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  “Well,” Simon murmured. “We may not be the most obvious of conspirators but at least we’re all here.”

  “Conspirators?” Annyeke raised both eyebrows.

  “Yes. Shouldn’t we be planning something to defend Gathandria against the mind-executioner’s next assault? Your elders were convinced that the Battle of the Western Shore was not an end to it.”

  The Battle of the Western Shore, Annyeke thought. That was already what the people were calling it. It made it sound more formal than it had been. She remembered it more as a desperate skirmish and an unlikely victory than a battle. She waited for Johan to speak but, with a slight smile, he gestured at her to take the floor.

  She rose from the table where she’d been sitting and frowned at the two men, wondering what, in the name of the stars above, her words might be and how the three of them could possibly begin. Then it came to her.

  “I’ve been looking through the old texts,” she said. “While you’ve both been…resting, and I think they might be the key to what we do next.”

  Annyeke was surprised she had managed to vocalise her thoughts at all, much less that they sounded reasonable. The fact that Johan was sitting in her kitchen area continued to make her feel as if a shock of ice-cold water was drenching her, over and over again. From the instinct for personal preservation, she assessed her personal mind-wall but found nothing untoward there and, besides, Johan still hadn’t seemed to notice anything, which was something she should be accustomed to. Damn him to the far reaches of the Gathandrian empire. Knowing how she felt about Johan didn’t make it easier to bear. Nor did the realisation that the scribe had, in a way beyond her imaginings, guessed her secret make her life any less difficult. How had he done that? His mind-skills weren’t greater than hers, mind-cane or no mind-cane.

  “What old texts?” This from Simon. He had no real knowledge of Gathandria beyond the little Johan must have told him. She could sense the lack of her country’s history in his head. And books and writing were, of course, central to the scribe’s heart.

  “They’re the legends of our country,” she explained. “Stories written down over the generations, before even our telling, and which have been kept in the Great Library of Gathandria for as long as the tales themselves have existed. Much of the Library was destroyed during the wars with Gelahn, but the most precious of the books were kept underground in a cellar only the elders knew of, until I found it. There were other far more terrible things going on in that cellar, too, but that’s not for the telling now. The fact is, I brought some of the most important texts home, not long before the two of you returned to us, and I’ve been reading them. They talk about many interesting things.”

  “The old legends,” Johan whispered, a frown creasing his forehead for a moment. “You have them? Which ones? What do they say?”

  “All the stories that the elders talked about,” Annyeke replied, “and some they didn’t. Mostly— and it’s hidden throughout the writings, so you have to read carefully—there’s an overarching legend about a ‘Lost One’ who has been missing for many year-cycles. So many that nobody can remember his name. Though why the elders assumed that it’s a man is a mystery to me—it may just as well be a woman. There’s no reason why not. Ancient Gathandrian doesn’t specify gender. Anyway, this Lost One returns one day to our city, when it is most in need of him. He fights for us and our world is safe. Not only us but all the worlds around us, too, which are our responsibility. All the tears and pain and crying will be gone, and instead we will have peace and joy and plenty of love. That, at least, is what the texts tell me.”

  By the time she’d finished, she was whispering. Neither of her companions said anything to fill the void. It was as if the truth of the words she’d spoken had filled the room and created its own brief world, or as if none dared speak at all.

  The air rolled in stillness. This was broken a moment later by the door being shoved open and a small boy rushing into the relative warmth of the cooking area. Talus.

  “Johan,” he panted, eyes shining and hair sticking up from his head like the plumage of young park-crows. “Johan, you’re here.”

  Johan took a step away from Annyeke’s young charge, arms stiff and eyes wide, as if faced with a wood-leopard on the hunt.

  At the same time, the mind-cane leapt from its position of rest in the corner, the wild humming louder than she’d ever heard it before, and hurtled across the space between them towards Talus. She could sense a surge of frustration, despair even, pouring from it, but didn’t know why.

  “No.”

