Hallsfoot's Battle (29 page)

He seemed to have been battling that
particular sensation ever since he’d come to Gathandria. It was
like a disease, something lurking in his blood that he could not
shake off, no matter if he slept for a lifetime. He shook his head
free of his hands and blinked until Gelahn’s face came into focus.
He had to rouse himself, stay alert. Johan and Annyeke were his
friends; he didn’t want to let them down more than he had to, even
if it meant his death. Though what effect would his death have on
them? Their minds were so convinced of his role as the Lost One of
their myths that persuading them otherwise would be too hard a
task, even if he had the energy for it.

“I do not know my answer,” he replied at
last. “The truth is, though I suppose you already know it, that I
am simply too tired to gain any understanding of what it is you ask
and why I must refuse it.”

Gelahn folded his arms, pursed his lips for a
heartbeat.

“But I know all about your exhaustion,
Simon,” he said. “I know the cause for it and the cure. I had not
seen it before today, but I understand it now.”

“What do you mean?”

“As I say, I have not experienced this
before,” Gelahn continued as if he were musing to himself. “But
then again, I had not encountered you before, either. Not truly.
You see, Simon, the mind-cane is both a blessing and a curse. For
one who has been trained in its deepest mysteries, such as myself,
handling its power is possible, though one must always take care as
it is like bridling a wild beast. But for one such as yourself, who
has never even thought about the mind-cane except in fear and
dread, its power comes with a price. You have used the cane to
fight me, Simon, and you have, for a while, proved stronger. But
now the price is being exacted and will not let you go unless the
last coin is paid.”

“You’re lying. Again.”

Gelahn shook his head. “On the contrary, I am
not. See for yourself.”

He grabbed the scribe’s hand and placed it on
his forehead. From instinct, Simon flinched away, but the
mind-executioner’s grip was too strong. A moment later, he was
floating in a sea of thoughts not his own. This time, they were not
melded. Instead, the scribe was held distant from the man whose
mind he now occupied and allowed to watch the sensations and ideas
as they passed him by. He had no idea how Gelahn performed this
miracle. When he himself shared another’s mind, it took all his
strength not to become immersed in it so he could not later leave
and, of course, with Ralph, he had never fully perfected that
talent, had he?

Now, as the dark, swirling colours of
Gelahn’s thoughts swooped and danced around him like wild birds on
the wind, he paused to draw breath and then tried to concentrate.
There was no telling how long the executioner would hold him here,
nor what his purposes were. He did not wish to be at any more of a
disadvantage than he was already.

Look at what you see, Simon. Understand the
truth it tells you.

He could see flashes of black, leaping
towards him and then vanishing away. Within the black lay glimpses
of silver and he knew then what he saw—Gelahn’s knowledge of the
cane.

How can I know this is real? he asked. It is
your mind and you can show me what you choose.

Then take hold of it and see, came the reply.
Here, it will not harm you. The cane is not physical, but in my
memory alone. Take it and trust your own understanding.

Simon stepped forward and found himself held
in the power of Gelahn’s protection. The realisation made him
blink. An instant later, another black and silver flash of thought.
He reached out, grasped it and, for a moment more out of time, he
felt all the power in the world, known and unknown, spark through
his fingers. It made him fly with the birds over the mountain top,
and burrow deep into the hot earth with the bones of those who had
died. It was all the colours he had ever seen, red, blue, gold,
green, purple, black and silver, and all the sounds he had ever
heard, from the crying of a child to the last breath of a dying
man. In that heartbeat, he understood the power of the cane, knew
Gelahn’s grief at the losing of it, and the way he himself had been
scarred for his thoughtless use of its mysteries. No matter that
the cane had, for its own fathomless reasons, sought him out and
chosen him—his use of it before he was ready had shown him as
wanting. He was being punished for his foolhardiness, but for how
long? And what exactly was the punishment?

