Hallsfoot's Battle (46 page)

*****

Now, a week-cycle after that day of
celebration, when the sun had shone from the faces of both his
friends, Simon had begun almost to feel as if the sculpting room
might be home, of a sort. Still, something niggled at him. Words
and thoughts in his head came to him in the colours of the vast
waters and spun him out of his comfort. There were too many things
that remained unresolved and even uncommenced, such things as could
not be brought to any conclusion here.

One of them, of course, was Ralph. He assumed
the Lammas Lord was back in his own land, in the ruined castle with
the ruined people around him. The scribe could still sense the
Lammasser in his blood and was glad he lived. Neither had he sensed
anything beyond that he had arrived in his own lands after his
perilous journey, although the state of him could not be guessed
at, physically or of the mind. Nor could Simon forget how Ralph had
helped him win the battle with the gift of the emeralds, just that
one time, with no hope that anything he could do would be enough,
but with an instinct which had driven him on.

What did that action mean? Lord Tregannon had
made it more than evident Simon was a liability to him, from the
place of the Hanging Tree until here. He had left in the end,
hadn’t he, when he could so easily have stayed. Everything had
changed in their circumstances and, to go back to what they had
once been, for however short a time, was beyond the impossible. It
might have been more logical for Ralph to stand beside Gelahn in
those final few moments of war. The emeralds were his, after all,
and with them and the executioner he might even have had whatever
he wished, power over Gathandria and the scribe’s destruction. But
he had chosen not to do so. Even with the segment of mind left to
him, he had chosen to try for life.

Perhaps then, there was hope…but it could not
be deciphered. Simon shook his head and thought of the other
matters that stirred him. He had unfinished business, not just with
Ralph, but with the Lammas Lands themselves. He had left there as a
murderer. The lands had been ravaged, more deeply even than
Gathandria, and the people undoubtedly lost. And for the moment the
Lammas Master himself would be too broken to help. Ralph would
heal, somehow, Simon knew it, but whether that healing would come
in time to save the lands and those who dwelt within them he could
not tell. On that matter, even the mind-cane and the snow-raven
were silent.

He sighed, rose to his feet and stood at the
doorway, looking out at the street and the still damaged buildings
of the city. Groups of men and women made their way through the
park area, carrying with them stone, glass and wood, every material
they could find to rebuild their beloved Gathandria—except for the
stones that had once been Gelahn’s dogs, which had been buried
during the aftermath of the battle. And with the dogs lay the bones
of the undead army. He could hear the low murmur of voices and the
occasional burst of laughter but, more than that, he sensed
something in the air and soil he had not sensed here before. Hope.
The knowledge there would be no more mind-daggers nor flashes of
strange destroying fire to maim and kill. Yes, the pain of loss and
death was still fresh and he could see the aura of deep red
hovering around each person, but within that colour of grief
something lighter also dwelt, silver, cream, white. And with every
hour-cycle, the light grew stronger.

The mind-cane could help them. With its
power, they could rebuild their homes and their lives more quickly
and, although such magic might cost him dear, he longed to do what
his own strength allowed him in order to give them what they worked
for. But the itch in his feet, the need to journey back to where
he’d gone most wrong and try, however foolishly, to right it would
not leave his mind. It nibbled away at his thoughts like a wood
beetle nibbles bark and, whenever he tried to direct his
concentration elsewhere, it would not let him go.

He would have to make a choice and soon but,
as before, he could see no certain right or wrong way. Whatever he
decided would bring pain to one or the other country, and perhaps
even both. How he longed for a wisdom that those around him already
thought he had. It could not come to him too soon.

Annyeke

The red-haired woman watched the Lost One for
a few moments where he stood leaning against the doorway of what
had so recently been Iffenia’s sculpting room. Odd how being
dedicated to one man hadn’t changed her view of men in general.
Johan was different, of course. He was…she smiled. She couldn’t
find the words to describe how her beloved was. All she knew was
since he had kissed her, her skin had felt as if she were always
caught by the sun and she seemed to be floating a few precious
hand-breadths above the Gathandrian earth. That, of course, was no
bad thing; she’d always thought she could do with being taller.

No matter. She was here, and there was work
to be done. She hadn’t intended to be here at all, but something
had driven her out of the house, away from her beloved’s embrace
and into the chill of the day. She hadn’t been able to stop
herself. Not that she’d wished to. A Gathandrian woman’s instinct,
in her opinion, was always to be trusted.

Now, looking at Simon, she thought she might
be needed. Even from this distance, coloured clouds drifted over
his head—red, green, the deepest blue. None of them stayed over him
for long and together they formed a shifting pattern which was, it
had to be said, pleasing to the eye, but not so beneficial for his
mind.

She stepped forward and, when she was near
enough for him to hear her, spoke as softly as possible. It wasn’t
very soft, but it was the best she, Annyeke Hallsfoot, Elder of the
great city, could produce under such short notice.

“Lost One? Is there something troubling
you?”

