The Executioner's Cane (14 page)

From across the bare work-space, Johan
laughed and turned round from his close inspection of the north
wall. “I think we can make room at home. A couple of trips between
us should be sufficient. In the current crisis we need to use every
part of the building left to us.”

“And perhaps we must think about how our
activities will be divided in the future, or whether we even need
such records.”

Johan nodded, his expression growing serious.
“You have great plans.”

“Oh yes. Always. But for more than simple
desk-work,” she replied.

She would have said more but a green flash
exploded silently in the room and took all her words away. The next
moment everything vanished and she was flying and falling through
nothing, and to the gods and stars knew where.

Chapter Six:
Prelude to a Death

Simon

To his surprise, the arrival of the villagers
came as a relief. He could feel their anger trailing tiny red scars
over his mind, puncturing him with a hatred fuelled by despair. The
nearer they came to the castle courtyard, the greater the combined
sense of them. Something inside the Lost One slotted into
place.

It was for this reason he had returned. Until
this moment, he had not realised how much the waiting had held him
back. Now, and unexpectedly, he found he was ready.

Simon stood. He smiled at Frankel and
gestured to the outdoors. “I must meet them in the courtyard. Then
they will see I have no weapon to cloud their judgement.”

He began to walk towards the dividing
curtain.

“Wait,” the old man said, and Simon stopped
and turned to face him. He could not stay long. Something had begun
which he could not stop and did not wish to. Perhaps not even the
Spirit of Gathandria could stop it.

“What is it, Frankel?”

“It is cold and already it is snowing. You
will need your cloak, Scribe.”

Before Simon could reach for it himself,
Frankel shook out the cloak and stepped behind Simon, placing it on
his shoulders.

“No man should go to his judgement without
some small comfort,” he said.

A pause between them, in which no other words
were necessary. Finally, the Lost One nodded and fastened the cloak
around him.

“Thank you,” he said. “I am grateful.”

Then he turned again towards the day, drew
the curtain to one side and walked out into the air’s winter chill.
The first sensation was the call of the mind-cane, even locked
where it was in the bread-store. It cried out to him, pleading for
release, even though Simon knew it had the power to free itself if
it wished to. Was the choice he’d made to lay that source of
protection to one side the reason it did not come to him? He could
think of no other explanation.

The second and more pertinent sensation was
the continuing wave of emotions from the approaching villagers.
They had not yet arrived at the stream which bordered the
courtyard, but Simon could see their figures hurrying towards him
over the fields. In front of them was Jemelda, her darker colours a
contrast to the snow which tickled his skin and mouth. Behind her
was Thomas the Blacksmith, and Simon shut his eyes as the memory of
their last encounter filled his thoughts. While still under Ralph’s
command, Simon had given over to death the woman the blacksmith
loved, although at the time he had not known this fact. When he had
fled from the Lammas Lands with Johan and Isabella, Thomas had
almost killed him.

Simon could not blame him. Perhaps here the
blacksmith would finish the task he’d begun. He waited for the
people to come wading over the water towards him. Half the
courtyard away, Jemelda stopped and shook out her skirts as the
people following gathered around her, for the most part.

There was one who did not stop. Thomas kept
on walking. It seemed to Simon as if this had always been meant to
happen; something in his blood, something the mind-cane had left
there, expected it. He stood taller as the blacksmith continued
towards him. He felt Frankel’s gasp in his thoughts rather than
heard it, and then Thomas raised his hand, and a stinging slap sent
the Lost One sprawling to the icy ground. He tasted blood on his
tongue.

“Get up,” the blacksmith said, his voice low
and hoarse. “Now.”

Simon did so. But this time, when the
blacksmith raised his arm, he caught it before the blow could fall
again.

“Do you not think that too much violence and
injustice has already taken place here that you should bring it to
fruition before it is ready?” he whispered, so only he and the
blacksmith might hear.

Thomas shook him away and stepped back. Simon
could sense his fear in having his thoughts read by the contact,
but in any case they needed no mind-interpretation. The blacksmith
hated him and wanted him dead. It was obvious.

“We have come here for justice,” Thomas said.
“And, if the voice of the people is truly heard, then it will be a
long and bloodied one.”

“Yes,” Simon replied. “It is as you say.”

And then neither had time for more words as
Jemelda stood beside them, her eyes darting from one to the
other.

“Come,” she said. “It is the midday-hour and
we must start the judgement if we are not to lose the day-cycle.
Follow me.”

He did so. Behind him came Thomas and the
remaining villagers, at least the ones Jemelda had been able to
find in such few short hours. No more than twenty or so but this
was still enough to give the death-judgement, even without the
customary drums. The Lost One’s journey to the Place of Judgement,
and Tree of Execution, was a silent one, but the beat and pulse of
his own blood was accompaniment enough.

At his side, but keeping his distance,
Frankel tracked him. Simon slipped only once on the forming ice but
managed not to fall. The action took him back to the last time he’d
been here: the day when Ralph and the mind-executioner had tried to
hang him for his crimes. He’d been terrified, begging for mercy and
weeping, with the taunts of the people echoing in his ears. He had
hardly been able to believe it was happening, nor later that the
Gathandrians had rescued him at the last moment-cycle. Then he’d
been a reluctant participant but now it was different. Very
different.

The realisation of this flowed over him like
a shock of water on a warm day and his mind flickered with strange
colours before settling again. This time he was ready. Yes, his
skin and thoughts trembled with the knowledge of what might come
and how the villagers would judge him, but today he had come here
of his own will and purpose. He would accept whatever Jemelda and
her people decided, and let it bring peace to the land, both this
one and their neighbours’.

