Hallsfoot's Battle (23 page)

For a heartbeat or two, it almost seemed as
if he might have some power after all. He knocked his enemy to the
floor, taking care not to touch his head and building a wall in his
mind that might slow Gelahn down, even if it would not stop him.
The two of them scrabbled for purchase on the stone, then the
executioner’s fingers reached for his throat, pressing so hard into
his skin that he could scarcely breathe. The flame’s roar grew
louder, as if it dwelt in his head alone. His skin poured out
sweat. Then, in spite of Simon’s attempts to delay the inevitable,
Gelahn’s hand was at his head and his foolish mind-wall was
breached as if it had not been there at all.

He opened his mouth to surrender, beg for
mercy if any could be found. What he said was not what he had meant
to say:

“Why do you hate me so? No matter what the
Gathandrian legends say, what have I ever done that you should hate
me?”

Gelahn stared at him and the onward
penetration of Simon’s mind suddenly vanished. Before he could pull
himself free, fire breached the strange undulating wall around them
and consumed them both. The scribe screamed and, from instinct,
clutched at the man at his side, feeling the heat crackling his
hair.

Then one word: Come.

Wild sparks flew from the mind-executioner’s
skin as the heat roared out its fury. All the parchment and binding
roared back in answer, cream shading transmuted to crimson, a
destruction of words. He could no longer sense the Spirit of the
Library. The executioner’s fire tracked round them both and the
sudden increase in heat made Simon cry out again. Flame filled his
mouth and throat and he could not spit it out.

He was still alive though. Only the gods and
stars knew how.

Come.

That word again. It might have been the only
one left in the Library’s obliteration. Even though the voice he
heard was Gelahn’s, he clung to it, a word crisp with silver and
something like hope offered where he had thought to find only
death.

A sensation of being lifted and then the heat
lessened but only by a fraction. Not enough to dream by. He was
aware, from a distance, that Gelahn’s mind-fire must be protecting
them from the greater danger. And he was also aware that something
in his own mind was responding to it, helping that strange
salvation, perhaps allowing him to live.

Then blackness rushed in and he could think
no more.

When he woke, he could not recognise where he
might be, neither by feel, smell nor thought. He should be used to
that by now, however. It was, no doubt, a measure of his
incompetence that he was not. Still, at least he was alive.

The scribe opened his eyes. He saw straw and
mud above him, constrained into a tight pattern of circles forming
a roof. Shadows flickered over bare stone walls, and a flicker of
flame at the corner of his vision drew his gaze.

No danger, though. No curse of fire branding
his mind. This was simply a candle. Slowly his heart took up a
steadier rhythm. Already he knew Gelahn was here, too—his dark
presence filled the air.

“Where is this?” he asked.

The mind-executioner stepped in front of him,
looked down and smiled.

“This was my home,” he said.

They must still be in Gathandria, then. Simon
knew Gelahn was from the city.

The executioner laughed and paced away.
“Where else would we be? The city is what I want and you are the
key to it, Hartstongue. Now you have drawn me here, why should I
wish to be anywhere else?”

Scrambling to his feet and brushing dust and
straw from his clothes, Simon stared at his abductor. “I’ve not
drawn you here, and I’m no use to you. Neither of us has the
mind-cane now and, even if it were with us, I would not know how to
use it.”

Gelahn made a dismissive gesture with his
hand. “All of that is a lie. Your own weakness and fear drew me.
The mind-cane needed you and you failed it, so it called to me and
I came. Besides, you have already used its strength against me when
you stole it.”

“I didn’t steal the cane,” Simon replied. “It
came to me. Only the gods and stars know why. Though I am sorry it
has also brought you back. The Gathandrians believe me to be the
Lost One they speak of, but what good is that to me when I can do
nothing about it?”

