by Anne Brooke
It was odd, Simon thought, that only in this moment had he understood it was one thing to turn one’s back on a friend because that was the right, the only, thing to do. It was quite another to accept it in the blood.
He took another step and the dog raised itself to its haunches. The snarling turned into a growl. At the same time, several things happened at once. The snow-raven swooped down towards him and he felt the edge of the bird’s wing brush against his face, causing a jolt of power to flare upwards in his mind. He lifted his hand and the mind-cane twisted out of Gelahn’s grip and flew easily into his fingers, once more fitting there as naturally as if it had been carved for him alone and, finally, he strode towards the mountain dog as if he were another kind of beast entirely and brought down the end of the cane onto its undulating head as Gelahn had done only a few moments ago. The animal sank to the earth, stone paws twitching and blood oozing from its flesh. The rest of the pack dogs flattened themselves to the ground and Simon passed through, the mind-cane humming a song whose melody echoed in his own head. He was shaking, but whether with the sudden influx of power or through fear he could not tell. Probably, it was both.
When he came to where Gelahn stood, the executioner said nothing. Instead, he raised one eyebrow and reached for the cane. From above, the snow-raven cried out, a piercing note of warning that vanished into the breeze as Simon continued to hesitate.
Gelahn’s lips tightened. Then he spoke.
“If you feel you have gift enough to hold the mind-cane on your own,” he said, “then you are, of course, at liberty to do so. You are not my prisoner. But if you are unsure, then let one who has the experience of dealing with its wildness take it.”
Another pause, when the scribe felt the beat of his blood filling his head. He gripped the cane, determined to fight if he had to, but Gelahn wrapped his fingers around its carved top and snatched it from him. A few sparks of black fire leapt into the air and the humming stopped. So much for determination, he thought.
The mind-executioner smiled, gesturing towards the dogs. “Indeed, you have never liked those beasts. But, please, try not to injure them all; we are likely to need them.”
Simon ignored him. “Show me the jewel.”
A heartbeat later, Gelahn placed the jewel into his hand. Simon felt its warmth and colour spread through his skin. Not in the way the cane did, but with gentleness. For a moment or two, he forgot to breathe and when he looked up again, he almost expected to see the Lammas Lord himself, not the executioner.
“Ah, I see,” Gelahn said. “This belongs to Ralph. That is helpful, thank you. Still, it is amusing you cleave to him at your centre, even though he was willing to kill you for what he wanted more truly.”
Cursing his own openness to this man, Simon felt fire rising on his skin. He closed his fingers around the green jewel and took a step back. “How is it you claim to know all about me and yet you have not been able to understand that fact until now? I cannot see you would have been holding back such knowledge to spare my humiliation.”
“Perhaps you have only just recognised it yourself, Simon. And why would I humiliate someone who is working with me? Besides, when all is said, Lord Tregannon matters nothing to either of us. When Gathandria is safe, we will have power and friends enough to fulfil all our needs. And, believe me, the time of fulfilment is sooner than even I anticipated.”
“Because of the dogs?” Simon asked and Gelahn nodded.
“Yes. But not only them. Because of your bird and this jewel, also.”
Annyeke
She had spent well over an hour-cycle picking up what remains she could find of the great Library’s manuscripts, with the women following on behind her. She could feel the hum of their thoughts, a rainbow of colours. It seemed to mesh together in the icy air that held within it the certainty of snow. Not that this idea was easy work. Oh, no. Not that anything to do with Gathandria was easy work these day-cycles. When had it stopped being simple? Annyeke could no longer remember. So she carried on, bending down, letting her fingers guide her to where their story treasures lay hidden amongst the debris. Each time she found what she searched for, a flash of deepest green would fly between her hand and the damaged parchment. Heart beating fast, she would retrieve what she could and then add it to the three stacks she and the people were in the process of building up. This consisted of the ancient stories, then those of more recent origin and, finally, the stories some of the people had written in the last generation-cycle. Annyeke had intended initially to separate them into categories according to story contents, but something in her blood had refused to make so arbitrary a division. Life in Gathandria and its neighbours was made up of many parts and she was determined not to be the first elder, acting or otherwise, who declared that was not so. Once they had salvaged what they could, they could begin to create their own defences and methods of attack, using both the written tales and those living only in their minds, for the mind-executioner was not the sole Gathandrian who could face and manipulate the fighting of a battle.
Still, she wished Johan were here. He’d started off following her lead but, in the end, the wild patterns of his thoughts had given her no option but to stop and let him go to the park land and his interrupted battle training where it was obvious he would rather be. He wanted to try something different, he’d told her, to work with the people to create weapons forged from the mind that also existed in the physical realm. She hoped he would be successful for all their sakes, although such a feat had never been achieved in many generation-cycles, but was the stuff only of legend. Nevertheless, she, like him, was determined to try everything possible while they still lived. No doubt, very soon they would need every iota of cunning and strength they could find. Talus had gone with him without even a backward glance, but she couldn’t find it in her heart to be angry at that. Gathandrian men were, in her experience, usually better suited to active pursuits than they were to the collation of their people’s stories.
