by Anne Brooke
No time for battling with what he could not yet comprehend. He stood up, took the cane and plunged it as hard as he could into the dry ground. The effort made his body shake and he wondered if he would fall, but the cane itself kept him upright. He felt the flames before he saw them, fire from the earth rising through the artefact, first by its heat and then in vast flashes of crimson and black. The fire-oil must have sunk deeper, a strange magic, and ignited the soil itself beneath the layer of seed. The Lost One clung on to the mind-cane, knowing instinctively this was his best chance of weathering the storm, as the cries of the people from the other side of the field came to his ears.
There was more danger in Lammas than he had anticipated, but he was glad of it. Here was something he could do; he could drain the fire’s threat at the depths of the earth. So he kept on going, pushing the cane even deeper into the soil and shutting his eyes to the waves of fire and light flowing upward over his body and into the air.
“Simon.”
He heard Ralph’s warning shout, already too late, in his thought before it came to him in truth, and knew the Lammas Lord’s deadly intent.
No! Do not run to me. You will die.
He doubted Ralph would obey, but he had no choice but to stay with the mind-cane. So he opened his eyes and searched the skies for the help he hoped he would find there.
The snow-raven had already anticipated the need; the great bird was plunging from the heavens towards the group of villagers and towards Ralph. The Lammas Lord had barely taken two or three steps across the field when the raven reached him and knocked him to the ground with one sweep of his vast wing. Simon held his breath in case the shock of the jolt onto the earth might ignite some few drops of fire-oil the people had not yet doused but the snow-raven spread out his wings and opened his beak. A perfect orb of gold spun outwards with the snow-raven’s song and for a glorious dawn-lit moment everything in Simon’s mind was silent. The orb burst and a golden river flowed over the field and seeds, over the people and the wood. When it reached the Lost One as he continued to thrust the mind-cane deep into the earth, the fire and brightness turned to silver and then was swallowed up into air. The silence spread beyond his own thought and into his flesh and then it too was gone.
He let go of the cane, landed with a thump on his back on the soil and stretched out, gazing at the sky. It took him a moment to catch his breath while he puzzled over what had just happened. The fire under the soil had been dampened, buried deep in the heart of the land where it belonged, a success achieved through the cane and through the bird. And through his own action also, he told himself wryly. The fire-oil was no longer a danger beneath them, he could sense it, and indeed the gold from the raven’s song had smoothed over the surface flame and the heat was already dissipating.
How had the oil been able to sink so far? It should not have done so and it riled him he could not fathom its mystery. In his role as the Lost One of the Gathandrians, he should have been able to hope for some insight, but none came to him. He sat upright and struggled to his feet as Ralph and the villagers made their way cautiously towards him.
He only spoke when the Lammas Lord and the people were near enough to hear his words.
“The fire-oil shouldn’t have penetrated beyond the surface,” he said, “but some trick I don’t yet understand had enabled it to do so. We should be careful in this new battle, my Lord, but we are at least warned.”
Ralph’s response was not what he had expected. The Lammas Lord strode up to him and gripped his shoulder, sending tremors of green and blue through Simon’s thought.
“You should not have done what you did,” he said, his voice low and urgent, so only Simon could hear. “You put yourself in too much danger.”
He looked as if he might say more, but the presence of the villagers brought him more quickly to that strong sense of his own role, no matter whether he failed it or not. He stepped away and gazed at Simon.
“I am glad you are well, Scribe,” he said, more loudly. “It would have been a pity for you to die again, after our efforts to keep you alive.”
That much, Simon supposed, was true. To die was inevitable, but once was enough for any week-cycle. He did not wish to experience such an encounter with what lay beyond for a long, long time. If the gods and stars wished it.
They spent the length of a story middle ensuring the field was no longer in any danger and rescuing what seed they could. It would have to be planted elsewhere, as this field would need another season to recover its fertility. If Jemelda wished to starve him out of her lands, this was certainly the best way to go about her task; he never wished to be the death of any other man, woman or child again, not if he could help it.
Finally, carrying what they could salvage, Simon, Ralph and the people turned back to the village. The Lost One noted on the journey none walked close to him, but only the cane and the bird kept him company.
Halfway there he saw the old man, his father. Strange how he had been expecting this and yet was still so unprepared for it. He dropped the half-burnt earth he was holding and watched the remains of the precious seeds scatter across the soil. Somebody amongst the villagers cursed at his stupidity and he could not blame them. The mind-cane flared up but Simon quelled it with a glance. He was pleased he could still do so. He hurried to pick up the seeds, retrieving them as best he could.
A darker shadow next to him made him look up. Ralph bent down and scooped up a handful of earth upon which lay some small corn seeds. The green glow in his other hand drew Simon’s gaze.
“Yes,” said the Lammas Lord. “Sometimes the emeralds have other uses too. They bring together that which might have been lost.”
As both men straightened up, Ralph glanced in the direction of the old man and nodded.
“You will have to talk to him,” he said, quietly. “He is your father.”
“What if I do not wish to?” Simon’s response was fiercer than he had intended. His father had abandoned him after his mother had died, no matter what his reasons were. He could neither change his memory, nor the facts.
