by Anne Brooke
With that, while Simon was still struggling for words to respond, Ralph turned in a swirl of threadbare, once noble, cloak, stalked out of the room and was gone.
The conversation had not gone as he’d anticipated. All the mind-power in the world could not easily handle Lord Tregannon. In his hand, the cane bucked, as if objecting to his thought, but the Lost One clasped it harder and the trembling subsided. He had not intended with his plans, spoken aloud for the first time, to rile the Lammas Lord, but perhaps Ralph was unused to him being in any way a decision-maker; he had not been so when they were together. Still, all things were new from this day-cycle onwards, and each of them would have to learn to bear it. While he recovered from death, he needed to think what the gods and stars would wish to happen next and how he could bring that about.
The Lammas snows would be over soon, as they never lasted more than a four-week cycle before turning to rains and winds which made men and women shiver in spite of the warmest of fires and the thickest of cloaks. That said, the winds had come from the mountain and now the mountain no longer existed, perhaps nature too would be different, he could not tell. Not all the wisdom of the mind-cane or the Tregannon emeralds had yet revealed that to him, if they ever would. He closed his eyes briefly at the memory of the mountain folk and their solidity which had in the end availed them nothing, before turning his thoughts to other possible projects.
The people needed to eat and, from the look of them and Jemelda’s kitchen, food was scarcer than he’d anticipated. Simon imagined the consequences of the mind-war had been to blight the winter crops and perhaps to destroy the fields completely. They needed to replant the crops but this had never been attempted after the winter snows as the land had been too waterlogged for any seed to take. Somehow they needed to make it dry but Simon was no farmer. He was a scribe and a runaway who could live off the land, yes, but he had never needed to plant what he took. Until he met Ralph, there had never been time and after that, well after that he had taken part in the feasting and provisions owed to the Lammas Lord from his villagers.
Farming was a skill he needed to learn, and quickly. If Ralph wished, as was his right, to be the final decision-maker, then he too would need to learn those talents, and Lord Tregannon had always been a soldier first and foremost. It was why he fought Simon, but he would need to understand the old ways were gone, and something entirely new was taking place.
If only the Lost One himself understood what this might be, then the Lammas people and the surrounding countries might yet live to the full. The mind-cane hummed and Simon felt a sudden warmth flowing over his skin. Perhaps the cane wished to give him some kind of knowledge? By the stars, he needed it, so he closed his eyes and tried, in spite of his exhaustion, to concentrate on the artefact and its wisdom, and to open his mind to its truths.
Nothing. Only a sense of blankness and a strange silence, perhaps a warning he couldn’t quite grasp. He needed to rest again, in order to regain his energies, and then he would be able to fulfil the purposes he’d returned to the land to perform. The cane’s humming ceased and Simon faded to sleep. The last question he had before he succumbed to exhaustion was what he should do about his father.
Ralph
So far he has behaved neither with hospitality to his former scribe nor with honour and it has therefore not been an auspicious beginning to this strange new world, and the possibility of hope. There is something about Simon which disturbs him deeply and he is unable to keep reason at the forefront of his dealings with him. By his father’s blood, the man has died and been brought to life again for the sake of the Lammas Lands, and Ralph has only argued with him and tried to assert his own authority when the words he meant to speak should have been those of gratitude and thanks. He is by all the stars a fool.
So he swears under his breath in his mother’s tongue as he strides along the hallways towards the newly fragile stairs but, as he reaches them, something snags at his thought and he turns back. For a heartbeat he wonders if it is the scribe, whose powers have always been beyond his mind-strength, but no it is not, as he senses no other presence within him but his own. Still, something is different or has become so in his angry retreat from his bedroom, and he wrinkles his nose in order to pinpoint it again.
He stares at the window onto the courtyard which has been cracked and useless in keeping out the winds since the war began. At first he sees no change but then he reaches out and touches the edges of the stonework holding what is left of the glass in place. It is this that has changed. Instead of the uneven surface pocked by destruction, the blight that has affected almost all of his once-loved home, Ralph sees the smoothness of the stone as it meets the glass. Earlier it was not like this, he can swear it, but as the light sinks over the ravaged woods, he knows it is changed. The stonework is somehow mending itself, but how can that be possible without the hard work of servants he no longer has, or without the direct power of the mind-cane?
It is a mystery, one he is determined to solve, and the magic of which he is equally determined to learn, not only for this castle but for the shattered homes of his villagers. The problem is persuading the remaining Lammassers to accept that help.
Neither is that the only matter to be concerned about; Jemelda has left him as she should no doubt have done many week-cycles ago, but her leaving has become rebellion. If Ralph knows his cook, and in some respects he believes he does, she will not let the Lost One live if she can help it. She and her band of would-be soldiers will fight as best they can, not in the manner which he has been taught and is well-practised in, but in secret and in the dark, where all matter of evil lie. This is the fruit of the treachery of the mind-executioner and also his own: civil rebellion and despair. Soon there will be war again and it will not come from their enemies but from those they have counted as their closest allies. He must work to change it.
He abandons his contemplation of the renewed castle stone and turns on his heel towards the stair. There is much to do and he must start at once. For the war and its shadow is not yet over.
