The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

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