The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

is nothing she can do.
    Another wave of pain rips its way inside the scribe, and she smiles. The rock itself is changing with the power she is channelling through them. Around the imprint of their joined hands, the grey stone grows black and molten rock begins to drip down over their fingers. As the slow drip quickens to become a gushing, Isabella tears their hands away at last. Staggering upwards, heart beating wildly and tears streaming unchecked, Hartstongue can only manage a few steps before falling to his knees.
    “What have you done? ”
    Even before the question is out of his lips, he knows his flesh to be his own again. He stares at his fingers as the crimson fire fades. “How did you…?”
    This time, he doesn’t finish the question. Johan is sitting cross-legged on the sand, his expression as calm and still as if he has spent an hour in meditation. And Isabella is kneeling by the rock, collecting the steady stream of water that flows from it into a leather pouch. The scribe is afraid of revealing his fear and confusion in the face of their practical acceptance but his emotions are still as strong as if he had written them on the sand. The man will never be what he could become. He has so little control. Gelahn and she are already surely the victors; this is why her master had no need to comfort her. He saw what she did not.
    So she nods at Hartstongue. “Come, I can fill your water pouch too, if you like. Quickly, as the flow will not last long.”
    Wordless, the scribe unleashes the pouch from his belt and hands it to her. Behind her brother’s back, Isabella fills it with sparkling water and a mind-incantation before returning it to Hartstongue.
    “Thank you,” the fool says. “It might have been nice if you’d warned me, but thank you.”
    They drink and fill their containers again.
    Then, as Johan secures the leather top to his, the stream gurgles once before slowing to a drip and ceasing altogether. No matter. Her task is complete. It is now only a matter of time.
    For a while, they rest, and Isabella stares out at the level sand, the line of fire. Thinking, and not thinking, about what she has done and what she will do for Petran.
    At last, the scribe gets to his feet.
    “Come,” he says. “As you have told me so often, the journey is still out there to take.”

    Johan
    The travellers walk for the rest of that day. The water and nearing fire horizon give them the strength to do so. Nobody says anything, and Johan is glad of that, as he—like Simon—has no answers. The increasing noise of the burning and the almost overpowering heat follow them.
    Finally, the scribe stops as the sun is setting the sky alight with streaks of pink and orange and crimson, and stares at the scene behind them.
    “I hoped the fire only travelled by day,” he says, “but it shows no sign of stopping now.”
    “And it’s moving faster each hour,” Johan adds and is rewarded by a raised eyebrow from Simon.
    “Will it catch us before…?”
    “Yes,” Isabella replies. “I think so.”
    Simon glances at her, as if he’s sensed a shadow that is gone as soon as he looks at it. For a moment Johan can read the man’s entire mind: Who has hurt her, and how does that relate to what is happening here? Before he can wonder if Isabella has caught this too, the scribe has already made a decision.
    “Then we must keep moving,” he says, swinging back to the trail before there can be any argument. Johan almost smiles to see how much he is enjoying the role of leader. He suspects this ease will not last long. Not with the scribe’s previous history.
    This time, Simon sets a faster pace, occasionally glancing behind to check their progress. The fire is now only a few streets’ length away from them and the roar is ever rising. All around, the fire insects dart and glow. They never cease their wild dance.
    After an hour, perhaps more, the noise of the fire becomes unbearable. None of them dare glance behind; if they should, Johan knows that the crackling flames will be all but touching their backs. Like Simon, he has no idea what happens now.
    The scribe sighs, a sound that swiftly turns to a groan. Johan glances at him, sees the twist on his face. He moves to offer support but to his surprise it is not needed.
    Instead, Simon grabs Johan and Isabella by their shoulders, his eyes glowing red in the light of the flame. He spits one word at them: “ Run .”
    At the same time, he pushes them away from the fire and