Free The Executioner's Cane by Anne Brooke Page A

minds. Simon could sense his
companion’s sudden remembered realisation of the scribe’s skills
even before Frankel snatched his hand away. There was nothing he
could do to reassure him however, nor any real apology he could
make. The fact – the essential difference he possessed which most,
though not all, of the Lammas people did not – was what it was. He
could neither deny nor gainsay it. But, because of the man’s
kindness to him, and because what he was doing here was so fragile,
so fragmented, this time he found himself speaking. There in the
darkness with the brightness of the torches Frankel held as the
only link between them.
    “I’m sorry for that too,” he whispered,
understanding with his gifting how the old man needed no further
explanation of the subject matter. “I cannot help what my mind can
do, but believe me when I say I do not delve into matters which are
private to those around me as far as I have the power. I have
enough troubles of my own. I know what I have done in the past –
murdered men and women for the dreams and ideas their minds held –
is beyond any forgiveness I can name or call on. But I speak of the
present, Frankel, not of what has gone before.”
    The old man swallowed. Simon could hear the
noise of it in the silence layering the air. The scribe waited.
Finally the man spoke.
    “We only have the present now,” he said. “As
you say. We must do with it what we can.”
    And then he swung round and walked away, on
the path they had been on before Simon stumbled. After what seemed
like an eternity of twists and winding corners, Frankel stopped. He
ducked his head and disappeared into the gloom. Simon blinked, the
memories of his strange journey to Gathandria with Johan flooding
his mind. He shook them away; things were different here. Instead
he followed suit and found himself in a small room where the four
walls around him and the roof above at least seemed fairly intact.
There would be then some protection from the wind and foul
weather.
    Frankel was in the act of positioning one of
the blazing torches in the sconce. The shadows shifted across the
stonework, making strange animals and mythical beasts across the
light and darkness. Simon shivered and wrapped his cloak around
himself more fully.
    “This is all we have which remains fit for
habitation,” he said. “It was once used for the chickens and pigs
but they have long gone.”
    Simon smiled. “I am simply grateful for the
shelter, and ask for no more.”
    For the first time, Frankel lifted his head
fully and gazed at the scribe. There was something in the old man’s
expression which reminded him of Jemelda. Indeed, when Frankel
spoke, it was with intensity, not gentleness.
    “On the contrary,” he said, “you are here
amongst us and therefore you ask for much.”
    Simon swallowed. “Yes, perhaps you are right.
For now, I wish to stay here for a while, compose my thoughts.
Meditate in order to prepare for what is to come.”
    For another long moment – almost the time it
would take to begin a spring story for the children – the two men
were silent. Then Frankel shrugged and coughed, and the
determination which had wrapped him around vanished away. The
scribe could feel it easing through the stones and out into the
air. The old man was himself again.
    “You may do what you will here,” he said.
“When you are ready, and you wish to speak with my wife, then if
you retrace our steps and turn right whenever you find a choice is
needed, you will find us well enough again. It will bring you to
the master’s hallway.”
    Then he was gone, the fire from his remaining
torch lighting his way. Simon smiled to himself. If he had been
paying more attention to the direction of their travel and less to
the jagged wounds of the colours sweeping over his mind, perhaps he
would have realised the logic of the path. Still, he understood it
now.
    For a while, he steadied his breath, trying
to centre his thoughts on the rich