Hallsfoot's Battle (26 page)

He feels the cool touch of her hand on his
face. Her eyes are open, but she does not see. Her faint words fill
his mind.

“The wolf…?”

He glances sideways. “It is dead.”

It is true. The animal’s jaw and head have
been torn from its body and he sees only a scattering of green
across grey fur. Somehow, the leaves have killed the wolf. He does
not know how.

None of that matters. Before he can look
again at Prudence, he understands she is no more. Where her mind
has been—where it has always coexisted with his—there is only
darkness. For a heartbeat, for the small slot of time it takes for
her to wake him each morning, he is still. Then he gathers her to
him and begins to cry.

It is impossible to tell how long he weeps
but when he becomes aware of the day again, he sees the sun is high
in the sky and the shadows around him are short. He is alone, but
not entirely so.

In the corner of his bed-area, Sloth can see
a glitter of moving lights hovering about the wolf’s body. Each one
is a different shape, shifting and dancing in the air. He gasps,
thinks about running, but knows it is useless.

“Why did you listen to the wolf?”

The voice Sloth hears at the very centre of
his thoughts is unlike his own, his sister’s or the wolf’s. It is
unlike the whisper of the trees or the cry of the birds. It does
not bring to his memory the song of the wind or the night silence.
It is both none of these things and all of them.

He has never heard this voice before, but he
knows instinctively who it is. This is the Spirit of Gathandria,
someone known and not known, a voice he has longed for, and
dreaded, since birth.

He opens his mouth, does not know what to say
so says nothing. The question is repeated. He closes his eyes, cuts
out the lights.

“You know all things,” he whispers. “So why
do you ask me this?”

Through his own self-imposed darkness, Sloth
can still see the glitter. Or is that in his mind? He cannot
tell.

“I ask only that you may know yourself.”

An answer, but no answer at all. And the
question he must respond to still remains. He draws himself
together, tries to find the truth within himself. Surely the
cypress-leaves, no matter what damage they have done that can never
be undone, will give him the power to fill the silence?

“You must do that yourself. The leaves of the
cypress give you knowledge but they cannot change you. Come then,
let us see how you answer.”

Without further warning, Sloth feels the
sparkle of light as it enters his thoughts. Its warmth flows
through his skin and pierces to the very centre of his existence.
It is a bright knife dividing the things he knows from the things
he wishes for. It uncovers parts of himself never before
acknowledged.

He opens his eyes, seeing a long strand
joining the lights in the corner to his own body. This time the
answer is easy.

“I listened to the wolf,” he says, “because
your voice has been unheard to us for so long. How we have longed
to please you, and you have not been there.”

An explosion of light and pain overcomes him,
and Sloth cries out, hands clasping at his head, trying to rid
himself of the invasion. He plunges to the floor and night has
already taken him when he reaches it. When he wakes, he is for the
first time truly alone.

He is also not how he remembers himself to
have been.

The innocence of all the days before the
arrival of the wolf has vanished. The animal, too, has gone and
only his dead sister remains. What is left to him is the knowledge
gifted to him by the cypress-tree but none of the wisdom of the
Spirit. The sparkle of light left to him tells him that.

For a while, he cries again. Then he gets up,
buries his sister and sets out to travel the land. Some say his
journey has never been completed and out there he is travelling
still. Only those blessed by the gods and stars have ever seen him
and they do not tell the tale.

*****

When he finishes the Third Gathandrian Tale,
Duncan is silent, as is the scribe. His companion’s face in the
gloom is rapt and his eyes are shining. Now, with only a simple
gesture, the mind-executioner could reach into the other man’s
thoughts and take whatever he wants from him. He could plunder
Simon’s very self. For a single breath, he is intending to do this,
grasp what he needs and then the battle will be won. Gathandria
will be his.

But not for long, and not in the way he wants
it to be his. If he overcomes the scribe’s mind by force, the
battle will be easily ended, but the war will continue. Many
year-cycles of waiting and planning in the elders’ cruel prison
have taught Duncan patience. He will use it now.

So Duncan channels his energy, all the
remaining power the lost mind-cane gave him, deep inside himself
and waits. He does not have to wait long.

