The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

Johan looked tired and stretched out her hand towards him before realised the foolishness of the gesture. At once, something vibrated her fingers and she felt a great warmth pulsating through her flesh. Stifling a gasp, she glanced down. A single small orb from the mind-circle was clinging to her hand. Before she could think what to do, it divided itself, flowed in deep-orange liquid over her fingers and vanished. The warmth remained however. Annyeke stared at the elders, fearing a reprimand or questions she couldn’t answer as to what she had thought she was doing.
    Nothing happened. The elders’ eyes remained closed and they were all breathing deeply. Nobody had seen what she had done. Holding her hand, which now felt as it should, she decided to say nothing. She didn’t want to be found guilty of yet another breach in their etiquette; she had enough troubles to manage as it was. It was better by far when men didn’t know everything.
    Still, the images in her head from the mind-circle were clearer now, as if she’d been looking at a landscape that had suddenly been refreshed by rain. What she saw made her smile. The travellers had survived the test of the mountains and were beginning the healing of stories. A good sign then. Perhaps. Already the scribe had chosen a story to tell to his companions. It would, she knew, be the start of a long, slow process, but at least it was the start. The telling of the story in the presence of Simon’s family—though he did not know that yet—would strengthen them and weaken the enemy’s power. For a while.
    Without warning, the elders broke the link and the image faded. Around her, Annyeke saw the trees once more, and smelt the evening air. No scent of honey-roses now, not since the battles began. Something in her mind had changed though, but she couldn’t tell what it might be.
    Before she knew it, and without waiting for permission to be given, she spoke. “Do you truly think that Johan will succeed? Simon Hartstongue has only half our blood in him. If— when —they get here, how can he really help us?”
    When the First Elder replied, Annyeke raised her eyes to gaze at him. What she saw made her heart beat faster and her skin grow warm. As he spoke, flashes of red and orange sparked from his body. “Simon Hartstongue is a Gathandrian. It does not matter how much of our blood runs in his veins. What matters is it is there.”
    She knew at once that he was lying. Or hiding something. Again. But what? Somehow she was seeing those flashes of intent which she should not be able to see. Did the elder know that she could see them? No, he could not, otherwise he would say something.
    She made a quick gesture with her hands, as if swatting away an insect, realising as she did so that her fingers were warm again. “But you sent only his sister with Johan for protection. Do you think that is enough?”
    The elder sighed. How she was sick of his sighing! “The power of two is ten times the power of one. And the power of three almost infinite. Even if the third is, as need dictates, ignorant of the fact.”
    Annyeke raised her head, still powerfully aware of the flashes singing their own inner rightness from the elder’s mind. “What if I say that I no longer believe the old truths? Why should I, after so much pain and so much death has happened here?”
    Despite her determination to be strong, her voice broke and she turned away. Surely now he would dismiss her. She would not be allowed to meet with them again and her role as Johan’s Deputy would be lost for all time. A wave of sorrow rose in her throat.
    But the elder did not say what she expected him to. “If that is what you believe now, Annyeke Hallsfoot, then the fault lies with us. We have not protected you. Not enough. Our hearts, we admit, have not been as pure as they should be. But Johan and Isabella have kept to the old paths more fully, and now they find strength in them.”
    “I do not know how you can be so sure! I do not know what I will do if…”
    Again Annyeke fell silent, unable to say the words, but the elder stood, crossed the few steps to her and laid a careful hand on her shoulder. She noticed that the red and orange colours striking up from his heart had now been replaced with blue and green. What the elder said now was the truth, or at least he believed it to be.
    “Come now,” he whispered. “Your love for Johan Montfort—and yes, we know it, so do not deny the fact—credits you. It