The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

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    “What they showed to me,” he says. “Is this the end? Will we not reach Gathandria after all?”
    Her brother shakes his head, pursing his lips at the way the scribe is willing to give up so easily.
    “We will reach it,” he says, the lies and false confidence of his heart coming swiftly to his tongue. “Your journey with us has barely begun.”
    “Yes, somehow I thought you might say that.”
    His answer makes even Isabella laugh.
    They stay on the mountains for another five day-cycles, climbing ever upward, while the air turns colder. Always Gelahn is behind them and they all know it, even the boy, but for reasons Isabella can’t understand her Master makes no move. Her brother doesn’t question it; he thinks it is a protection woven from Simon’s petty story of misplaced love. Only Isabella knows that cannot be the case.
    The wind makes the scar on the scribe’s face itch until she, at Johan’s request, is forced to bathe it in a solution of water and geranium herbs. She makes sure that there is little enough gentleness in the act but Hartstongue makes no complaint. Perhaps he knows she has every right to hate him. After all, many others do. To the scribe, she is simply one more strange enemy. He and Johan manage to catch and kill a young fox abandoned by its mother, and a pair of owls. It is enough for them to fool the edges of their hunger.
    Enough, too, for Isabella to continue the poisoning, although this time she makes sure the magic is focused on the mind and spirit only. It is that which will unman him.

    Simon
    Every day, they travelled higher towards the peaks of the mountains, which somehow never seemed to come any closer. They lurked, black turrets against a clear sky, and in the heat of the day the haze gave them the appearance of quivering, as if about to fall. In spite of what he’d learned, a nugget of dread remained in his heart. The boy hardly dared stray from his side, and had no courage to glance upwards. Simon could sense the churning of the boy’s blood, as well as his own, and wondered how long it would be before it overcame them both.

    Isabella
    After dividing the food, the four of them eat in silence. The boy tears the flesh of the fox with his teeth as if fearing he will never eat again. Over the firelight, Johan catches her eye and smiles for a moment or two before turning back to his meal. He does not understand that she has never enjoyed the company of children, though with Petran she might have tried. This is something Isabella has never shared with her brother. Like many things now. Hartstongue finishes his meal. Now is a good time to goad him.
    “When you teach your pupil, do you always use your own legends?” she asks.
    “Yes,” he says, wiping his fingers clean on his cloak. The man is always overly fastidious. “I thought it would be easier, and more enjoyable for him. Everyone knows the land’s myths, even those who cannot speak their truths.”
    “You call them myths? You do not believe them then?”
    Hartstongue smiles and shakes his head. “I did when I was younger. Now, I believe in what they try to symbolise, not in the literal fact. The boy knows this, though I can tell he thinks I am foolish.”
    Reaching out, he cuffs the boy’s head, but gently, making him giggle soundlessly and play-act a blow in return.
    “But what if they are true?” Isabella says in a tone that brooks no response. “What of your beliefs then?”
    Something dark flashes across the scribe’s face. He laughs, but the sound is uneasy. She knows that his dreams this night will be full of doubt. Even, where the mind-poison encourages it, the shape of Gelahn’s cane.

    Johan
    In the morning, they continue their climb. In his spirit, Johan feels as if the four of them are walking on ice and soon the jagged cracks will appear. He does not understand why they are safe still, but for as long as he is able to do so he will continue to lead them upwards. Once there, Simon will have to face a test of his courage in order to commence the next stage of the journey home. Johan cannot even begin to mull over the question of whether or not Simon will succeed, so he concentrates instead on their physical realities.
    It is as if they are scaling the peaks of the world. As they rise ever higher, the air thins and grows colder, and the crisp edges of snow begin to appear in spite of the apparent closeness of the sun. Simon wraps his cloak around both the boy and himself as they walk