The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

this time, the story he had to tell was not his own, but Carthen’s. Although Simon would see his charge no more in these lands, he had left the scribe something of himself. While Simon remained incapable of his own narrative, the things his young apprentice had experienced flowed through his mind, an impossible, unstoppable current.
    The boy paused at the threshold of his master’s room. Simon had asked him to fetch his best knife, but it wasn’t often he was allowed unaccompanied in his mentor’s study. In fact, when he thought back, he’d never been here on his own before at all. The straw matting under his feet scratched at his toes, and he took two or three steps forward to where the rugs started. Simon always kept the windows free of the shutters used by the other villagers; he preferred to see the moon when it was up, and in any case, in daylight, it was better to write by. At least, that was what he’d always told the boy.
    The thought of Simon’s profession brought to mind the urgency of the boy’s task and drove him forward, past the second rug and the simple wooden bed set in the darkest corner, and towards his master’s writing table. Today, it was bathed in the warm light of the afternoon sun, making the strips of parchment glitter, and shaping a golden aura around the goose feathers of the two workday quills.
    The boy tiptoed to the other side of the table and sat on the stool Simon had made for him in the autumn, when the cold snap drove the rest of the villagers indoors. The seat of it had not yet grooved to his weight, but it would in time, or so his mentor said. The boy smiled.
    Taking infinite care not to disturb any of the parchments—so expensive and so precious—he eased the middle drawer open and peered inside. At once, the smell of rosemary oil and woodworm made his eyes water, and he blinked. The drawer was empty, but he felt around with his fingers into the corners, just to make sure. He found nothing but parchment shavings and two dead beetles.
    Simon must have stored the knife where the Lammas Guards wouldn’t find it, if they chose to search. He would have to be quick.
    Standing up, he flitted past the meditation area—with its one candle, long unlit now—and the reading chair, and knelt down in front of the storage box. It fitted snugly under the bookshelf and it took him a long time to ease it free. The rust at the corners stained his hands brown. He found he was sweating as his fingers struggled with the weight of the lid. He had to find the knife soon. Simon would be waiting. He couldn’t let him down.
    Suddenly, a shadow fell across the threshold, and the boy jumped. Before he could run or think about where to hide, a voice spoke, its tone gentle, not accusing: “Have you found it yet, boy?”
    It was Simon.

    Johan
    Simon comes to himself with a gasp, his whole body shivering even in spite of the heat.
    “I can’t tell this, I can’t. It takes me to a place I can’t bear to dwell in. I hear his voice. Carthen’s mind-voice. It’s so strong. But he’s dead , he’s…I can’t do it, Johan. If I do, I will never be able to separate myself from him again.”
    “Hush there.” Johan puts his arms around the other man’s shoulders, his mind struggling to understand how Simon has been able to make that step in story-telling so soon. “It’s all right. Simon, you’re safe.”
    The scribe nods, but is silent. Only when his breath is steady again, and he has stopped shaking, does Johan speak further.
    “Tell your story to me,” he says. “I would like to hear it. But you don’t have to tell it in this way. Becoming the person you speak of while you speak of them is something my— our —people can do, but you need more skills than you have now to be comfortable with it. Tell it in your own way. However it is done, the telling of it will help keep us safe.”
    “How?” Simon asks him. “You’ve said that before and I haven’t really understood it.”
    A brief smile crosses Johan’s lips. “Words have power. You of all men should know that. They keep at bay things that are and things that are not. By speaking them, we weaken the enemy’s advantage, increasing our own chances of survival.”
    “But why my stories? How can they help?”
    Johan pauses. How much should he tell Simon of what the Gathandrian elders hope for? The war they must fight, if they reach his homeland at all, will be a long one. There is much that his companion will have to learn.