Hallsfoot's Battle (18 page)

That much was true, he thought. Even though
“confidence” was not a word he associated much with himself.

“Please,” he said, “I do not mean to intrude
but…”

“…but you needed the respite. And I am happy
to provide that for you. The last few day-cycles have been hard for
us all.”

She drew up a chair and sat down. Smiling,
she answered the questions crowding his head.

“My name is Iffenia,” she said. “It means
moon-lily in our language. I am the Wife of the Second Elder and he
is a chair maker though, of course, you did not have long to meet
the elders and they have now left us. For a while only, I
hope.”

Simon nodded. Her words carried that same
sense of darkness he’d felt before. It must be grief at her
husband’s absence. That was something he understood. He wondered if
they would, in fact, return after their betrayal of Gathandria. He
had listened to the reasons for their departure, but that did not
mean he understood.

“Why did they go?” he asked her. “Forgive me.
I do not intend harshness. I, too, would have fled if I had had the
opportunity. I suppose that is what I did, in fact, during the two
first days when I stayed in Annyeke’s room, but surely those with
wisdom in the land should have stayed, whatever their wrongdoings.
We need your husband’s guidance, and that of his fellow
elders.”

He hadn’t intended to sound as if he were
offering her a challenge. He had only just arrived here and,
besides, he had no challenge to offer. But as he finished speaking,
the scribe realised the snow-raven had perched on the table nearest
to them both and the mind-cane was quivering only a few feet away
from him. It looked as if it might plunge towards him at any moment
and he braced himself to run.

A hand on his arm grounded him.

“No,” Iffenia whispered. “Do not run. And do
not fear your own words. What you have said is right or, rather,
rightly asked. But the elders betrayed the people when they let the
mind-executioner free. Until their minds are clear, help cannot
truly come from them, and anything they do will only hinder us. I
miss my husband with all that I am, and would do anything for his
safe return, but I know it must be so for now. When they are able
to help us, believe me, they will. But, in the meantime, do not
fight the influence these, your companions, have over you. Whilst
they are strange, they are not your harshest enemies.”

Eyes still fixed on the fearsome length of
black and carved silver, he swallowed, trying to take in all she
had said. “No? Sometimes it seems as if they are. Annyeke tells me
that, with them, I can help Gathandria survive. I accept what you
say about the elders might be true, but the knowledge of how to
help in a way they could not is hidden from me. And, so far, the
mind-training has not obviously been successful.”

“Mind-training is not easy,” she replied
after a moment, releasing her hold on him. “Not even for full blood
Gathandrians, and you only have half our blood in you. But perhaps
that, too, is as it should be. After all, we have been able to
protect neither our own lands nor the lands of our neighbours. It
may be we do not have all the answers, even my husband and his
circle. Something new is needed.”

“Something new?” He glanced at her, and then
laughed. “I fear that I have little to offer, and certainly nothing
new.”

You underestimate yourself.

Her answer, suddenly inside his head in a way
he hadn’t anticipated, cut through him. In its wake, that strange
shadowy green sense once more flowed. The woman’s words
reverberated within him, almost as if he was thinking them
himself.

“Perhaps I do,” he replied, not trusting his
skills enough to respond only in the mind. “But when I compare
myself to the people I see around me—Johan, Annyeke, even young
Talus—then I have no choice but to admit my own lack.”

Then do not compare yourself. You are unique,
Lost One, and in that uniqueness lies your salvation, and ours,
also.

As she finished speaking, he realised she’d
left his mind, had withdrawn in order to allow him his privacy, not
that he was sure what to do with it.

“And that is the ‘something new’ you talk
about? You think I must find my own way through this period of
preparation in order to be ready to face Duncan Gelahn when he
attacks us at last?”

