by Anne Brooke
Not turning round for fear of what Gelahn might do, she straightened her shoulders and tried to make herself taller. A thankless task.
“What have you done with the women?” she asked him. “Those who came with me to this field of death? And what have you done with Iffenia?”
The executioner smiled and gestured with his hand so Annyeke saw he held small emeralds in his grip that made the air around them a shifting green. “Some of your women are dead, and some are not. Either way, it is no matter. It is as the Spirit of us all decides. Iffenia is no longer here, but she will return in a time and a time for you, after a fashion. Her hatred and despair have been useful to me and it will not be forgotten. But even if all are dead, they could not reach us now, for the end of battle, the time talked of in all our legends, has begun.”
She heard someone groan. She thought it was herself. A light touch on her arm and she glanced around to see the Lost One. His eyes were wide and he was panting as if he’d been running for a long, long time. Perhaps he had.
I’m sorry.
Annyeke didn’t know if he was sorry for what was happening or what was to come, but she nodded, anyway. Tears filled her eyes at the understanding that she had brought some of her companions here only to die, but still she did not turn round. She refused to ponder on what the executioner had said about Iffenia. Although her heart was beating fast and she could not glimpse a small fraction of what might come, she knew she had to stand her ground, for what it was worth.
“You did not have to kill those who would not have been a threat to you,” she whispered, the pain at the side of her head where the mind-cane had hit her beginning to throb. “Your quarrel is with the leaders of our city and, therefore, only with me.”
Gelahn laughed. She didn’t like the sound.
“Oh, yes,” he said, his tone cool and mocking. “Our revered elders are so busy with their own regrets that they put an untried girl in charge and expect her to be enough to stop me, when I have planned this for years, dreamed up every scenario in my head while enduring the tortures your people’s leaders subjected me to. Did you think I wouldn’t have thought of you? When I had all the time in the land to think of everything, even the Lost One himself?”
With that, the mind-executioner flicked the cane in Simon’s direction. A tongue of silver flame exploded in the space between the two men, heading towards the scribe. Annyeke cried out a warning but there was no need. The Lost One put up his hands in an attempt to provide protection but the fire had already stopped. It hovered next to his face, almost licking his skin but not quite. Annyeke could see the sweat on his forehead, the way his body shook.
Her eyes flickered back to Gelahn. Had he meant to kill the scribe? What would he do now, and who would he destroy? But, to her surprise, the executioner was smiling.
“Yes,” he said, talking as if only to himself, but his words were clear to her, written in crimson across the air and snow. “Yes, for now the threat can be made, but it cannot be completed. The Spirit and the mind-cane are still waiting. There is more to be done.”
His words shook Annyeke out of her inactivity. Yes, there was more to be done. And before the executioner did whatever it was he was going to do, she wanted to make her mark also. Before she even knew such an act had been decided, she launched herself towards Gelahn while he gazed at the shifting white flame, and tumbled him to the ground. For one wild moment, she felt his surprise flooding through her thoughts and then a knife hit her mind again and she screamed, falling backwards and scrabbling at her face to try to ease the pain.
Let her go. Please. She is not your enemy. I-I beg you.
The words from the Lost One spun between them, forming a net to keep the worst of the attack at bay and giving her a ledge of thought to cling to before she was lost entirely in the stormy seas. She clung to it as best she could, cursing her own foolishness. This battle was not one of childish gestures, it had to be fought from the depths and maturity of the spirit.
The air around her mind grew still and she could sense no familiarity there. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the pain vanished and she opened her eyes to find herself lying sprawled on the ground looking up at Gelahn. The flame still hovered and she could see that Simon had not moved, although he leaned forward as if to spring to her defence, which he had already done, indeed. Her fingers spasmed and she felt the warmth from the stories she had held easing over her palms.
“The scribe is right,” the mind-executioner said. “You are not the enemy I must fear most. You are nothing but a witness to my glory. And there are others who must also witness me. Look, they are already here and the preparation is almost done.”
