The Executioner's Cane (45 page)

Now in the daylight she could smile, just a
little, at that memory. Since then, life had been better. The very
next morning after her return, she and Johan, along with the rest
of the people, had begun to rebuild their city with a greater
confidence than they had possessed before. Something of the
darkness around them had eased and they had started to find hope.
Hope was always good, and the rediscovery of it had opened
Annyeke’s eyes to how much it had been missing before.

The Gathandrian Library had been the most
astonishing revelation of them all. Since her vision there when the
colours of green and silver had come to her, almost from nothing,
her meditations had grown deeper and she now spent time each
morning bringing the colours to her and giving herself to them.
Somehow it gave her wisdom for the role the Great Spirit had given
her. It must have been the way the Lost One saved them, by
restoring the words which had been taken, as when Annyeke had
entered the library two day-cycles after the Lammas battle, she
could sense its spirit already at work: colours flowed through the
air, and the parchment and books pulsated with red and blue and
gold. The Book of Blood was nowhere to be found, destroyed she
assumed in their victory, and she had been all the more relieved
for it. The task of rebuilding the Library’s walls and rooms and
shelves was as a result proving far easier than she had assumed,
although it would be many moon-cycles before it was fully
finished.

Against these delights, the last three moons
had had difficult aspects to them also. What elder could ever say
everything was so well it could not be improved? The presence of
Iffenia, how she had influenced the Lammas cook and how she still
dwelt in her husband the Chair-Maker could not be ignored.

Annyeke had therefore gathered her courage to
her and, with the blessing of the remaining elders, taken the Maker
of Chairs, Iffenia’s beloved, to the ancient place of prayer. The
journey had not been a long one and he had not spoken a word to her
during it. Instead a cloud of impenetrable black shadowed him and
kept them both company in their quietness.

When they reached their destination, the
Chair Maker had spoken first against all that was right.

“You wish for me to leave you and your
people, and take my beloved with me,” he said, his voice and mind
tearing at her soul as his anger and grief flooded through her.
“And you and the elders have the power to do it now the Book has
gone and whilst Iffenia and I remain so weak after the battle. But
I tell you this, First Elder, you will say no prayer on my or my
wife’s behalf for mercy. Because for as long as I live there will
be none such. For unless you kill me and therefore destroy us both,
there will be no real peace for you.”

In response, Annyeke strode up to him,
brushing his mind-power aside and replacing it with her own. Just
for a heart-moment, his eyes widened and she sensed the Gathandrian
behind the obsession which consumed him, but then he was gone. Some
things could never be rescued.

She gripped his arms and shook him, allowing
the strength of her role and calling to match his.

“I have killed before,” she whispered, “and
if it is needful I will kill again. For my country, for my people,
and for those I love. Know that, Chair-Maker. And may the lack of
peace you offer remain with you, until all things are resolved in
the Spirit’s mind.”

For a moment or two, she thought he might
fight her, he and Iffenia both, but the power they possessed had
been weakened. They were no longer any match for her and the
strength the elders shared with her.

So Annyeke watched and kept on watching as he
left, stumbling away in a frenzy of black and red and darkest
purple mind-fire until his figure disappeared entirely from view in
the higher hills. She felt the stain of him on her skin and
wondered if all First Elders felt the same and if it would ever
truly leave her. Then she had fallen to her knees and prayed until
her heart was calmer again.

It had, she thought then, been the hardest
thing she had ever done. Without the Book of Blood, any future
attack on them would be weaker. If the Chair Maker ever returned
then she and her people would be ready.

A sudden soft footfall behind her as she
stood in the garden, overcome by memories, and she felt gentle arms
encircle her waist. You think too much, Annyeke.

She smiled at Johan’s words. Perhaps that is
what drew you to me in the first place?

One of many things, I am sure. He kissed the
top of her head and she leant backwards into his embrace, sensing
the delight between them as their minds melded.

