The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

carving, into his fingers. Then up his arm, across his body and into his outstretched palm. The snow-raven at once spread his wings and launched his great frame from the top of the castle, swooping down and down, straight towards where Simon stood. The scribe gasped, took a step back to save himself, his heart beating double-rate through his blood. Still he stood firm and merely ducked as the bird swept by, feathers brushing against his arm and cheek.
    “By the gods and stars,” he muttered, “what are you doing?”
    Banking on the onward trajectory, the raven swung round near the stream and flapped the last few field-paces back towards him. Before the bird could even think of alighting on his hand, an act that surely would have felled him to the earth for many hour-cycles, Simon dropped the cane and folded his arms against his chest. The moment the cane fell to the earth, the silver glow on Simon’s skin vanished and the raven landed in a swirl of white feathers and strange elegance next to the mind-artefact. The great bird cocked his head, and that strange dark eye regarded him once more. The scribe blinked. For a long moment, he felt as if somehow he’d failed to carry through an action he could not fully understand. And then the intensity of the bird’s gaze and the continuing silence of the courtyard were broken by the sharp cry of a female voice.
    He swung round.
    A small plump woman was marching up to him. He had no idea where she had come from. He could see no obvious doorway nearby. Without any warning, Simon could feel the power of her name in his head: Jemelda . The shapes of the letters he saw in his thoughts were laced with red. He gulped and waited for her to reach him.
    When she did so, she ignored the silent bird. Instead she glared at the cane and then at him. Then she spoke.
    “How dare you come to us like this,” she hissed. “You will never in the eternal time-cycles now or to come be welcome here amongst the Lammas people. Murderer .”

Chapter Two: An Unexpected Guest

    Ralph

    In the end he had been able to do nothing. Every time he wakes and all through his darkest dreams, he sees that moment in the circle when he could not even bring himself to step forward to save Simon from the mind-executioner’s threat. The Gathandrian elder had done what he had not found the courage for. She, a mere slip of a woman, had taken a sword and cut through the executioner’s neck, bringing the war to a final and bloody end.
    The battle indeed had been hers.
    Afterwards Ralph Tregannon had slipped away, the family emeralds – at least those of them he still possessed at that time-cycle – providing an easy route back to a home he no longer knew. The Lammas lands. He had heard Simon’s shout as he had stepped into the strange green circle, but he had not turned back to acknowledge it. He would never have been able to look Simon in the eyes. Even though his presence had made Ralph’s skin tingle and quake. As it does so now, whenever he thinks of him. Pleasure and shame. A heady brew. More powerful than the freshest wheat-beer.
    Ralph opens his eyes and the dream shimmers into emptiness. He is lying, as has been his wont in these day-cycles since his return, in his dressing-room. Above, the shattered roof gives way to the morning sky. There are a few clouds in the small gap allotted to him but the wind rolls them along quickly and he thinks it might rain later. No matter. There remain still other rooms in his ruined home that would better shelter him, but something in Ralph’s blood commands him to stay here. A few raindrops wetting the skin and this sparse bedding are as nothing compared to what he has done to the people under his care. They have neither shelter nor comfort; why then should he seek any?
    Nonetheless, sense dictates that as Ralph pulls himself awake and upward, he gathers the blankets together, folds them as small as they will go and stores them next to the strongest wall. It makes no difference anyway as he barely sleeps. His dreams are waking ones. If he needed to, he would dress himself but he has neither changed his torn clothing nor washed his body since returning. Somehow it seems a step too far. He has eaten though, a little. Food has been left outside the door at least once a day, he does not know by whom. Perhaps the young steward? Though he has seen nobody so cannot confirm his assumption. Whoever they are, they leave dried hunks of bread, stale goats cheese, a poor