A sudden rush of wind and wings above her and something heavy knocked her down, leaving her scrambling on the icy earth and out of breath. For a moment, she had no idea what it was and then the sense of his nearness washed over her.
Johan.
From instinct, Annyeke grabbed him, trying to see if he was harmed. Her fingers felt the heat of blood on his face and side, and her skin turned clammy and cold. Johan.
At his side, she saw a curved sword, as bright as the midsummer cycle or a burning star in the darkest night. It was there at his belt, powerful and deadly, but also not there. A mind-sword, she thought. He succeeded in what he sought, then, for Gathandria. This is how they had been fighting.
At the same time, at her side she heard the Lost One’s indrawn breath and his mind’s cry. Ralph. The sound of it filled her thoughts with a river of sparkling blue that just as quickly vanished. However, she continued to feel the shakiness of the scribe’s mind in hers. Gelahn’s laughter punctuated her defences and she staggered to her feet as the sound of flapping wings, a faint tremor above the continuing noise of war, drifted away. The snow-raven must have brought both men from the heart of the battle to here. She needed to know why but, whatever happened, she was determined to face it standing. A moment later and she felt Johan’s frame slip next to hers. A glimpse sideways showed her the jagged gash on his face, the blood already congealing. He was breathing hard and holding his side. She couldn’t see where the Lost One or the Lammas Lord were, and didn’t dare look. She wanted to keep her eyes on Gelahn who watched them, head slightly cocked towards the battlefield as if listening to a sound or a voice only he could hear. Her heart skipped a beat. He gripped the mind-cane, twisting it in his hands and then he stretched his arms wide and laughed. It was then that her body, her mind, all that she was tumbled headlong into the dark.
Duncan Gelahn
He stretches his arms out wide as the mind-cane bucks and begins to sing. In his gaze and in the net of his thoughts, he can see the four companions the great bird has brought to him. First, the Lammas Lord. He is no threat to him. Indeed, the Lammasser’s mind is barely discernible. The only power he has is his ancient connection to the emeralds, but Gelahn possesses them and knows their strength. Secondly, Johan Montfort, his face scarred from the fighting, his body and will on the brink of collapse. The mind-executioner senses his anger and also his weakness. He sees how these two men are here, part of the final victory he will win only because of the people who love them most. Simon the Scribe, the Lost One. The bringer of power. He will use that power well and then the scribe’s meaning will be lost. The Lost One and the Lammas Lord can die together. And Annyeke Hallsfoot with her courage and her foolishness. She is the one about whom Gelahn knows least. Her mind is shadowy to him, something he cannot quite grasp. A gift she has that he cannot overpower? No, the Spirit has told him failure is impossible, so the red-haired woman is no threat to him.
These promises and this knowledge flood through his head as his arms stretch wide. He opens the palm of his hand where the emeralds sit and allow them to form the circle of green. For he knows it will take them to the place where all things will be decided, to where, indeed, all things and all stories that cling to them began. The heart of the great Library of Gathandria, the place where the Spirit dwells most in the land.
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Annyeke
At the very last moment before the circle of green enfolded them into its sparkling light, Annyeke heard a sharp cry and felt the curve of small fingers in her palm. Talus. She had no idea how he’d managed to get through the sweat and press of battle to reach them, but she knew whatever danger he might have faced there could not be one iota as terrible as what the mind-executioner had in mind.
She tried to fling him away from her, outside the spinning green, but he clung on, and in any case it was already too late. The six of them—Gelahn, the Lost One, Ralph, Johan, Talus and herself—were flung upwards into the air as the circle began to spark and roar, and the sound of a mighty wind filled Annyeke’s ears.
Then she was spun round until she no longer knew the direction of the sky or earth, and the greenness flooded through her mind and skin. All she could do was clutch at Talus and hope this wild journey was soon over.
