The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

matter at hand. “How much can the circle be mended? Can we find out what’s happening now? Help them at all?”
    “My child,” one of the other elders spoke this time, “we have been patient with you and we know that your heart does not connect fully with our ways, but you must learn that there are reasons behind the customs that we have here. Your overseer understands this, and you have declared that you will speak with his voice. It behoves you therefore to do so.”
    Annyeke felt her blush rising. Not a good look for someone of her colouring. She bowed her head and wished he had simply asked her not to interrupt. It would have been so much quicker. No matter the circumstance, she found herself increasingly riled by the language and formality of men. It would be best to accept the admonishment and steer the conversation—if it was one—back to its path.
    “Forgive me,” she said, head still bowed. “My desire to see the safety of my colleagues and friends, not to mention the salvation of our city and the lands around us, causes my heart to speak its fullness.”
    When she finished her words, she half-smiled, taking care that no one else see it, though they must surely hear the echo of it in her mind. She must have been picking up some of Johan’s language then, even without knowing it. She hoped it was enough.
    To her surprise, light fingers lifted her chin and she found herself gazing into the deep grey eyes of the First Elder. Before she could gasp and prepare for the plunge into his mind that would no doubt happen from his touch, she realised that he was holding her apart from his thoughts with a mind-barrier. This respect for her privacy was unprecedented. The First Elder smiled.
    “You see, Annyeke,” he said. “We are not always so immersed in our traditions as you believe. You have much to learn from us but we also have wisdom we can learn from you. There is a reason for the way things are now. For the fact that Johan Montfort is gone and you are here. And in answer to your question, the mind-circle can be mended so far as to see what is happening, but our ability to send our strength to those we see is limited.”
    Annyeke was on the verge of asking “How limited?” but she pursed her lips and kept the words inside. The First Elder nodded.
    “Limited by the fact that we can only help them once or perhaps twice,” he said. “Apart from that, they must attempt to bring back Simon Hartstongue with their own strength.”
    Tears stung Annyeke’s eyes and she was no longer able to refrain from speaking. “But how can that be possible? The enemy will pursue them. He will not allow them to return to Gathandria. Johan—and the others—will die.”
    The First Elder let her go. As he did so, a shadow crossed Annyeke’s mind but disappeared before she could grasp it. When she looked up at the elder, he was blinking.
    “On the contrary,” he said. “There is always hope. But it is still a long journey. My child, we must be patient. We will call you again when there is news to be shared.”
    With that, the five elders stood, accepted the bows she and Talus gave them, and departed. They left behind them a trace of woodheather and juniper. Annyeke frowned. The herbs for secrecy and cleansing. Was that what she had sensed when the First Elder let her go? Naturally, those herbs had other properties too, but these were the first thoughts which came to her mind. Over the years, she’d learned to trust her instincts. She’d also learned to distrust anyone who called her “my child”.
    Every instinct was telling her that the elders were hiding something. But what?

Chapter Eight: The Trial of the Earth

    Isabella
    The mountains roar. She is glad to see how much that affects Hartstongue. It will make him far easier to overcome, when the time is right. The voice of the wind pierces through his skull and enters the very centre of his being. It cries out an agony of loss, a history unsought and a future that to him is unseeable. With Gelahn’s power in her, Isabella knows the scribe feels as if a pack of wolves or maddened foxes is tearing its way through him, snapping and howling as they go. In their wake swoops a flock of night-owls, pecking at whatever is left. When Hartstongue cries out, the boy huddles closer into his grip, shaking.
    Johan doesn’t look back. He marches onwards, sure they will follow. Trusting in her to comfort their companions. When the scribe stumbles after him, Isabella