The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

Johan’s whisper at his ear was half-real, half in his thoughts, and Simon was unable to tell whether in fact Johan had spoken aloud at all. “There is little time. You must act now, if you want this boy with you. You should also give him a name. It is wrong that he has none.”
    “I am not hesitating, simply waiting. For the right time.” Simon shook his head, although the darkness was such that Johan couldn’t have seen. “And the boy is poor, so he has no name. Besides, I cannot right all wrongs in one day. You have to leave me something to do for tomorrow.”
    Johan drew in a sharp breath. Isabella made a sudden movement as the shape of her—darkness on darkness—seemed to flicker.
    “Always you make light of things that are serious,” Johan said. “And you cover your cowardice with words. They will not help you now.”
    “Perhaps not,” Simon whispered. “But they’re all I have.”
    “Such things should not happen,” Isabella spoke at last, her voice almost hidden under a gust of wind. “It is a crime for someone not to be named. No matter how deep their poverty.”
    Simon did not argue with her. She was of course right, but in the Lammas Lands justice and laws were often not what they appeared to be, to the detriment of men’s souls. Did not he, of all people, know that? Here, it was the custom for the very poor to forgo the requirements of the naming ceremony. The boy, at only eleven summers, had no parents; he was one of that ilk. Also the naming ceremony was a powerful magic, something Simon had never done. Even though, long ago, he’d witnessed his father’s responsibilities as one of the name-givers in the White Lands. In truth, he was afraid of the ceremony. He didn’t want to think about it.
    “Never mind the naming politics, we take the boy with us,” he said, changing the subject. “And my instruments.”
    “When?” This from Johan.
    Simon closed his eyes, allowing his senses to pinpoint the subtle changes in the darkness. He knew this place, this village, so intimately by now, that the constant turn of the seasons, along with the change from day to night and back again, was written on his skin. Concentrating like this also took his mind off his fear. One heartbeat went by, then another, and another.
    Enough. He opened his eyes.
    “Now,” he said.
    Striding forward, trying to be as quiet as possible, Simon didn’t wait to see if the others were following. He skirted the well, the cloak Johan had lent him brushing over the scattered, rough stones. He caught the scents used by its last wearer: marjoram and cedarwood. Oils for energy and balance. His one main hope was that this time he wouldn’t piss himself.
    Ten strides—or rather stumbles—later, Simon was at the beginning of the path behind the poor houses; a narrow twisted route, in contrast to the wider road leading to the artisans’ dwellings. During summer it was overrun with nettles and bracken, but now, at the end of autumn, the packed mud along the length of it was just visible. Still, they would have to be careful.
    The hut where the boy lived—or rather where he existed, a slave to the whims and cruelty of richer folk—was barely large enough for a grown man to stand up in. It was not, as would have been expected, at the end of the village before the well and the woods. No, the boy lived at the fifth hut, hemmed between those who used him now and those who would use him later. If he survived that long. The forest was full of unmarked graves, which nobody spoke about. The thought of it made Simon shiver, and he pressed on, now hearing the slight, hurried footsteps of Johan and Isabella behind.
    Passing the first hut, the one belonging to the village prostitute, he snaked his mind out a little—not enough for anyone to catch him—and tried to feel what was happening. Movement, a stifled laugh under a blanket, the flicker of torchlight. She would not be out looking for trade then. They would be safe. Pulling back, he crept by, followed by his companions.
    The next two huts were dark, their occupants sleeping, and Simon’s breath began to come a little easier. About time , he thought. Perhaps this would be simpler than he’d hoped. Perhaps there would be no need to fight in order to get the boy. Or his writing tools.
    Three cautious steps past the fourth hut, the darkness closed in.
    Johan’s light touch on Simon’s arm sent warning through his blood, but he didn’t need it to know that something was