She must stop thinking about Johan. She had far more important things to do.
Standing up, she shaded her eyes against the last rays of the sun and gazed at the clouds. There would be snow, and soon. The puzzle of it filled her mouth with purple. Would that fact work to their advantage or their disadvantage? Both they and the mind-executioner were used to the extremes of their country’s weather, but neither of them had fought such a battle as was to come in the midst of the snows. However, Gelahn would surely bring with him what he could find of the Lammas Lands’ soldiers and they would struggle with the deep chill that could turn flesh black and shatter bones. Set against that, of course, was the soldiers’ experience of hand-to-hand combat. She shook her head, the puzzle remaining an uncertain purple.
No time for pondering, however. She and the people had to work whilst light remained to them.
As she turned back to her task, a thought flashed into her senses, an impression of tall purpose approaching. She looked up to see one of the women into whose care she had given the blinded First Elder. As Annyeke stepped forward to meet her, she saw it was Iffenia, the Second Elder’s wife. Of course, she should have remembered. Recent events were playing with her mind and she would have to be careful. From now on, she could not afford to make mistakes.
Iffenia smiled, hurrying to meet her and shaking her head at Annyeke’s unspoken assumption.
“No, do not fear. The First Elder sleeps only. I have given him winter raspberry for rest and cypress leaf for healing. He is safe enough for the moment. I wrapped a mind-net of my husband’s making ’round the workshop before I left. If there is any danger, I will know it. It struck me I would be, for now, more needed here, for surely it is up to the womenfolk to do what we can for our lands.”
“Thank you,” Annyeke said, trying not to smile at the exact sentiments she, too, held. “I’m grateful for all the help we can give each other, indeed. We must do as much as we can before night brings the first of the snows.”
Even as she spoke, however,
Annyeke gained an impression of shadows and darkness, and wasn’t entirely sure where it had come from. It reminded her of the executioner and his strange assault on their land. Why should she feel this in the presence of Iffenia? Perhaps, indeed, she could trust no one. She must be as wise as a rock snake and as calm as the summer clouds. She shook her head. Her companion was at least right about the snow. Already, it was beginning to fall. The first few flakes brought a deeper silence to the scene. Still turning over the sparks of suspicion in her mind, she stared upwards at the sky, as if by looking she could hold back the inevitable. Small bursts of ice broke against her skin, slid down her face.
“Will this prove our friend or our enemy, I wonder,” Iffenia mused as she bent down to rescue another parchment scrap from the rubble.
Annyeke did not answer, but the question made her pause. She wondered if this uncertainty was what the elders had experienced and what they did when it happened. Being a source of inspiration and hope for the people was not, perhaps, as desirable, or as straightforward, as she had first assumed. With a shake of her head, she focused on the task in hand as the snows began to fall in earnest.
Around her, Iffenia and the rest of her fellow labourers followed suit, this time with a fresh urgency to their actions and, for a while, the only sound was the rustle of the parchment piles as they slowly grew and the only colour apart from white was the faint flash of purple or green as fragments of the tales were rescued. They would not have long, Annyeke realised, before they would be forced to stop, not only for their own sakes as the need for warmth and protection became paramount, but also to safeguard the stories. Best to do so now while the decision remained theirs and they were not, as had been their custom, simply reacting to the demands of an outside force.
She stood up, gazed round, felt the ragged beat of her heart echo her own confusion before drawing breath, and forced herself to be calm.
It is enough, she said in thought only to the people, the words carving their slow truth into her own mind. What we have found now must prove to be sufficient and what we have not found, we must abandon. Let us take what we have salvaged to the old Council Buildings. It is there, in the hours to come, that we must face our enemy and make our stand.
Then, in a way she couldn’t comprehend, time itself stopped.
Duncan Gelahn
The pale light of the empty sky almost blinds him, casting a clouded haze over this place of earth and mystery. Behind him, the mind-executioner can hear the panting of the dogs and Simon’s harsh breath. He can smell the scent of winter on the air, even though he is situated in nothing more substantial than a memory. He knows the emerald in his grasp gives him the power he needs and he must use it quickly. The Lost One is wavering and Duncan cannot afford any turning back from decisions already made. The battle will begin soon and he senses the call of Gathandria in his blood and whatever is destined to take place there.
First, however, he must return to Lammas and there is the Lammas Lord to consider. Even though allowing Hartstongue and Tregannon to meet is an act fraught with danger, Gelahn understands he has no other choice. For a war, he needs soldiers. He needs Ralph. Now he has ordered the dogs to terrify the Overlord, the man will be more the more willing to obey him.
