The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

wrong. The next moment, a shaft of nameless terror plunged through his flesh and it was all he could do not to scream aloud. Turning towards Johan, Simon could see his eyes in the night. Piercing. They held him. Seemed to speak.
    We can hold him off, Isabella and I. But not for long. And not well—for you. You must get the boy, and quickly, if you want to do this. No time for your writing implements now.
    Simon nodded and Johan let him go. The pain once more ripped through him, like the threat of storm over the mountains which protected the land. He took one step through strange knives. Then another. And another. Sweat burned his skin and his heart pounded like thunder. He didn’t look back. The boy , Simon thought. The boy. He must fetch him…
    The boy’s hut was red. Fire and blood. Blood and fire. More than anything Simon wanted to run, but he had nowhere to go. Tears melding with sweat, his legs stepped forward of their own accord, until he found himself pushing aside the heavy curtain keeping out the cold and stumbling into the boy’s small dwelling-place.
    Quickly, Simon. Quickly.
    Yes, yes, I know. Shaking away the irritation of a command he didn’t need to hear, Simon tried to see through the gloom. A sudden noise, someone shifting, an intake of breath, and then he found himself staring at the boy. He was standing in the middle of the hut’s only room. Simon could feel the cloak of his despair wrapped around him. And his loneliness. In a heartbeat, Simon knew he was not alone. Behind the boy a darker, more powerful shape lurked in the shadows.
    For another moment, he didn’t know what it was. Then a man stepped forward. In the silence, Simon swallowed, and felt the pain swoop closer.
    It was Thomas.
    The blacksmith smiled. Simon could see the glint of his teeth in the shimmer of moonlight through the window.
    “Thomas…” he spoke aloud without knowing what he wanted to say, and Thomas took a step back, the boy following him. Simon realised then the blacksmith’s hand was gripping the boy’s shoulder, imprisoning him.
    “Please, listen to me. Let the boy go,” Simon said, hoping that somehow a simple plea might work. Gods, he should have known better.
    “No,” Thomas whispered. “ You listen. I knew you would come back for the boy. I was right.”
    “Thomas, you don’t have to…”
    “Why did you let the traveller-woman die? Why? ” This time, his voice burst out, a high-pitched wail splitting the night air. “ She’d done you no wrong. ”
    Simon closed his eyes, feeling the strength, the rightness of the accusation. Remembering too the woman’s execution, which had taken place here only a fortnight ago. Ralph, damn him, had been restless. There’d been a wave of rebellion and murder in his southern territories, but Simon had been unable to trap the perpetrators. Though he’d kept it from his employer, his skills were not what they had been. Ralph had wanted blood, someone to take the punishment. In despair that he might be that someone, and to stop the questions, Simon had accused the most recent visitor to the village. A young woman, an itinerant traveller selling herbs and leaf medicines from plants the villagers couldn’t get from their own fields. She’d only been a few days short of moving on from them. He shouldn’t have been so cruel.
    Beyond that, he hadn’t realised the emotions she’d stirred in Thomas. He could feel them now.
    Opening his eyes, Simon stared through guilt and darkness.
    “I’m sorry,” he said, knowing it wasn’t enough. “I didn’t know what she had become to you, Thomas, I swear it. I was wrong.”
    “You bastard . I want you to die .”
    Without warning, the blacksmith’s hands were around Simon’s throat, and he fell to his knees on the dirt. The boy, now freed, grabbed Thomas’ leg to pull him away, but the blacksmith flung him off as if he’d been a mere wood-wasp. Still holding Simon down, he reached inside his garment and pulled out a knife. The blade glinted in the faint light of the moon. The ice-cold of the steel against Simon’s neck made him gasp but, knowing the rightness of it, he shut his eyes, waiting for the thrust and the searing brief pain after.
    Nothing happened.
    Simon could hear the harsh drawing of Thomas’ breath as he panted out his anger and grief. The blacksmith’s defences were down, he could tell, and it would have been a simple matter to enter his thoughts and paralyse him for a moment or two; enough to