The Executioner's Cane (23 page)

It is a mystery, one he is determined to
solve, and the magic of which he is equally determined to learn,
not only for this castle but for the shattered homes of his
villagers. The problem is persuading the remaining Lammassers to
accept that help.

Neither is that the only matter to be
concerned about; Jemelda has left him as she should no doubt have
done many week-cycles ago, but her leaving has become rebellion. If
Ralph knows his cook, and in some respects he believes he does, she
will not let the Lost One live if she can help it. She and her band
of would-be soldiers will fight as best they can, not in the manner
which he has been taught and is well-practised in, but in secret
and in the dark, where all matter of evil lie. This is the fruit of
the treachery of the mind-executioner and also his own: civil
rebellion and despair. Soon there will be war again and it will not
come from their enemies but from those they have counted as their
closest allies. He must work to change it.

He abandons his contemplation of the renewed
castle stone and turns on his heel towards the stair. There is much
to do and he must start at once. For the war and its shadow is not
yet over.

Sixth Gathandrian
Interlude

Annyeke

This morning wasn’t going well. Annyeke could
see it perfectly clearly without the need to glean anything from a
mind-read or even ask a passing Gathandrian. It was the day after
she’d returned from her unexpected adventure in Lammas and she was
still trying to come to terms with Simon’s death and strange
rebirth. Not to mention the hatred and potential rebellion of some
of the villagers, and the concerns whether Lord Tregannon could in
fact take charge again and in a good way, rather than a bad one.
Any questions about the Chair Maker, she was determined to leave
until later, when she might feel better able to deal with him. By
the gods and stars, the troubles of a First Elder were greater than
she had expected but she was proud of who she was, and come what
might, she would never let any of her troubles defeat her if she
could help it.

So she watched as the people struggled to
rebuild the great library. This was not the first attempt at
recreating the city she had witnessed since rising one hour-cycle
ago, but it was the one most fraught with difficulty. Other
buildings seemed to be less complex as in, for instance, the
glass-makers’ and wine merchants’ areas of Gathandria, where many
people, men and women alike, worked together to build up stone on
stone and reframe the windows of the houses which had been
destroyed. Even a few streets away, the Council of Meeting looked a
little more like the glory of its former self. But it would take
time, a lot of time, and they must learn to live with the
consequences of being not quite what they had once been. Such were
the lessons the war and the betrayal of the elders had taught
them.

However, here at the Library, the very heart
of their life, nothing seemed to be working. Annyeke watched as
several men, grunting and bending under the weight, lifted one of
the largest of the nearby stones into place. They were trying to
rebuild the western wall. She continued to watch as the men paused
to settle the stone, the colours of their mind-link a contrast in
mauve, and then step away. The link between them drifted darker,
almost black, before a sudden flash of crimson splintered the
calmness and the stone fell with a great crash.

The mind-link disappeared, and Annyeke caught
the whisper of their curses before they recalled who was watching
them.

“Forgive us, First Elder,” the oldest man
spoke, his long grey hair flowing back over his shoulders, the sign
of a theatrical. “We do not intend to insult the gods but we have
been working here for two hour-cycles now and nothing we do is
successful.”

“Yes,” a younger man thrust forward, a frown
creasing his forehead. “We are not fools in our trade. My father
was a master-builder and Aleff here used to make running repairs to
his stage-house regularly. But the stones themselves fight us and
will not be released into their places. Are there more battles to
come? Is that why the Great Library protects itself, or is it
because the elders have returned and the land rises up against
them?”

At his last remarks, the young man spat onto
the earth, his saliva forming a globule of silver against the dark
soil. It sparkled where the sunlight met it. Annyeke blinked.

“Hush your words,” the man called Aleff
hissed, glancing once at Annyeke. “Such rebellion is no use to
us.”

No, Annyeke thought, it was not, but in
Lammas Jemelda and those who cleaved to her had chosen that way.
There was much to face, but she hoped it would not be as the young
man feared.

