The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

over the Table of Meeting, its carved legs scratched and gouged where once, or so Johan had told her, they had gleamed so brightly it was almost impossible to look on them.
    Quickly, she sent a prayer up to the gods and stars for him. And his sister. And for them all.
    As she was wondering how best to make her presence known, the First Elder rose and nodded in her direction. He made no comment on her dishevelled appearance, her night-attire or her lateness, three kindnesses for which she was grateful.
    “Welcome, Annyeke Hallsfoot,” he said. “It is good to see you and thank you for coming at such short notice. Do you understand why you are here?”
    A formality of course. Annyeke knew perfectly well that all the remaining elders of the Upper Council—only five left living now, instead of the traditional ten, because of this damn war—had already connected with her mind and understood all that she did. And probably all that she was and felt too. Well, good for them—they’d have plenty to think about. But Annyeke was no fool; she knew well when traditions must be respected and when they must be jumped. Now was not a time for jumping.
    “Yes, First Elder,” she replied, and bowed to the necessary distance and no more. With her next words, she didn’t even stumble over Johan’s name and was proud of that fact. “I am here representing Johan Montfort’s voice and mind in my role as Deputy Chief Advisor to the Sub-Council of Meditation. I will endeavour to stand in his place and speak with his wisdom.”
    “Good,” said the elder. “Because things are not going as we had hoped.”

Chapter Three: The Trial

    Simon
    Ralph and the mind-executioner were both judge and jury. That much was clear. The guardsmen didn’t count. In whatever game Ralph was playing, however, neither did Simon.
    He tried to stand straighter, waiting for whatever was to come, but all the time his legs and arms continued to shake, and his mind tumbled. While he waited, Ralph took a flagon of wine from the side-table and poured a goblet. He offered it to the mind-executioner, but he shook his head, saying nothing. Ralph shrugged and took a gulp. The red liquid stained his lips and tongue, and Simon swallowed again, the roar in his thoughts more insistent.
    Finally, Ralph removed his cloak and laid it carefully over the back of the nearest chair. He turned to the stranger.
    “So, Lord Gelahn,” he said. “What do you wish to do now?”
    Simon didn’t hear the answer. It was impossible to concentrate. Gelahn . Ralph had called this man Lord Gelahn . Fixing his glance on the flagstone a little in front of him, he focused on the scratches across it and tried to order his thoughts. Such as they were. Lord Gelahn. Duncan Gelahn. The most powerful of the mind-executioners and also the most vengeful. His reputation for cunning and smoking out any mind-dwellers wherever he thought they might exist had been second to none. Not only finding them, but torturing and killing them too. Slowly, so that others could see. Slowly, so that pain and the agonising approach of death could be truly felt, and understood, by those who suffered it. Making an example , he was reported to have said once, of those who dared to meddle with things which should remain sacred was the highest duty of the people .
    The first rule of the land.
    But, it was long ago when this had first been said. Gelahn? The name was a legend. He had lived many generations past, in the time when the route through the northern mountains was known, when all the rural lands had traded freely with the people who lived beyond. Wool and leather, wine and honey. Parchment and tools for writing also, when such things had been common to the people here. So many year-cycles ago. How could such a man be living now? No, Simon thought, he mustn’t be a fool. It must be some other, who had taken Gelahn’s name to bring terror to those he felt most deserved it. It must be…
    Why do you doubt me? Do you not think I can live the years I wish to?
    The voice entered Simon’s mind like a knife and cut through all his defences. He flinched away, but it was impossible to escape the blood-red grip of the words.
    Do you doubt? Do you?
    “No,” Simon said aloud, making Ralph drop the goblet back onto the table. The few drops of wine left in it spilled out like a gash. “No, I do not.”
    Even as the words were coming out of his mouth, Simon knew it was not he, but the mind-executioner. The extent of