She nodded and spoke aloud once more. “Yes,
that is exactly what I mean. And, if you wish to take the first
step on that pathway, perhaps you should start in the Gathandrian
Library. Though you do not credit it, this is where your mind has
truly been directing you, is it not? You are, after all, a scribe.
That is your gifting. You are a carver of words, just as my gifting
is to be a sculptor. Both of us create beauty and order where there
is none. Come, I will show the way you must go.”

At the door to the street, she touched his
head with her fingers and, at once, the scribe knew the way to his
destination. Before she could withdraw her hand, he took it.

“Will you go with me?” he asked her. “I would
value your company.”

Iffenia shook her head, taking her hand away
quickly. “I cannot, though your invitation touches me, Simon
Hartstongue. Up until now, you have had many Gathandrian companions
with you. For this section of your path, you must travel only with
those the Spirit has commanded to be with you. But know this: the
minds of all who live here are with you, even when you are
alone.”

Then she stepped back inside her home and was
gone.

Duncan Gelahn

One moment the mind-executioner is
luxuriating in Tregannon’s master bedroom and smiling at the
thought of the dispossessed Lammas Lands’ lord. The mountain dogs
lie quiet. The next moment, a shiver of red rolls over and through
his mind and his eyes are forced shut. Impressions of books, a
voice he knows too well from his past, and two brothers, one
murderous, fill his mind and, when he opens his eyes at last, he
understands he is no longer in Ralph’s castle.

This moment is truly his.

For reasons Duncan cannot fully understand,
but which he suspects must be to do with the scribe, he is back in
the great Library of Gathandria. Not the hidden dungeon the Elders
kept him in for so long, with its torment of books and legends, but
the Library itself. Something has begun, who knows how, and he
welcomes it. He wants to close his eyes to savour the sensations,
but he is afraid to miss anything of what he has ached for.
Instead, he breathes in the air, its hint of learning and dust,
excitements and dreams filling him until he could almost be one
with the great treasure house itself.

Almost, but not truly.

Because, even before he has begun to plunge
himself into the stories and histories around him, the Spirit of
the Library has caught and held his mind.

You are no longer permitted to feed from me
here.

Nor anywhere, Duncan replies, his thoughts
chasing after the jewels of words already vanishing. Why, then, am
I here?

He receives no reply, but the Library still
holds him captive. This is power beyond that he’d enjoyed with the
help of the mind-cane. Questions crowd his tongue, but he knows
that speaking them aloud will do him no good. Someone, or
something, has taken him from the Lammas Lands and brought him to
the heart of Gathandria. Is it the contact he has here that he
still dare not name? But how? It should not be possible. Neither is
this simply a vision of his homeland; what he can see and smell and
touch is real. He is here in truth, but unable to enjoy the
benefits. He does not know whether this fact is an unexpected
blessing for his exile’s life or a secret torment that will play
him later.

If only the mountain dogs were with him, he
would tear through the Library’s adamant grasp and open the shining
books his fingers long to hold. Even without the cane, he would be
strong enough to do that, oh yes. Then the power he seeks would be
his and the elders would be no more. This is the mind-executioner’s
dream and this is what he strives towards. He is the true heir of
Gathandria. He is the one who will save them.

If the Library lets him go, there will be no
need for the heat and sweat of battle to bring these people to
their knees. He could have all his desire now.

But the dogs are not here, and the power that
has brought him home is stronger than he. Even though he struggles
with all of his mind to free himself, Duncan can do nothing but
wait and wonder.

So the mind-executioner floats within the
Gathandrian Library. He cannot understand the purpose of it. If he
is to be taunted with being here, then his tormentor is succeeding.
So many year-cycles has Duncan longed for the chance to visit this
place once more. The Library has been a part of his plans for
returning, a distant vision to work for included in his future
triumph. To win this life again, he will do anything.

Anything. He has made his pact with the dark
and he will not gainsay it, even if the path back were to be opened
to him ever again.

You cannot go back. You have walked too far
with the night.

