The Executioner's Cane

by Anne Brooke

  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.

  When he reaches it, the will to act has left him, but he takes solace from the feel of the emeralds at his side. He notices the faint glow on his skin has faded. All he can do is wait until he is strong again.

  But when, by the gods, will that time be?

  Second Gathandrian Interlude

  Annyeke

  The elders were back. It was of course exactly what Annyeke had been hoping – and indeed praying – for but it wasn’t entirely welcome. Especially as she’d only just been joined with her bonding partner. Still, Gathandrian women always dealt well with the unexpected. She was not going to let down her womenfolk.

  It can’t be helped. You know we have to deal with whatever the gods give to us.

  Annyeke nodded her agreement. The depths of Johan’s faith would never be hers, but she understood the sentiment.

  “What will you do?” he asked her, this time aloud.

  She realised both her menfolk were gazing at her. She straightened her shoulders.

  “I will go and talk with them,” she said.

  Grabbing the nearest cloak – which she suspected was Johan’s – she walked outside with as much dignity as she could muster. Bearing in mind the state of her hair, that probably wasn’t much, but no matter. She had more important things to face than her appearance. In the chill morning air, she wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself and was glad of its comforting warmth. Glad also of the presence of Johan and Talus behind her, the light touch of Johan’s hand on her shoulder.

  The elders were as Talus had described them: lined up in an open semi-circle on the road outside her home. They could have been waiting there a lifetime and they looked as if they would be happy to wait another one also.

  First, she saw the longest-serving elder, with his grey-streaked hair and the lines of age on his face. He had acted, she knew, as a guide and mentor to the former First Elder from the very beginning, and she wondered if he would expect to offer the same role to her. She was unsure whether she wanted him to do so. He came from the makers of glass and his works had been the most destroyed in the land. The scars and memories he carried would be weighty.

  Next to him stood the maker of chairs. The carpenter looked at Annyeke as she gazed at him, his bald head glinting in the morning sun, his rounded body a contrast to the delicacy of his fingers. He might have been about to venture a narrow smile, and she nodded at him, but it did not come. Perhaps it was not the time for it.

  On the furthest side of the semicircle of men stood the maker of gardens and parks, his long fair hair lifting in the breeze which floated the scent of cypress-wood through the air. Strong and bitter as the aroma itself, she wondered if he had kept his anger at the destruction of Gathandria’s plants and trees hidden deep under his customary veil of gentle humour all these long year-cycles. The gardens were blossoming again now, slowly, but would it be enough for him to be willing to help her? None of them, herself included, had travelled this path before.

  Finally, Annyeke turned her attention to the one who never spoke, who was an obligatory member on all Councils of Elders, but whose mind was intended to hold them all in harmony. Such harmony as there might be, or that they could discover. His family was from the makers of words, both written and performed and she did not know if for him his silence was a liberation or a trap. She would never dare probe further though, as First Elder, it was her right to do so.

  Of course there should be more of them, but six were vanished forever, including the most recent casualty, the former First Elder himself. They would never return. Annyeke swallowed hard. Four elders remained. It would have to be enough.

  But how would they respond to her leadership? And how could she build them up to be a true Council again?

  She pressed her hand briefly to Johan’s where it still lay on
her shoulder, took a breath and stepped forward alone.

  “Welcome,” she said, surprised to find her voice was steady. “It is good that you are back with us, people of the Council. Many things have changed since you left and many things have altered. But the land is beginning to heal, even in this winter, and there is much that needs to be done. We need you here.”

  So much else she could say, so many accusations filling her mouth. If she paid heed to them, they might choke her. Because Annyeke knew that to vent her anger against the so-called leaders of their land in a public place such as this and in front of those she loved would be foolishness. Still, she imagined even the Gathandrians crossing the other side of the park might pick up her emotions and the colours of her mind at this moment. Redheads weren’t known for their subtlety. Was this the same in every land, she wondered?

  She stepped to one side. They could start in her home, whatever happened after. She’d be damned if she took them to the old Council buildings, such as remained. After all, she was First Elder and they would have to obey.

  “Please,” she gestured at her threshold. “Come in. We have much to talk about.”

  Once the four elders were in her kitchen, huddled round the small table, Johan and Talus headed towards the garden and made themselves scarce. In one sense, Annyeke missed their comforting presence indoors, but they were there if for any reason she needed them. And, besides, she did not have enough stools for everyone. In her new role, no doubt she would be needing more. She stored that fact away for acting on later.