The Executioner's Cane (2 page)

As he continued his climb to the castle, the
clouds above him darkened and made the brilliance of the
snow-raven’s body brighter still. Somehow the light of it guided
him through the trees. And there was always a slight smell of
burning.

After the length of a story’s end, he finally
reached the clearing. Ahead of him, the Tregannon family home
loomed like a greater forest, although one made from stone. But it
was not how it had been. The grandeur, the sense of physical
domination had vanished. Half the roof was missing, jagged stone
stretching up towards the sky, into the emptiness where the turrets
had once stood tall. The north side of the building had gone,
shattered stonework spreading out across the courtyard, and the
shutters on the windows flapped in the breeze, loosed from their
customary moorings. Simon thought they looked like nothing more
than the hands of children trying to attract his attention. He
swallowed. This was where Ralph had lived, and where he must surely
be living still, but for all his skills, both newly-discovered and
old, Simon could sense no hint of the man he loved. He could sense
no hint of anyone. He felt nothing but a strange silence.

Above him, the snow-raven gave yet another
wild cry and launched himself towards the castle. Simon watched as
the great bird flew three times round the courtyard and then
alighted on what looked to be the most secure section of the
rooftop. Still, the unexpected weight caused several stones to
fall, landing with a cloud of dust on the ground. Then the raven
turned in Simon’s direction and half-unfurled his wings as if to
offer a challenge.

Simon took a breath, reached out for the
mind-cane which had followed him as closely as one of Ralph’s
hounds and felt its answering warmth on his skin. He began the last
part of his journey to the castle.

This too proved neither easy nor pleasant. At
the stream, the guard’s booth lay ruined, and no soldier stood
watch. The small bridge had been washed away entirely and he had to
make his way through the water, gasping as it soaked through to his
skin. Narrow though the water course was, by the time Simon
scrambled up on the other side, he was shivering. He stood on the
churned up earth and shook the water from his legs. At the same
time, the memory of the first time he’d visited the castle swept
through his thoughts: the courtyard full of people commencing their
day; the sheer grandeur of his surroundings; the clatter of the
soldiers’ weapons; the way Ralph had looked at him.

He shook his head, but found he could not
dislodge the memory quite so easily. No matter. He needed to find
the people, or at least a clue as to where they might be. Now that
he was on the other side of the water, he began to be aware of the
sensations of other minds in his. There were people here then. Not
many but enough for him to form an impression of despair, fear and
hopelessness which would no doubt overwhelm him if the men and
women he sought were closer. He glanced down at the cane. It was
glowing just at the point where his hand grasped it. He thought it
might be enhancing the power of the feelings hovering within the
castle grounds. Would it perhaps help him to bear those feelings
also? Only the time-cycle would reveal that truth.

Clutching his cloak further around him to
keep in what warmth there was, he made his way around Ralph’s
fortified home. Upon closer inspection, the damage was worse than
he had feared. Not only were parts of the castle entirely gone,
leaving the spaces inside open to the wind and weather, but each
remaining stone had been scarred and knocked almost imperceptibly
out of place. He was no stone-craftsman, but he was surprised to
see so much of it remained standing. Stepping back, he glanced
upwards to where the snow-raven continued to perch, gazing down at
him with that all-seeing dark eye. Surely the bird’s weight would
be of no benefit to this potential ruin? Simon had already done
enough damage to the lives of the Lammas people. Causing more, even
unwittingly, would be unthinkable. He had to entice the raven down,
but how?

For lack of any other ideas, and with his
mind filled with memories of watching Ralph in the hawk-hunts, he
stretched out his free hand and made a low crooning noise. The
results were not what he’d anticipated.

The cane in his other hand bucked and spat. A
single silver flame flowed, so quickly his eye could barely catch
it, from the intricate carving, into his fingers. Then up his arm,
across his body and into his outstretched palm. The snow-raven at
once spread his wings and launched his great frame from the top of
the castle, swooping down and down, straight towards where Simon
stood. The scribe gasped, took a step back to save himself, his
heart beating double-rate through his blood. Still he stood firm
and merely ducked as the bird swept by, feathers brushing against
his arm and cheek.

“By the gods and stars,” he muttered, “what
are you doing?”

