The Executioner's Cane

by Anne Brooke

  With that, he lets Ralph go. The Lammas Lord stares at him and knows he has not been mistaken. Beneath Simon’s anger is the same current of desire that runs through his own blood. It may overwhelm them both if they do not take care, as he fears if once he lets the scribe, no matter what he has become now, into his life again then the fate of the land he loves will be as the rivers after the flood which rise up at night and are gone again in the morning. He will not countenance any distraction to what he has sworn to do for his people.

  Simon wipes his hand up and across his face. He too is sweating.

  “We cannot do this now,” he says, his voice unsteady and gazing only at the mind-cane which is suddenly quieter. “As you say, there is too much else at stake we cannot afford to lose. But believe me, if the land survives and if we ourselves live, there will be a reckoning between us one day, my Lord. Now, go, all of us need to regain our strength.”

  With that, the scribe slips around Ralph’s frame and disappears back into the room that holds his father. The Lammas Lord is left alone in the draughty corridor and more than unsettled by what has occurred. Although there is no door to stop his continuing pursuit of the man, Simon’s message is clear and he has said what Ralph could not, for all his planning, bring himself to say, may the gods and stars damn them both. Because of it, Ralph cannot follow him. He would look like a beggar if he did, and he refuses to take on such a role more than he has already done so.

  However, Simon has given him his orders and, whilst obeying them goes against the grain of generations of Lammas rule, the command to rest remains a good one. With a muttered curse, Ralph turns on his heel and makes his way to his own quarters, far more open to the elements than are Simon’s.

  Behind him, he does not see the Lost One watching him go.

  Tenth Gathandrian Interlude

  Annyeke

  She woke even before dawn, her head full of visions of the Great Library. She could see books and parchments drifting over a level plain. It was the height of the summer-season, the sun warming her skin. Annyeke always suffered in the sun and made every effort to cover her head if she had to venture out. Now though, in this strange and waking dream, she had no sensation of burning. When she looked up, she could see a shape walking towards her over the layers of books strewn across the grass. Behind him, trees faded and vanished as if being pulled away by an unseen force. Gradually the shape became clearer and she could see the figure of a man, with sparks of silver flashing from the object he held. She knew at once it was the Lost One. Simon the scribe.

  She called out to him, but in her dream she had no voice and he did not respond to her mind. As he came nearer, she tried to reach out for him but her body would not obey her command and, at the last moment, Simon turned away, not even acknowledging her. Her heart filled with a strange and unfamiliar grief but she did not know what she mourned for. To her surprise, the Lost One came to a halt when she had imagined he would continue his journey.

  Annyeke sensed a deep silence fill her thoughts. She did not know where it came from or what its purpose was but she could not gainsay it. It was as pure as water and as clear as a summer-season sky. She closed her eyes and felt its permanence enter her skin and bones. In her mind she could see the great star clusters, as they swung the turning of the year-cycles across the sky. The fox, the oak and the wolf, then the river, the elm and the horseman. Their shapes and patterns melded into each other and then became themselves again. She did not understand the significance of what she was seeing. From her knowledge of the Lost One, Annyeke remembered Lord Tregannon had been born under the sign of the fox, and the Lammassers paid great attention to these symbols. The Gathandrians paid them less heed but she understood their importance in the Lammassers’ mind-set and would do well not to forget it. After the horseman came the lovers, the lone man and the mountain. At this latter, she swallowed hard because the mountain was dead and would not be seen again in this generation-cycle. Nothing they had done had been able to save it from destruction. Finally, the half-circle constellation of the owl floated across her vision, the sign of the Lost One himself. Odd how this part of her vision had started with Tregannon’s sign and ended with this one. There had to be a significance but she could not relate it to anything she knew or guessed at. She didn’t know how long this lasted in her dream but after a while, she became aware of a whisper in her mind. Nothing more than a mere breath and she thought it was only because of the silence that she could even hear it.

  The whisper came in a voice she did not recognise. It was neither the Lost One, nor Johan, nor Talus, nor any she knew in her life. Nor was it the voice of the Great Library. She wondered if it might be the Spirit of Gathandria itself, but such an answer belonged to the mystics, and she was none.

  The voice said this: Let the Lost One tell the story that is his own. Then silence will be no more and all shall be well.

  These words were repeated over and over again until Annyeke was sure they would remain part of her flesh and deepest memory for always. And then, just as suddenly, she knew the whisper had gone. In her dream, she opened her eyes, the Lost One turned to her, his expression one of enquiry and hope, and out of her mind one word filled the air.

  Yes.

  She woke with a gasp, the fragments of the dream clinging to her thoughts. The stars and the silence, the silence and the stars. And something in between both: the words of the whisper. She needed to act on them and soon. But how, by the gods?

  There in the quietness of her bed, beside the sleeping form of the man she loved, Annyeke concentrated in the very depths of her mind. She focused on her special place, the garden she loved and where she felt most at peace. If anything she did could contact the Gathandrian Spirit, then her garden would be the best place to start. Even better, and if she could achieve it without waking Johan, she would seize the nearest cloak for warmth and stand in the garden itself until some kind of an answer came to her.

  Without more delay, she wove a mind-net around Johan so she would not disturb him. Talus, she thought, would probably sleep through any noise she made. Then she slid out of bed, padded to her dressing-stool and searched for a cloak until she found one. She slipped it over her night-clothes and crept out of the bed-area, through the kitchen and outside. At the same time, she kept her mind-focus so the colours and shades in her thought would echo and enrich the garden in her world.

  The land was on the cusp between deepest night and the start of the day. She could see the faint glimmer of rose-coloured light, messenger of morning, across the eastern sky. The stars were harder to see, but she could well remember the patterns they made, even without the vividness of her dream. A soft breeze lifted her hair a little and she smoothed it down, although of course it did have a life of its own, and no amount of smoothing would give her any elegance. The thought made her smile.

  From instinct, and driven by a compulsion she couldn’t quite place, she made her way towards her lemon tree, the most beloved of her plants. At the start of the wars, it had been bereft of any leaves, but as they progressed, some growth had come to it, starting with the one leaf she’d seen there after Johan and Isabella – poor Isabella! – had begun their journey to Lammas. Later more leaves had sprouted, but since the onset of winter and the Library’s demise there had been no more.

  She expected to see none this morning. She was wrong.

  She smelt the tree almost before she saw it, though surely this was impossible as the budding-season was many week-cycles from now. The ghostly shape of the branches glimmered in the low light and for a moment Annyeke thought they were actually moving before she realised it was the abundance of leaves adorning the tree and not the branches themselves which swayed in the slight breeze. She peered closer, the breath catching in her throat, and saw the leaves were not green but the purest white. The pale pink dawn caught their brightness and all but dazzled her even in the gloom. And although there were no buds, the leaves themselves gave out the lemon scent.

  She rea
ched 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.