The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

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