The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

into one of the corners, folded his wings and blinked at him. Simon could smell the dust with something deeper inlaid behind as it danced in the afternoon sunlight. He touched each table, each stool, each carving. More than anything, he wanted to remember, and the physical contact somehow gave him a path for the remnants of her art to travel on. Iffenia had not, to his thoughts, been a bad woman, wherever it was she had vanished to. Come what may, she deserved better than to be forgotten or held up as a symbol of wrongdoing amongst the Gathandrian people. Now he understood something more of what the mind-cane could achieve, he would use it to the best of his ability, such as it was.
    When he considered his mind and skin were full almost to breaking point with the knowledge of the woman who had been kind to him even for deceitful reasons, he drew up a stool and sat by the cane. The snow-raven opened his great beak and one single note of purity, a perfect orb of gold, drifted over the dust towards him. He reached out and placed it onto his tongue. At once, sweetness filled him and this time he felt no bitterness piercing his stomach after. He swallowed down the raven’s gift and felt a measured clarity taking him over. It eased its way through the memories he’d allowed to infiltrate him—Iffenia’s memories—and contained their wild energy where it pulsed against his bones.
    “Thank you,” he said, speaking aloud for he knew he would need all his thought-energy in the contact with the mind-cane. At the same time, he wondered whether he should have asked for company in what he was about to attempt. But no, this was between him and the missing woman only. For, in the final reckoning, it was he as well as Gelahn who had led her to do what she had done, even though she had not understood it to the full.
    Then, when he hoped he might be ready, he stretched out his hand once more and took hold of the cane. It flew upwards to meet him as if it had been waiting too long for the scribe to call to it.
    Immediately, Simon’s thoughts were flooded with sensations not his own as the memories leapt through him and into the mind-cane, the warmth of long hair against his neck, the chill of uncarved stone under his fingers, and the satisfaction of viewing the completed sculpture, whether of man, woman or beast—all that and a thousand things besides. The feeling of how safe it is to hide under the dining table and watch my parents walk past, playing in the park and running with the cedar-starlings as they learn to fly, my first kiss and the glow of magic that passes between us when our lips touch. Most of all, the day I meet my husband and know how it will be. After that, his journey to be one of the great elders, my pride in him for that, and finally the way the darkness came, and how the gift of leadership I had longed for him was no gift for any of us at all.
    With a lurch, Simon opened his eyes. He found he was gasping and tried to steady his breath as the last of Iffenia’s memories flowed through his hand into the mind-cane. When he was sure they had gone, he dropped the cane so it clattered down onto the floor. The faint afterglow of the transactions clung to the silver carving, but he’d paid it no need. Instead, he’d rested his head on the table and waited until the slow strands of his own character slunk back into his thoughts. After a while, although he hadn’t heard any noise, he became aware of the soft touch of feathers on his hair. Whatever happened, the snow-raven made him feel safe. Thank the gods and stars, as he suspected he would never be entirely free of his fear of the mind-cane. Would it always be like that then, even in spite of the perfect harmony he’d felt in Talus’ mind-scape? Would he always feel as if the life had been sucked from him whenever he had to perform such rituals with the ancient artefact? He hoped he might one day grow more accustomed to whatever might be expected of him, but he couldn’t be sure. The only example he had was Gelahn and he had no desire to follow him. He’d come dangerously close to doing so twice before in his life, and he didn’t wish to allow it to happen a third time.
    He sat up. The snow-raven folded its wing back and looked at him. Those sharp black eyes seemed to take in all he had been, all he was now, and all he might yet be. Simon smiled, reaching out his hand so his fingers rested on the bird’s great head.
    “You’ll help me,” he whispered.