The Executioner's Cane (11 page)

“So we must work together to heal our city
and the neighbouring countries who look to us for their safety.
Today, I have no city-wide speech to give you for all the people to
hear. I thought I did but I think I have sense enough to change my
mind; that approach does not fit the season. But to you few
Gathandrians whose passion and spirit have brought you to this
place of confrontation, I say these words: you have showed how much
your life and your land mean to you by fighting. And our elders
have showed us how much those same things mean to them by
returning. We are not so very different from each other. So speak
together. Accuse them if you wish, though not with physical and
mental violence, and listen. Then take the words and thoughts you
have heard and travel through our ruined streets and squares with
them. Talk about them to those you meet and let what good we learn
today spread through Gathandria as swiftly and surely as the wind.
Then when you have had and heard your fill of reasons and words,
let us decide together how we will make this city of ours, and the
countries which surround us, beautiful and harmonious again.
Remember the peace which fills the name of our city and let us walk
in such peace together. For all our sakes.”

A silence followed Annyeke’s words. She found
herself breathing heavily and clenching her fists. She hadn’t meant
to say so much but the flow of it had taken her over and she had
accepted it. Someone touched her shoulder and when she turned she
saw it was the Chair Maker. He nodded at her, all hint of the
strange darkness gone. Perhaps, she thought, it was a gifting he
used only when the need was there. Still, she couldn’t help but be
glad such a gift was not hers. It would surely be beyond her
ability to control. After another heartbeat, the Chair Maker walked
the short distance across to where the ragtaggle group of men were
standing.

One of the Gathandrians took a step forward.
He was frowning. Annyeke knew at once that here was the ringleader
of the feud, and longed to read his mind but such an act now would
be worse than intrusive. She had no wish to restart the squabble.
The Chair Maker came to a halt in front of the Gathandrian. He
spread his arms there in the falling snow.

“Please,” he said. “The First Elder is right.
Forgive us for what we have done and failed to do. We will serve
Gathandria’s people in any way we are able to, perform any task
they command us to, under the First Elder’s jurisdiction. But, for
forgiveness to happen and the way ahead to be clear, we must carve
out a bridge of words both of us can walk across. Let us begin
together and let us begin now. For the sake of the gods and stars
themselves, and for the sake of Gathandria’s name.”

With that, the Chair Maker turned his arms so
his palms faced his would-be opponent. He made no attempt to touch
the man, and Annyeke was glad to see it; with touch, the mind of
another could be more easily revealed, even where the willingness
was absent.

For a long moment, the whole world seemed
still. Then the lead Gathandrian nodded and gestured for the Chair
Maker to walk with him. They set off across the parkland, the elder
listening intently as his companion talked.

Slowly one by one the other city folk who had
followed them to the park melded into groups with the rest of the
elders. The uncertainty of grey and the acceptance of soft green
flowed over their heads, fusing with the snow, as they departed in
different directions, leaving Annyeke alone.

Not quite alone however. She didn’t need to
turn to know he was there behind her. His special colours of blue
and mauve wrapped her round and blended with her own. So in her
mind she hardly knew where she ended and he began.

Johan took her fingers in his, and kissed
them.

“I love you,” he whispered. “You are the
wisest woman I have ever known, First Elder. And the most
beautiful.”

She smiled up at him and held him closer, the
heat of him filling her thoughts and taking away all her worries
about the Chair Maker’s gift. She had done the best she could think
of to do. It was up to the people now. She hoped it might be
enough.

Chapter Five:
Gathering

Jemelda

It took her all morning to find the few
people left from the village. She searched through the fields which
remained unharvested. There were none to harvest them and the crops
themselves were spoilt. She searched through the woods, although
Frankel had warned her to be careful. Still she kept within sight
of the edge of the trees, so if she heard any wolf, she might run.
The wood-wolves did not travel easily across the open snow and it
was a well-known fact they only killed in the dark. The morning’s
thin light should be enough to keep them away.

The first people she found were scrabbling
amongst the earth at the edge of the corn field, perhaps to
discover a few forgotten grains, though she knew none remained. The
castle baker and his small daughter. God and stars preserve them,
but they were so thin Jemelda was surprised they could move at all.
She hadn’t seen them since the day the murderous scribe had been
taken to the place of execution. How she wished he had died there,
and the Lammas people would have been spared the pains they had
gone through. But as for the baker: she had thought he and his
family might be dead. Seeing the two fragile figures like this made
the distant trees swim in her vision. She ran towards them, lifting
her skirts to avoid the snow and calling their names.

“Caitlin! Madred!”

At the sound of their names, the baker and
his daughter spun round to face her fully. For a heartbeat or two,
as her breath pummelled her throat, Jemelda thought they might run.
She stopped her pursuit at once and held out her hands to show she
had no weapons. Although why they might imagine an old woman such
as herself should have weapons of any sort was outside her
comprehension.

“It’s me,” she said. “Jemelda, the cook from
the Lammas castle. Please, I mean you no harm.”

As she continued to approach, Madred pushed
his daughter behind him, her fair hair peeking out from the ragged
scarf she wore around her head. The child must be half-frozen, the
cook thought, perhaps worse. The baker’s habitually round face was
sunken in on itself, and his generous mouth nothing but a tense
line.

“Stay where you are,” Madred spoke softly,
his voice sounding raw and different, and Jemelda did as commanded.
A rare occurrence but these were difficult times. “I know you, or
what you appear to be. What are you doing here and what do you want
with us?”

Jemelda licked her lips. “I am here because I
need to gather the people of the Lammas village again, what little
there are left of us.”

“Do you have food?” Madred’s eyes shone more
fiercely and little Caitlin gave a low moan. It sounded as if the
pair of them had been repeating that question for many day-cycles,
with little or no satisfaction.

