Hallsfoot's Battle (41 page)

Something had changed, and Gelahn saw it,
too.

Duncan Gelahn

He sees it the moment the river’s tide turns
against him. He sees it, but he cannot understand how it can be so.
The mind-cane is his, as is the strange power of the emeralds. How,
then, can the silver and green fire flow in a direction other than
that he has intended?

Annyeke, the foolish woman who thinks she can
best him in the type of mind-war she has never even heard whisper
of, should be dead. That is what he has wished for, no matter
whether it is necessary or not. But the scribe has stood between
him and his purpose and something has shifted. Indeed, for a moment
or two, it was almost as if the Lost One was not there at all, but
that cannot be so. The emeralds have not formed their circle of
passage and, besides, the half Gathandrian is too weak to run.
Still, Gelahn must change the way the air is flowing. He cannot let
the Spirit’s work die, not after so much endurance and so many
day-cycles.

Gelahn opens his mind to the full as he
brings the cane down, pointing it towards where Simon stands,
unwary. At the same time he stretches out his other arm and speaks
the words he has been longing to say, perhaps since before he was
even born:

Come then, come, Great Spirit, and let the
work of cleansing begin.

For a heartbeat after the echo of the plea
has left his thoughts, there is a strong and sudden silence. The
distant throb of battle is stilled, and even the soft hush of the
snowfall is unheard. Gelahn takes a breath, and the air lights up
in the darkness. All the colours of gold and rose, sea blue, herb
green and morning grey rise from the floor, the shattered walls,
the dust itself that is contained in the mystical Library of the
city. All the stories are coming to the mind-cane’s call. They are
coming and, when all the stories are one, with their colours and
textures, their voices and their desires, then will the age of
contentment truly begin.

The mind-executioner cannot help himself
then. He laughs. The stories will cleanse every unrighteousness
from the land. They will come to him and then everything he has
always longed for will be his.

Ralph

He cannot feel his mind any more, and what he
sees makes no sense—a man wearing a patterned black cloak that
hangs torn from his body. He holds an ebony and silver cane in one
hand and a handful of glowing emeralds in the other. The green
depths of them call to Ralph, but he cannot make out their voice.
There is something he must do—soon, but he does not know what it
is. He hears someone groan and knows it is himself. In that moment
he sees, though does not understand, a number of things. There is a
woman lying to his right, perhaps dead, being rocked in the arms of
a weeping man. Her red hair is fire against the whiteness of the
snow around them. Between them and the man in black stands a slight
figure of another man. This one is trembling, breathing hard as if
he has been running for many fields and has still not found a
resting place. He is beautiful and something about him makes
Ralph’s blood sing. At his side beyond where Ralph lies, he sees a
small boy held in the slight man’s grip.

The final and the most confusing sight of
them all is the colours of stone exploding, floating upwards as if
unfurled from the air. They are like pages of a book, but he sees
no parchment or papers. All of them drift and fly towards the man
with the jewels and the cane. He is laughing.

And the only thing Ralph understands is that
he must stop this man from gathering them up, but he does not know
how.

Annyeke

In the darkness of nowhere, something held
her to the life she once knew. She could feel Johan’s arms around
her body and his warmth brightening her skin. He placed his fingers
against her head, and she sensed unknown sparks in his blood as he
tried to reach her, discover if she was still alive.

Annyeke.

There was so much behind the way he said her
name, so much she had understood for so long, but which was new to
him. She longed to respond but could not. She could not even move.
The death, sweat and terror of the battlefield filled her mind as
Johan tried to make contact with her thoughts. For a long moment
there was nothing, and if Annyeke had had the gift of crying she
would have done so.

