by Anne Brooke
“Be still,” a voice says. “You need to rest.”
For a heartbeat or two, Ralph thinks the woman is saying words into the air without moving her lips and he blinks. But then he realises the voice is one he recognises and it is not the strange woman who speaks at all.
Another face appears at her side. It is Jemelda and she is frowning. Ignoring any pain he might have, Ralph sits up and grips her arm. “You should not be here. How is the boy? Where is the emerald I gave you?”
Her eyes widen and she stares at him. At once, he lets her go. It is not the way of the Lammas Lords to touch any servant. He has broken this rule already. To do so again is beyond the accounting. She shakes her head.
“I am glad to see you ask about Apolyon before the jewels, my Lord,” she says and her tone is dry. “Both are safe enough. The boy is under my husband’s care, in the castle kitchen area, as you left him.”
“And the dogs?” Ralph asks the strange woman this, assuming she will be the most likely person to know. “They are still through the circle? They have not come back?”
When he addresses her, she jumps and darts a glance at the cook. Then returning her gaze to him, she shakes her head, steps back and vanishes through a curtain into another room. Before the ragged purple velvet swings shut, Ralph catches a glimpse of her friend at the well. She is combing her long hair and her dress is torn at the shoulder, revealing the whiteness of skin.
It is then he understands where he is and who these women are—the prostitutes of his village, those whom they never acknowledge although the men in his army use them often. They are forbidden to speak to such as Ralph, on pain of death in the Hanging Place. Their role in these lands is to do what is asked of them and to be silent in the company of men. It strikes Ralph they have brought him to protection and yet they are the last people who should be concerned for his safety; it would be better for them if he were dead. Moreover, that he is here at all smears what reputation he might seek to maintain even more deeply. He wonders briefly who else knows he is here before he remembers how ridiculous that worry is now.
Jemelda grimaces. “So. You know where you are, my good Lord, and already you concern yourself with what others might think. And, no, before you object, I can see from your face that it is true. I have no need of any mind-skills, permissible or otherwise, to read a man’s heart. Those gifts lie in our gender, nothing more.”
Ralph has nothing to say in defence of himself. She is right in her assumptions of his guilt.
“The mountain dogs are vanished,” she continues. “The women told me so. They have not come back and the circle that took them has gone. You have been unconscious for the length of an autumn story’s beginning. That is all.”
“But you have come here when I told you to stay,” he interrupt her words, but his voice is weaker than he would wish.
She puts her hands on her hips and raises her eyebrows. “I had no choice. The jewel you gave me sparked its own fire and forced me to follow. Perhaps it does not want to be parted from its companions after all.”
Ralph struggles upwards in the makeshift bed until his eyes are level with hers. She makes no move to help him and he is glad of that.
“Show me,” he says.
She digs deep into the pockets of her skirt and brings out the emerald. Even before she hands it to him, Ralph can see it is fizzing with colour and the air echoes with a faint humming.
“It drew me,” she whispers. “I couldn’t help but follow where it led.”
He takes the jewel and returns it to his safekeeping, with the others. But, as it lands with a soft chinking sound, something about the way the emeralds lie within the black cotton, or the manner in which the humming turns to a fragile keening, draws Ralph’s gaze again.
“There are six of them,” he says. “They have found their way back from where I threw them at the dogs. How can that be when…? But no matter. There should be seven. Have you…?”
Even before he’s framed the question in his own mind, he can see the pointlessness of it. Jemelda purses her lips and Ralph bites back his foolishness.
“No, obviously not. Forgive me. I must have dropped it by the well,” he says before another thought occurs. “Unless…”
But once more, the cook is there before him. “No. The body-women would not take your goods, my fine lord. Not even to free themselves from their imprisonment. They are not as foolish as you men assume, although I am sure their kindness to you deserves more than emeralds.”
Ralph feels his face redden and knows, as surely as if they had been standing in the room with them, that the two women are listening from behind the curtain. “I know. And I thank them for it. But I have to find the missing emerald. I need to return to the well.”
For a moment, it looks as if Jemelda will argue, but then she shakes her head, despairing of him, no doubt. The dark green colour of her thoughts floats through his mind. Unexpectedly, he thinks again of Simon.
“Come then,” the cook says. “If you wish to look for the emerald, then I suppose you must do it. You will, of course, trust no one else to search for it on your behalf.”
Yes, I might have trusted one other person. Once. But I broke that trust and besides he is not here now.
To dislodge the thought, Ralph shakes his head. “No, you’re right. I must see for myself. I need to find the seventh jewel. There is so little time.”
The last phrase leaps from his mouth as if its truths were daggers that could tear his flesh again. Something is about to happen. He knows it. His mind flares up with colours it is not accustomed to—orange, silver, black—not the colours of the winter storm he carries within him always.
Without another word, he swings his legs sideway, lets his feet take his weight, but almost falls. Jemelda steps towards him, but he waves her away. He will do this alone. His thoughts tell him he must.
In the four paces it takes Ralph to reach the outside door, he wonders if he will be able to get to the well at all. He is swaying and his heart is beating so fast he can no longer tell its rhythm.
