The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

others not. At last, they reached the place he had come to know as Ralph’s private offices. He paused in the outer room and Simon waited for whatever he needed to say.
    “Simon,” he said, touching the scribe’s cheek so he breathed in the scent of his thoughts. “Do you remember when I told you about the wars to come? The strange events happening across the land?”
    “Yes,” he whispered, hardly daring to break the spell of what Ralph was doing.
    “But you didn’t believe me.”
    “It’s not that, sir… I…”
    “Listen.” He took Simon’s face in both his hands and gazed at him. Simon was lost at once. “What I told you then was true. There are wars and rumours of wars here. And they will not be fought simply man to man, flesh to flesh, but in the mind also. Spirit to spirit. A thing of terror is coming upon us and we must be careful. Or everything we know and love will be gone.”
    He paused and all Simon could do was swallow, and hear him out.
    “Over the last few weeks,” he went on, “the forces from outside have been gathering. They’re not ready for action yet, or so my spies tell me, but we must show our enemies that we are stronger than they think, and that we can survive whatever they send against us. Do you understand?”
    He let Simon go and the scribe nodded, though his mind struggled to understand. With Ralph Tregannon and how he made Simon feel, it seemed that all he could ever do was submit to him.
    “Good,” he said. “Then tonight is our first strike and you, Simon, will help me with it. When you do, remember the favour I have shown you.”
    Swinging around, he headed towards the doorway to another, inner room, not even looking to see if Simon would follow. Of course, he did.
    The inner office—a place he would come to know very well over the next few moon-cycles—held two more of Ralph’s guards, helmets covering their faces in the way which made Simon shiver. They were standing behind a table in the centre of the room. Between them stood, or rather drooped, a young man, probably somewhere in his twenties at best guess. When he looked up at the scribe, Simon could see his hair and one side of his face were covered with blood. He thought he recognised him from the village, but couldn’t be sure. On the table lay two stones. One white, and the other red.
    The Overlord swept past and nodded to the guards who let their prisoner go. He dropped to the floor like a rock through water. The scribe took a step towards him, minded to help, but Ralph’s command rang out over his intention.
    “Stay where you are, Simon,” he said, then to the man, “Get up. Now .”
    The man dragged himself to his feet. It took him a while. Simon held his breath until he was upright. Ralph strode into position in front of him.
    “You are accused of crimes against my person and my command,” he said. “This will not be tolerated in my lands. You must bear the punishment.”
    “P-please, my lord, please, I’ve done nothing wrong, I…”
    “Be quiet.”
    The man subsided into a low keening sound that pierced Simon’s blood and mind. He could hardly think.
    “Take him,” Ralph said. At once the guards grabbed the man’s arms and forced him back against the wall. Then, “Simon, read his mind and tell me the treason you find there.”
    “My lord, this is cruelty. The man is beaten, he’s no threat to you, he…”
    Ralph fixed him with his powerful gaze and Simon subsided at once. “Never question my orders again, or you will suffer for it. With me, you are safe from all harm. Without me, you will die. Do you understand?”
    Mute, Simon nodded.
    “Then do it,” he said.
    A moment’s hesitation before he found himself stumbling towards the prisoner, who moaned and flinched. The guards tightened their grip on him until he became motionless again.
    Another, almost disbelieving glance at the castle’s lord, whose eyes told Simon nothing had changed, and he reached out to lay trembling fingers on the prisoner’s head.
    My name is Guthrun. Guthrun, the Waxmaker.
    His thoughts swirled about Simon as their minds connected.
    Fear. Pain. Regret.
    Mind-dwelling, at least for Simon, was always an art, never a science. Easier, too, if the partner was willing. This man was not. Which meant that it took a while to settle alongside him, longer still to read him. From a distance, Simon could sense his body drawing in a deep breath, and then he was there. In the place where one mind linked to