The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

line of the horizon, he can see great tongues of flame shooting upwards from a wall of fire, which glows more brightly against the night sky.
    Simon, he thinks, Simon has used the mind-cane and lived. Now, because of that, they are here, in the desert. He cannot understand what it will mean or how he can broach the subject with Simon, or even what, in Gathandria’s name, he might say, but he knows the enemy will fight harder. Because of this, his mind is fizzing with plans as he comes to consciousness again.
    “We must travel,” he says. “We cannot stay here.”
    In the half light, Simon’s head jerks upwards. He, too, has been sleeping.
    Johan takes the water-pouch and drinks from it, afterwards tying it around his waist. Then he rises to his feet, wraps his cloak around him and brushes back his hair. Slowly, in the dying light, he swings around on his heel, gazing in all directions before turning his face to his companions again. The action gives him time to think.
    “We are not ready for this,” Isabella speaks softly, but her voice pierces him. It is almost as if she is talking only to herself. “Is it because of what the scribe has done? Is it because of the mind-cane?”
    “I didn’t do anything,” Simon protests before Johan can answer. “I simply threw the cane back at the enemy. It seemed…natural, somehow. Don’t ask me how. I don’t know why it didn’t hurt me. And I’m sorry if what I did has brought us to this place, where you don’t want to be, but what else was I supposed to do? Besides, I don’t see any danger so far. The fire we can see comes no closer.”
    Johan turns his gaze to Simon. From what the scribe says, he understands he will get no answers from the man. Besides, there is time neither for further questions nor for meditation.
    “Not yet,” he says. “There is no danger yet .”
    Then he begins to walk away, in the direction of the first small outcrop of rocks, only a shimmer in the encroaching dusk. Simon runs after him, leaving Isabella and Carthen to follow.
    “Johan.”
    He stops. Instead of speaking aloud, Simon institutes a mind-link. The ease with which he does it makes Johan’s heart beat faster. Truly, the scribe has more power than he is aware of.
    I am sorry that your sister despises me. I think she has done so all through this journey. I do not wish to be her enemy, Johan. Or yours.
    She does not despise you. She is hurt, that is all. You must forgive her.
    Hurt? By what?
    But he has no time to answer or explain about Petran. Not that he wishes to; such explanations are beyond him. In any case, Isabella is at hand with Carthen next to her.
    “Come,” Johan says out loud. “We must get away from here as quickly as we can. We can only travel in the darkness. We will be invisible then. And we must keep our heads covered, whatever comes; they say the heat here beats down by day and by night, and we must believe it.”
    He waits while Simon helps Carthen with his small tunic, secures his shoes and tears off cloth from his cloak for both their heads. Isabella does the same from the hems of her skirt. Then, together, the four of them stumble into the dark.

    Simon
    They walked all night. Simon’s tongue felt as if it grew large and unwieldy in his mouth, and his throat constricted to an impossible dryness. Occasionally he fingered the leather water-pouch tied around his waist, but knew he could not allow himself to drink. If anyone should have it, then it should be the youngest of them. But not yet—when it was gone, they had no more. For anyone. With every step, the heat pushed down. It was as if the sky above was falling upon them, suffocating them, and they would never be free of it. Every so often, Carthen’s small fingers grasped his, but the sweat slicked off them and they could not hold the embrace for long.
    Now and again, he caught a flash of something moving—something bright—at the edge of his vision, but when he turned, blinking the sweat away, he could see nothing. The only sound was their harsh breathing and the shush-shush of footsteps on sand. When, however, the movement and brightness came for the fifth time, Simon spoke. The words tasted bitter in his mouth.
    “Do you see that?”
    “What?” Isabella panted her reply in the moment or two when Johan remained silent.
    “A flash. Something…bright. I keep seeing something, but when I look, it’s never there.”
    “Don’t look at anything, Simon.” This time Johan spoke.