“There is much you do not know and I am
grateful for that.” The executioner took three paces across the
small room to stand in front of Simon. The scribe flinched but did
not back away. “What puzzles me are the parts of your mind you do
not know how to access, a result, I imagine, of the lack of
mind-training in your childhood. If you wished, I could help you be
more truly yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

In answer, Gelahn raised his hand and placed
his fingers on Simon’s forehead once more. The scribe braced
himself for pain, but none transpired. Instead, a flood of pleasure
took him, a sparkling river of green and blue and gold with, every
now and again, a burst of soft flame within its silky depths.

What…?

Hush. If you let yourself be, then the river
you carry with you will flow to the ocean you long for.

Simon gasped. They were communicating purely
by thought once again. He couldn’t reason why but somehow this time
it seemed more dangerous than before. Neither could he reject the
happiness pulsating through his flesh. A picture of Ralph flashed
up in his mind and was as quickly gone.

Ah, Gelahn said. The Lammas Lord. You still
hold to him, then, in spite of all he has done?

Knowing he should deny it, the scribe
discovered that lies were impossible. Yes.

Then you are more of a fool than even I took
you for.

Better a fool than a murderer of minds.

The shaft of pain that cut through him
vanquished any thoughts of rebellion. He sank to his knees, Gelahn
following him so the two men were still face-to-face.

Yes, I can bring you pain such as you have
not known before but, see, I can bring you delight, also.

In a moment, the pain disappeared as if it
had never been and the river of joy flowed through him once more.
Simon heard himself cry out, his voice a long keening of released
desire.

Do you want more of that, scribe?

He and Gelahn both knew the answer was yes.
But the scribe did not voice it, refused to allow it space to
breathe amongst his thoughts. If he did, something told him he
would be truly lost, beyond the rescuing of the whole of
Gathandria, perhaps.

A chuckle at his ear. You fight me? You have
more courage than I suspected.

The mind-executioner’s laughter cut into the
river almost threatening to drown him. For a moment, his body and
thoughts were clear. Just long enough to save himself from what he
knew he wanted.

“And perhaps more honour than you
anticipate.” As he spoke aloud, all but shouting the words so he
could hear himself above the storms of his flesh, he grabbed
Gelahn’s hand and tore it from his skin. The river roared in
protest and nausea overtook him, but he somehow kept himself free.
The executioner cursed and lunged at him, but Simon ducked
underneath his arm and rolled away. Gelahn did not follow. As the
waters subsided and all their strange passions dampened down, the
scribe could not help but regret the loss.

By the time he recovered himself, Gelahn was
sitting calmly at the table where the candle glinted as if nothing
at all had taken place.

Simon rose to his feet, walked towards his
companion, hoping his gait was steady but knowing it was not, and
stood opposite him. “Don’t ravish me like that again.”

The mind-executioner raised his eyebrows.
“Not even if you desire it?”

“It is not I who desire it, but you who force
your will upon me.”

Gelahn laughed. “If that is what you think…
But no matter. My interest in you does not manifest itself by way
of the body, though the game is amusing, I must confess. However,
your honour, such as it is, is safe enough as I have quite other
wishes for you, if you will listen to them. But, first, will you
drink? There is water. Wine, too, if that is your pleasure.”

“I will never drink with you. Not
willingly.”

“A shame,” the executioner shrugged, “as what
I have to say to you may take a while and will leave you much to
think of.”

“On the contrary, I don’t think you have
anything to say to me that would carry any meaning at all.”

A long pause before the mind-executioner
spoke again. “Simon, look around this room. Tell me what you
see.”

The unexpected use of his name made the
scribe blink. Without thinking, he gazed round the walls that
trapped him with his enemy. He saw rough stone lined with shelves
of bottles in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. All of them were
empty. Near the table where the executioner was sitting lay a
selection of manuscripts written in a language Simon couldn’t
recognise. Rugs and matting, green and gold, covered the floor and
provided the only splash of colour, while a simple bed-area filled
the opposite corner.

“You said this was your home?” the scribe
asked, not looking at his abductor.

“Yes,” Gelahn replied. “When I was a
child.”

Simon took a breath and sat down. Questions
filled his thoughts and he was unsure which to voice first.

