The Executioner's Cane (12 page)

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.