Sixth Gathandrian Interlude
Annyeke
This morning wasn’t going well. Annyeke could see it perfectly clearly without the need to glean anything from a mind-read or even ask a passing Gathandrian. It was the day after she’d returned from her unexpected adventure in Lammas and she was still trying to come to terms with Simon’s death and strange rebirth. Not to mention the hatred and potential rebellion of some of the villagers, and the concerns whether Lord Tregannon could in fact take charge again and in a good way, rather than a bad one. Any questions about the Chair Maker, she was determined to leave until later, when she might feel better able to deal with him. By the gods and stars, the troubles of a First Elder were greater than she had expected but she was proud of who she was, and come what might, she would never let any of her troubles defeat her if she could help it.
So she watched as the people struggled to rebuild the great library. This was not the first attempt at recreating the city she had witnessed since rising one hour-cycle ago, but it was the one most fraught with difficulty. Other buildings seemed to be less complex as in, for instance, the glass-makers’ and wine merchants’ areas of Gathandria, where many people, men and women alike, worked together to build up stone on stone and reframe the windows of the houses which had been destroyed. Even a few streets away, the Council of Meeting looked a little more like the glory of its former self. But it would take time, a lot of time, and they must learn to live with the consequences of being not quite what they had once been. Such were the lessons the war and the betrayal of the elders had taught them.
However, here at the Library, the very heart of their life, nothing seemed to be working. Annyeke watched as several men, grunting and bending under the weight, lifted one of the largest of the nearby stones into place. They were trying to rebuild the western wall. She continued to watch as the men paused to settle the stone, the colours of their mind-link a contrast in mauve, and then step
away. The link between them drifted darker, almost black, before a sudden flash of crimson splintered the calmness and the stone fell with a great crash.
The mind-link disappeared, and Annyeke caught the whisper of their curses before they recalled who was watching them.
“Forgive us, First Elder,” the oldest man spoke, his long grey hair flowing back over his shoulders, the sign of a theatrical. “We do not intend to insult the gods but we have been working here for two hour-cycles now and nothing we do is successful.”
“Yes,” a younger man thrust forward, a frown creasing his forehead. “We are not fools in our trade. My father was a master-builder and Aleff here used to make running repairs to his stage-house regularly. But the stones themselves fight us and will not be released into their places. Are there more battles to come? Is that why the Great Library protects itself, or is it because the elders have returned and the land rises up against them?”
At his last remarks, the young man spat onto the earth, his saliva forming a globule of silver against the dark soil. It sparkled where the sunlight met it. Annyeke blinked.
“Hush your words,” the man called Aleff hissed, glancing once at Annyeke. “Such rebellion is no use to us.”
No, Annyeke thought, it was not, but in Lammas Jemelda and those who cleaved to her had chosen that way. There was much to face, but she hoped it would not be as the young man feared.
“What is your name?” she asked him.
He paused before answering and wiped his hand across his mouth.
“Tiraq,” he answered at last. “My name is Tiraq.”
Annyeke stepped forward until there were only inches between them. “That is a good name. In attempting to rebuild the land we love and that of the neighbours under our protection, we will need strength of hand and openness. We also need the courage to say when things are wrong so we do not waste time. This includes the courage to confront the past and to understand our bitterness. It took courage for our disgraced elders to return to us once we knew what they had done as they could easily have run for safety and never felt the good Gathandrian earth beneath their feet again. We have to work together, Tiraq, or find a way to do so or … or our house can never be built again. Do you understand?”
She had struggled to find the image she wanted to show him how important this act of renewal was for all of them. In the end it didn’t have quite the drama she’d hoped for, but the truth was there, which was the most important thing, and it seemed to convince the young man. The green mind-aura around him lost something of its darkness and he nodded. It was a step forward, of sorts.
“Good,” she said. “Please believe me I will never, as long as I remain First Elder here, try to stop the voice of dissent. We need it so we don’t fall into error again, but the most important thing I see today is how the Library is fighting our efforts. Tell me, has this been the case all the while you’ve been gathering stone, or have you had moments of success?”
Annyeke addressed this to the whole group and it was their leader, Aleff, who answered.
“We have not been trying for long,” he said quietly and with an unexpected bow. “Only since yesterday-cycle, but it is as you see, First Elder. If it continues, the task will never be done.”
“Then we must turn your skills and time to another task,” she replied. “I have no answer for this difficulty yet, but there are many who will need your help. You are a man of the theatre, Aleff, and in my wanderings this day-cycle and in the thought-colours in the air, I see not many have turned their attentions to that part of our city. Perhaps there is where you will be must useful.”
The older man snorted. “After the war there is no time for theatre or indeed art. We must rebuild what is most essential to us. The Library is part of our life.”
“Yes, it is,” Annyeke agreed, “but life is not only found in survival and responsibility. Enjoyment is also part of being Gathandrian, and I have no wish to lose it.”
Aleff paused and Tiraq opened his mouth to add something, but Aleff shushed him. After another few moments, he nodded at Annyeke. “There might be some wisdom in what you say; perhaps the war has undone us more thoroughly than we imagined. I will do as you ask, First Elder. We need to remember what it is to live as well as what it is to survive.”
