The Executioner's Cane

by Anne Brooke

  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.”

  The blacksmith stopped laughing. He took a deep breath instead and wiped his hand across his mouth. “What opportunity?”

  Jemelda laid a hand on his arm. Thomas flinched but didn’t shake her off.

  “I am sorry it must be like this,” she said, “but the scribe is back.”

  This time he pushed her fingers away, stepped back and spat deep into the bushes. Jemelda knew how much Thomas hated the murderer and she knew his reasons. The coward had been responsible for the death of the woman the blacksmith loved, and she could not judge him for his bitterness. Didn’t she have enough bitterness of her own? If Frankel had died because of the scribe, then she would pursue him to the end of the land with such a fire in her heart he would never defeat her.

  Thomas swore in the old language, words of such hatred that even the cook gasped.

  “I should have killed him when I had the chance,” the blacksmith muttered, a statement Jemelda could not understand in any measure. “I should have killed him and had done with it. The gods and stars alone know why I chose to have mercy, when I could have wiped out the disease which plagues us before the worst things began to happen. If only I had sunk my knife into his treacherous throat, then many more of us would have lived, and there would not only be a poor remnant of our people left to walk the land. Why has he returned, Jemelda? Does he wish to destroy us for all time?”

  She frowned, and a fresh flurry of snow began to settle against her neck. “He says he has come to make amends, whether it means life or death, and I will hold him to it. At the midday hour, the villagers are to decide.”

  The blacksmith laughed. “Then let him take what blooded amendments we choose for him. I for one know which stone I will pick in the judgement.”

  Jemelda stepped back, blinked and then nodded. The custom of choosing a red stone for death and a white stone for life in a trial was one carried out by the Lammas Lords alone. It had never been a privilege granted to the poor. But Thomas was right; why should what had been right in their past be a guide to what they should do now? They were the people in charge of this scene of judgement; they had the right to do what the Lords once did.

  “And I too know my choice,” she said.

  Simon

  The Lost One found his way to the kitchen by following Frankel’s instructions and trusting the route from his bed chamber to the mind-cane. For a man who would face judgement today, he felt extraordinarily calm. He had woken early and had spent the time before morning immersed in further meditation. It felt like coming back to a refreshing river he had left abandoned for too long. He centred himself on the names of the stars: the mountain; the lone man; the lovers; then the horseman; the river; and the elm, feeling the memory of his mother sift through his deepest thoughts with the latter star. Her star. After that, he called to mind the wolf and the oak; and finally the fox and the owl. Ralph Tregannon’s star and his own. He did not pause to study his reactions to the great names, but he simply accepted the ebb and flow of emotion for what it was. Nameless, but present. The structure itself gave him a kind of a peace.

  When he had begun the meditation in earnest, he found the mind-cane was nestling in his right hand, as if it had been there for a long time although he hadn’t been aware of it. Its warmth and slight quiver flowed through his skin and into his blood and its sparkle gave him an energy he hadn’t known he needed. In his thoughts he was alone on an island. With the sky a clear blue above him and with the sea a deep unfathomable presence at his side. He found it strange that he clung to the image of such vast waters when his one journey across the sea, with Johan, had been fraught with difficulty. He was not a good sailor. Still, he continued to sit within the scene his mind had given him, and waited for what it might want to convey. The sensation of sand under his body was both warm and comforting and he wondered if he should bring words into the meditation, but did not know if they would complete or break the situation.

  After a while, he delved deeper into his mind, not in search of words but for thought-states and colours he could bring into play. Emotions he could use in whatever he must face later. He found acceptance in soft mauve, and quietness in amber; an unaccountable courage in silver, and finally fulfilment in the deepest blue. Something to echo the sea.

  As he came back into his body, his muscles ached with the strain of holding one position. He must have meditated for longer than he’d anticipated, and indeed he was unused to the discipline. It was one he would need to take up on a more regular basis, if he survived the day. He glanced down at the mind-cane and saw the silver carving was glowing in the room’s darkness. He waited until the glow had almost gone before rising.

  Now he was back in the castle’s kitchen. Not wishing to cause any offence, he left the cane outside in the company of the snow-raven. The cook was conspicuous by her absence, but Frankel nodded at him and fetched a beaker of thin gruel. Simon took it but noticed it was half-empty. He gave it back, wondering if he might be taking all their sustenance for the fast-breaking, but Frankel frowned and the Lost One yielded.

