The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

shouted, stretching his arms wide and brandishing the mind-cane like a sword. “I am here. Why don’t you try me, whatever you are?”
    The noise of his own words astonished him and he almost missed the shimmer of echo in the trees on the right, where no echo should be. He whirled towards the sight and caught a glimpse of the white emptiness which had eluded him. Still shouting but not in any way that made sense, he ran towards it, the cane dancing and humming wildly in his hand. Sparks of silver flew from its carving and landed deep within the heart of the whiteness ahead which, this time, had not shifted away from him. A flash of snowy fire from the first of the sparks and then it vanished. Simon kept on running.
    The next heartbeat, he was within the emptiness, within the silent pages of the Book of Blood. Though it was not within him, but he was within it. It felt like purity but also the deepest of terrors, and its colours were nothing and nowhere, sliding away from his mind like ice. Then he too was nothing, more fully even than he had been in death, and he had no markers to know himself or any other thing. The only object he recognised was the shape of the mind-cane in his hand and its song in his thought.
    This is the story, live it.
    He could not tell if the words came from him or the cane but it didn’t matter because at that moment they were one and the same. And the song was both the snow-raven and himself. It was then the words rose up within him. No they were him.
    I am the Lost One , he said in his mind, knowing he’d said the same before but now he meant it. The words are mine .

    Annyeke

    She didn’t glance back. There was no time. She cursed herself that her small efforts to contain the power the Chair Maker had released had been worse than useless – the danger was already amongst them. All her instincts told her to run, but she had the Lost One’s people, the Lammassers, to protect and so she would not do that. It would not be the action of a First Elder, and certainly not of the kind of woman she believed herself to be. So she gathered Frankel, the boy and the Lost One’s father close to her and began to walk as swiftly as the old man allowed towards the village.
    “Follow me,” she gave the command with a confidence she couldn’t find in herself to the rest of the group, and knew in any case they would have no other option.
    A loud cry behind her but she didn’t turn round. Something told her not to.
    “Do n’t look,” she whispered fiercely, making the words resonate from her thought as well as from her mouth. She no longer cared whether her mind-skills would terrify the villagers or not. They had moved beyond such small fears. She hurried her troop towards the hoped-for safety of the village as best she could. All the time she prayed the Lost One would be safe.
    It seemed to take the length of more stories than she could remember to reach the village and Annyeke couldn’t help but be aware of the emptiness at their heels. In the trees and in the air she sensed it, though it did not touch them. Whatever Simon had done or was still doing, the white terror had not attacked them. It was an advantage she could work with, her only one.
    When the ruined houses appeared, Annyeke blinked. Even though she’d known Lammas had been severely damaged by the mind-wars in Gathandria, she hadn’t seen the results for herself. Piles of broken stone and tile lay scattered across the snowy path, and the small remnants of houses which remained were barely holding together. Though at her next glance she couldn’t really tell how solid or well-constructed they had been in the first place. Lord Tregannon obviously did not set great store on the concept of providing for all reasonably, whether rich or poor. Typical man, she couldn’t help thinking, and then brought herself up short. No matter whose individual fault it was, it was up to the Gathandrian city to oversee the welfare of these lands. They had not done so here, so the blame must be shared.
    Putting aside her thoughts of future judgement, the First Elder of Gathandria turned and scanned the path along which they had hurried as the people huddled in behind her. The whiteness hovered in the trees though she thought it might be less intense. She couldn’t see any sign of Simon and cursed quietly under her breath. She needed the Lost One with her. More importantly, she wished with all her blood and bone Johan was with her, but it was