The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane Read Free

indeed had been hers.
    Afterwards Ralph Tregannon had slipped away, the family emeralds – at least those of them he still possessed at that time-cycle – providing an easy route back to a home he no longer knew. The Lammas lands. He had heard Simon’s shout as he had stepped into the strange green circle, but he had not turned back to acknowledge it. He would never have been able to look Simon in the eyes. Even though his presence had made Ralph’s skin tingle and quake. As it does so now, whenever he thinks of him. Pleasure and shame. A heady brew. More powerful than the freshest wheat-beer.
    Ralph opens his eyes and the dream shimmers into emptiness. He is lying, as has been his wont in these day-cycles since his return, in his dressing-room. Above, the shattered roof gives way to the morning sky. There are a few clouds in the small gap allotted to him but the wind rolls them along quickly and he thinks it might rain later. No matter. There remain still other rooms in his ruined home that would better shelter him, but something in Ralph’s blood commands him to stay here. A few raindrops wetting the skin and this sparse bedding are as nothing compared to what he has done to the people under his care. They have neither shelter nor comfort; why then should he seek any?
    Nonetheless, sense dictates that as Ralph pulls himself awake and upward, he gathers the blankets together, folds them as small as they will go and stores them next to the strongest wall. It makes no difference anyway as he barely sleeps. His dreams are waking ones. If he needed to, he would dress himself but he has neither changed his torn clothing nor washed his body since returning. Somehow it seems a step too far. He has eaten though, a little. Food has been left outside the door at least once a day, he does not know by whom. Perhaps the young steward? Though he has seen nobody so cannot confirm his assumption. Whoever they are, they leave dried hunks of bread, stale goats cheese, a poor scattering of autumn pine-nuts and water which Ralph drinks straight from the jug. The first time this occurred on the day-cycle after he returned, he only drank the water and ate some of the nuts, but the second morning his resolve broke and he tore at the bread like an animal. Indeed he no longer knows whether he is fully a Lammasser or part of the beasts. It is beyond the telling. The gods and stars do what they will. Ralph has always believed in them more than Simon did. Then again, they were drummed out of the scribe at an early stage of life, whereas Ralph must, it seems, encounter now the place where the paths twist into darkness.
    But enough. If he is not to dress or cleanse himself, then he must needs do something. Whilst he has kept himself enclosed for the initial day-cycles, for the most recent ones he has been walking the crumbling walls of the once beautiful castle. Ralph’s eyes take in the scarred carvings, the torn-down tapestries and the muddied rugs. He has stumbled over the remains of his father’s chairs and felt the newly-roughened edges of the dining table. It is covered in dusts and cobwebs. Everywhere the wood-spiders take over, encroaching on the riches and beauty of what once was his with their silken white orbs. The breeze from where he passes them makes them drift, shimmering against the half-light.
    Perhapstoday he will walk again. A ghost in his own home, a phantom of the wood. Much like the wood-spiders, in many ways. In truth he is surprised those he once promised to protect have not yet murdered him. If he were in their minds, then Ralph does not think he would be so forbearing. But he is not his people, and they are not him. Now more than ever.
    It is only when his hand is at the door that something stops him. Almost like a glint at the edge of his vision. Something that has not been there before, or that he has failed to notice. He swings round, and almost falls. He is too weak for sudden action, of any kind. He steadies himself