The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

Simon stared at the object—a round bundle wrapped in sacking and loosely tied with a cutting of coarse rope. As it fell apart over his hands, the covering gave off the scent of dust and mice. Inside was a pouch of blue silk tied with a golden cord.
    “What …?”
    Untying the knot, the scribe blinked down at the contents, thoughts racing for understanding, hardly able to believe the evidence of his eyes. A newly-sharpened knife, the handle carved with a moon and the silver sea, a tiny pot of ink, a supply of winter-beech leaves, a scrap or two of calfskin, and his second-best goose quill. Not all of his writing equipment, but enough to work with; for a while.
    He found he couldn’t speak. Not for the world. Instead, Simon looked down at his small companion, now clutching his arm and grinning wildly.
    “D-did you…? Did you…?” he managed to stammer out. Then, imagining the gamut of dangers the boy must have had to run against the wiles of Ralph and the mind-executioner in order to salvage even so much of these precious tools, he stopped trying, placed the collection on the earth and hugged the boy to his heart.
    “Thank you, little one,” he said, smoothing down the boy’s hair and kissing his forehead. “It is a great gift. But, you shouldn’t have done such a thing. Next time, you must take care and think of yourself only. As I have always said, there is danger in too much courage. You should learn to be a coward. Like me. Do you understand?”
    The boy nodded and then smiled again, impervious to any scolding Simon might give, just as a sudden rustling noise drew their attention to the trees. Johan was standing almost behind them, hidden in shadow. Simon didn’t know how much he might have overheard, then wondered whether it mattered.
    For moment, it seemed as if Johan might step forward to say something, but then the cry of an autumn lark pierced the chill air and he vanished away, as if he had never been there at all. Simon blinked a couple of times to try to trace his path, but with no success.

    Isabella
    Gelahn has provided food for them, as well as wisdom for her. Isabella is right in doing what she has started—the introduction of slow poisons to Hartstongue’s blood. The scribe must be kept alive for long enough for the mind-healer to plunder his secrets. Simon is a fool, having no inkling of them himself. After Gelahn obtains his secrets, death will be the only path for him.
    Returning to the shelter, Isabella carries an armful of water-leaves and a few bright melonberries. The boy leaps on them as if he has been on the verge of starvation. Within seconds, his face is smeared with the rich lemon-coloured juices. The sight disgusts her, but she laughs.
    “Leave some for us, too.”
    “It’s all right,” Simon says. “He understands. He’s good at sharing and knowing what matters. Very good indeed.”
    With a sweep of his hand, he indicates the blue bundle and its contents, which Isabella has already noted. She nods.
    “Yes,” she says, her voice low enough not to carry to the boy. “I knew he’d done this. I saw it in his mind. Your writing equipment must be very special to you.”
    “It is. But not special enough for a friend to risk his life to recover it for me. I’m grateful, if only so we can continue his lessons.”
    Seeing a chance to shame him, she takes it. “You should not reject, no matter how lightly, anything a friend does for your sake, Simon.”
    Simon blushes and lowers his head, pretending to inspect his writing tools. He reaches for a few melonberries, and Isabella says a line of magic under her breath so that the taste of them will drive his shame deeper.
    “You’re right, of course. I’m sorry,” he says at last. But by then the damage is done.
    A few minutes pass, punctuated only by the happy munching of the boy, who, as Hartstongue had predicted, is even now dividing the remaining berries and leaves into three equal portions. They eat without further talking.

    Simon
    After Simon could suck no more from the leaves, licking all berry juice from his fingers, he looked around for Johan.
    “Where is your brother?” he asked Isabella. “He should eat before the leaves go dry.”
    “He will not be long. He always meditates at this time of day.”
    Simon made no reply, but her words surprised him. Surely Johan wished to continue the journey before their enemies caught them? Why would he delay now? They needed to go.
    Isabella snorted.
    “You are too