by Anne Brooke
He chose to support the mind-executioner, believing that what he offered would bring peace and prosperity to those under his care, the Lammas people. There had been unrest for so long in the lands, wars and rumours of wars, that an alliance with a man who promised peace had been too tempting to resist. But he was fooling himself. If he is going to survive, and by the gods he intends to, Ralph will have to acknowledge the truth to himself, at least. What the mind-executioner had promised him was power, the chance to extend the Lammas rule into the lands beyond their borders, the chance to make the Tregannon name more far-reaching than that of any of the minor lords around him.
Simon, the mind-executioner had said, stood in the way and must be destroyed. Ralph had been committed to give up the scribe as easily as if he had been a sworn enemy, and with no second thoughts about what he was doing—betraying a friend and a man under his protection for the sake of gain. He could fool himself that he’d been blinded by the mind-executioner’s mental hold, but the fact remained that Ralph had been willing for him to have that power. The fault in the first place had been his, so where is his honour now?
He doesn’t bother with breaking his fast. The questions in his mind aren’t conducive to eating, though he does finish last night’s wine. Instead, he walks out into the corridor, favouring his wounded leg a little, past his private rooms, through the series of stone-carved arches and into the dining-hall. One maid-servant is clearing out the grate, though why she should do so he has no idea. There will be no entertainment here for many seven-days, he thinks. Ralph ignores her but the sound of his boots on the slabs and the swish of his cloak send her scuttling away into the shadows.
In the courtyard he shouts for the horseman and waits, rubbing his hands together to fight the cold while he appears. Like the steward for the dressing ceremony, the horseman is not swift. Again, Ralph does not complain. Even so, that must surprise the man—he has sometimes been harsh in his lordship, though not until recently unfair. He can see now that trying to emulate his father’s firm hand with the servants has not been wise. Not many have stayed with him, when he thinks he needs them the most.
By the time Nightcloud, his grey stallion, is ready, the sun is already creating long shadows from the turreted walls. No soldiers stand to attention, and that alone is enough to pierce Ralph once more.
“When will you be back, my Lord?” the groom asks but Ralph shakes his head, beyond speaking for that moment. Besides, he has little idea. Today he will ride, see what ravages have fallen across the land for himself. When he has seen that, then he will know more of what he must face.
He grasps the reins handed to him but, as he places one foot in the stirrup, Nightcloud snorts and tosses his head, sidling away as if Ralph is a stranger to him.
“What the …?”
“Please,” the groom says, “he hasn’t been ridden for a while. He’s grown unused to the feel of a man.”
“So I see.” And he does. He sees the horsemen have grown lazy and decided that he would not return from the journey with the mind-executioner. They have been lax in their duties, and Ralph’s stallion has been left to his own devices and become skittish.
With a curse at his companion, Ralph turns and speaks softly to the horse, threading his fingers through his mane and holding him still. “Hush there, boy, hush. All will be well, steady. You know me, Nightcloud, fiery one, don’t you? Yes you do.”
Moments later, he is in the saddle. The stallion trembles beneath him, and Ralph strokes his neck. The contact there fills his mind with pictures of fire and wind, orange and pure white and, with a gasp, he jerks his hand away. Since the scribe helped him in secret to hone his thought-skills, Ralph’s gifts as a Sensitive have grown stronger, even to the point of sensing the emotions of the higher beasts, should he touch them. He had almost forgotten it. Risking a glance at the groom, Ralph sees he’s noticed nothing out of the ordinary and raises a prayer of thanks to the gods and stars. It would be the worse for him if the people discovered what he is. Mind-skills of any quality have been punishable by death in the land for many years—that is why the executioner came, ostensibly, at least.
Shaking such memories away, he wheels Nightcloud out of the yard, and the horse trots over the unguarded drawbridge, through the patches of marsh-cotton and starwort. Above them the corn-crows circle, their sharp cry beating at the frosty air. Outside his immediate home, Ralph kicks the grey into a gallop and sets his head past the village for the woods.
