by Anne Brooke
“Which leaves me with two questions.”
Even though Hartstongue would deny the very existence of them, the links the two Gathandrians share are the strongest they have ever been. The mind-executioner can feel the colours of them on his skin—blue, green, gold, echoing the shades of the room they are both sitting in. Now is the time to show his true meaning.
He leans forward, grasps Simon’s hand and feels the shock of the deliberate gesture explode into the other man’s mind.
“And those questions are…?” asks the scribe.
“We are so alike and only together can we do what the Spirit desires,” Duncan whispers, edging his words with the same blue river which always rolls through the scribe’s thoughts. “So then, will you join your destiny to mine? Will you help me save Gathandria?”
Fifth Lammas Lands Chronicle
TEMPERANCE AND GREED
Ralph
When morning comes, he has lain all night in the secret room, the pouch containing the seven emeralds clutched in his hand. The mountain dogs are still in the bed-area, but they have not tried to reach him. Eventually, the howling eased and his heart began to beat with an easier rhythm.
The mind-executioner is still missing. Ralph cannot sense him. It is impossible to know when he will return and astonishing to realise Gelahn has not done so yet. Ralph must make the most use of the time, he knows it. Already, he has squandered the remainder of the night and he cannot afford to lose more of this strange and fragile advantage.
Even if Gelahn sends him to the death that is no death when he returns, Ralph must do something. If he does, then, perhaps, when the Overlord is no longer here, the people he is pledged to protect may not be entirely enslaved.
Where there is breath, tomorrow remains ours. A saying of his mother’s, something to encourage him in a way that his father’s traditions have never fully done, a spur to his feet.
Pulling himself upright, Ralph finds his legs are even weaker than he anticipated. Damn Gelahn’s dogs. His mind, too, lies shattered within, but at least it is no longer under attack. He has no time to wait for recovery. He must act now.
In the yard, he blinks in the sun and accustoms his eyes to the glare. He sees nobody. At this time of the morning, the enclosed land around his home should be full of people setting up to trade, greeting each other, the clash and shouts of the soldiers, the laughter of children. It has been the background to Ralph’s life for so long that the lack of it once more pierces his mind. It will be here again one day, he swears. Now, however, he is glad of the emptiness, the thought of anyone seeing him in the condition he is in makes his skin grow cold.
Still, someone will have to see it because he knows where he is heading. It is the only idea he has, although, that doesn’t mean he has to like it. He stands for too long outside the entrance, fighting against the instincts his father instilled into him almost from birth—honour, integrity, pride and, last and most important of all, the family name. In spite of everything that has happened, Ralph continues to hear his father’s voice. He is sick of it.
He pushes aside the curtain and walks into the kitchen-area, the place he visited only the night before. At least he means to walk, but his wounds have weakened him more than he realises and, in fact, he stumbles, almost falling.
At his appearance, the sound of talking and labour ceases. Ralph finds himself staring into the eyes of Jemelda. Next to her stands her quiet husband. The man’s eyes flick from one of them to the other, as if waiting for a fight to start. Ralph is in no state for fighting, but he cannot say the same of his cook.
She raises both eyebrows, opens her mouth to speak. Ralph is too quick for her.
“Neither of us wishes me to be here,” he says. “But my need—our need—is urgent and I find myself obliged to ask for your help.”
He’d intended to sound dignified, but his words came out as a mere whisper, unadorned by pride.
Jemelda purses her lips as Ralph sways. The sink surface is not such a solid foundation as he’d hoped for. The slight shake of his body must be obvious to all, no matter how much he tries to control it. The smell of stale wine and yeast overwhelms him and he struggles to stay alert.
Finally, the cook nods.
“That is as close to an apology as I imagine we’ll get from any of the Lammas Overlords, past or present,” she says. “Sit down, Ralph Tregannon, before you fall. My kitchen will not be made unclean by such as you.”
