by Anne Brooke
The mind-cane fell to the stone floor. Frankel was at his side, holding him up once again. Simon took a step back, anxious not to burn the man, but when he looked around, the fire had gone. Neither of them was in danger. Even the cane was still and silent.
He heard the sound of footsteps. Someone else was arriving at the great hall.
Ralph
He is unable to help his actions. Turning from them would have been like trying to turn back across a summer river in full spate. Once in his bedroom, the emeralds at Ralph’s side start to glitter and dance. As if they have been suddenly awoken after a long time or like a young fox sensing the pursuit of the hounds. Even the bag they are held in dances with them and glows a faint green.
Something of their energy fills his blood then and for the first time, at least in daylight, he opens the door of the private rooms and steps out into darkness.
He walks through scenes of near-destruction and the grief of a dying building. All he remembers is the need to follow where the strange jewels are leading and the need to turn his eyes away from the ruin of what once was home. Still, he can’t help but see and acknowledge the scars disfiguring the stonework, the smashed tables, the torn tapestries. And the scattering of decorative weaponry on the floor. Most of these are lying at the edges of the corridors. Someone must have tried to bring a kind of order out of the chaos filling the air. Tried and given up such a hopeless task. Once Ralph almost stumbles over a set of plain daggers, but his feet know their way. They turn neither to right nor to left, but follow the path the emeralds call them to.
It is only when he approaches the hallway that he senses Simon’s presence. Closer than he has anticipated, but still so far distant.
Ralph’s blood leaps upwards but he does not hesitate. His hand clutches the shining emeralds and he keeps on walking.
At the next heartbeat he stands in the once proud hallway and faces two men. One he usually never sees and the other is more deeply known to Ralph than his own thoughts. More frightening than any of those also.
He can think of nothing to say.
Frankel, the cook’s quiet husband, bows his head and takes a step backwards. He mutters something Ralph cannot hear. It may have been a greeting, or it may have been a curse. No matter. Because it is the other man – Simon of the White Lands – whom Ralph can see most clearly.
Of course it is not long since he has seen Simon, but this is the first time for what seems a life-season beyond the telling he has seen him without the fierce hand of the mind-executioner scaffolding all thoughts. Turning them deeper and with more bitterness into themselves. Twisting Ralph into the kind of man he thought he did not want to be. No matter. It is too late for regrets, although they almost drown him. Simon looks older, more wearied. Then again, don’t they all. The scribe seems barely able to support himself. Part of Ralph wants to step forward, offer help, but part of him knows there is no place for this here. Simon and he are now neither friends nor enemies. But something other, something he does not yet know.
Nor is it Ralph’s place to know.
For Simon has the mind-cane with him. The executioner’s cane. Which means one of only two things: Simon has come either to save them, or destroy them. Or perhaps both. Perhaps his reasoning is too narrow. Nothing about their whole sorry history has fallen the way Ralph would have wished it.
It strikes him for the first time that, with the cane, Simon can take what revenge he wishes upon him. He has the power to drive Ralph to the floor, prostrate him until he is begging to be released from the agony the mind-cane can bring about. For the pains he has inflicted on Simon alone – let alone on his country – he has every right to do so. Ralph will not run. He will accept whatever the gods and stars have in store.
Simon does nothing. He simply stares at Ralph. Like a man drinking down a flagon of water when he has been thirsty for many days, but who does not know what poisons may lurk within.
The mind-cane in his grasp leaps in his fingers but Simon holds onto it. Frankel steps away further. Something draws Ralph’s eye and he glances down. The emeralds are the brightest green he has ever seen them, but their warmth is missing. They are as cold as a tree in winter.
“Ralph,” Simon whispers at last. His voice is hoarse. He sounds as if he has much to say but the words are trapped in his mouth.
It is then Ralph understands that, whatever happens, he can do no good. Neither to Simon nor to any of the people in his care. All the power has gone to the scribe, the very man he once lorded it over, and Ralph has no place here. The castle, the villages, all the lands are Simon’s. The only thing he himself can do is to step aside.
As the last of the Tregannons, this is something he should do with dignity, holding on in some measure to the gifts his father gave him. But, after what has happened, Ralph’s mind is nothing more than a tattered wisp of what it once was. He has been fooling only himself with the hope anything can be different.
He curses in his mother’s language. Not with the words of the Tregannons, but with the words of those they claimed to despise.