It is only on a horse that he feels most whole, something he doesn’t think Simon ever fully realised, for all the scribe’s skills at reading him. Of course, with his background of poverty and the need for constant flight, always on foot, the opportunities for learning horsemanship never came to Simon. Early on in their acquaintance, Ralph offered to teach him, but he was unwilling. The gods know why. Now, as he gives Nightcloud his head, and the village flashes by in a haze of green and brown, Ralph would truly be nowhere else but here. The rich smell of horseflesh, the rhythmic beat of hooves on earth, the feel of the wind through his hair—all of this takes away the difficulties he wrestles with and leaves them far behind for a while. Not only that, but the ride helps him see things more clearly.
They gallop through the woods, dodging the thick-set branches of the old oaks and weaving their way with the skill of the familiar through the ash and lichen-trees. Ralph can tell Nightcloud remembers the touch of his hand and the nudge of his heel now. The time for forgetfulness and inactivity is over. He is glad, however, that he did not take him on the journey to Gathandria. He could not have borne to lose such an animal. For the moment riding feels like reclaiming a friend, perhaps the only one Ralph has.
When they are through to the other side of the woods, he pulls the stallion to a halt. As Ralph expects, he tries to fight the command and maintain his gallop, but at the last the Overlord is stronger-willed. He pats the horse’s neck once more, whispers words of endearment and feels again the thrill of Nightcloud’s colours in his mind. As he dismounts, looping the reins over one arm and staring out at the mountains, the horse whickers at him.
The mountains are not what they once were. Since his return here, even the shape of the horizon has changed. Where once the southern hills reared their mystery at the Lammas outer boundaries where none dared go, now their height is shattered as if a great rock from the sky has blasted them out of existence. That, too, is surely the mind-executioner’s doing. It occurs to him that each of the battles fought, and the damage caused on the journey they took in pursuit of the scribe and the Gathandrians, has had an echo here in the Lammas Lands also. Is that true for all the lands then? If so, there must be some kind of link, however fragile, between them all. The thought of that makes Ralph shiver and he turns aside, reaching into his cloak for the packet he has hidden there.
At the same time he is trying not to think of it, forcing his mind to build its walls of defence as Simon taught him. As distant from him as the mind-executioner is, Ralph is still wary lest his enemy pick up the tenor of his thoughts. If he reads them, Ralph has to hope that the executioner only understands the broad stroke of his mind. As he brings the bundle out into the morning light, Nightcloud snorts and tosses his head at him, but he pulls back on the reins and whispers until the horse is soothed again. It is impossible for him to know what Ralph is doing, but Nightcloud must have picked up on his trepidation.
He opens what he is holding and the green rocks catch the light. He dares not look at them too closely for fear of what he might find there—the seven Tregannon emeralds. A secret kept hidden through the generations for fear of mockery and death, and something bequeathed to him from his father, and from his father before him. And so on, until the annals of the past disappear entirely when none can discover them. Their strength is untested and Ralph is not sure precisely how their power is fathomed. But he believes in their wisdom, the one faith he has kept from boyhood, and he intends to rely on their help now.
Which is why, for the fi
rst time in many year-cycles, he finds himself kneeling on the rough ground, out of sight of all prying eyes, and whispering words of need and desperation into their green clarity.
“Please, our family legends say you are the key that unlocks our salvation and I have nowhere else to turn. I do not know how to use you, but I am asking for your help to save my people and this land. Please, give me a sign that I can know you have heard me. And show me what to do.”
Ralph waits. For one heartbeat, and another, and then another. Nothing happens, though he had not known what to hope for. Still, he had expected rather more than clear sky and a silence broken only by Nightcloud’s munching and the distant shriek of a field-crow. A little more time drifts by before he struggles to his feet, already cursing himself for his childishness and feeling the unsteadiness of his leg again. Does he truly think a mere legend can save them? This is real life and he cannot escape it.