Talus is asleep? she asked him.

Fit to sleep all the morning through unless
we rouse him, he replied. I did not believe a child could sleep so
much. Now I know better.

This time Annyeke laughed and brought their
hands to rest on her gently swollen belly, the first outward sign
of what was to come. She was thankful her worst experiences would
soon be balanced with such a blessing. We will have a chance to
compare the sleeping patterns of children when the summer-season is
gone, though the women tell me we will be lucky to get any sleep at
all. Perhaps when the Lost One comes here to welcome our daughter,
he will give us the gift of sleep that Talus has now.

Johan joined in her laughter and hugged her
closer still.

I would set nothing past Simon the Scribe, he
said. He has proved to be a most unusual cousin.

Ralph

The Lammas Lord closes the castle door behind
him and takes in a breath of the warm evening air. Three
moon-cycles since the internal wars ceased and he is at last
beginning to sleep well at night. His wounds have healed, thanks to
Simon’s skill with herbs and the mind-cane’s power, but his leg
still aches when the day’s work is over. Something in him sees this
as fitting, a reminder of what he has done and the vital necessity
never to let it happen again.

In the moon-cycle after the wars, when the
dead had been buried and the mourning-drum had ceased to sound, the
people had remained suspicious of him and his intentions, and he
could not blame them for it. Moreover the presence of Simon, the
cane and the strange raven continued to stir up fear in their
hearts and minds and for a while he wondered if nothing had been
achieved which could be counted as hope at all.

Then, one morning as that first moon-cycle
was waning, Ralph had risen early, taken the emeralds he kept close
to his bed and left his chamber, his intent clear. At the threshold
he had paused and glanced back, smiling to see Simon still
sleeping, one arm splayed out across the pillows, his expression
one of satisfaction and peace. This blessing had been one he longed
for but had never thought would come about, but in the end it had
been Simon who came to him on the second seven-day after the
battle. The scribe had said nothing when he entered Ralph’s
bedchamber that night after a day when both of them had been busy
directing the men and women in the rebuilding of their village and
ensuring the little food they had left or which the people could
find was fairly allocated. Odd how there was so much Ralph had
wanted to say at the sight of him, but Simon simply closed the door
quietly, padded over the stone floor and slipped into the bed next
to him.

At their first touch, Ralph believed Simon
had known everything in any case and after that, their re-encounter
had been surprisingly easy. The mind-executioner had for a while
lain in spirit between them, both in his overpowering of Ralph’s
actions and in his ravishment of Simon’s mind, but then later that
no longer mattered, as the colours forged in their coupling were
strong enough to overcome his memory. The talking too had come
later and in fits and starts – at heart Ralph was a soldier, not a
lover – but it was slowly becoming enough. A new thing for him but
a good one, and he took joy in it.

But that first morning, no matter how much he
longed to cherish the beginning of the day in Simon’s arms, Ralph
had other purposes in mind. So he moved through the castle rapidly,
gathering cloak and boots where he had left them in his dressing
area, and striding through the corridors and down the great stairs
until he came to the outer hallway. He did not bother with washing.
With what he had in mind, there would be no point.

In the courtyard, he passed the kitchen and
could not help glancing over, thinking of Jemelda. His failure to
recover her haunted him and, even though there was a new cook there
now, a woman from the village and barely more than a girl, it would
be a long time before he stopped seeing Jemelda’s face in his
dealings with the kitchen. It would be a long time too before he
forgot the look in Frankel’s eyes. The cook’s widower had lived in
the castle since the battle and had not set foot in his old domain.
Apolyon, Ralph’s young steward, looked after him as well as his
master. Ralph would have it no other way.

That morning, the Lammas Lord did not saddle
his horse and did not call for his steward. Instead he made his way
to the fields, carrying with him the tools he had found abandoned
in one of his outbuildings. The journey took longer than usual as
his leg remained weak, but the pain was bearable and he would have
to use only the skills he possessed, not those he did not.

