by Anne Brooke
That done, the words leapt straight from her mind to Yeke’s, the mind-net acting as a deadly passageway between them. I hate you, Annyeke said. You are cruel and I hate you.
In the silence that followed, even as the mind-net faded to nothing, she knew that the family would never be the same again.
*****
Annyeke stopped. She’d revealed more than she’d intended to. Best to keep silent for a while, and surely there was enough there for the scribe to work with. Perhaps they’d both been wrong, though? Perhaps she should have kept to her first plan and shared the Tale of The Two Brothers with him, that archetypal Gathandrian tale of justice and anger. Now she could not see how her own meagre history could possibly give him the insight he needed to save them. She should never have allowed him to convince her. Time had been wasted that she could ill afford and they would have to work doubly hard to prepare for the great battle to come. She could sense it in her blood. It was nearer now than when she had first reckoned the day-cycles.
Thank you.
Simon’s voice. It brushed through her thoughts like a soft breeze passing through but leaving no damage.
For what? she asked him.
For giving me something of Gathandria and its people, rather than simply the ancient stories. I think it helps.
Refraining from asking in what way it could help, she could sense her companion’s mind still sifting through the tale she had told, her grandmother’s injustice and Annyeke’s own long-held rage. Was that what he’d taken from her story? Not much of worth there, then. The small orbs of weakness discovered within her had been right. She found she was crying and closed her eyes.
No. You mistake yourself. And me, the scribe continued. What your grandmother did was wrong. She did what she thought was best, but it was not the right thing for you. I do not think your anger was misplaced, Annyeke. I think it was justified. I would have felt the same. Have done so, indeed, under different circumstances. Though I would not, I am ashamed to say, have had the courage to fight back as you did. Would that I had. Then I think my life would have been much simpler.
A silence during which they stared at each other. Then suddenly they were both laughing, again. Annyeke could sense a wave of blue easing through her mind. It must come from Simon, or be something to do with what they’d just shared together. How could he do that when she was the stronger? No matter. For a heartbeat or two, that same blue river drifted into mind-spaces she hadn’t visited for nearly a lifetime, flushing out the dark and the crimson spatterings and swallowing them up into a different colour. She blinked, and the river was gone.
The scribe appeared to have noticed nothing untoward. He stretched his arms and stood up. Behind him, Annyeke saw that the snow-raven looked as if it was poised for flight and the mind-cane was quivering. For the first time, she was more worried about the cane than the bird.
“Do justice and anger always fight then?” he asked her. “In the legends and in our lives?”
An impossible question, but Annyeke met Simon’s steady gaze.
“I don’t know,” she said, “but it’s always been a battle, a personal one.”
He opened his mouth to reply but never got the chance because the mind-cane spun upwards and began a high-pitched humming. At the same time, the snow-raven began to sing, each note a perfect sphere of gold that melted into the air.
The scribe took two steps towards the door, his sense of calm dissipated and arms raised upwards as if to ward off attack, but Annyeke grabbed him.
“No, don’t run,” she panted. “Not this time. Why don’t you take hold of the cane, Simon? Properly. You’ve touched the cane before and it hasn’t hurt you.”
“B-but that was accidentally,” he stammered, straining to free himself from her fingers, but she wouldn’t let him. “Or when I had no choice. I hated it though. I hate touching it.”
“Why?” she said. He’d never said that before. She’d never sensed it from him, not with such vehemence, anyway.
He finally wrenched himself free.
Because it shows me myself, he said. That’s why.
She had nothing to say in reply, no wisdom to give. The snow-raven flapped its wings and the cane’s humming grew louder. Simon put his hands over his ears.
“No,” he said. “I’ve had enough. Please. Let me go. I need to get away. I need to think. For the gods’ and stars’ sake, why won’t anyone let me think?”
With that, he reached the door and flung it open. The late afternoon air came rushing in, bringing with it a hint of snow. The time they had was already running out. Too soon. With heart beating fast, she let him go and watched him stride away, the raven and the cane following swiftly in his wake. From his mind-depths, she caught his destination before he knew it himself—the Great Library. It might be dangerous, but surely the mind-cane would keep him safe, and, after all, where else would a scribe long to go?
Simon
The wide and broken road bordered by the remains of the parkland swallowed him up. He’d had enough. At first, he’d thought the calmness he’d felt would hold him, but then the raven had started to sing and all his fear had come rushing back. Besides, there had been something in Annyeke’s honesty that had spoken to him in a different way from the first tale, where the outcome had been almost more than he could bear. With this one, something in him had shifted, releasing a river of blue he hadn’t known was there, or not in such abundance. For a moment, maybe more, he’d been on the brink of discovering…he didn’t know what. No matter. It had come to nothing—as was usual in his life, damn the stars, and now he was here, walking to no purpose through an unknown city and pursued by a strange bird and a mind-cane.
It wasn’t the scenario he’d hoped for and, even as he smiled grimly to himself, he couldn’t find much of amusement in it. Swinging round, he faced his pursuers.
