The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

dictated, though there was a strain of his thought within that drove him onwards, but he was too distracted to grasp it fully. His unwanted companions stuck close enough for him not to forget them, but far enough away so he didn’t feel threatened. The snow-raven must have been flying from roof to broken roof for a while when Simon became aware of the slight regular thump of the bird’s landing. By the time his mind was clear enough to focus on his surroundings, he found himself striding along a narrow street he hadn’t seen before. The houses here were smaller than those in Annyeke’s district, or even near the public square where she’d given her speech to the people, the same speech that carried the assumption that he, a dishonoured and deceitful scribe from a far-off land, could somehow help this beleaguered city. He wished he had her confidence even though, after the story she had just shared with him, he didn’t think confidence was the most important aspect of Annyeke. Perhaps the most important aspect was hope.
    He came to a sudden halt. On the roof to his left, the raven spread his great white wings for a moment as if waiting for further travelling and then folded them again. He looked as if he’d be prepared to wait for the scribe’s next action forever. Meanwhile, the cane remained silent. Simon was grateful for that. As he’d told Annyeke, he needed to think.
    Whilst deciding what to think about first on his now rather long list, he gazed about him. The proximity of the houses here made the street rather darker than it should have been, although already the sun was fading. Nobody was about, but he could hear the sound of hammering. It must be coming from the houses. He could not see any gap for a working area anywhere. There were plenty of gaps in the buildings themselves, however, as if great chunks of stone and glass had been gouged out or melted away. It must be the result of Gelahn’s mind-wars. Glass hung jagged in windows and half-smashed stones lay huddled next to the walls they’d once adorned. Some of the doors, too, were missing, although those that were left were mapped with carvings, the beauty of which the scribe had rarely seen before, more intricate, indeed, than Ralph Tregannon’s furnishings, and purer, too. He stepped closer to the nearest door.
    For long moments, the richness of the design had him stumbling, but then his eye saw what it was—a bird dancing across the tops of trees. Even though he could not identify for sure the species, the sight of it made him smile. There was something bold and expansive about the way the feathers arced upwards and the brush of the talons across the tallest of the branches. It made his heart beat faster. The man who had carved this truly had great talent. He was glad it had not been lost in the war.
    Still gripped in admiration, he reached out and touched the carving, running his fingers across the rough wood and tracing the line of the bird’s neck. At once, the door swung open with a harsh creak and the next moment the decision was made. As he entered the interior gloom, the cane and the bird followed him, his constant companions. He could hear a low muttering and then someone sighed.
    As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light levels, he saw that, at the back of what seemed to be a studio, stood a tall slim woman wearing a loose-fitting dark green dress. Her silver hair was pinned up and from that he could see she was no longer young. She was holding a chair in one hand and some kind of small knife in the other. The air smelt of sawdust and juniper.
    The woman turned and blinked at him. Something rushed through his mind. It felt like green silk, shadowed strangely with darkness, and then it was gone. He wondered if she were reading him and, if so, what she might have found.
    Before he could say anything, try to explain his presence there, she’d put down the chair and was smiling.
    “Ah,” she said. “You’re the Lost One everyone is talking about. Welcome to the Sub-District of Sculptors.”
    With admirable ease and the minimum of fuss, the woman seated him and poured him a beaker of water from an oversized jug on the workbench. The raven and the mind-cane, both of which must have followed him inside, lurked like strange ghosts near the doorway. His companion paid them no heed, concentrating instead on more practical concerns.
    “Don’t worry,” she said. “The beaker is clean. For lack of anything more suitable, I spin a