  The shout was hers, but it was Simon who got there first.

  Simon

  Without thinking, the scribe launched himself toward the mind-cane as it spun towards the boy. He could feel the waves of a strange anger born of fear sweeping over him from its silver carving, but he had no concept of any danger to himself. His thoughts were full of the memory of Carthen.

  He hit the cane away from Talus with his fingers. At once, heat seared up his arm and he tumbled to the floor with a cry. The pain arced between skin and mind, mind and skin, a circle of agony. At the edge of his vision he could see Annyeke lurching towards him, obviously trying to help in some way. Behind her, Johan grabbed Talus and pushed him out of danger.

  The mind-cane jittered on the stone slabs, moving once more towards the boy. The humming had vanished, but the impression of threat had not. More than that, he could sense a strange purpose emanating from the cane, but what it was eluded him.

  “Simon.”

  The scribe blinked. The voice was not audible but in his head only. It was Johan. Despite everything that had happened and the situation they now found themselves in, he couldn’t help but smile. Over the last two day-cycles, he’d missed the Gathandrian’s thought-voice.

  “Yes?” he replied, in mind only.

  “Pick the cane up.”

  “What?”

  “Pick it up,” Johan said directly to his mind again. “Now. Please?”

  The cane’s humming began again. Sending a variety of thoughts towards Johan, none of which could be spoken with the child present, Simon skidded along the floor in obedience. His eyes were fixed on the length of vibrating ebony and silver. His heart was beating fast and his skin felt cold, a relief after the heat of pain a moment ago.

  Once between the cane and his companions, he slowly, so slowly, stretched out his hand. The mind-cane’s trembling became more violent and the feeling of thwarted anger more powerful, but the noise it was making lessened. He thanked all the stars for that, as the sound had pierced his skull, making it almost impossible to think.

  Just as his fingers were only a shade or so away from the cane’s dark mass, Annyeke spoke.

  “Wait,” she said.

  “Why?” This from Johan.

  “I don’t know if the cane meant to frighten us. Simon, what were you thinking when Talus came in?”

  The scribe swallowed and for a long moment the world in front of him blurred before coming back in clarity again. “Nothing. Except that …”

  “Except…what?”

  “Except when he greeted Johan, I thought of Carthen.”

  As he spoke his apprentice’s name aloud for the first time, his voice shook and he pushed back a fresh wave of memory. As he did so, the cane started its strange humming again and began to slide along the floor like strange water, heading towards Johan and the boy.

  Simon.

  This time the voice in his mind was Annyeke’s and the shock of it made him shake his head, as if to dislodge her. He wondered for a heartbeat or two if all Gathandrians were like this, or whether privacy was a shifting notion here.

  “Never mind that, Simon,” she said, aloud this time, and quickly, as if getting all the words out into the open before danger struck again. “I think the cane is picking up on your thoughts, acting on them. Perhaps mine, too, but not so greatly. You thought of your friend and the cane homed in on Talus. It’s responding to you as it has bee
n over the last two day-cycles. You must clear your mind.”

  How? With that thought came another flare of anger towards Annyeke, but he quelled it at once, putting into his head the picture of the river he had once shared with Johan, something calm, flowing and blue. With every breath, he eased himself more into those waters, imagining the refreshment, the happiness he would gain from that. As he did so, the noise the cane was making changed into a purring sound, it rested back down on the floor and spun slowly into his hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world. For one long moment, he could feel no burning, as he had before. Then the palm of his hand began to grow hot and he let the cane go.

  It lay beside him, silent and still, at last.

  Annyeke sighed and got up as the boy ran towards her.

  “Good,” she said. “And thank you, Simon. I think perhaps here is where we’ll begin.”

