The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

Jemelda had similar conversations with those she could find. Some did not stay to talk with her, whilst a few walked away from her words. But most had the spirit of vengeance which had kept her alive through the past terrible week-cycles, though she did not think the same strange darkness she carried was within them. Perhaps that was her burden alone, and her joy. Anyway, the murderer had returned; he must face justice. After that, the land and the people would be free to begin again. Surely it was written across the sky and the stars.
    Her last encounter was with the blacksmith. She found him on the far side of the woods, asleep. She’d almost passed him by, the shadow of the trees blending with the light grey of his cloak where he lay curled up on the ground. It was only because he stirred and muttered something too low to hear that she realised he was there at all.
    “Who’s that?” she challenged the apparent stranger, willing herself not to think of the mysterious creatures the baker had talked about.
    When he sat up, she recognised him. “Thomas?”
    He nodded and rose to his feet. He towered above her as always but there was something different about him: something darker. As if he’d done things he wasn’t proud of, and the memory of them sat heavy on his shoulders. This quality sang to her, but she shook the feeling away.
    “Jemelda,” he said, acknowledging her presence but adding nothing more.
    “I am glad to see you alive,” she said. “I am searching for the villagers. We must gather at the midday hour-cycle in the castle courtyard. There is something important we must decide.”
    Thomas laughed, and the sound was as bitter and cold as a winter night. “Surely after what has happened, there is nothing we can do which will be important?”
    Jemelda shook her head. “I think there is. I know my husband does not agree with me and does not fully understand my reasons, but I believe if we purge the evil from amongst us, we might have a chance to be who we were before. Today that opportunity lies before us and we should rise to meet it.”
    The blacksmith stopped laughing. He took a deep breath instead and wiped his hand across his mouth. “What opportunity?”
    Jemelda laid a hand on his arm. Thomas flinched but didn’t shake her off.
    “I am sorry it must be like this,” she said, “but the scribe is back.”
    This time he pushed her fingers away, stepped back and spat deep into the bushes. Jemelda knew how much Thomas hated the murderer and she knew his reasons. The coward had been responsible for the death of the woman the blacksmith loved, and she could not judge him for his bitterness. Didn’t she have enough bitterness of her own? If Frankel had died because of the scribe, then she would pursue him to the end of the land with such a fire in her heart he would never defeat her.
    Thomas swore in the old language, words of such hatred that even the cook gasped.
    “I should have killed him when I had the chance,” the blacksmith muttered, a statement Jemelda could not understand in any measure. “I should have killed him and had done with it. The gods and stars alone know why I chose to have mercy, when I could have wiped out the disease which plagues us before the worst things began to happen. If only I had sunk my knife into his treacherous throat, then many more of us would have lived, and there would not only be a poor remnant of our people left to walk the land. Why has he returned, Jemelda? Does he wish to destroy us for all time?”
    She frowned, and a fresh flurry of snow began to settle against her neck. “He says he has come to make amends, whether it means life or death, and I will hold him to it. At the midday hour, the villagers are to decide.”
    The blacksmith laughed. “Then let him take what blooded amendments we choose for him. I for one know which stone I will pick in the judgement.”
    Jemelda stepped back, blinked and then nodded. The custom of choosing a red stone for death and a white stone for life in a trial was one carried out by the Lammas Lords alone. It had never been a privilege granted to the poor. But Thomas was right; why should what had been right in their past be a guide to what they should do now? They were the people in charge of this scene of judgement; they had the right to do what the Lords once did.
    “And I too know my choice,” she said.

    Simon

    The Lost One found his way to the kitchen by following Frankel’s instructions and trusting