With a cry, he flung the black memories away.
The thought-world around him swung violently and he fell, down and
down until the air was forced from his lungs and he could no longer
breathe.

He came to himself, panting and gasping, back
in Gelahn’s family home. The mind-executioner still held his
fingers so he snatched them away. His own thoughts were already too
torn and wild; he did not wish them to be at the mercy of an
unfamiliar power.

“On the contrary, Simon, I could help you
calm yourself,” Gelahn said. “I could help you order those thoughts
beating at your skin even now, if you allow me.”

“Let me be.”

“As you wish.”

The mind-executioner waited until Simon sat
down. The scribe found he was gasping, shattered by the experience
he had just been granted, unable to weigh it and allow the sense of
it to flow, but knowing the truth of what Gelahn had said, the
truth of what he was now saying.

“So you see it at last,” the executioner’s
voice was low, almost gentle but insistent. “The mind-cane seeks
you, but you are too weak to bond with it, too weak to become more
fully yourself, which is the gift it offers you. But I know its
energies and how they can be wielded for the greater good. Now you
see it, Simon. Together, and with the help of the cane, the two of
us can form a mind-union that will free the people of every
country, Gathandria, Lammas, the White Lands, and all their
neighbours, to be what the Spirit intended. So then, what do you
say? Though, after what you have seen in me, you have no choice, do
you?”

As he continued to struggle for breath, Simon
grimaced, pointing out what surely must be obvious. “Yes, I-I
understand what you say. But n-neither of us possesses the cane any
longer. So your…your plan is flawed from the outset.”

“Now that’s where you are wrong, my friend,”
Gelahn replied. “Because, in fact, the artefact that will see us as
the victors in this game is even now approaching.”

Duncan Gelahn

Even as he speaks his words of impending
triumph to Simon, the mind-executioner knows in his blood that the
snow-raven is near and, with it, the source of all power. The
balance of success is changing, and faster than he anticipated.

“Come,” he says. “Look upwards.”

As the scribe lifts his head, the ceiling
above them both dissolves. The walls shimmer and vanish, taking
with them the table, the shelves, the chairs. Only the two
Gathandrians are left, standing now in a vast expanse of blue.

“What happened to the house?” Simon asks. “Is
this truly the sky?”

“A measure of it, perhaps,” Gelahn replies,
“and something your snow-raven brings.”

The scribe starts and swings round, his gaze
darting upwards into the air. A white wave of mixed joy and relief
flows from him through Gelahn, making him smile. The innocent knows
so little of what is truly expected of him; taking his unplumbed
knowledge will be easier than anticipated. After this, the glory
will be his. For the raven has not been able to deny the
undercurrent of darkness to the Lost One’s call. In spite of all,
the bird has come.

“Look,” Simon cries out, stepping forward,
his chest rising and falling with his every breath. “There!”

The snow-raven is at first nothing more than
a flash of white against a blue and white sky, a brighter colour
than the clouds, with a dark stripe crossing the shape of the bird
leading the way. The sight of this makes Gelahn smile again. In
less time than it takes to begin a winter story, the snow-raven is
circling above them. Music hums in the space between the men and
the bird, the mystical song of the cane. Its colours are neutral.
It is waiting.

The scribe turns, watching the raven. He has
raised his arms towards the arc of its flight but when it descends
no lower, he brings them to his side again.

“Why doesn’t it come nearer?” he whispers,
and Gelahn hears him in his mind as clear as sunlight.

He answers directly to the Lost One’s
thoughts. Both cane and bird wait for your decision, Simon.

At once, darkness fills the scribe’s mind. He
turns back and gazes at Gelahn. On his face is such seriousness,
such concentration that the mind-executioner has never seen on him
before.

They wait for me to answer yes or no to
joining with you to save Gathandria in a different way? Simon
asks.

Gelahn nods.

Simon shuts his eyes for a moment and sighs.
So, if I say no?

The snow-raven will return to Gathandria
without us, taking the mind-cane with him.

And if I say yes?

