The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

the mind of another could be more easily revealed, even where the willingness was absent.
    For a long moment, the whole world seemed still. Then the lead Gathandrian nodded and gestured for the Chair Maker to walk with him. They set off across the parkland, the elder listening intently as his companion talked.
    Slowly one by one the other city folk who had followed them to the park melded into groups with the rest of the elders. The uncertainty of grey and the acceptance of soft green flowed over their heads, fusing with the snow, as they departed in different directions, leaving Annyeke alone.
    Not quite alone however. She didn’t need to turn to know he was there behind her. His special colours of blue and mauve wrapped her round and blended with her own. So in her mind she hardly knew where she ended and he began.
    Johan took her fingers in his, and kissed them.
    “I love you,” he whispered. “You are the wisest woman I have ever known, First Elder. And the most beautiful.”
    She smiled up at him and held him closer, the heat of him filling her thoughts and taking away all her worries about the Chair Maker’s gift. She had done the best she could think of to do. It was up to the people now. She hoped it might be enough.

Chapter Five: Gathering

    Jemelda

    It took her all morning to find the few people left from the village. She searched through the fields which remained unharvested. There were none to harvest them and the crops themselves were spoilt. She searched through the woods, although Frankel had warned her to be careful. Still she kept within sight of the edge of the trees, so if she heard any wolf, she might run. The wood-wolves did not travel easily across the open snow and it was a well-known fact they only killed in the dark. The morning’s thin light should be enough to keep them away.
    The first people she found were scrabbling amongst the earth at the edge of the corn field, perhaps to discover a few forgotten grains, though she knew none remained. The castle baker and his small daughter. God and stars preserve them, but they were so thin Jemelda was surprised they could move at all. She hadn’t seen them since the day the murderous scribe had been taken to the place of execution. How she wished he had died there, and the Lammas people would have been spared the pains they had gone through. But as for the baker: she had thought he and his family might be dead. Seeing the two fragile figures like this made the distant trees swim in her vision. She ran towards them, lifting her skirts to avoid the snow and calling their names.
    “Caitlin! Madred!”
    At the sound of their names, the baker and his daughter spun round to face her fully. For a heartbeat or two, as her breath pummelled her throat, Jemelda thought they might run. She stopped her pursuit at once and held out her hands to show she had no weapons. Although why they might imagine an old woman such as herself should have weapons of any sort was outside her comprehension.
    “It’s me,” she said. “Jemelda, the cook from the Lammas castle. Please, I mean you no harm.”
    As she continued to approach, Madred pushed his daughter behind him, her fair hair peeking out from the ragged scarf she wore around her head. The child must be half-frozen, the cook thought, perhaps worse. The baker’s habitually round face was sunken in on itself, and his generous mouth nothing but a tense line.
    “Stay where you are,” Madred spoke softly, his voice sounding raw and different, and Jemelda did as commanded. A rare occurrence but these were difficult times. “I know you, or what you appear to be. What are you doing here and what do you want with us?”
    Jemelda licked her lips. “I am here because I need to gather the people of the Lammas village again, what little there are left of us.”
    “Do you have food?” Madred’s eyes shone more fiercely and little Caitlin gave a low moan. It sounded as if the pair of them had been repeating that question for many day-cycles, with little or no satisfaction.
    With all her heart, Jemelda wished to answer the demand in the positive, but it was impossible. She shook her head.
    “I have another kind of food to offer, however, which might satisfy you for a while,” she said. “It might even change the way things are. The murderous one, the scribe who was the cause of all our sorrow, has returned. He says he wishes to make amends, but the time for that has past. He has agreed to put himself before