The Executioner's Cane (7 page)

The Maker of Gardens brushed back the hair
from his face and smiled.

“Yes, Annyeke Hallsfoot, First Elder of
Gathandria,” he said. “We will do as you say.”

Annyeke felt her shoulders relax at last,
just a little. Still, she reminded herself, could she really trust
any of them?

Chapter Four:
Encounters

Simon

He decided at once he would do it. In any
case he had no choice. There, in Jemelda’s darkened kitchen, he
found himself agreeing to her terms. He would present himself
before as many of the Lammas people as they could muster, he would
not carry the mind-cane and neither would the snow-raven accompany
him. Simon thought of offering the truth that the snow-raven was
highly unlikely to take anyone’s side; the bird’s role seemed so
far to be that of observer, and protector of the cane rather than
himself. Indeed at their first meeting, the raven had taken him to
a strange place, tested him and attacked him. Although of course
the attack had brought about a partial healing. He mustn’t forget
that either. In which case, Jemelda was right.

Now he looked her right in the eye.

“I’ll do exactly as you wish,” he said. “When
do we start?”

From outside the door, a humming sound became
apparent. Simon had the sense it might have been going on for some
time but had been until now too low for them to notice it. As he
glanced towards the outside, he saw the colours around Jemelda grow
darker.

“I can’t control the mind-cane’s song,” he
said. “I can only sometimes control its actions.”

Frankel reached for his wife’s hand. “Will it
come in?”

“I don’t know,” Simon replied. “But I think
it might be trying to gain my attention. If so, it’s succeeded. May
I …?”

He gestured at the thick curtain which failed
to keep out all the winter draughts, and Jemelda nodded. He could
see the tightness round her mouth and the frown on her forehead. He
could not blame her for any of these things; the cane – although it
appeared to be his, for the time being – made his heart beat faster
also. Though he knew to the core his identity as the Lost One, the
mind-cane nonetheless made him wonder who was the true master, and
what it might be waiting for. It seemed to be waiting for
something. If only it – or the raven – might divulge what that
something might be.

Outside, the courtyard was as empty as it had
been when he arrived. The raven had vanished but one glance upward
revealed the bird’s location in the skies. His gaze moved to the
high-up window of the Lammas Lord. Now it was empty, though before
he’d been sure …

But no, he couldn’t focus on Ralph and the
unfinished issues which still hovered between them. He had other
more pressing matters to consider. He reached out and grasped the
mind-cane though, in truth, it had already leapt halfway into his
fingers of its own accord.

The moment he touched it, the humming stopped
and again that strange warmth eased upwards through his skin. He
blinked and felt the presence of it settle into his thoughts. For
the first time, he realised he’d missed its closeness, and not just
because of the confidence it filled him with. He’d missed its
silent companionship too.

“What will you do while we are waiting?”

The question jolted Simon out of his
pondering and he swung round. Frankel was standing in the shadow of
the doorway to the castle, shielding his eyes from the winter
sun.

“Is there anywhere I may stay?” Simon
asked.

Frankel considered this. While he did so, the
scribe noticed the glances his companion was giving the cane and
tried to hold it to one side of him, as far away from the old man
as possible.

Finally Frankel spoke. “There are one or two
rooms in the castle which remain habitable, but I am afraid comfort
is meagre.”

Yes, Simon had assumed it would be. Comfort
everywhere, even in distant Gathandria, was meagre. They would have
to do the best they could, until life began to improve.

