The Executioner's Cane (34 page)

She reached out and took hold of one of them.
It felt like parchment to her touch, with none of the smoothness
she associated with her tree. What did such a thing mean? Annyeke
could not fathom it. The leaf came off in her hand and, at the same
time, she heard a movement behind her. When she turned round she
saw it was Johan. Despite her best efforts, she must have woken
him.

“Look,” she said, too startled to even think
of connecting fully with his mind. “Look at the tree.”

Johan did so, taking hold of her hand and
drawing her to himself. “It’s beautiful. What does it mean?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m not
even sure whether this is real or a dream. Because I dreamt of the
Lost One, Johan, before waking up and coming here, and then the
tree was like this.”

She explained to him what had been in her
dream and he frowned as he tried to put the pieces together. She
could feel in her blood the working of his thought. From instinct,
his mind melded with her own in wild sparks and dances of colour,
red and blue and the brightest of yellows, and it was then that
what was right and what was needed came together, and she knew,
from the dream, from the tree and from the man she loved what she
must do.

In order to defeat Iffenia and the power of
the Book of Blood, she must contact the Lost One again, but would
he be able to complete what the Great Spirit asked of him?

Chapter Fourteen: Dreams

Simon

Simon woke with a start, his mind filled with
images of vast empty fields, strange white leaves and Annyeke. Next
to him he caught the faint glow of the cane and, when he turned to
the other side, he saw his father was sleeping. Lucky for him as
yesterday had not been restful. First, the foolish attempts to
speak with the old man, then the demands of the Lammas Lord and his
own response too, and finally the long hour-cycles before sleep
became necessary.

Morning had come too soon. There was much to
do and consider. The mind-cane’s brightness was rising, and he
could sense the beginnings of its song in his thought.

Hush, he said. I know you are here. I am
awake.

The cane danced to his hand as if it had been
waiting all this time for his call. The song ceased its journey and
Simon was aware of a deep silence in his mind, accompanied only by
the colour green, one he associated with Ralph and the emeralds of
course.

The most important story is near and you must
listen to it.

The words rose in him as if they’d been
waiting a lifetime to be heard. Simon clutched the cane to his
chest and felt the slow hum it made transferring to his skin. He
knew the voice was the cane’s but it was also something of his own.
By the gods and stars, he could not interpret it. Perhaps it was
too early for such magic, and it was certainly too dark in the room
where Ralph had lodged them. He needed to be up and in the air,
where things might seem clearer. In the past, when he’d been on the
run, flitting like a ghost from habitation to habitation, it had
been so. The outside air was his refuge.

He could not leave without his father though,
because no matter how difficult their reunion was proving, he could
not abandon the old man. With a sigh, Simon laid a hand on his
father’s shoulder and shook him awake, but gently.

His father groaned, murmured and sat up. He
said nothing and Simon was glad of it. Conversation hadn’t
succeeded before, and besides he didn’t know what to say, so in
silence he helped the old man to his feet and then together the two
of them began to retrace their steps through the corridors and
shattered rooms of Ralph’s domain and into the courtyard. The
mind-cane lay quiet in his grasp.

As Simon made his way outside, matching his
pace to his father’s slower gait and occasionally steadying him
when he looked likely to stumble, the memory of how Ralph’s home
used to be came flooding in. In the time when Simon had served the
Lammas Lord as lover and accessory to murder, no matter how grim
the day-cycle, there had always been life here. The servants
hurrying to bring bread and root-wine to break their master’s fast,
the maids sweeping the floors and preparing the linen to wash, even
the restlessness of the castle dogs as they hungered for the few
scraps that might fall from the plates and platters. Beyond the
castle too there had been a sense of bustle and purpose. The
tradesmen preparing their booths for another day-cycle’s business
in the outer courtyard, bakers, potters and the travelling
herb-sellers as he himself had been. And, finally, there had been
the soldiers, and the noise and energy they had brought. How he had
hated and feared them in the recent past, and how strange he missed
them now. He did not believe he would see that world again. No
matter, they – he – must make another in which the Lammassers could
dwell. It was what he had returned to do.

