The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

first? You have taken your father’s work and planted it deep and neither our land nor our hearts will ever be free of it. How I wish the Tregannon family had never been chosen as our Overlords. It was a bad day for us all when that choice was made.”
    In the silence after her outpouring, Ralph finds his breath no longer comes easily to his throat. Some of the anger in Jemelda’s eyes fades, though most remains. As she steps away, he coughs, wipes his hand over his face and finds an unexpected truth on his tongue.
    “I’m sorry,” he says and means it. “I have been wrong about many things. I don’t know if I can ever put it right, but I want to try.”
    Jemelda swallows, then lays the wooden utensil down. Another long pause during which even the old man, her husband, is still.
    Then she nods. “Yes, I see you do. It is good to find not all of your mother’s blood has been crushed from within you.”
    Ralph blinks. She speaks as if she knew his mother, but that is impossible. At the same time, the old man shuffles his feet on the flooring. Jemelda and Ralph turn to him as if they are one. He is holding a beaker of water towards the Overlord. Slowly, Ralph takes it. While he sips, the cook’s husband stares at his feet.
    “My name is Frankel,” he says.
    The water tastes like honey in Ralph’s mouth. It seems a long time since his thirst of any kind has come as near as this to being quenched.
    “Thank you,” he says, as formal as if he is at a private dinner with one of his neighbouring Overlords. “May the peace of all the gods and stars be with you, Frankel.”
    Jemelda harrumphs, but she is smiling. Ralph can see how her passions rise and fall like the making of bread, but he thinks there is rightness in her, more so than there is in himself.
    “So then, Overlord,” she says. “What more has happened that you come to us in this way?”
    Ralph tells her as succinctly as he can. While he talks, she tends to his wounds, bathing them in water and laying an ointment he does not recognise on the worst of them. Its scent is sharp, overpowering and it stings like the worst of the wolf-nettles, but her touch is unexpectedly gentle. The two servants already know of the mind-executioner’s arrival and have heard the howling of the dogs in Ralph’s home. But they do not know that Gelahn has vanished and the dogs are without a master. Neither do they know of the emeralds, the strange powers they are said to have. When he’s finished speaking, Jemelda stretches out her hand.
    “Show them to me,” she says.
    Ralph takes the pouch from his belt but does not let the emeralds go just yet. He simply stares at her. After a few moments, she sighs and shakes her head, muttering something about the Tregannons he chooses not to hear.
    “Very well, then. If you please, sir, show them to me.”
    Against her gnarled brown skin, the emeralds glow more brightly. She glances up at Ralph, eyes wide.
    “They feel warm,” she says.
    “Sometimes, yes. I don’t know why.”
    “You think they have mystical powers? That they can help us against the mind-executioner?”
    “That is what family legends say. All my father told me was that strength would come from them to the pure-hearted when the time was right. That was all his father had told him, and all the fathers before them. If we survive this and if there is a future, perhaps I will one day tell my own son, too.”
    Jemelda laughs. “Did not the murderous scribe spoil you for that, my good Lord?”
    At the mention of Simon, Ralph springs to his feet and paces away as best as he can until he reaches the other side of the kitchen. He has to duck to keep clear of the low ceiling. Once there, he finds he must steady himself on the work-area again. It is sticky with spices.
    “That doesn’t matter. All that is finished and we must face the challenges set before us now. Whatever may have taken place with Hartstongue, he has nothing to do with what is happening here.”
    “Doesn’t he?” the cook spits the words out as if they are knives. “I thought he had everything to do with what is happening here, and with you, whether you admit it or not. And…”
    “Jemelda.” Frankel’s quiet interruption and the tone of admonishment in his voice stops the rising argument threatening to erupt around them. Ralph is glad of it. He has no wish to discuss Simon with his servants, nor anyone else for that matter.
    The cook subsides, but Ralph can sense the crimson edge of all