The Spirit of the Library is speaking again,
strange coloured words flashing danger into his mind. He knows that
what the Spirit speaks is true. The day he began his rebellion
against the Gathandrian elders, so many generation-cycles in the
past, was the day he walked away from the road of hope. Injustices
had been done to him, his talents ignored and all his ambitions
burnt to nothing. The anger has been the only thing that sustained
him. He will live by it still.

The night is my friend, he answers the voice.
I wish for no other companion. Bringing me here, for whatever
purpose, will not change that. I will save Gathandria in my way,
because your way, the way of words and stories, has always failed.
This land is mine alone and one day I will reclaim it. One day,
whether I live or not, silence will be king.

As Duncan finishes speaking, a roaring
torrent rips through his blood and bone and flesh and he opens his
mouth and screams. There is no sound. The agony is beyond its
physical retelling. He feels as if every part of him is being torn
away and reattached to himself in a different place. For a moment,
he wonders if this is what the victims of the mountain-dogs feel,
when he unleashes them. Then the terrible noise vanishes and he is
whole again, with a greater knowledge of who it is who has helped
him here. Both of them. Something unfamiliar reaches his ear, a
slow creaking. He turns to face whatever will happen next.

The door to the great Library opens. When he
sees which one of his unexpected allies it is, Duncan smiles.

Simon

Iffenia had conveyed to his mind that the
Gathandrian Library had once been beautiful but had been all but
destroyed in the recent wars. Situated next to the Council of
Elders’ building, the scribe thought it still had a kind of glory.
Stonework had been sheered through and none of the windows had
glass as far as he could see. The roof was entirely missing. In
spite of that, the height of the structure still drew the eye and
some of the carvings remained. Peering closer, he could see
intricate scenes of men and women poring over books, examples of
Gathandrian artwork, all of it framed by the trees these people
seemed to love so well. Gelahn had not entirely defeated the city
then.

Still followed by his two strange companions,
he entered the interior gloom. Already, it was all but night and
the chill in the air made him shiver. He wondered how Iffenia could
have imagined that any books might be stored here. It was obvious
to him that such surroundings would only ruin them.

“Welcome, Lost One.”

The voice made him swing round but he could
see nobody. “Hello? Where-Where are you?”

“I am nowhere.”

“What…?”

“And everywhere.”

Without warning, the mind-cane, which had
been lurking at the edge of his sight, flew to the scribe’s hand.
He tried to twist away but the cane twisted too, and landed in his
palm. He cried out but already his fingers were wrapping round its
slim frame. A flash of blue sparked upwards and then the cane was
still. Simon had braced himself to scream but this time there was
no pain, no sensation of burning. It was as if he and the cane were
poised to fight together as they had briefly before, but here there
was no enemy, unless, of course, he counted the disembodied
voice.

“That is as it should be.”

The scribe could take no more of this. He had
experienced enemies in his mind and in the flesh, but never an
enemy who was invisible yet did not assault his thoughts.

He took two paces forward, brandishing the
cane in front of him as if it were a weapon he knew how to use.
“Who are you? Name yourself.”

From behind, the snow-raven took to the air,
his wings brushing Simon’s face. The scribe gasped because, as the
bird flew in an arc around the half-broken hall he found himself
in, his flight lit up the room’s strange treasures. Rows and rows
of books met his eye, all colours and shapes and sizes. The
bindings of some of them glittered red and gold in the light from
the snow-raven’s wings. Others were blue or purple, still others of
them as green as summer grass, and others as bright a yellow as the
great orb of the sun. All this Simon knew in a heartbeat. The next
moment he could smell their parchments, a heady mix of animal skin,
rosemary oil and the hopes and dreams of men. As the snow-raven
continued his journey, the books became sparser, empty spaces
appearing on the shelves revealed by the bird until finally the
last few moments showed no books at all. The scribe couldn’t help
but feel sorrow at the loss. The raven landed by his side, folded
his wings back onto his body and was motionless.