Read Online The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane by Anne Brooke - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anne Brooke
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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
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
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