The Executioner's Cane (21 page)

It surprises him how her absence makes him
tremble. It is time for him to carry the mantle of leadership once
more and to carry it alone, bearing her closing words in mind:

Look after the Lost One, she said.

He will make certain he hearkens in full to
Annyeke’s plea.

Fifth Gathandrian
Interlude

Annyeke

She landed with a thud on hard stone, all the
breath punched out of her. By the gods and stars, this was no way
for a modern woman to travel, but sometimes the gods and stars
walked mysterious paths and would, no doubt, not listen to her.

“Annyeke.” She snatched the emeralds and
hugged them safely to her as strong arms lifted her up and carried
her to the nearest stool. There she perched, not entirely steadily,
while Johan held her and gazed into her eyes. That she liked a
great deal, oh yes. “What happened? Where have you been?”

Hard to explain all that in just a few words
but she would do her best. The emeralds, she began, dispensing
entirely with the need for speech, they took me to the Lammas
Lands, or at least I was in a strange place of no world first and
then in the Lammas Lands. Ralph Tregannon was there too. Tregannon
is greatly troubled, as well he might be. Together we found the
Lost One’s father, an old man called Bradyn. I had not realised he
was alive, but he is wandering in his thoughts and will need much
care if he is to live. Then we found the Lost One …

“And?... her life-partner prompted her. What
then?

Knowing the new-found family connection
between Johan and the Lost One, and the friendship forged on their
perilous journey to save Gathandria, Annyeke paused and took both
Johan’s hands in her own, as much as she could.

Do not despair but he died, at first, she
said simply. The Lammas villagers tortured him at their place of
execution and he died but ….

“No!” With the shock of her explanation
turning the colours of his mind to the deepest gloom, Johan did not
wait to catch Annyeke’s further thoughts and wrenched himself
backwards, speaking aloud once more and almost causing her to fall
from her seat. “That cannot be. It is not what he returned to
Lammas to do, it is unimaginable.”

“Wait, please,” she begged him, realising for
the first time Talus was also present, hiding in a shadowy corner
staring up at them both, and all but forgotten. She had best take
care what she said; some things were not for the young. “That is
not the end of it, Johan, please listen. And Talus too. Come.”

She stood next to Johan and gripped his
shoulder, trying to ease the sudden and shocking outpouring of
black grief from his mind. With her other hand, she reached for
Talus, and the boy ran to her. Close to, his softer colours brushed
over her thoughts.

“It is not the end of it,” she said. “I do
not know how, so do not ask it of me, and I have not seen any such
matter in our legends, but somehow the Lost One lives again. He was
dead, but with the power of the mind-cane and the Tregannon
emeralds, he lives once more. He was lost, but now is more fully
found. The Gathandrian Spirit has done more for us than we could
ever ask or imagine, and we should be happy for it. We should have
no need, yet, for grief.”

Despite her words, the sadness and confusion
of her menfolk overwhelmed her. Johan was, understandably, the
first to recover.

“How can that be? There is nothing in the
legends of the Lost One to indicate such an event. Simon came back
from the dead?”

Calling the Lost One by his own name seemed
even less fitting than usual to Annyeke; the former scribe had
already travelled far beyond their expectation, although in quiet
ways and almost against his own will. Johan however knew him better
than she did and was entitled to call him whatever he wished. Her
life-partner was right about the legends though; none of them
relating to the Lost One spoke of this.

“I don’t know the answer,” she replied, “but
perhaps now is the time to start living and writing our own
legends. We are making everything anew, or the Lost One is.”

“That much is true.” Johan stepped back and
wiped both hands upwards over his face. The gesture left a shock of
hair rising from his head. He half-squinted at her, frowning.
“There is more, isn’t there? Tell me.”