Ralph had not realised his words had been an apology of any sort, but he lets it go. Though what she says is harsh, the tone in which she says it is not. Her husband rushes to bring him a stool, and he slides down onto it, grateful for the man’s attentions.
“Thank you,” Ralph says to him. “Forgive me, but I have never known your name. Might I ask it of you now?”
This, he thinks, is a simple request, and one made from courtesy. But Jemelda’s response sweeps all thoughts of courtesy far away.
She takes two strides up to him, grabs a wooden tool Ralph does not recognise from the draining area and brandishes it in his face. He blinks but does not flinch. She is a servant, after all. If Ralph showed fear, his father, if he were still alive, would have beaten him. And all the time Jemelda is shouting. Her voice plunges through his skin and ransacks his thoughts with its stridency and its truth.
“That is exactly the kind of grievance we hold against you,” she yells. “You know nothing about the Lammas people, not even the names of those who have given their lives to you and your family. You and your father have made us the beggars we are today. He oppressed us and you, with your desire for glory and hatred of peace, have crushed us with your empty dreams of grandeur. Did you not think the mind-executioner would use us, use you, and turn against us in the end? And why did you bring in Simon the Devil to kill us at the first? You have taken your father’s work and planted it deep and neither our land nor our hearts will ever be free of it. How I wish the Tregannon family had never been chosen as our Overlords. It was a bad day for us all when that choice was made.”
In the silence after her outpouring, Ralph finds his breath no longer comes easily to his throat. Some of the anger in Jemelda’s eyes fades, though most remains. As she steps away, he coughs, wipes his hand over his face and finds an unexpected truth on his tongue.
“I’m sorry,” he says and means it. “I have been wrong about many things. I don’t know if I can ever put it right, but I want to try.”
Jemelda swallows, then lays the wooden utensil down. Another long pause during which even the old man, her husband, is still.
Then she nods. “Yes, I see you do. It is good to find not all of your mother’s blood has been crushed from within you.”
Ralph blinks. She speaks as if she knew his mother, but that is impossible. At the same time, the old man shuffles his feet on the flooring. Jemelda and Ralph turn to him as if they are one. He is holding a beaker of water towards the Overlord. Slowly, Ralph takes it. While he sips, the cook’s husband stares at his feet.
“My name is Frankel,” he says.
The water tastes like honey in Ralph’s mouth. It seems a long time since his thirst of any kind has come as near as this to being quenched.
“Thank you,” he says, as formal as if he is at a private dinner with one of his neighbouring Overlords. “May the peace of all the gods and stars be with you, Frankel.”
Jemelda harrumphs, but she is smiling. Ralph can see how her passions rise and fall like the making of bread, but he thinks there is rightness in her, more so than there is in himself.
“So then, Overlord,” she says. “What more has happened that you come to us in this way?”
Ralph tells her as succinctly as he can. While he talks, she tends to his wounds, bathing them in water and laying an ointment he does not recognise on the worst of them. Its scent is sharp, overpowering and it stings like the worst of the wolf-nettles, but her touch is unexpectedly gentle. The two servants already know of the mind-executioner’s arrival and h
ave heard the howling of the dogs in Ralph’s home. But they do not know that Gelahn has vanished and the dogs are without a master. Neither do they know of the emeralds, the strange powers they are said to have. When he’s finished speaking, Jemelda stretches out her hand.
“Show them to me,” she says.
Ralph takes the pouch from his belt but does not let the emeralds go just yet. He simply stares at her. After a few moments, she sighs and shakes her head, muttering something about the Tregannons he chooses not to hear.
“Very well, then. If you please, sir, show them to me.”
Against her gnarled brown skin, the emeralds glow more brightly. She glances up at Ralph, eyes wide.
“They feel warm,” she says.
“Sometimes, yes. I don’t know why.”
“You think they have mystical powers? That they can help us against the mind-executioner?”