“What is your name?” she asked him.

He paused before answering and wiped his hand
across his mouth.

“Tiraq,” he answered at last. “My name is
Tiraq.”

Annyeke stepped forward until there were only
inches between them. “That is a good name. In attempting to rebuild
the land we love and that of the neighbours under our protection,
we will need strength of hand and openness. We also need the
courage to say when things are wrong so we do not waste time. This
includes the courage to confront the past and to understand our
bitterness. It took courage for our disgraced elders to return to
us once we knew what they had done as they could easily have run
for safety and never felt the good Gathandrian earth beneath their
feet again. We have to work together, Tiraq, or find a way to do so
or … or our house can never be built again. Do you understand?”

She had struggled to find the image she
wanted to show him how important this act of renewal was for all of
them. In the end it didn’t have quite the drama she’d hoped for,
but the truth was there, which was the most important thing, and it
seemed to convince the young man. The green mind-aura around him
lost something of its darkness and he nodded. It was a step
forward, of sorts.

“Good,” she said. “Please believe me I will
never, as long as I remain First Elder here, try to stop the voice
of dissent. We need it so we don’t fall into error again, but the
most important thing I see today is how the Library is fighting our
efforts. Tell me, has this been the case all the while you’ve been
gathering stone, or have you had moments of success?”

Annyeke addressed this to the whole group and
it was their leader, Aleff, who answered.

“We have not been trying for long,” he said
quietly and with an unexpected bow. “Only since yesterday-cycle,
but it is as you see, First Elder. If it continues, the task will
never be done.”

“Then we must turn your skills and time to
another task,” she replied. “I have no answer for this difficulty
yet, but there are many who will need your help. You are a man of
the theatre, Aleff, and in my wanderings this day-cycle and in the
thought-colours in the air, I see not many have turned their
attentions to that part of our city. Perhaps there is where you
will be must useful.”

The older man snorted. “After the war there
is no time for theatre or indeed art. We must rebuild what is most
essential to us. The Library is part of our life.”

“Yes, it is,” Annyeke agreed, “but life is
not only found in survival and responsibility. Enjoyment is also
part of being Gathandrian, and I have no wish to lose it.”

Aleff paused and Tiraq opened his mouth to
add something, but Aleff shushed him. After another few moments, he
nodded at Annyeke. “There might be some wisdom in what you say;
perhaps the war has undone us more thoroughly than we imagined. I
will do as you ask, First Elder. We need to remember what it is to
live as well as what it is to survive.”

“Good,” she said. “And thank you. While you
do that, let me worry about what the Library might want. Such is my
task, I believe.”

After the men had gone, Annyeke spent several
moments bringing her thoughts in line with the emptiness and, yes,
silence she sensed in the Library. The stories they had gathered
just before the battle in which she killed the mind-executioner
were no longer there as she and the people had taken them into the
unused rooms of the Council buildings. Annyeke had no clear idea
what would happen to the colours and textures of the ancient
Gathandrian tales if they remained exposed to the elements, but she
did not wish to be the first leader to find out. Best to be
cautious. However, without the stories, the life of the Library lay
more quietly within its shattered portals and it was harder to
sense its purpose. Perhaps this was the reason the workmen could
not succeed in layering the stones upon each other again, and
perhaps only the old tales could bind its walls together once more.
No, she could not regret her decision to move and try to protect
them as she was working with the unknown and so she had only done
what she had thought best. If the stories needed to be returned,
then it would be later, when the people’s minds were calmer, not
now when the horrors of death were fresh in their memories. But,
this day-cycle, Annyeke needed to align herself with the Library’s
silence, allow it to connect with her also. So she walked slowly,
pausing often, between the broken stones and grasses, reaching out
with her thoughts to see if the once great building and its soul
waited anywhere for her touch.

