Hallsfoot's Battle (19 page)

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 legends 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.

“I can make no use of things I do not
understand, can I?” he countered. “And, as this is the first time I
have ever been here, then believe me, I understand nothing, but I
will offer you one of my secrets if it will help you. My name is
Simon Hartstongue of the…White Lands and I am a scribe. I am, I am
told by others, also One Who is Lost, but neither of these truths
can bring you harm.”

Kanlin shook his head and stepped away, while
the younger brother smiled and tried to hide it.

“I greet you,” he said. “Welcome, Simon
Hartstongue, to our world. My name is Ahelos and I am a tiller of
crops. My brother, Kanlin, is the protector of our livestock, and
we rely on him for many things. I, and all of our people, could not
do without him.”

Ahelos’ expression softened as he spoke and
he reached out a cautious hand to touch his brother’s shoulder.
Kanlin snorted and pulled away. Ahelos shrugged. In the silence, a
distant shout attracted their attention, and the scribe looked up
to see one or two of the men in the disappearing group waving at
them. Ahelos waved back as Kanlin spoke.

“Come, then, we must get back,” he said. “The
stranger may follow us if he wishes, but he must find shelter
elsewhere. We have no room for him.”

Simon was about to respond that he had not
thought of following them, but the mind-cane fizzed in one hand and
a surge of heat from the book almost burnt the other. Still, he did
not let go of either, as he had been ordered. After a few moments,
the burning sensation faded and he could breathe again.

In the meantime, Ahelos had clapped him on
the back and set out towards the houses. “Come, then, you may rest
with one of our neighbours, if my brother will give you no room.
But, first, I must gather elm nuts for supper.”

“You should have done that earlier. We will
have to hurry,” Kanlin grumbled but made no other complaint as the
three of them veered towards the woods, already darkening in the
twilight gloom. Bare branches twisted at the sky as if caught in a
wild dance to an unheard music and, from somewhere, Simon heard the
call of a hunting owl.