  He drank the gruel in silence, allowing his companion the opportunity to speak first. The drink was not unpleasant and he smiled at Jemelda’s skill, no matter what her thoughts might be on him personally. It tasted of mulberry spice and river-nutmeg, both spices which would last long after everything else had been eaten. A drink for winter. When he’d finished, he nodded at Frankel and washed out the beaker in the dish of water left for the purpose.

  After that, Frankel spoke.

  “My wife has gone out early,” he said, “to gather the people. The judgement time is set for the midday hour.”

/>   Simon was grateful for the information. He could, he supposed, have gleaned the details from the man’s mind as such fresh knowledge would not yet be buried deep, but he had not thought to do so and besides it would have been unseemly.

  “Thank you.” Then, “I must find somewhere to store the cane while you decide whether I live or die. I do not wish the villagers to be afraid. There has been enough fear.”

  “You do not believe it will try to save you?”

  A good question. All Simon could say in response was what he hoped in his heart was true. “If I desire it to leave me be, then yes I believe it will obey. The snow-raven will follow it. There is a bond between them I have not yet fathomed.”

  A long silence followed his statement, and Simon could sense the waves of doubt in the old man’s mind, set against the instinct to trust. The Lost One sighed.

  “You have no reason to trust me, I know,” he said, “but I have come back and offered myself to your and the people’s judgement. If it is a trick to ensnare you again, why would I put myself in danger first? I have the mind-cane and am learning the means to use it. I am not an executioner, Frankel. I have never played any kind of deadly mind-game.”

  “Except for the ones you allowed for the Lammas Lord,” Frankel whispered.

  Simon felt his thoughts twist within him and looked away from the cook’s husband. “Yes. Except for those.”

  He could feel the old man’s eyes piercing him and so turned back to take the accusation to the full. He’d come back to face the crimes of his past so, by the gods and stars, that was what he would do. In his hand he felt a warm tingle, as if he were holding the cane; but that was impossible as the artefact remained outside. He frowned as the old man’s gaze continued to sweep through him and he wondered what Frankel saw, both of good and bad.

  His companion coughed. “The old bread store is scarcely in use these day-cycles. You could keep your cane there.”

  “Thank you.”

  Frankel gestured him outside, and Simon wrapped his cloak around himself. The morning air held its winter bite. At the threshold, the mind-cane hummed at his approach, and the scribe could sense the sudden impact of fear in the old man’s thoughts. Simon grasped the cane before it could cause any further disquiet and gave Frankel what he hoped might be a reassuring smile. Above them, the snow-raven arced and wheeled in the snow-filled air.

  The old man shuffled past him, risking the odd glance at the cane, and then hobbled towards the corner of the castle, away from the destroyed bridge. Simon followed him, struggling to keep his footing on the snow. Halfway along the north wall, Frankel bent down and grasped a small handle Simon had never noticed before. Inside he could see a long cupboard with one or two offcuts of bread at the side.

  “Is that all the bread you have left?”

  The old man nodded. “My wife bakes what she can from the spices she has but there is only one of her and little flour of any grain. We do what we can. There is room enough for your cane.”

  As the Lost One placed the mind-cane on the bread-dusty floor, the snow-raven cried out from the skies and swooped towards them. Simon grabbed Frankel, shielding his body from the bird’s talons but in the end what covered them for one moment only were the soft feathers of the raven. The bird flapped slowly away to perch on top of the deserted guards’ booth on the other side of the courtyard and the chill rushed in again.

  The scribe let the old man go, and Frankel stood and brushed down his thin cloak.

  “I’m sorry,” Simon said, blushing. “I thought the worst.”

  The old man nodded. “Sometimes the worst does not happen.”

  Simon hoped this might be true, but he could not be sure of it. In the meantime, the mind-cane remained where he’d placed it in the bread-cupboard, and was neither humming nor glowing. He closed the door and stood up.

  “Where should I wait until Jemelda returns?” he asked.

  Frankel sighed. “We are not an unkind people. Warm yourself in the kitchen, scribe, until my wife returns.”

  During the next three hour-cycles, Simon thought of many things. Memories and old hopes, which he knew he would have either to discard or resurrect in a new way very soon. The old man didn’t disturb him, but carried out a few light chores as they waited. When the scribe offered to help, Frankel shook his head and in truth, Simon was glad of the time spent with his thoughts. He tried in his mind to place the villagers and found it strange that in the many moon-cycles he’d known them, only a few had remained solid in his memory. Thomas the blacksmith was the man he had known best, and even there the acquaintance had been slight. The scribe’s memory skittered over the evil he had done to the man; if the blacksmith still lived, then Simon knew the artisan would not be kind in his judgement. He realised how much his relationship with Ralph had prevented him from building any kind of links with the villagers with whom he had once lived. Then again, his privilege at being part of the Lammas Lord’s entourage had kept him apart from most, and when the murders had started, he had helped his Lord to bring them about. It was an astonishment that Jemelda and Frankel had not wished to kill him at once; in their position he would have been afraid and angry enough to do it. As it was, they would share the responsibility with the remaining villagers. It was a reasoned approach.