And already time has flown faster than Ralph wished for. In the east, dark clouds threaten the sky’s deep peace and his heart thuds a warning. Soon the men in the fields will begin to prepare themselves for rain, perhaps a winter storm. They will be wrong. Because his mind is humming with a sound that he knows will soon reach an almost unbearable intensity. There is little time. He must ride back while he still can. He must prepare himself.
For before long his enemy will come on the wings of the rain, from the ravaged mountains themselves. It is the mind-executioner.
Chapter Two: Decisions
Duncan Gelahn
The mountain cave seems darker now, if such a thing were possible. The mountain people have flowed together in their prison so their stone sides form what could have been a barrier to his arts, if they had been stronger than he. The smell of dust has become greater, almost overwhelming, and their tall elongated stature is more jagged. Haunting. As Gelahn continues to touch the mountain leader’s frame, a spark of stone travels up the mind-executioner’s arm—a foolish gesture and one he quickly turns back on his would-be assailant. With a shift of his thoughts, the stone falls to the ground, tearing itself apart from the rock-flesh of its owner. Duncan can feel the scream in his mind, but it does not hurt him, even without the mind-cane.
The fact that the mountain has tried to harm him, however, gives him the beginnings of an idea. Releasing the mountain man who staggers back before all but disappearing into the bodies of his companions, Duncan erects a mind-wall and pursues the thought. Up to now, the pain he has used to control his enemies has been based in his mind only. While he still possessed the mind-cane, that power was more than enough. He shakes his head at the memory. He will not dwell on the past, it is the future that is important.
Equally important is that Hartstongue the Scribe does not know how to harness that power. If he did, then by now Duncan would be beyond death, drowning in the fires that never go out. He snorts a laugh. Has he not already experienced something of that in his former Gathandrian jail where the Elders chose to keep him for so long? By the gods, he will never let that memory go. It gives him strength, strength to fight and keep on fighting. But if his mental powers are less, then why not utilise physical prowess instead? Perhaps now is the time to take his battle into the lands and bodies of men. Perhaps now is the season to begin to build an army in the flesh, time to learn how to inflict physical, as well as mental, pain.
He turns back to the mountain leader. He smiles. Both of them have much to learn, and quickly.
Concentrating, he forms an axe in his mind, feels the length and breadth of it, the stalwart wood of the handle and the silver glimmer of the blade. He has not done this before, he has never needed to and he remains unconvinced of its success. But a story’s end-time later, the twin of the axe lies on the stones at his feet. He can feel its weight against his torn shoe. He picks it up and turns to his mountain companions.
“Come then,” he says. “Let us see what we can discover together.”
Duncan discovers that mountain people can die without the use of mental tricks, although the process is slower and more exhausting. He also discovers that the stone-dwellers never stop fighting back, and twice he has to pause in what he is engaged in to rebuild the mind-wall that keeps them out. This would have been unnecessary if he still had the cane but, in that case, neither would he have required the axe. He will have to be careful of his mind-skills now. The loss of the cane means he has to spend more time refreshing his thoughts.
Finally the execution is complete. When the mountain-leader is beyond even the healing of stone, Duncan lays down his axe and slumps to the floor besides the ravaged being. The high keening of the mountain assaults his ears and he wipes the sweat from his face. Beyond the mind-wall’s protection, the dead mountain leader’s companions are mourning, but after a while they fall silent. As stone, he thinks to himself and laughs. They are as silent as stone now. It is the mountain-dogs who continue to roam in the shadows and growl.
He waits for his strength to return. Then he gets to his feet, rips aside the mind-wall and steps out into the stones’ dark grief.
“This,” he says, his voice rising like the cry of the wolf on the hunt, “this is what will happen to you all if Simon the Scribe is allowed to take on his power.”