He followed Frankel across the courtyard to
the main entrance to the castle. Memories filled his blood, both
bad and good. Memories of the murders he’d caused here, of the way
he’d helped destroy the villagers, taken away their trust and their
lives. Memories of how he’d been hated, and rightly so, and how
Ralph and Gelahn had tried and failed to kill him. At the same
time, as his feet tramped over the shattered slabs, the good
memories flowed through him also, the ones he’d tried to dampen
down in his quest to do the right thing for once, by the gods and
stars above. He could remember the first time he’d met Ralph, the
Lord of the Lammas Lands, how much he’d wanted him from the
beginning, though he’d refused to name his emotion until much
later. He could remember the first time Ralph had touched him, and
how he’d always been willing to do whatever it took to keep his
interest. Gods and stars, how this truth had undone him. How it had
shown him both how low he could fall and the darkness of the person
he would become. It hadn’t taken long, had it? And still, he
carried his feelings for Tregannon like a disease he couldn’t rid
himself of. Nor did he want to, may the stars preserve him. It was
astonishing the raven and the mind-cane, both clothed in purity as
they were, stayed with him.

At the castle entrance, Frankel stepped
through, but Simon paused, touching the broken brickwork with
cautious fingers. He found his throat was dry and his skin damp. A
damnable combination.

“ Scribe ...”

Frankel’s voice floated out of the interior
darkness. He must be able to see Simon’s shape clearly enough, but
the old man was invisible to him in the gloom. Simon wiped one hand
over his face as his own history, and the knowledge of Ralph’s
presence somewhere in this castle, beat at his skin.

The next moment, a gentle pressure was at his
shoulder, and he could sense the reassuring mauve presence of the
old man. Even in the midst of the storm rocking Simon’s mind, he
had the wherewithal to acknowledge Frankel’s courage in touching
him while he still held the cane. “Thank you.”

“Do you want to come in?”

Simon nodded. “Yes, but …”

“… it’s difficult,” Frankel completed the
scribe’s thought after a heartbeat or two.

That, he thought, was an understatement.
“Yes, more difficult than I’d anticipated.”

“There’s nowhere else but the castle that’s
fit for living now.” Partly due to the fact Frankel was still
holding his shoulder, making the mind-link easier, Simon sensed
this wasn’t entirely true. There were one or two dwellings in the
village which still maintained some form of shelter. The fact
neither Frankel nor Jemelda had offered those did not surprise him;
they did not trust him. Even where they feared him – and he was
sure they did – they would want to keep him close. They would want,
more than anything, to keep the remnant of their people safe. He
would have much to prove, if they let him.

Now he answered Frankel’s lie. “Then I will
have to show more courage than I currently am, won’t I?”

He moved forward and the old man stepped
aside to allow him through. His hand fell away from Simon’s
shoulder. He was alone.

Simon remembered so well the first time he’d
come here. He’d been aching to see Ralph again, his whole skin
quivering with anticipation. Not fully knowing what drove him
onward, but knowing he had no real choice. The Lammas Master had
overpowered his mind – no, all of him – from the first moment
they’d met. He’d not been able to keep away. But from that one
encounter had flowed all the destruction which had brought them to
this: threats; murder; and war. Or perhaps this was not entirely
true. The heart of these dark matters had always been there, but
what had happened between Ralph Tregannon and himself had allowed
them room to live.

He should have walked away the moment he’d
heard Ralph’s voice.

Here, in the darkened hall, he blinked as his
eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. The tapestries of the seasons
he’d once admired so much were torn and ragged, their colours
bleeding or faded. Spring, summer, autumn and winter entirely gone,
the girl and boy, the man and woman on them no more.

Without warning, Simon found himself on his
knees. Gods and stars, I’m sorry.

The words reverberated in his mind, over and
over again, and he was distantly aware of the humming of the
mind-cane and the slight vibration of its shape in his hand.
Frankel had backed off, he realised. Gods, he didn’t want to
frighten anyone. He struggled to rise, but the seas sweeping
through his thoughts wouldn’t let him. It was like the first time
he’d met the mind-executioner, but without the fire and with only
an overwhelming understanding of blue. All its tones and shades. He
was drowning, but the vast waters came from within. The only enemy
here was himself.

The only hope also.

After the length of no more than a
spring-season story, he understood the words he’d been chanting in
his thoughts were now flowing from his tongue and into the dampened
air. He let them come. He could never have stopped them.

“Gods and stars, I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Gods and stars, I’m sorry.”

