The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

morning, just after the time of the fast-breaking, by his calculation of the sun. The men should be leaving for the fields and the womenfolk caring for the children or doing the thousand and more tasks left to them. He could smell no baking and hear no talk or even laughter, if laughter were possible. Where was everyone?
    For a while he explored the village, stumbling over broken stone and the remains of what the villagers had abandoned: half-eaten and rotting vegetables; scattered herbs; a torn cloak, small enough for a child. This last he picked up and held it to his face for a moment before placing it back down on the ground. He needed to find someone – anyone – and he needed to ask them exactly what had happened. How bad the mind-wars had been. Yes, he had seen the destruction when the mind-executioner, Gelahn, had brought him here before, and he saw it again now. But he needed to hear a Lammasser speak. There was of course no guarantee they would wish to speak to him . After his near hanging in Lammas, it was only the good will and courage of the Gathandrians which had saved him at all.
    Not a pleasant memory indeed, for a variety of very good reasons.
    In Simon’s hand, the cane suddenly felt warmer, and at the same time the snow-raven spread his wings and rose into the air. That great bill opened and from it a single sphere of gold and black fell into Simon’s outstretched fingers. He didn’t grasp it but let it settle in his palm. For two heartbeats, the beauty of it pierced his skin and then the colours flowed away and nothing remained. Still he knew what the colours meant, or at least what they meant to him. The livery of Ralph’s army, the insignia of the soldiers. The thought of it made him shiver but when he looked up the raven was circling, the beat of his wings pushing the great bird further away from where Simon stood. Towards the Lammas castle.
    “As you wish then,” he muttered. “I will go to the castle. Though I fear it is not there my search should begin.”
    Nonetheless, when Simon turned and set his face towards Ralph’s home, he noticed the warmth in his hand inspired by the cane spread upwards over his skin, and his heartbeat quickened. He was still a fool then, as he had always been. But this time, at least greater matters were at stake. The matter of repairing the damage done to Lammas, damage he himself had in large part brought upon their heads.
    The path from the village to the castle was not usually an arduous one, in spite of the climb. In the past Ralph Tregannon had enjoyed an eagle’s eye view over his subjects from his home, but the distance between village and castle had not been great. Now, however, Simon found himself scrabbling for a foothold, slipping backwards in mud and becoming entangled in thorns. Overhead the raven released a harsh cry into empty air, whilst the mind-cane hissed and fizzed in his grip. Simon cursed and released it. If it wasn’t going to help him at this point, then it could fend for itself. It always had before. The cane’s silver top sparked and the artefact began to hum. Simon scrambled away, slamming his back against a ruined tree which creaked ominously at the weight of him, but no further threat transpired. He should stop being so nervous. He was part of the cane and it was part of him. He understood that now. He should not be so afraid, but a lifetime’s cowardice did not fade away quickly. He needed time.
    “Which I probably do not have,” he muttered again, wondering if he would in fact ever meet another person to engage in conversation or not. “Nothing in these wars has ever happened in the way we planned it.”
    The cane quivered and Simon stood up, trying to brush mud from his cloak but succeeding only in smearing it further downwards. Annyeke, the new Gathandrian First Elder, would not be happy if she saw him like this; the cloak had been one of the parting gifts she had offered when he left the city and he had been pleased to accept it. He was not a man used to needlework. He filled a space in his mind with the knowledge he would have to clean his clothes before he saw his Gathandrian friends again, or all the gods and stars would never be able to rescue him. Not that he seemed to have much control over the way the emeralds allowed him to travel in any case. Thinking about this brought Ralph to mind once more; the emeralds belonged to the Tregannons. Simon should in all decency return them, even though he was likely to