Then bird and cane will be ours, to use in a
manner that pleases us both.

As he speaks the thought-words, Gelahn grants
the Lost One access to his mind so Simon may understand the
heart-beliefs he, the executioner, holds. He senses the scribe’s
presence but chooses not to frighten him by reading his responses.
Of course, he only allows him to see so far. The victory of
agreement is so near and he is once more loath to lose it.

Finally, after a length of time even the
mind-executioner cannot fully measure, the Lost One withdraws. The
two Gathandrians gaze at each other. Then, as the raven still
circles above, Simon breaks the impasse.

“Then I have no choice,” he says aloud. “I
must join with you and come what may.”

“Your decision is a wise one, my friend. Now
we can take control of what is rightly ours and make it what it
should be.”

With that, the snow-raven plunges downwards,
lands between himself and the scribe. The mind-cane drops from its
beak and those great white wings fold into its body. Both Gelahn
and the Lost One step forward, place one hand on the cane, feel its
power, all the futures it could bring.

Although he senses the scribe’s every mood,
has an unalterable link to him now, he is almost surprised when
Simon seizes his tunic with his free hand and searches his thoughts
as if looking for something he fears.

“What you say,” the scribe murmurs, his eyes
glistening with unshed tears, “will surely bring death to many. It
will start a fire that may never be put out. We meddle with things
too strong for any of us.”

“No,” Gelahn breathes, glancing down at the
cane he holds. “This is the artefact that will end all wars. And
tomorrow we will use it, for its time is now.”

Chapter Eight:
Of manuscripts and men

Annyeke

The death of the great Library and the
destruction that lay as far as her eye could see darkened the vast
expanse of naked sky and sent a chill into the air that made her
shiver, and go on shivering. Her feet rested on solid earth, but
Annyeke had never felt so little connected to its strength. Beyond
that, she could feel the great wave of despair coming not only from
the menfolk immediately around her, but from the crowds of people
she could see in the vicinity of the ruined Library, and those she
could not.

They had never expected the physical battle
for Gathandria would begin in this way. She, more than anyone, had
assumed that the executioner would come to them from the Lammas
Lands, bringing with him the armies of Ralph Tregannon. Their
enemies’ strength and experience would be more than a match for
their own uncertain use of the mind-cane. So why start with the
Library, and how?

She sighed. When she considered it, the
answer to the first question was obvious, because it darkened their
minds and sent hope plummeting to the soil. The only real issues
were why play such games with them when Gelahn’s victory was all
but certain, and how had he achieved it, anyway?

There was more going on here than she could
see, and the mystery made her skin grow colder and thoughts swirl
like night-mists in her mind. What was the executioner really up
to? This puzzle had lodged itself in her blood since the return of
Johan to the city, bringing the scribe with him. It came with the
cloak of responsibility that the First Elder had handed to her.

Annyeke was sick of it.

She was sick of trying to shadow-guess the
mind-executioner, of the uncertainty of what might happen next, and
of the ill-fitting role she couldn’t perform. It was time for
something different.

“I’ve had enough,” she said, not even
realising she was going to say the thought out loud.

Johan’s eyebrow rose and his grip on her
young charge tightened. “So have we all, Annyeke. We are all near
the end of ability to hope.”

Even in the midst of the river-changes
flowing through her blood, she could almost smile. She could still
rely on Johan to say what was true rather than what was comforting
then. Some things never altered.

“No,” she replied. “I didn’t mean that. I
meant that ever since I became Acting Elder, I have tried to do too
much in the way it was done before, in the way we expected things
to unfold. But the mind-executioner has not yet attacked us with
his armies, Simon has not understood the mind-cane’s power, and
now, in any case, he has gone, and the Library is no more. It is
time to try a different path.”

“How, Annyeke?” This from Talus, and in such
a tone as opened up the possibilities rather than prevented them.
Indeed, how she loved him for that.

As she answered, the words came from a place
within that she did not know existed.