The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

spite of their heaviness. They must get to the boat. The gift of the water will protect them. Allow him and Isabella to refresh their powers so they can be more fully prepared. Such an attack as this cannot be sustained for long.
    Still the knives continue to dance and glitter. Blood glistens on the ground and their feet begin to slip. With one last, concerted effort, Johan grabs his sister and leaps with her through the mirage of metal and the two of them reach the water. The boat is the nearest one to the jetty; Johan has made sure of that, even in spite of his change of heart about the mission. Another knife flies by Johan’s ear and yet another buries itself in Isabella’s skirts. She screams. Johan pushes her into the boat and lands on top of her, at the same time freeing the knife before it cuts her flesh. With the wild knives still slashing blood from the air behind them, they grip their hands together and launch out onto the deep. The air is still at last. The knives vanish. Only the blood remains.
    The journey starts. All they need now is to keep to his plan.

Chapter One: Capture

    Simon
    They came for Simon Hartstongue at night; three men from the village. He was at the fire, damping it down with water to make sure it was out. The boy from the poor house was with him. He’d been teaching him letters for a while, along with the rest of the villagers who still wanted his skills as scribe. Not many of them now, of course. Simon continued the boy’s tutelage, as he was sick of the banter and the blows the women gave the child, who never complained, no matter what they did. He thought he might give the boy something, an apprenticeship of sorts, a skill his tormentors didn’t have. It was the only gift he had to offer. Which, for a man of thirty-two winters, was humiliating to have to admit. And still it wasn’t enough.
    All that day, something had been in the wind. Simon should have sensed it, but he hadn’t. Or at least had paid it no attention. He’d been too busy worrying about what Ralph Tregannon, the Lammas Lands’ Overlord, would ask him to do next. He’d also been preparing parchment and quills for the morning lessons. Not only that, but he was starting to consider whether it was time to move on, search for another place of refuge for one such as him. If he could find the strength and integrity for it, which he doubted. He could no longer sleep easily at night. All these thoughts had occupied him during the previous hours and, without knowing it, he was to pay for his lack of attention now.
    The knocking at the door alerted him to their visit first. If he’d been keeping his mind-skills as sharp as he should have been, they would never have succeeded. But nearly two year-cycles of Ralph’s protection had dulled Simon’s edges, making him weak. Once again, he had no one to blame but himself.
    The harsh noise made the boy jump.
    “Hush,” Simon whispered, stilling him with one hand on his shoulder. “Go into the food store. There’s an alcove at the back. Hide there, behind the curtain.”
    Wide black eyes stared up at Simon, and he could see sweat on the boy. His fear seeped through Simon’s senses like a rock snake.
    “ Do it ,” he said, this time more urgently, as the rapping came once more.
    The boy gave him one more wide-eyed look and was gone.
    “Wait a moment!” Simon called so that whoever was outside could hear him as his fingers hurried to hide parchments, quill pens, books in the drawers from where they had come. “I’m not prepared for visitors, but I’m on my way.”
    “You don’t have a moment, Master Simon,” a voice growled with menace. The North Country accent told him it was Thomas, the blacksmith.
    Anything else Thomas might have said then was overpowered by the sound of the door being rammed with something solid. The frame shook and the thin strips of woods splintered and cracked.
    “Wait!” Simon called again, trying to still the sudden shake of his hands. “I’m coming. Just be patient, won’t you?”
    Fumbling with the mechanism, he caught a glimpse of his narrow features in the polished plate, drying on the shelf: slight, willowy, his brown hair combed back, brown eyes wide. Some thought him attractive, though he could never fathom why. He kept up a stream of meaningless words, trying to connect with them in his mind in order to search out their intent. It was no use; his own fear was too strong for him and when, at last, he had no option but to