“Lord Tregannon, shall I…?” Jemelda says from behind, using his title of honour for the first time, Ralph thinks.
“No,” is all he replies and takes the initial step outside.
The chill in the air wraps round him and he sees it is snowing, only lightly, but more will come. He shivers, but not only because of the cold. He wraps his cloak around him and makes for the well, the cook following close at his heels in spite of what he has said.
In his hand, the six emeralds pulsate and begin to sing. Something at the well is glowing a faint shade of green and Ralph is not sure, but he thinks he can hear the echo of howling. Despite his unaccountable frailty, he begins to run, or rather stagger, onward.
He is almost there when the flash of green fire circles the well again and two figures fall through. With them is something black and silver that makes Ralph’s mind darken, but it vanishes from his sight with the sudden influx of the mountain dogs and the tumbling white feathers of what must be a snow-raven. The village square is overwhelmed with a cacophony of sound that tears at the blood and leaves no room for breath.
In the middle of that is a white cool space where, upward through the air, he can see one bright green jewel. Ralph cries out and it seems to turn in the wind and fly towards him. One of the fallen men reaches out towards the emerald, but he is already too late. As if it has been waiting for Ralph’s hand only, the jewel flies over grasping fingers and lands like a bird in his palm.
He folds it within his grip and eases it back into the dark pouch, feeling the soothing click as it meets its companions.
The other man then speaks, but he already knows who it is.
“Ralph,” the scribe whispers, and breaks open the Overlord’s mind once more.
Chapter Ten: The place of silence
Annyeke
Time stopped and, in its place, silence flowed. She remained standing in the ruined Library with its shattered books and m
anuscripts, surrounded by exhausted people, but she was not there at all. She was in herself and outside the world. She gasped, took a step backwards and it was as if the action resulted in song, a melody breaking out through darkness and light. It warmed her. The colours of her mind shifted, flowing together in an ever changing sky of green and silver, blue and gold. Clouds and air. They were a mirror of the song. Slowly, she spun round, trying to understand where she was and how she could return to where she was most needed. This did not seem like a trick of the mind-executioner; it appeared too beautiful for that. But even so, her responsibilities pressed against her shoulders and she knew she should not spend time here.
Time is not important. Where I am, time is not.
Annyeke sat down. The shimmer of light and colour beneath her body held firm. Somehow she had known it would be so. She had never heard the Spirit of Gathandria speak directly, even in her dreams, but she had no need to ask who this voice was. Her blood and her mind told her the answer, and silence was her only response. Annyeke, who had always been first to speak and feel in any situation, found here that words or emotions were not enough. Only silence mattered.
She waited.
After a time, she could not ever have explained afterwards, the voice spoke again.
Will you see what I see, Annyeke Hallsfoot? Will you understand it with me?
If she had been capable of words in this place of silence, they would have been:
Show me what you would then, Spirit, for I am only waiting for you.
The colours of this world exploded into something like the sun, a circle of light she could walk through. Knowing this was what was intended, Annyeke rose to her feet once more and stepped forward. She was shivering, but the beauty around her meant she felt no terror.
She saw what was happening and how a knife had pierced her beloved city, not in the Library, where she had thought it would come, but in the park.
Johan and Talus stood on the ruined grass. She could only see their faces. Perhaps her faith was not strong enough for more insight? She could not even see any of the Gathandrians she understood must be there with them. No matter. As her throat grew dry, she knew she would accept what she had been given. Here and now, she could not look away. Both boy and man were staring at a small gap in the falling snow at the edge of the trees. Hardly anything and, in the light of all the unfamiliar events happening at every moment around them, not something Johan would have been concerned about if Talus hadn’t seen it first and asked what it was. Annyeke sensed the moment when the man she loved focused his thoughts upon the mystery and, at the same time, she became aware the boy’s mind was already lurking around the edges of whatever this new phenomenon might be.
“Be careful,” Johan said, connecting to Talus with his thoughts and understanding with such gentleness that Annyeke almost forgot to breathe.
The gap in the colours of the air and snow confused her. What was the Spirit trying to show her, and was she wise enough to understand even a glimmer of it? She knew it should not be there and indeed its shifting nature meant Johan and the boy also could hardly grasp it, at least not for any length of time. She could not tell whether it was something real or simply an absence. A scar in the air of the land. Or an opening. Leading to…what exactly?
As the question rose in her thoughts, the strange vision blinked into nothing and was gone, but she could feel its importance in her skin, pressing down on her form, demanding attention in the same way that her responsibilities as Acting Elder demanded her full heart. As she breathed in, the colours surrounding her vanished, taking the voice of the Spirit with them, and that was the greatest absence of all. She was back at the Library, the stories and the needs of the people whispering their presence to her.
She would remember, she swore it by all the gods and stars, by the Spirit itself. She would remember, and keep the place of silence always in her mind. Because, somehow, she understood that, whatever was about to happen, the meaning and resolution of it would be up to her, in a way she couldn’t yet comprehend.
Eighth Lammas Lands Chronicle
Duncan Gelahn
He lands next to the Tregannon villagers’ well. Some of the houses he sees lie in ruins and it is snowing. The small flakes press against his skin as the dogs tumble after him onto the damp earth. The bright jewel carves a green arc through the winter air but, even as he lunges for it, he knows it is already gone to its owner.
