The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

will not return to her; it is she who must go to him.
    And perhaps it will be soon. The loss of her master’s voice is surely complete. All she senses around her is his anger and the need for revenge. She wonders that her companions do not feel it also. While she waits for her reckoning, Isabella does what her brother wishes. She finds them the water they need. Her brother and the scribe are quick to respond to her cry.
    “What is it? What have you found?”
    They are next to her in a moment. She gestures at the bucket she has discovered, still with its handle in place to hold the rope.
    Johan smiles at her, and Isabella’s eyes fill with tears. She turns away but he does not read her.
    “Sometimes things turn out better than we’d hoped,” he says. “Thank you, Isabella. Now, we can drink.”
    Driven by the lack of a rope, they tear the remains of their cloaks into strips and tie them into one long cord. There will now be no protection from the sun’s intensity on their onward journey, but, for Isabella, this means little.
    After the men have drunk their fill, and she has pretended to, they wash their hands and faces as best they can. Her brother finds a place behind the rocks to relieve himself, and the scribe and she are alone.
    “Isabella?” he says. His voice sounds constrained.
    “Yes?”
    “I… Now that we’re alone… I’ve been meaning to ask you. If there’s anything I need to do to make being in my presence less difficult for you, then please tell me. And I’ll try my best to do it.”
    Finally, he looks at her, but there is nothing Isabella can say. The desire for a kind of honesty sweeps through her—something to match Hartstongue’s own which surely, she admits it, must have been hard-won—but it is too late for that. Perhaps it is too late for them all. Instead, she reaches for the bucket and places it at the edge of the well.
    As the silence thickens, Johan appears once more and begins to walk towards them. Then, and unaccountably, Isabella finds herself speaking.
    “There are things you don’t know,” she says and her tone is harsh, “which you will be blessed if you never experience. Believe me, scribe, there is nothing you can do that will change what must come.”
    Heart pounding, Isabella gets up and walks away before she can say any more. Still, she feels Hartstongue’s mind probing for hers and, from instinct, she erects the wall between them, over which he cannot cross. There is so little time left now.

    Johan
    He knows at once that something has happened between his sister and Simon, and that it has not resolved anything, as he hoped it might. The air is heavy with tension. And heat. Soon they take shelter in the cool of the nearest dwelling, carrying the water with them. Simon looks at no one, but simply stares at the ground.
    It is, however, he who breaks the silence.
    “Now we have water, what do we do for food in this place? What did these people eat when they were here and where can we best hunt for it?”
    Johan frowns.
    “The legends tell us of small animals which once dwelled in herds on the fire plains. Something like a leopard, but not as fierce. Berries too, although we have found no plants yet. And rock grubs. And of course there are the desert-wolves. But they are almost impossible to catch for those who are not native to this place.”
    “I have seen no wolves,” Simon replies. “And besides…”
    “Yes,” Johan interrupts. “I know, they are sacred to your people, and you are forbidden to eat of them. But when one is hungry, Simon, then one eats what is available, no matter how much a part of your star legends it is.”
    The scribe flinches but makes no argument. “All right. In that case, let’s wait till nightfall and see what creatures might show themselves to us. Grubs and such will come out in the cool. And will be easy to catch. Agreed?”
    “Agreed,” Johan says.
    “Good,” Simon leans forwards. “That will give us two hour-cycles, perhaps less, from my calculations. I think that it’s time for us to talk about what is happening here. Why do I encounter—even touch—the mind-cane and live, when each time I expect to die? Why does the enemy not destroy us, when I know he has the power for it? And what is it that you are keeping from me about the reason for our journey, and why indeed you chose me at all? Not only that, but I can also sense the shadow in your mind, Johan, which you try to hide. And the pain that Isabella