The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

want to step back but she stopped herself. Then he turned away as if she were utterly unimportant to him and recommenced his slow shuffling walk away from the castle and towards the village.
    Part of her wanted to pull him back and make him choose, no matter what, but there was no sense in it; she had to redeem the time-cycle she had wasted as soon her people would be waiting for her at the edge of the houses where she had asked them to be. Her task was still to complete. The old man could wait and in any case if he spoke of what he had seen he looked foolish and fond enough that no-one left would believe him.
    Jemelda ran the rest of the way, the strange encounter still pulsating in her bones. She knew him, but she did not know him. It was a strange night for them all. At the castle stream, she stopped her maddened flight and waded across as quietly as she could. She felt hot even in this winter-cycle night, and her blood was pounding in her head. Here was where her faithless husband dwelt, and here were the supplies she needed to steal for her mission: a terrible contradiction. Above all, she hoped Frankel would be sleeping peacefully and would never realise she was there.
    At the kitchen, she lifted the curtain and entered, her senses on the alert for any movement. She and Frankel were accustomed to sleep in a small room next to the kitchen, but her husband was a light sleeper and she would need to be careful. Once the curtain fell back behind her, the moonlight was lost, so she waited a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Not that she didn’t know every span of her own domain as she had left it, but she could not guarantee Frankel would not have moved something in her absence.
    When she was ready, she made her way as quietly as she could around the great table and towards the firewood store at the far side of the room. A few small branches were all she would need, along with the fire-oil which would make the flame spark more quickly. They wouldn’t have a story-full of time. Once on her knees and scrabbling amongst the wood, she thought there were fewer branches than there should be but then again they would have had to heat water to salve the murderer’s wounds. She wondered where he was and if she might indeed finish the task she had begun in a different way. But if death wouldn’t hold the scribe, and he had the power of the mind-cane with him, what would be the point? No, she’d been right in her original plans and she would keep to them. Besides, within the castle and after the law of their land had had its way and been found wanting, he would be well protected and her time was not yet.
    She gathered what she could, all the time listening out for any stirrings from the bed-chamber. When she had enough branches, she took three pots of fire-oil and tied them to her belt, making sure the stoppers were fully in place. Then she turned to make her way to freedom again, but this time something stopped her. She couldn’t bear to be so near her husband, no matter his betrayal of her cause, without at least glimpsing him again. They had been joined for so long. Taking a breath, she laid her burdens on the table, making sure she could gather them together again easily, and crept over to the sleep-chamber. For a moment she listened and caught the sound of quiet breathing. Frankel was safely asleep. She edged the thin curtain aside and blinked until she could see the blurred shape of him in the dark. He was lying in his usual position: on his back with one gnarled arm flung out to one side, his head turned towards it, away from her. With all her heart, Jemelda wished it was possible to step forward, remove her cloak and lie down next to him, safe at his side again. But it could not be so; she had made her choice, and he his, and the two of them must complete the decisions they had made, apart rather than together. How she hated the wars that had brought them to this, and most of all how she hated the scribe. He should never have returned to them, no matter the reasons he might have had, and he would die as soon as she could bring her mission to fulfilment. No other options remained to her: the recipe was written and must be made.
    But this night at this moment compelled her to be still and gaze. She longed to speak to Frankel simply for the joy of hearing his voice in response. It didn’t matter what he might have to say, all the wrongs he would no doubt accuse her of. She wished she could persuade