The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

seen.
    She sighed. “What happened here. You must never tell anyone about it. Not even your father. If you must talk, then you talk only to me. Do you understand?”
    Simon stared at her, still not understanding, still trembling. He knew enough to see that she meant the way he’d somehow been out of the body, as well as the incident with the boys. He nodded and she hugged him again.
    “Good,” she said. “Let’s go home, little one. Soon there will be nothing to tell.”
    From then everything began to change. Not that it was obvious at first. Simon’s mother continued to produce her herbs and potions, and the women continued to visit their home for the healing the herbs brought. Every now and then, he would think about what had happened, but the thoughts were too large, too bright, and after a while he learned to avoid them. His mother was right; the boys didn’t attack again and whenever Dolmar passed him, Simon would stare at the scar on his neck. Dolmar simply ignored him. And no word was spoken. But, in spite of the apparent normality, something in the atmosphere became harder, as if people were wary, or watching to see what would happen. And for the first time that winter, the soldiers visited them.
    They were at supper, eating the broth Simon’s mother had made that day with the leftovers of the lamb bones. The rich smell filled the air. His father was talking, telling them something that had taken place as the men had been re-salting the meat and choosing the best cuts in the barn. He was smiling.
    His mother reached forward to take Simon’s empty bowl for wiping clean and at the same time he heard a loud knocking at the door.
    “ Open up, ” an unfamiliar male voice said. “We must speak with the household. Now. ”
    The bowl crashed to the stone floor, breaking into shards that scattered underneath the table and across the straw matting. Unable to move and heart beating fast—though he didn’t know why—Simon watched it.
    “Who is it?” his father called out, before whispering, “Pick the bowl up, Charis, please.”
    For a moment, she stared at him, her face pale and her lips trembling. Then, slowly, so slowly, she hunkered down onto the floor and began retrieving the pieces. As if set free from strange magic, Simon found his legs and rushed to help.
    “Let us in!” The knocking came louder now. His mother’s fingers squeezed his. She took the pieces of the bowl he’d picked up and added them to hers. Then she dropped the remains next to the ewer and basin, out of sight.
    Simon’s father opened the door, and stepped to one side.
    Two soldiers filled the frame. They were dressed in the green and gold livery of the local land-owner—a man the villagers only saw once a year during the winter solstice celebrations. They wore ceremonial swords but their helmets were missing. The taller one entered first, stooping to avoid the low ceiling, and his companion followed, laying his thick winter gloves in the middle of the table. He sat down and scanned the room quickly. Simon huddled closer to his mother who laid her arm gently across his shoulders. His father closed the door.
    The tall soldier—the one still standing—spoke first.
    “We’ve been hearing rumours,” he said. “We thought you might be able to clarify some things.”
    “What sort of things, sir?” His father’s voice was low and steady, but when Simon glanced at him, he could see the twitch above his eye. Not wanting to witness his father’s terror, he looked away at once.
    The man sitting down grunted, and the tall one began to pace around the room, taking his time, staring at everything—the dishes, the pots, the firewood, even the bags of herbs Simon’s mother was in the process of drying. These he picked up, sniffed and dropped on the floor, frowning.
    “Oh, all sorts of things,” he said at last, turning to face the three of them. “Our lord isn’t happy, you see. He likes his lands to be law-abiding. He doesn’t like rumours or things not being…just so.”
    There was a pause, during which Simon thought his father would say something else, but he didn’t. Instead, the tall soldier spoke again, bringing his fist down on the table and leaning over it towards them.
    “There’s been talk that one of you has been delving into people’s minds. Is that true? ”
    He spat out his last words as if they were a weapon and Simon’s father turned pale. At the same time his mother’s grip on his arm tightened, and