The Executioner's Cane (8 page)

Nor is it Ralph’s place to know.

For Simon has the mind-cane with him. The
executioner’s cane. Which means one of only two things: Simon has
come either to save them, or destroy them. Or perhaps both. Perhaps
his reasoning is too narrow. Nothing about their whole sorry
history has fallen the way Ralph would have wished it.

It strikes him for the first time that, with
the cane, Simon can take what revenge he wishes upon him. He has
the power to drive Ralph to the floor, prostrate him until he is
begging to be released from the agony the mind-cane can bring
about. For the pains he has inflicted on Simon alone – let alone on
his country – he has every right to do so. Ralph will not run. He
will accept whatever the gods and stars have in store.

Simon does nothing. He simply stares at
Ralph. Like a man drinking down a flagon of water when he has been
thirsty for many days, but who does not know what poisons may lurk
within.

The mind-cane in his grasp leaps in his
fingers but Simon holds onto it. Frankel steps away further.
Something draws Ralph’s eye and he glances down. The emeralds are
the brightest green he has ever seen them, but their warmth is
missing. They are as cold as a tree in winter.

“Ralph,” Simon whispers at last. His voice is
hoarse. He sounds as if he has much to say but the words are
trapped in his mouth.

It is then Ralph understands that, whatever
happens, he can do no good. Neither to Simon nor to any of the
people in his care. All the power has gone to the scribe, the very
man he once lorded it over, and Ralph has no place here. The
castle, the villages, all the lands are Simon’s. The only thing he
himself can do is to step aside.

As the last of the Tregannons, this is
something he should do with dignity, holding on in some measure to
the gifts his father gave him. But, after what has happened,
Ralph’s mind is nothing more than a tattered wisp of what it once
was. He has been fooling only himself with the hope anything can be
different.

He curses in his mother’s language. Not with
the words of the Tregannons, but with the words of those they
claimed to despise.

Frankel cries out something and Simon steps
forward. He seems stronger now but Ralph does not allow him to
speak. He flings down the remaining emeralds at the scribe’s feet.
Ralph is worthy of none of them. The jewels scatter like
river-stones across the stone slabs of the hall. He does not wait
to see where they will come to rest or what Simon will do.

Instead, he swings round and strides back the
way he has come in unthinking hope. Back to the private rooms. Back
to the dark.

Simon

The moment Ralph disappeared, the scribe
dropped the cane and collapsed down onto the floor, running his
hands through his hair. Frankel hovered around him, putting his
weight first on one foot then another. If Simon hadn’t had the
mind-energy knocked from him, he might even have thought this was
amusing. Instead he could feel the rapid thud of his heart and the
dryness in his throat. He should have been prepared for this,
shouldn’t he? He’d come here to help Ralph, to help the Lammas
Lands. He’d wanted to see Ralph, by the gods and stars, and he’d
got his desire.

But he hadn’t expected to see the Lammas
Master in such depths of surely insurmountable pain. The moment the
man had walked in upon them, the sharp crimson jaggedness of his
broken mind had swept over Simon like a winter storm. He’d hardly
been able to breathe. He’d known Ralph would be damaged from the
wars and from his encounters with the mind-executioner. Hadn’t he
himself received thought-wounds he refused to remember fully from
the cursed Gelahn? So, he’d expected this: pain, grief, regret and
deep confusion. But the Lammas Overlord’s mind was barely there.
Simply a series of impressions with no linking structure. This was
not something Simon knew how to solve. Not at once, anyway. Even
though the mere sight of Ralph had satisfied a need in Simon he
knew could not be spirited away by any cane or emeralds, that
didn’t matter. They had to find a quick solution to the troubles
facing this land, before the winter depths were fully upon them.
Otherwise the people would starve and Ralph would not be able to
help them. They needed another way. But what? He groaned aloud and
Frankel bent over him.

“Are you all right?” The old man’s eyes
darted from where the scribe sat hunched on the floor to where the
Overlord had vanished through the darkened doorway. Simon didn’t
need to fathom his companion’s mind to know the appearance of the
castle’s owner had sent the old servant into spasms of confusion
and discomfort. That much was obvious. He had not considered it
before, but it must be difficult for Ralph’s servants to see him
brought so low, no matter what the justification for it.

