The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

saliva dropped slowly from his chin. They sat him down on the stool and Ralph fetched a beaker of water, the stars knew from where. The Lost One’s father drank some of it but then refused to drink any more, letting the water run down from his mouth, like the saliva. Simon used the edge of his cloak to wipe it away.
    “He needs to sleep,” he said, “and perhaps I shouldn’t have been so minded to talk with him in the first place. We are both beyond tired.”
    “It was not your fault,” Ralph said roughly, turning his face away. “I persuaded you.”
    This was true, in a sense, but Simon knew he himself was the most at fault. “Do not take my guilt upon yourself, Lord Tregannon, when we each have enough of our own to carry.”
    His words had more of the tone of command in them than he had wished to convey, but that too was good; it brought Ralph’s attention back to him, and Simon needed his help.
    “Show me where my father can lie down. Since I have started this conversation with him and it has disturbed him so, the burden of responsibility is mine. As it should be.”
    Simon could see the natural inclination in Ralph to dispute the order, but he was in no mood to be conciliatory and neither, it seemed, was the mind-cane, which flashed a brief silver across its frame and danced its way to his hand.
    The Lammas Lord shrugged. “You fall naturally into command, Scribe, but do not forget who is master of this castle, whatever I have done to it. Come then, I will, for the lack of any servant with me, find a place to act as refuge for your father.”
    With that, he set off, one steady hand at Simon’s father’s elbow, as the Lost One himself hurried to take the other. He could not help but smile to himself at Ralph’s haughty words. There was indeed much to think of.

    Ralph

    He isn’t certain what he hoped to achieve by bringing together Simon and his father, but it surely isn’t this. When he enters the room, the jagged auras around both men almost send him out again and he curses himself for his own foolishness. What has this attempt been but an effort to make things right with his own father, an impossible mission? He should have left well alone, but the proximity of the scribe is setting him on edge in ways he doesn’t wish to consider deeply.
    The only thing they can do now is wait and regain strength. In the morning, he will take the best of the people who have stayed and search for Jemelda until he finds her. She cannot be allowed to destroy the crops and drive them to starvation and beyond, when they are barely keeping their grasp on life as it is. He will not permit her to win.
    At his side, Simon stops abruptly, bringing the three of them to a halt, and coughs. “You cannot do all things at once, Ralph. Even Lammas at its best wasn’t formed in one day-cycle.”
    How Ralph easily forgets that the scribe can read him so, and he snorts a response. “But it has been brought to its knees in almost less than that, and I have not been instrumental in stopping our fall. You cannot blame me for wanting to right a wrong.”
    “Indeed not, my good Lord, but for that, as you so wisely think, we need rest and then a plan. Jemelda cannot fire your fields twice in one day-cycle. She will at the very least need more fire-oil.”
    Something else flashes in Simon’s eyes, and Ralph catches his breath, already knowing the answering desire rushing through his blood. He breaks the man’s gaze and turns away. Such thoughts are not fitting, although for a moment he longs for nothing more than to take Simon to his bed, such as it is, and show him how little the concept of rest is on his mind. By the stars above, this latest disaster has shaken him too much. And there is so much he wants to say to Simon but not in the presence of his father, though by the gods he will say it soon.
    He shakes his head and continues walking. The old man stumbles but manages to stay upright, and Ralph slows his pace to compensate. The conversation with Simon has made him forget for a moment the needs of his father. The scribe of course makes no comment.
    At last, Ralph arrives at a small room in the servants’ quarters which has, barely, survived the war’s onslaught. It does however have the advantage of a roof and a few threadbare blankets that can be used for a man’s rest. Simon nods.
    “Thank you. This will be sufficient, I hope.”
    With that, Simon turns and helps his father to sit on the softest of the blankets. It