Free The Executioner's Cane by Anne Brooke Page B

inner landscape which lay at the
depths of his mind: the picture of peace and quietness that called
to him always, but so far had been largely unfulfilled in his life.
The cane hummed gently at his side. All he could do was wait until
peace should come. He suspected it would take a while, and he hoped
there would be wisdom enough to guide him through it.
     
    Jemelda
     
    They did not see the murderous scribe again
all that day-cycle, and the fact of his return kept Jemelda awake
all night. In the alcove in the kitchen, with the smells of bread
and the faint hint of the remaining spices around her, she turned
from one side to the other, and back again, never finding the
comfort she sought. Occasionally the soft snores of Frankel
accompanied her watching and once he shuffled across to her and
held her gently in his arms. She didn’t dare move as she guessed he
still slept. After a while though, he returned to his side of the
makeshift bed and she was free to ponder on her own once more.
    Her reaction to the scribe had surprised her.
Yes, she wasn’t a fool. She knew only too well her responses to
situations or events, particularly if unexpected, could be
impassioned. You couldn’t run any kind of a kitchen in a castle
like this without breaking a few sheaves of wheat. Not to mention
pots and pans. No good cook she’d ever known had been calm. Not
that a good cook was needed now. There was so little food and only
the Lammas Lord, Apolyon, her husband and herself to feed. With all
of her spirit, she longed to be able to feed the lost villagers of
Lammas too, but they kept to the outlying fields and woods,
gleaning what nourishment they could from the winter berries and
only occasionally venturing back for what shelter they might find.
Their source of food was unlikely to last long, with the snows
beginning to threaten to the full, and the wars had destroyed the
field-gleanings, consuming them with fire and darkness. Soon they
were all likely to starve, or be torn apart by the wolves. Gods and
stars preserve them. She had denied the truth for as long as she
could but she had no choice but to admit that what was needed was
not food, but a saviour.
    Something wet flowed from her eye and she
brushed away her weakness, cursing herself for being nothing but an
old fool. Because she and Frankel had both assumed Lord Tregannon
would be the one to bring peace and healing to the lands and people
he owned. This had failed to happen. Instead, their Overlord had
hidden himself away in his shattered private rooms and only taken
the minimum of the food she’d prepared for him, barely enough to
keep a child alive. Something else was needed.
    Maybe, with the terrible lack of any other
choice, that something was the scribe.
    No. She clenched her fists under the thin
blanket and tried to breathe calmly. That murderer had brought
misery and death to these lands when he arrived here. She could
never forgive him for it, no matter what Frankel said about the
need to let hatred go. For how could she ever let it go when so
many of her friends and neighbours lay dead and their families
destroyed? No, she would never forgive him. She would hold onto the
knowledge of what the Lammas Lands had once been and she would
never let it go. Whatever plan the scribe had to work his devious
way into the confidence of the remaining villagers, she would stand
firm against him. She swore it to herself. There and then, in the
darkness, next to her sleeping and unsuspecting husband, she
promised herself she would not allow the scribe to go unpunished,
she would not allow him even to live. No matter if the fearful
mind-cane destroyed her for it. The sacrifice they needed would be
the murderer himself, and nothing else could save them. Odd how the
acknowledgement of her decision and this new understanding brought
her the kind of peace inside she had not known for a long season.
It made her smile.
    And so, finally, in the lighter hours of the
morning-cycle, Jemelda