He blinked and stepped back, his eyes
widening briefly. His troubles had to be deep indeed, she thought,
for him not to have known she was there. For a long moment, she
watched him struggle against the instinct to conceal the truth
before he gave her one of his sudden, rare smiles and gestured her
inside. In spite of the lancing of her fear, she was glad to note
the snow-raven hopped to the far corner of the room, where it gazed
at her, but not, she hoped, with anything but kindness.

“Many things trouble me, Annyeke,” he said,
“but, please, let me offer you refreshment. Though perhaps you wish
to return to Johan if he is not with you?”

She shook her head as she installed herself
on the nearest stool and stretched her back free. “No, something
told me to come alone today.”

“All is well with you both…?” he began to ask
but did not utter aloud more than the first two or three words. He
must have seen her answer in her face as he smiled again before
turning to place the water pot above the fire to warm it.

“Yes, all is well. More than well,” she
reassured him. “But the land seemed to wish me to visit you and so
I am here. Tell me then what it is that troubles you.”

As was so often the way with men, even with
Johan, he did not answer her at once. Instead, his thoughts
withdrew into his skin and he took two beakers and scattered herbs
inside them to sweeten the water, thyme, river lavender, red beech.
A soothing combination. She waited until she had taken her first
sip and felt its heat and solidity create a link of hospitality
between them before she spoke once more, aloud rather than simply
in the mind.

“You know you can trust me,” she said,
surprised to find words she hadn’t thought to speak flowing from
her tongue. “Even though I have taken the role of First Elder in
this city, for the time-cycle being, it doesn’t mean I’m still not
Annyeke. That doesn’t change. I may be the voice of Gathandria for
the moment, but I’m still your friend—because of Johan and always
because of you. Tell me your thoughts.”

He put down his beaker, though she did not
think he had tasted it yet, and then looked her straight in the
eyes. Not something he did often, she thought for the first time.
His face was full of shadows.

“It may be better if I speak to your thoughts
only,” he whispered. “You may understand, as well as hear. If you
will permit it?”

Wordless, and her throat full of fears and
uncertainties she couldn’t fully name, she nodded. A heartbeat
pulsed by, and then he reached forward and touched her lightly on
the side of her head.

As she closed her eyes, all his colours and
hers rose to meet her. It was as if the two of them were caught in
a river taking them to a rich and distant sea. For a moment out of
any time-cycle she knew, Annyeke understood all the Lost One was
and all he might one day become. Alongside that, her own self
stretched and floated. The thoughts between them were as strong as
a rope that could never be broken and the island she landed on was
as safe as Gathandria had used to be.

When she opened her eyes, she knew what she
must say to him, although it cost her dear to say it.

There are things you still have to say and
do, Lost One. But not here. Not in Gathandria. Your journey lies
elsewhere. Back where you once fled in terror with the man of my
heart, back to the Lammas Lands.

Simon

It had taken him a few more day-cycles to be
ready. At first, he had denied Annyeke’s prophecy but, as Johan had
said, denying the words and wisdom of a red-haired woman was
probably a danger beyond the both of them. He and Johan had smiled
at that, but the truth lay heavy on their skin.

More pressing than any of this had been the
constant singing of the cane and the soaring flights of the
snow-raven, both of whom were restless to be gone and would not, he
knew, leave without him.

So Simon the Scribe, the Lost One, took one
last look at the people he had come to love. Talus nodded at him,
his young face solemn. He nodded back. He had already hugged Johan
and Annyeke, and said his goodbyes in private. The three of them
had promised each other they would meet again, citing the power of
travel held within the Tregannon emeralds as proof of what was
possible. Simon hoped such confidence would be proved right, but
kept his doubts to himself. If it were impossible, then he would
cross mountain and air, desert and ocean once more to see these
people again. He had done it before, hadn’t he? For yet another
moment he gazed at Annyeke and Johan, smiled to see how their hands
and minds were linked so inextricably that nothing could slip
between them. That was good. It had been a long time coming and the
land itself was pleased to welcome it.

For now, though, there were other battles to
be fought, and either won or lost. With the mind-cane quivering at
his side and the snow-raven at his shoulder, he took the remaining
emeralds, threw them into the sun and set his face for home.

###

About Anne Brooke

Anne has been writing gay, lesbian, fantasy and
literary fiction since Y2K. She is the bestselling author of
thrillers Maloney’s Law and The Bones of Summer. Her websites can
be found at
www.gathandria.com
,
www.gayreads.co.uk
,
www.annebrooke.com
and
www.biblicalfiction.co.uk
.

More Books from Anne Brooke

Don’t miss the sequel to Hallsfoot’s Battle – The
Executioner’s Cane is the final part of the Gathandrian Trilogy
bringing to a resolution the adventures of Simon, Annyeke and
Ralph, and will be available autumn 2013. Find out more at:
http://bit.ly/13rxDQr

For fantasy fiction please visit:
http://bit.ly/R25o13

For gay and lesbian fiction please visit:
http://bit.ly/zg1DtO

For biblical fiction, please visit:
http://bit.ly/PF2aSu

Any questions or comments, please email:
[email protected]

All the best

Anne Brooke