As he speaks, he gestures at the fallen stone-man, and even the mountain-dogs cease their frenzied pacing. “For do you truly believe that you will be safe from a man who cannot control the strength the mind-cane gives him? If he becomes master of one-tenth of the power he dreams of, then you, the mountain of the world, will no longer survive. He will blast you out of existence and all your people and legends will be lost. The death I have been forced to show you today will be multiplied beyond all your imaginings and there will be nothing left for you. Is that how you wish your future to be. Is it?”
He stares round at the solidity of them, challenging them to act. But they will not fight him—how can they when his strength is greater? They are not so foolish. Still, even as he thinks that, at the edge of his vision Duncan catches a hint of movement from the creature who had been closest to the leader. He turns and stares in its direction and the whisper of rebellion is quelled. Good. No, better—he can use such a fighting spirit in the battles to come. It will be distilled into the heart of the dogs.
When all continues quiet and no remaining entity of the mountain attempts to move towards him, Duncan speaks again and this time his voice is lower, more persuasive.
“I am sorry for what I had to do,” he whispers. This is naturally a lie, but no matter. “But the time for old leadership is over for you. Now you and your dogs will answer to me and together we will win. The training we must go through will be hard, but not fatal, I promise you. When we are ready, the mountain people and I, the mind-enabler, will take up our places of honour in the world once more. Then all will be as it should.”
Annyeke
As Johan stepped through her doorway, the chill winter air swept in with him, scattering the dry remains of Annyeke’s flour over the work surface. At the same time, Simon rose, stepped to one side and gestured at the stool he’d vacated. Annyeke simply stared at Johan. He looked as if he’d been awake for many day-cycles, his blue eyes were dark with exhaustion and his clothes were not the freshest; a faint smell of stale herbs and sweat drifted around her and she stepped back, wrinkling her nose.
“I’m sorry, I …” Johan began but Simon shook his head, strode over to him and led him to the nearest seat while Annyeke fetched bread. Even with her back turned she could sense Johan’s colours, the very fact of him, easing through her skin—sea-blue, aquamarine, sapphire.
“Don’t worry,” the scribe said when Johan tried another feeble protest. “And don’t try to talk. You must eat.”
Annyeke dropped two hunks of bread on a platter and set it before Johan. He grimaced and she understood he hadn’t actually eaten since his return to the great city. When she gestured at him, brooking no refusal, he took a hesitant first bite but then moaned and began to eat with gusto. Typical man,
she thought, they forgot to eat while their minds were elsewhere and then valuable time was lost whilst they regained their strength. When would they ever learn?
Still, while he finished the best of her bread, she was impressed that he only glanced twice at the mind-cane that hovered in the corner of the room. She and Simon had their backs to it and she couldn’t find it within herself to blame them. When Johan finished his first platter, Annyeke refilled it and he ate that, too. He refused a third plate, instead downing a beaker of springwater. Just as well, as there was no more bread to hand.
“Thank you,” he said at last, his voice steadier than she’d anticipated. From his proximity, she knew his mind was less so, but she could not hope for miracles. Not yet, anyway.
She nodded. There were so many things she wanted to say to this man but none of them could find their way into her mouth. Most of all, she longed to touch him, but knew if she did that once she’d never be able to let go. He was her overseer in the Sub-Council of Meditation. It would— or should—be unthinkable.
As if he’d caught the echo of her mind, though gods and stars forbid, surely he had not, he sprang to his feet and paced towards the window before turning.
“I’m sorry,” he said, staring briefly at her before dropping his gaze again. “I should have been here. I…I have not been.”
It wasn’t a great apology, though she hadn’t thought they’d needed one. The normal rules surely did not apply now. Annyeke suddenly realised that the steady blue of his aura had become streaked with jagged green and a deep abiding red, the colours of jealousy and shame. She swallowed. Was she drawing those feelings out of him? Because of the responsibility the Elders had left to her? He had no reason for it; she would give the herbs and trees from the parkland itself for the burden of this duty not to be her own, but his. But what was done had been witnessed by many. Impossible to change it now. Johan looked as if he might say something else, but the scribe got there first.