Once outside, he looked upward until he
spotted the snow-raven. The bird was perched on a remnant of the
castle walls. When he saw Simon, the raven stretched his wings and
cried out a single golden-edged note before lifting off silently
and gliding down to the earth next to the two men. Simon’s father
gave a low moan and tried to get away.

“It’s all right,” Simon said, laying his hand
on the old man’s arm. “The raven won’t hurt you.”

His father continued to shake but made no
further attempt to escape as the bird hopped nearer. At the same
moment, Ralph swept out of the castle and began to stride across
the courtyard towards him. Simon noticed the leg injury he’d
sustained during the wars barely slowed him, but then again, that
was typical of the Lammas Lord in full flight. He would allow
nothing to stop him. In that, Simon thought, he was not too far
away from either the snow-raven or the mind-cane.

“Simon,” Ralph said in greeting, nothing more
than a mere acknowledgement of his presence. “As guests in my home,
I should offer you sustenance, but there is none. We must save what
we have for the midday hour when we might need it most. But there
will be water in the kitchen and perhaps a cup or two of broth.
Jemelda always …”

The Lammas Lord broke off and a shadow passed
over his face. Simon waited until Ralph breathed easier again.

“Then let us drink whilst we can, my lord,”
he said quietly.

In the kitchen area, upon their entrance
Frankel came hurrying out of the recesses. Ralph’s young steward
lurked behind him, casting unhappy glances at the mind-cane. Simon
could feel the boy’s fear even without the gift of sensing thought,
as the colours of orange and black filled his imagination.

“The cane will not harm you,” he said. “We
have come here for refreshment, not to cause pain.”

At being addressed so, the boy ducked his
head and disappeared into the back rooms behind the kitchen area. A
moment or so later, he returned, carrying a pitcher of water which
he placed as carefully as possible on the table, while Frankel
fetched beakers and stools.

“Thank you,” Simon said, though he had not
meant his words to the boy as a command but more as a reassurance.
Ralph too nodded his gratitude. This close, Simon could catch his
feelings clearly but whether that was a good thing or not remained
to be seen.

Ralph sat and Simon likewise helped his
father to sit before taking his own seat opposite the Lammas Lord.
He laid the mind-cane across his knees, out of sight. The warmth of
it infiltrated his skin and he felt his thoughts sparking with its
nearness. He waited for Frankel and the boy to take their places
but they did not and he realised, with a jolt, how ingrained were
the habits of service even now.

As Ralph began to speak, grasping his beaker
of water closer to himself but not tasting it, Simon reached across
and tapped him gently on the arm. Ralph stopped at once, frowning,
and Simon too had to shake his head to dissipate the wave of
sensation the simple touch generated in him.

“My lord,” he said. “Can you not allow your
people to sit? We are all equal in need and purpose this
day-cycle.”

Shock-waves of colour from the Lammas Lord
broke into Simon’s head, black and purple and the deepest crimson.
It was all he could do not to stumble away from the table at the
onslaught, and he gripped the cane tighter so it did not respond.
What he had said was right and he would not take it back. It was
time for matters to change in the Lammas Lands and it was up to
Ralph to change them.

Ralph

Today he feels stronger, in spite of
yesterday’s fire and battle, and rises early to make some kind of
token gesture to his gods. Always he has been vacillating in his
commitment to the stars and gods of Lammas, preferring the clarity
of war and known plans to the mysteries Simon has clung to. But
this morning, he wakes refreshed and with his dreams full of the
Tregannon emeralds and unknown trees of such purity and summer
scent as he has never seen, at least not in these lands. His prayer
is short but intense, and afterwards he dresses quickly, smoothes
his hair into place and leaves the castle. There’s no time to wash
and, besides, all their water should be set aside for drinking. It
is better thus.

