The Executioner's Cane (36 page)

The First Elder’s smile didn’t last for
long.

She stepped closer to Simon. “It will be
quicker if I link with you to explain what I believe. Will you
allow it?”

Simon didn’t respond as such. He simply
reached for her hand and laid her fingers on his forehead. At once
the sensations of emptiness and colour filled his mind and he was
sure he could smell lemons, but he couldn’t think why. Within
moments, he had understood what it was she wanted and why she
thought it was right. The leaves, the parchment, the sense of
space, and longing too. The role of the dead Iffenia in the heart
of Jemelda and the influence of the Book of Blood overwhelmed him
but, however strange and terrifying, he knew what she conveyed was
the truth. He stepped away from the link, half stumbling, and felt
the shape of the mind-cane imprint itself on the palm of his hand
where his grip had tightened.

“I have no stories to tell, Annyeke,” he
said. “None which can save two countries. Not against such dark
magic.”

Ralph touched him on the shoulder, and Simon
felt a flare of intent, crimson and blue, flash between them both.
Ralph let go at once. He was frowning. “What do you mean? What has
she told you?”

Simon brought the cane up to his chest and
took a strange kind of comfort from its warmth. At the same time,
he heard a piercing note of song and the snow-raven fluttered down
from the skies in a dance of clear whiteness, causing Annyeke to
look warily in the bird’s direction. Knowing her instinctive
dislike of the bird, he stepped between the First Elder and the
snow-raven, swallowed and spoke.

“While we fight for survival here,” he said,
softly at first but gaining confidence as he continued, “Gathandria
is also fighting to rebuild its great city and to rebuild our land.
Our destinies are linked. The powers of rebellion given to your
former cook are helped by the enemies of Gathandria in ways I
struggle to comprehend. The dead spirit of the wife of one of the
elders dwells in Jemelda, or so Annyeke tells me and so I believe.
Perhaps this is why we have struggled to overcome her. But there is
a way out of the pain of battle. Stories helped Johan and me
survive on our journey to Gathandria, and now the elders believe
stories can bring a lasting peace, and make our earth and air
flourish again as they should do. They believe the purity of them
will overcome our enemies and invigorate the land, so true peace
will be restored more quickly.”

Ralph’s response was instant, as Simon had
expected. “If this is right, then we must do it. Show us how, Lost
One.”

Simon raised his eyebrows at Ralph’s use of
his given title, surely the first time he’d said it, but did not
comment. “You do not understand. The stories, so Annyeke says, must
come from me, but I have already told those I know and I don’t
think the land can use for survival and growth what has already
been used for safety. Besides, in the First Elder’s dream, the
parchment leaves which appeared to her were clear, which points to
something new. But I am, or I was, a scribe only, a man who writes
other people’s stories and the legends of the past. I am not
someone who creates them from nothing. This is madness.”

The First Elder stepped forward. “No, it is
not madness, and you must listen. You have skills you do not
entirely know and which have not even been thought of yet. The
legends tell us so and we see it in your fellowship with the
mind-cane and the snow-raven. Your powers and those gifted to you
brought you back to life from the dead, which surely means you are
a legend in the making, if anything can be in these day-cycles. The
Book of Blood has given power to those who fight us with its
emptiness. So we must fight like with like, and create something
where nothing exists also. I do not exactly know how you will do
it, but I know you must. Please, Simon.”

Simon couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Each
time I have any dealings with you Gathandrians, you ask me to do
the impossible.”

“Yes, that may be true,” Annyeke cut in
before he could continue. “But have we ever failed you, Lost One,
or in the end have you ever failed us?”

Simon grew quiet then, the truth of what she
said filling his blood and memory. He needed to think.

Finally, he looked down at the cane and heard
the low note of the snow-raven once more, but whether that was
aloud or only for him he could not say. “So, you wish me to make a
new legend. To make new words out of my silence. Is that it?”

