The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

gifting as he who had been lured into the arms of the authorities with such tricks, and then murdered for their innocence. Since the death of his mother, he had sworn that would never happen to him. And, so far, he’d kept that promise.
    “Sir, you are welcome to all I can offer, but it is best to browse my goods in daylight. I can see you are not an ordinary villager, so I am happy to come to your house and display what herbs and medicines I have. But surely you have your own healer, and I…”
    The man made a sudden movement with his hand and the scribe fell silent.
    “It is not for your healing or any herbs, Hartstongue, that I am here.”
    Simon passed the back of his hand over his mouth. “Why then? Is it for my writing skills?”
    He came even closer and Simon could smell the hint of citrus and lavender oil rising from his skin. His sword jangled against the chain at his waist as he walked.
    “No,” the man said. “Not that. It is because I have heard rumours of the kind of business you truly involve yourself in, and I would like to learn more.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Don’t be a fool, Simon,” he whispered, his voice now low and urgent. Almost a threat. “Do you think I am ignorant of what you have been doing here? In these days, don’t you know that people with nothing can be bought for the sum of a crust of bread? I know what you are and what you do. You are a mind-dweller. Nothing more, and nothing less. No matter what cover you choose to protect yourself.”
    As he spoke, sweat broke out on Simon’s forehead. “Come now, sir. You’re mistaken. I would do nothing to break the laws. What you have heard is a lie.”
    “No. What you are saying now is the lie. If you lie to me again, I will kill you. See.” In one flowing movement, he drew the sword from its hilt and held the blade of it against Simon’s neck. The cold steel made him shiver.
    “Yes. I see. Believe me, I see.”
    “Good. Now, listen. I want you to use your powers on me. I want to see how skilful you really are, Simon Hartstongue. I give you my word that you will come to no harm.”
    “But I have no…”
    “ Stop .” The tip of the sword nicked Simon’s skin and he felt a trickle of blood ooze out. His mouth snapped shut. “One more word and I will kill you where you stand. If you try to run, I will kill you also. And I would do it, believe me. You have no option, but to do what I say. Do you understand?”
    “Yes,” Simon managed to whisper. So far, this wasn’t turning out to be his best night encounter.
    A heartbeat later, the man had eased his sword away, but still held it close enough to make any thought of escape impossible.
    “Good. Do it then,” he said and, capturing Simon’s hand, pressed it against his head.
    At once, he was flung into the man’s thoughts. A storm cloud of grey and black, centred with crimson, swung around and he was sucked downwards through a long tunnel. Its edges were smooth and sleek, like oil, and he could find no gripping place. There was no time to think however, as a moment later the tunnel vanished and instead Simon landed, face down, on sand. It tasted of salt.
    When he came to his senses, Simon struggled into a sitting position, wiping his face clean, and glanced around the forefront of the stranger’s mind. He could see distant skies encircling the sand. Clouds bloomed into shining white, then burst into black, fire shooting out from the centre, consuming what they had made. The constant roaring from the sky made Simon cover his ears. The sound however was of the mind, inside the stranger and now inside him, not physical. He found in it something majestic, even exhilarating, in spite of the almost unbearable torrent of noise. The biting sand grains scoured him, but caused him no pain.
    From instinct, he knew that if he should get up, try to walk, then the thought-world the man had placed him in would move also. There would always be this beach, with no water, and this sky. The stranger’s choice, not Simon’s.
    Which of course meant only one thing.
    The stranger was a Sensitive.
    Simon had never met one before. At least not to his knowledge, although such a partial gift would be difficult to see on any casual acquaintance. The people he had grown up with, or whom he had encountered, had either been mind-dwellers, like himself, or possessed of no special powers. Of course, he had heard legends of those who fell into the middle way—halfway between both courses of