by Anne Brooke
Finally, Ralph speaks. “Perhaps you are right. The day-cycles are different. Please, sit.”
His final command is addressed to Frankel and the boy, but both take some time to obey and he makes a gesture of impatience before they are at last sitting round the table, conspirators together for the future of their country.
“Good,” Ralph says, taking them all in, even Simon, even his father, with his gaze. “This is what we will do.”
Jemelda
She woke with dreams flooding through her memory and her waking felt like a shock of cold water on a hot day. Something stirred inside her: the same sensation of change she had felt since the war and which had been growing in her blood ever since was this day-cycle more overwhelming, and more welcome. For the first time, she found she did not miss Frankel, and instead she scrambled to her feet and stepped outside the cave to look for Thomas. She could rely on him.
Outside the morning skies were clear and she could see a flock of tree-thrushes flying north. A sign of the end of winter, but surely it was too soon? Snows still covered the higher ground though none had fallen overnight, and her hands were rubbed raw with the iciness, and the experiences of yesterday also. Fire-oil was dangerous and she herself had used it sparingly in the Tregannon kitchens. Now in the glade between the cave and the trees, she could see Thomas sitting on the largest of the rocks and intent on something in his hands. The men had slept in the smaller of the caves, and the women in the larger. Jemelda had thought it best.
Thomas looked up as she approached. Nearer, she saw he was sharpening a large knife which glittered in the sunlight. She’d never seen the blacksmith with such an object outside his work before and the strangeness inside her leapt up and rejoiced in the sight before fading away again, for the moment.
He answered her question before she could think to ask it.
“I started making this when the murdering bastard took away the woman I loved,” he said. “It wasn’t finished before the war ruined everything and I had to leave it behind when I fled the village. Now I have found it again I intend to use it to kill the scribe and tear him apart so he can never live again, Jemelda, and I will make it the best it can be for that purpose.”
She nodded. His words were good and she could only echo them.
“It is what I should have done when we tried to hang him on the tree,” Thomas continued, but this time as if he were talking only to himself. “I was a fool not to do it.”
“You thought he was dead and dead forever,” Jemelda replied, putting a comforting hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “We all thought the same.”
Thomas shuddered, as if her touch alone had brought him back into the cool winter morning and, without it, he might have been a thousand fields away where Jemelda could not reach him. He gazed up at her, stilling the movement of his hands as they worked across the metal.
“Do you think the murderer cannot die?” he asked her. “Is that what you believe? That even the realms of the dead will not welcome him?”
“I do not know,” she admitted. “But in these time-cycles it is better to try another recipe than to attempt again one which has already failed. And who knows? The revenge I desire is still to come. There are other ways of killing, and you, Thomas, will have a part in it. I promise you.”
He nodded at that, his expression lightening. The day would soon be upon them in its fullness, and the sun would see Jemelda’s people and herself at their chosen work. Something told her there was little time and she intended to use it well.
Eleventh Gathandrian Interlude
Annyeke
It took Annyeke the length of several stories to persuade the elders she could trust how she needed to travel back to Lammas to tell Simon what he needed to know. The Chair-Maker was not present. Annyeke had not allowed it, but instead he had remained in his former dwelling which she had protected with a powerful mind-net so he could not leave without her knowing it. When she had shared what she knew of Iffenia and the Book of Blood, the gathered elders had been silent, both in shock and in grief, and their shifting mind-colours had almost made her gasp. Perhaps there were indeed no words for it.
About her plan, Johan too was uncertain, letting her sense his concerns about the danger of the trip. In fact it felt as if the whole of the Gathandrian leadership was ranged against her and for the first time she found herself having some measure of sympathy with the First Elder before her, even in spite of his errors.
“It is the way forward, I know it,” she said, reverting to speaking aloud as she paced the length of the old Council meeting room. The last time she’d been here was just after Johan and Isabella had left for Lammas, and the elders had summoned her to them. Then, she had been wary and the walls had been solid. Now she was wary still, but for different reasons, and the room was almost nothing more than broken stone and memories. “I must go back to let the Lost One know he holds the power to let both our lands live again by the strength of the stories that are his, and the stories that he has yet to tell. It is he who will truly begin to heal us.”
“What makes you think that, Annyeke?” This from the Mentor, and she was glad he had taken his lead from her and spoken aloud also. Everything must be in the open so all could hear. This would be their way from now onwards and they would have to get used to it.
In any case, her answer was easy. “I dreamt it and, when I woke, the lemon tree in my garden blossomed with parchment instead of leaves. I knew then it longed for stories, and the Lost One also calls himself the Scribe, so who better to tell those stories for us? The tales of the Great Library lie shattered and, because of the situation in Lammas and the potential for civil battle there, we do not have enough time to rebuild them, not alone. The power of our city and our lives lie in our stories. In order to live well, we need them.”
“And what makes you believe the Lost One can do this task? It does not lie in our legends, First Elder.”
The Mentor’s question was one she knew she would have to deal with, but she’d wished it not quite so soon.