Then, suddenly, the colours. They startled
her. His were muted, earth browns and soft yellows and blues. Of
course, she knew the colours Johan lived by; she’d worked with him
so well over the year-cycles. She was green and red and silver, but
mainly red. But he’d never linked with her quite in this way. The
truth of it—the truth of him—plunged through her like falling
stars. She sensed his indrawn cry, the way the link between them
swept aside all his doubts, everything he’d ever wanted to hold
back from those around him. From where he stood deep within her
silent mind, Johan began to run. The ground under him, the
foundation of her own mind, was honeyed gold, its warmth easing
them both. Around her the sky was a clear blue, no clouds, no
breeze, no birds. In fact there was nothing there except the
ground, the air and the streaming colours that moved and shimmered
with his every step.

She could not tell where her memories were.
This scene should be filled with shapes and patterns of her past,
her worries, her joys, but she could not grasp them or turn towards
the man she loved. What had Gelahn done to her? A wave of crimson
rose in her blood, filling them both up until Johan, still running,
opened his mouth and cried out. Strange words flew from his lips in
jagged shapes and patterns. He raced after them, eyes scanning left
and right as he ran. She wanted to hold him still, but he would not
look at her.

For too many paces, the air and sky remained
empty. Then, when he was as near to her as he had ever been, he
stumbled to a halt, air slamming into his throat. The moment he
stopped running, she saw his body begin to shake and the way he
struggled for breath. Half bent over, he turned towards where she
lay, a mere shimmer on the soft ground. She heard the words then,
the words in his mind that he could not stop repeating. She heard
them over and over again.

Where is she? Where is the woman I love?

The gold from the earth began to sing. The
harmony of it raced through her bones and blood and skin, and
Annyeke felt the echo of it rise up from her body into the air
around. Surely, he would see where she was now. She could not go to
him, this song was all she had. Nothing happened. Her golden song
began to fade. She had so few notes left. She breathed the last of
them out, knowing none remained beyond them:

I am here.

Johan turned towards her. She felt the shape
of his chest pressed against her body as he took another breath,
and the patterns that had spilled from her song flowed around and
in front of him as he ran, until the final pattern formed an avenue
of colour between the two of them.

He fell to his knees next to her. When he
touched her and his eyes opened truly, she saw what he saw
reflected in his gaze. Not the woman he knew now. No, this Annyeke
was younger, barely out of childhood but still with that red hair
he’d come to love, so much, so very much.

Beneath his gaze, the child-woman Annyeke
stirred and he reached towards her. She shifted, finding at last
that his closeness restored her ability to move, and opened her
eyes. Before he could speak, she sat up and gripped his arm,
pulling him closer. She understood what she must do.

“My own emeralds,” she whispered. “You must
take them, give them to the Lammas Lord. Now.”

“Your emeralds?” he stammered. “I don’t know
what you mean. It is you I must save. That is why I am here.”

“No.” Releasing him, she reached up to her
face and, before Johan could cry out a warning or try to stop her,
she had slipped her own fingers into her eyes and plucked them out.
The pain of it coursed through her and, at the same time, the air
around them both turned to night.

Johan cried out and fell backwards to escape
from the torrent of blood and brightness that flowed from her eyes.
She plunged after him, scrabbling with crimson hands on the golden
earth. She tried to calm the frantic beating of her heart, ease the
taste of bile and terror in her throat, tried to make him
understand. But he was at that place before her and his courage
made her miss her breath.

“What is it, Annyeke?” he said softly, but
with still the lilt of fear in his voice. “Tell me what you want
and I will do it.”

Without sight, with blood scarring her skin,
she felt like a steady river shattered by a storm that would not
leave it. She took hold of Johan’s hand, opened his trembling palm
and pressed what were once her eyes into his grasp, folding his
fingers down to hold them there.

Then she spoke again, “These are for
Tregannon. He will understand. Now you must go.”

“What can the Lammas Lord do with your eyes?”
he asked her, his voice full of tears. “How can it help us? How can
this help you?”

“Trust me. It will. Take them to him.”

Finally, he rose to his feet. “I can’t leave
you, Annyeke. I won’t. I…I love you.”

Annyeke nodded at the truth of it, even now
and even here, opened her mouth and spoke again.

“You understand it at last then, Johan
Montfort,” she whispered. “I have always loved you, from the very
beginning. Now, please, for the city and for the land you must go
and do as I have said.”