Annyeke landed with a thud on something hard and cold. As she opened her eyes, she saw the green circle had vanished and the snow which had been falling for hour-cycles had now turned to sleet. Somehow, on this day when everything was changing so fast, and only for the worst, that fact did not surprise her.
Neither did it surprise her that they had landed in the centre of the ruined Library. She saw the broken shelves, the shattered stories half obliterated in the snow, felt the emptiness where the spirit of the books should be. Struggling to her feet, she brushed back her hair with one hand and shoved Talus behind her with the other. Her heart raced. The mind-executioner was already standing. His face was as calm as if he’d gone through nothing more strenuous than a summer stroll in the park land. The cane was quivering, glowing silver and a deeper shade of black, in his grasp.
As she opened her mouth to speak, though only the good Spirit knew what she might want to say, Gelahn raised the cane and a spear of silver light flashed from its carved top through her flesh, blood and thoughts.
Annyeke screamed as all the sensations of pain and terror she had ever known ripped through her consciousness. Then she felt nothing.
Simon
The scribe opened his eyes just in time to see Annyeke fall, silver sparks leaping from her skin and hair. He saw Talus beside her, reaching out, and snatched the boy, holding him back as the fire from the cane hissed and sang. The effort made him sink to his knees, and the sound of the mind-executioner’s laughter filled his head. All the hopes he’d had somehow to find the chink, the vulnerable point of the mind-executioner’s plan, and to turn his victory around on itself, vanished away, if they had ever been there. He should not have pretended to agree to Gelahn’s requests. As he had already acknowledged, he’d been a fool to think he could ever trick a Gathandrian so versed in the art of deceit and the legends’ mysteries.
Panting hard, he turned to face his enemy, and knew in an instant his mind was as open to Gelahn as a cloudless day. The executioner laughed.
“No,” he said. “I am not your enemy, Simon Hartstongue, for all your wishing it so. Not yet at least.”
While he spoke, Simon heard someone groan and, a moment later, Johan staggered to his feet, taking several faltering steps towards Annyeke who continued to lie across the Library’s broken stone slabs without moving. Gelahn took no notice as Johan fell onto the ground beside her, leaning forward and whispering her name as his hands stroked the hair from her face.
Trying to ignore them both and to turn his thoughts aside from the silence that lay behind him where Ralph’s mind should have been, the scribe continued to stare straight at Gelahn. He couldn’t stop the shaking of his body, though, and cursed once more his own weakness.
“You don’t have to harm her,” he whispered. “Why do you need to when the power and victory in this bloodied war are so obviously yours?”
From the corner of his vision, he saw Johan gather the still motionless Annyeke in his arms and press her against his chest, moaning. Talus gave a low cry and tried to pull away, but Simon held on. Gelahn grimaced and swung towards Johan and Annyeke, lifting the cane upwards. The green glow from the Tregannon jewels flowed over it.
The scribe almost ceased to breathe. Whatever the mind-executioner did next, he knew from somewhere deep inside him that Annyeke couldn’t survive it. No. Not another death. He would not—could not—allow it.
He stretched out his hand even as the cane flashed emerald and silver in the dying afternoon light. Without warning, his thoughts seemed to leap to meet its brightness even though he still remained kneeling on the rough broken flooring. He sensed rather than heard Ralph’s sudden awakening, a lurch in the channels of his mind where the connection of memory was stored. For a heartbeat or two he was flying. In his own mind, not in the reality of the city’s destruction, in the vast rivers and plains of thought, he was caught between silver and green and black and the colours danced and fused within him. Music flared from his blood and the notes were more than honey in his mouth.
When he breathed again, he was back in the Library, facing destruction and the curse of the endless death, but something had changed.
Something had changed, and Gelahn saw it, too.
Duncan Gelahn
He sees it the moment the river’s tide turns against him. He sees it, but he cannot understand how it can be so. The mind-cane is his, as is the strange power of the emeralds. How, then, can the silver and green fire flow in a direction other than that he has intended?
