The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

his mind like the hottest of flames. He sat down. It was the first time he had heard his father’s voice for so long and he found he had no idea how to respond to the sensations it stirred within him.
    “Right about what?” he whispered.
    Instead of an answer, the old man began to sway, shaking his head fiercely from side to side, and rocking on his stool so Simon feared he might fall. It would have been easy to sense his thoughts, but Simon did not wish to do it, partly from courtesy and partly from fear. His father’s mind was unstable and likely to remain so; touching him and forming a thought-link would only crush his fragility entirely, and despite everything which had happened and not happened between them he did not wish to do that.
    Still, the old man was saying words, but they were so low the scribe could hardly make them out. “Please, I don’t know what you’re saying. Look at me, I can’t hear you.”
    It was no use. His father was swaying dangerously now and his muttering was rising swiftly to become a chant which pierced Simon’s mind. The old man would hurt himself and then their progress, if there had been any, would be for nought. The cane sparked a greater warmth in his hand, and the Lost One brought it upwards, reaching across to touch the old man’s shoulder with the ebony tip of the artefact. At the same time, he concentrated his thoughts to provide a mind-net of safety for his father, channelling its strength through the cane and into the old man’s body. Where he was afraid to touch him, the presence of the mind-cane might provide a higher grace. With the power to kill and bring to life which lay in the cane’s sleek ebony, it was madness, but it was sanity also; what Simon could not perform, the artefact most certainly could, if he willed it so. And will it he did, as much as was in his power.
    The first touch of the cane caused silver sparks to fly from his father’s skin, and the old man tried to get away but Simon held him there. I will not hurt you, he said, knowing that with the connection his father could understand him even if he would not reply. The cane is a bridge, not a sword to me. Please, have faith, as you once had faith in my mother.
    His father’s eyes widened, but the sparks from the cane faded and his struggle eased. He was breathing heavily, but not too quickly, a sound that echoed Simon’s own heart as he brought the renewed power of his thought to bear on the mind-cane’s link.
    The old man’s lips moved, but this time Simon could hear the words clearly. “The cane is death, it is cursed.”
    So I thought once, he said, believe me. But it sings to me and I listen.
    “Your mother used to sing. She sang like the winter-lark.”
    The Lost One blinked away tears, the cane trembling in his hand. Yes, she did. I remember, always.
    “Because of you, Charis died.”
    Simon flinched. There was so much injustice in that statement he could not find words enough to gainsay it. But it was true too, wasn’t it? In a fashion.
    Because of you also, he countered.
    “No.” A sudden flash of colour poured through the cane and up into Simon’s thought. At once everything in his mind turned to nothing so only a shadow he couldn’t interpret remained. At the same time, his father twisted sideways and launched himself at Simon so the two of them landed on the floor with a clatter, the old man beating at Simon’s body like a man possessed. By the gods, this is lunacy, the Lost One thought, glad he could think at all, and it was a matter of moments only for him to roll his father over and hold down his arms against the floor.
    Be still, will you.
    A few more breaths when Simon could see the rebellion in his father’s mind and then his colours faded out of all sensing. The old man cackled with laughter and began to speak again, but it was nothing but gibberish and child’s talk. Was this the way that madness dwelt?
    “What are you doing, Simon?”
    From behind him, Ralph’s voice cut in to the room like a scythe cutting through corn. What does it look like, Lammas Lord?
    A snort of laughter, barely suppressed. “It does not look like talking.”
    “No,” Simon said, relieved to let his mouth take the burden of words this time. “But though you may not believe it, I was doing my best.”
    He rose to his feet and, together, he and Ralph helped his father get up. By now, the old man was shaking and stabbing at his own body with gnarled fingers while a long dribble of