“That is what family legends say. All my father told me was that strength would come from them to the pure-hearted when the time was right. That was all his father had told him, and all the fathers before them. If we survive this and if there is a future, perhaps I will one day tell my own son, too.”
Jemelda laughs. “Did not the murderous scribe spoil you for that, my good Lord?”
At the mention of Simon, Ralph springs to his feet and paces away as best as he can until he reaches the other side of the kitchen. He has to duck to keep clear of the low ceiling. Once there, he finds he must steady himself on the work-area again. It is sticky with spices.
“That doesn’t matter. All that is finished and we must face the challenges set before us now. Whatever may have taken place with Hartstongue, he has nothing to do with what is happening here.”
“Doesn’t he?” the cook spits the words out as if they are knives. “I thought he had everything to do with what is happening here, and with you, whether you admit it or not. And…”
“Jemelda.” Frankel’s quiet interruption and the tone of admonishment in his voice stops the rising argument threatening to erupt around them. Ralph is glad of it. He has no wish to discuss Simon with his servants, nor anyone else for that matter.
The cook subsides, but Ralph can sense the crimson edge of all her unsaid words. They peck at his mind like wild birds and he cannot shake them away. One thing he is sure of, he could answer none of her questions about the scribe as he himself cannot fathom it.
Without another word, Jemelda drops the emeralds, one by one, into their pouch. With each small clatter, a spark of green rises and melts into the air, leaving no trace.
“There are none pure-hearted in these lands,” she whispers, “so what good can they do us?”
“I don’t know, but we will never know unless we hide them from Gelahn.”
Frankel gasps and even Jemelda takes a step back. The name of the mind-executioner is not usually spoken aloud so easily, but Ralph finds he no longer cares what punishments may be inflicted on him for the crime. Jemelda is the first to recover.
“You think he will come back?” she asks.
“Yes, for the soldiers. My army has trained well over the last year-cycle and Gelahn’s assault on Gathandria will be based on physical attack rather than another mind-war. After all, Simon now has the mind-cane.”
The memory of how Simon had used the cane on the shores of Gathandria, the last sight Ralph had of him, sweeps over him and, for a moment, he is unable to speak. Frankel looks as if he might step forward, perhaps even offer help, but Jemelda takes hold of her husband’s arm. May the gods and stars help him, but Ralph cannot give in to this now. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, tries to pull what little dignity he has around him. No one can rely on a love-sick leader, especially one as shamed and without hope as he is.
So he continues. “The scribe has the mind-cane, and Gelahn needs our expertise. Even though much of the army is dispersed now, or dead, I still have enough men he can call on.”
“Where will they go, however? Who will they fight?” This is from Frankel. It is the longest speech Ralph has heard him say and the Overlord turns fully to him to reply, in acknowledgement of that fact.
“He wishes to go to Gathandria. There he will fight the Council of Elders and the scribe. They have no expertise in hand-to-hand battles. Gelahn’s plan is sound. It is… I believe it is what I would do in his circumstances. I would attack while the enemy is weakest, before they have prepared a defence.”
“How will they get there?” Jemelda asks with a snort. “If our enemy no longer has the power he is used to, the journey will be long and many will die. Besides, no one in these lands has travelled to Gathandria and returned, not for many generation-cycles.”
“I have,” Ralph replies, and gives them time to remember that fact.
Jemelda looks down at the floor. He knows what she is thinking. And look what good that did us. But when she speaks, she merely returns to the dilemma.
“Do you think you can hide your precious emeralds here, then? Do you wish to bring all the wrath of the cursed mountain dogs upon us, my noble Lord?”
“No.” Ralph takes the small number of steps necessary to reach her—reach them both. Sweeping aside all his ingrained habits, he grips her shoulders. “You are right. I do not mean to bring any further injury upon any in my lands. I will not do so. The problem I see, is mine and mine alone.”
With that Ralph lets her go. He catches the glimmer of her untrammelled surprise in his mind. Turns to depart.
