by Anne Brooke
As he made his way past the shattered homes of those he’d never really known, the echo of their lives and what they had once been sparked through the darkness: children and laughter; the smell of corn in the oven; the braids knitted by the women; the boots of the men, muddy from the fields. A hard life but not an overly cruel one, until the coming of the scribe, and how that in the end had brought the mind-executioner to them. There was much he had to put right, more perhaps than he had imagined, but he would do it. Whatever griefs lay ahead, let them be his alone, and let the people he had injured go free.
Something turned within him, coinciding with his thought. He felt as if a door had been opened and let in unaccountable light. The pain remained, a dark and silent shadow in the background, but this did not overcome the sense of space filling him. For a moment he understood someone else accompanied him in this walking vision and he waited for a voice, but no-one spoke. Perhaps the voice was simply in what he saw and not what might be heard this time-cycle.
The Lost One allowed the pain and the spaciousness to dwell within him, denying neither, simply letting them exist. He knew soon he was likely to have need of them both for whatever the Spirit of Gathandria might intend.
After a while, although he could not tell the extent of it by a story’s length, Simon became aware the glimpses of the villagers, and indeed the village itself, were fading around him. He began to hear the steady pace of his own breathing, and he caught the faint scent of spices in the air. Then the press of the chair against his legs and the weight of someone’s hand on his shoulder.
He blinked himself into the surroundings of the Lammas castle kitchen again.
“Scribe?”
“Yes,” he whispered, placing the voice as Frankel’s. “Yes, I am here.”
Frankel let him go and at once Simon missed the connection. He didn’t remember anyone touching him with concern since he’d returned to his former home. Bearing in thought his skills, it had been a small act of courage. The scribe could taste the old man’s mind in his; he had not been prepared enough to form any kind of barrier between them. He shook himself, tried to focus on his own thoughts only.
His companion frowned. “You looked as if you were a long way from here.”
“I know. I think in some ways that’s true, although what I saw was your village. That’s familiar enough, or rather it was so. But as I walked along the main street, past the wells, I could feel the presence of the people who once lived there standing at the edges of my thought. I could see their lives, almost experience them, even though I know it’s a vision, not the reality you and yours have suffered here.”
He stopped abruptly, wanting to say so much more but being unsure how it might sound. If he were in Gathandria, it would be a simple matter to offer a brief mind-link, and then all his thoughts could be known fully without words. Here, such an act would be, because of what he and Ralph had done, a reminder of injustice and death. Besides, he could not suggest it to one who was not a mind-dweller himself. It would be unthinkable. He glanced up at Frankel.
The old man looked puzzled. “There is more you wish to say?”
Simon took a breath, knowledge coalescing within him. “I came back because I believed it to be the right thing to do. I still believe this, no matter what you and the villagers decide about me. What I hadn’t fully comprehended, and I do so now only in part, were the depths and heights, the length and the breadth of your suffering. Forgive me, Frankel, because nothing I can do through the way I live my life or lose it can ever in any sense make up for what you and your people have had to face.”
He swallowed and Frankel stared at him. Several emotions passed over the old man’s expression but Simon did not wish to take the liberty of naming any of them. It was not his right. As he waited for the man to speak, if indeed he was intending to do so, the scribe became aware of the light and the falling snow beyond the narrow window. He could feel the sharp tug of an occasional draught through the door-curtain and heard the soft cries of the snow-raven. Soon, he understood, he might need to respond to the bird’s demands, whatever they might bring him, but for now he simply wished for Frankel to speak. Still, when the old man did so, Simon felt his heart beat faster.
“There is a difference,” his companion said, “between knowing something and understanding it. Being married has taught me that.”
Simon smiled. At the same moment, another noise began to announce itself alongside the snow-raven’s calls. The distant murmur of people, and they did not sound calm. He shivered before drawing himself up a little taller in his chair. Finding this was not enough however, the scribe stood, wiping away the sudden sweat lining his palms.
“My wife,” Frankel said, as if making an announcement which might come as a surprise to Simon. “She has found the villagers. She is returning. It is not long till the midday-hour. We must prepare.”
Fourth Gathandrian Interlude
Annyeke
She stood in the middle of her work-area in the former Council of Meditation building and surveyed the scene of near-devastation around her. It didn’t take long. There wasn’t much to see. In one corner of the room, Johan was in the process of placing scattered books into a neat pile while Talus helped him, trying to put their Meditation Records in order. In all truth, Annyeke was astonished there was anything left to put in order anyway. Since the end of the war, she had assumed everything would be different. It was reassuring to see some things from the past had nonetheless remained.
And here she was about to change them.
Because she needed to set up the Council of Elders again and, for that, they required a meeting place. The old Council building was destroyed, along with the great Library, and it would take many moon-cycles to rebuild them. For now, they would have to meet here, in the Meditation Building. Yes, some of it was open to the air, both walls and roof, but there would be enough shelter to protect them from the worst of the weather. And if it was more open so their fellow-Gathandrians could wander in at will, let them. She had nothing to hide.