Near the Tree of Execution, Jemelda stopped.
Simon waited. He couldn’t be sure but he thought she might have
hesitated before squaring her shoulders and walking towards the
place where the Lammas Lord should stand. He wondered if Ralph
would attend at all, and what his verdict might be.

“So,” Jemelda began, making Simon jump. By
the gods and stars, he had grown quickly used to the silence. “We
are here, but first I must ask where the mind-cane is.”

Frankel coughed and his wife turned to
him.

“It is in the bread-store,” he said. “The
scribe wanted to be alone when he met us like this.”

A brief silence and Simon could see the range
of emotions flowing over the cook’s face: surprise, puzzlement,
relief and a dark silent joy.

She only nodded her understanding before
continuing. “Good. It will make our task easier. We are gathered
here to meet a man who is our enemy and to give judgement on him. I
have no fine speeches to give you. They do not sit well in a
labourer’s kitchen. But we must judge for ourselves as our own Lord
cannot do it. He is not what he once was. As you see, the murderer
who caused this war and the death of so many we love has returned.
Our land waits for justice to be done so we can live again. That is
what our stories tell us and they have in the past proved true. So,
will you help to bring about an ending and a beginning to this new
day-cycle?”

The people’s response was in no doubt, and
Simon knew his judgement was near. The only problem for them was
how to perform his trial. He did not have long to wait to discover
Jemelda’s mind.

The cook turned to face him and he could not
look away. Even without reading her thoughts, he could see the
almost overpowering range of emotions skittering across her
expression. This was a day Jemelda had longed for, a day of
retribution, for calling to account his sins and the suffering he
had put so many through. But it was also a day when the natural
order of their world, which said the Lammas Lord’s word was law,
could not be followed. It was a day when the people would have to
speak their desire directly and to the full. It was more than
anyone should be asked to stand under, but there was no choice. If
Simon could have reached across and given her the strength she
needed for the task, he would have done so. But he had no right to
anyone’s mind, let alone hers. Finally, her thoughts settled and he
found he could breathe again. If he was going to die this day-cycle
then let it be done well and with some kind of dignity.

When Jemelda spoke again, she continued to
hold his gaze, but her voice was strong enough to carry to all who
waited there.

“We have no red or white stones to choose
death or life,” she said. “And I am glad of it. For today something
new will happen and the old ways are not for us. In my most secret
moments, I have sometimes thought the choosing of stones is too
simple a method. You do not bake bread without deciding how many
herbs to flavour it with, or the taste is lost. There is more to a
decision than a yes or a no. So, instead of stones, each of us here
will tell our stories, and the cruel ways in which the man under
judgement has dealt with us. Then when our tale is done, let each
of us stand to the right if you wish Simon the Scribe to live, and
to the left if you wish him to die. If you do not know, and the
spices of your history are not clear to you then remain in the
middle where you have accused him. When we have each spoken and
taken up our places, then we will carry out the verdict. Do you
agree?”

A pause ensued. Not that Simon could blame
them; Jemelda was asking them to overturn the tradition of
eon-cycles. Finally, the colours wavering above the people’s heads
shifted to a steady blue, and when they spoke the answer was
yes.

The trial, the second one he had faced here,
had begun. How he was glad for it.

Jemelda

She had no real idea what she was doing but
still that powerful force within her drew her onwards. She felt as
if all the ingredients of the perfect loaf were gathered, and soon
they would blend together in full. How she wanted this. She needed
someone to pay for the season-cycles of fear and the recent
destruction of everything she knew and loved. It was the only way
for the land and the people to be free again. Their ancient
stories, those told near the well at evening when the work was
done, spoke of a sacrifice that would heal all wrongs. The
sacrifice would be the scribe; the villagers she knew would never
choose to let him go. The man had come back to them for judgement;
so he would find it. The silence in her heart she had lived with
for so long told her this.

As the snow dampened her hair, she brushed
its softness back from her face and covered herself with the hood
of her cloak. It was hardly enough to protect her but the gesture
felt like something far older, a protection from wrongs they could
not see.

As the people gathered round her, Jemelda
remembered her story in quiet words, as she gazed at the murderer’s
face.

*****

“We were once a happy people,” she said. “We
lived under the rule of the Tregannons for many generation-cycles.
We were farmers and bakers, herb-dealers and dyers. It was a simple
life where our days were ruled by the sun and the rain, and our
nights were full of the stories we told and the friends and family
we possessed. Yes, it was harsh and the father of our present Lord
could be strict in his ruling and keen in his judgements, but we
understood our role in our world, and he understood his. What could
be more fitting?

“Then the old Lord died, and his son, Ralph,
became our present Lord. We thought our lives would become easier,
but then after only a few year-cycles, this man,” Jemelda waved one
hand at the scribe as she spoke, “this man came to our village and
all we thought we knew was changed for ever.”

The murderer’s face grew even paler and,
above them, the sky darkened and the falling snow turned the
distant trees more black. It was as if night had come upon them in
the midst of the day-cycle.

“We had always known,” the cook continued,
“how different the young Lord Tregannon was from his father. His
ambitions for us as a people were higher, and the trade links he
formed with our neighbours were greater in number, but then the
scribe arrived here and poisoned the mind of our Lord against
us.”

“No,” the murderer spoke, interrupting
Jemelda’s flow. “It was never like that. The mind-executioner was
already with you and the darkness of his plans already present.
Ralph sensed them, and I only confirmed his suspicions.”

“You lie.” Thomas the Blacksmith took two
steps forward, looking as if he might hit the scribe again. “And do
not interrupt the castle cook when she is speaking. It is not your
place to speak.”

“Peace,” Frankel stepped forward and laid his
hand on Thomas’ arm. His voice was low and she almost had to stop
breathing to hear. “Let the man under judgement be. It is our
law.”