The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

overpowering light; unimaginable birds, the death of stars and a darkness so heavy it crushes him; animals as tall as the tallest oak, rivers with no end and a flame that does not die.
    All these things gather in Simon’s head so he thinks he will die from the wild, pulsating strangeness. And at last, when he can bear no more of it, blackness surrounds him and welcomes him into its bleak embrace.
    When he wakes, he knows that he’s only been unconscious for a little while. His thoughts feel as if they’ve been cleansed in a swift-flowing stream and put back in his head in a new order. Things seem sharper, more alive. And also more dangerous.
    He gets to his feet, swaying before he finds his balance. The world swings before righting itself again. Still, everything remains different.
    To the left, something— someone —groans. It’s his father. Kneeling down, Simon put a hand on his chest and an ear to his lips, and finds he is breathing easily. Whatever he has done to Simon, it has not harmed him.
    His own heart is beating quickly, and he is torn between decisions when his father’s fingers fling his arm away.
    “Get out,” he whispers. “Get out. I don’t want to see you here again.”
    “But… Please… I…”
    “Get out.”
    Simon runs. Sobs tearing at his chest and head pulsating with strange life, he runs. He doesn’t care who is there to see him or what they might do, but there is no one. This time, he doesn’t take the path to the woods. Instead he turns right and races past the hop-fields, then the corn meadow, across the river and towards the castle. The path carries danger, but instinct drives him.
    At last, he finds a place between two jagged rocks draped with weeds beyond the lookout’s range. From here he can see the castle and not be seen. Its towers rise up against the moon and he catches the murmuring of soldiers and women when the breeze comes his way.
    There, his head still throbbing with images and light, Simon sleeps as best he may until the dawn.
    The sound of drumming and the shouts of soldiers wake him. His whole body is stiff from having slept between the two rocks and he struggles to free himself. On the track beneath, he sees groups of ones and twos, villagers heading to the castle. The drumming draws them. For them to be here now, it must have been playing for some time and Simon has, despite himself, been too deeply asleep to be roused.
    Throat dry, he half-walks, half-tumbles down the hillside. Dawn is just beginning and the grass is wet with dew. It stains knees and fingers. He keeps to the bushes above the track, as he does not know what the villagers might do if they spot him. All the time, his mind is humming with a sound he can’t fathom.
    A quarter of a story’s length brings him to the outskirts of the public grounds. Beyond this, the stone bulk and turrets of the castle loom dark in the morning glow, like a storm about to break. The drumming now is so loud that it is almost unbearable.
    Simon hides in the tall grasses to the south side of the grounds, and watches. Nearly all the village is gathered, with only a few stragglers still to come. He does not think of his father. Energy that he’s never seen before crackles amongst the people, and its blue-green light touches arms and hands and faces, though he doesn’t understand why nobody flinches or calls out in surprise. It speaks of excitement and a kind of horrified expectation. Once the zigzag flash streaks towards him and he raises his hands to protect himself. But when he dares to glance again, it has gone. He does not know what has repelled it.
    The drumming stops, and their lord strides into the clearing. The sudden silence wraps around him like a cloak, though he needs no further adornment, dressed as he is in gold and green. The morning sun glints from his richly patterned scabbard, and his dark hair is sleeked back and fastened with fire-stones. Simon has never seen him wear such things before and, for the first time, he notices he is beautiful.
    Behind him march the soldiers. They too wear the green and gold, but they are not helmeted; the day does not merit that honour. One of them carries a long, knotted rope and in their midst stumbles, rather than walks, Simon’s mother.
    He wants to cry out, warn her, but he doesn’t know how to, or what to say. Instead, from his mouth arches a golden rainbow shot through with pockets of darkness. It flies through the air and trees and people until it reaches