The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

scattering of autumn pine-nuts and water which Ralph drinks straight from the jug. The first time this occurred on the day-cycle after he returned, he only drank the water and ate some of the nuts, but the second morning his resolve broke and he tore at the bread like an animal. Indeed he no longer knows whether he is fully a Lammasser or part of the beasts. It is beyond the telling. The gods and stars do what they will. Ralph has always believed in them more than Simon did. Then again, they were drummed out of the scribe at an early stage of life, whereas Ralph must, it seems, encounter now the place where the paths twist into darkness.
    But enough. If he is not to dress or cleanse himself, then he must needs do something. Whilst he has kept himself enclosed for the initial day-cycles, for the most recent ones he has been walking the crumbling walls of the once beautiful castle. Ralph’s eyes take in the scarred carvings, the torn-down tapestries and the muddied rugs. He has stumbled over the remains of his father’s chairs and felt the newly-roughened edges of the dining table. It is covered in dusts and cobwebs. Everywhere the wood-spiders take over, encroaching on the riches and beauty of what once was his with their silken white orbs. The breeze from where he passes them makes them drift, shimmering against the half-light.
    Perhapstoday he will walk again. A ghost in his own home, a phantom of the wood. Much like the wood-spiders, in many ways. In truth he is surprised those he once promised to protect have not yet murdered him. If he were in their minds, then Ralph does not think he would be so forbearing. But he is not his people, and they are not him. Now more than ever.
    It is only when his hand is at the door that something stops him. Almost like a glint at the edge of his vision. Something that has not been there before, or that he has failed to notice. He swings round, and almost falls. He is too weak for sudden action, of any kind. He steadies himself against the wall and the stone-leavings sift through his fingers. He can feel their dampness against his skin.
    A shaft of light illuminates the room dust and is just as suddenly gone. Without wanting to, Ralph takes three paces to the window and leans out. The chill air makes him gasp and he shivers. He can see nothing untoward. Only the abandoned courtyard, the glint of the stream and the ruined booth where the best of his soldiers once guarded him. He has no idea where the army are now. He has not dared think about it, not since the mind-executioner raised an army for himself from the dead of Ralph’s. He does not believe he will ever forget the terrifying noise of their bones and the sight of their empty eyes as they marched upon the hapless Gathandrians. They too haunt his dreams.
    So what then has brought him to the window? He grips the stone ledge more firmly and tries to concentrate. But still he senses nothing. He must learn to put away foolish notions and continue to keep himself as hidden as he can. When he turns round, however, Ralph’s glance drifts over the door to his bedroom. He rubs one hand over his face and back through his hair. His palm comes away brushed with dirt. He has no wish to enter his bedroom even though any sane Lammasser would do it without a qualm. He has not opened that door since arriving back here once more and he swore to himself on the first day-cycle that he would not. It reminds him only of the mind-executioner and what he has done. It reminds Ralph too of Simon. One bad memory and one that should in some respects be good. But he is capable of dealing with neither. He does not have the faith that the future will be worth the risk-taking. Not any more.
    Indeed he wonders if he has any faith, of any kind, left at all.

    Jemelda

    After so much war and the devastation caused by men, it is a wonder she had a kitchen left to work in. That was the one and only thing she could see to be thankful for on this chill morning. Jemelda Littlewater, third daughter of a third daughter and the last in a long line of Tregannon cooks, shook out her baking cloth and scattered over it the last of the herbs. Dried winter-larch and field-ginger. It was all she had left. To this she added the corn-flour and enough sprinkling of water from the ewer to form a dough. For a while, she kneaded the mixture, feeling the soft warmth and stickiness coating her fingers. With each push of her shoulders, she let out a little grunt. Just enough to