The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

though. Isabella will never forget it. A flash of red and green. A fire that came from his eyes and kept on growing, enveloping the people at the Hanging Place so that they screamed and ran for cover. How pointless that was. Even Gelahn stumbled and a great cloud of dust and more fire held him imprisoned on the earth. Only for a few moments, but it had been enough. Johan reached Hartstongue where he hung from the tree, choking, and slashed his knife through the rope so that Simon’s body dropped to the ground. Tregannon was already unconscious, perhaps dead; Isabella couldn’t tell.
    While the fire was still burning in her brother and the power of the storm was upon him, he took hold of Hartstongue, lifted him in his arms as if he was nothing but feathers, and ran. Back in the direction of the village and, beyond that, to their secret cave. For a moment more, she hesitated, glancing behind her at Gelahn. He was shaking, but whether with anger or exhaustion, she couldn’t tell. Isabella took one step towards him, but he shook his head, those dark eyes piercing her mind.
    Go, I will need you there , he said.
    Now, her fingers fumble with potions and herbs. Perhaps she can kill the scribe instead? There are ways and means of doing so. But all the time her brother watches her, and Isabella has no opportunity to mix the killing medicines or hum the song for evil. If she did so, Johan would be horrified and stop her before she could finish the task. He is too good. He does not see that sometimes ways must be taken which bring the ends closer. So now she is forced to mix the healing drinks and the ointment to soothe Hartstongue’s fear. That fear is like a heavy black cloud encompassing them all; they can hardly move for the weight of it.
    The ointment she gives Simon to make him sleep, as her brother wishes, is tinged with a dash of bitterness, which her brother would not wish. Hartstongue’s dreams will be disturbing, although afterwards he will not remember them.
    Even that small victory makes Isabella smile. Gelahn, when he comes, will be pleased with her.

    Johan
    Gods and stars, he is so tired. Every part of his body is shaking and he has no idea when it will stop. A mind-storm. He’d performed a mind-storm. All those hours of meditation and mental training, the tricks he’d learned from the elders had finally done something more than ease his own soul and the souls of others. Thank goodness the cave is dark and his voice sounds steady. If either Isabella or Simon could see him, any confidence they might have in his leadership will be destroyed.
    While the scribe sleeps, Johan tries to focus his mind again, an act much like picking up the broken pieces of a precious vase. Ideally, he needs several hours of mind-rest in order to regain his strength. That is unlikely to happen, because surely the enemy will recover faster than he can, and will come to search for them. That much is a given.
    How long might he have? An hour? More? He does not know. It is impossible to tell. Can he contact the elders? No, he doesn’t have the strength for that. As the mind-storm happened, he’d sensed that it had also smashed the mind-circle connection with Gathandria. With good had come the not so good also. And it will take the elders some time to rebuild it.
    All he can do now is begin his meditation. Focus. And wait.
    Isabella is in the process of damping down the fire. If something happens, she will warn him. He can trust her. With a smile in her direction, which she catches, he begins the slow task of rebuilding his mind.
    The disturbance, when it comes, brings him back to his senses instantly.
    Johan knows at once what it is, and also knows it is happening too soon. The enemy is already upon them. At the same time, the scribe stirs from his sleep.

    Simon
    When Simon woke, the darkness this time was complete; velvet and damp against his skin. His dreams had shaken him, but he couldn’t remember them now. There was no fire, no line of light. He struggled against the dark, trying to blink it away, and stretched out his hand. At once he touched warm cloth and leather. The next second, fingers were jammed over his mouth and the word Hush echoed around his thoughts. Closing his eyes, Simon tried to calm his breathing and be still.
    For a few moments, all was silence. Then, as if from a great distance, he could hear rustling and the murmur of voices. A river of sound, flowing steadily towards them, intent on its own mysterious