She did so, as simply as possible. “Because
the Lost One is alive again, as long as Lord Tregannon keeps him
that way and I think he will, the villagers in Lammas are divided.
Some of them, led by Jemelda the castle cook, have left their
homes, what remains of them, and taken themselves to the woods and
fields. Whatever the Lost One plans to do, they will fight against
him. If that happens, then the healing of the land will be delayed
and that will affect not only Lammas, but all of us, here in
Gathandria and the lands beyond us, everything that lies within our
responsibility. Not only that but I’m sure there’s something going
on with the elders here, with the Chair Maker particularly. Once or
twice his thoughts have brushed against mine, and there’s a … a …
darkness there I don’t understand, but it scares me so much I can’t
even think about what it might mean. By the gods and stars, Johan,
we are weak enough after the wars; must we still fight for
peace?”

Annyeke hadn’t realised that was what she
actually thought until the words were humming in her mouth. She sat
down on the stool once again, clinging to Talus, for the comfort of
them both.

Johan hesitated for a heartbeat or two and
she could feel his colours swirling and dancing around and within
him until his mind was steady with purpose. How she wished she
could say the same! By the stars, she almost wondered whether it
would have been better to walk away from the role of First Elder of
the city if she had known such difficulties were to come. But no,
how could she even think such a thing? Look where the elders had
led them to, and how she had hated what they had done. She would
not change even one breath of her decisions, not even the decision
to slay the mind-executioner. She would do it all over again if she
had to, for the sake of the land, for the sake of her people. It
was only in this moment that the weariness of what she had
witnessed and what might be to come had overwhelmed her. She needed
to sleep, but would she be ready to face the future when her sleep
was through?

Puzzling over all these important matters and
trying to blink herself back into wakefulness and her usual vigour,
she had not noticed Johan had hunkered himself down before her. He
placed one hand on her knee and the other with a gesture of
affection and intimacy on her forehead, including Talus also within
his embrace.

Annyeke, he said, using thought only. She
could feel the love he had for her enfolding her like a vast cloak,
keeping her safe. His mind-words were as clear as sunlight, and she
knew Talus also caught their meaning.

Yes, what is it, my love?

You need have no reason to fear, he replied.
Now you are tired, yes, but soon you will be yourself again. In all
the year-cycles and heart-cycles I have known you, you have always
been a woman who understands what to do at the right time, whatever
it is we must face. Trust yourself, and the spirit of the stars
within you, Annyeke; trust yourself as I trust you. All will one
day soon be well.

She had not heard him speak with so much
commitment and passion before, at least not about her
responsibilities, and she could only hope his confidence would
prove to be right. For now, she must regain her strength, and on
the morrow she would form a plan to help the Lost One and those
that cleaved to him, a plan which would have to bring healing to
them. She only hoped she could find the faith to believe in it.

Chapter Nine:
Rumours of War

Jemelda

It seemed to be many hour-cycles since she
and her small band of loyal followers reached the Cave of Hiding.
When she first arrived, there was something about the atmosphere
which gave her pause but she shrugged her shoulders and brushed
aside the undergrowth nonetheless, striding through into its dark
safety. Her mind clung to the images of recent events: the scribe’s
death; how everything she’d hoped for seemed to be achieved; then
the way the magical cane had brought him back from the dead, with
the help of his friends. Shocking too he could name any as his
friends, remembering as she did so keenly what he had done to
them.

Worst of all was the way the Lammas Lord had
cleaved to him and had wanted the murderer to live even though it
was best for him to die. The land required it, she knew this in the
hidden depths of her blood and in the strange silence she felt
growing within her. A silence which reminded her of swirling
waters, with their own personality that was both herself and not
herself. If she only focused her mind a little, it almost felt as
if she might be able to name it but after a few tense moments she
gave up the effort. No matter, whatever – or whoever – it was, it
gave her a rich power she welcomed. Because of it, she would bring
about the murderous scribe’s death for her people and her village,
no matter what. These had been the uppermost of her thoughts on
arrival, but there were other matters also to consider.

In the thin sun dappling the cave, she knew
it was her husband’s abandonment which pierced her the most. She
had expected him to follow her when she left the Tree of Execution
at the castle as, by the stars, they had been together for so long
and he had always been at her side, and she at his. This
time-cycle, she was alone. She swallowed hard and wiped away the
wetness from her cheek. This was no place for weeping.

