The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

roots, then downward over the dark grey stripes of strange lizards, the reality of them heightened in the dry air and the wind’s cry. Taking a breath, he could smell the leaves and the rain clouds, even the distance they had covered. He heard the movement of the hawk, silent in the hunt, far above them.
    Everything around him was filled with life, as if dancing and leaping in the joy of its own existence. Colour, scent, sound and touch ravished the scribe’s senses all at once. More than anything, he wanted to cast aside his skin and fall, arms outstretched, laughing, into the heat of it.
    No, Simon. Not yet. You are not ready. See only what you need to see.
    As the words in his head drifted away, Simon again felt Johan’s fingers on his shoulder and the sense of life vanished as suddenly as it had come. Groaning with the knowledge of loss, Simon felt Johan’s handgrip tighten, grounding him.
    Then, in the distance below, on the plains approaching the mountain he saw them.
    A party of five men walked purposefully towards the mountain. With them came two horses. In the front, head erect and royal cloak glittering in the morning, rode Ralph. Behind him, the mind-executioner. Gelahn. As his name whispered through the scribe’s mind, he looked up in Simon’s direction, even though he was not physically there, and smiled. A slow smile, full of threat and destiny. Then Simon remembered Johan’s warning.
    The shock of it pulled Simon back to where his body crouched, trembling on the mountain. When he focused in the direction of their followers, they had vanished. Not even a speck of movement could be made out in the valley below.
    “Where have they gone?” Simon asked. “I don’t understand.”
    “They’re using their power to hide from us. As we are from them,” he said, letting go of Simon’s shoulder. “But they know we’re here. The combined strength I share with my sister is not enough. Something here is enabling them to track us more easily than I’d thought.”
    “And you think that something is me. Well, I suppose you’re right, but I don’t think that...”
    “ No ,” Johan whispered fiercely. “The truth is you don’t think. My sister and I have been commissioned to bring you on this journey. Indeed I sought it, the gods alone know why. But you do not think of what danger, risks, or pain that might have brought to us both, and might still bring. So. If you talk so easily of lies and liars, do not accuse those who risk their own truths for you. Look instead to the deceit of your heart and deeds, for it is surely those which draw the enemy to us now.”
    As suddenly as he’d first attacked Simon, Johan sprang to his feet and reached out his hand to Isabella.
    “If we are to travel faster, you must take the water you need,” he said. “Drink quickly and be glad of it.”

    Isabella
    Crouching down, she waves her hand over the rock. At the same time, she chants a mantra that only Hartstongue can hear. She has woven a spell over her brother. For a moment nothing happens, and then the mountain’s voice changes, almost as if it is singing. From under her hand, water bursts forth from the rock. Isabella loves this power; it ravishes her. It reminds her of Gelahn and all he wants her to do.
    “Drink,” Johan says once more to the scribe, and Simon and the boy obey. Nobody speaks. Hartstongue keeps his gaze downwards, onto hard rock and the scars of the rising mountain. He has so many questions. The only one Isabella has is this— when is he going to die?
    It is only when they have been walking and scrabbling up the increasingly steep slopes for another story’s length, that the scribe realises his thirst hasn’t been quenched. She knows that his mouth is as dry as iron and his throat gasping for refreshment. The route is not a hard one, not for the Gathandrians, but after the mantra Isabella has woven, Hartstongue feels as if he’s been walking over a scorching desert for days. At the same time, if water is placed in front of him now, he wouldn’t be able to reach to drink it. Isabella smiles.
    He glances at the boy, still sticking close to his side. The child is panting and the sweat glistens on his forehead but he is in no greater difficulties. He looks up at his master and smiles. The cry of a mountain-rook echoes through the fragile air. Hartstongue runs one hand over his lips and his fingers come away flecked with blood. The boy frowns and reaches out to him, but the scribe shakes