The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

trust me, I know,” he said, “but I have come back and offered myself to your and the people’s judgement. If it is a trick to ensnare you again, why would I put myself in danger first? I have the mind-cane and am learning the means to use it. I am not an executioner, Frankel. I have never played any kind of deadly mind-game.”
    “Except for the ones you allowed for the Lammas Lord,” Frankel whispered.
    Simon felt his thoughts twist within him and looked away from the cook’s husband. “Yes. Except for those.”
    He could feel the old man’s eyes piercing him and so turned back to take the accusation to the full. He’d come back to face the crimes of his past so, by the gods and stars, that was what he would do. In his hand he felt a warm tingle, as if he were holding the cane; but that was impossible as the artefact remained outside. He frowned as the old man’s gaze continued to sweep through him and he wondered what Frankel saw, both of good and bad.
    His companion coughed. “The old bread store is scarcely in use these day-cycles. You could keep your cane there.”
    “Thank you.”
    Frankel gestured him outside, and Simon wrapped his cloak around himself. The morning air held its winter bite. At the threshold, the mind-cane hummed at his approach, and the scribe could sense the sudden impact of fear in the old man’s thoughts. Simon grasped the cane before it could cause any further disquiet and gave Frankel what he hoped might be a reassuring smile. Above them, the snow-raven arced and wheeled in the snow-filled air.
    The old man shuffled past him, risking the odd glance at the cane, and then hobbled towards the corner of the castle, away from the destroyed bridge. Simon followed him, struggling to keep his footing on the snow. Halfway along the north wall, Frankel bent down and grasped a small handle Simon had never noticed before. Inside he could see a long cupboard with one or two offcuts of bread at the side.
    “Is that all the bread you have left?”
    The old man nodded. “My wife bakes what she can from the spices she has but there is only one of her and little flour of any grain. We do what we can. There is room enough for your cane.”
    As the Lost One placed the mind-cane on the bread-dusty floor, the snow-raven cried out from the skies and swooped towards them. Simon grabbed Frankel, shielding his body from the bird’s talons but in the end what covered them for one moment only were the soft feathers of the raven. The bird flapped slowly away to perch on top of the deserted guards’ booth on the other side of the courtyard and the chill rushed in again.
    The scribe let the old man go, and Frankel stood and brushed down his thin cloak.
    “I’m sorry,” Simon said, blushing. “I thought the worst.”
    The old man nodded. “Sometimes the worst does not happen.”
    Simon hoped this might be true, but he could not be sure of it. In the meantime, the mind-cane remained where he’d placed it in the bread-cupboard, and was neither humming nor glowing. He closed the door and stood up.
    “Where should I wait until Jemelda returns?” he asked.
    Frankel sighed. “We are not an unkind people. Warm yourself in the kitchen, scribe, until my wife returns.”
    During the next three hour-cycles, Simon thought of many things. Memories and old hopes, which he knew he would have either to discard or resurrect in a new way very soon. The old man didn’t disturb him, but carried out a few light chores as they waited. When the scribe offered to help, Frankel shook his head and in truth, Simon was glad of the time spent with his thoughts. He tried in his mind to place the villagers and found it strange that in the many moon-cycles he’d known them, only a few had remained solid in his memory. Thomas the blacksmith was the man he had known best, and even there the acquaintance had been slight. The scribe’s memory skittered over the evil he had done to the man; if the blacksmith still lived, then Simon knew the artisan would not be kind in his judgement. He realised how much his relationship with Ralph had prevented him from building any kind of links with the villagers with whom he had once lived. Then again, his privilege at being part of the Lammas Lord’s entourage had kept him apart from most, and when the murders had started, he had helped his Lord to bring them about. It was an astonishment that Jemelda and Frankel had not wished to kill him at once; in their position he would have been