“Yes,” the executioner said. “It is not
dissimilar to your mother’s home, is it not?”

“My father’s, also.” The scribe raised his
head, stared at Gelahn, who dismissed his words with a wave of his
hand.

“Your father is not important. It is your
mother’s Gathandrian blood that matters here. We are more alike
than you imagine, Simon Hartstongue of the White Lands. Our
childhoods were both poor, and neither of us fit comfortably with
the environment into which we were born. My parents were
wine-makers, as you can see by the bottles stored here. Their
profession was important enough to take over even the bed-chamber
of their only child. The manuscripts I loved to read and write,
too, as you do, had no place in the measured existence of their
lives, and neither did I. My lack of any interest in the delights
of wine was a great burden to them. But, no matter, I quickly found
my own path and walked it without them.”

“Killing and torturing other people as you
did so,” Simon interrupted, unable to hold back the protest on his
tongue. “Perhaps your parents were right.”

“Ah, Simon,” Gelahn leaned back in his chair
and took a sip of ruby wine from his beaker. It stained his lips
crimson. “Bearing in mind your own blood-soaked history, it
surprises me to hear you say thus. After all, I am not the only one
who has hurt people on the way, am I?”

In the emptiness where the scribe’s response
should have been, he heard only the accusation of his own soul.

“What do you want?” he whispered when the
silence grew strong enough to break him.

Gelahn sighed, as if he’d been waiting for a
gate to open and allow him access to a forbidden field. “I wish to
tell you my own Gathandrian legend and why it drives me to do what
I have done. The only question is: will you listen?”

The Third Gathandrian Legend: Prudence
and Sloth

Duncan Gelahn

With every heartbeat, the mind-executioner
grows more aware of the shapes and patterns of his childhood home.
Memories carve their way into his skin. The empty wine bottles each
have their place on the shelves around his old bed, but they sing
to him of abandonment. He never had that knowledge of belonging.
The only part of himself that exists here lies in the collection of
manuscripts, a riot of words that kept his parents at bay and do so
still. He longs to touch their glistening pages, but there is no
time.

For the scribe is stronger than the
mind-executioner has believed but, even so, he has his weaknesses.
Duncan is glad that, after the disaster of losing the mind-cane, he
has at least had the presence of mind to bring his captive here.
The house he grew up in is almost the mirror of the scribe’s own
childhood home. This fact, the sudden kinship between them, could
yet prove Hartstongue’s undoing provided that the executioner does
not allow it to be his, also.

The way to victory, however, will be through
persuasion, not violence. That much is obvious. Something he has
learned from his link with the half Gathandrian, perhaps.

Simon draws his hands up, folds them under
his chin. “Do I have a choice about whether or not I listen to
you?”

Duncan smiles, shakes his head. “You mistake
me. There is always a choice. I will not force you to hear the
Third Legend, but I believe you were only recently longing to
understand what all the major Legends tell us. Why else would you
be in the Library?”

“You know too much.”

“Then let me share it with you.”

“How can I be sure that the Legend you tell
me is the real one?”

“How can you be sure it is not? And how can
you be sure that the others you have heard from the Gathandrians
are real?”

A spark of purple fire and the scribe leaps
to his feet, the chair falling back behind him with a clatter.

“Oh no,” he all but snarls. “Whatever you do
to me, do not try to sully the truths I already have. If you do
then I will surely leave.”

Behind the fire lies the image of a meadow of
summer corn, soft, pliable, ready for harvest. Duncan sees it but
knows Simon does not. He is hooked—this threat of leaving shows the
executioner more than any actions could that his quarry is willing
to stay.

“Forgive me,” he holds up his hands, a false
gesture of yielding. “I have been on my own too long and forget how
to tender my discourse to the understandings of those I meet. I
meant no offence this time.”

The purple fire fades, but does not entirely
vanish. Duncan will have to be careful. After a pause, the scribe
sets the chair upright and sits down. The mind-executioner waits.
It is a skill he knows well.