The Executioner's Cane (31 page)

Ralph’s response was not what he had
expected. The Lammas Lord strode up to him and gripped his
shoulder, sending tremors of green and blue through Simon’s
thought.

“You should not have done what you did,” he
said, his voice low and urgent, so only Simon could hear. “You put
yourself in too much danger.”

He looked as if he might say more, but the
presence of the villagers brought him more quickly to that strong
sense of his own role, no matter whether he failed it or not. He
stepped away and gazed at Simon.

“I am glad you are well, Scribe,” he said,
more loudly. “It would have been a pity for you to die again, after
our efforts to keep you alive.”

That much, Simon supposed, was true. To die
was inevitable, but once was enough for any week-cycle. He did not
wish to experience such an encounter with what lay beyond for a
long, long time. If the gods and stars wished it.

They spent the length of a story middle
ensuring the field was no longer in any danger and rescuing what
seed they could. It would have to be planted elsewhere, as this
field would need another season to recover its fertility. If
Jemelda wished to starve him out of her lands, this was certainly
the best way to go about her task; he never wished to be the death
of any other man, woman or child again, not if he could help
it.

Finally, carrying what they could salvage,
Simon, Ralph and the people turned back to the village. The Lost
One noted on the journey none walked close to him, but only the
cane and the bird kept him company.

Halfway there he saw the old man, his father.
Strange how he had been expecting this and yet was still so
unprepared for it. He dropped the half-burnt earth he was holding
and watched the remains of the precious seeds scatter across the
soil. Somebody amongst the villagers cursed at his stupidity and he
could not blame them. The mind-cane flared up but Simon quelled it
with a glance. He was pleased he could still do so. He hurried to
pick up the seeds, retrieving them as best he could.

A darker shadow next to him made him look up.
Ralph bent down and scooped up a handful of earth upon which lay
some small corn seeds. The green glow in his other hand drew
Simon’s gaze.

“Yes,” said the Lammas Lord. “Sometimes the
emeralds have other uses too. They bring together that which might
have been lost.”

As both men straightened up, Ralph glanced in
the direction of the old man and nodded.

“You will have to talk to him,” he said,
quietly. “He is your father.”

“What if I do not wish to?” Simon’s response
was fiercer than he had intended. His father had abandoned him
after his mother had died, no matter what his reasons were. He
could neither change his memory, nor the facts.

Ralph took a step or two back, and the
sharpness of his outline faded a little in the morning gloom. “You
will speak to him sooner or later, Scribe, because how can it harm
you? You have already come through death, the stars know how, so
surely a conversation with a parent you find difficult will be a
summer story for you.”

As always, Ralph used conversation as he used
his soldier’s sword: with the intent to pierce. But, as he turned
away, Simon had to admit he was right. He swallowed and drew
himself up to face his father, who all this while had been hovering
at the length of a pruning hook from his side.

“We will speak together,” Simon said, finding
himself unable to say the word father and knowing therefore how
abrupt his words sounded. Damn the stars but that could not be
helped. “We will speak but not yet. Later, when we have placed the
salvaged seed in a safe location, then we will talk.”

There was more Simon wanted to say although
he did not exactly know what the words should be, but the old man
groaned and stuttered as if he too were trying to find an unsayable
sentence. Simon waited but the silence swept in once more. It felt
unnatural, even dangerous. In his hand the mind-cane hummed
suddenly and its vibration patterned his skin. For a moment he
concentrated, but the cane gave him no clues.

“Come then,” he said with a sigh. “Follow me.
Neither of us are intending to go anywhere else this
day-cycle.”

Ninth Gathandrian
Interlude

LOVE

Annyeke

Enough was enough. She had sufficient of the
truth from the Chair Maker to act, but it would have to wait until
the morning-cycle. She could tell how tired her husband was when he
returned from speaking with the people, and Talus was already
asleep, snoring gently in his bed-area.

Johan kissed her and took her in his arms.
She nestled against him, appreciating the sheer strength of him and
the way he made her feel safe, even where safety was the last thing
she had expected to feel. Even a bloody-minded redhead and
newly-minted First Elder needed a little comfort sometimes.