Johan stood and smiled down at Talus, still busy with the remaining records.
“Are you sure you want to make your base here?” he asked her and she nodded a response.
“Yes,” she confirmed it, holding his gaze. “There should be enough good rooms here for the elders to meet and for the Meditation staff to work also.”
“Especially as there are so few of us.”
“Yes, especially because of that.”
Annyeke said no more. She understood her life-partner’s reluctance to give up his work domain to the discredited elders. Somehow she had to find the balance between being one of the people, a privilege she would never give up in a thousand life-cycles, and being First Elder. She knew she could do it; it was simply a matter of time.
Johan smiled. “Sometimes I can see your thoughts only from your face, my love; there is no need to link to your mind to know you.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I’ll have you know we redheads have in any case no need to dissemble as we’re always right. It’s a known fact of life.”
Annyeke’s aim had been to make him laugh but instead the man she loved frowned and moved closer to her.
“Right enough to use the rooms which should belong to me, when I have so little left of the Council of Meditation?” he whispered.
She blinked. In truth, she could not judge him for his accusation; she had not spoken or linked with him before coming here. She could see more clearly there were many things a First Elder must learn, and amongst them was how to be a wife to this man.
“Forgive me, I did not think to share with you what was in my mind,” she whispered in return. “I forget I am no longer alone. I forget that now we two fight together against all the world if need be, not apart. Johan: I ask you this and you have all the freedom in the world in your answer. Would you be willing to share what you have here with the elders? Perhaps our close proximity can benefit us both and give us a new kind of city?”
The First Elder let her questions hang in the air between them, allowing what was said out loud to be echoed in her thoughts. Clearly enough so anyone might read them if they wished, even a child.
Unexpectedly, Johan hugged her, and Annyeke revelled in the warmth and strength of his grip. She suspected she would need his strength for quite a while to come.
I love you, Annyeke, he said directly to her mind, no speech needed. In this new life we both have, I want to be part of yours, that is all.
You are my life, Johan. The depth and the height of it.
And you are mine. But, as the Lost One has in the past told me, I am too quick to consider what might be strictly correct and not to see things as they really are. First Elder, you are welcome to whatever you wish of this place. Forgive me.
He broke the embrace and gazed down at her. “Let me see how structurally sound the remaining walls are. Then you can decide how best to accommodate all you need.”
Annyeke touched his hand briefly.
“Then we can decide,” she said. “I have no wish for this new government to be a dictatorship, and neither, I think, do the people.”
As Johan tested the structure, Annyeke knelt next to Talus and helped him finish off the piles of paperwork he had created.
“What shall I do with them?” he asked her when the job was done.
Good question, she thought as she gazed at the slight shifting of colours across the records. Nothing untoward there: a few mind-disturbances, mainly of a domestic or commercial nature; some child issues, particularly in the young Gathandrians just coming up to their adult-cycle; and several requests for mind-skills development. The latter had always been the highest demands on their work-time, and Johan and she had delighted in their city-wide mix of mind-groups. Annyeke had no idea if any of these still functioned, and whether it mattered if they did or not. Everything had changed; were any of their former successes useful to them now?
She sighed, not something she particularly liked doing, but she found she couldn’t help herself.
“I don’t know,” she said in answer to her young charge’s question. “If we still had any desks left worth mentioning, then there would be the ideal place for them, but as you can see we only have a floor, some walls and just enough ceiling to cover us. They may as well stay where they are; they’re protected enough from the snow, and any wind that might follow it, for now.
“We could take them home,” Talus said.
Annyeke gazed down at him. “Home?”
“Yes,” he nodded eagerly. “Didn’t you tell us that everything is different since the war? If you took the records home, First Elder, then there would be more space here for the elders and for meditation.”
She knew he was right. Sometimes it took a child to point out what was obvious. She hunkered down next to him. “I agree. That’s a good idea indeed, but we need to ask Johan first.”
From across the bare work-space, Johan laughed and turned round from his close inspection of the north wall. “I think we can make room at home. A couple of trips between us should be sufficient. In the current crisis we need to use every part of the building left to us.”
“And perhaps we must think about how our activities will be divided in the future, or whether we even need such records.”
Johan nodded, his expression growing serious. “You have great plans.”
“Oh yes. Always. But for more than simple desk-work,” she replied.
She would have said more but a green flash exploded silently in the room and took all her words away. The next moment everything vanished and she was flying and falling through nothing, and to the gods and stars knew where.
Chapter Six: Prelude to a Death
Simon
To his surprise, the arrival of the villagers came as a relief. He could feel their anger trailing tiny red scars over his mind, puncturing him with a hatred fuelled by despair. The nearer they came to the castle courtyard, the greater the combined sense of them. Something inside the Lost One slotted into place.
