The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

her. As it touches her cheek, she starts and he sees the matted blood staining her hair and the torn garments she wears. Glancing only once in Simon’s direction, she smiles and stands taller for a moment amongst her captors. Then the light between them vanishes, his mother slumps and Simon’s cry, if such there had been, dies on his lips.
    The lord gestures towards the soldiers, and the stranger—he who has ruined Simon’s family—steps out from behind them. He does not look at Simon. Instead he gazes at the crowd huddled together in the dawn chill and addresses them. As he does so, a murmur flows through the people; they have expected the lord to speak first, as is his honour and his obligation.
    “Welcome here this auspicious morning,” the tall man says. “I am happy to be amongst you today. Your noble lord tells me it is some considerable time since this ritual has been performed. It is good for me to help you re-establish it once more.”
    He pauses and the murmur fades. Though whether this is because the villagers are cowed by the air of authority he possesses, or because they are eager to hear him out, Simon cannot tell.
    “As you know, this woman,” he nods towards Simon’s mother, but her head is bowed so she doesn’t see the gesture, “this woman has committed acts of perfidy among you, endangering both your good reputations and the innocence of your souls. She stands accused of dabbling in your minds with the secrets of the black arts, secrets that should have been driven from your country many generations ago. My own master—a great and powerful lord who lives far beyond the waters—has given me leave to use his powers for good to the utmost ends if need be. So, with the gracious permission of your own lord, I pronounce the sentence of death on this woman. Let her reap the wages of the evil she has sown.”
    The crowd gasps, and Simon is panting hard, heart hammering so he fears it must be heard. Everything around him is red, a haze of fire. The lord begins to speak at last, but his words make no sense.
    “Let this woman be hanged from the tree of hanging until she is dead,” he declares. “Do it now. ”
    No.
    Simon’s cry echoes in his thoughts but is drowned by the roar of approval from the people.
    He rises up. The soldiers grab his mother’s hair. The crowd surges forward. They block his view. His mother screams. Once. He wants to see. He doesn’t want to see. A snake of rope is flung upwards. Piercing the air above the crowd. It catches the hanging branch. Drapes over it and down. Simon fights his way amongst the people. They don’t notice him. His mother appears again. The soldiers wrestle her to the tree. Rope is looped around her neck and her hands are tied. He can’t breathe. Can’t think. His chest aches. Just the last few people to crush his way by, just the last few. His mother steps up onto the death-stool. Her head is held high. She glances once into the crowd and looks away. Finally he tears past the outside of the surging masses. The stool is pushed away. His mother falls. Spiralling to earth but never reaching it. Never reaching it. He’s in the clear now.
    No.
    This time he’s found his voice. His mother is still falling. Simon begins to run towards her. The stranger laughs. He is so close to her. He reaches up. Simon screams. The stranger takes hold of his mother’s twisting body. He pulls down sharply. Simon hears a crack, as loud to him as thunder, and her body is still.
    He freezes in his tracks. One heartbeat, two, and his mind is filled with unbearable fire. Turning, he vomits onto the ground, stomach heaving with the effort.
    For a long moment, everything is silent. He swings around, tears making his face wet, and with the taste of staleness on his tongue. The stranger is still smiling, one hand resting on his mother’s leg.
    “Don’t touch her!” Simon’s voice breaks the impasse, and the tall man raises his other hand. The one holding the cane.
    As if this is a signal Simon hasn’t understood, a rock flies through the air and cuts his neck. When he looks around, he sees that the man who has thrown it is his father. His hair is wild and his face is tracked with dirt. Bending down, he picks up another stone, and Simon takes a step back, towards the grasses.
    “Get out!” he yells and his voice is a high, unearthly wail. “Get out.”
    He hurls the pebble at Simon. It is followed by another, and then another as the crowd follows his example.