Besides, she wasn’t quite alone, was she?
Around her, huddled like refugees in the cave, sat the small group
of Lammassers who had, unlike Frankel, accompanied her in her
rebellion.

Thomas the Blacksmith was at her side,
naturally enough as he remained like her so opposed to the scribe
that he would kill Simon again if he had the opportunity. Other
villagers had followed them also: one of the two night-women left
in Lammas, although the second had stayed behind; five of the
remaining farmers with two of their wives, the other three women
being dead; two weavers, both women; and one boy who had worked
briefly as an apprentice to the dye trader. Twelve people, thirteen
including herself, so not much of an army, but it would have to be
enough. Even though they were facing strange magic and the power of
the mind-cane, not to mention the Tregannon emeralds although her
understanding of what these could do was more ragged, Jemelda would
give her best to stop the plans of the scribe from being
fulfilled.

Once the murderer was truly dead, then his
hold on Lord Tregannon would be gone, and the village and its
fields and woods would be able to rebuild itself once more. For
that to happen, Jemelda and her people would need to stop the cane
and the emeralds from providing the scribe and his followers with
protection. She needed to drive out the Gathandrians also, if
Lammas was to be itself again.

“Jemelda, what would you have us do?”
Thomas’s gruff question made the cook jump and she blinked at him,
hoping he did not pick up her uncertainty in the cave’s shifting
shadows.

She laid her hand upon his shoulder. “Do? We
must fight back, that is what we must do.”

“How can you fight thought-power when we have
none of such magic?” he snorted. “The one who holds the mind-cane
is the one who wins. Look how today the bastard scribe has come
back from the dead where I sent him. Nobody should have been able
to live with the rope I tied him in or the winter-sour beer he
drank, and I have not seen anyone come back from the unknown before
today. It is a curse and an evil.”

With that, Thomas spat on the rock floor,
causing the night-woman to cry out before stifling her cries with
her hand. Jemelda shook her head.

“You do not need to be afraid,” she told the
trembling woman. “You are among friends here and no-one shall harm
you. Is that not so, Thomas?”

A slight pause, and the blacksmith nodded.
She could see the gesture in the half-light, and knew as clearly as
if he had spoken it to her that Thomas had lain with this woman,
and in the recent past too. Perhaps he had cursed and spat at her
then, because she was not the woman he had loved and lost, and
because of what he had done with her to ease his grief. By the
stars, how this war and the scribe had brought them to such a
state, but she would fight until things were as they should be
again. Today, this bleak winter afternoon, these people had become
her people, of a sort, and she must take care of them.

“What is your name?” she asked the woman, and
then wondered if the question was an insult if the woman had never
had one. She had not stopped to think before speaking.

She was about to apologise and speak of
something else to prevent kneading in the woman’s shame when she
spoke. Her voice was low and quiet.

“My name is Corannan,” she said.

Corannan. One who suffers, in the old Lammas
tongue. Jemelda thought the night-woman’s family must have been
poor but with enough dignity not to forgo the naming ceremony.
Still, Corannan had been forced to sell herself to live, an act
which made poverty an evil master.

“Where do you come from?” she asked. “I know
you were not born in Lammas.”

Corannan hesitated. “I come from the White
Lands, but my mother was half of the marsh people too.”

Jemelda couldn’t help herself; she shuddered.
The people of mixed breeding were viewed with suspicion and she had
heard tell they never lived long. Another legend which had turned
out to be a lie and, now she looked at Corannan, she saw the
tell-tale paleness of the White Lands folk and a hint of the
Marshlands in her brown, gentle eyes. She’d never truly looked at
the woman before the war due to her profession, and an urge to ask
her why she did such acts overwhelmed the cook, but it was not the
time-cycle for that. She would have to work with Corannan from now
on, so the questions she burned to ask must remain unspoken.