by Anne Brooke
“When Kadron, Man of Fortitude, gazed at his heart’s enemy, compassion for the weaker man filled his mind. In spite of all that had happened, the slaughter of his family and the day-cycle’s terrible battle, he saw the lust that had twisted the character of a New Lander he had once known to an unrecognisable madness, and wondered, even then, if some good thing could be wrought in the midst of so much pain.
“So he dropped the strong staff he was holding to the ground and stretched out his hand, part in mercy, part in judgement, to Javagathlon. And these are the words Kadron spoke, words that echoed through the silent air to the ears of all who remained alive:
“What we do here is wrong and you know it. Why did you start such a terrible series of events? Why do you long for what you cannot have? It is madness to destroy the peace we once possessed and to bring us to the cruel shedding of blood in this way. You will not win, Javagathlon. Your lust and overpowering desires cannot conquer forever the fortitude of those who have right on their side. Come, we can stop this now, the two of us. Surrender to me and my people and let the good harvest of the New Lands flourish again. Yes, there will be punishment for what you have done here on this day-cycle, but you can know that your surrender brought respite to us all.
“With that, Kadron rested his hand on his enemy’s shoulder, hoping by that gesture to bring about the resolution he and his people so desperately needed. Javagathlon lifted up his left hand to take hold of the Man of Fortitude’s fingers. And, with his right, still clutching a weeding knife, he cut off Kadron’s hand.
“Kadron cried out and the sky above echoed the pain. Even the unseen stars from which all things were made twisted in agony at such a betrayal. And the blood flowed free, so free that none could stop it.
“Javagathlon laughed as his opponent began to die. But that laughter was his undoing also. With his final breaths, Kadron snatched the weeding knife with his remaining hand and plunged it into the Man of Lust’s throat. The two men were dead. Lust and Fortitude breathed no more.
“For a long time then, silence reigned supreme over the battle, although no more fighting took place. With the death of both leaders, the spirit of conflict left the people and the only emotion remaining was grief and, on the part of the Followers of Lust, fear too. Javagathlon’s men fled, but were captured or cut down as they ran. Soon, only a few remained. In the end, Fortitude triumphed over Lust, but the cost for both was high. It took many generation-cycles for peace to have its full way in their land and, even now, the tale of Fortitude and Lust is told to all New Landers when they are old enough to hear its message. And, of course, it is the basis of all Gathandrian tales.”
*****
When Annyeke finished the First Legend of Gathandria, her hair was damp with sweat and she could taste the salt of tears on her tongue. The First Legend had always brought tears to her mind, but never in such quantities before. She was even shaking. What did this mean? As she opened her eyes, she could see the scribe stepping past the mind-cane on the floor and striding towards the water jug. She could sense many emotions in him, the chief of which was concern for her.
“And what lesson must I take from this?” Simon whispered, as if talking only to himself. “Such a bloody war and the victory, such as it was, scarcely won. What wisdom is there here?”
She tried to reply but could not. The room around her, so familiar and so safe, suddenly appeared to be somewhere she’d never seen, filled with unknown dangers. To her right, there was a flurry of white movement and she half gasped, half screamed as the snow-raven plunged towards her. As she dived under the safety of her work desk, one white feather touched her neck and fire seared her skin. This time she screamed for real, but the bird swooped on, heading for Simon.
The Lost One turned, the glass beaker he was filling with water sparkling in the light. Beaker and water jug tumbled to the stone floor and his hand flew to his face as he took a step back. The bird’s beak closed round Simon’s wrist, forcing him across towards the table where the raven slammed his hand down on the mind-cane, itself vertical and trembling now as if poised for action.
Simon cried out and a tongue of fire rose from the ebony cane, licking its way over the scribe’s fingers. Careless of the strange fire searing her own mind, and despite the presence of the bird, Annyeke flung herself out from beneath the table and towards him. She had no idea what she would do when she got there but she couldn’t crouch helpless and do nothing.
The bird let go. The mind-cane sizzled and sang. Simon reared backwards, his hand burning, and swept the cane away from him. His eyes were wide with fear. As he turned, surely to run, his fingers touched Annyeke’s face. Touched and clung, as if melded to her flesh.
A bright river of blue filled her head. The fire in her thoughts groaned and vanished. From her mouth, a spark of red appeared and dropped to the floor. A heartbeat later, a spark of purple followed. The sparks solidified and became small jewels of colour on the floor. They trembled twice and were still. The heat on Annyeke’s face eased and she knew she was herself again.
She could hear Simon’s uneven breath, feel his panic continuing to rise, the sensation made fifty times more powerful by his touch. If she didn’t do something to calm him soon, he would be out of control.
“Simon,” she whispered, but only aloud. She understood that further shocks would be more than unwelcome right now. She hoped her voice alone would be enough to steady him.
“Y-Yes?” His eyes turned to hers, wide and glittering.
“I-I think it’s over. I th-think we’re safe.” She couldn’t stop the stammer, flowing as it was from his mind to hers, but her tone was low, unlike his.