  Because in the deepest well of his thoughts, the Lost One understood he must die. He had understood it from the moment he’d made the decision in Gathandria to return here. Without that decision, he was unsure whether any kind of healing could ever be achieved, not merely in the Lammas Lands but in the great city itself, and all the satellite lands around them. Simon blinked as the subconscious realisation swept over him like the onward rush of a vast river. Understanding this fact in theory was not the same as knowing it in his mind. He wished he had not abandoned the cane, and indeed the snow-raven, and found his hands had started to shake. He took a few deep breaths, reminded himself he was here, in the castle kitchen and the time of decision was not yet upon him. It might yet not be the worst.

  Even as these thoughts filled Simon, the shape of his mind suddenly altered, and he gasped and reached for the chair he sat on to ground himself; he could feel the wood grain patterning his skin and knew he was still here in the Lammas Lands. In his body only, however; his thoughts were shifting and deepening, and patterns he didn’t fully recognise were starting to form within him.

  For a moment, he fought them, heart beating wildly and trying to hold on to the sense of himself he recognised. He had lived through more than enough strangeness in these last day-cycles and did not think he could bear any more. Then, in his mind but also everywhere a voice: You are the Lost One; you must undergo what must happen.

  The voice was one he knew, a bleak light in the swooping gloom of unfamiliarity which felt as if he were drowning. The Spirit of Gathandria. Simon wanted to open his mouth and ask what it meant and whether there was any other Gathandrian who would surely be more suitable for undergoing what must happen. But he couldn’t move, even to speak, and in any case as the ideas formed in his thoughts he understood the Gathandrian Spirit had seen them. They did not need to be spoken.

  His mind continued to expand to take in whatever pictures and people were forming there and, with it, came a river of blackness. It tasted salty and its fabric covered him like a book. He was a word. No, smaller than that, a mere letter, and the parchment was drowning him. More than that, it was him. And he was the river with, inside it, all the colours of despair and grief, loss and fear. How well he knew those colours. In the past, too well, but now he had thought things were different and his life had changed. But perhaps he had assumed too much too soon; he had journeyed back to the Lammas Lands to tackle his past. He could not expect to avoid the feelings it raised in him.

  He let the feelings come. For the first time in his life he did not run. Instead he opened his arms wide and let the pain take him. It connected with parts of his history he had not considered for a while, it connected with all he could offer
it. And, just as he saw how such pain might destroy him utterly, the shapes and patterns he had been aware of in his mind before became as clear as sunlight.

  He was walking through the Lammas village, from the dwelling nearest the fields along the one street towards the castle. He could not see the small houses clearly as the dark river layered his eyes, but he had the impression it was after the war had devastated them. Even so, each group of people, each family filled his thoughts as his strange mind-journey continued. He knew which had died, and which still lived, and the straitened circumstances they lived in. Only the night-women and a few half-starved children remained in the village, but the rest of them were scattered through the fields and woods. That understanding shook him most of all; the wolves would be most dangerous in winter, and most desperate for food. They must have killed some of the people. Whatever happened, at least Jemelda’s actions were bringing them back to their ruined homes, if only temporarily. He could not fully understand why they had scattered, apart from the terror of loss and the fear the mind-war would continue to destroy them. But the war had ended and did they still fear to return to the village?

  In his mind, the Lost One continued to walk, reaching the old well, where he had first met Ralph on a night as dark as the air he journeyed through now. It was then it truly struck him: the river of pain was not only in his mind, but it clung to the stones and mud of the village also. It flowed through the air he breathed and lurked within the well. It rubbed against his body as he moved, even only in thought, and it could not be escaped. The misery had become flesh and he understood why the villagers did not return on a permanent basis; the threat of wolves and winter was easier to bear than this terrible distortion of home. He wondered indeed at the courage, or real desperation, of the women and children who remained. The village needed to be cleansed of the dreadful things which had happened here, both directly and through the mind-links with Gathandria. Simon thought there was such strength in the links between the lands, but such potential for vulnerability too.