Annyeke, the foolish woman who thinks she can best him in the type of mind-war she has never even heard whisper of, should be dead. That is what he has wished for, no matter whether it is necessary or not. But the scribe has stood between him and his purpose and something has shifted. Indeed, for a moment or two, it was almost as if the Lost One was not there at all, but that cannot be so. The emeralds have not formed their circle of passage and, besides, the half Gathandrian is too weak to run. Still, Gelahn must change the way the air is flowing. He cannot let the Spirit’s work die, not after so much endurance and so many day-cycles.
Gelahn opens his mind to the full as he brings the cane down, pointing it towards where Simon stands, unwary. At the same time he stretches out his other arm and speaks the words he has been longing to say, perhaps since before he was even born:
Come then, come, Great Spirit, and let the work of cleansing begin.
For a heartbeat after the echo of the plea has left his thoughts, there is a strong and sudden silence. The distant throb of battle is stilled, and even the soft hush of the snowfall is unheard. Gelahn takes a breath, and the air lights up in the darkness. All the colours of gold and rose, sea blue, herb green and morning grey rise from the floor, the shattered walls, the dust itself that is contained in the mystical Library of the city. All the stories are coming to the mind-cane’s call. They are coming and, when all the stories are one, with their colours and textures, their voices and their desires, then will the age of contentment truly begin.
The mind-executioner cannot help himself then. He laughs. The stories will cleanse every unrighteousness from the land. They will come to him and then everything he has always longed for will be his.
Ralph
He cannot feel his mind any more, and what he sees makes no sense—a man wearing a patterned black cloak that hangs torn from his body. He holds an ebony and silver cane in one hand and a handful of glowing emeralds in the other. The green depths of them call to Ralph, but he cannot make out their voice. There is something he must do—soon, but he does not know what it is. He hears someone groan and knows it is himself. In that moment he sees, though does not understand, a number of things. There is a woman lying to his right, perhaps dead, being rocked in the arms of a weeping man. Her red hair is fire against the whiteness of the snow around them. Between them and the man in black stands a slight figure of another man. This one is trembling, breathing hard as if he has been running for many fields and has still not found a resting place. He is beautiful and something about him makes Ralph’s blood sing. At his side beyond wher
e Ralph lies, he sees a small boy held in the slight man’s grip.
The final and the most confusing sight of them all is the colours of stone exploding, floating upwards as if unfurled from the air. They are like pages of a book, but he sees no parchment or papers. All of them drift and fly towards the man with the jewels and the cane. He is laughing.
And the only thing Ralph understands is that he must stop this man from gathering them up, but he does not know how.
Annyeke
In the darkness of nowhere, something held her to the life she once knew. She could feel Johan’s arms around her body and his warmth brightening her skin. He placed his fingers against her head, and she sensed unknown sparks in his blood as he tried to reach her, discover if she was still alive.
Annyeke.
There was so much behind the way he said her name, so much she had understood for so long, but which was new to him. She longed to respond but could not. She could not even move. The death, sweat and terror of the battlefield filled her mind as Johan tried to make contact with her thoughts. For a long moment there was nothing, and if Annyeke had had the gift of crying she would have done so.
Then, suddenly, the colours. They startled her. His were muted, earth browns and soft yellows and blues. Of course, she knew the colours Johan lived by; she’d worked with him so well over the year-cycles. She was green and red and silver, but mainly red. But he’d never linked with her quite in this way. The truth of it—the truth of him—plunged through her like falling stars. She sensed his indrawn cry, the way the link between them swept aside all his doubts, everything he’d ever wanted to hold back from those around him. From where he stood deep within her silent mind, Johan began to run. The ground under him, the foundation of her own mind, was honeyed gold, its warmth easing them both. Around her the sky was a clear blue, no clouds, no breeze, no birds. In fact there was nothing there except the ground, the air and the streaming colours that moved and shimmered with his every step.
