ve brought about bad things, Simon, but not to the degree Gelahn has. And you’re trying to help now, aren’t you?”
Both men muttered something Annyeke decided against interpreting. The ways of Gathandrian men, however diluted the blood, were beyond her. It was best to take a female approach to the situation.
“That being the case,” she continued, “what I suggest is this. Simon needs to have a thorough grounding of what our country is and tries to achieve. He also needs to develop his mind-skills enough to use the mind-cane’s power in our battle. I will help him with that. The snow-raven might be able to help, too, though you will understand more of that side of the matter, Simon.”
Annyeke hoped he did, as she didn’t have a single good idea about that bird at all. But she smiled confidently at the scribe anyway and his expression cleared. So far so good then, in her new role as battle preparation supervisor.
“So,” Johan said, folding his arms, “what role shall I play, Annyeke?”
By the gods and stars, she knew even before he’d finished his question that it would have been wiser, perhaps, to give him the role of mind-counsellor. But no, she still felt she was right to be the scribe’s teacher. Besides, after the journey Simon had had to endure to get here, he would need another mind to work with. Familiarity with a mentor could be a curse—one of the first truths Johan had taught her. She wished he’d remembered it, too.
Annyeke swallowed, the sound of it clogging her thoughts. The raven gave a low-pitched whistle and she realised at once what she’d been forgetting.
“Johan,” she faced him, leaning over the table, capturing his eyes and not letting them go. “I need you to prepare the people for war in the physical realm. You have battled recently with Gelahn, you know his strategies. You are the one to teach our people to fight. Really fight, with weapons and bodies, not just with their minds. Please, will you do it?”
His first thought was no. Annyeke sensed that as clearly as if he’d shouted across the room at her. After all, he was Chief Advisor to the Sub-Council of Meditation, not a soldier. Gathandrians hadn’t used physical skills in battle for generations; they hadn’t needed to as their mind-skills had been more than enough protection. Until now.
“Really?” Simon’s voice made her jump, and she realised that the scribe could hear Johan’s thoughts just as well as she could. “Those mind-skills aren’t doing you much good at the moment, are they, Johan? Your city is all but destroyed, and both the Elders and Annyeke are convinced there’s another battle to come. I know I’m not the bravest person in the lands, but in the days before I came to the Lammas Lands, I would do anything at all, physical or mental, to stay alive. You have led me here across mountains, sky, desert and sea, which surely shows you have physical courage. If anyone of us must take the role of soldier, then it’s you. Yes, if you feel it necessary, I can help a little with the skills I saw in Ralph’s military, but you’re the best leader, I think.”
Faced with the combined forces of his friends, Johan couldn’t help but smile, albeit briefly.
“I see I’m outnumbered,” he said, “so yes, I will do it.”
Talus gave a sudden yelp and grabbed Annyeke. She could feel the fizz and sparkle of the boy’s mind dancing, and the sheer energy of it made her blink.
“Can I help Johan?” he said. “Please, Annyeke, can I?”
She laughed. “Yes, I suppose so, if Johan agrees. You’ve proved how brave you are already, Talus, when you followed me to the elders’ Library. But, if I’m to allow it, you must promise me one thing.”
“What is it?”
“This is no game, Talus. This is real. So whatever Johan or Simon or I tell you to do, you must do it, at once and without question. Will you?”
The boy nodded, his eyes still eager, then glanced up at Johan. For a reason she couldn’t quite grasp, her colleague looked distinctly uncomfortable and she saw him swallow. Talus tugged at his tunic sleeve, the question still in his eyes.
Johan coughed and shuffled his feet.
“All right,” he said. “I’m happy to accept all the help I can get, from any source, no matter how…how…”
Annyeke drew in her breath and her heart beat fast. She’d never suspected before that her overseer had no idea at all how to talk to children, but right now he looked as if he’d rather be fighting the mind-executioner single handedly than being in front of a young boy asking to help. She was about to step forward, but Simon got there first. The scribe hunkered down next to Talus instead of towering over him, as Johan was.
“…How unexpected and also welcome is what my good friend means,” Simon said, touching the boy’s head with his fingers so thought could more easily be shared. This gesture was not Gathandrian etiquette, but Talus didn’t object. Neither did Annyeke. “I think that in the days ahead all of us will need some unexpected, welcome events, won’t we?”
The boy smiled and nodded, confidence restored.
“Good,” Annyeke said, bending down to pick up slivers of pottery from the floor next to him, mainly in order to hide her smile. “In that case, what we should do first is tidy up, and then we’ll begin our tasks.”
Duncan Gelahn
There is much that is pleasing to the mind-executioner about Tregannon’s private bedroom, much that he has not experienced in his battle to take back what is his. The curtains are made of the richest green velvet, decorated with the Tregannon insignia, a gold star split by a black sword. And, between the sconces, the wall hangings show scenes from the land beyond the castle, from a time before the war destroyed much of what Lammas possessed—the woods in summer, a riot of dark green against a rich blue sky, a view across corn pastures to the distant mountains and a harvesting party.
