by Anne Brooke
But Apolyon has already anticipated the need.
“M-my lord, the cooking area is the driest place in the castle,” he whispers, his face turned away from Ralph’s as if this terrible, unthinkable journey is not happening at all, or at least that he is far from its repercussions. “Do you not think so?”
Ralph quells the bubble of laughter that rises to his throat and lies with the aplomb of a true Tregannon and Overlord. “Indeed. My thoughts precisely.”
Turning left and following the thick outer wall of his home, it takes a few moments only to reach the simple entrance to the cooking area. When Ralph enters, pushing aside the torn curtain that hangs down in what he imagines is a vain attempt to keep out the wind, he expects the room to be empty. It is some hours before supper will be required, but the air is thick with the aroma of bread and spices. At once, he senses the presence of two minds other than the boy’s and his own, although, of course, he cannot read them.
As he blinks to adjust to the darkness, the boy squirms slightly in his arms and Ralph sets him down. The sensation of repressed pain slides away. Apolyon limps two steps from him, but continues to stand a little on the alert as if awaiting orders. Ralph has none to give.
One of the two unknown people in the darkness steps forward and bows. The man before him is as old and gnarled as the oak tree in the farthest reaches of the courtyard. Greying hair hangs down to thin, stooping shoulders. It might be of necessity as his head brushes the ceiling which is lower where he is standing, even then. Ralph has never seen him before.
“M-my lord,” he stammers, his voice high-pitched like a whistle. “My-my lord.”
It is evident that the man has no idea what to do with Ralph in his domain or what to think. The Overlord smiles at him as if his presence here is natural.
“My steward was slightly injured in the fields and I have returned him to the castle,” he says. “I understand his dwelling place is here.”
The old man opens his mouth to answer but, before he can, the words are spoken by someone else, someone female, angry and despairing, someone, also, who is not afraid to state her case in front of her master.
“What have you done with him?” she demands. “Why send him out in such weather when the lad can barely walk from here to the stables? Don’t you think you have done enough to your people?”
By the time the woman comes to the end of her accusations, she is standing right in front of Ralph, glaring into his face. She barely reaches his chest, her single-minded fury all but defeating him. She is as short and round as the unknown man is tall and thin. Ralph takes a step back.
The boy darts towards her, burrowing between the two of them. “Please, the Overlord did nothing wrong, Jemelda. It’s not his fault.”
“You accuse me for no purpose and, more than that, you forget your place,” Ralph replies, stung into words by Apolyon’s vain attempt to play reconciler. “Any more from you and I’ll have you whipped in the public yard.”
The woman called Jemelda tilts her head up at him and her eyes are fierce. “And who will do that for you now, my lord? There is hardly a serving man left with strength in his arm after you have brought the mind-executioner’s wrath down upon us, and certainly none minded to do so.”
“Jemelda.” The old man speaks, voice shaking, but whether with anger or fear Ralph cannot tell. “Please, that is enough. Forgive my wife’s outburst, please, my lord. I swear she means no harm.”
Neither Jemelda nor Ralph pay any heed to the old man’s words. Instead they glare at each other until Apolyon finally grabs her arm and pulls her away. She allows him to do so but her anger remains sharp in the air between them.
With as much dignity as he can muster and with all his blood stirring to be gone from this place of servants, Ralph gestures at the boy.
“Your charge has done good work today,” he says. “You have the right to be proud of him. Because of his courage and swift obedience to me, and because of that alone, I shall not demand the rightful punishment for your misdemeanours, woman. But be warned that I shall not be so merciful again and, even though I have few men—or women—who follow me now, there are still some who are loyal to the Tregannon name. You would do well to heed this warning.”
With that, he turns on his heel and hobbles out into the drizzle and damp of the day. He would have preferred to have exited with more dignity, but it is not possible. The smell of bread and spices, and the bitterness in the cook’s words, clings to his skin for many hour-cycles after.
The first open sign of disaffection with him and all he stands for, then. Ralph has that to add to the wrongs he has caused to happen, and the problem of the emeralds still to consider. It will be a long day ahead.
Chapter Five: Mind-training and war
Simon
Outside Annyeke’s small kitchen area window, the clouds were darkening to night, and perhaps bringing snow, although, in a strange land, the scribe couldn’t be sure of the signs. Behind him, he could hear the sound of his landlady preparing the evening meal. He’d asked earlier if he could help, but she’d simply shaken her head and smiled. Even beyond the defences she’d raised so her mind could not be read, he’d understood her preoccupation with what had happened in her Sub-Council rooms. The Sub-Council of Meditation—even the name made him smile. He’d grown so used to hiding his mind-skills amongst his father’s people that the thought of official recognition, even encouragement, still seemed strange. The act of cooking appeared to focus his companion, and he found that watching her made him feel calmer. A good place for them both.
Or it would have been, if both the raven and the mind-cane had not been with them. And, yes, he understood that he and Annyeke should be grateful that both the bird and the cane had helped them in the crisis that had followed the telling of the first Gathandrian legend. Simon wondered how his companion thought the Spirit of Gathandria could help them now. Was he supposed to contact it in some way? Was that what the snow-raven and the mind-cane were for? And, if that were the case, how could he do it before Gelahn mounted his attack upon them?
