Hallsfoot's Battle Page 14

  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.

  The books that were there remained in view.

  The silence weighed heavily on his shoulders. It pressed in around him so that, even though he longed to reach out and reveal the contents of the books he could see, he was unable to. Finally, the strange voice spoke again.

  “This is who I am.”

  Simon gazed round but, as with so much that had happened to him in recent day-cycles, he did not understand. All he could see were the writings. He wondered once more how they were protected from the elements in this mysterious place when the roof opened out onto the sky.

  “That is right. I am they.”

  Gripping the mind-cane more firmly and receiving an unexpected strength from it, the scribe squared his shoulders and cleared his throat.

  “That cannot be true. Books do not speak…” he began, but the sound of laughter cut him off.

  Spinning round, he could still see no one. Only the laughter, which was not mockery but delight, rolled around his ears. At the end of it, the voice spoke again. “You, who call yourself a scribe and lover of words, dare to say books do not speak? Surely their voice is heard all over the lands, both here in Gathandria and across all our neighbours’ countries also, no matter who tries to
stand against them.”

  Simon could only acknowledge the truth in that. “Forgive me, I misspoke. Tell me, then, how can you be the voice of books when the words that are written do not live in the ear but are heard only in the mind?”

  “It is a short journey, Lost One, from the mind to the ear. When, in the past, you wrote the words of your people’s legends on your parchments, did you not hear their song? And is that whisper not more powerful than the most fearful enemy lifting his voice on the air to reach you?”

  Simon blinked. He opened his mouth to say something that might not have been a lie but was not entirely the truth. The sudden heat of the cane in his hand changed his mind.

  “The song of words may well be more powerful than an enemy’s shout,” he acknowledged, “but it is not something I remember when the enemy is at hand.”

  The mind-cane’s heat subsided and, whilst no answer came from his invisible companion, the scribe felt as if someone he couldn’t quite see might have given half a smile.

  “You are honest,” the voice said after a few moments’ silence. “I thank you. No, more than that, the books thank you. You see, I am the Spirit of the Library and the books are my voice. You hear me more fully than most, Lost One, because of your love of writing and because of the cane you hold. Together we can teach you many things.”

  “Why have I not heard about you before?” Simon asked the Spirit.

  “Many seek me,” came the answer, “but few are chosen to hear as you are hearing. But, no matter. You come at Iffenia’s bidding, though that in itself is strange, but no matter. What will be so now must be carried out. You seek the Legend of Justice and Anger, the Tale of the Two Brothers. Step forward, into the snow-raven’s light, into the centre of my heart, and hear.”

  The scribe was unsure if that was really what he wanted, but there seemed to be no going back, so he pursed his lips and did as the voice commanded, even though his skin felt clammy and the hand holding the cane shook. The moment he did so, the light began to sparkle around him and the mind-cane bucked and hummed in his grasp. He stumbled, found himself falling, cried out—and then all was darkness.

  When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t tell how long he’d been asleep. He thought he might find himself in another place, a place of the mind, but he was still in the library. However, the building itself had changed. Instead of the late evening sky, he could see a carved dome above him. It was decorated with animals and birds, people and houses. The colours were as vibrant as if they had been freshly painted. The scenes spilled down onto the walls and he found his eye followed them around the books, each one pulsating with its own life, until he came back to the beginning again.

  A slight brush against his shoulder and he realised the snow-raven stood next to him. The bird tilted his head as if to ask a question Simon couldn’t interpret and then opened his beak and sang. This time, the notes were not physical and did not form themselves into any shapes, but the scribe could still sense them as if they were colours. The higher notes drifted through his thoughts in yellow and gold, whereas the lower notes made him think of red or the deep brown of summer earth. When the bird finished his song, the scribe longed for the music again.

  Rising to his feet, he saw the cane was lying a small distance away. He moved to take it up again but a voice in his head spoke, Wait.

  He stopped and glanced around. It had sounded like the Spirit of the Library. Just as he was pondering what to do, or how indeed to get back to the world he had been in only a few heartbeats before, the voice spoke again.

  Lost One, if you pick up the cane, then the Legend you wish to know will begin. Are you ready for that?

  He thought for a moment before replying.

  “No,” he said, swinging round and pitching his response to all the books around him. “No, I am not, but I need to hear it, don’t I?”

  As you wish. So, then, choose the deep green book that your eye rests on now. Take it up in your left hand, but do not open it. When that is done, choose the mind-cane again. Put your right hand on the silver carving and touch the book with the cane itself. Then the Legend will most truly be yours. Most important of all, whatever happens, do not let either of them go.