Simon is up before him, with his entourage of
the cane, the raven and his father. The sight of him makes Ralph
blink but he has no time for anything beyond the purpose he has and
indeed they are soon installed in the castle kitchen with Frankel
and his steward in their customary places.

Then Simon surprises him once more. “My lord,
can you not allow your people to sit? We are all equal in need and
purpose this day-cycle.”

The brief touch which accompanies these
challenging words all but undoes Ralph, but he manages somewhere to
keep the mask he needs to wear before his servants. This naturally
does not fool Simon who purses his lips and withdraws his hand.
Damn the man for knowing his depths when he does not wish to
acknowledge them himself.

Ralph sits back on his stool, gazes at Simon
and then at the two servants. The boy is staring only at the ground
and the tips of his ears are red, but Frankel is glancing first at
his lord and then at Simon, eyes shifting like shadows across
water.

Finally, Ralph speaks. “Perhaps you are
right. The day-cycles are different. Please, sit.”

His final command is addressed to Frankel and
the boy, but both take some time to obey and he makes a gesture of
impatience before they are at last sitting round the table,
conspirators together for the future of their country.

“Good,” Ralph says, taking them all in, even
Simon, even his father, with his gaze. “This is what we will
do.”

Jemelda

She woke with dreams flooding through her
memory and her waking felt like a shock of cold water on a hot day.
Something stirred inside her: the same sensation of change she had
felt since the war and which had been growing in her blood ever
since was this day-cycle more overwhelming, and more welcome. For
the first time, she found she did not miss Frankel, and instead she
scrambled to her feet and stepped outside the cave to look for
Thomas. She could rely on him.

Outside the morning skies were clear and she
could see a flock of tree-thrushes flying north. A sign of the end
of winter, but surely it was too soon? Snows still covered the
higher ground though none had fallen overnight, and her hands were
rubbed raw with the iciness, and the experiences of yesterday also.
Fire-oil was dangerous and she herself had used it sparingly in the
Tregannon kitchens. Now in the glade between the cave and the
trees, she could see Thomas sitting on the largest of the rocks and
intent on something in his hands. The men had slept in the smaller
of the caves, and the women in the larger. Jemelda had thought it
best.

Thomas looked up as she approached. Nearer,
she saw he was sharpening a large knife which glittered in the
sunlight. She’d never seen the blacksmith with such an object
outside his work before and the strangeness inside her leapt up and
rejoiced in the sight before fading away again, for the moment.

He answered her question before she could
think to ask it.

“I started making this when the murdering
bastard took away the woman I loved,” he said. “It wasn’t finished
before the war ruined everything and I had to leave it behind when
I fled the village. Now I have found it again I intend to use it to
kill the scribe and tear him apart so he can never live again,
Jemelda, and I will make it the best it can be for that
purpose.”

She nodded. His words were good and she could
only echo them.

“It is what I should have done when we tried
to hang him on the tree,” Thomas continued, but this time as if he
were talking only to himself. “I was a fool not to do it.”

“You thought he was dead and dead forever,”
Jemelda replied, putting a comforting hand on Thomas’s shoulder.
“We all thought the same.”

Thomas shuddered, as if her touch alone had
brought him back into the cool winter morning and, without it, he
might have been a thousand fields away where Jemelda could not
reach him. He gazed up at her, stilling the movement of his hands
as they worked across the metal.

“Do you think the murderer cannot die?” he
asked her. “Is that what you believe? That even the realms of the
dead will not welcome him?”

“I do not know,” she admitted. “But in these
time-cycles it is better to try another recipe than to attempt
again one which has already failed. And who knows? The revenge I
desire is still to come. There are other ways of killing, and you,
Thomas, will have a part in it. I promise you.”

He nodded at that, his expression lightening.
The day would soon be upon them in its fullness, and the sun would
see Jemelda’s people and herself at their chosen work. Something
told her there was little time and she intended to use it well.