The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

only as it is commanded in the ancient texts.”
    By now, Ralph was leaning over the table, hands clenched onto wood and beads of sweat glittering on his forehead. The pungent smell of cinnamon pulsed more densely over Simon’s senses. Things were not, he thought, going well.
    “The texts do not cater for the horrors this man has done,” whispered Gelahn.
    “Then let us not bring about what has not yet been shared in our stories,” Ralph replied, his gaze locked onto the mind-executioner’s. “The judgement is death. When I agree to this, it is death only which I confirm, and nothing beyond it. There is no need for more; because of you, Simon Hartstongue’s hold over me is gone. The only act that remains is the punishment of death. That is what you have requested, and that is what I shall grant.”
    Gelahn was silent. Simon could feel his anger churning like a storm in winter. Then at last, as Ralph continued to hold firm to what he thought the sentence should be, the mind-executioner nodded and the scribe felt his mental grip on him relax.
    “As you wish,” he said, although it sounded more a threat than surrender. “As you wish.”
    Slowly, so slowly it was as if time itself had paused, Ralph stepped around the edge of the table, reached out his hand and curled his fingers around the red stone held fast in Simon’s hand by Gelahn.
    “So,” he said, not looking at Simon once. “Death it is, and death it shall be.”
    They let him go and at once he fell scrabbling to the floor, the stone spilling away like blood from his grasp.
    Ralph shouted for the guards, and the next moment Simon was dragged to his feet and bundled towards the door.
    “This man is chosen for death,” Ralph said. “Now. At the hanging place. I will perform the duty. Sound the drums, but do not wait. Let those who are present watch him die.”
    “No, please,” Simon whispered. “There’s been a mistake, I swear there has. Let me go, I—”
    A flash of silver and one of the guards struck him over the mouth with the flat edge of a knife. The fierce pain of it whipped Simon’s words away.
    “Do not speak in my presence again,” his former protector said, “or it will be the worst for you.”

    Isabella
    So it’s over. Isabella doesn’t think her brother will do much now. What can he do? Soon Hartstongue will die and Gelahn will be satisfied; his own enemy will be dead and the Age of Peace will begin. Soon she will see Petran again.
    As Johan senses in his mind what is happening to Hartstongue, she begins to gather her herbs for the journey home. Perhaps the mind-healer will take them with him and they will be in Gathandria before nightfall. She smiles at her brother’s back as he paces their cave of safety, fists clenched and breath rapid. He thinks he has failed. Isabella knows he has not.
    “Peace, brother,” she says. “We have done what we can and now we must leave.”

    Johan
    In spite of his beloved sister’s words, Johan can find no peace. His cousin is about to die, and his mission will soon lie in tatters. The elders have trusted him and this is how he repays them.
    His heart beats faster as he thinks of what they might say. And, worse than that, of what his Deputy, the fearsome Annyeke, will say. She had had doubts from the beginning. He can imagine the way she will toss her hair back and scowl at him if he comes back empty-handed. But, more than all these thoughts, what drives him is the terror of what will happen to the city once it is truly defenceless.
    No. He will have one last attempt to save the criminal or die in the trying.
    “Come, Isabella,” Johan grabs her hand and begins to run.
    “Wait,” she cries out. “I’m not ready yet. My herbs—”
    “Leave them. We’re not going home. Not yet.”
    Isabella gives a strangled cry but Johan ignores her. He plunges out of the cave and down the hill towards the woods. Even in his mind, he can see Hartstongue being pulled out of Tregannon’s Judgement Room and through the castle corridors. Already the man is weeping. The coward. Branches snatch at Johan’s hair as he runs, but he barely acknowledges the pain. They must get to the Place of Hanging. They must. If they get there, they may be able to save Hartstongue still. The gods know how, but they have to try.
    Twice, Isabella slips but he simply drags her upright, still running. He bypasses the village—they can’t afford to be slowed down by questions. Already he can hear the drums and glimpse