Ralph took a step or two back, and the sharpness of his outline faded a little in the morning gloom. “You will speak to him sooner or later, Scribe, because how can it harm you? You have already come through death, the stars know how, so surely a conversation with a parent you find difficult will be a summer story for you.”
As always, Ralph used conversation as he used his soldier’s sword: with the intent to pierce. But, as he turned away, Simon had to admit he was right. He swallowed and drew himself up to face his father, who all this while had been hovering at the length of a pruning hook from his side.
“We will speak together,” Simon said, finding himself unable to say the word father and knowing therefore how abrupt his words sounded. Damn the stars but that could not be helped. “We will speak but not yet. Later, when we have placed the salvaged seed in a safe location, then we will talk.”
There was more Simon wanted to say although he did not exactly know what the words should be, but the old man groaned and stuttered as if he too were trying to find an unsayable sentence. Simon waited but the silence swept in once more. It felt unnatural, even dangerous. In his hand the mind-cane hummed suddenly and its vibration patterned his skin. For a moment he concentrated, but the cane gave him no clues.
“Come then,” he said with a sigh. “Follow me. Neither of us are intending to go anywhere else this day-cycle.”
Ninth Gathandrian Interlude
LOVE
Annyeke
Enough was enough. She had sufficient of the truth from the Chair Maker to act, but it would have to wait until the morning-cycle. She could tell how tired her husband was when he returned from speaking with the people, and Talus was already asleep, snoring gently in his bed-area.
Johan kissed her and took her in his arms. She nestled against him, appreciating the sheer strength of him and the way he made her feel safe, even where safety was the last thing she had expe
cted to feel. Even a bloody-minded redhead and newly-minted First Elder needed a little comfort sometimes.
How was your talk with the Chair Maker? he asked her, and she was glad he’d chosen thought-words for their conversation. The concept of speaking was beyond her ability.
She smiled up at him and placed his hand on her forehead. Not that it was necessary for their mind-skills to operate, but Annyeke liked the feeling of being connected with the man she loved, physically as well as mentally. At once, she could feel his mind moving and blending with hers, the sweet splash of melded colours which always made her blink. Within a few short moments, she had shared everything with him: what the Chair Maker had told her, her heartfelt response, and the unforeseen dangers that might lie around them.
He swore, something she had never heard him do, and the effect of it was magnified a thousand times without the dissipating power of speech. Johan.
I’m sorry, but this is beyond my belief, my love. I wish I had been there at your side when the Chair Maker confessed.
I am glad you were not. You would have been angrier than I.
He snorted and sat down at the kitchen table, a deep frown lining his forehead. With due cause. The Book of Blood is the most dangerous of the legends, because it is as yet unwritten. If the Chair Maker and Iffenia have mined its depths then I do not know how we can fight it. You say because of it, Iffenia lives? In another in the Lammas Lands? Who? Is Simon threatened because of it? We must warn him.
So many questions her husband had, and all of them flocking around her like young wood-sparrows in the spring. She shook her head at herself. The image, for her, was not a pleasant one. Before she made any decisions, they needed sustenance so she busied herself for a while heating up the last of the day’s wheat-soup and sprinkling a handful of ginger into it to provide some spice, and clear their heads.
Then she poured two beakers, sat down and handed her partner one while she sipped from the other. How different this was from the drink she had shared with the elder, in so many ways.
Johan laughed. You are inspired by food.
She opened her eyes wide at him. Always. But who is not? Drink and let us consider how best we can fight this latest battle.
What about Simon? he asked again and she felt the wave of his concern for his cousin flow over her. Something else too, some deeper puzzle, and it took her a heartbeat or two to discern it.
No, you are mistaken, she shook her head, reached across the table and grasped his hand. Iffenia’s spirit is not in the Lost One. He has the strength of the mind-cane and his own mission to protect him. I believe it is Jemelda, the one who leads the rebellion. It must be. She is bent on destroying the peace the Lost One hopes to build, and our peace too.
How?
Quickly, she allowed him to see what she understood of the Lost One’s experiences in Lammas thus far. He already knew about the strange death and rebirth, but neither of them fully comprehended its meaning, yet. The powers of the gods and stars were passing strange. What Johan didn’t yet know was the mission Jemelda, the cook, had begun.
So she wishes to kill Simon, Johan pondered when he had listened. Why?
Annyeke glared at him. Because she is a woman and if I have learnt anything from recent year-cycles it is that in war-time, it is the women who suffer most, and who are most angry. But she might not have had the power without Iffenia’s presence, I cannot tell. Somehow, during the battles and when the link between our two countries was strongest, Iffenia’s spirit clung to Jemelda because of the forces she and the Chair Maker unleashed, and together the two women form an enemy we mustn’t underestimate.
At this Johan smiled. Women, in my experience, are always a force to be reckoned with, Annyeke, whether or not they have the spirits of the dead urging them on.
He stood up abruptly, breaking the close connection between them, although she could still sense his mind. She would sense it always. As she watched, he started to stride up and down the kitchen-area.
