The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

hidden, those with magic in them, and Simon is following her words with his finger as she reads. Seeing but not understanding. But not afraid, as he knows soon she will tell him. There is no shame in the waiting.
    She puts down the book and smiles. Her eyes are full of laughter. Simon can smell lavender rising up from her skin, filling the air. And then suddenly it is only the two of them. The fire, his father’s shadow, the room, the cottage they live in, all of it disappears and they are alone, surrounded only by a line of dark grey, beyond which there is darkness and mystery.
    But the darkness and the mystery don’t matter. Inside the circle, all is bright and full of hope, and Simon knows that in only a moment everything he has struggled and failed to understand will be made clear. He reaches out to her. At the same time his mother’s hand reaches towards him also. Their fingers touch. She is warm. Simon can see shimmers of yellow and lilac dancing over the skin of her arm down to his, and through his blood into his heart.
    When he looks up, the glow from her face is almost dazzling, and the laughter welling up from his belly can’t be denied. It is a quality of happiness he has not known before. It bursts from his mouth and pours like a bright river of water over his body and hers, encompassing them both. The explosion of it shatters the grey beyond and the darkness outside their circle is suffused with the glory of the sun. There is no more mystery. All is well. All is as it should be, and…
    Simon slept. Even in sleep, he could feel the presence of his mother, and his hand continuing to hold hers. The contact between them was a river, flowing calm and strong. The current was the beat of his heart, the pulse of his blood. He could breathe easy. And he was smiling.

    Johan
    While Simon sleeps, Johan worries. He can’t understand why the enemy doesn’t attack now, when the advantage is gained. His eyes flicker down the path and back again, but nothing happens. He sees only stillness and the unforgiving rock. The scribe’s childhood memory was a powerful one, that much is true, and would have gained them some time; the memories and stories of a mind-dweller are always strong in warding off mental attack, but only while they are being remembered or narrated, and for a while afterwards. Not for long.
    He gazes at Isabella, who sits quietly beside him. She asks no questions and he is glad of it, as once more he has no answers. The boy does nothing. He simply watches. Together the three of them wait while the scribe sleeps on. After a while, Johan and the boy doze. Neither sees Isabella leave, nor do they stir when she returns. As evening approaches, Isabella and the boy go in search of water, but Johan remains.
    When Simon wakes, the sun is gone, and in its place there is the distant flicker of the stars. “Mother...?”
    At once, Johan is fully conscious. “Simon, it’s me. Johan. You’re safe. You’re alive. Well done.”
    The scribe blinks, rubs at his scarred face and stares upwards. “Johan?”
    “Yes. I’m here. Isabella and the boy are here too. They’re drawing water from one of the mountain streams.”
    Simon nods. Johan can tell his mind is still clinging to the reality of his memories, unable to grasp the here and now without help.
    “And my mother ...?”
    “In your mind only. It was a powerful memory though. A good one to use. I believe it saved you.”
    “From the mountain?”
    “Yes.”
    “What happened out there? And why only me and not you two or the boy?”
    Johan is silent for a moment or two and then he sighs.
    “This mountain,” he says, not looking at his companion, “is a test of who somebody is at heart. Perhaps that is the reason for the strange legends which have sprung up amongst your people. I don’t know for sure. But what I do know is this—if someone, whose heart or mind is mottled or unclear, his purpose unfulfilled or lost, passes through this land, then the rocks here, the earth itself, will know and rise up against that person. I was worried this might happen, but there is no other way to our destination. The mountain must be crossed, the path taken. In spite of what I know about you, I had hoped that…it would be different, but I see I have been wrong. The presence of Isabella and myself did not help. Today, you have been saved by the clarity of the memory you hold, the memory of the boy you once were. To continue this journey, which we have no option of