The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

the order to kill is given.
    Now, without waiting for what answer Hartstongue might make to her brother’s mockery, although the truth is that the fool has none, Johan turns and begins to stride away, north-eastward into the approaching dawn. At once, Isabella follows him. A moment or so goes by before the scribe does the same. He has no other choice.
    Two winter stories’ length later, the four of them have crossed fields scraggy with weeds and wild corn. Quickly, Isabella gathers some, wondering what poisons they will make together. After that they climb slight inclines and descend into long, gentle valleys. All the time Hartstongue refuses to look at the mountains, now at an angle to the distant right of them. Sweat makes his shirt cling to his chest and twice he stumbles, almost falling. She makes no move to help him or the boy walking like a ghost, barely aware of his surroundings.
    It is only when the morning is beginning to ring with the sound of waking birds, and small creatures stir in the bracken, that the scribe’s laboured walking forces Johan to call a halt. He points to a darker outline of shadow on their left.
    “There,” he says to Hartstongue. “We’ll have to stop for a while. Isabella will look at your wounds properly. We must journey faster than this.”

    Simon
    The man was a hard taskmaster, Simon thought. They’d been walking all night and now he would permit them only a short rest. How long did Johan expect them to maintain this pace? He was a scribe, not a farmer. Thinking of hard taskmasters, however, brought Ralph to his mind, but he refused to allow himself to dwell on the thought for long.
    Instead, Simon followed where Johan pointed and came to two mounds of earth, apparently dug by animals, perhaps foxes. An ash, dying where it stood, clung by meagre roots to one mound, while drifting its branches a few feet from the top of the other. The arch of it formed a kind of shelter. Johan gave one of the branches a quick tug, but the tree held fast.
    “It’s safe enough,” he said. “Come.”
    They sat down, Johan a little apart from the rest, keeping watch back along the way they had travelled. Simon wondered why he needed to do this, as he should have been able to use his mind skills, but then remembered what lately Johan had been putting them through.
    It was then that the boy began to shake and the mind-net started to fail. Simon was astonished it had lasted as long as it had.
    “Hush there,” he whispered as the boy blinked furiously up at him. “You’re safe, you’re with me, remember? With Simon. There’s no Thomas. And no mind-executioner. Everything’s all right.”
    For a moment, the boy continued to stare at Simon, a frown crinkling his forehead. Then the mind-net finally vanished. The boy’s eyes widened as he looked up at the sky, now completely suffused with pink and gold, and then sideways, seeing nothing he knew. The scribe felt his sudden tension, knew at once the kind of legends his mind would be reiterating, and whispered words of comfort again.
    “It’s all right, little one. The place is unfamiliar, but you’re with friends. There’s no danger. We’re safe.”
    Isabella edged closer and placed one slim hand on the boy’s shoulder. His eyes darted towards her, back to Simon, and then to Isabella again, as she removed her hand. He relaxed and smiled. Whatever she had done to soothe him, Simon was grateful. All the while, he made sure the boy’s back was to the mountains, looming like vast monsters at the horizon’s end, so that all he saw would be their faces, the trees and the empty sky.
    “For him, all is as it should be now,” Isabella murmured.
    “Yes. Thank you.”
    She nodded, but made no direct reply to Simon’s thanks, choosing instead to focus on more practical matters.
    “As my brother asked,” she said, “I will tend to your wounds.”
    Simon stayed her hand. “Yes, soon. But, first, I must show the boy the truth of where we are.”
    Setting the boy on his feet, Simon knelt and waited for him to come fully to himself. The mountains framed his small, threadbare figure.
    “Little one,” Simon said and watched him smile, “There is something I need to tell you. Something you need to see. When you see it, you need to be brave. As, indeed, you always are. Do you understand?”
    Simon watched shadows cross the boy’s brow as he hesitated a moment before nodding.
    “Good,” he said, choosing which lies would be most believed.