“Yes,” he said. “Forgive me. I hadn’t
expected to see Ralph like that.”

The old man blinked and took a step backwards
and Simon sensed at once he’d crossed some kind of line without
knowing it. Then it came to him. Of course. He was riding poorshod
over their traditions as well as forcing himself upon their
consciences.

“I mean the Lammas Lord,” he said quickly. “I
didn’t mean to insult your ways by using your Master’s chosen name.
I simply wasn’t thinking.”

To his surprise, Frankel smiled. The
expression softened his whole face.

“We are not fools, scribe,” he replied. “We
understand how things were between you both. And, besides, who
knows what our customs should be now-seasons? We neither have a
people nor a land to uphold them.”

The dust settled slowly over the old man’s
words, perhaps the truest ones Simon had so far encountered since
his arrival. He nodded. Then he reached across and gathered the
emeralds Ralph had flung at him before he left. As he touched each
one, a glimmer of green washed over his hand and the mind-cane
trembled. Finally he picked up the cane also and rose to his feet.
His cloak felt clammy from the dust and dirt lining the floor.

When he was level with Frankel again, Simon
spoke. “Where will the Lammas Lord have gone?”

“He has been keeping mainly to his private
rooms, sir. Sometimes, Jemelda or I think perhaps he walks alone
through the ruins of his castle at night, but we have not seen him.
It is just an impression we have. But he sees no-one and, until
today, has talked to no-one either. I think truly he has abandoned
us.”

“I hope that will turn out not to be as true
as you think,” Simon said softly, “but I admit I cannot tell.
Please, can you show me to the room I may stay in while I am
here?”

Frankel nodded before leaving. “Wait here,”
he said. “I did not expect it to be so dark. I will fetch
light.”

Simon found it strange how, even though it
was morning, there was scarcely any light entering the great hall
from any source. He waited quietly in the dimness, knowing this
also to be magic, and sending out a thin flurry of thought to try
to sense any clues the broken stone might give him. He did not send
any of these in the direction of the Overlord. Some griefs were
best left private. However, he could sense nothing useful – only
the pains and defeats he already knew. Not even the mind-cane gave
him any inroads. Simon wondered if the legacy of the
mind-executioner had been to dampen down the natural vigour of the
land and its people, as well as the brightness of their sun, and if
that oppression was upon them even now. It would explain the
strange numbness and near silence of his thoughts when they
returned to him.

But he had no time to meditate on this any
further as he heard the sound of Frankel’s footsteps and saw the
flicker of light from the two fire-torches he held. He must have
struck them to life in his wife’s kitchen. Simon wondered if the
two of them had spoken about Ralph.

The old man glanced round as he entered the
hallway as if he expected his master might have returned. He
half-shrugged when he saw nobody but Simon.

“Please, Scribe,” he said, his voice low.
“Follow me and I will take you to a shelter of sorts.”

“Thank you,” Simon replied and fell into step
behind Frankel. The mind-cane nestled in his grip and he felt the
unfamiliar press of the new emeralds at his side.

In silence, the two men walked through the
all but ruined castle. The scribe scarcely recognised any of the
routes they took. It was as if the former familiarity he had gained
here had been cast away into the skies and might never be found
again. The sensitivity of his impressions was heightened due to the
presence of the cane; he caught the cavernous echo of crimson pain
and purple sorrow, the feel of them swirling across the dusty air
and dimness. Each wave of colour pressed deep into his mind and he
found himself gripping the cane with more purpose than was
customary. Whether that helped or hindered his journey in any way
was another matter entirely. Once the sharpness of red piercing his
thoughts made him gasp and he stumbled, but Frankel turned and
steadied him, holding both torches temporarily in one hand. The
closeness of the flame brought fire to Simon’s cheeks.

“Forgive me,” he said. “The castle seems
jagged. It’s hard to concentrate on walking when my head is
throbbing with colour.”