“Did the Spirit come to you, also?” Simon
asks. “You said your reading of the tale was your first encounter
with it.”

The mind-executioner nods. He sees there are
many questions flowing through his companion’s thoughts, but this
is the issue most engraved on his mind.

“Yes,” he replies. “As I read and brought to
life the sparkle of light that Sloth saw at the death of his
sister, that same light appeared to me under the cypress-tree that
had become my refuge. It entered my mind, filled every part of my
body and thoughts, and consumed me. A part of that same Spirit has
dwelt with me ever since, no matter what has happened, no matter
what I have done, or what has been done to me.”

Saying such things here surprises Duncan, he
has not intended to speak so openly. But the words he is saying are
true, and he is as unguarded as he has ever been. The scribe must
see this as at the next heartbeat the man lays his hand for a
moment on the mind-executioner’s arm. Warmth floods through
Duncan’s skin, and something more, too—a hint of a strength as yet
untested, even, perhaps, unknown.

He breaks the contact and stands up. He
reminds himself to be careful.

“It is no matter,” he continues. “The Spirit
does what it desires, and I am merely its vessel. You see, Scribe,
the Spirit is more important than all our dreams and wishes, across
all the year-cycles that have ever been or will be. Its purpose is
the salvation of Gathandria and that alone. And that purpose is,
therefore, mine as well.”

In the half light, Simon’s eyes are as dark
as the mountain. “With all the death that clings to you, how can
that be true? What if the Spirit you thought you saw was, in fact,
the wolf? Perhaps Sloth’s mistake is yours.”

Duncan laughs. “You think the wolf and the
Spirit are not one? My friend, the wolf, for all his faults, is
part of the Spirit’s purposes, however mysterious they might be.
The Spirit gives and the Spirit takes away. It is more powerful
than any of the gods or stars that guide you. It is greater even
than good or evil.”

“I don’t believe you.” Simon springs to his
feet and the mind-executioner wonders if he will attack, but he is
not so foolish to try. “There is a difference between good and
evil. I have lived on both sides of that divide, so I know it.”

The scribe makes as if to go on, but Duncan
does not let him. The advantage is his, and he will not waste
it.

“Of course, there is a difference,” he
interrupts. “You mistake me. But what I say to you is this—the
Spirit is greater than either of them, and greater than our very
hearts. All will be as the Spirit wishes, when the time is right.
And, Simon of the White Lands, the time is very close to us. Almost
at our shoulders, if you will. It no longer matters whether what we
do is right or wrong, only that we do it and the Spirit uses it for
its own glory. That is the way of Gathandria.”

He pauses, knowing he holds the full
attention of the scribe. He is so close, so close. Then he
completes his thought.

“Which leaves me with two questions.”

Even though Hartstongue would deny the very
existence of them, the links the two Gathandrians share are the
strongest they have ever been. The mind-executioner can feel the
colours of them on his skin—blue, green, gold, echoing the shades
of the room they are both sitting in. Now is the time to show his
true meaning.

He leans forward, grasps Simon’s hand and
feels the shock of the deliberate gesture explode into the other
man’s mind.

“And those questions are…?” asks the
scribe.

“We are so alike and only together can we do
what the Spirit desires,” Duncan whispers, edging his words with
the same blue river which always rolls through the scribe’s
thoughts. “So then, will you join your destiny to mine? Will you
help me save Gathandria?”

Fifth Lammas Lands
Chronicle

TEMPERANCE AND GREED

Ralph

When morning comes, he has lain all night in
the secret room, the pouch containing the seven emeralds clutched
in his hand. The mountain dogs are still in the bed-area, but they
have not tried to reach him. Eventually, the howling eased and his
heart began to beat with an easier rhythm.

The mind-executioner is still missing. Ralph
cannot sense him. It is impossible to know when he will return and
astonishing to realise Gelahn has not done so yet. Ralph must make
the most use of the time, he knows it. Already, he has squandered
the remainder of the night and he cannot afford to lose more of
this strange and fragile advantage.