“Why don’t you leave me alone?” he yelled, not caring what kind of attention his behaviour drew from the passersby in the street. “What do you want me to do, anyway? What do you want me for?”
No answer, of course, and neither cane nor bird retreated. The raven simply cocked his head at him and the mind-cane stood quivering, as if expecting orders. The scribe had none to give but, by then, the wave of apprehension—no, fear—that the presence of the cane outside was drawing to him from the Gathandrians was clear.
He waved a hand in apology at strangers. “Please. I’m sorry. It’s all right. The cane won’t hurt anyone, believe me. At least I don’t think so. The only one it’s after is…is me.”
Then, without waiting for any kind of reply to that poor reassurance, and not expecting help, he set off on his previous course—to nowhere.
He walked for the length of a spring story only as his feet dictated, though there was a strain of his thought within that drove him onwards, but he was too distracted to grasp it fully. His unwanted companions stuck close enough for him not to forget them, but far enough away so he didn’t feel threatened. The snow-raven must have been flying from roof to broken roof for a while when Simon became aware of the slight regular thump of the bird’s landing. By the time his mind was clear enough to focus on his surroundings, he found himself striding along a narrow street he hadn’t seen before. The houses here were smaller than those in Annyeke’s district, or even near the public square where she’d given her speech to the people, the same speech that carried the assumption that he, a dishonoured and deceitful scribe from a far-off land, could somehow help this beleaguered city. He wished he had her confidence even though, after the story she had just shared with him, he didn’t think confidence was the most important aspect of Annyeke. Perhaps the most important aspect was hope.
He came to a sudden halt. On the roof to his left, the raven spread his great white wings for a moment as if waiting for further travelling and then folded them again. He looked as if he’d be prepared to wait for the scribe’s next action forever. Meanwhile, the cane remained silent. Simon was grateful for that. As he’d told Annyek
e, he needed to think.
Whilst deciding what to think about first on his now rather long list, he gazed about him. The proximity of the houses here made the street rather darker than it should have been, although already the sun was fading. Nobody was about, but he could hear the sound of hammering. It must be coming from the houses. He could not see any gap for a working area anywhere. There were plenty of gaps in the buildings themselves, however, as if great chunks of stone and glass had been gouged out or melted away. It must be the result of Gelahn’s mind-wars. Glass hung jagged in windows and half-smashed stones lay huddled next to the walls they’d once adorned. Some of the doors, too, were missing, although those that were left were mapped with carvings, the beauty of which the scribe had rarely seen before, more intricate, indeed, than Ralph Tregannon’s furnishings, and purer, too. He stepped closer to the nearest door.
For long moments, the richness of the design had him stumbling, but then his eye saw what it was—a bird dancing across the tops of trees. Even though he could not identify for sure the species, the sight of it made him smile. There was something bold and expansive about the way the feathers arced upwards and the brush of the talons across the tallest of the branches. It made his heart beat faster. The man who had carved this truly had great talent. He was glad it had not been lost in the war.
Still gripped in admiration, he reached out and touched the carving, running his fingers across the rough wood and tracing the line of the bird’s neck. At once, the door swung open with a harsh creak and the next moment the decision was made. As he entered the interior gloom, the cane and the bird followed him, his constant companions. He could hear a low muttering and then someone sighed.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light levels, he saw that, at the back of what seemed to be a studio, stood a tall slim woman wearing a loose-fitting dark green dress. Her silver hair was pinned up and from that he could see she was no longer young. She was holding a chair in one hand and some kind of small knife in the other. The air smelt of sawdust and juniper.
The woman turned and blinked at him. Something rushed through his mind. It felt like green silk, shadowed strangely with darkness, and then it was gone. He wondered if she were reading him and, if so, what she might have found.
Before he could say anything, try to explain his presence there, she’d put down the chair and was smiling.
“Ah,” she said. “You’re the Lost One everyone is talking about. Welcome to the Sub-District of Sculptors.”
With admirable ease and the minimum of fuss, the woman seated him and poured him a beaker of water from an oversized jug on the workbench. The raven and the mind-cane, both of which must have followed him inside, lurked like strange ghosts near the doorway. His companion paid them no heed, concentrating instead on more practical concerns.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “The beaker is clean. For lack of anything more suitable, I spin a mind-net each morning to keep the dust at bay.”
He nodded, not really understanding, and took a sip. Before he knew it, he’d drained the glass and she’d offered him another. He must have been thirstier than he’d realised.
“Yes,” she spoke again. “Thinking—or being forced into it—does that for me, too.”
Simon put down the beaker. “There is much I don’t understand. You know who I am, but I am afraid I do not know you.”
“But you are welcome in my house, and enter it with confidence.”
That much was true, he thought. Even though “confidence” was not a word he associated much with himself.
“Please,” he said, “I do not mean to intrude but…”
“…but you needed the respite. And I am happy to provide that for you. The last few day-cycles have been hard for us all.”
She drew up a chair and sat down. Smiling, she answered the questions crowding his head.