As she spoke, she hoped she was telling the truth. Glancing round, the mind-cane was motionless again, and the shape of the snow-raven filled the window once more. The mysterious flames in her thoughts and on Simon’s skin had gone, too, almost as if none of it had happened at all. But she knew it had and, may the gods save them both, she knew what it meant, also.
With a gasp, Simon removed his fingers and broke the link between them. He was trembling. Skittering away from her, he stared at the cane and raven before hugging his arms to himself, as if trying to contain his fear.
“What was it?” he said. “What happened?”
Simon
It had only been a story. Just a story, though a tragic one, and one he couldn’t find his way through. Fortitude and Lust. What was Annyeke trying to tell him and how could this help him to meditate? Should he have agreed to the mind-link narration? No, he still believed persuading her to tell him vocally had been the wisest course of action.
But then, after she’d finished speaking and he’d still been puzzling over the meaning of what he’d heard, the mind-fire had started and that was when the snow-raven assaulted him.
He could still feel the tingle of the mind-cane’s power on his flesh. The cane lay quietly enough now and for that he was thankful. Annyeke, too, seemed to be herself again. Fearing to insult her in some fashion, he snatched his hand away from her face where it seemed to have been fused for a few desperate heartbeats of time. Instead, he withdrew to a safe distance, trying to make contact with nothing and no one.
“What was it? What happened?” he asked her.
She shook her head, and her eyes, when they turned to his, were full of sorrow.
“It’s my fault,” she said, her tone as dull as winter dusk. “I should have protected us, but I didn’t. The story I told has worked its way with me as I told it and has laid hold on the lust I carry in my own heart. Look, those are the consequences.”
With that, Annyeke gestured towards the small stones that had somehow fallen from her mouth while the mind-fire raged between them.
“What do you mean?” Simon reached instinctively towards the red and purple orbs but Annyeke grabbed his arm to stop him.
“No! Don’t touch them. Not yet. They might still be dangerous.”
“In what way? They’re not burning now, are they?”
“But they could still infect you, Simon. Let them cool further. I need to think about this.”
His companion looked so down at heart that he tried to think of what best to say to comfort her. This was when he needed the help of the cane and the snow-raven but both remained silent. It was up to him.
“You say these stones are symbols of your desires?” he began, uncertain of how to proceed.
“Not my desires,” Annyeke whispered, her eyes still shining with unshed tears. “You soften the fact. They are a sign of the lust I bear in my heart. My lust for things I want and cannot have, the sparks of evil which can build into a fire so consuming that it can destroy a character, or a people.”
The scribe swallowed. Did all Gathandrians think in such all or nothing terms? No matter. If the only way to victory and survival was through Annyeke’s care, then he must make sure his Mentor didn’t falter, at least, not so soon in this mysterious training programme.
“Annyeke?”
“Yes?”
“I…I don’t think everything is always as clear cut as you say. If I’ve learned anything from the life I’ve led so far, it has to be that. Besides, in my experience, none of us is perfect. We all carry within us the seeds of both good and bad. It is the circumstances we meet which causes one or the other, or, more likely, both to flourish. In any case, you should count yourself proud that when the story you have just told me burrows into your store of lust, all it can produce are these tiny objects. If it had burrowed into my supply of lust, no doubt the results would have been far greater.”
Annyeke gazed at him quizzically and then the two of them started laughing. A laughter born of terror and relief and which neither of them could stop for at least the length of a story’s beginning. While they laughed, the snow-raven stepped back and spread out his wings, but made no sound. The mind-cane, too, was silent. Even though he was sure that somehow the actions of both bird and cane had saved them, Simon was glad they didn’t interfere now. In spite of this, he nodded once in the direction of the bird who cocked his head on one side and folded up his wings.
When he and Annyeke had recovered themselves, Simon rose and gathered up the shards of broken glass from the beaker he had dropped. Annyeke indicated that he should place them on one side of her work table.
“I think it’s beyond saving,” he mused. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault. And, on the contrary, our glass-workers—the few we have left—are sometimes able to salvage what we do not think possible. If we succeed, no, when we succeed in defeating Gelahn, we’ll need their skills in rebuilding our city again.”
“True,” he smiled, only hoping that her confidence would be fulfilled, knowing she could sense that doubt in him, too, but would have the grace to say nothing, unlike Johan, who would have had to say something if he had been here. “Would you like another beaker of water now?”
When Annyeke nodded, Simon poured the drink for her. Together the two of them sat back on the floor, leaning against the work table. The scribe allowed the quietness to settle between them. The future seemed heavy with possibilities and dread; he needed to hold to the present as long as he could, if he could. Closing his eyes, he could see the journey he’d taken to get here. The way through the mountains, his gradual acceptance of his fellow travellers, one of whom had proved to be so very treacherous. Then the terrifying entry to the Kingdom of the Air and the scribe’s violent encounter with the snow-raven, the same bird who had come to him now. Why? He couldn’t begin to answer his own question. After that, the long hot trudge through the desert kingdom and the excruciating loss of Carthen, his young apprentice and friend, the apparent death of Isabella, too, and its effect on Johan. The slow beginnings of a friendship he had no intention of letting go.