Annyeke closed her eyes briefly and then she
smiled at him. “Yes. It is time for our lands to have a new story,
even as we fight to give it room to grow. You must make a decision,
please, Lost One.”

Simon swallowed.

“Then I will do it,” he said.

Jemelda

It didn’t take her long to plan the day-cycle
for her people, and soon the women were heading to the woods
nearest the village to destroy what sustenance they could find.
Jemelda was determined to drive the scribe into the open where he
would be more vulnerable. She and the rest of her small group would
take the trees on the furthest side, near where the mountains used
to be. It was important to rid the land of its remaining food,
berries, roots and such like, now the earliest of the field-crops
was gone. They would take enough to store for themselves and any
who decided to join them, but the rest would have to starve until
the murderer was dead. So be it. Her purpose was clear.

It was hard work however, as she had known it
would be. The wind chilled her through the tunic she wore and the
occasional flurry of late snow froze her skin. Whenever she could,
she checked how those around her were coping with the conditions
and, for the most part, they looked well enough, under these
circumstances. Still, she would have given all the sweet venison in
the land to have strong gloves for them to wear, as the briars and
thorns tore at their fingers while they plucked the berries and
nuts from the branches. Not that the fruits of the season were rich
in shape or abundance, but they were sustenance and must be dealt
with.

Finally they had stripped the trees in that
area of their food, and returned to the cave, to meet with the
women who were there before them, fresh from their similar mission
of destruction. Because of this, the Lammas Lord and his men would
soon be searching for them, she knew it and, even without the
murderer’s mind-powers, the cave was the obvious place to start.
They would need another refuge.

“Thank you, all of you,” Jemelda said. “You
are good people, and together … together we will restore our
fortunes. Thank you.”

Unexpected tears filled her eyes but she
blinked them away. She felt a brief touch on her arm. It was
Thomas. She squared her shoulders and nodded at him, knowing she
had to show leadership or this mission would never succeed.

“Come then,” she said to all. “Let us go
beyond the furthest edge of the woods, to the place where nobody
ventures. There we will be together and can give each other
strength, and there it will be most difficult for the murderer and
his allies to find us, until we are ready for him.”

She waited for a ripple of agreement, albeit
reluctant, to flow through the small group and then she turned and
began the journey, knowing in her heart the people would follow
her. What other hope did they have?

The path from the cave would lead them away
from the village and round to the south-west, skirting the winter
fields and the edge of the wood, but this would take longer.
Something in her blood told her they needed to hurry. The
jaggedness in her head drove her onwards. They would need the
quicker way, though the depths of the trees, and the perils which
lay there would have to be faced and overcome, by the gods and
stars above. This, therefore, was the direction she took.

“Wait!” It was one of the night-women who
called her back. “We can’t go that way. It will be full of
danger.”

Jemelda nodded and stretched out her arms to
her. “I understand, please believe me. But there is so much danger
everywhere we look that a little more will be only as crumbs at a
feast. Besides, Tregannon’s men and the murderous scribe will soon
be seeking for us after last night and there will be more danger
again. Yes, there are wolves in the woods, we have heard them often
enough in the past when we slept safely in our beds. Those
time-cycles have gone and, though there are wolves, we also have
each other, and no wolf would attack a group of people. Provided we
stay close, we will be safe enough. We do not have time to take the
more secure route.”

“But what about the unknown terrors in that
part of the trees?” the woman persisted, and Jemelda shook her
head.

“Those are but legends,” she said softly,
reaching out to take the woman’s cold hand in hers. “They have no
truth in them. If they did, do you not think that whatever lies in
the woods would have been roaming our land by now, with the real
terrors and loss we have lived through?”

The woman made no reply to this, and the rest
were silent also, although some of the men shuffled their feet and
glanced away. Jemelda herself wondered at her words. In the recent
past, she had put good store by the legends and believed what many
told her, but now her life was different and she could not be that
woman again. She would never be so. Then something changed in the
air and she understood the people had yielded to her.

