Free The Executioner's Cane by Anne Brooke

are not fools, scribe,” he replied. “We
understand how things were between you both. And, besides, who
knows what our customs should be now-seasons? We neither have a
people nor a land to uphold them.”
    The dust settled slowly over the old man’s
words, perhaps the truest ones Simon had so far encountered since
his arrival. He nodded. Then he reached across and gathered the
emeralds Ralph had flung at him before he left. As he touched each
one, a glimmer of green washed over his hand and the mind-cane
trembled. Finally he picked up the cane also and rose to his feet.
His cloak felt clammy from the dust and dirt lining the floor.
    When he was level with Frankel again, Simon
spoke. “Where will the Lammas Lord have gone?”
    “He has been keeping mainly to his private
rooms, sir. Sometimes, Jemelda or I think perhaps he walks alone
through the ruins of his castle at night, but we have not seen him.
It is just an impression we have. But he sees no-one and, until
today, has talked to no-one either. I think truly he has abandoned
us.”
    “I hope that will turn out not to be as true
as you think,” Simon said softly, “but I admit I cannot tell.
Please, can you show me to the room I may stay in while I am
here?”
    Frankel nodded before leaving. “Wait here,”
he said. “I did not expect it to be so dark. I will fetch
light.”
    Simon found it strange how, even though it
was morning, there was scarcely any light entering the great hall
from any source. He waited quietly in the dimness, knowing this
also to be magic, and sending out a thin flurry of thought to try
to sense any clues the broken stone might give him. He did not send
any of these in the direction of the Overlord. Some griefs were
best left private. However, he could sense nothing useful – only
the pains and defeats he already knew. Not even the mind-cane gave
him any inroads. Simon wondered if the legacy of the
mind-executioner had been to dampen down the natural vigour of the
land and its people, as well as the brightness of their sun, and if
that oppression was upon them even now. It would explain the
strange numbness and near silence of his thoughts when they
returned to him.
    But he had no time to meditate on this any
further as he heard the sound of Frankel’s footsteps and saw the
flicker of light from the two fire-torches he held. He must have
struck them to life in his wife’s kitchen. Simon wondered if the
two of them had spoken about Ralph.
    The old man glanced round as he entered the
hallway as if he expected his master might have returned. He
half-shrugged when he saw nobody but Simon.
    “Please, Scribe,” he said, his voice low.
“Follow me and I will take you to a shelter of sorts.”
    “Thank you,” Simon replied and fell into step
behind Frankel. The mind-cane nestled in his grip and he felt the
unfamiliar press of the new emeralds at his side.
    In silence, the two men walked through the
all but ruined castle. The scribe scarcely recognised any of the
routes they took. It was as if the former familiarity he had gained
here had been cast away into the skies and might never be found
again. The sensitivity of his impressions was heightened due to the
presence of the cane; he caught the cavernous echo of crimson pain
and purple sorrow, the feel of them swirling across the dusty air
and dimness. Each wave of colour pressed deep into his mind and he
found himself gripping the cane with more purpose than was
customary. Whether that helped or hindered his journey in any way
was another matter entirely. Once the sharpness of red piercing his
thoughts made him gasp and he stumbled, but Frankel turned and
steadied him, holding both torches temporarily in one hand. The
closeness of the flame brought fire to Simon’s cheeks.
    “Forgive me,” he said. “The castle seems
jagged. It’s hard to concentrate on walking when my head is
throbbing with colour.”
    The old man nodded as if any of this would
bear logic for someone who didn’t read