Of course, he sees at once how it is with the Lost One and the Lammas Lord. The bond between them is stronger than the earth and darker than fire, bearing as it does all the faults and pains of both men. As Duncan rises, he sees they are staring at each other as if all their recent history of lies, deception, betrayal and attempted murder has been a mere nothing. It is only for a beat of his heart, however. The next moment, the memory for both comes flooding in and he sees the shadow of pain etch itself deeper across the Scribe’s face. As for Ralph Tregannon, he takes a step back, drops the emerald into a black velvet bag and turns away. His expression is as distant as a mountain not yet attempted. Duncan can sense the raging sea behind it as easily as if the Lammasser had spoken his guilt and shame out loud.
He smiles. Confusion is something he can use. It may be the battle will be easier than he has imagined.
In the meantime, the dogs are on their feet and howling at the shimmer of green light slowly fading in the sun. Two or three of them scrabble forwards, jaws tearing at the circle but, each time, it sparks more brightly at their violence and forces them back.
The mind-executioner decides it’s time the mountain beasts paid attention to him, not to whatever strangeness is drawing them on. While the Lost One struggles to get to his feet, Duncan snatches at the mind-cane where it lies in Simon’s grasp. It jitters away, so Simon lets it slip from his fingers as it sparks its own white flame, a reflection of the green circle’s anger. Duncan swears softly to himself, the echo of his curses filling his mind. They give him strength and purpose. It has always been that way with him, ever since his meeting with the Gathandrian Spirit.
He concentrates, pushing aside the Scribe’s feeble attempts at questioning him, bears down in his mind on the cane, steps forward once more, and then he has it. It prickles against his skin like a field nettle before settling against his palm. Immediately, the dogs are quiet. He is glad of that. He will have need of their threat and the danger and knowledge of death that they carry within. Still, he feels the cane’s gentle pull in the direction of the Lost One and wonders how the other man cannot sense this. Nonetheless, it is satisfying that he cannot and Duncan intends to keep it that way. If Simon discovered even a quarter of the power he and the mind-cane possessed joined together, then he would be all but impossible to overcome. His very weakness and despair keep Duncan in control and, thus far, that despair is not enough to drive him to the reckless acts of courage he’d shown spasmodically throughout the wild journey to Gathandria. This also pleases the mind-executioner. And, Spirit willing, they will claim Gathandria tonight, since the journey to his homeland is now supremely possible with the emeralds. In the meantime, there is much to be done, and an army, albeit a strange one, to be gathered. He needs to focus his two companions on something else than each other in order to do it.
“Tregannon,” he commands, dropping Ralph’s title and knowing the lack of it will only shame the other man further. “We must bring the army together and prepare your men for battle. The time for war is almost upon us.”
The Lammas Lord frowns and glances at the cane in Duncan’s hand. It is pointless for him to protest and he knows it. His glance slides to the Lost One and then just as quickly skitters away. Behind him stand two women framed in a doorway. Next to them, and slightly in front, is a small rounded woman with silvered hair. Jemelda, the mind-executioner thinks and wonders why he notices her when the other women are more beautiful. Then he understands the reason and smiles.
“I do not have the soldiers,” Ralph replies at last. “As I have told you,
they have been scattered across the lands. Only a few remain at the castle and those are not the best.”
Duncan blinks. Oh, how much his companions have to learn. From the death of the mountain and the death of Ralph’s soldiers something magnificent will be made. He will not voice it yet, though, not even to himself. Let them see in full when the time is right. He becomes aware of the Scribe at his side as he runs his fingers down the cane. He enjoys the feeling of its silky smoothness against his skin. If things had been different, then perhaps…but no matter. They are not. The Spirit of Gathandria has decreed it so and he will not fight such wisdom. He will only do its bidding.
“Have you sent messengers?” he asks, keeping his voice low so Ralph must lean forward to hear him. Even though he knows the question is meaningless and he could give all his bidding to the Lammas Lord in a heartbeat simply by ravishing his mind, he forbears to do so for now. Such pleasures will happen later, when the battle is won.
“No,” Ralph says simply. Of course, Duncan has already found the answer lying open for all to see within the man’s thoughts should they have the gift of it. He sees, too, how Ralph has hoped to conceal the emeralds from him. Such a foolish plan! How can he have thought to succeed in it? However, the mind-executioner cannot help but admire the Lammas Lord’s courage. Much good it does him.
With a jagged movement, he brings the mind-cane up to his eye level and flicks some of its strength in Ralph’s direction. At once, Tregannon falls to his knees, gasping as the weight of history and ancient myth press him down. Simon steps forward, a cry of protest forming in his mind, but Duncan swings the simplest of mind-nets round his intention and the Lost One is brought to an abrupt halt in whatever idiocy he might have intended. Above them, the snow-raven circles, revived from its journey and its bleak cry piercing the bitter air.
Spirit of Gathandria, what fools these men of flesh are. When will they learn they can only do the Spirit’s bidding and all else is worthless?