Banking on the onward trajectory, the raven
swung round near the stream and flapped the last few field-paces
back towards him. Before the bird could even think of alighting on
his hand, an act that surely would have felled him to the earth for
many hour-cycles, Simon dropped the cane and folded his arms
against his chest. The moment the cane fell to the earth, the
silver glow on Simon’s skin vanished and the raven landed in a
swirl of white feathers and strange elegance next to the
mind-artefact. The great bird cocked his head, and that strange
dark eye regarded him once more. The scribe blinked. For a long
moment, he felt as if somehow he’d failed to carry through an
action he could not fully understand. And then the intensity of the
bird’s gaze and the continuing silence of the courtyard were broken
by the sharp cry of a female voice.

He swung round.

A small plump woman was marching up to him.
He had no idea where she had come from. He could see no obvious
doorway nearby. Without any warning, Simon could feel the power of
her name in his head: Jemelda. The shapes of the letters he saw in
his thoughts were laced with red. He gulped and waited for her to
reach him.

When she did so, she ignored the silent bird.
Instead she glared at the cane and then at him. Then she spoke.

“How dare you come to us like this,” she
hissed. “You will never in the eternal time-cycles now or to come
be welcome here amongst the Lammas people. Murderer.”

Chapter Two: An
Unexpected Guest

Ralph

In the end he had been able to do nothing.
Every time he wakes and all through his darkest dreams, he sees
that moment in the circle when he could not even bring himself to
step forward to save Simon from the mind-executioner’s threat. The
Gathandrian elder had done what he had not found the courage for.
She, a mere slip of a woman, had taken a sword and cut through the
executioner’s neck, bringing the war to a final and bloody end.

The battle indeed had been hers.

Afterwards Ralph Tregannon had slipped away,
the family emeralds – at least those of them he still possessed at
that time-cycle – providing an easy route back to a home he no
longer knew. The Lammas lands. He had heard Simon’s shout as he had
stepped into the strange green circle, but he had not turned back
to acknowledge it. He would never have been able to look Simon in
the eyes. Even though his presence had made Ralph’s skin tingle and
quake. As it does so now, whenever he thinks of him. Pleasure and
shame. A heady brew. More powerful than the freshest
wheat-beer.

Ralph opens his eyes and the dream shimmers
into emptiness. He is lying, as has been his wont in these
day-cycles since his return, in his dressing-room. Above, the
shattered roof gives way to the morning sky. There are a few clouds
in the small gap allotted to him but the wind rolls them along
quickly and he thinks it might rain later. No matter. There remain
still other rooms in his ruined home that would better shelter him,
but something in Ralph’s blood commands him to stay here. A few
raindrops wetting the skin and this sparse bedding are as nothing
compared to what he has done to the people under his care. They
have neither shelter nor comfort; why then should he seek any?

Nonetheless, sense dictates that as Ralph
pulls himself awake and upward, he gathers the blankets together,
folds them as small as they will go and stores them next to the
strongest wall. It makes no difference anyway as he barely sleeps.
His dreams are waking ones. If he needed to, he would dress himself
but he has neither changed his torn clothing nor washed his body
since returning. Somehow it seems a step too far. He has eaten
though, a little. Food has been left outside the door at least once
a day, he does not know by whom. Perhaps the young steward? Though
he has seen nobody so cannot confirm his assumption. Whoever they
are, they leave dried hunks of bread, stale goats cheese, a poor
scattering of autumn pine-nuts and water which Ralph drinks
straight from the jug. The first time this occurred on the
day-cycle after he returned, he only drank the water and ate some
of the nuts, but the second morning his resolve broke and he tore
at the bread like an animal. Indeed he no longer knows whether he
is fully a Lammasser or part of the beasts. It is beyond the
telling. The gods and stars do what they will. Ralph has always
believed in them more than Simon did. Then again, they were drummed
out of the scribe at an early stage of life, whereas Ralph must, it
seems, encounter now the place where the paths twist into
darkness.

But enough. If he is not to dress or cleanse
himself, then he must needs do something. Whilst he has kept
himself enclosed for the initial day-cycles, for the most recent
ones he has been walking the crumbling walls of the once beautiful
castle. Ralph’s eyes take in the scarred carvings, the torn-down
tapestries and the muddied rugs. He has stumbled over the remains
of his father’s chairs and felt the newly-roughened edges of the
dining table. It is covered in dusts and cobwebs. Everywhere the
wood-spiders take over, encroaching on the riches and beauty of
what once was his with their silken white orbs. The breeze from
where he passes them makes them drift, shimmering against the
half-light.