“Come,” she said softly. “Follow me, keep
together and we will all be safe enough.”

This time, she heard them follow and did not
look back. Thus far had the power of what she had said brought
them, and she was determined she would lose none of her people
today, whatever they might face.

As she walked, something puzzled at her mind,
but she could not grasp it fully. It felt as if an unseen presence
was nipping at her skin like a young puppy. She kept glancing
around, half-expecting to glimpse a stranger alongside her on the
path but there was nobody with them beyond those she already knew.
Once, out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a white
flash in the undergrowth but when she looked fully there was
nothing there. She was being foolish, and she had no time for
fantasies. There was work to be done.

Thomas stepped alongside her.

“Did you see it, Jemelda?” he asked her. “The
white streak tracking our every move.”

“Yes,” she said, realising she should have
paid more attention and focused more closely on the journey than
the destination. Perhaps this was what leadership might be about,
and for the first time she found herself feeling some sympathy for
her former lord. Not enough though, not by many fields, oh no.
“Yes, I saw it, but only a glimpse.”

“It was like parchment,” Thomas said, eyes
shadowed in the gloom. “Such as the murderer used to take for his
stories, but nothing was written on it.”

Jemelda shook her head. She could make no
sense of what they had seen and therefore could not think on it.
Still the jaggedness within leapt up in a flare of black and red,
and she had to take several deep breaths to come to terms with the
strange and rising sense of triumph.

“No matter,” she said quickly. “If it does
not harm us, there is no need to concern ourselves with it. In the
end, it may even bring our purpose closer. Who knows?”

Not waiting for any answer, she continued her
journey with a greater confidence. Still, even though she had
denied the power of the legends, they still lurked at the edges of
her understanding and in her blood. At the corner, the wood began
with oaks and elders, their branches snagging at her threadbare
cloak and the remains of snowfall sliding onto her hair as she
brushed past. She could smell the earthiness of bracken and bark,
and the breeze’s dank chill made her shiver. In the weak winter
sunlight there had been some kind of warmth, but here she found
none.

Behind her, she heard someone stumble and cry
out but, by the time she swung round to help, the woman who had
almost fallen had recovered. She nodded at Jemelda who smiled,
briefly, and continued their journey.

“Be careful,” she whispered, “and keep as
close to me and each other as you can.”

Once again Jemelda did not wait for an answer
as the need to forge a path through the woods to what she trusted
would be a refuge on the other side was almost overwhelming. She
could feel the tension in her neck and rubbed her shoulders to try
and ease it but it did no good. It was so dark, darker than she had
ever imagined. If she let the lurking fear of the legends overcome
her, it might feel as if she and her people would never see
daylight again. No wonder the Lammassers never travelled here, and
no wonder the wolves made their home in this place.

How she wished the murderer had never come to
them and the war had never begun. Soon the stars would surely turn
and shine more kindly on them once more. Until then, all she had to
do was guard her people and bring them quickly to the safety beyond
the wood. Surely the gods would allow her such a small request.
There, perhaps, the day she longed for would come upon them. The
stars knew she was ready for it.

So she kept on walking, fighting her way
through the undergrowth, praying as she’d never prayed before that
they would soon reach the safety and completion she longed for. Her
heart was beating fast and her skin was hot, even in the coldness
which assaulted them all. Her hands and arms were scratched with
the effort of beating down the thorns and stray branches, and she
hoped she was providing some measure of protection to those behind
her.

They must have been nearly halfway through
the woods when the strange flash of white appeared again, this time
directly in front of her. For a moment she thought it was a wolf
and, in spite of all her determination, cried out and came to an
abrupt halt. She spread her arms wide as if to protect them from
its sharp jaws and only then did she see it was no animal. Neither
was it anything she recognised but simply a flow of whiteness
drifting through the trees. It made her heart rise, and she blinked
and tried to see more clearly in the gloom.