How was your talk with the Chair Maker? he
asked her, and she was glad he’d chosen thought-words for their
conversation. The concept of speaking was beyond her ability.

She smiled up at him and placed his hand on
her forehead. Not that it was necessary for their mind-skills to
operate, but Annyeke liked the feeling of being connected with the
man she loved, physically as well as mentally. At once, she could
feel his mind moving and blending with hers, the sweet splash of
melded colours which always made her blink. Within a few short
moments, she had shared everything with him: what the Chair Maker
had told her, her heartfelt response, and the unforeseen dangers
that might lie around them.

He swore, something she had never heard him
do, and the effect of it was magnified a thousand times without the
dissipating power of speech. Johan.

I’m sorry, but this is beyond my belief, my
love. I wish I had been there at your side when the Chair Maker
confessed.

I am glad you were not. You would have been
angrier than I.

He snorted and sat down at the kitchen table,
a deep frown lining his forehead. With due cause. The Book of Blood
is the most dangerous of the legends, because it is as yet
unwritten. If the Chair Maker and Iffenia have mined its depths
then I do not know how we can fight it. You say because of it,
Iffenia lives? In another in the Lammas Lands? Who? Is Simon
threatened because of it? We must warn him.

So many questions her husband had, and all of
them flocking around her like young wood-sparrows in the spring.
She shook her head at herself. The image, for her, was not a
pleasant one. Before she made any decisions, they needed sustenance
so she busied herself for a while heating up the last of the day’s
wheat-soup and sprinkling a handful of ginger into it to provide
some spice, and clear their heads.

Then she poured two beakers, sat down and
handed her partner one while she sipped from the other. How
different this was from the drink she had shared with the elder, in
so many ways.

Johan laughed. You are inspired by food.

She opened her eyes wide at him. Always. But
who is not? Drink and let us consider how best we can fight this
latest battle.

What about Simon? he asked again and she felt
the wave of his concern for his cousin flow over her. Something
else too, some deeper puzzle, and it took her a heartbeat or two to
discern it.

No, you are mistaken, she shook her head,
reached across the table and grasped his hand. Iffenia’s spirit is
not in the Lost One. He has the strength of the mind-cane and his
own mission to protect him. I believe it is Jemelda, the one who
leads the rebellion. It must be. She is bent on destroying the
peace the Lost One hopes to build, and our peace too.

How?

Quickly, she allowed him to see what she
understood of the Lost One’s experiences in Lammas thus far. He
already knew about the strange death and rebirth, but neither of
them fully comprehended its meaning, yet. The powers of the gods
and stars were passing strange. What Johan didn’t yet know was the
mission Jemelda, the cook, had begun.

So she wishes to kill Simon, Johan pondered
when he had listened. Why?

Annyeke glared at him. Because she is a woman
and if I have learnt anything from recent year-cycles it is that in
war-time, it is the women who suffer most, and who are most angry.
But she might not have had the power without Iffenia’s presence, I
cannot tell. Somehow, during the battles and when the link between
our two countries was strongest, Iffenia’s spirit clung to Jemelda
because of the forces she and the Chair Maker unleashed, and
together the two women form an enemy we mustn’t underestimate.

At this Johan smiled. Women, in my
experience, are always a force to be reckoned with, Annyeke,
whether or not they have the spirits of the dead urging them
on.

He stood up abruptly, breaking the close
connection between them, although she could still sense his mind.
She would sense it always. As she watched, he started to stride up
and down the kitchen-area.

“How can it have come to this?” he muttered,
speaking aloud. She could only hope he would not wake Talus, who
would need the fullness of sleep. “What must we do before peace can
break out amongst our peoples? First, the mind-executioner, then
the treachery of the elders against us, then the strangeness of
Simon’s calling, the battle on our fields, and now this. When will
the fighting cease?”

Johan.

Something in the tone of her voice broke
through his rising anger and he stopped at once, a slow blush
spreading across his handsome face. Forgive me, my love, but
sometimes I think I am a simple man and incapable of dealing with
our world as it is becoming. Neither would I wish to wake your son.
Forgive me.

