The Executioner's Cane (5 page)

“It’s the elders,” Talus whispered. “They’re
back.”

Chapter Three:
The Mission

Simon

Inside, Jemelda’s kitchen was dark and when
he entered, Simon had to blink and allow his eyes to adjust before
he could see anything. The snow-raven remained in the courtyard and
the scribe had had the wit to deposit the mind-cane near the bird.
The two of them should be able to look after each other well
enough. The cook herself said nothing. She simply bustled about at
the work surface near the small window, keeping her back distinctly
turned. The scribe could sense the colours pouring from her in
short bursts: red, black, deathly white. He had no need to enquire
as to what her feelings might be, though they seemed to run far
deeper than he had anticipated. But he could not blame her. It was
up to Frankel to offer him half a smile and nod, silently, at a
small stool to the left of the door.

Simon took it and sat down.

He knew it was up to him to say something. He
had invaded their home, as such, when they were least expecting it.
He couldn’t help it if the fact that Ralph would also be somewhere
in the castle, had perhaps been watching him when he approached,
was taking away his sense of logic. What little of it he had.

He coughed. Frankel took a step forward and
glanced at his wife. She was kneading bread on the work-counter
now, shoulders heaving with the effort, her back still turned. The
heady scent of herbs flowed through the air and Simon felt his
mouth water. It had been a while since he’d eaten any kind of good
Lammas bread. Shaking such pointless memories away, he stood up
again. What he had to say was best said standing. He gathered his
thoughts together, and tried to stop wondering about Ralph.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low but loud
enough for Jemelda to hear, even above her work. “For all the
terrible things I did when I was here, serving Lord Tregannon, and
for all the terrible things which happened afterward. Much of it –
most of it – has been my fault. You are right in saying I am a
murderer and to throw at me all the evil names in the land you can
think of. All of them will stick. Many of your people have died
because of me, both while I was here and during my journey to
Gathandria. While I travelled, I was shown the nature both of what
I was and what I might become, for good and for bad. Now the battle
against the mind-executioner has been won in the far Gathandrian
city and he is dead. He can harm you no more, neither directly, nor
by means of myself or … or Lord Tregannon.”

Jemelda made a sound at this point, something
between a gasp and a cry, as if she would say something in response
to his words. It was the first time she’d acknowledged his presence
since they’d entered the kitchen. Simon was glad, though it was no
doubt more than he deserved. He left her time to say anything she
might like to, but she did not, although the kneading of the bread
became less frenetic. He swallowed and stumbled on.

“But all that is not enough, is it? The
Lammas Lands are so far beaten that the struggle to rebuild them
will be a long one. As it is in Gathandria, where the people there
face a difficult task, so it is here. I know I have much to ask
forgiveness for, much work to do to pay back even a hundredth of
the restitution I surely owe you, and in truth what I have done can
never be restored. I cannot make the long-dead live again. But
nonetheless I have come so you may use me as you wish, Jemelda. You
and your people. I swear to you by all the gods and stars that
whatever the Lammas people wish to set me to do, I will do it
gladly. I have caused the devastation all of you have suffered, and
I wish to put it right, as best I may.”

With that Simon stopped. He could not think
what else to tell them. He did not believe it was enough, would
ever be enough. Why had he come here? He had no wish to bring yet
more grief on those he had once lived amongst. Perhaps he should
have stayed in Gathandria.

He’d already made up his mind to leave,
though only the gods knew what he would do next apart from facing
the failure of returning to the great city, when Jemelda dropped
the herb-dough with a dull thwack onto the wooden surface and swung
round to him.

Into the silence, she laughed, but he heard
no amusement in the sound. If anything the shards of colours
flowing from her thoughts simply took on a darker tone.

“What makes you think there are any left here
to care for your empty words, Scribe?” she said. “Many of us are
dead and the rest have fled to the woods and the fields beyond,
desperately seeking for food. Anything to keep their flesh and
minds together. I know we in the villages of Lammas have never been
a proud people – we are of the land and always took the goodnesses
it offered us, and gave back its riches so that it might bud again
– but now you and your ilk have driven us to steal and cheat and
wound in order to stay alive. We go where the food is and there is
little or nothing left for the winter. People starve and children
die because of this horror you have brought amongst us, who were
always peaceful until you and your pretty smile turned Lord
Tregannon’s mind and gave him a taste for things he should not
know. What makes you think the remainder of the villagers here,
should they be found, would want to listen to you? I do not. Why
should they?”

Simon stared at her. What she said was right.
But there had to be a way of piercing through her anger, of finding
the road to hope which must surely lie somewhere deep within her.
Her mind was so strangely quiet. Was she blocking him? And, if so,
how? She had no power to perform such an act, not of her own
accord. Something else was happening here and he couldn’t fathom
what. He shook his head.

“They will listen, Jemelda,” he said,
“because you tell them to. And you should do so, as otherwise, what
other hope is there for your people?”

Jemelda

The murderer’s words made her blink. He had
no right to be offering words of wisdom in the dark, scented
privacy of her kitchen. No right whatsoever. This was her kitchen,
hers and Frankel’s, and the gods and stars could damn her to
wherever they wished but she was going to make her feelings known
in full.

She slapped him. With the back of her
flour-stained hand over his murderous mouth.

Frankel gasped and put an admonishing hand on
her shoulder. The wretched scribe’s head jerked back as his teeth
cracked. She was pleased to see blood appear on his lips. She shook
off her husband’s hand but made no further move to violence. To her
surprise she found she was trembling and the release of her
emotions had not been as satisfying as she’d expected.

After a moment, the scribe raised his head
and gazed at her again. There was something in his eyes which made
her feel uncomfortable. A kind of acceptance, perhaps, instead of
the confrontation she’d looked for. Hoped for. Jemelda took a step
back. It surprised her also how Hartstongue did not wipe his mouth
clean. The blood remained a crimson gash against his white skin.
Winter roganberries on snow.