For a long time-cycle, she sensed nothing,
and she was ready to move on to where she might be more needed,
when something in the grasses at her feet shifted. A faint colour,
barely seen, almost nothing more than a shadow of some small
creature. But her mind was alert and she knew it for what it was: a
soft voice, waiting. From instinct she wanted to fling her thoughts
after it, catch it before it could fade away, but something told
her such an act would be worse than useless.

Instead she sat down, as slowly and quietly
as she could. In the distance she could hear people talking, some
shouts, a short burst of laughter. Beyond that the whisper of the
breeze and the open sky, dotted with clouds. Snow had fallen last
night, but none this morning, and she knew soon the harshest of the
winter would be over, although the chill and iron-hard earth would
remain. The weather would hold them back in their intentions but it
would not stop them; people needed to be sheltered and fed, and
they needed to learn how to live again. That was what she was here
to do, Annyeke swore it.

She closed her eyes and brought back her
thoughts to herself, giving her mind enough space so any voice
close to where she sat might feel her willingness to hear. There
were more things in Gathandria, as the tales themselves said, than
could be imagined in the stars.

What do you want? she asked, but holding back
the power of her mind so it did not destroy whatever she might have
glimpsed.

Nothing. No voice of a story they might have
missed or even a breath of the Library Spirit; that she would have
given much to listen to. Then, out of nowhere, one word: Turn.

She obeyed and saw a glimmer of green in the
place of shadow. It was like a voice, yet not so. Its own
equivalent of a voice. The shimmering green grew suddenly darker,
flashed once and was gone, leaving behind it an impression of
silver. Annyeke pursed her lips. Whatever it was, it had gone and
she didn’t know if it would return, or even reveal itself in this
way again.

Its silence worried her, more than she wanted
to admit, because it was as if there was some other force stopping
the colour and sound from reaching out to her. Only one legend had
the power to do that, but it could not possibly be so. Such an act
was far too dangerous, and nobody would dare it. Not even the
mind-executioner had tried. Still, the faint green echo had
communicated, she sensed it, though its sound was in colour. She
must therefore be mistaken in her fears and she would not be so
foolhardy as to name them. All she had to do was interpret it, and
oh the wisdom she might need for that. The shades of green reminded
her of the Tregannon emeralds, and the silver the shape of the
mind-cane’s carving. Yes, she could see it, but what did it
actually mean? Should the emeralds be here? The mind-cane too? Now
her head fizzed with questions when what she really needed was
space to think and let the answers come …

Annyeke became aware of her young charge mere
moments before he raced up to her, panting, his hair sticking out
as if she had not that very morning combed it.

“Talus?” she scrambled to her feet. “What is
it? Are you well? Is it Johan?”

He shook his head. “No, we are unharmed. But
you must come. It is the elders.”

Talus turned and ran, through the library and
out across the park, heading for the Square of Meeting. Annyeke
followed him, picking up her skirts and running like a young girl
with no fears as to what people might think. By the gods, she was
First Elder and, if the role had any privileges, they surely must
include the ability to run without bringing down judgement upon
herself. She hoped so anyway. Besides, if judgement was to fall
upon her, it would be for something far grander than her social
behaviour which had never been first-class to begin with.

By the time she and Talus arrived at the
Meeting Square, Annyeke was almost laughing with the excitement of
it. But the picture that greeted her set all amusement aside and
she became sober at once. The elders were sitting in a circle in
the middle of the square, praying. She could see the colours
humming between them: lilac, the softest green and earth-brown,
with the occasional flash of silver which they called the blessings
of the gods. That wasn’t the issue at stake, for which Talus had
run and fetched her. No, the problem was the Gathandrians, huddled
in groups surrounding the praying elders. The colours dancing in
fiery ribbons from the people were more dangerous, a savage threat
on this cool morning-cycle. The anger almost drove her back, but
Annyeke had tackled worse situations than this, so she stepped
forward, ignoring the elders. This in itself would be an insult to
them.