Hallsfoot's Battle (33 page)

Tumbling from side to side along the tunnel,
he reaches out to Simon with the links from his mind-net. Where he
expected to encounter confusion and, perhaps, resistance, he finds
none. The scribe is ready with the kind of strength he has not
encountered in him before, at least not under such circumstances as
these. It is a matter of moments only to spin something that could
save them and, as soon as he can, Duncan flings out the combined
net they have created, a fluttering melding of blue, red and black,
and watches as it wraps around the noise, the darkness and the
terror.

The sound of the emerald is cut off and only
the howling of the dogs remains. Duncan drags air into his lungs,
but cannot get enough of it. In his arms, Simon is shaking, but he
is still alive, still conscious, and that is what they both need to
be in order to survive.

The journey must end.

Duncan barely has time to acknowledge that
the words in his mind come not from himself but from the scribe
when there is a flash of silver and black, the darkness rolls away
and he lands with a thump on earth and grasses. Turning his head,
he sees the Lost One next to him. In Simon’s fingers nestles the
cane. It looks as if it has been there for a long time. Beyond them
both, the mountain dogs are huddled together, teeth bared,
beginning to snarl their way into life again. Further beyond them,
the snow-raven lies, its wings torn, its great beak open. The
mind-executioner cannot tell if the bird lives or not, but there
are more pressing matters to consider.

Without its journeying circle, the emerald
spins for a moment out of time in the air and then falls. He lunges
towards it, but it is too late. Another hand appears, the jewel
sparkles more brightly, twists a little, and lands in the
stranger’s outstretched palm.

Not a stranger. Even before Duncan takes in
the man’s dark hair and regal bearing, though what dignity any of
them might have laid claim to lies in tatters now, he knows who it
is, and, because of that, where he is.

As Duncan rises to his feet and dusts down
his cloak, it is the scribe who speaks first.

“Ralph,” he whispers.

Seventh Lammas Lands
Chronicle

Ralph

When he wakes, he expects to see sky and know
abandonment, but neither of those assumptions proves to be true.
The first thing he sees is a posy of herbs attached to a hook in
the ceiling at which he is staring. There is an overwhelming smell
of baking rye-bread and he wrinkles his nose. Ralph has never liked
rye-bread.

He tries to move his arm but it’s stiff and,
despite himself, a groan escapes his lips. At once a woman’s face
appears. It is the same woman he saw before, at the well when the
mountain dogs leapt over him and disappeared into the circle of
emeralds. It is the woman he tried to drive away. She must have
brought him here, wherever here might be.

“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 manuscripts, 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.