The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

is here, unharmed. Alive. The last picture in his head of Simon is the moment he plunged into the flames, still screaming. There was a flash of silver, and then the fire had vanished, taking the scribe with it. He had thought the man was dead and the mission was over.
    It is not.
    Now, Simon blinks at his surroundings. Johan and his sister step out of the small stone building, the shadow of which has been protecting them all from the sun. He drops the flagon he has been holding and hunkers down next to the scribe, gripping his shoulder and smiling.
    “Where are we?” Simon asks.
    In truth, Johan isn’t sure. He has never been in this place before, and is uncertain how any of them have arrived here. But he understands that his fellow traveller is handing him back the mantle of leadership, and he must take it and wear it again.
    “A settlement of some kind,” he replies after a moment. “Perhaps for the desert people we hear about in our legends. But, I don’t fully know and there’s nobody here to ask.”
    Then, unable to stop himself, Johan embraces him. The smell of leather and sweat and herbs fills his senses.
    “I thought you were dead,” he whispers. “I feared it, Simon.”
    “But I’m not dead,” the other man says. “I’m not dead and the fire has gone. Or at least it’s not a threat anymore.”
    “Yes. You’re right. I am glad for both those truths.”
    And for the first time, Johan finds that he rejoices not just in the recovery of their mission, but the return of the scribe himself. Of all the things he has looked to discover on this journey, friendship has not been one of them. Not until now.
    Behind him, Isabella speaks. It’s odd that he cannot hear the echo of her words in his head. It is as if she is not beside him at all.
    “I’m glad you’re here. At last,” she says.
    For the next hour-cycle or so, the three of them explore their new surroundings. The village is a mere scattering of stone houses, which fill the valley of sand. The layout is circular and, in the centre of it all, stands a deep stone well surrounded by flagons and scraps of what look like leather but feel softer to the touch. At Johan’s request, Isabella drops a stone into its murky depths and a moment or two later they hear the sound of a distant splash. Together, the three of them search through the houses, trying to find both something they can use to get to the water and also something to capture any animals, or even insects, for food. The need is becoming urgent.
    They find nothing. Only smooth rocks that might have been used once as tables, wide shelves made of compacted sand, and several items of clothing, all in the same leathery material they’d found by the well. The only unusual discovery is the tall, yellowed sculpture in the last house they search. Something in the shape of a man hunting and made with what seems, like the shelves, to be a mixture of sand and water. The coolness of the interior must have kept it intact, though of course they have no way of telling how long the village has been empty.
    “Whoever they are, these people had knowledge of the arts,” Simon says, running his finger down the figure. “It’s beautiful. But what happened to them? Where are they now?”
    Johan sighs. “I don’t know. If the legends that we are told are right, then they are all dead. Burnt to ashes by the sun, which grew angry with them for daring to dwell in the land of fire. But, who is to say what is truth, and what is merely guesswork by our storytellers?”
    Simon stops searching and stares at him. “I have not heard you sound so unsure in this entire journey. Do you think what we are doing will succeed at all? Can we really save Gathandria, the Lammas Lands, and all the other countries? If we survive for long enough to even reach your world.”
    Johan swallows, a harsh sound with no moisture in it. Then he nods, hoping his words sound more confident than they do in his mind.
    “I hope so, Simon, but I don’t know for sure. Not now. What I do know is this. Whatever the outcome, we have to try.”

    Isabella
    Still she wonders at how Hartstongue lives. All her work is as nothing. As he entered the flames, to what Isabella was certain would be his death, she saw only the shadow of the mind-cane where Gelahn should have been. It is this that must have saved him and given him the strength she hoped to destroy. It is over. At least for her. In this life, Isabella will not see her love again. Petran