When he spoke, his voice was low and she had
to lean forward to hear him.

“You must do what you must do,” he said. “But
I will go on begging an audience with the people for as long as it
takes, until you allow me to speak with them. And I swear to you
again that whatever you wish to do to me, I will not fight it. Do
you understand?”

She smoothed down her apron with hands that
demanded she should launder it later. She did not know if she
understood him or not. She only knew she wanted to kill this man,
and at the same time she did not. She felt herself caught between
two states of being, neither of which she could bear to leave
behind, not entirely. There was something inside herself she did
not recognise and could not grasp. Something black and cruel which
both drew her and repelled her. She didn’t know where these
feelings came from but the power of them made her smile. What might
she do if she followed them? Wiping the smile away, she harrumphed
and looked at her husband.

Frankel’s eyes were upon her. As, she
supposed, they always had been ever since they met, so many
year-cycles ago. Now, she waited for him. Sometimes, she admitted,
he had the words when she did not.

Her husband turned to the injured man. She
was glad to see he offered no salve or water for his wound,
however. That would have been a step too far. Marriage, no matter
how weathered, was a delicate balance. Too much of any one
ingredient and the flavour of it would sour.

“You must realise,” Frankel said, his voice
ever soft when hers was always loud and full, “that what you have
done to us is beyond anything we have ever known. It will be hard
for us, or any of the Lammas folk, to understand what you are doing
here. They will be angry. We are angry. If my wife agrees you are
allowed to meet with the people, then you must take whatever is
decided at that meeting upon you because you have caused the ruin
and loss of many. I know what the old tales teach us of possibility
and the chance to start again, and how we must keep our eyes and
hearts open even to strangers and enemies. But it is hard to take
what is taught us in the texts and bring it to our lives. There has
been so much pain.”

Jemelda gazed at him and felt her eyes begin
to prickle. Oh that would be shameful indeed. But she swore she had
never heard her husband say so much at one time and to such good
effect. To her surprise, she found she did not like it. The scribe,
however, merely nodded.

“And if this meeting is to happen,” her
husband continued, “then you must leave both bird and mind-cane
behind. We are afraid of their strange power.”

The murderer made a move as if to protest and
then was still again. He gazed first at Jemelda and then at
Frankel.

“I do not know if I have any power of my own
without them,” he said. “I do not know if I by myself will be any
use to you.”

Jemelda snorted. Was not the terrible force
he had wielded before in his entrapment of their Overlord’s heart
and mind power enough? It was up to her husband to put this in
words, with a courtesy and strange gentleness she would not have
used herself.

“None of that matters,” Frankel said. “What
matters is that you present yourself before us, with no magic at
your side that you can call upon to do harm once more. What matters
is our judgement.”

A long pause, and Jemelda saw the coward
swallow hard. Perhaps he had not bargained for such as they to face
him. How he would have much to learn. Much she had not shared with
Frankel yet, if she ever would. Much that might be the death of
this evil one after all.

Ralph

Simon’s arrival jolts him into a decision.
This is a surprise, as Ralph has made no decisions of note since
his return. For the first time, he enters his bedroom, pushing his
fear aside, and stumbles across the floor and around the all but
destroyed bed. The torn gold coverlet that still keeps its place
there entangles his feet and he almost falls. Cursing, Ralph pulls
it away and reaches the wall behind. It remains intact. A miracle
from the gods in these devastating times. He presses his fingers to
the place on the wall he knows so well, and feels the secret door
give beneath his touch. He takes a breath, tries to glean courage
of a sort from the waiting air but it offers none.

No matter. Ralph steps forward into the
passageway’s dankness, winter webs brushing his face. It shames him
to know he is shaking. Thank the stars nobody knows this. For there
is none here to note weaknesses, not any more. Now, he hunches down
– the height of this corridor is only big enough for a tall child
and the damage caused by the war has made it that much more
unstable. As he passes along, the great stones above creak and
tremble. And all the time, he is running his fingers along the wall
until he gets to the shelves he remembers. When he finds the small
pouch he is seeking, Ralph’s knees suddenly weaken and he leans
against the dangerous walls for respite. It is here, it is here
then. But why should it not be here? This place of relative safety
is where he stored the emeralds on his return, and he has not
sought them since. Ralph could not bear to keep them with him then,
and now he finds he cannot bear to be apart from them.

He opens the bag. He should not be able to
see the jewels; there is no light in this star-forsaken place. But
nevertheless they glitter. Ralph’s eye picks out the soft green
glow and the smoothness of their shape. Perfect orbs, all. Not as
many as there should be – only four instead of the original seven –
but enough for him to need them. Enough to hope that one day he
will access their full power. If he does, then Ralph will use it to
restore the land he has ruined, with as much determination as it is
possible to have.

He wonders if Simon has brought the remainder
of the emeralds with him, the ones Ralph left behind in that
far-off city. And he wonders too if they now belong to him at all,
or if they have become more truly Simon’s. He carries the mind-cane
with him, and that has more power than anything Ralph or the land
have ever known. It has the power of life, death, and the place
that is neither.

Sometimes Ralph thinks that in-between
unknowable place is truly where he is this day-cycle. There the
fault is not the cane’s.

But if the mind-cane is here to punish
Ralph’s people further, he will … he will … what exactly? He does
not know. But if he did, then something in him speaks of the hope
these small jewels could offer.

He shakes his head. He cannot afford the time
to speculate on any future-cycle, so he closes up the pouch and
fastens it to his belt. Something of the emeralds’ green glow
clings to Ralph’s hand and lights the way back to his bedroom.