Ralph’s bed is the centrepiece of the room. The linen is embroidered in gold, the pattern an interpretation of all the stars to be found in the Lammas skies. It is the intricate carving of the headboard that draws Gelahn’s eye most. A long fox is caught by the sculptor padding across the grained oak. The executioner can see each strand of fur and every rippling muscle, and the rays of sunlight streaming through the window make the creature’s eyes seem alive. Odd how, for a sophisticated man, Tre
gannon favours nature and the star legends. The fox is the Overlord’s sign, cunning and swiftness of thought.
The Lammas Overlord now possesses neither of these attributes. Instead, he looks beaten by what has happened and his mind is jagged with despair. The mind-executioner cannot help but smile at this as he runs his finger along the body of the fox; it is always best for one’s companions to be weaker than oneself. Without hope or purpose, Ralph Tregannon will be easy to manipulate. And if he is not…well, because of the Scribe’s words at the end of the recent battle, Tregannon cannot be harmed, but he can be made to suffer. That should be enough. All he wants from the Lord Tregannon are his military skills, the minds and bodies of his soldiers and the weapons at their disposal.
Now, Tregannon stares at him, his eyes wide. Gelahn can sense his thoughts well enough before the man actually speaks.
“A physical war?” he says, taking a step back. “You plan to fight Gathandria by force of arms and men? How? The land is so far away. Will you take my whole army, what is left of it, and fly them to the magical city?”
Gelahn spits his anger out. “There is nothing magical about Gathandria, believe me.”
“I thought it was the most beautiful place I have ever seen—a land of tall glass and stone, although damaged, from the little I glimpsed of it.”
“Beautiful or not—and if you have seen the parts of it I have seen, you would not call it thus—we will fight it and we will win because the evils it has perpetrated do not allow it to survive. There will be a reckoning, and beyond that, a turning of fortunes. For when Gathandria dies, and it will, your people and your lands will live.”
A silence. The mind-executioner can sense the Lammas Overlord’s longing for his people’s protection and his land’s renewal. It is so strong, he could almost stretch out his hand and touch it. Tregannon is concerned for his own safety and position, too, naturally—what man or woman is not?—but, strangely, not as much as he was before. What has changed? As Gelahn waits for his companion to respond to his enticements, he performs a quick, unnoticed search through the Lammasser’s mind. Even though Tregannon is a Sensitive, the mind-executioner is skilled enough to do this without discovery. He needs no mind-cane for that. A Gathandrian child could do it.
Tregannon’s eyes are clouded. And there is a hint of…something green about him. What is it? Gelahn spins his thoughts through the man’s mind again but finds nothing. He is only imagining it. Tregannon has nothing the mind-executioner cannot conquer, or use for his own purposes. Even now, his companion is speaking and Gelahn withdraws from his thoughts. Speech can sometimes reveal secrets of its own.
“My lands,” the Overlord whispers, as if speaking only to himself, as if he no longer realises who is with him, “will not be the same again. It will take the power and mercy of whoever comes after me to make us what we once were.”
In only three strides, Gelahn is face to face with Tregannon. He reaches out and grabs the Overlord’s tunic, still stained and crumpled from his recent ride, and shakes him. Tregannon holds his ground, doesn’t cry out, in spite of the burning sensation Gelahn knows is sweeping through his shoulder and up over his face from the mind-executioner’s touch. For a moment, Gelahn even allows himself to be impressed by that; he will need such small courage in the days ahead before Tregannon’s inevitable and long drawn-out suffering.
“No,” he says, searing the word like a deadly fire through the other man’s thoughts. “There is no room in our mission for such thinking, because, together, the two of us have fortitude and lust enough to destroy forever any opposition that dares to fight us. Believe me, Tregannon, against such things, the mind-cane has no law and no strength. The army we create between us will be such a conquering force as Gathandria has never seen. Our future—your future—will be glorious. Nothing can stop it.”
Annyeke
It was time. She hadn’t prepared for this, but she’d known all along it was inevitable. The heat of a Gathandrian mid-day cycle, even in winter’s approach, shone down on the middle of the Square of Meeting. Around her, she could see the destroyed glass towers of the Council buildings, the sun sparking off the jagged fragments, lightening the stone to a near silver. Lining the wide shattered streets were the withered husks of the once glowing orange and lemon trees. How she longed for the scent of them now and to hear their soft song. Three hour-cycles since the snow-raven had arrived and she was here at last. Had the bird sparked off something in her? She didn’t know and now wasn’t the time to ponder it.