Once at the furthest field, one close to
where Jemelda had burned their seeds, Ralph had removed his cloak
and knelt on it. Then he had got to work, using his hands and the
hoeing implements to turn the soil around each sprig of corn in
order to encourage its growth. This was work for the poorest of the
people and he had never done it himself, but he had seen it done
when touring his fields and it was easily remembered. Not so easy
to perform though and only the start of an autumn story had gone by
before his muscles ached and he gasped for water. It had been
evident that all the military exercises in the world meant nothing
when it came to working on the land. Nonetheless, the emeralds at
his side gave him warmth and purpose and he continued the labour,
moving his cloak every few minutes to the next part of the corn row
and the next and the next until the sun was fully risen in the sky.
That was where the first field-labourers found him when they came
to commence their day-cycle. They had said nothing, but had stared
for a long while, their amazement evident, before walking to the
far side of the field and beginning the same work there. Not long
after, Simon had joined him, bringing him water which he was more
than grateful for, and touching him lightly on the cheek in the way
they had before taking his place beside him and working with him.
Ralph was pleased to see the mind-cane and the raven had been left
behind.

For three day-cycles the two of them worked
in this way, and on the third day the villagers had joined them
where they laboured. From then on, something between the Lammas
Lord and his people had softened and changed. Ralph had begun to
feel a deeper connection with the land and world he and his family
had ruled for so long, and a slow acceptance from the people he had
never known before and which, now, he treasured.

After the fields, he and Simon had turned
their attentions to labouring on the houses in the village, making
them fit for the people to live in, and finding time too at the end
of the day-cycle to forage for food in the woods. For that, and
because of his leg, Ralph rode his stallion Nightcloud who could
more easily find out edible winter-leaves and fruits than could any
man. The very fact of riding brought him joy also, as it had always
done.

During these last three moon-cycles, there
has been connection with the Gathandrians too, an alliance Ralph
has come to value, not least for the pleasure the visits of Annyeke
and Johan give Simon. Their two emeralds seem to have power enough
to bring them easily between countries, but he wonders if it is
something to do with Annyeke’s strength of heart, as well as the
jewels’ strange mystery. Sometimes when the three of them are
together talking, he thinks they will never stop, but when he
remembers the experiences all three have shared together,
particularly Simon and Johan, then he cannot find it in his heart
to begrudge the companionship. A man needs friends, as well as a
lover, and it pleases him he and Annyeke have become closer. For a
woman, she has wisdom, though it riles her to hear him think in
this way.

Both their countries are healing, slowly but
surely. With luck and with the gods and stars behind their efforts,
they may yet pull through this time of scarcity into the fullness
of summer.

All of which ponderings bring him to this
evening and his purpose in being here, in the castle courtyard. For
tonight Simon has asked him to accompany him to the edge of the
woods, where the stars are at their brightest. He has said it is
important and Ralph believes him. For now, he has not delved
further. He is learning, in this relationship with this man, how to
give him the space he needs. He trusts together they and the people
can build another kind of future far apart the life they have lived
in the past. Perhaps after all, he is different from his father,
and in that too there is value.

Simon

The scribe watched Ralph for a few moments
before stepping out from the corner of the castle to greet him. The
mind-cane rested in his hand, and above him the snow-raven circled
in the darkening air. He could feel the mind-link between the three
of them calm and strong beneath his skin, and treasured the
haunting melody and colours it produced. He would try to remember
them always, he swore it.

For he had been waiting for three months for
this day and this hour-cycle. The realisation had come upon him
slowly but had been growing in intent over the last week. He could
no longer deny it, and neither could he talk about it with others.
Not even Johan or Annyeke. And not even Ralph though he had chosen
the Lammas Lord to accompany him during this last journey. He
wished he had time to write the stories which lived in his thought
and body, but that much was up to the gods and stars. He could not
see it. Because the end of his own legend was approaching.