Perhapstoday he will walk again. A ghost in
his own home, a phantom of the wood. Much like the wood-spiders, in
many ways. In truth he is surprised those he once promised to
protect have not yet murdered him. If he were in their minds, then
Ralph does not think he would be so forbearing. But he is not his
people, and they are not him. Now more than ever.

It is only when his hand is at the door that
something stops him. Almost like a glint at the edge of his vision.
Something that has not been there before, or that he has failed to
notice. He swings round, and almost falls. He is too weak for
sudden action, of any kind. He steadies himself against the wall
and the stone-leavings sift through his fingers. He can feel their
dampness against his skin.

A shaft of light illuminates the room dust
and is just as suddenly gone. Without wanting to, Ralph takes three
paces to the window and leans out. The chill air makes him gasp and
he shivers. He can see nothing untoward. Only the abandoned
courtyard, the glint of the stream and the ruined booth where the
best of his soldiers once guarded him. He has no idea where the
army are now. He has not dared think about it, not since the
mind-executioner raised an army for himself from the dead of
Ralph’s. He does not believe he will ever forget the terrifying
noise of their bones and the sight of their empty eyes as they
marched upon the hapless Gathandrians. They too haunt his
dreams.

So what then has brought him to the window?
He grips the stone ledge more firmly and tries to concentrate. But
still he senses nothing. He must learn to put away foolish notions
and continue to keep himself as hidden as he can. When he turns
round, however, Ralph’s glance drifts over the door to his bedroom.
He rubs one hand over his face and back through his hair. His palm
comes away brushed with dirt. He has no wish to enter his bedroom
even though any sane Lammasser would do it without a qualm. He has
not opened that door since arriving back here once more and he
swore to himself on the first day-cycle that he would not. It
reminds him only of the mind-executioner and what he has done. It
reminds Ralph too of Simon. One bad memory and one that should in
some respects be good. But he is capable of dealing with neither.
He does not have the faith that the future will be worth the
risk-taking. Not any more.

Indeed he wonders if he has any faith, of any
kind, left at all.

Jemelda

After so much war and the devastation caused
by men, it is a wonder she had a kitchen left to work in. That was
the one and only thing she could see to be thankful for on this
chill morning. Jemelda Littlewater, third daughter of a third
daughter and the last in a long line of Tregannon cooks, shook out
her baking cloth and scattered over it the last of the herbs. Dried
winter-larch and field-ginger. It was all she had left. To this she
added the corn-flour and enough sprinkling of water from the ewer
to form a dough. For a while, she kneaded the mixture, feeling the
soft warmth and stickiness coating her fingers. With each push of
her shoulders, she let out a little grunt. Just enough to provide a
warning for her husband, Frankel. In the mornings, he was inclined
to talk and she was happier simply to think. Forty-two year-cycles
of marriage had taught them both well how to communicate without
necessarily speaking. It was a wise skill. And she would need all
the wise skills she possessed to see through yet another day-cycle.
Even now she could hear behind her the scraping of furniture, the
slow sweep of the broom and, every so often, Frankel’s exclamation
of surprise as he found a wood-rat. Since the war, neither of them
had been able to get the vermin out of the kitchen, no matter what
they did. Now, Jemelda wondered whether the attempts to keep their
kitchen and work-areas clean and decent would be the death of them
both in the end. All because of the Tregannon greed. She had no
truck with it, or with Ralph Tregannon, no matter what he promised,
or tried to. Indeed she did not. She would willingly take apart the
Lammas Lord himself, piece by piece, and bake him into her own
batch of loaves if he so much as looked at her. Oh yes, she would
do such a thing and have no remorse about it afterwards. Even more
so, she would take the murderer who had brought her Lord and all of
them to this terrible day-cycle and throw him to the wolves. She
would enjoy watching him die, and something dark within her stirred
into life at the thought. As she pondered that deeply satisfying
act, the silence in her head drove the image deeper while the
rhythmic thumping of Frankel’s broom as he chased the rat away
echoed the strain and push of her shoulders as she continued to
prepare the dough.