  The scribe obeyed. Only when he came to pick up the mind-cane did he realise his mouth felt dry and he was sweating. He only wished he knew what would happen when the cane touched the book, but it was unlikely the Spirit of the Library would reveal that to him. After all, when he wrote his words down on parchment, he was never sure where the quill would take him next. And that was true whether he was writing one of the familiar ancient legends of his people or simply for his own enjoyment. Indeed, how he longed to write again. He could almost taste the need of it on his tongue.

  He took hold of the mind-cane, felt it fizzing against his skin, but not enough to burn him. Then, with something halfway between a sigh and a groan, he laid it onto the book’s green binding.

  A sensation of movement and Simon was flying upwards into the air. The Library roof shattered into a thousand pieces that became at the same instance the stars. He screamed but the snow-raven’s wings wrapped around him and his cry was swallowed up in flight. What terrified him most was the certainty of falling back to the ground and what he might have to face then. Before his mind could begin to count the possibilities, the wild journey came to an end and his feet were on solid earth once more. But where that might be, only the Spirit of the Library knew.

  He opened his eyes. His arm was wrapped around the snow-raven’s body and his mouth was filled with feathers. Still clutched in his right hand, the cane had somehow kept him safe, whilst his other hand continued to grasp the book of the Second Legend. The bird opened his beak and hissed a warning. At once, Simon let go his hold on the snow-raven, wiping his mouth clean of soft white down with his sleeve.

  I’m sorry, he said in his thoughts and the raven’s hissing ceased. At the same time, the landscape in front of him shivered and reformed itself from the blankness of rock to fields sown with crops, something like poorman’s wheat but with a darker stem, cabbages taller than Simon had ever seen before, and a yellow flowering plant he didn’t recognise at all.

  Beyond the fields, homes and outhouses shimmered into view. The stone they were made from was whiter than the whitest cloth. It all but blinded him. The next moment, he could hear the distant hum of voices, dogs barking and the higher shrieks of children. A crowd of field workers were making their way back home, jostling in the late afternoon sun, some of them carrying tools and others dragging long ploughs, shoulders bent under the strain.

  As the scribe continued to watch, the book he held began to glow a brighter shade of green, but it did not burn him. At the same time, the raven spread his wings and launched himself upwards, flying towards the crowd of weary workers. The bird made a slow circle in the sky above their heads, although none appeared to notice, and then began to return to Simon. As if drawn by an invisible cord, two men left their companions and followed the raven’s path, on earth as he in sky, towards the scribe. The taller of the two was dressed in black and the scribe scrambled backwards, thinking for a heartbeat or two that it was the mind-executioner once more. But no, this man was older than Duncan Gelahn, and his face was gnarled and lined with the sun. Next to him, the shorter man was dressed in red. He was younger but the resemblance to what must surely be his father or his brother was obvious.

  They are brothers. This is their story.

  The book was talking to him, its voice filling his mind, spilling over his skin and changing the attitudes and actions of his heart. He and the book he held shared the same thoughts and spoke the same words. They were one.

  This is their story and I am living in it, he told himself. Or perhaps it was the book who told him? He could not say. This must be the level of story telling Johan had told him about on their journey over the sea. He was more than listening to it, he was dwelling in it, in a way he should not have been able to as these were no memories of his but the l
egends of an unknown people. He could see, smell, touch and taste the story, with his body and with his mind, too. It felt as if he was caught in a river rushing to the sea and the current was too strong for him. His breath came in gasps and his hands were shaking.

  But still he held the book, couldn’t let go. And now the raven had alighted on an oak tree only a few paces away and the two brothers were all but upon him.

  “Who are you?” the older of them asked, and the scribe gasped at the fact that this…this…legend should actually be able to talk to him. But hadn’t he already heard the voices of the brothers’ people? He should have been ready.

  “Who are you?” his questioner asked him again, this time accompanying the words with a prod at Simon’s shoulder. “Have you come to spy upon us?”

  The scribe stumbled and saved himself only by means of the mind-cane.

  “Leave him alone,” the younger man said, his voice a gentle stream compared with the rough edge of his brother’s tongue. His hair was also a deep black set against the silver streaked hair of Simon’s questioner. “He hasn’t harmed any of us, has he?”

  “No. No, I haven’t. And I don’t intend to.” The scribe suddenly found his voice and tried to stand taller against the bulk of the elder brother. He hadn’t tackled a man who didn’t exist before, but that was no reason not to try. “Why do you assume the worst about those you do not know?”

  The elder brother frowned but made no move to strike him as Simon had thought he might. Instead, the younger man answered, with a laugh. “He’s right, Kanlin. You are too suspicious. You make things hard for yourself in life, you know. And at this time of celebration, you should try not to make yet another enemy.”

  “Hush, do not share our secrets with all you meet,” Kanlin grunted, directing his deepening frown at his brother. “You do not know what use they might make of them.”

  Simon couldn’t help himself. He laughed. The thought that he was actually here, living and breathing a story someone else had told many generation-cycles ago, made his blood sing.