The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

Swallowing hard, he bore down on his presence until he could almost have touched the man, if he’d been there in truth.
    His face was still turned away, and Simon drew back from the other directions his mind was taking—slowly, so slowly, as he no longer had the strength to go far without loss of self—and concentrated on him. Concentrated… Couldn’t seem to…
    Suddenly, as if Simon had spoken aloud, the man flinched and swung round. A glimpse of hooded grey eyes, aristocratic features, thick black hair, and Simon gasped out loud, still in his small, solitary prison. His mind stumbled away, racing for safety, his heart pounding, his throat dry. A moment of disintegration, uncertainty and then…
    Simon’s eyes flew open, He was whole again. Here in his body, his skin slick with sweat. He was gasping for air. Unable to stop the trembling. Because he knew without doubt who the man was, and the knowledge brought him no peace. Even he could find no humour in it.
    His Overlord and protector. Ralph Tregannon.

Chapter Two: The Mind-Executioner

    Johan
    “Damn it to hell.” Johan strides the three paces across to the other side of the cave and back again. He continues doing so while talking. “We should have been able to get Hartstongue out of there. We should have started our journey back by now. Be halfway to the Land of the Mountains even. But we failed. Why did we fail?”
    Isabella doesn’t answer, her head is bent over the herbs she’s brewing. Lavender and nettle flower. The smell of them fills his nostrils. He’s not paying her much attention, his mind hammering away at the problem of his imprisoned cousin. They need to be gone. Already he and his sister have been hiding at the edge of Tregannon’s village in the Lammas Lands for a seven day-cycle. They’ve made their temporary home in the cave by the woods and cast a mind-net around the area so nobody has been able to find them.
    The plan had been to allow the blacksmith to think he was capturing Simon for Tregannon, who had obviously turned against him. It had been easy enough to dull the minds of the Lammas people so they had not questioned Johan’s presence there. They had taken him for one of the Overlord’s mercenary soldiers. How Johan hates these rural communities. They are hotbeds of intrigue and deep-felt resentments. He almost feels sorry for Simon, whom he has spent seven day-cycles watching carry out his teaching duties and write a series of letters for his overlord. It was obvious that the scribe had no idea how the winds were beginning to turn against him. The man is a fool, amongst his other sins. Can he not read the signs of the times? Are his mind-powers so weak? And, if so, what good can he do them in this long-drawn out battle?
    Johan’s wave of pity for his cousin had not lasted long. On the fourth day of watching, he and Isabella were forced to stand by while Hartstongue betrayed the nephew of one of the villagers to his death. Tregannon’s soldiers had arrested the young rebel for stealing and encouraging dissent but, to Johan’s mind, it was nothing more than wild spirits. Certainly not worthy of the death sentence. That evening, Hartstongue had been called to Tregannon’s castle. The next day, the young man had been taken to the Place of Hanging and killed. It had sickened Johan to watch, and Isabella had turned away, hiding herself in the cave until the murder was done. Johan, however, had stayed until the terrible end. Hartstongue had cut a lonely, pale figure, standing in the shadows of Tregannon as the hangman performed the act, staring only at the ground. So he should; the man was a murderer and a liar. Worse than that, he seemed to make light of his murderous acts, using a strange dark humour to interpret them to himself when alone, which Johan couldn’t even begin to understand. It was not an honourable response to such an act. In any case, Tregannon was only using Hartstongue to add a veneer of legality to the cullings of those he counted as standing against him. The enemy had indeed so muddled the hearts and minds of these people that they could no longer tell right from wrong, nor friend from foe. Tregannon should protect his own; he should not be destroying them. But Hartstongue’s crime is greater. His mind-skills should have told him that no wrongdoing had been committed. Instead, he was bowing to Tregannon’s will, without so much as a whisper of dissent.
    Even now, Johan’s lip curls at what he