The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

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