She had decided to gather the people of Gathandria together and to talk to them. She’d had enough of distant voices making plans and subjecting her to them. The elders had done too much of that. She wouldn’t follow in their footsteps. Not if she could help it, anyway. She’d explained her ideas to Simon and Johan. Now it was time to explain them to the rest of her fellow-citizens. A bead of sweat trickled down her face. It had been a long three hours. Just long enough to send out a string of mind-messages across the city to ask people to come. Some, of course, wouldn’t. Trust in the elders had been destroyed during the recent Wars and Annyeke fully understood the doubts she’d sensed about her own leadership, such as it was. Those absentees were, of course, the people she most needed to speak to.
No matter. From a brief glance across the Square, with its background of poplars framing the park, she estimated that about five thousand men, women and children were here, a quarter of the Gathandrian survivors, enough for the message to be conveyed to those who’d remained behind. Not enough to make up for the twenty thousand plus who didn’t have the choice of being here, though. Annyeke’s eyes filled with tears, but she brushed them away. She couldn’t afford to cry. She had to convey something to give these people hope. She had to learn, in so swift a time, to begin to be a leader.
If only she’d thought of what she should say.
Next to her, a shadow and a light touch on her hand. She blinked, turned and it was the scribe, of all people. Behind him, she could see Johan’s troubled frown.
“I don’t know what you intend to do,” Simon whispered, leaning towards her, “but I think getting your people together like this is a good beginning.”
For a beat of her heart, she stared at him and then she nodded. Yes, she supposed he was right. Even this was better than nothing.
Placing her hands together in front of her, she focused herself so what she would say would be carried to her listeners, not only in sound but also in their minds, because few would hear her aloud but all would be able to hear her words and her truth in their thoughts. She hoped there would be truth.
“Our land was once a land of harmony,” she began, feeling the words vibrate deep within. “That is the meaning of our name and our purpose. We have fallen far short of that in recent time-cycles, not that we should hold any one individual blameworthy for that. The wrongdoing is, as it has always been for us, a collective one. We choose those who govern us, and when they make unwise decisions then the blame is ours also. That is the way we live. Now, many of us have perished in the wars. Our homes are destroyed and our great city a shadow of its former glory. Beyond us, our neighbours also suffer, and that, too, is our responsibility and our shame.”
Annyeke paused, tears filling her eyes. She could sense the despair, grief and anger flowing over her from the assembled crowds. For a moment, she found she couldn’t breathe, and the inner purpose she’d managed to hold steady in her mind all this time trembled. She couldn’t go on. All her words, all her hopes were as a pine sapling battered by a summer storm. Glancing down, she could see Talus’ fingers curled around hers, but she couldn’t grasp what he might be thinking. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she connect to him?
Annyeke.
Her name spun out of the chaos of her thoughts like a strong hand reaching to save her from drowning. Johan. When she looked at him, he was gazing straight at her and she could almost see the echo of her name on his lips, although the word had been offered directly to her
mind only. It was enough to bring her to herself and she nodded her thanks before turning back to the people again.
This time, their feelings did not cut her down.
“But that is not the end,” she continued. “Because we are more than the sum of what we have done wrong. We—all of us—are greater than that. In spite of all we have suffered up to this point, we are not defeated. No. We have been hard pressed on every side but we are not crushed. We have been struck down but we are not destroyed. This is because each of us is more than we seem to be. We always carry within us the Spirit of Gathandria and that Spirit will never desert us.”
She could sense it now amongst her listeners—the colour green amongst the black and red of despair and misery. Not much, but it was there. It was enough.
“The elders have retired from us for a while,” she spoke, her voice and her mind stronger now. “They have gone to the Place of Prayer and Healing beyond our city but they will not be gone forever. They are part of us and we of them, no matter what has taken place. Whilst they are meditating and, I am sure, giving us strength through that sacred practice, they have bequeathed to me the mantle of leadership. But I do not carry this burden alone. My friends and companions are with me—Johan Montfort, Simon the Scribe of the White Lands, my charge Talus and…and the snow-raven, a traveller from the Kingdom of the Air. Not only that, but we, the people of Gathandria, work together and we are never without help. As long as we live and move and have our being in this land, we will stand together. And we will fight against our enemy, the Mind-Executioner, who threatens to destroy all things.
“Up to this point, the battle has been only in the mind, but it has been a harsh one. We believe that when the Mind-Executioner strikes again, he will also confront us in the physical realm. He has no other choice; the mind-cane is no longer his. So the battle will be on two fronts. But we have a plan to prepare ourselves for this ordeal. My colleague and overseer, Johan Montfort, with the help of Talus, will prepare our people for physical battle. Both of my friends have suffered much and are willing to take this duty for the sake of Gathandria’s survival. As for the realms of the mind, I and Simon the Scribe will lead that area of our training. With the kingdoms of body and mind combined, I believe we can fight our enemies and win, for ourselves, for our families and friends, for Gathandria and for our neighbours who rely on our oversight. But it is you, the people who made this city, who will bring success or failure to our endeavours. So I appeal to you all, on behalf of Gathandria’s great Spirit, please, will you put your minds, hearts and bodies to this worthy cause?”