It’s only when his fingers are on the curtain, ready to push it aside and enter the morning, that Frankel speaks.
“Please,” he says. “My wife and I both know the problem rests with us all. But where can such jewels be hidden where no enemy will find them?”
“I don’t know,” Ralph admits. “But I hoped you might somehow have more secure hiding places than the castle. There is no telling how long the emeralds can maintain the power to hide themselves from Gelahn. If their magic dissipates, then I would rather they do not lie so easily within his grasp.”
Jemelda hesitates and her reluctance to speak drifts between them like a dark cloud. Beneath it Ralph glimpses all the ways those beneath the Tregannons have kept their secrets over the generation-cycles.
He swallows. There is more hidden in those they brush against than can ever be told in all their stories. “We don’t have much time, Jemelda. Don’t you think the matters of tradition we cling to might be set aside for a while?”
A long silence. He can hear the faint chirrup of the birds outside, and the smell of yeast that he noticed when he first entered the kitchen-area becomes more pungent.
Frankel coughs, but it is his wife who replies. “Perhaps. There is a hiding-place, my Lord, that you have sometimes passed by but do not know. At the well in the village, where you first encountered the scribe, there is a gap in the stone at the bottom, near the dead baker’s house. In the past, the villagers used to leave their messages to each other in a place where the soldiers would neither find them nor betray us. We do so no longer. We once had a life lived under the surface of Lammas, a life you and your kind have known nothing about until now. There was something in the power of the water that kept prying eyes away. The emeralds may be safer there than anywhere else. So. I have told you.”
The cook is crying as she draws to a close. Frankel hugs her to him and murmurs soothing words. She takes her apron and wipes her eyes with it. Ralph does not know what to say and brushes his own hand upward over his face, trying to make sense of the way things have been amongst the people he is supposed to protect. Secrets and shadows. Has it always been like this?
“Thank you,” he whispers at last. “Please believe me when I say that, if it lies in my power, I will not break your trust. By all the gods and stars we know.”
Jemelda takes a long breath and looks at Ralph at last. She blinks and he can see the remaining glitter in her eyes, the tears as yet unfallen.
She lifts her head higher. “So all men say. But the truth will c
ome after.”
She may have been going to say more, tease out further promises from him that Ralph does not know how to give beyond what he has already spoken on oath, but there is a sound like the roaring of a mighty wind outside and, a heartbeat later, the boy Apolyon bursts in. In spite of his leg, he is running and there is blood on his face.
The cook gasps, reaches forward to take him in her arms, but the lad is already talking, each word spilling over its companions in order to be free. But what he says brings no freedom.
“The dogs, the cruel d-dogs,” he stammers. “They are out of the castle, they are in the yard.”
It is then that the wind becomes a howling. It is then that the terror starts.
Chapter Seven: The fires of chaos
Annyeke
Don’t go any nearer, Annyeke. It’s too dangerous.
As Johan continued to hold Talus in his arms, Annyeke stared at the scene in front of her. His words filled her head, but she pushed them aside. She had to. Great flames consumed the Library, reaching up into the sky like mighty fingers tearing at the very fabric of the world. She could hear the Library’s keening in her thoughts, a sound like a dying animal. Without the books they held so dear, Gathandria would be only a fragile memory of what it should be. Without their stories, they would be all but lost to silence.
Simon. She’d allowed Simon to come here, into this pit of fire. How could he survive such horror? She had to find him. She couldn’t leave him there.
As Johan’s fingers grabbed at her arm, Annyeke leapt into the burning torrent. He screamed out words she couldn’t hear and a blast of flame drove him and Talus from her. She could no longer see them. Before the spikes of fear rising in her thoughts for her friends could overwhelm her, she landed with a thump on the searing heat of the Library floor. She gasped, scrabbling to get up before the fire could melt her flesh and her mind.
Then one word. Wait.