The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

was continuing to shimmer and glow in the darkness, she made her way around the cellar.
    Most of the books were written in the ancient Gathandrian language. Annyeke’s knowledge of history wasn’t what she would have liked it to be, but even so she could still make out a few words in one or two of the volumes she opened. They spoke of war and loss and, once or twice as she flicked through, she thought she recognised the word saviour or healer . She wasn’t sure which. And there’d certainly been plenty of war and loss recently, but little hope of a prolonged healing. The leaf in her garden had not yet been joined by another.
    Still, this wasn’t helping her discover what the elders were doing. They had a right to keep the old texts in a place of their choosing and at least here they had a chance of being safe. What she wanted to know was what was going on now. Squaring her shoulders, she turned to face the cage at last. As it had before, the same flood of grief, anger and almost unbearable pain swept through her. She staggered under the weight of it and was forced to hold onto the table to avoid falling. Annyeke shut her eyes. She could feel everything as if it was solid, pressing against her. The damp air, her plait, her cloak. Outside those physical realities, and in the confines of this one room, existed a world of mental anguish she was not equipped to handle, despite all her training.
    She had to learn how. Because she intended to find out the elders’ secret—and, now more than ever, she was certain there was one—if it killed her in the process. Remembering what Johan had taught her about advanced meditation techniques, she centred down on herself until she found what she was looking for—a garden in autumn, a stream, and her beloved lemon-tree. A vision where she could be herself, no matter what was happening in her outer life.
    Annyeke opened her eyes. The pain was still there, but bearable now. Not, she suspected, for long. The shining cage felt fiercer at close quarters, as if something had been in torment there for a long time. And still was, although the room was empty apart from herself. She shook her head to clear it. As she was already at the table, she picked up the first book. From memory, the positioning hadn’t changed from yesterday. As she did so, she could have sworn the cage’s glow grew a fraction dimmer.
    The object she held in her hand was bound in mulberry leaf and decorated with gold and silver. It smelled of riches and history. There was no title. She opened the book. The first page was written in ancient Gathandrian but the date given was more recent, of many generations ago. As she thumbed her way through, turning the pages with ever increasing urgency and biting her lip, the language became more modern, and the understanding easier. Her skin felt as cold as winter, and she found she was breathing quickly. It was a journal, the entries written in different hands. Towards the end, the bulk of the writing became that of the First Elder. She’d seen his notations and signature on enough of the papers in her working life to recognise it.
    When she finished, the book slipped from her hands to the floor and she looked up, staring right into the mysteries of the cage.
    “You were here,” she whispered. “You were here, for all that time. How did you bear it?”
    She sat back suddenly, landing on the stone floor with a thump, darkness ricocheting through her blood. They’d imprisoned the enemy here. Had written up day-by-day, moon-by-moon, year-by-year the pain and terror they’d caused him. A record of wrongs done and suffered. All these long year-cycles. They’d trapped him in this star-forsaken dungeon. No, call him by his name. Why take away the personhood of someone they—the cultured, so-called sophisticated Gathandrians—had treated so cruelly? Call them both by who they were. The Gathandrian elders had taken Duncan Gelahn—let her acknowledgement of his name bring her what ill-luck it might—and kept him here throughout generations. No light, no joy, no company, no hope. How could they act in such a manner towards anyone, no matter how badly he had fallen short? And she was a part of it, wasn’t she? Her righteous shock and anger at this discovery was nothing more than a cover for her own guilt. She was part of the people who appointed the elders—at least the most recent ones—and who trusted them to do what was best, who believed in their compassion and