“How can it have come to this?” he muttered, speaking aloud. She could only hope he would not wake Talus, who would need the fullness of sleep. “What must we do before peace can break out amongst our peoples? First, the mind-executioner, then the treachery of the elders against us, then the strangeness of Simon’s calling, the battle on our fields, and now this. When will the fighting cease?”
Johan.
Something in the tone of her voice broke through his rising anger and he stopped at once, a slow blush spreading across his handsome face. Forgive me, my love, but sometimes I think I am a simple man and incapable of dealing with our world as it is becoming. Neither would I wish to wake your son. Forgive me.
Annyeke smiled as he sat down opposite her once more and drained his beaker of the last of the wheat-soup. The day-cycles are hard, she said, and Talus is our son, not just mine.
He gazed at her for another full minute, and then nodded. You are right. So, what should we do, First Elder?
His term of address was said with a smile, and she knew he teased her. How she loved it when he did that, knowing he only allowed himself such teasing when he felt secure. The anger had left him.
Tomorrow, we will contact the Lost One, she said. The emeralds Lord Tregannon gave me will help us now we no longer have the mind-circle, and our own skills will do the rest.
You do not wish to begin the process now? I know you are a woman who likes to act swiftly. You have the hair colour for it after all.
She flashed him a wry smile, knowing he’d caught her mood and sensing his own response to it. All of us need to build up our mind-strength again, and we need sleep. Jemelda can do nothing until the morning. The Lammas people will be safe enough until then. It is dark for everyone now.
Are you tired, Annyeke?
In answer, she shook her head and reached for his hand once more. Then, getting to her feet, she moved round the table until she stood next to him. He rose to meet her and took her into his arms. His lips on hers felt like the best thing that had happened this day-cycle, both a promise and a homecoming. It was she who led him into their private bed-area, although it was he who undressed her and laid her down on the soft blankets. The sensation of skin on skin made brighter by their mind-colours, the spark and the melding of them, the scent of sweat on Johan’s body combined with his own unique smell, these things swept her away and carried him with her deep into her own mind, on their own special journey.
For this night-cycle, it was enough. The troubles of the next day could wait a little longer, by the stars and gods.
Chapter Thirteen: A Voice from the Past
Simon
At the castle kitchen, Frankel took Simon’s load of earth and seeds. His face was shadowed, and the Lost One could see, even without any mind-skills, how many questions the old man had. While outside Ralph gave orders to the villagers and set up a safe place for the storage of the damaged seeds, Simon leaned forward towards Frankel.
“Jemelda is at least safe,” he whispered, “I know she intends to kill for fear of what I might do now I have returned. But I only wish to help the Lammassers, believe me, and believe me also when I say this: I will do my utmost to convince her of my intentions, if she will allow me close enough to her to say the words. The conversation is not over yet, my friend.”
Frankel nodded, but Simon could not tell how much of his words he might have understood. The old man’s mind was full of worries for his wife, and the Lost One wished he could comfort him but these people had experienced more than enough of his mind-treachery and he feared to offer what skills he could.
Before he could say anything else, Frankel crept away into the shadows, and Simon walked outside only to see Ralph approaching him. Behind him lurked his father. It was time, he could see it, and sooner than he would have liked.
He gazed at Ralph, saw his intent and overleapt it.
“You are right, Lord Tregannon,” he said. “I need to speak to my father, but I need a private place to do it. Which of your
rooms is most suited?”
Ralph blinked, and the Lost One almost smiled to see the adjustment going on in the other man’s thoughts. It was rare Simon had commanded him in such a fashion. Well, the time-cycles had changed and they would need to change with them.
“Of course,” Ralph replied, making as if to signal for a servant. Simon could see the moment when he abandoned the gesture, knowing there were none. “Follow me, both of you.”
Ralph led the way. Simon swallowed and reached out to take his father’s arm. It was the first time he had touched the man for more years than he could remember, and he could not contain the swift river of thought which plunged through his head at the contact. The old man gasped and Simon frowned, attempting to bring his mind under greater control, using the cane in his other hand to do so. Odd how his father did not seem as afraid of it as other people were. Perhaps he had simply not learnt to fear it as much, although Simon would have expected any mind-artefact would cause him grief. It was a mind-executioner, although not Gelahn, who had killed his mother. He shook his head, not wishing to pull that particular memory to the forefront of his thought, not when so many other problems crowded at his side like a swarm of summer-flies. Meanwhile, Ralph continued to lead them round to the front of the castle. Simon and his father followed without speaking, although the Lost One was brim-full of questions.
The Lammas Lord pushed his way through a pile of broken stones at the side of the hall where the autumn-cycle tapestry had once dwelled. Briefly, Simon wondered where it had gone and if he would see such beauty here again, but already Ralph was indicating them through into a part of the castle Simon had rarely visited.
“This is where my guests once waited,” Ralph said, “if they wished for privacy. It is not as badly affected as other rooms in my home and there are two or three stools left for sitting. Will this be adequate for your needs, Scribe? If it rains or snows again, you will avoid the worst of the weather.”
