The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

Tregannon like a disease he couldn’t rid himself of. Nor did he want to, may the stars preserve him. It was astonishing the raven and the mind-cane, both clothed in purity as they were, stayed with him.
    At the castle entrance, Frankel stepped through, but Simon paused, touching the broken brickwork with cautious fingers. He found his throat was dry and his skin damp. A damnable combination.
    “ Scribe ...”
    Frankel’s voice floated out of the interior darkness. He must be able to see Simon’s shape clearly enough, but the old man was invisible to him in the gloom. Simon wiped one hand over his face as his own history, and the knowledge of Ralph’s presence somewhere in this castle, beat at his skin.
    The next moment, a gentle pressure was at his shoulder, and he could sense the reassuring mauve presence of the old man. Even in the midst of the storm rocking Simon’s mind, he had the wherewithal to acknowledge Frankel’s courage in touching him while he still held the cane. “Thank you.”
    “Do you want to come in?”
    Simon nodded. “Yes, but …”
    “… it’s difficult,” Frankel completed the scribe’s thought after a heartbeat or two.
    That, he thought, was an understatement. “Yes, more difficult than I’d anticipated.”
    “There’s nowhere else but the castle that’s fit for living now.” Partly due to the fact Frankel was still holding his shoulder, making the mind-link easier, Simon sensed this wasn’t entirely true. There were one or two dwellings in the village which still maintained some form of shelter. The fact neither Frankel nor Jemelda had offered those did not surprise him; they did not trust him. Even where they feared him – and he was sure they did – they would want to keep him close. They would want, more than anything, to keep the remnant of their people safe. He would have much to prove, if they let him.
    Now he answered Frankel’s lie. “Then I will have to show more courage than I currently am, won’t I?”
    He moved forward and the old man stepped aside to allow him through. His hand fell away from Simon’s shoulder. He was alone.
    Simon remembered so well the first time he’d come here. He’d been aching to see Ralph again, his whole skin quivering with anticipation. Not fully knowing what drove him onward, but knowing he had no real choice. The Lammas Master had overpowered his mind – no, all of him – from the first moment they’d met. He’d not been able to keep away. But from that one encounter had flowed all the destruction which had brought them to this: threats; murder; and war. Or perhaps this was not entirely true. The heart of these dark matters had always been there, but what had happened between Ralph Tregannon and himself had allowed them room to live.
    He should have walked away the moment he’d heard Ralph’s voice.
    Here, in the darkened hall, he blinked as his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. The tapestries of the seasons he’d once admired so much were torn and ragged, their colours bleeding or faded. Spring, summer, autumn and winter entirely gone, the girl and boy, the man and woman on them no more.
    Without warning, Simon found himself on his knees. Gods and stars, I’m sorry.
    The words reverberated in his mind, over and over again, and he was distantly aware of the humming of the mind-cane and the slight vibration of its shape in his hand. Frankel had backed off, he realised. Gods, he didn’t want to frighten anyone. He struggled to rise, but the seas sweeping through his thoughts wouldn’t let him. It was like the first time he’d met the mind-executioner, but without the fire and with only an overwhelming understanding of blue. All its tones and shades. He was drowning, but the vast waters came from within. The only enemy here was himself.
    The only hope also.
    After the length of no more than a spring-season story, he understood the words he’d been chanting in his thoughts were now flowing from his tongue and into the dampened air. He let them come. He could never have stopped them.
    “Gods and stars, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Gods and stars, I’m sorry.”
    Finally, his words stilled and he wiped his eyes clear again. Something had changed. The room was lighter, more peaceful. No, he was both those things. Whatever had been trapped inside him had found a door to flow through. The space and freedom left gave him room for something else. But what?
    Simon sat back, uncurled his legs and rose to a