It was for this reason he had returned. Until this moment, he had not realised how much the waiting had held him back. Now, and unexpectedly, he found he was ready.
Simon stood. He smiled at Frankel and gestured to the outdoors. “I must meet them in the courtyard. Then they will see I have no weapon to cloud their judgement.”
He began to walk towards the dividing curtain.
“Wait,” the old man said, and Simon stopped and turned to face him. He could not stay long. Something had begun which he could not stop and did not wish to. Perhaps not even the Spirit of Gathandria could stop it.
“What is it, Frankel?”
“It is cold and already it is snowing. You will need your cloak, Scribe.”
Before Simon could reach for it himself, Frankel shook out the cloak and stepped behind Simon, placing it on his shoulders.
“No man should go to his judgement without some small comfort,” he said.
A pause between them, in which no other words were necessary. Finally, the Lost One nodded and fastened the cloak around him.
“Thank you,” he said. “I am grateful.”
Then he turned again towards the day, drew the curtain to one side and walked out into the air’s winter chill. The first sensation was the call of the mind-cane, even locked where it was in the bread-store. It cried out to him, pleading for release, even though Simon knew it had the power to free itself if it wished to. Was the choice he’d made to lay that source of protection to one side the reason it did not come to him? He could think of no other explanation.
The second and more pertinent sensation was the continuing wave of emotions from the approaching villagers. They had not yet arrived at the stream which bordered the courtyard, but Simon could see their figures hurrying towards him over the fields. In front of them was Jemelda, her darker colours a contrast to the snow which tickled his skin and mouth. Behind her was Thomas the Blacksmith, and Simon shut his eyes as the memory of their last encounter filled his thoughts. While still under Ralph’s command, Simon had given over to death the woman the blacksmith loved, although at the time he had not known this fact. When he had fled from the Lammas Lands with Johan and Isabella, Thomas had almost killed him.
Simon could not blame him. Perhaps here the blacksmith would finish the task he’d begun. He waited for the people to come wading over the water towards him. Half the courtyard away, Jemelda stopped and shook out her skirts as the people following gathered around her, for the most part.
There was one who did not stop. Thomas kept on walking. It seemed to Simon as if this had always been meant to happen; something in his blood, something the mind-cane had left there, expected it. He stood taller as the blacksmith continued towards him. He felt Frankel’s gasp in his thoughts rather than heard it, and then Thomas raised his hand, and a stinging slap sent the Lost One sprawling to the icy ground. He tasted blood on his tongue.
“Get up,” the blacksmith said, his voice low and hoarse. “Now.”
Simon did so. But this time, when the blacksmith raised his arm, he caught it before the blow could fall again.
“Do you not think that too much violence and injustice has already taken place here that you should bring it to fruition before it is ready?” he whispered, so only he and the blacksmith might hear.
Thomas shook him away and stepped back. Simon could sense his fear in having his thoughts read by the contact, but in any case they needed no mind-interpretation. The blacksmith hated him and wanted him dead. It was obvious.
“We have come here for justice,” Thomas said. “And, if the voice of the people is truly heard, then it will be a long and bloodied one.”
“Yes,” Simon replied. “It is as you say.”
And then neither had time for more words as Jemelda stood beside them, her eyes darting from one to the other.
“Come,” she said. “It is the midday-hour and we must start the judgement if we are not to lose the day-cycle. Follo
w me.”
He did so. Behind him came Thomas and the remaining villagers, at least the ones Jemelda had been able to find in such few short hours. No more than twenty or so but this was still enough to give the death-judgement, even without the customary drums. The Lost One’s journey to the Place of Judgement, and Tree of Execution, was a silent one, but the beat and pulse of his own blood was accompaniment enough.
At his side, but keeping his distance, Frankel tracked him. Simon slipped only once on the forming ice but managed not to fall. The action took him back to the last time he’d been here: the day when Ralph and the mind-executioner had tried to hang him for his crimes. He’d been terrified, begging for mercy and weeping, with the taunts of the people echoing in his ears. He had hardly been able to believe it was happening, nor later that the Gathandrians had rescued him at the last moment-cycle. Then he’d been a reluctant participant but now it was different. Very different.
The realisation of this flowed over him like a shock of water on a warm day and his mind flickered with strange colours before settling again. This time he was ready. Yes, his skin and thoughts trembled with the knowledge of what might come and how the villagers would judge him, but today he had come here of his own will and purpose. He would accept whatever Jemelda and her people decided, and let it bring peace to the land, both this one and their neighbours’.
Near the Tree of Execution, Jemelda stopped. Simon waited. He couldn’t be sure but he thought she might have hesitated before squaring her shoulders and walking towards the place where the Lammas Lord should stand. He wondered if Ralph would attend at all, and what his verdict might be.
“So,” Jemelda began, making Simon jump. By the gods and stars, he had grown quickly used to the silence. “We are here, but first I must ask where the mind-cane is.”