Even if Gelahn sends him to the death that is
no death when he returns, Ralph must do something. If he does,
then, perhaps, when the Overlord is no longer here, the people he
is pledged to protect may not be entirely enslaved.

Where there is breath, tomorrow remains ours.
A saying of his mother’s, something to encourage him in a way that
his father’s traditions have never fully done, a spur to his
feet.

Pulling himself upright, Ralph finds his legs
are even weaker than he anticipated. Damn Gelahn’s dogs. His mind,
too, lies shattered within, but at least it is no longer under
attack. He has no time to wait for recovery. He must act now.

In the yard, he blinks in the sun and
accustoms his eyes to the glare. He sees nobody. At this time of
the morning, the enclosed land around his home should be full of
people setting up to trade, greeting each other, the clash and
shouts of the soldiers, the laughter of children. It has been the
background to Ralph’s life for so long that the lack of it once
more pierces his mind. It will be here again one day, he swears.
Now, however, he is glad of the emptiness, the thought of anyone
seeing him in the condition he is in makes his skin grow cold.

Still, someone will have to see it because he
knows where he is heading. It is the only idea he has, although,
that doesn’t mean he has to like it. He stands for too long outside
the entrance, fighting against the instincts his father instilled
into him almost from birth—honour, integrity, pride and, last and
most important of all, the family name. In spite of everything that
has happened, Ralph continues to hear his father’s voice. He is
sick of it.

He pushes aside the curtain and walks into
the kitchen-area, the place he visited only the night before. At
least he means to walk, but his wounds have weakened him more than
he realises and, in fact, he stumbles, almost falling.

At his appearance, the sound of talking and
labour ceases. Ralph finds himself staring into the eyes of
Jemelda. Next to her stands her quiet husband. The man’s eyes flick
from one of them to the other, as if waiting for a fight to start.
Ralph is in no state for fighting, but he cannot say the same of
his cook.

She raises both eyebrows, opens her mouth to
speak. Ralph is too quick for her.

“Neither of us wishes me to be here,” he
says. “But my need—our need—is urgent and I find myself obliged to
ask for your help.”

He’d intended to sound dignified, but his
words came out as a mere whisper, unadorned by pride.

Jemelda purses her lips as Ralph sways. The
sink surface is not such a solid foundation as he’d hoped for. The
slight shake of his body must be obvious to all, no matter how much
he tries to control it. The smell of stale wine and yeast
overwhelms him and he struggles to stay alert.

Finally, the cook nods.

“That is as close to an apology as I imagine
we’ll get from any of the Lammas Overlords, past or present,” she
says. “Sit down, Ralph Tregannon, before you fall. My kitchen will
not be made unclean by such as you.”

Ralph had not realised his words had been an
apology of any sort, but he lets it go. Though what she says is
harsh, the tone in which she says it is not. Her husband rushes to
bring him a stool, and he slides down onto it, grateful for the
man’s attentions.

“Thank you,” Ralph says to him. “Forgive me,
but I have never known your name. Might I ask it of you now?”

This, he thinks, is a simple request, and one
made from courtesy. But Jemelda’s response sweeps all thoughts of
courtesy far away.

She takes two strides up to him, grabs a
wooden tool Ralph does not recognise from the draining area and
brandishes it in his face. He blinks but does not flinch. She is a
servant, after all. If Ralph showed fear, his father, if he were
still alive, would have beaten him. And all the time Jemelda is
shouting. Her voice plunges through his skin and ransacks his
thoughts with its stridency and its truth.

“That is exactly the kind of grievance we
hold against you,” she yells. “You know nothing about the Lammas
people, not even the names of those who have given their lives to
you and your family. You and your father have made us the beggars
we are today. He oppressed us and you, with your desire for glory
and hatred of peace, have crushed us with your empty dreams of
grandeur. Did you not think the mind-executioner would use us, use
you, and turn against us in the end? And why did you bring in Simon
the Devil to kill us at the first? You have taken your father’s
work and planted it deep and neither our land nor our hearts will
ever be free of it. How I wish the Tregannon family had never been
chosen as our Overlords. It was a bad day for us all when that
choice was made.”