Frankel cries out something and Simon steps forward. He seems stronger now but Ralph does not allow him to speak. He flings down the remaining emeralds at the scribe’s feet. Ralph is worthy of none of them. The jewels scatter like river-stones across the stone slabs of the hall. He does not wait to see where they will come to rest or what Simon will do.
Instead, he swings round and strides back the way he has come in unthinking hope. Back to the private rooms. Back to the dark.
Simon
The moment Ralph disappeared, the scribe dropped the cane and collapsed down onto the floor, running his hands through his hair. Frankel hovered around him, putting his weight first on one foot then another. If Simon hadn’t had the mind-energy knocked from him, he might even have thought this was amusing. Instead he could feel the rapid thud of his heart and the dryness in his throat. He should have been prepared for this, shouldn’t he? He’d come here to help Ralph, to help the Lammas Lands. He’d wanted to see Ralph, by the gods and stars, and he’d got his desire.
But he hadn’t expected to see the Lammas Master in such depths of surely insurmountable pain. The moment the man had walked in upon them, the sharp crimson jaggedness of his broken mind had swept over Simon like a winter storm. He’d hardly been able to breathe. He’d known Ralph would be damaged from the wars and from his encounters with the mind-executioner. Hadn’t he himself received thought-wounds he refused to remember fully from the cursed Gelahn? So, he’d expected this: pain, grief, regret and deep confusion. But the Lammas Overlord’s mind was barely there. Simply a series of impressions with no linking structure. This was not something Simon knew how to solve. Not at once, anyway. Even though the mere sight of Ralph had satisfied a need in Simon he knew could not be spirited away by any cane or emeralds, that didn’t matter. They had to find a quick solution to the troubles facing this land, before the winter depths were fully upon them. Otherwise the people would starve and Ralph would not be able to help them. They needed another way. But what? He groaned aloud and Frankel bent over him.
“Are you all right?” The old man’s eyes darted from where the scribe sat hunched on the floor to where the Overlord had vanished through the darkened doorway. Simon didn’t need to fathom his companion’s mind to know the appearance of the castle’s owner had sent the old servant into spasms of confusion and discomfort. That much was obvious. He had not considered it before, but it must be difficult for Ralph’s servants to see him brought so low, no matter what the justification for it.
“Yes,” he said. “Forgive me. I hadn’t expected to see Ralph like that.”
The old man blinked and took a step backwards and Simon sensed at once he’d crossed some kind of line without knowing it. Then it came to him. Of course. He was riding poorshod over their traditions as well as forcing himself upon their consciences.
“I mean the Lammas Lord,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to insult your ways by us
ing your Master’s chosen name. I simply wasn’t thinking.”
To his surprise, Frankel smiled. The expression softened his whole face.
“We 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 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 inner landscape which lay at the depths of his mind: the picture of peace and quietness that called to him always, but so far had been largely unfulfilled in his life. The cane hummed gently at his side. All he could do was wait until peace should come. He suspected it would take a while, and he hoped there would be wisdom enough to g
uide him through it.
Jemelda
They did not see the murderous scribe again all that day-cycle, and the fact of his return kept Jemelda awake all night. In the alcove in the kitchen, with the smells of bread and the faint hint of the remaining spices around her, she turned from one side to the other, and back again, never finding the comfort she sought. Occasionally the soft snores of Frankel accompanied her watching and once he shuffled across to her and held her gently in his arms. She didn’t dare move as she guessed he still slept. After a while though, he returned to his side of the makeshift bed and she was free to ponder on her own once more.
Her reaction to the scribe had surprised her. Yes, she wasn’t a fool. She knew only too well her responses to situations or events, particularly if unexpected, could be impassioned. You couldn’t run any kind of a kitchen in a castle like this without breaking a few sheaves of wheat. Not to mention pots and pans. No good cook she’d ever known had been calm. Not that a good cook was needed now. There was so little food and only the Lammas Lord, Apolyon, her husband and herself to feed. With all of her spirit, she longed to be able to feed the lost villagers of Lammas too, but they kept to the outlying fields and woods, gleaning what nourishment they could from the winter berries and only occasionally venturing back for what shelter they might find. Their source of food was unlikely to last long, with the snows beginning to threaten to the full, and the wars had destroyed the field-gleanings, consuming them with fire and darkness. Soon they were all likely to starve, or be torn apart by the wolves. Gods and stars preserve them. She had denied the truth for as long as she could but she had no choice but to admit that what was needed was not food, but a saviour.