Hallsfoot's Battle (17 page)

Be quiet. You must learn how to overcome your
fears. Start with this dead bird. It cannot hurt you.

Those words sparked crimson into the wild
dark waters of her scream. It worsened the pain and she struggled
against Yeke’s harsh grip.

Don’t fight me.

Annyeke could feel the concern flowing from
her father and mother, and could see through the haze of swirling
colours her mother’s face disfigured by a frown. She couldn’t see
her father. Her mother was mouthing words she couldn’t hear, the
sense of them lost in the protective mind-net her grandmother had
flung round them both.

She couldn’t escape it. She couldn’t escape
Yeke. She would never be able to. That knowledge released her
tongue.

“Leave me alone,” she screamed, words
suddenly escaping through the dark rush of fear. “I hate you.”

As she flung her thought outwards at her
tormentor, all the past reared up once more within her and the
black waters filled her again. She could have spoken a thousand
instances of Yeke’s injustice, her clumsy cruelty and, most of all
these, the way that Annyeke was never adult enough to fight back.
Could never be so. For as long as she lived, such phrases would
always be just out of her reach.

Instead, she grasped the now dead sparrow.
Blood slicked her fingers and she had to swallow down the urge to
vomit. Crushing the bird in her hand, she half stood up, aware of
the surprise in her grandmother’s face and feeling that same
surprise in her mind. The mind-net must have woven its spell across
her young thoughts, too, must be keeping them from the woman in
front of her. For a few moments only, Yeke didn’t know what she was
going to do next. The realisation liberated her. Annyeke took the
bird and pressed it against her grandmother’s face, smearing her
with blood and feathers, across her skin, her mouth, her hair. Then
she let it go.

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 Annyeke, 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.”