“Good,” she said. “And thank you. While you do that, let me worry about what the Library might want. Such is my task, I believe.”
After the men had gone, Annyeke spent several moments bringing her thoughts in line with the emptiness and, yes, silence she sensed in the Library. The stories they had gathered just before the battle in which she killed the mind-executioner were no longer there as she and the people had taken them into the unused rooms of the Council buildings. Annyeke had no clear idea what would happen to the colours and textures of the ancient Gathandrian tales if they remained exposed to the elements, but she did not wish to be the first leader to find out. Best to be cautious. However, without the stories, the life of the Library lay more quietly within its shattered portals and it was harder to sense its purpose. Perhaps this was the reason the workmen could not succeed in layering the stones upon each other again, and perhaps only the old tales could bind its walls together once more. No, she could not regret her decision to move and try to protect them as she was working with the unknown and so she had only done what she had thought best. If the stories needed to be returned, then it would be later, when the people’s minds were calmer, not now when the horrors of death were fresh in their memories. But, this day-cycle, Annyeke needed to align herself with the Library’s silence, allow it to connect with her also. So she walked slowly, pausing often, between the broken stones and grasses, reaching out with her thoughts to see if the once great building and its soul waited anywhere for her touch.
For a long time-cycle, she sensed nothing, and she was ready to move on to where she might be more needed, when something in the grasses at her feet shifted. A faint colour, barely seen, almost nothing more than a shadow of some small creature. But her mind was alert and she knew it for what it was: a soft voice, waiting. From instinct she wanted to fling her thoughts after it, catch it before it could fade away, but something told her such an act would be worse than useless.
Instead she sat down, as slowly and quietly as she could. In the distance she could hear people talking, some shouts, a short burst of laughter. Beyond that the whisper of the breeze and the open sky, dotted with clouds. Snow had fallen last night, but none this morning, and she knew soon the harshest of the winter would be over, although the chill and iron-hard earth would remain. The weather would hold them back in their intentions but it would not stop them; people needed to be sheltered and fed, and they needed to learn how to live again. That was what she was here to do, Annyeke swore it.
She closed her eyes and brought back her thoughts to herself, giving her mind enough space so any voice close to where she sat might feel her willingness to hear. There were more things in Gathandria, as the tales themselves said, than could be imagined in the stars.
What do you want? she asked, but holding back the power of her mind so it did not destroy whatever she might have glimpsed.
Nothing. No voice of a story they might have missed or even a breath of the Library Spirit; that she would have given much to listen to. Then, out of nowhere, one word: Turn.
She obeyed and saw a glimmer of green in the place of shadow. It was like a voice, yet not so. Its own equivalent of a voice. The shimmering green grew suddenly darker, flashed once and was gone, leaving behind it an impression of silver. Annyeke pursed her lips. Whatever it was, it had gone and she didn’t know if it would return, or even reveal itself in this way again.
Its silence worried her, more than she wanted to admit, because it was as if there was some other force stopping the colour and sound from reaching out to her. Only one legend had the power to do that, but it could not possibly be so. Such an act was far too dangerous, and nobody would dare it. Not even the mind-executioner had tried. S
till, the faint green echo had communicated, she sensed it, though its sound was in colour. She must therefore be mistaken in her fears and she would not be so foolhardy as to name them. All she had to do was interpret it, and oh the wisdom she might need for that. The shades of green reminded her of the Tregannon emeralds, and the silver the shape of the mind-cane’s carving. Yes, she could see it, but what did it actually mean? Should the emeralds be here? The mind-cane too? Now her head fizzed with questions when what she really needed was space to think and let the answers come …
Annyeke became aware of her young charge mere moments before he raced up to her, panting, his hair sticking out as if she had not that very morning combed it.
“Talus?” she scrambled to her feet. “What is it? Are you well? Is it Johan?”
He shook his head. “No, we are unharmed. But you must come. It is the elders.”
Talus turned and ran, through the library and out across the park, heading for the Square of Meeting. Annyeke followed him, picking up her skirts and running like a young girl with no fears as to what people might think. By the gods, she was First Elder and, if the role had any privileges, they surely must include the ability to run without bringing down judgement upon herself. She hoped so anyway. Besides, if judgement was to fall upon her, it would be for something far grander than her social behaviour which had never been first-class to begin with.
By the time she and Talus arrived at the Meeting Square, Annyeke was almost laughing with the excitement of it. But the picture that greeted her set all amusement aside and she became sober at once. The elders were sitting in a circle in the middle of the square, praying. She could see the colours humming between them: lilac, the softest green and earth-brown, with the occasional flash of silver which they called the blessings of the gods. That wasn’t the issue at stake, for which Talus had run and fetched her. No, the problem was the Gathandrians, huddled in groups surrounding the praying elders. The colours dancing in fiery ribbons from the people were more dangerous, a savage threat on this cool morning-cycle. The anger almost drove her back, but Annyeke had tackled worse situations than this, so she stepped forward, ignoring the elders. This in itself would be an insult to them.