Another question played in his mind, too, one that he had not fully acknowledged until now. When the mind-executioner arrived, Ralph might well be with him. What would the scribe do then?
A hand on his shoulder made him jump and he looked up, startled to see Annyeke so close when he’d been lost in his thoughts.
“Try not to worry so much,” she said with a half smile. “We can only do our best in the time given to us. Anything else is up to the gods and stars.”
He swallowed and glanced away, glad she’d spoken rather than connected directly with his mind. Some things were better kept private. Though, weren’t she and he both in the same position when it came to matters of the heart? Annyeke’s deep-seated feelings for Johan were obvious, at least to him, and Simon had no idea why his friend did not seem to realise this or return her affection. He must try to find out from Johan one day, subtly, of course. And, as for himself, well, Ralph was a riddle and should remain so for the time being. Still, Annyeke’s words had made him smile.
“It seems to me that the gods and stars are not doing their best for you,” he said, “no matter what our efforts. Can I really be ready for whatever role it is you are convinced I should play in time for when I need to play it?”
Simon had meant to speak lightly, perhaps even to make her smile, but she shook her head, wiping her hands clean of herbs and cornflour with a bright green cloth, and drew up a stool opposite him.
“You will have to be,” she said. “And for that, you need to take hold of the mind-cane again. You have to start learning its mysteries.”
“No.”
Simon’s response was instinctive. Up until now, his contact with the cane had been perfunctory, irregular. His experiences during those thankfully brief times had not been pleasant. He didn’t like the way it showed him more clearly who he was. Annyeke’s request made him shiver. At the same time, the cane began to hum and the snow-raven spre
ad his wings and cocked his head at the scribe.
Annyeke brushed aside his objections and the threats of their strange companions with a wave of her hand. “It’s the way we haven’t tried yet, Simon. I’m not sure we have a choice. Not if we want to be alive when the spring-cycle arrives next year. Nothing frightening has happened yet, and that makes people relax their guard. But, believe me when I say this: it will happen. Gelahn will not accept defeat in the arena of the mind and will fight us hand to hand, limb to limb and weapon to weapon. Because of Ralph Tregannon and the Lammas People’s training in war, he will be stronger than we are. That is why we have to use the mind-cane if we can, and the only door to that is you. We must do what we are able to, but the only advantage we have is you, and…”
His companion stuttered to a halt and wiped away sudden tears. As Simon reached across, uncertain what to do with a crying woman, but realised he had to do something. She shook her head and backed away from him. In a matter of moments, she’d propped herself up against the kitchen work area and could go no further. There, as Simon half stood, she began to weep in earnest, letting the tears fall without shame.
“Annyeke…please, I’m sorry if…” Cursing under his breath, he grabbed the nearest, cleanest looking piece of cloth and offered it to her. She nodded and took it, wiping her eyes, but continued to cry. At the touch of her hand, great swathes of despair and confusion, red and black and grey, flooded over his thoughts. It felt as if he were drowning in her emotions. Falling, falling. He snatched his hand away, but the sensation of falling remained. Just like in the Kingdom of the Air, his feet hovered over nothing and he had no strength to haul himself to safety.
Annyeke.
He couldn’t find the ability to speak out loud but had to rely on the merest wisp of thought. His eyes told him he was still half standing and must appear no different to her, if she chose to glance at him. But inside he was being destroyed, and not slowly either. Annyeke.
“Wh-What is it?”
Please…you’re…drowning…me.
For a moment longer she stared at him. Then, she took a deep breath and placed her hands on her forehead, as if in an attempt to contain herself. The length of the start of a winter story later, Simon felt his mind being liberated from the pain and grief that had imprisoned it.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, wiping the tears from her face, “I’m sorry. I felt…everything overwhelmed me for a moment. I didn’t imagine it would affect you like that. Are you all right?”
He nodded, found himself sitting on the floor, half leaning against the table. He could sense Annyeke’s continuing struggle and wondered if her feelings might overpower them both again. As sweat sullied his vision, Simon saw the snow-raven spread his wings, lean forward and open his beak. He blinked and the picture crystallised into precision. He thought the bird might sing or perhaps speak to him in the way that had happened before. Instead, one single blue sphere slipped from the raven into the air. A perfect circle. As the mind-cane began to hum, the scribe reached forward and took the circle. It warmed his fingers like a good fire on a winter night.
“What is it?” Annyeke’s voice whispered both in his ear and in his thoughts, but he shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Without warning, the circle elongated around Simon’s hand and spun a web of blue air around the two of them. He gasped and was about to move when Annyeke grabbed his arm. Wait. It’s not hurting us.
