The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

in case Ralph wished to ride, but the Lammas Lord merely shook his head and walked on, his limp not as pronounced as was usual for the end of a day. Still, Simon set a slower pace to lessen any pain. He would feel it too if it happened.
    As they walked, the Lost One gripped the mind-cane close and remembered. The snow-raven had flown on ahead and he could not see the bird for the darkening sky. He trusted the raven would know when to appear again, if he did. All the time, in his memory Simon saw Carthen, his lost boy, and Isabella too, Johan’s sister. Alongside her, Iffenia, the elder’s dead wife, and all the havoc she had wrought in the lives of Jemelda and, through her, Frankel. Simon hoped one day Frankel could be easy in his presence, but he understood this would not be soon, if he was spared tonight. Still, he prayed for it, and with a depth which had not been present in his prayers for a long time. He remembered Thomas the Blacksmith also, and his own father, and he wished with all his soul his father could have lived. Simon would have tried to come close to him if that particular blessing had been granted, in a way they had never been close for most of his life. There was no saying if he could have done this, but for the love of the stars he would have liked to try.
    Impatiently, Simon brushed a hand over his eyes and felt Ralph’s brief touch on his arm. It gave him strength. Some things were not destined to be, and his father’s return to him was one of those.
    But this evening, he had other matters to attend to, and he must give them his undivided heart, mind and soul if they were to be carried out to the full. Ralph would know all soon.
    Finally the two men reached the edge of the Lammas boundary, the fields which led to where the mountains had once been, in their ancient splendour. The mind-cane in Simon’s hand began to hum, although he could see no sight of the snow-raven.
    But it was the mind-cane which had brought him here, wasn’t it? All those day-cycles of terror, discovery and strange deep joy had brought him once more to this place. Not long ago, but how it seemed like a lifetime since the scribe had stood here, at the path to the mountains, poised between one life and another. How well he remembered the fear which had thundered through him, fear of what the Gathandrians, Johan and the unfortunate Isabella, had asked him to do, fear of the mountains, fear for the young boy that had stood next to him, and fear for himself.
    He had taken the first step then, but the choices on that day-cycle had been obvious: stay in Lammas and die, or travel through the terrifying mountains and live. Today, the choices were not so clear. The Lost One frowned and the humming of the mind-cane at his side intensified. Turning towards the artefact, he grasped it more closely, but as had been increasingly the case during these last seven-days, it danced out of his grip. How he missed the warmth of it flowing through his thoughts.
    What did it need from Simon? Had he ever in fact been the master it wanted him to be, and could he be so in the future? He would not know until he enquired of it. He squared his shoulders and faced the mind-cane, hands outstretched to the side and vulnerable.
    For a heartbeat before he spoke, he was going to sift the words only in his thoughts, knowing the cane could read him, but then he understood he was here not simply of his own volition, but on behalf of Lammas, and Gathandria, and all the countries beyond. So his voice met the evening air and twisted into the wind.
    “I don’t know what you want,” he told the cane, “and perhaps I have never done so. But you have been both an enemy and a friend to me, and whatever you wish I will try to do it. You know the visions I have seen these last few day-cycles, but I cannot sift their rightness from my own imaginings, and fears too. So, please, speak to me in a way I can truly understand.”
    Simon had thought the cane would come to him then, rest in his hand in the way he longed for it to do. Instead, silver fire flew from its carving, something like the sun and stars, and surrounded him with light. He heard Ralph cry out and then everything went silent.
    He opened his eyes, not having realised he had closed them but the light must have been too bright to bear. It was softer now, thank the stars, so he sat up from where he had fallen, and stretched out his hand. At once he heard a low and unfamiliar voice.
    It is time.
    Whether