The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

destiny of the one on trial before us has been decided. More are for your death, Simon the Murderer, than are against it. So let it be done, but let it be done slowly so you may know to the full what your crimes have been.”

    Simon

    Everything changed with Jemelda’s words. He could tell by the way the colours of the people’s minds coalesced from their differing shades of purple, silver, green into the deepest black, pierced here and there with flashes of crimson. Death was upon him and upon him swiftly.
    And with it, chaos. Simon didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but up until now the cook had conducted proceedings with something close to dignity, in spite of setbacks. The moment Jemelda had spoken the people’s judgement out loud, although it had been obvious which way his fate would journey, the villagers launched themselves upon him. They grabbed him and began to drag him to the Tree of Execution, all the time shouting and cursing him in the names of the stars. Above their clamour, the Lost One could hear Jemelda’s triumphant voice. He could not hear any words from Frankel or the night-women; he could only sense their terrible shocked silence.
    As the people continued to pull him forward, Simon fell heavily and tore his beloved cloak. The next moment, it was ripped away from him and he cried out. The first time he’d done so. With a roar, the people brought him to the tree. This time, there would be no rescue by the Gathandrians; this time the choice was his own, not another’s. Finally it was Thomas who snapped out the order to one of the night-women, who stumbled backwards but ran to obey.
    “Fetch rope,” he said, in a tone that brooked no disagreement.
    The people continued to hold Simon down, though there was no need; he had no intention of running or begging for mercy, not like the last time he’d been here. He had every intention of seeing it through to the end. The need churned in his blood and its fulfilment would not be denied. As this thought flowed through him, he heard the distant cry of the snow-raven far above. He hoped he would see the great bird before he died. The raven had been with him through so much. The mind-cane too, but that was very different.
    Simon had willed himself not to glance up toward the high castle windows, or what was left of them. But now he could not help it. He thought he saw Ralph’s figure for an instant standing in what had once been his bedroom, but he could not be sure. The impression was gone almost before he’d credited it, and left no colour on his mind. Perhaps neither of them had any colour left either to give or receive.
    A commotion at the edge of the small and now silent crowd, and the night-woman slipped through. She carried a stool from the kitchen and a length of rope. She handed both of them to Thomas and the crowd pulled Simon to his feet in front of the tree. The blacksmith stood on the stool and wrapped the rope around the branches in a manner the Lost One couldn’t understand. This was not to be a simple hanging then. He wanted to read Thomas’ mind to uncover his intentions but it was not his place, not any more. By the gods and stars, it had never been his place with these people, but because of Ralph he had done it, over and over again.
    It didn’t take long for the blacksmith to achieve his purpose; above the height of a man, four loops of rope hung from the tree, the middle one larger than the others. The two upper loops were for each hand, one for his head and one for his feet. The intricacy of knots and the beauty of their fashioning made Simon’s skin grow even colder.
    “Stand on the stool,” the blacksmith ordered. Simon obeyed. “Put your head into the middle noose, your hands in these outer ones and your feet in the lower, and then our justice will be complete.”
    The Lost One nodded. “Yes, I will do as you say. But first you must know this: what you do on this winter afternoon, you do only because the gods and stars wish it to be so. Their will is also mine. When the deed is done, there will be no accounting amongst you for it; instead, you will be free. Trust me.”
    Thomas’ face convulsed, and the white-hot colour of his anger pounded Simon’s thoughts, a piercing alternative to the chill white snow.
    “ You have no right to speak with us, ” the blacksmith shouted. “And none to forgive. Do as I say and then you will die, but slowly enough for you to know it.”
    With that, Thomas reached down and