That was easy for her to say—and in the thinking of it he knew she’d heard him. Her wry smile told him that. Several heartbeats went by and then the air around them was its usual self again. The cane, also, was silent. The snow-raven folded his wings and cocked his head onto one side. Glancing down, Simon saw a faint blue tinge to his fingers, as if something was lying just below his skin. He wasn’t sure if he liked the idea of that, but the most important fact right now was that the sense of oppression and despair had been lifted. Even Annyeke’s tears were dry. Unable to stop himself, he reached inside his inner tunic and touched the feather the snow-raven had given him at their first meeting. Somehow, it gave him strength.
Annyeke raised her eyebrows at him and laughed.
“I don’t feel quite so hopeless now,” she said. “Thank you.”
“It was the raven, not me,” he replied, but his words merely made her frown again. However, her frown was directed at the bird and not at him, he realised, and then the sudden link with her mind opened out within him just for a moment or two before she let him go.
“You don’t like the snow-raven,” he said, the words spoken before he could reclaim them from his tongue. “In fact, you don’t like birds at all.”
He’d known this before, of course, but not the degree of it. Annyeke pursed her lips and rose to her feet, brushing down imaginary stains on her skirts as she did so. “No. Not really. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not a crime.”
The bird hissed at that, but Simon stood and made sure he interposed himself between the raven and his companion. Annyeke drew herself up a little taller and glared at him.
“Thank you, but you don’t have to do that,” she said. “I can look after myself.”
“I know,” the scribe replied. “But I can’t. And I don’t want to be in the middle of another fight before I have to. Tell me why you don’t like birds.”
Simon had no idea why this suddenly seemed important, but he could not have stopped the words if he’d tried.
Annyeke shrugged. “I just don’t. That’s all. I don’t want to say any more about it. What would be the point? But I do understand that for whatever reason we need the snow-raven. You need him.”
“But you find it difficult to teach me what I need to know about Gathandria with the bird here?”
A long pause. Both the cane and the snow-raven were silent. Then Annyeke sighed and her shoulders slumped. “Yes, I think I do.”
Without hesitation, Simon took a couple of paces forward and hugged her. In his arms, she felt warm and surprisingly vulnerable for someone as strong as she was. He hadn’t touched her before, not like this. In fact, it came to him that he hadn’t touched another woman since his mother. As that thought crossed his mind, a strange sound came from Annyeke and a moment later he realised she was snorting with laughter.
“I’m most certainly not your mother, Simon,” she said, releasing herself and stepping back. “And I’m glad to discover I’ve given you at least one new experience today.”
He let her go and then couldn’t help joining in her laughter. It was she who recovered first.
“Good,” she said. “Because if we can laugh, then perhaps there’s hope. But we need to press on. There isn’t much time. Before it gets dark, I think I should tell you the Second Gathandrian Legend. It deals with justice and anger.”
Even before the snow-raven opened his beak and hissed once more, Simon already had his answer on his tongue.
“No,” he said, so quietly that Annyeke had to lean forward to catch his words. “This time, no more faceless legends. This time, tell me a tale from your own experiences of justice and anger. I think that will help me more. Give me something of yourself.”
The Second Gathandrian Legend: Justice and Anger
Annyeke
“Why?” she asked him, her voice shaky and high pitched. She hadn’t counted on this but, then again, she hadn’t really counted on any of it. “The legends will give you the history of our people and it is this that will draw you closer to the centre of yourself, not anything I can tell you.”
Simon shook his head once more and sat down. “I can read the legends well enough. If you grant me access to the Gathandrian Library, then I can discover them there. I might even be able to hear them from the page directly to my thoughts. Who knows? There is magic enough in this land, as far as I can see. Anything I need to ask you about them, I will do. But surely what will give me greater understanding about your—our—shared country is how its people interpret it in their ow
n lives. Isn’t that what Johan taught me on the terrible journey to reach this city? Those which give most strength and clarity are the personal stories we carry? Surely it is through them that our goal is reached most fully.”
He sat back in his chair and took a long breath. He blinked at her and she felt his confidence seeping away. It wasn’t the strangeness of that which held her most, though. It was the fact that the mind-cane was now lying across his legs, at a slight angle, the base of it by his left thigh and the silver top near his right knee. She hadn’t seen it move there. Neither, she felt, had he. And he still didn’t realise it. But, for a heartbeat or two, it was as if Simon and the cane were one being, and the most natural thing in Gathandria was for him to rest his right hand, glowing a soft blue now, gently on its carving, anchoring it to him by his touch so it would be ready for…
“By the gods!” Simon gasped and leapt to his feet. He must have followed her gaze. The cane rolled off and landed with a clatter on the stone cobbles of her kitchen floor. It hissed and spat, sparking wild flame for a terrifying moment before dancing as if insulted into the shadows of the room. The scribe rubbed his legs as if he’d been burnt. The blue shade on his flesh faded from sight.
“Are you all right?” she asked him.
“Y-yes,” he stammered before blushing. “Annyeke, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“No, please.” She brushed away his apologies. There was no need for them, after all, and, in any case, she hated an embarrassed man. They were always harder to deal with that way. “I think you might be right. Perhaps we should try another approach to your meditation training. The mind-cane seems to think so, anyway.”
They stared at it but it didn’t react so Annyeke opened her mouth to continue. However, it was Simon who spoke first, and not aloud.