The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

longed to hear, but the silence held court over the castle. He closed his eyes and conjured up the vision of the snow-raven, feeling the feathers and whiteness and strange unknowable warmth in his mind. Come to me, I the Lost One command it.
    A whoosh and displacement of air, and when he opened his eyes, the great white bird was floating like a ghost from the corner of the roof towards him. His heart beat faster. He did not relish his journey but it was needful. He reached out to the raven but the bird fluttered away from his grasp, its wings brushing against his face before they eased away. He took a breath and waited for the raven’s flight path to bring him near once more. When it did, Simon reached further out of the window and tried to catch those vast wings, but again the raven eluded him. He cursed to himself, knowing he had no time to waste. He must be with the people if they would ever accept him amongst them. If he let them down a second time, why should they learn to trust him? What did the snow-raven want and what prevented the bird from fulfilling his command?
    In his hands the mind-cane lurched, and the memory of his journey to Gathandria flooded his thought: the mountain; the wild dogs; the path to the air-kingdom where the ravens dwelt. A time when his desperation had unaccountably turned to courage, of a sort. A time when he had needed to prove his heart’s true path, or its beginning.
    Simon nodded. He understood. He must then launch out into the deep once more and the time for proof was not yet over.
    He scrambled up so his legs balanced precariously on the crumbling window ledge. Let the snow-raven do what it might, he would fulfil the test the bird gave him, and more if he could. Yes. You know it. Ignoring the piercing pain overpowering his body, the Lost One launched himself from the high castle window with a shout. An instant of plummeting down to certain injury and a likely second death, and then something soft and strong caught him, snatching him upwards in the air. He did not know how the raven had reached him when the bird had been at the outer section of the courtyard when he fell, but Simon clung to feather and talon nonetheless, still somehow holding on to the mind-cane. He could do no other. By the gods and stars, the three of them would soar or topple together, so it seemed.
    The raven kept to no earthly route, but danced the sky-path’s song so their journey was a mere jotting of the time-cycle it would have taken Simon to traverse it, even without the pain. He could smell the fire before the ravished field came into view, a sultry acid tang of burning the wind carried to him. By the stars, how fire and its cursing had harried him since he met the mind-executioner, and now it had risen again to haunt him.
    He would overcome it, no matter what Jemelda intended. He had beaten death, with the gods’ help, and it was this he was made for. As the snow-raven floated above the field, Simon glanced down and saw the ravages beneath. Most of the seed sown would be lost but there might yet be some they could save. The fire-oil’s explosion had taken the heart-energy of the blaze away, and the men and women had started to beat out the flames that were left. He could not see Ralph amongst the crowd but he would be there, somewhere. Simon could sense it.
    Bring me to the earth.
    The words left his mind before he could fully comprehend them and he felt the warmth of the mind-cane flooding through his frame. The snow-raven turned on the whim of a wing and dropped towards the land. As the earth rose up to greet him, dizzyingly fast, Simon waited a moment more, heart beating double-rate, and then let go. He landed on something softer than he had expected, and without the heat of burning to it. That didn’t stop the red fire of pain ripping through his skin as he came to a halt, but at least he was feeling it in the land of breath, not where the dead lay waiting.
    The great bird gave one long screech, a note of green edged with yellow tones, and flapped slowly away. He would have no more help from the snow-raven this night, but the bird had brought him here and that was what had been necessary.
    Whatever was underneath him and had softened his fall moved and made a sound like a slow groaning.
    “Simon?” the Lammas Lord whispered.

    Jemelda

    She watched the scene from the edge of the woods. Nobody could see her, or at least no-one battling the flames on the field had time to confront her and