The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

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