Simon

The stories were all around him; he could
sense their whispered messages folding into his skin. In the
colours and smells of history, legend and more recent events, he
found the hearts and minds of the people. The tales surged towards
Gelahn, and the scribe knew in a moment as if he had known it all
along that when the spirit of the Gathandrian Library came together
with the emeralds, the mind-cane and its executioner, then the
power Duncan had longed for would most truly be his.

He should have seen it before. The
destruction of the Library released the power of the stories, that
same power the Gathandrians used to connect with each other, to
defend themselves and to live. Gelahn knew that power and he could
use it against them. But why hadn’t he simply done this when he’d
escaped? The question flitted through the scribe’s mind, but he
knew as he stared at the mind-cane what the answers might be. It
had something to do with the Tregannon emeralds and the gift of
travel they possessed. Gelahn had not then had them and, besides,
somehow the cane’s best power existed only in his own presence. He,
then, Simon Hartstongue of the White Lands, was the catalyst for
what was to come. The only one who could make things different.

Then he would stop it. The epitaph of
destruction was not one he wanted carved on his bones forever.

He took a step forward just as he noticed the
noise of the battle had ceased and that all he could hear was the
growing rattle of bones. The dead soldiers. They were closing in.
He could not tell what would happen now, what terrors they might
bring and how the executioner would use them. Unable to help
himself, Simon cried out even as he forced his body towards the
wild-eyed Gelahn.

Wait.

The word reverberated through his mind, its
accents as familiar to him as his own blood. Swinging round, he saw
Ralph swaying in the snow, barely able to stand. His eyes were as
dark as winter and his face scored with grief. Around him, the
patterns and shapes of all the stories in the city flowed, but he
did not seem to pay them any heed.

The Lammas Lord tried to walk, but had no
strength. He fell down, scrabbling on whiteness, both arms
stretched out as if begging for help. His eyes were fixed on
something Simon couldn’t see, something behind him. Even as he made
to help the fallen man, a green light flashed from a point the
scribe couldn’t see, and darted towards Ralph.

Before the scribe could even think to cry out
a warning, Ralph had grasped the light which flowed through him
like water. Simon could feel the further shattering of the Lammas
Lord’s thoughts as they splintered outwards. He turned to see where
the danger had come from. Annyeke sat upright in Johan’s arms. Her
eyes were bloodied, but her hand remained outstretched, pointing
towards Ralph. As he gazed, a second flash of green rolled from her
fingers into Johan’s waiting grasp where it burnt and spat on his
flesh. With a cry, Johan flung the sparkling flame towards the
Lammas Lord. Simon gasped and stepped forward, determined to stop
this strange chaos if he could. He was brought to a halt by Ralph’s
command.

Stop.

It was directed at him, Simon knew, not at
Johan or Annyeke. He ducked as the green fire darted over his head.
Ralph caught it expertly and once more emerald light spread over
his hand and arm.

Simon, come to me.

Without question, the scribe obeyed, losing
his grip on Talus as he did so. The boy ran to Annyeke, dropped by
her side and began to weep. By the gods and stars, the scribe
should have learned Tregannon was not to be trusted, but his
body—no, his blood—paid no heed to the logic of his thought and he
found himself a mere breath away from this man who haunted him
so.

“What should I do?”

Take the emeralds.

Despite the lunacy of what he was being
asked, Simon reached out so the jewels dropped into his hand. The
next moment, the fire Ralph held flowed into and through his own
body. Everything stopped, or, rather, everything moved on but he
was caught in a circle from which there was no escaping. He shut
his eyes. Ralph held him in his arms and he felt the other man’s
warmth against him. It was as nothing compared to the heat of the
emerald fire. This was not the circle through which they had
travelled, but something utterly different, a sensation he could
not name. Flame and legend, truth and history and dreaming. The
scribe felt as if his very flesh was being changed into something
greater than he could ever have imagined. It was as if he was being
made one with the stories and the dreams, with the longing and the
hope.