The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

full spate. Before the Lammas Master, the couplings Simon had experienced had been with other outcasts like himself, and the deed had been done quickly, frantically, and always in the dark. Afterwards, neither party had wished to linger. The first time he’d ever coupled like that, the guilt had clouded his sight for weeks and he’d expected the heavy hand of a local guard on his shoulder at every turn. Not because his partner in crime had been a man—such things were common in the land of course, though he had heard tales of places where they were not so tolerant—but because they had enjoyed each other without the ritual of commitment.
    In spite of Simon’s fears, no one had come for him, and no retribution had been visited on his head by the gods. A month-cycle later, when the need was upon his flesh, he’d done it again, with a different man. He’d never wanted a woman. The second time it was easier, and the guilt lighter. And so it had continued—a series of encounters with faceless men Simon hardly knew.
    And then there had been Ralph.
    Their sexual relationship—when it finally happened and, gods and stars , how Simon had been longing for it, dreaming about it, for weeks before Ralph at last sent for him—had been born, nurtured and later, of course, killed entirely at Ralph’s whim. The scribe had had no say in the matter, no right of refusal. How could he have? Ralph had been his Overlord and Simon merely his servant. In everything, both willing and unwilling. The trapping and arrest of men Ralph saw as rebels, the trials, the murders, and, more happily, their conversations, their meditations, and the love-making.
    For Simon it had been love-making, though for Ralph he thought now it had been simply a way of easing the desires of his flesh. And of keeping his loyalty too. Either way, he could not have refused him. He had wanted him from the beginning, and Ralph had always known it. That fact alone had made his corruption of Simon a far easier exercise. They had been equal at least in complicity.
    And then, with a sudden rush he hadn’t anticipated, he was there. Back in his memories, a place more real than the fact of the boat beneath him. More real than the sea. The time and the place where Ralph Tregannon and he had first joined together.
    The wall sconces had been lit, only a few of them. Ralph’s bed was draped in gold cloth, and the table was empty. No writing equipment, no oils, no parchment. He’d sent for the scribe later than usual. Simon had already eaten his supper, wiped clean the plate and mug, and had been preparing for bed. Sleep. At the guard’s arrival, he’d gathered up his quill pen and best parchments and hurried out behind the soldier. He’d been at the castle in less time than it took for a spring story to be halfway told, expecting a writ to complete for some newly-found criminal and wondering when the inevitable hanging would be. Or thinking that perhaps Ralph had some urgent question about the meditation Simon had been teaching him, about how to see into men’s minds to discover the truth of them.
    But in Lord Tregannon’s chambers, to Simon’s relief he saw no stones of judgement. And no helpless man awaiting death. Neither was the meditation chair in place. Instead the air was scented with citronella and rosemary. Passion and energy. He paused, his heart beating out of rhythm. He could feel the beginning of fire in his head. Even then he knew that if he started this, he would never put it out.
    Ralph rose from the chair and dismissed the guard, who bowed and at once withdrew. The door closed with a loud click. Once they were alone, he sauntered over to Simon as if he had all the time in the land and was only thinking of what tasks to set for his servant. Ralph was dressed informally. Only a shirt and light brown leggings. No cloak. No badge of office. And his hair was worn loose.
    “M-My lord,” the scribe stammered. “I have come at your bidding. What is it you wish me to do?”
    “You see, Simon,” he said, as if they had been carrying on a conversation and Simon had asked something entirely different. “I have not brought you here to write. I can sense you know that. You knew it when you came here, didn’t you?”
    The scribe blinked. The scent of citronella from the Overlord’s skin washed over him, and his heart beat faster. “Yes.”
    Ralph lowered his gaze and licked his lips. Simon said nothing. He simply waited.
    “You can still leave. If you