The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

come more swiftly than Simon had imagined possible. How could he hear so soon from so far away? When he entered people’s minds, they would need either to be linked to him in some other way—as Ralph had been—or close by, which for him meant no more than a few yards. Usually. And it was sharper if he could touch them.
    Taking a ragged breath, and pushing all questions aside, he began to climb. His strength seemed to have returned now, whereas earlier it had failed him. He was indeed a coward. Each time he clutched at the rock, his fingers found an anchoring point and his feet didn’t slip. All the while the boy hovered just above, his hand still touching Simon’s.
    He couldn’t tell how long it took to reach their companions, but each step, each upwards pull seemed to last forever. He thought it best not to look down, but knew that as the sun rose, the distant valley would be quivering in the mist, its colours of yellow and green, together with the blue of the river, strengthening with the day. If he’d had the ability right then to harbour the thought, he believed he would have found it beautiful. As it was, he focused instead on the tiny cracks in the rock that gave him space to grip, the way the greyness was sometimes darker or lighter depending on the sun, and the coolness of the mountain against his skin.
    At last they came to where Johan and Isabella waited.
    The boy rolled easily onto the tiny shelf of rock they stood on, sat down on his haunches, and grinned. Unable to smile, Simon simply nodded and hauled himself up next to him. As he did so, the silver rope connecting the four of them vanished.
    It took him a while to catch his breath.
    When he had, he wiped his hands over his face and swept the hair from his eyes. “You know, I’ve never liked dogs. Of any sort. But what in the gods’ precious names were they ?”
    “Creatures of your mind,” Isabella said. “A fear made real, from childhood.”
    The boy hugged Simon, burying his face into the warmth and mustiness of his shoulder.
    “Thank you,” he said. “To all of you.”
    “We only held the rope,” Johan said, slowly as if pondering something. “The river came from you. It drove the enemy away.”
    The scribe had no idea what he meant. “I was lucky then.”
    When Johan said no more, Simon closed his eyes and hugged the boy again. The child’s mind was as free and bright as a young deer. As if the morning’s exertions had been nothing to him. How Simon envied him that.

    Isabella
    This is strange. Gelahn was there, behind the mind-dogs. Hartstongue should be dead. Why is he not so? The brew she gave him was strong enough to take all his power away and yet he lives. Isabella can feel her tongue clinging to the top of her mouth and has to spread the spittle around to loosen it. For the first time, she does not know what to do. She cannot hear her Master’s voice. She hears only emptiness.
    Johan nods at her and she does as he expects. Still, her mind is in freefall. When Hartstongue opens his eyes again, Isabella is kneeling at his side, offering him a small wooden cup.
    “What is it?” he asks.
    “It is water,” she says, with a short laugh. “That is all. Do you think that, having come this far, we would wish to poison you? No. Instead, even though its source is not entirely of the world you live in, it will strengthen you. We have no other food to offer after your ordeal.”
    He gazes at her, and Isabella feels his feeble mind pushing against hers. It is the matter of a moment to defend herself against his efforts to read her. He is barely aware of the rebuff. In the end he drinks. She wonders however whether the rough magic will last after what has happened.
    When at last the scribe hands the cup back, she takes it, but doesn’t move away. Instead she settles down opposite him and folds her clothing around her. She has thought of what to do. If she can keep him here long enough under the pretence of weaving a story-spell, one strong enough to protect them, then Gelahn might still have his opportunity and all will be well. Her brother must be persuaded. She doesn’t look at Hartstongue however. She cannot bear to do so.
    With a sigh, Johan comes to stand beside her. “Is this necessary now, Isabella? Cannot it wait until the full clarity of day? We must travel onwards.”
    She shakes her head. “Only a little further to the summit. You know it. To hear a tale will strengthen us and provide protection, and the enemy is