  Second Lammas Lands Chronicle

  Ralph

  He barely reaches the castle in time before the clouds descend upon them. Nightcloud is as nervous as a rabbit in spring and the groom struggles to hold him. Glancing backwards at the darkening sky, Ralph places his hand on the horse’s neck where the servant can’t see and sends a flow of calming thoughts through the skin of his palm into the animal’s hot flesh. At once, Nightcloud trembles into stillness. The groom’s eyes widen as he glances at Ralph, but he is wise enough to say nothing. Ralph knows, however, there will be rumours tonight and he curses his own desperate need for haste. He will have to be more careful in future.

  He growls at the man, hoping to distract him with commands he will already most likely perform. “Rub the horse down and give him only a little hay. I don’t want him fretful.”

  “Yes, my lord,” he blinks and his gaze slides away. Perhaps he, too, is planning rebellion. Such an act would not surprise Ralph and may, indeed, only be what he deserves. Still, he does not have the power to broach the horseman’s mind, and trying to read his emotions will only alert him to any oddities. Best wait until whatever is ahead finally comes.

  For now, Ralph must prepare for Gelahn.

  He takes the courtyard at a run, ignoring the pain in his leg and nearly stumbling over one of the old hunting hounds, blind in its dotage. The swiftness of the movement makes the pouch of emeralds in his belt rub against his thigh. He does not know what to do with them. The one or two men he passes pay him no heed; they are already casting fearful glances at the sky and running for their own homes.

  During the frantic journey inside the castle to his private rooms, Ralph meets no one. The few servants he owns have already fled or are in hiding. He can’t blame them. The last time the mind-executioner was here, the hopes that they had for the Lammas Lands and all the plans he’d longed to share with his people were slowly destroyed. Optimism turned to despair and dreams to dust. Ralph had wanted everything too quickly, and power most of all. It was the desire for that which had brought them all to ruin.

  Once in his rooms, Ralph swings round, seeking for solutions to what is to happen, though he knows there are none. He was a fool to hope in spite of everything that Gelahn would have finished with him. If that had been the case, then Ralph would be dead.

  Death is not the worst that can occur.

  The sky is almost like night, although there are no stars and he makes his way by feel. Gelahn’s arrival has blocked out the sun. Outside there is a terrible silence. Even the animals and birds make no noise. Flinging his cloak from him, Ralph snatches the emeralds from his belt and holds them for a moment in the palm of his hand. Their magical glow seems stronger but that might only be the light of them against the darkness. He must find somewhere to hide them, but where?

  “My lord?”

  The voice makes him jump and Ralph curses, in his mother’s tongue. A heartbeat later, he wishes the words unspoken; he has staked his reputation on his father’s blood.

  “Who is that?” he asks again, this time in the language of the castle.

  “A-Apolyon, my lord.”

  The name means nothing and still Ralph cannot make him out. His mind is too much occupied to try to sense anything outside its own dread. The one thing he understands is this unknown voice bears no threat towards him.

  “Apolyon?”

  “Your new s-steward, my lord.”

  Of course. Now that he’s given Ralph his name, it is as if he’s known it all along. After all, it was he who gave it to the boy many year-cycles ago when he first came to the castle. The lad was too poor to carry his own. Not that it is a real name, given through the formal naming ceremony. No need for that for one who will own nothing when he dies.

  “Why haven’t you fled like the others?” Ralph says. “There is no safety here.”

  “I cannot, sir.”

  No. Of course he cannot. His limp is too pronounced and, besides, he has no home but here.

  The sound of distant howling breaks into Ralph’s thoughts—Gelahn’s mountain-dogs. The noise of them is carved onto his skin. They almost killed Simon once. He is glad they did not.

  So little time.

  “Come here,” he says roughly. There’s no room for courtesy now.

  A scraping over the floor, and then the boy’s hand is on Ralph’s unwounded leg, withdrawn just as quickly. He pays the insult no heed. Instead, crouching down, Ralph takes the seven emeralds in their silk pouch and pushes the small bundle into Apolyon’s fingers. Then he half leads, half drags the boy to the wall behind his bed.

