The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

Well, a woman was now in charge and things were different.
    “Indeed, First Elder,” the Chair Maker said with a smile, and Annyeke realised she had been interpreted – correctly – once more.
    In the cold half-light of morning over the city she smiled back. And said what she hadn’t anticipated saying.
    “Tell me about your wife.” She blinked. “If you wish to, I mean.”
    He looked at her fully, for the first time.
    “I would like that very much,” he said. “But here I think words might be a barrier to our thoughts. May I?...”
    After an almost imperceptible pause, Annyeke nodded, and the Chair Maker lifted his hand to her forehead, to facilitate the connection between them.
    There, in the morning’s chill quietness, and for the length of the start of a summer story, he told her his tale. About his wife, about himself and about the carving they had made.
    ******

    I never expected to be married to one such as she, tall and elegant and beautiful, the Chair Maker said. Why should I when I am and have always been as you see before you? Round and small, like a stone smoothed by the rushing waters over many year-cycles. I loved the woman who would become my wife for many moon-seasons before she even knew I lived. When I was learning my trade in my father’s workshop, she would come from the region of glass-makers to choose offcuts for the fires her people needed. The first time I saw her, she was wearing a long green dress and the sky lit up her hair. In those days, it was bright yellow, with a hint of gold. Later of course, as is the nature of the seasons, her hair became grey, as it was when you knew her. But what you see in one instance of knowing is never the sum of what a Gathandrian, or indeed any person, can be.
    So I treasured the moments when she would come to us, not knowing then why I did so. I was too young to understand fully the ways of the mind. How love comes when it is least expected, and how it can root itself in your thoughts, so it can never be broken away. Then, one day, when the autumn-season had begun to wrap the trees in red and gold, my father was out selling our wares at the market, and I was in the workshop alone.
    I knew something was about to happen even before I saw the shape of Iffenia at the threshold. I sensed a change in the air, something tingling my skin, and I dropped the chisel I held and turned to greet her. She, a daughter of the glass-makers, and I a son of a mere carpenter. So far apart in the city and peoples we moved in. For Gathandria was not equal and full of justice, as it still isn’t.
    Back then, her presence thought-startled me. I did not have my father to act the part of host, for however short a time, and neither could I think that today we had any offcuts large enough for burning. She had only visited three day-cycles previously. We were not expecting her for at least another five daybreaks. Stumbling upward to greet her, I could sense the dust settling over my hair and I brushed it away as best I could.
    It was then she spoke my name, for the first time, I think.
    “Bayard,” she said. “I saw your father at his market stall, but I did not see you.”
    And then she stopped, as if she had already said too much, and looked away from me. I did not want that to happen. No, I wanted her to keep looking at me until my father returned, and beyond. I wanted her to keep looking at me always. I was only twenty summers old and she just nineteen, but I knew then. As if it had always been obvious.
    To keep her there, I spoke. My voice sounded too rough and I had to say the words again before she understood me.
    “If you wish, I can show you some of my father’s carvings,” I muttered. “I am afraid we do not have enough offcuts for your glass today.”
    She smiled at me and nodded. “Thank you. I would like to see those.”
    I led her to the smaller room at the side of the studio. This morning, neither we nor the few men who worked with us had had time to tidy the carving-space before leaving for the market, and I had put off the chore until nearer the evening. Now I wished I had done it at once. The low benches covered with woodshavings and the temporarily abandoned table-work seemed shabby, and I hurried to open the window wider and clear a space for her to sit.
    She did so, gathering her skirts around her and gazing up at me in expectation. It felt as if my tongue were too big for my mouth, and I reached for my father’s latest work in order to cover