The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

to use it. But let him make what he will of her lack of response. His vanity may yet mean her success.

    Simon
    With a sigh, he rose to his feet. He turned and began to walk once more, in the direction they had been travelling. He didn’t look to see if the other two would follow him. He knew they would, and that no further words would be spoken between them.
    After about an hour, with the sun directly overhead, they came to another outcrop of rocks. By now, Simon’s tongue was swollen and his mouth as dry as mountain air. They would all need water somehow if they were to last the journey. Perhaps he should have waited out the heat of the day and travelled at night as they’d done the first time? That would have been the more sensible option, he knew it. But then Carthen had died, and something told him he’d been right to make this choice. When he glanced back to his companions, for a moment or two he thought the wall of fire seemed nearer. No matter. For the sake of Carthen, he would carry it through. Or be damned in the attempt.
    “Isabella?” Simon’s voice cracked on her name and his tongue was slow.
    “Yes?”
    “Can you find water from this rock too? We will die if we can’t drink.”
    She shrugged and wiped her eyes, sweat and dirt smearing her forehead. “That magic cannot be done again.”
    “Perhaps not alone. But what if we both try? Or all three of us? There must be something we can do together.”
    It took him a while to speak those words. His tongue found the shapes of them slowly and then had to work hard to find the next. When he finished, he sat down suddenly on the sand, legs no longer able to hold him. He wished he could piss, but had nothing inside to release. Not anymore.
    A moment later, Johan lowered himself slowly next to Simon, like an old man when the day was done. He smelled of stale sweat and leather.
    “If we travel on now,” he said, each word articulated as if it dwelled alone, “we may reach some kind of safety before we are too ill to continue. If we try to take water here, if we fail, our strength will be less and we will have no hope.”
    A thought came to the scribe. Is it to do with the horizon of fire?
    “Yes,” Johan said. “And, Simon, do not waste yourself in thought-work. Your energy reserve will be greater if you speak your thoughts aloud, no matter how painful.”
    “Why? The fire, I mean?”
    “Haven’t you thought it’s coming closer to us now?”
    Yes, he had, but only recently. As ever, Johan’s mind was sharper than his.
    “If the sun doesn’t kill us,” Johan continued, “then the fire behind us will. When we travelled at night, the fire-gnats you saw were tracking us. That is what our legends tell us.”
    “What else do your legends say? Don’t you think it would be wise to share that knowledge now?”
    Johan closed his eyes and his face grew still, as if he were searching deep inside himself for the answer. When he spoke again, however, it was to return to their current plight.
    “So. Water, or the journey? Which is it to be, Simon?”
    The scribe gazed again at the fire line. It didn’t appear to be a present danger.
    “Water,” he replied. “Then our journey will be faster.”

    Isabella
    She places herself on the other side of her brother and the three of them hold hands. Now is the time, she thinks. She can still magic a potion for Hartstongue that will take him to the edge of destruction, without affecting Johan or her. Gelahn has taught her that much. The ancient gifts. They will make everything as it should be. As the circle is completed, a small jolt of power quivers in the air for a moment or two. The scribe looks up but Isabella has already taken its wisdom within her alone and he sees nothing. Only the sun and sand, the heat and distant flame remain.
    A slow humming grows. Background noise only but it differs from the internal sound of their thoughts. Sensing Hartstongue’s curiosity and the damage it could do, Isabella takes his hand and places it on her left one, where she is already holding Johan’s. Then she draws all three of them forward until they are touching the nearest rock.
    Flame explodes through the scribe’s fingers. When he cries out and attempts to tear himself away, Isabella’s grip is stronger. Sweat breaks out on Johan’s forehead and she sees the twitch in his temple is grooved more deeply. His lips are stretched tightly together as if keeping a lock on his pain. She is sorry for that, but there