Free The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane by Anne Brooke

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 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,