With this in mind, and holding the emerald high and feeling its unfathomable power flow through his skin, Duncan swings round to face the mountain dogs that remain alive. At once, they spring to their feet as if he has called them, but he has not done so. At his side, Simon draws in a sharp breath and he sees the emerald is pulsating. Just as the snow-raven beats his great white flight to the earth, a shimmer of green flies out and circles the dogs. They begin to howl. The snow-raven spreads his wings once more and launches towards the circle. Acting on instinct alone, Duncan grasps the Lost One by the arm and begins to run. The circle hisses and flares. Simon cries out, but it’s too late for objections.
The executioner imprisons his accomplice with a mind-net as dark as winter and springs towards the strange green fire. Simon has no choice but to obey him. Together, the two Gathandrians fall into the sphere, loud now with singing, and blackness swallows them both.
It is the worst journey Duncan has ever experienced. The roaring in his ears all but deafens him. It is an unstarlike mixture of the dogs’ howling, the emerald sphere’s own unworldly voice, and the red terror coursing through both himself and the Lost One, as if here there can be no deceit and no shadows. Everything is open and everything is known, and all the time, the wild plunging sensation drags them through the tunnel into another realm. As he tumbles from side to side in the circle, the mind-executioner sees first Simon, then the cane, the white wings of the snow-raven, and always the mountain hounds. He is out of breath, bloodied and torn. If this madness does not come to an end soon, he doubts whether they will be in a fit state to command any army from the Lammas Lands at all. They must find a way to control the circle’s path.
As the deafening noise continues, Duncan enfolds his mind with the best net he can furnish under such circumstances. It’s ragged, barely functioning, but it’s better than nothing. It allows him a small measure of freedom to act. The next time he’s near enough to Simon, he grabs his arm, grits his teeth against the almost unbearable wrenching of his fingers as he tries to maintain hold and against the piercing pain-knife that spins from the Lost One’s thoughts.
Be still.
Impossible to do any such thing, of course, but these are the only words Duncan can muster to break through to Simon’s consciousness. He frames them in blue, the scribe’s mind-colour. He hopes it might be enough. It is.
In the sudden silence that settles throughout the Lost One’s head, the mind-executioner seizes his chance. He pushes his hand onto his companion’s forehead and sparks his thoughts through his fingers and into Simon’s mind. The scribe twists in his grip and struggles to be free. Duncan knows the pain he is causing in the midst of such a terrible journey, but doesn’t let go.
Work with me.
The half Gathandrian has no choice, but there is so little time. In the moment before the stillness of the scribe’s mind vanishes, Duncan links their thoughts together and continues to hold on. While the howling and breathlessness of their journey floods back in, he has a heartbeat’s space to store the fact that Simon’s unfathomed mind is beyond the power of anything he has experienced, and then he must complete the task.
Tumbling from side to side along the tunnel, he reaches out to Simon with the links from his mind-net. Where he expected to encounter confusion and, perhaps, resistance, he finds none. The scribe is ready with the kind of strength he has not encountered in him before, at least not under such circumstances as these. It is a matter of moments only to spin something that could save them and, as soon as he can, Duncan flings out the combined net they have created, a fluttering melding of blue, red and black, and watches as it wraps around the noise, the darkness and the terror.
The sound of the emerald is cut off and only the howling of the dogs remains. Duncan drags air into his lungs, but cannot get enough of it. In his arms, Simon is shaking, but he is still alive, still conscious, and that is what they both need to be in order to survive.
The journey must end.
Duncan barely has time to acknowledge that the words in his mind come not from himself but from the scribe when there is a flash of silver and black, the darkness rolls away and he lands with a thump on earth and grasses. Turning his head, he sees the Lost One next to him. In Simon’s fingers nestles the cane. It looks as if it has been there for a long time. Beyond them both, the mountain dogs are huddled together, teeth bared, beginning to snarl their way into life again. Further beyond them, the snow-raven lies, its wings torn, its great beak open. The mind-executioner cannot tell if the bird lives or not, but there are more pressing matters to consider.
Without its journeying circle, the emerald spins for a moment out of time in the air and then falls. He lunges towards it, but it is too late. Another hand appears, the
jewel sparkles more brightly, twists a little, and lands in the stranger’s outstretched palm.
Not a stranger. Even before Duncan takes in the man’s dark hair and regal bearing, though what dignity any of them might have laid claim to lies in tatters now, he knows who it is, and, because of that, where he is.
As Duncan rises to his feet and dusts down his cloak, it is the scribe who speaks first.
“Ralph,” he whispers.
Seventh Lammas Lands Chronicle
Ralph
When he wakes, he expects to see sky and know abandonment, but neither of those assumptions proves to be true. The first thing he sees is a posy of herbs attached to a hook in the ceiling at which he is staring. There is an overwhelming smell of baking rye-bread and he wrinkles his nose. Ralph has never liked rye-bread.
He tries to move his arm but it’s stiff and, despite himself, a groan escapes his lips. At once a woman’s face appears. It is the same woman he saw before, at the well when the mountain dogs leapt over him and disappeared into the circle of emeralds. It is the woman he tried to drive away. She must have brought him here, wherever here might be.