Finally, the voyage over the waters and the entry to Gathandria, the battle with Gelahn and the real death of Isabella. Not forgetting the presence—always in his heart but only in truth at the end of their great travels—of Ralph Tregannon, the Overlord of the Lammas Lands. Gone now, a fact he had no power to change.
Simon opened his eyes. The snow-raven regarded him with an expression he would have called quizzical if the bird had been a man. He had lived through more than he reckoned on then. He had survived it somehow, and was at least here for what that was worth both to himself and these Gathandrians. Still, it was something.
He sighed. “Annyeke?”
“Yes?”
“If I dare ask what I wanted to before, what do you think is the meaning of the legend you have told me? For me, I mean, and for us all?”
She smiled and he sensed the gentle withdrawal of her mind from the outskirts of his. He hadn’t even known she was there.
“The meaning is fortitude,” she said. “No matter the wildness of lust, fortitude is there to encounter and control it, whatever may arise.”
He thought she would say more, but she was silent. Her words didn’t appear to help him very much, not in ways he could see. Typically Gathandrian then, if Johan was anything to go by.
Next to him, the mind-cane began to hum. As if driven by instinct and in spite of his fear, Simon reached out and brushed the silver carving at the top with his fingers before pulling away. A moment of inner shock, the feeling of something turning, clicking into place, and then all was as it should be again.
Annyeke’s eyes were wide and he saw her swallow.
“So then,” he said, unaware that he’d been intending to speak at all. “So then, when lust appears as it has done today, the fortitude of one who has travelled much must somehow stand against it.”
He shut his mouth, heart beating fast. Annyeke blinked at him. Not that he could blame her for that. He had no idea why he’d said what he had. Where had it come from?
“I-I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “I’m tired and I don’t make any sense. Perhaps we should try again another time?”
“No,” she shook her head. “It makes sense, in a fashion. You touched the cane, Simon, and you spoke.”
“I know. I don’t understand why…”
“Hush, it’s all right. The cane didn’t hurt you, did it?”
He half laughed, though his thoughts were anything but laughter. “No, not this time. I’ve been lucky.”
“Or perhaps the cane helped clarify the First Legend of Gathandria by giving you a glimpse of its meaning? My solidified lust against the fortitude you have gained from your travels.”
Now the scribe did laugh. “I have little enough of that, believe me. Anything I do is achieved despite my own reluctance and more by the help of others than by any strength of my own. Surely, my story tells you that.”
But she continued to insist, despite his objections. “There is more than one interpretation to any life. You must be open to other truths and not narrow your own character so.”
In the end, they agreed to differ. However, before the meditation ended and while Annyeke gathered up the small jewels that had arisen from her, another thought occurred to him, one that really should have occurred earlier.
“You speak of other interpretations,” he said, “but if the story brought out the sparks of lust in you and solidified them, why didn’t it do the same for the fortitude I know you surely have?”
“Good question,” Annyeke said with a frown. “The truth is I don’t know. Right now that’s only one of the many things that are worrying me.”
Third Lammas Lands Chronicle
JUSTICE AND ANGER
Duncan Gelahn
Failure is not the end. He should have learned that lesson, having been imprisoned for so long and so cruelly by the Elders of Gathandria. The recent despair he has been mired in was harsh but brief, and now Gelahn’s plans are sharp and clear once more. He has swept through Tregannon’s mind, breaching what little defences he had, and found nothing but fear, hatred and a hard-won respect. More than all, however, at the centre of his thoughts, the Lammas Land’s Overseer is still convinced that obedience to the mind-e
xecutioner is the best way of saving his people.
That will be Ralph Tregannon’s downfall, because Gelahn has already decided that once the wretched scribe is dead and Gathandria is his, then he has no more need of the Overseer. Let the fool perish with his erstwhile lover. The two of them deserve nothing less.
He smiles and gazes round the master bedroom of Tregannon’s castle. He has taken it for his own and the choice pleases him. Tregannon himself has had to move into a sparsely furnished guest room. It is what he deserves.
Here, in the unaccustomed comfort of silks and linens, he can think how best to fight his blood-enemies and win. Without the mind-cane, the battle will be more tormented, but Gelahn knows his mind-skills are still more powerful than many of those he will face. After all, he is a mind-executioner, and a man feared by all. Not only that, but he has the mountain dogs, their abilities even more powerful now with the inclusion of the agony he’d taken from the dying mountain—a small sacrifice for a greater good. These truths are enough of an advantage for him even in difficult circumstances. And, by the stars, he has experience of difficult circumstances. Fighting without the cane will simply be another obstacle to overcome. The temporary loss of his dignity on the Gathandrian shores against the unfocused rage of the scribe and the strange antics of the mind-cane has been nothing but a victory delayed because the more the mind-executioner dwells on the possibilities of physical battle with a city that has never fought one, the more he finds he is smiling again. As he considers his options, he spreads a mind-net over his thoughts so none but he can access them. Doing so is almost second nature with him now.
