The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

carries. Are these things one and the same, or are they different?”
    The pause that follows this challenge is long and filled with emotions Johan cannot name. He had thought it was too soon to tell Simon the truth; he had thought such matters would best be discussed once they reached Gathandria, but perhaps after all it is wisest to do so now.
    Without warning, Simon curses and springs to his feet, beginning to head for the door. Johan can feel the man’s frustration sweeping over his senses but, at the threshold, Isabella’s voice stops him.

    Isabella
    She is marked for death; she knows it. But perhaps Hartstongue will still be taken with her. Her brother is primed to tell the scribe his true origins, little knowing the man is ill-equipped to bear it. The fool has made a god of his past; losing it will tear him apart.
    “Wait,” Isabella says, struggling for the words to keep him here, in the place of danger. “We understand your impatience with us, scribe. Please, trust that we do. But if we tell you about the shadows we hide, will you open your mind to believe us?”
    Hartstongue pauses at the door, and she senses the darkness come swooshing in. Gelahn is here and nobody knows it but her. It feels as if she could stretch out her hand and seize all the answers she has ever needed and they will at last satisfy her. Her master always makes Isabella feel like that. But will he let her live in spite of her failure or is she destined still to die?
    “I don’t know,” the scribe says as if nothing at all has happened between her question and his response. His voice breaks in the middle of his words though Isabella sees how hard he struggles against it. “I don’t know. When I touch your minds—either of you—I can sense your secrets but I do not understand them. Part of me wants— needs —to know, but part of me is afraid. I do not know which part of me will win after I have heard you, but I can only tell you that I will listen. Or try to. That is all I can promise.”
    It is enough. Come sit with us and we will speak.
    Johan’s mind-voice layers the air. Isabella knows then he will choose to tell the smaller tale first and she cannot bear to hear it. She knows also that she must have time to beg for her brother’s life.

    Johan
    “ No. I cannot listen to what you must say.” Isabella’s words make Johan jump though he has expected them. As she moves swiftly to the doorway, Simon half-turns towards her, but she has already gone.
    “Leave her, Simon. There’s nothing you can do.” His hand on the scribe’s arm holds him back from following. He knows it will do no good; some things are best borne privately. “If she doesn’t come back, I will go to her later. You see, amongst those of us who have died recently in Gathandria, there was one…who was close to her. To us both, of course, but closer to my sister. When he died, there was nothing anyone could do but watch.”
    The scribe swallows. “What was his name?”
    “Petran. He was a good man. If he had lived, he was meant for Isabella.”
    “I’m sorry,” Simon whispers. “I hadn’t realised…”
    “No reason that you would. I…”
    Johan breaks off, unable to speak the truth any further. He can feel the wetness on his face. It is the first time he has shown—has allowed himself to show—grief in front of his charge. Slowly, so slowly that neither man can truly sense the movement, Simon reaches out and brushes his tears away. Then, still gazing at him, the scribe interlaces their fingers together and brings up his hand to his lips for a moment. As he does so, Johan catches the memory of Ralph and the river of unfinished emotions that still holds Simon’s heart as an island. At once, he lets Johan’s hand go.
    Before he can try to find words to fill the emptiness in both their minds, a flurry of heat sweeps into the room as Isabella returns. Johan springs to his feet and hugs her to him.
    “Forgive me, brother,” she says, her voice muffled by his shoulder. “Forgive me. I should not have left like that.”
    “Hush, no matter.” He releases her and pushes back a strand of hair from her cheek. “I should not have been so open with our companion. Not without asking your permission. It is I who am sorry.”
    “I, too,” Simon says. “I am sorry for your loss, Isabella.”
    But with a shake of her head, she turns from him.
    “There is no time,” she says. “The other tale must be spoken quickly. The heat outside is