With all her heart, Jemelda wished to answer
the demand in the positive, but it was impossible. She shook her
head.

“I have another kind of food to offer,
however, which might satisfy you for a while,” she said. “It might
even change the way things are. The murderous one, the scribe who
was the cause of all our sorrow, has returned. He says he wishes to
make amends, but the time for that has past. He has agreed to put
himself before the judgement of those he has wronged, and then the
punishment for all the pain and death he has caused us will be our
choice, and ours alone. As Frankel and I are the only ones left in
the castle who are able to make decisions, we have chosen the
midday hour for the murderer to speak and for him to hear our
voices. Then what must be done will be done, may the stars above
guide us in what is right.

“I am a biased judge, as I believe the scribe
must die for us to be free and able to live again. But I know, and
my husband would be quick to tell me if I denied it, that the
judgement is not mine alone, but it belongs to all of us. Please,
Madred, will you help me to search for those who can cleanse our
land from the curse which hangs so heavy in our skies and takes the
food from our mouths as we search for it?”

When she’d finished speaking, the baker at
first said nothing. Jemelda’s heart pounded and she wondered
whether her plans would in the end come to nothing. If the people
she met were as near to the end of hope as Madred, then perhaps
even their desire for the land to be cleansed of the crimes
committed within it had faded away. She did not think she could
bear it if the murderer lived, and did not pay for what he had
done. By the gods, if this was likely to happen, she would knock
him down and tear him apart slowly herself. No matter what the cane
and the raven might do to her to protect him.

Finally, Madred stepped forward and lifted up
his head as if this were the last thing he was likely to say and he
would therefore say it bravely. Jemelda admired courage in any
form, a preference which would explain even further her hatred of
the scribe who had always been a coward.

“Prove to me who you are,” Madred said, his
voice still sounding hoarse. “Then I might help you do this act you
say will give us hope, and food. For there are rumours of creatures
who can deceive the mind so what they seem to be is what they are
not. When we fall into the trap, they kill us. How do I know you
are not one of these?”

Jemelda had not heard such whisperings, but
then again she and Frankel had seen nobody but the Lammas Lord
since the wars. She did not believe such foolishness herself, but
in the times they lived through, who could tell what was true and
what was a lie? She closed her eyes to try to think of what would
convince the baker and his daughter.

“Because I remember the first time you came
to the castle to ply your trade,” she said, opening her eyes again.
“Caitlin must have been about six months old. You were carrying her
in one hand and pulling a cart filled with grain and a baking oven
behind you. Caitlin was dressed in yellow and you told me it was a
remnant from your dead wife’s favourite gown. She’d died in
childbirth. You never told me her name and, later, it seemed too
intrusive to ask. You looked almost as you do now: beaten down by
life and wondering if there would be a future anything like the
past you’d known. I ran and brought you a cup of wheat-broth from
the Lammas Master’s meal and some milk for your daughter. You were
trembling so much you spilled the broth and I had to run to fetch
another. Frankel and some of the off-duty soldiers helped you find
a booth, and the armourer’s wife took care of Caitlin while you set
out your bakery. The first loaf you ever baked in the cast you gave
to me, and the second to the armourer. It was the most delicious
bread I’d ever tasted. Apart from my own, that is.”

She stopped, unsure what else she could say
to convince the man. If he believed in strange creatures who
altered their appearance to deceive others, would he not also
believe the very thoughts of the people might be stolen also? The
mind-cane was in the land, though it had not been here for long.
Jemelda did not know what influence it might have.

Unexpectedly, Madred smiled, and coughed.
Caitlin appeared from behind him as he spoke and gazed up at
Jemelda.

“All these things are true,” the baker said.
“Yet the truth that tells me it is indeed yourself is your
assumption your bread is better than mine. For I tell you it is
not.”

With that, the man’s face folded in on itself
as if he might cry, but Jemelda did not think he had tears enough
to do so. She hugged him, gently, fearing he might break, and then
she gathered his daughter into her arms also and kissed her.

“Will you help me?” she asked again.

“Yes,” he replied.

For the next two hour-cycles, Jemelda had
similar conversations with those she could find. Some did not stay
to talk with her, whilst a few walked away from her words. But most
had the spirit of vengeance which had kept her alive through the
past terrible week-cycles, though she did not think the same
strange darkness she carried was within them. Perhaps that was her
burden alone, and her joy. Anyway, the murderer had returned; he
must face justice. After that, the land and the people would be
free to begin again. Surely it was written across the sky and the
stars.

Her last encounter was with the blacksmith.
She found him on the far side of the woods, asleep. She’d almost
passed him by, the shadow of the trees blending with the light grey
of his cloak where he lay curled up on the ground. It was only
because he stirred and muttered something too low to hear that she
realised he was there at all.

“Who’s that?” she challenged the apparent
stranger, willing herself not to think of the mysterious creatures
the baker had talked about.

When he sat up, she recognised him.
“Thomas?”

He nodded and rose to his feet. He towered
above her as always but there was something different about him:
something darker. As if he’d done things he wasn’t proud of, and
the memory of them sat heavy on his shoulders. This quality sang to
her, but she shook the feeling away.

“Jemelda,” he said, acknowledging her
presence but adding nothing more.

“I am glad to see you alive,” she said. “I am
searching for the villagers. We must gather at the midday
hour-cycle in the castle courtyard. There is something important we
must decide.”

Thomas laughed, and the sound was as bitter
and cold as a winter night. “Surely after what has happened, there
is nothing we can do which will be important?”

Jemelda shook her head. “I think there is. I
know my husband does not agree with me and does not fully
understand my reasons, but I believe if we purge the evil from
amongst us, we might have a chance to be who we were before. Today
that opportunity lies before us and we should rise to meet it.”