The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

Jemelda was asking them to overturn the tradition of eon-cycles. Finally, the colours wavering above the people’s heads shifted to a steady blue, and when they spoke the answer was yes .
    The trial, the second one he had faced here, had begun. How he was glad for it.

    Jemelda

    She had no real idea what she was doing but still that powerful force within her drew her onwards. She felt as if all the ingredients of the perfect loaf were gathered, and soon they would blend together in full. How she wanted this. She needed someone to pay for the season-cycles of fear and the recent destruction of everything she knew and loved. It was the only way for the land and the people to be free again. Their ancient stories, those told near the well at evening when the work was done, spoke of a sacrifice that would heal all wrongs. The sacrifice would be the scribe; the villagers she knew would never choose to let him go. The man had come back to them for judgement; so he would find it. The silence in her heart she had lived with for so long told her this.
    As the snow dampened her hair, she brushed its softness back from her face and covered herself with the hood of her cloak. It was hardly enough to protect her but the gesture felt like something far older, a protection from wrongs they could not see.
    As the people gathered round her, Jemelda remembered her story in quiet words, as she gazed at the murderer’s face.

    *****

    “We were once a happy people,” she said. “We lived under the rule of the Tregannons for many generation-cycles. We were farmers and bakers, herb-dealers and dyers. It was a simple life where our days were ruled by the sun and the rain, and our nights were full of the stories we told and the friends and family we possessed. Yes, it was harsh and the father of our present Lord could be strict in his ruling and keen in his judgements, but we understood our role in our world, and he understood his. What could be more fitting?
    “Then the old Lord died, and his son, Ralph, became our present Lord. We thought our lives would become easier, but then after only a few year-cycles, this man,” Jemelda waved one hand at the scribe as she spoke, “this man came to our village and all we thought we knew was changed for ever.”
    The murderer’s face grew even paler and, above them, the sky darkened and the falling snow turned the distant trees more black. It was as if night had come upon them in the midst of the day-cycle.
    “We had always known,” the cook continued, “how different the young Lord Tregannon was from his father. His ambitions for us as a people were higher, and the trade links he formed with our neighbours were greater in number, but then the scribe arrived here and poisoned the mind of our Lord against us.”
    “No,” the murderer spoke, interrupting Jemelda’s flow. “It was never like that. The mind-executioner was already with you and the darkness of his plans already present. Ralph sensed them, and I only confirmed his suspicions.”
    “You lie .” Thomas the Blacksmith took two steps forward, looking as if he might hit the scribe again. “And do not interrupt the castle cook when she is speaking. It is not your place to speak.”
    “Peace,” Frankel stepped forward and laid his hand on Thomas’ arm. His voice was low and she almost had to stop breathing to hear. “Let the man under judgement be. It is our law.”
    Thomas made a sound halfway between a groan and a curse, though she could not make out the words. For another moment she thought he would shake off her husband’s restraining touch, leap at the murderer and tear out his eyes with his own hands and hatred, it was so strong in the air around them. But then he shook himself to sanity and moved away.
    Jemelda breathed again. She would not stop to tend any of the scribe’s wounds; if she had her way, he would be beyond wounds before the moon had risen. She did not wish to waste her time.
    “When this man came and poisoned our Lord’s mind against us,” she continued, “we grew to fear the pace of the soldiers’ feet at our gate, we trembled at shadows and we did not dare think the thoughts we had. For this murderer had the ability to steal our secret minds, and to know the depths of ourselves even we did not fully understand. What was doubt became proof of sin in his eyes, what was only a wish for a future we might long for became cause for trial and a means for murder. Soon what was whispered at our tables