The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

Ralph came and stood in front of him. The nearness of the Lammas Master made Simon’s skin grow hot. A faint scent of rosemary and cedarwood wafted from his body. He must have been in battle training.
    “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know. If I’ve failed you in some way, I beg your forgiveness. Let me know my fault, and I’ll correct it in the best way I know how. I promise you that.”
    When Simon finished, his hands shook and his mouth felt dry. He wished he’d sounded less like a poor beggar, but it couldn’t be helped. Without thinking, he reached out with his mind and brushed against Ralph’s, trying to find out whatever was wrong and offer comfort. The Overlord was so close that it was easy. For a moment, the fact of him was as familiar and as longed for as Simon’s own heart, and then a sharp slap to his face severed the link.
    “ Ralph? ”
    When Simon looked at him, skin stinging, Ralph’s expression was as stone in winter.
    “When you address me, you call me Lord Tregannon,” he said. “Remember your status. And mine.”
    “Yes, Lord Tregannon, of course.”
    Stepping forward, he gripped Simon’s shoulder so hard that Simon could feel the fingers pressing to the bone and almost cried out. For a moment Lord Tregannon stared at the scribe and then pushed him so he staggered. When he recovered, Ralph was standing with his back to him, leaning on the table. Simon held his breath, wondering what he would do next.
    “Whatever happens now,” Ralph said, “it is your own responsibility. Not mine. You are not, and have never been, my friend. Do you understand? ”
    Simon couldn’t understand what this meant, or what he should do, or say. He’d benefited from Ralph’s protection, gained his respect and shared his bed. Friendship had never been offered.
    A heartbeat. Then another. And the beginnings of something stirring from the corner of the room where the tapestries met. Despite the murmur of warning drifting through his mind, Simon glanced towards the source of movement. A brief glimpse of the deer in the hunt on the south wall tapestry, its yellow eyes staring at the dogs, and then…
    Something—or some one —appeared in front of the tapestry. At the same time, a shaft of crimson pain shattered inside his head.
    It rolled over and through him and kept on going. Simon fell to his knees, screaming. He couldn’t think of anything but the pain and how it was drowning him; he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t feel. From rushing like water, the crimson in his mind turned to fire, as it raced through his body. He was burning now—though, from somewhere he didn’t recognise, he understood this couldn’t be true. Something was killing him and he had no way of stopping it.
    “ Please ,” he screamed, whether aloud or only in his thoughts he didn’t know, “please stop , I beg you, I…”
    And then somehow the fire was receding, the wave of pain lessening its grip, and Simon began to come to himself. The flames died down.
    He couldn’t tell how long he lay, gasping, shaking and crying, on Ralph’s stone floor, his fingers clenching and unclenching against his skin, his mouth filled with the taste of bile. He could hear voices over and around him. He couldn’t understand what they were saying.
    When at last he opened his eyes, the ceiling swayed into view and then the shapes closer to him: Ralph’s imperious figure wrapped in gold; and a stranger. The one Simon had glimpsed just before the mind-fire started.
    He saw a man dressed in a black over-tunic patterned at the edge with white circles. He was standing to Simon’s right, leaning over and smiling. At his neck he wore a circle of silver and in his hand he carried a long cane. Ebony, with a carved silver head, shining and deadly. As Simon’s gaze took in the cane, it bucked in the stranger’s hand, but the man stilled it at once with a frown.
    This artefact was not something Simon had seen for a long time, but he knew quite well what it meant. A mind-executioner.
    He’d never met one before. Ralph hated them, and all they stood for. Or that was what he had always told Simon. This understanding was why Simon had come to the Lammas Lands, this was why he’d thought he’d found safety. It looked very much as if that was about to change.
    He couldn’t help it. He groaned.
    “He wakes,” the stranger said, addressing Ralph. “See, I have done as you begged me. No more and no less.”
    Once again Ralph turned