The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

been about to say something else, she wasn’t sure, but the next moment a loud cry came from the direction of the parkland – a cry not just of the voice but of the mind too – and she spun round towards it. Jagged ribbons of mind-colour swung through the air – yellow, crimson, black – and for a wild heartbeat Annyeke thought the mind-executioner had returned. But no, that was impossible. He was dead, truly dead, and his blood was on her hands alone. It could not be him.
    Allowing herself one glance only at the elder beside her, she began to run towards the park. A moment’s hesitation, and she heard the sound of his feet behind her. And beyond him, the noise of the gathered people accompanying them. Both she and the Chair Maker struggled and slipped on the packed snow lining the streets. Under her breath and as the noise of pain became louder, Annyeke cursed the war which meant the street-cleaners no longer plied their trade.
    When she turned the corner near the winter-pines, she almost fell, but the steadying hand of the elder kept her from harm. That brought back an echo of memory – of she and Iffenia in the snow at the battle – and by the time she acknowledged it she was too late to stop the widower from catching her thought.
    I’m sorry. She launched the words at him, hoping he would see them for what they were, but there was no time for any other nicety. Because scrabbling like wood-cats under the trees were several Gathandrians and two of the returning elders. The Maker of Gardens and the Silent One. It was the latter who was screaming – in thought only – but the shouts had come from the people of the city. Annyeke could hear their words plunging through her blood: traitors! cowards! murderers!
    All of which was arguably true, she had to admit, but the Gathandrians prided themselves on being a peaceful people – the arbiters of what was right. Or they had done so once. This terrible anger, understandable though it was, would be useless to them. Perhaps it was the most destructive force of all.
    Now she was close enough to pull the fighting men apart. Shutting down the high-pitched screams in her head, she reached forward. And found herself held back by something, by someone.
    No, the Chair Maker whispered, his voice seeming to come from the depths of her own blood. They could harm you.
    She swung round and shook off his restraining hand. All her sympathy for him vanished temporarily away. Do you think we haven’t all been harmed enough by other forces? And do you think I care if they injure me?
    And the truth was she didn’t. Annyeke knew this fight must stop. For if the people rose up against their former elders, then there might never be peace, or at least not in her lifetime. So, with that, she lunged at the nearest fighter – one of the Gathandrians – and tried to drag him away from the beleaguered elders. It was then she realised that even though short red-haired women were on any other occasion a great force to be reckoned with, they were not, sadly, any match for a Gathandrian male in the prime of life. She found herself kicked and scratched and beaten in the body, whilst her mind tackled the combined and unfocused rage of the city people.
    By the gods, perhaps the elder’s warning had been wiser than she’d given him credit for. She didn’t want Johan and Talus to be mourning her loss before they’d even properly begun to be a family. Sending out a small mind-pinch, which she used to push her assailants away without harming them, Annyeke managed to struggle clear of the fray.
    Gasping for breath, she rose to her feet and blinked. The Chair Maker was standing nearby. She thought there might be a look of wry amusement on his face but he said nothing, neither out loud nor in the mind. His expression did not change one flicker as he handed her the branch he must have discovered under the wood-pines. Annyeke nodded her thanks. She took the strange offering, turned round to the battle, tried not to think of the last time she’d wielded a weapon far more dangerous than this, and swept it across the writhing backs of the men.
    She did this not just with her own physical power, but with all the sharpness of her mind. Not only that, but as the wood-pine’s rugged branch slashed into the fighting men, she realised the colours flowing over her skin were not just the calming colours of green and lilac, but possessed an added darkness from the elder also. For a heartbeat, such darkness