The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

her unsaid words. They peck at his mind like wild birds and he cannot shake them away. One thing he is sure of, he could answer none of her questions about the scribe as he himself cannot fathom it.
    Without another word, Jemelda drops the emeralds, one by one, into their pouch. With each small clatter, a spark of green rises and melts into the air, leaving no trace.
    “There are none pure-hearted in these lands,” she whispers, “so what good can they do us?”
    “I don’t know, but we will never know unless we hide them from Gelahn.”
    Frankel gasps and even Jemelda takes a step back. The name of the mind-executioner is not usually spoken aloud so easily, but Ralph finds he no longer cares what punishments may be inflicted on him for the crime. Jemelda is the first to recover.
    “You think he will come back?” she asks.
    “Yes, for the soldiers. My army has trained well over the last year-cycle and Gelahn’s assault on Gathandria will be based on physical attack rather than another mind-war. After all, Simon now has the mind-cane.”
    The memory of how Simon had used the cane on the shores of Gathandria, the last sight Ralph had of him, sweeps over him and, for a moment, he is unable to speak. Frankel looks as if he might step forward, perhaps even offer help, but Jemelda takes hold of her husband’s arm. May the gods and stars help him, but Ralph cannot give in to this now. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, tries to pull what little dignity he has around him. No one can rely on a love-sick leader, especially one as shamed and without hope as he is.
    So he continues. “The scribe has the mind-cane, and Gelahn needs our expertise. Even though much of the army is dispersed now, or dead, I still have enough men he can call on.”
    “Where will they go, however? Who will they fight?” This is from Frankel. It is the longest speech Ralph has heard him say and the Overlord turns fully to him to reply, in acknowledgement of that fact.
    “He wishes to go to Gathandria. There he will fight the Council of Elders and the scribe. They have no expertise in hand-to-hand battles. Gelahn’s plan is sound. It is… I believe it is what I would do in his circumstances. I would attack while the enemy is weakest, before they have prepared a defence.”
    “How will they get there?” Jemelda asks with a snort. “If our enemy no longer has the power he is used to, the journey will be long and many will die. Besides, no one in these lands has travelled to Gathandria and returned, not for many generation-cycles.”
    “I have,” Ralph replies, and gives them time to remember that fact.
    Jemelda looks down at the floor. He knows what she is thinking. And look what good that did us. But when she speaks, she merely returns to the dilemma.
    “Do you think you can hide your precious emeralds here, then? Do you wish to bring all the wrath of the cursed mountain dogs upon us, my noble Lord?”
    “No.” Ralph takes the small number of steps necessary to reach her—reach them both. Sweeping aside all his ingrained habits, he grips her shoulders. “You are right. I do not mean to bring any further injury upon any in my lands. I will not do so. The problem I see, is mine and mine alone.”
    With that Ralph lets her go. He catches the glimmer of her untrammelled surprise in his mind. Turns to depart.
    It’s only when his fingers are on the curtain, ready to push it aside and enter the morning, that Frankel speaks.
    “Please,” he says. “My wife and I both know the problem rests with us all. But where can such jewels be hidden where no enemy will find them?”
    “I don’t know,” Ralph admits. “But I hoped you might somehow have more secure hiding places than the castle. There is no telling how long the emeralds can maintain the power to hide themselves from Gelahn. If their magic dissipates, then I would rather they do not lie so easily within his grasp.”
    Jemelda hesitates and her reluctance to speak drifts between them like a dark cloud. Beneath it Ralph glimpses all the ways those beneath the Tregannons have kept their secrets over the generation-cycles.
    He swallows. There is more hidden in those they brush against than can ever be told in all their stories. “We don’t have much time, Jemelda. Don’t you think the matters of tradition we cling to might be set aside for a while?”
    A long silence. He can hear the faint chirrup of the birds outside, and the smell of yeast that he noticed when he