The old man nodded as if any of this would
bear logic for someone who didn’t read minds. Simon could sense his
companion’s sudden remembered realisation of the scribe’s skills
even before Frankel snatched his hand away. There was nothing he
could do to reassure him however, nor any real apology he could
make. The fact – the essential difference he possessed which most,
though not all, of the Lammas people did not – was what it was. He
could neither deny nor gainsay it. But, because of the man’s
kindness to him, and because what he was doing here was so fragile,
so fragmented, this time he found himself speaking. There in the
darkness with the brightness of the torches Frankel held as the
only link between them.

“I’m sorry for that too,” he whispered,
understanding with his gifting how the old man needed no further
explanation of the subject matter. “I cannot help what my mind can
do, but believe me when I say I do not delve into matters which are
private to those around me as far as I have the power. I have
enough troubles of my own. I know what I have done in the past –
murdered men and women for the dreams and ideas their minds held –
is beyond any forgiveness I can name or call on. But I speak of the
present, Frankel, not of what has gone before.”

The old man swallowed. Simon could hear the
noise of it in the silence layering the air. The scribe waited.
Finally the man spoke.

“We only have the present now,” he said. “As
you say. We must do with it what we can.”

And then he swung round and walked away, on
the path they had been on before Simon stumbled. After what seemed
like an eternity of twists and winding corners, Frankel stopped. He
ducked his head and disappeared into the gloom. Simon blinked, the
memories of his strange journey to Gathandria with Johan flooding
his mind. He shook them away; things were different here. Instead
he followed suit and found himself in a small room where the four
walls around him and the roof above at least seemed fairly intact.
There would be then some protection from the wind and foul
weather.

Frankel was in the act of positioning one of
the blazing torches in the sconce. The shadows shifted across the
stonework, making strange animals and mythical beasts across the
light and darkness. Simon shivered and wrapped his cloak around
himself more fully.

“This is all we have which remains fit for
habitation,” he said. “It was once used for the chickens and pigs
but they have long gone.”

Simon smiled. “I am simply grateful for the
shelter, and ask for no more.”

For the first time, Frankel lifted his head
fully and gazed at the scribe. There was something in the old man’s
expression which reminded him of Jemelda. Indeed, when Frankel
spoke, it was with intensity, not gentleness.

“On the contrary,” he said, “you are here
amongst us and therefore you ask for much.”

Simon swallowed. “Yes, perhaps you are right.
For now, I wish to stay here for a while, compose my thoughts.
Meditate in order to prepare for what is to come.”

For another long moment – almost the time it
would take to begin a spring story for the children – the two men
were silent. Then Frankel shrugged and coughed, and the
determination which had wrapped him around vanished away. The
scribe could feel it easing through the stones and out into the
air. The old man was himself again.

“You may do what you will here,” he said.
“When you are ready, and you wish to speak with my wife, then if
you retrace our steps and turn right whenever you find a choice is
needed, you will find us well enough again. It will bring you to
the master’s hallway.”

Then he was gone, the fire from his remaining
torch lighting his way. Simon smiled to himself. If he had been
paying more attention to the direction of their travel and less to
the jagged wounds of the colours sweeping over his mind, perhaps he
would have realised the logic of the path. Still, he understood it
now.

For a while, he steadied his breath, trying
to centre his thoughts on the rich inner landscape which lay at the
depths of his mind: the picture of peace and quietness that called
to him always, but so far had been largely unfulfilled in his life.
The cane hummed gently at his side. All he could do was wait until
peace should come. He suspected it would take a while, and he hoped
there would be wisdom enough to guide him through it.

Jemelda

They did not see the murderous scribe again
all that day-cycle, and the fact of his return kept Jemelda awake
all night. In the alcove in the kitchen, with the smells of bread
and the faint hint of the remaining spices around her, she turned
from one side to the other, and back again, never finding the
comfort she sought. Occasionally the soft snores of Frankel
accompanied her watching and once he shuffled across to her and
held her gently in his arms. She didn’t dare move as she guessed he
still slept. After a while though, he returned to his side of the
makeshift bed and she was free to ponder on her own once more.