“My name is Iffenia,” she said. “It means moon-lily in our language. I am the Wife of the Second Elder and he is a chair maker though, of course, you did not have long to meet the elders and they have now left us. For a while only, I hope.”
Simon nodded. Her words carried that same sense of darkness he’d felt before. It must be grief at her husband’s absence. That was something he understood. He wondered if they would, in fact, return after their betrayal of Gathandria. He had listened to the reasons for their departure, but that did not mean he understood.
“Why did they go?” he asked her. “Forgive me. I do not intend harshness. I, too, would have fled if I had had the opportunity. I suppose that is what I did, in fact, during the two first days when I stayed in Annyeke’s room, but surely those with wisdom in the land should have stayed, whatever their wrongdoings. We need your husband’s guidance, and that of his fellow elders.”
He hadn’t intended to sound as if he were offering her a challenge. He had only just arrived here and, besides, he had no challenge to offer. But as he finished speaking, the scribe realised the snow-raven had perched on the table nearest to them both and the mind-cane was quivering only a few feet away from him. It looked as if it might plunge towards him at any moment and he braced himself to run.
A hand on his arm grounded him.
“No,” Iffenia whispered. “Do not run. And do not fear your own words. What you have said is right or, rather, rightly asked. But the elders betrayed the people when they let the mind-executioner free. Until their minds are clear, help cannot truly come from them, and anything they do will only hinder us. I miss my husband with all that I am, and would do anything for his safe return, but I know it must be so for now. When they are able to help us, believe me, they will. But, in the meantime, do not fight the influence these, your companions, have over you. Whilst they are strange, they are not your harshest enemies.”
Eyes still fixed on the fearsome length of black and carved silver, he swallowed, trying to take in all she had said. “No? Sometimes it seems as if they are. Annyeke tells me that, with them, I can help Gathandria survive. I accept what you say about the elders might be true, but the knowledge of how to help in a way they could not is hidden from me. And, so far, the mind-training has not obviously been successful.”
“Mind-training is not easy,” she replied after a moment, releasing her hold on him. “Not even for full blood Gathandrians, and you only have half our blood in you. But perhaps that, too, is as it should be. After all, we have been able to protect neither our own lands nor the lands of our neighbours. It may be we do not have all the answers, even my husband and his circle. Something new is needed.”
“Something new?” He glanced at her, and then laughed. “I fear that I have little to offer, and certainly nothing new.”
You underestimate yourself.
Her answer, suddenly inside his head in a way he hadn’t anticipated, cut through him. In its wake, that strange shadowy green sense once more flowed. The woman’s words reverberated within him, almost as if he was thinking them himself.
“Perhaps I do,” he replied, not trusting his skills enough to respond only in the mind. “But when I compare myself to the people I see around me—Johan, Annyeke, even young Talus—then I have no choice but to admit my own lack.”
Then do not compare yourself. You are unique, Lost One, and in that uniqueness lies your salvation, and ours, also.
As she finished speaking, he realised she’d left his mind, had withdrawn in order to allow him his privacy, not that he was sure what to do with it.
“And that is the ‘something new’ you talk about? You think I must find my own way through this period of preparation in order to be ready to face Duncan Gelahn when he attacks us at last?”
She nodded and spoke aloud once more. “Yes, that is exactly what I mean. And, if you wish to take the first step on that pathway, perhaps you should start in the Gathandrian Library. Though you do not credit it, this is where your mind has truly been directing you, is it not? You are, after all, a scribe. That is your gifting. You are a carver of words, just as my gifting is to be a sc
ulptor. Both of us create beauty and order where there is none. Come, I will show the way you must go.”
At the door to the street, she touched his head with her fingers and, at once, the scribe knew the way to his destination. Before she could withdraw her hand, he took it.
“Will you go with me?” he asked her. “I would value your company.”
Iffenia shook her head, taking her hand away quickly. “I cannot, though your invitation touches me, Simon Hartstongue. Up until now, you have had many Gathandrian companions with you. For this section of your path, you must travel only with those the Spirit has commanded to be with you. But know this: the minds of all who live here are with you, even when you are alone.”
Then she stepped back inside her home and was gone.
Duncan Gelahn
One moment the mind-executioner is luxuriating in Tregannon’s master bedroom and smiling at the thought of the dispossessed Lammas Lands’ lord. The mountain dogs lie quiet. The next moment, a shiver of red rolls over and through his mind and his eyes are forced shut. Impressions of books, a voice he knows too well from his past, and two brothers, one murderous, fill his mind and, when he opens his eyes at last, he understands he is no longer in Ralph’s castle.
This moment is truly his.
For reasons Duncan cannot fully understand, but which he suspects must be to do with the scribe, he is back in the great Library of Gathandria. Not the hidden dungeon the Elders kept him in for so long, with its torment of books and legends, but the Library itself. Something has begun, who knows how, and he welcomes it. He wants to close his eyes to savour the sensations, but he is afraid to miss anything of what he has ached for. Instead, he breathes in the air, its hint of learning and dust, excitements and dreams filling him until he could almost be one with the great treasure house itself.