“I know it does not,” she said, “and, believe me, I understand and acknowledge the power of our legends to move and inform us. But when I accepted the First Eldership, I accepted it knowing we needed, under my leadership, to try something new. This is something new.”
The Mentor shook his head. “That was akin to the approach of the elder before you, an approach which led us along paths tangled with difficulties, and leading only to disaster.”
Annyeke blinked. Whilst she sensed he did not wish to challenge her outright, the Mentor’s words had been almost as cutting as the glass-making profession he bore. She stood up from the table and paced towards the once-beautiful window looking onto the park-area. When she swung round, she knew all eyes were upon her, and the elders were waiting for her answer. She opened her mouth but someone else spoke before her.
“The old ways have failed, twice. It is time for a new story and, for that, we must walk the new ways laid out before us.”
At the sound of this unfamiliar voice, Annyeke stared at the man who had spoken. As did all gathered in the meeting room with her. It was good to have their attention elsewhere for a while. Everything then between them became silent, because the elder who had spoken was the Silent One, the one who was destined never to speak, the one whose quietness held them in harmony, or was intended to. His voice sounded like the warmest of summer nights when the skies were clear and the air perfumed with pomegranate blossom. She wondered why he had left it so long to say what he must need to.
It was up to her, as First Elder, to approach him, and she felt the weight of expectation, even Johan’s, at her back.
She straightened her shoulders and made her way to the Silent One, or perhaps that should be the previously Silent One. He stood up at her approach, and nodded briefly. Close up, she could see the golden flecks in his eyes and the way the colour of his hair shimmered so its precise shade could never be decided upon. This close, she could sense his own surprise as
well. So many imaginings dwelt in his mind and none, up to now, had ever been heard.
His lips moved, but this time there was no sound. Something in his eyes and thought caught her, however, and she gasped. Reaching out, she touched the edge of his mouth with her fingers and felt the power of words leap into her skin and fill her flesh and mind. Then the Silent One stepped back and she felt the vast reaches of the power he contained in so frail a vessel leave her. For a heartbeat, she missed them beyond measure, but then she knew she could not live the way she wanted to, nor rule her country, if his words, the words of the Spirit, were melded with her skin. Only one elder and his family could do that and live.
The Silent One nodded before brushing one hand across his mouth as if her contact there had taken something from him. Or gifted him with something. At the same time, she sensed Johan’s curiosity rise.
“I did not expect to speak,” the Silent One whispered, the speech falling from his tongue as something unknown. “But the stories and what they might be compelled me.”
“Tell us what you know,” Annyeke commanded, “by the gods and stars.”
The Silent One nodded and again all around him was silent, as silent as the air before a perfect music is played. He swallowed.
“The words are mine and my family’s,” he said. “They come from our legends and our lives, both now and from the past. But the words themselves tell me it is not enough. There are spaces waiting to be filled before the peace which longs to visit us can be fully here. It is seen in the First Elder’s dream and in the leaves of the lemon tree. The Lost One and the story are united and one must tell the other if we are to begin again. Our First Elder is not as the one before, Mentor, and will not, I know, destroy us. There. I have spoken. My words here are done.”
The air altered in the room, and something passed over the Silent One’s face so Annyeke knew he would not speak again.
She waited for the other elders to say something, whether it would be for her or against her but, to her surprise, it was Johan who broke the silence.
“I will stand by the First Elder,” he said, a half-smile glimmering on his lips amidst the seriousness that lay beneath, always. “I have never known her to let me or anyone down, although her actions and decisions often surprise me. In any case, though I am concerned for her safety in this venture, the Spirit has spoken through one who speaks not, and I take my place at Annyeke’s side.”
With that, he turned to stand square at her shoulder and she felt the quietness as golden as the autumn-season between them. She gazed round at the elders, picking each one out in turn and ending with the Silent One, who nodded as if she had spoken something directly to him, but she had not.
The affirmation, when it came, was simple and from them all: the word yes echoing in her head with the voice of each elder part of its music.
“Thank you,” she said aloud, so that Johan would not be left out in any manner. “Then we must do it now. I must travel to the Lammas Lands and meet with the Lost One.”
Chapter Fifteen: Battles and Silence
Simon
As Ralph set out his plan there in the Lammas castle kitchen, it seemed sensible enough, although Simon was no tactician. The remaining seeds would be guarded in storage on a day-cycle rolling rota, whilst the most important fields would gain the same level of protection. The small number of men and women amongst them would be stretched, but they had little choice. This morning-cycle, Ralph and a handful of men, some former soldiers, would track Jemelda’s whereabouts and see if some kind of peace could be reached. Simon had little confidence it would be but he was pleased Ralph was trying. He had assumed the Lammas Lord would fight first and only think of talking later, if anyone was left alive.
You underestimate me, Scribe.
The shock of Ralph’s continuing link with him made Simon blink and he glanced down to see the soft silver glow on the mind-cane’s carving. It must be strengthening the connection between Ralph and himself for reasons of its own, though he could not fathom them. Quickly Simon span a mind-net round his thoughts and saw Ralph’s slight smile fade. He turned away.
