The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

Johan sits up and Isabella senses his indecision. Help the scribe, or is it wisest to let him be until he is fully conscious again? But Hartstongue is already strong enough to send his words directly to us both.
    You gave me water. Where did you find it? There was more of it than was in the pouches. Have you drunk also?
    A pause, and she senses that Johan is allowing her to answer. As she does so, Isabella understands that what she has done to the boy has been in vain. Gelahn has deserted her. So the words she gives are the truth. This time, her potions have contained no evil; she had no strength left for such magic. We took the water from the rock. I mixed it with devil’s claw and white willow. To fight the effects of the sun. On us all.
    We shared it between us. There is none left now, her brother adds.
    Thank you.
    The scribe searches their minds. She keeps her silence and does not look at him, but she knows that Johan’s thoughts rake Hartstongue through as if searching for something he hardly hopes to find.
    Hartstongue’s voice, when it comes, is harsh and heavy. Dull from thirst and the sand’s power.
    “Now there are three of us,” he says. “We travel light. And this time, I lead the way.”

    Johan
    They leave Carthen behind. Johan is glad to relinquish the role of leader. He has proved a poor one. He cannot claim that the scribe will be worse than he has been. As they set out, heading eastwards, he knows that the meagre shelter that Simon scratched out for his friend in sand and rock will be as nothing when held in the balance with the desert sun, the crows and the sand-rats. Soon the boy will be no more than bleached bones and dust. The desert will claim its own.
    Simon doesn’t look back.
    They walk in silence until the sun rises again. In spite of the heat, Simon’s mind is brimming with questions and finally he has to stop.
    “I don’t know…” he says, stumbles and is forced to start again. “I don’t know where we’re going or how far we must walk to come to the end of the sands, so I doubt if I have it within me after all to lead us to our destination.”
    Then he sits down. Just where he is, in the middle of the desert and in the full light of morning. Despite it all, Johan finds himself moved by the man’s honesty. It is a type of courage he himself has not shown.

    Isabella
    She is finally alone. Whatever Gelahn does now, it is obvious that he does so without her and she is no longer part of his plan. When did she cease to be so? It does not matter; she blinks away tears. Petran, his memory, the shape of him, fills her mind. Whether she sees her love again or not, Isabella will continue to battle to bring him back in the only way she knows how. Let Gelahn destroy her or reinstate her—it makes no difference.
    So she sits next to the scribe. He flinches but says nothing. She must make him acknowledge his defeat. But how?
    “What do you want to do?” she asks him.
    “You say that as if I have knowledge of this place,” he half-laughs. “You know I do not.”
    She understands then that his answer may give her the path to bring him to death also. Perhaps her master has not entirely abandoned her after all. Indeed Isabella can almost hear the echo of his words in her. Be strong and do not doubt . Turning away, she smiles.
    “I think you have more knowledge than do we,” she lies. “You have surrendered to the desire for death, but travelled through it.”
    “How does that give me a greater knowledge than you?”
    “The legends tell us that, in the place of fire, to embrace death is to defeat it and to throw oneself openly onto the burning flame is the way to bring life.”
    Hartstongue frowns. She can almost see the workings of his mind as he ponders her deceit, and she blesses the Gathandrian tales that can be twisted to mean whatever one wants them to.
    “I have not heard of such legends,” he says. “Are they from your people?”
    He is right, after a fashion, but she does not want him to read her further. “Indeed. No more questions. Do not ask me any. You must decide now what we must do, and in which direction you wish us to travel. The right of choice has become yours and you must use it well.”
    The scribe shades his eyes. “A right of choice? If you think I have more power than I actually have, then believe me, you and your brother must think again.”
    Isabella does not answer him. In fact, she thinks he has no power at all or, at the very least, no wisdom