  Opening the trapdoor to the secret library, and fumbling with the lock mechanism, Ralph is talking all the time.

  “Go. Take what I’ve given you and go. A few paces along this passageway, you’ll find a collection of books. You won’t see it as it’s dark, but they’ll be there. When the air begins to smell of calfskin, put your hand out—your left hand. The third book that you touch will be the one. Take it from the shelf, open it and put the bundle I’ve given you inside. Stay there. If I don’t come or if danger falls upon us, then the other side of the library leads to another passage. That will take you to the fields beyond the bridge, a chance for escape if you need it. Understand?”

  “Yes, m-my lord.”

  Then he’s gone. Ralph hopes the boy has the courage to do what he tells him. He hopes the emeralds will be safe. A glance down at his hands tells him that his fingers carry a soft green aura even in the gloom, but he doesn’t know what it means. After that, there’s no chance to hope or fret about anything else. He just has time to secure the trapdoor, take a few paces into the middle of the bed area and draw in a deep breath, but not deep enough to find any courage from it, when Gelahn is there.

  A deeper darkness in the gloom around him, a flash of fire, and the mind-executioner is present. Strange how the power that once drew Ralph to him repels him now. Strange, too, how in the darkness he can still see. What he sees is this—a Lone Man, born under the auspices of that distant star, a star whose course never meets with another. Naturally, the mind-executioner has never told him that. He says nothing that is not to the point. Neither is he what one might expect. A head shorter than Ralph is, shorter even than Simon, he is not physically strong and the only distinguishing feature he possesses is the mystery of his eyes. They hold you, so it is impossible to get away. It is his eyes that make him beautiful. Beauty is power and Ralph knows the executioner uses this. As always, he wears round his neck the pendant in the shape of a small silver circle. It’s a light even in the darkness. By it, Ralph sees the executioner is dressed simply, in a dark tunic with his cloak layered across one arm, ready for action.

  Of course, now he does not carry the mind-cane. Simon and the Gathandrians have that, and Ralph wonders if they will use it. If they even know how.

  He wonders, too, how much of his mind Gelahn has already plundered and how long it will be before he understands all of Ralph’s secrets. Each of his defences must surely be useless against the executioner. What will he do with that knowledge?

  Gelahn smiles, but Ralph doe
s not respond. Something in him is proud of that moment. When the other man speaks, his voice is as cold as winter.

  “It is good to see you again, Lord Tregannon,” he says. “I trust you have prepared for my arrival?”

  All this, of course, is a lie, and they both know it. As he speaks, the darkness that has consumed the land begins to lift and Ralph hears the sound of Gelahn’s mountain-dogs. Perhaps it is they who have helped cause the darkness. It would not surprise him.

  “It is hard to prepare for anyone’s arrival in a land that has been so devastated,” Ralph says. “Now we have little to offer any guest who may chance upon us and many of our neighbours are keeping to themselves.”

  For fear of being tainted or made vulnerable by the curse of the Lammas Lands and what has happened to us is the natural end of the sentence, but Ralph does not say it.

  This does not matter. For the next moment, before even a story’s first breath can be felt, Gelahn has lifted his free hand in a small and casual gesture, and Ralph’s mind explodes.

  He finds himself scrabbling for relief, gasping for air, and with his back slammed against the bedroom wall behind him. Gelahn’s darkness fills Ralph’s head and it is as if the executioner’s power alone obliterates every thought he has ever had, every hope and every dream. Ralph has no history—no past and no future. This is the worst it has ever been when Gelahn reads him, moulds Ralph’s will to his. All the Overlord can do is wait for the mind-executioner to discover everything that has happened since Ralph returned here without him. Discover it and punish him.

  This time, however, something is different.

  In the darkness, and even in the pain which tracks through his body as the wolfhounds track young wolves, something remains untouched. Something green and glowing, like the colour around his hand just before Gelahn arrived. And even as Ralph thinks this thought, the green glow surrounds it. Within its faint circle, there is no darkness.