“So,” Ralph said, bringing his plans to a close. “That is what we will do.”
“Unless anyone has any other suggestions,” Simon said quietly.
Ralph stared at him and then nodded. “Indeed, unless anyone has anything else to say.”
Nobody did, so Ralph rose to his feet and gestured towards the doorway. With the Lammas Lord, no sooner was something decided than it was done. How Simon remembered that. But just as he too rose, like the others, to follow, there was a shimmer of green in the courtyard, and Simon could feel a great cry in his thought which pierced through all nets and defences.
“Simon?”
Ralph’s voice shook him back into himself, but the terrible pain of the cry remained. Outside, the shimmer of green began to dance and flash. Simon started to run, the mind-cane firm in his grip.
“It’s the emeralds,” he shouted. “Someone is coming to us. It’s not working. They’re in pain.”
Ralph was right behind Simon as he juddered to a halt in front of the shifting streaks of green. Whatever was going on, and whoever was making this journey, it wasn’t enough to get them here. No more deaths, by the gods and stars, he had promised himself once and he would do his best to keep his word.
“Do you have your emeralds?” he asked Ralph, and the Lammas Lord nodded, delving into his belt-bag and retrieving a handful.
Simon snatched them up, although in truth it was more as if they’d lifted into his palm themselves. He could feel a sudden warmth where they touched him. In his other hand the mind-cane began to sing.
“What can you do?” Ralph asked him, a frown creasing his forehead as his gaze danced from Simon to the fluctuating circle of green and back.
“Trust me,” said Simon.
As Ralph and his servants watched, Simon took the emeralds and flung them as hard as he could towards the skies. As they flew upwards, he took the mind-cane, its song piercing his thoughts and mingling with the cries of the traveller, and swept it through the arc of the emeralds as they fell. When the ebony cane touched the sparkling emeralds, the black-and-green melded together, forming for one wild moment a perfect circle. In it, Simon could see the figure of a woman struggling to escape and knew at once it was Annyeke.
Ralph was at his side at an instant.
Take my hand, now, Simon said in his mind, praying Annyeke would hear him and somehow she did as she stretched out her fingers, grasped Ralph and then him, and at the next heartbeat all three of them were sprawled on the courtyard cobbles. Around them, the cane and the emeralds clattered to the ground.
While Simon scrabbled to his feet, Ralph was already helping Annyeke. The Lammas Lord handed her two of the emeralds he’d retrieved as she dusted down her skirts although to Simon’s untrained eye she looked far neater than he felt.
“Not my best journey ever,” she said with a smile, although her voice broke a little, “but it warms my mind to see you again, Lost One.”
Simon could think of nothing whatsoever to say in return and simply hugged her, thanking the gods and stars she was safe.
Annyeke broke the hug quickly, her expression serious.
“I know you and the Lammas Lands have much to occupy you,” she said, glancing at Ralph before returning her gaze to Simon. “But there are other battles we need to fight.”
Simon snorted. “There are always other battles, Annyeke. So many of them I wonder we will ever have peace.”
“Yes, I know,” she replied, “but peace also comes by fighting for it.”
Yes, he imagined it did. Indeed, Annyeke had fought bravely in Gathandria for her ward Talus and had defeated the mind-executioner for all time-cycles in a way Simon could never have done. He needed to listen to her.
“Speak,” he said, “and then we will fulfil as best we can the commands Lord Tregannon has given us.”
Ralph’s expression was careful
ly neutral at this delay of his mission, but Simon could sense the jagged red and green of his impatience.
“If that is acceptable to you all?” he added, turning to take in the small group of gathered people with his glance.
After a heartbeat or two, Ralph nodded. His agreement seemed to speak for the rest also, but then who amongst them would object now Jemelda had gone?
“Bring the First Elder a cup of water,” the Lammas Lord said. “I believe she has need of it.”
His steward ran to obey, though Simon doubted any water today would be fresh. Still he couldn’t help but admire the confidence with which Ralph had spoken, as if unexpected guests could be easily catered for in these difficult times. Annyeke too must have caught the sense of Ralph’s action as he saw her hide her smile. The Lammas Lord must have temporarily forgotten the depths of the Gathandrians’ mind-skills.
The First Elder’s smile didn’t last for long.
She stepped closer to Simon. “It will be quicker if I link with you to explain what I believe. Will you allow it?”
Simon didn’t respond as such. He simply reached for her hand and laid her fingers on his forehead. At once the sensations of emptiness and colour filled his mind and he was sure he could smell lemons, but he couldn’t think why. Within moments, he had understood what it was she wanted and why she thought it was right. The leaves, the parchment, the sense of space, and longing too. The role of the dead Iffenia in the heart of Jemelda and the influence of the Book of Blood overwhelmed him but, however strange and terrifying, he knew what she conveyed was the truth. He stepped away from the link, half stumbling, and felt the shape of the mind-cane imprint itself on the palm of his hand where his grip had tightened.
“I have no stories to tell, Annyeke,” he said. “None which can save two countries. Not against such dark magic.”