Finally, his words stilled and he wiped his
eyes clear again. Something had changed. The room was lighter, more
peaceful. No, he was both those things. Whatever had been trapped
inside him had found a door to flow through. The space and freedom
left gave him room for something else. But what?

Simon sat back, uncurled his legs and rose to
a standing position again. The cane’s humming faded away and he
flexed his fingers, feeling the comfort of it in his hand. In a
gesture he hadn’t realised he was going to make, he brought it to
his lips and kissed the carved silver top. It tasted bright in a
way he couldn’t explain. Something blue and silver glowed for a
moment at the edge of the carving and then he felt the heat of it
in his own mouth.

The scribe gasped, looked up and saw the dark
shape of Frankel hovering halfway between himself and the doorway.
The old man stepped forward, about to offer help. Simon understood
he mustn’t; the mind-cane had begun to act and neither of them
could gainsay it.

“No,” he said, panting, and Frankel stopped
at once. “Please, stay where you are, I don’t know what will
happen.”

And then he couldn’t speak any more. An
explosion of flame on his tongue and a soaring heat in his
thoughts. It leapt down through his shoulders and arms, his stomach
and his legs. It ripped through his blood, blending and moulding,
churning a pathway through all his secrets, all his past and all
his fragile future. He gasped, knew himself to be burnt from within
but not consumed, and then it was gone.

The mind-cane fell to the stone floor.
Frankel was at his side, holding him up once again. Simon took a
step back, anxious not to burn the man, but when he looked around,
the fire had gone. Neither of them was in danger. Even the cane was
still and silent.

He heard the sound of footsteps. Someone else
was arriving at the great hall.

Ralph

He is unable to help his actions. Turning
from them would have been like trying to turn back across a summer
river in full spate. Once in his bedroom, the emeralds at Ralph’s
side start to glitter and dance. As if they have been suddenly
awoken after a long time or like a young fox sensing the pursuit of
the hounds. Even the bag they are held in dances with them and
glows a faint green.

Something of their energy fills his blood
then and for the first time, at least in daylight, he opens the
door of the private rooms and steps out into darkness.

He walks through scenes of near-destruction
and the grief of a dying building. All he remembers is the need to
follow where the strange jewels are leading and the need to turn
his eyes away from the ruin of what once was home. Still, he can’t
help but see and acknowledge the scars disfiguring the stonework,
the smashed tables, the torn tapestries. And the scattering of
decorative weaponry on the floor. Most of these are lying at the
edges of the corridors. Someone must have tried to bring a kind of
order out of the chaos filling the air. Tried and given up such a
hopeless task. Once Ralph almost stumbles over a set of plain
daggers, but his feet know their way. They turn neither to right
nor to left, but follow the path the emeralds call them to.

It is only when he approaches the hallway
that he senses Simon’s presence. Closer than he has anticipated,
but still so far distant.

Ralph’s blood leaps upwards but he does not
hesitate. His hand clutches the shining emeralds and he keeps on
walking.

At the next heartbeat he stands in the once
proud hallway and faces two men. One he usually never sees and the
other is more deeply known to Ralph than his own thoughts. More
frightening than any of those also.

He can think of nothing to say.

Frankel, the cook’s quiet husband, bows his
head and takes a step backwards. He mutters something Ralph cannot
hear. It may have been a greeting, or it may have been a curse. No
matter. Because it is the other man – Simon of the White Lands –
whom Ralph can see most clearly.

Of course it is not long since he has seen
Simon, but this is the first time for what seems a life-season
beyond the telling he has seen him without the fierce hand of the
mind-executioner scaffolding all thoughts. Turning them deeper and
with more bitterness into themselves. Twisting Ralph into the kind
of man he thought he did not want to be. No matter. It is too late
for regrets, although they almost drown him. Simon looks older,
more wearied. Then again, don’t they all. The scribe seems barely
able to support himself. Part of Ralph wants to step forward, offer
help, but part of him knows there is no place for this here. Simon
and he are now neither friends nor enemies. But something other,
something he does not yet know.