Annyeke smiled as he sat down opposite her
once more and drained his beaker of the last of the wheat-soup. The
day-cycles are hard, she said, and Talus is our son, not just
mine.

He gazed at her for another full minute, and
then nodded. You are right. So, what should we do, First Elder?

His term of address was said with a smile,
and she knew he teased her. How she loved it when he did that,
knowing he only allowed himself such teasing when he felt secure.
The anger had left him.

Tomorrow, we will contact the Lost One, she
said. The emeralds Lord Tregannon gave me will help us now we no
longer have the mind-circle, and our own skills will do the
rest.

You do not wish to begin the process now? I
know you are a woman who likes to act swiftly. You have the hair
colour for it after all.

She flashed him a wry smile, knowing he’d
caught her mood and sensing his own response to it. All of us need
to build up our mind-strength again, and we need sleep. Jemelda can
do nothing until the morning. The Lammas people will be safe enough
until then. It is dark for everyone now.

Are you tired, Annyeke?

In answer, she shook her head and reached for
his hand once more. Then, getting to her feet, she moved round the
table until she stood next to him. He rose to meet her and took her
into his arms. His lips on hers felt like the best thing that had
happened this day-cycle, both a promise and a homecoming. It was
she who led him into their private bed-area, although it was he who
undressed her and laid her down on the soft blankets. The sensation
of skin on skin made brighter by their mind-colours, the spark and
the melding of them, the scent of sweat on Johan’s body combined
with his own unique smell, these things swept her away and carried
him with her deep into her own mind, on their own special
journey.

For this night-cycle, it was enough. The
troubles of the next day could wait a little longer, by the stars
and gods.

Chapter Thirteen: A Voice from the Past

Simon

At the castle kitchen, Frankel took Simon’s
load of earth and seeds. His face was shadowed, and the Lost One
could see, even without any mind-skills, how many questions the old
man had. While outside Ralph gave orders to the villagers and set
up a safe place for the storage of the damaged seeds, Simon leaned
forward towards Frankel.

“Jemelda is at least safe,” he whispered, “I
know she intends to kill for fear of what I might do now I have
returned. But I only wish to help the Lammassers, believe me, and
believe me also when I say this: I will do my utmost to convince
her of my intentions, if she will allow me close enough to her to
say the words. The conversation is not over yet, my friend.”

Frankel nodded, but Simon could not tell how
much of his words he might have understood. The old man’s mind was
full of worries for his wife, and the Lost One wished he could
comfort him but these people had experienced more than enough of
his mind-treachery and he feared to offer what skills he could.

Before he could say anything else, Frankel
crept away into the shadows, and Simon walked outside only to see
Ralph approaching him. Behind him lurked his father. It was time,
he could see it, and sooner than he would have liked.

He gazed at Ralph, saw his intent and
overleapt it.

“You are right, Lord Tregannon,” he said. “I
need to speak to my father, but I need a private place to do it.
Which of your rooms is most suited?”

Ralph blinked, and the Lost One almost smiled
to see the adjustment going on in the other man’s thoughts. It was
rare Simon had commanded him in such a fashion. Well, the
time-cycles had changed and they would need to change with
them.

“Of course,” Ralph replied, making as if to
signal for a servant. Simon could see the moment when he abandoned
the gesture, knowing there were none. “Follow me, both of you.”

Ralph led the way. Simon swallowed and
reached out to take his father’s arm. It was the first time he had
touched the man for more years than he could remember, and he could
not contain the swift river of thought which plunged through his
head at the contact. The old man gasped and Simon frowned,
attempting to bring his mind under greater control, using the cane
in his other hand to do so. Odd how his father did not seem as
afraid of it as other people were. Perhaps he had simply not learnt
to fear it as much, although Simon would have expected any
mind-artefact would cause him grief. It was a mind-executioner,
although not Gelahn, who had killed his mother. He shook his head,
not wishing to pull that particular memory to the forefront of his
thought, not when so many other problems crowded at his side like a
swarm of summer-flies. Meanwhile, Ralph continued to lead them
round to the front of the castle. Simon and his father followed
without speaking, although the Lost One was brim-full of
questions.