The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

that elsewhere brought no death to any, least of all to Johan.

Chapter Eleven: The Trial of the Air, Part Two

    Johan

    He does not know how this has happened. Simon is standing before him in the air, the boy in his arms. The scribe is staring at him as if awaiting guidance, but Johan does not know what to say. Simon has touched the mind-cane and he still lives . He should be dead, or rather in torment, unable to die. Instead, he is alive. On the mountain, the threat has gone. The noise of the dark fire has stopped, suddenly snuffed out. The dogs have vanished. The enemy and Tregannon, too. Only the cane remains. Johan can hear its soft hum.
    “Johan?” The scribe sways. His eyes are wide, his skin pale.
    Johan blinks. The man needs him. “Yes, I’m here. You’re safe. Now walk, Simon. Walk .”
    Simon shuffles half a step towards him across the vast canyon, cursing under his breath.
    “ Walk ,” Johan commands again, and the scribe shuffles nearer once more. With each slight movement, Johan takes the same length of step backwards so his fingers, though stretched towards the scribe and the boy, don’t touch them.
    Simon swallows, makes as if to say something and then his eyes veer downwards to the gaping mouth of the valley.
    “ Simon , don’t look down.”
    But the command is too late. The scribe has already broken Johan’s gaze and is staring at the blurred vistas beneath.
    “Jo- han? ”
    Simon looks up again. And then he falls. Not quickly, but as if whatever holds him up is melting away in the sun’s heat, unmaking the miraculous path they have been walking on.

    Simon
    His feet slipped through nothing into nothing. He screamed, a wild inhuman sound which for a heartbeat or two he didn’t recognise as his own. “ Johan! ”
    Arms wrapped around the boy, he fell, this time for real, a sudden lurch that took him a cart’s length away from Johan, then two. A moment of stillness, the only sound his own staccato breathing, then the boy and he both plunged through icy air, stopped and plunged again.
    “Si- mon .”
    The sound of his own name made him look up. Johan was half-running, half-falling, although with more control, towards him. Isabella remained still. The top of the cliff where they’d come from was already rising away. The air swooshed upwards and he could no longer breathe.
    Do you trust me?
    He saw Johan’s hand stretched out to his own. He was too far away for Simon to hear his voice; the words passed through only in his head.
    Do you trust me?
    “I don’t know.” Simon’s mouth formed the words, but he had no will left to say them. His body jolted suddenly as if he’d landed on his back on solid earth, but he was still in the air with the boy in his arms. Both of them still in the air. The child felt lighter than he’d expected—was that to do with the air itself? He took a jagged breath, the heat of it coursing through his veins.
    Simon?
    “Yes.” he whispered. “I trust you. But only for now. Only for here, not for more than this. By the gods, don’t ask it.”
    Then Simon hugged his small companion closer as if only he could keep them both alive, floating in the cold air this late autumn morning. He closed his eyes. All he could concentrate on for the moment was the boy’s warmth and his own breathing. As long as he continued to breathe, then life still held him.

    Isabella
    “Scribe,” she lunges through the air to reach the shivering man. She, too, is shaking but for different reasons. One push of his body will send him to his death, but the time for that is past. She must keep him alive long enough now for Gelahn to plunder his mind. He has touched the cane and lived. They have to know why. “Open your eyes.”
    Hartstongue takes his time doing what Isabella asks of him. His cowardice lurches over her and she holds down bile. When he does open his eyes at last, the sun dazzles him and he has to blink.
    “Where is your brother?” he asks.
    She frowns and whispers, “My brother is safe. No thanks to you. If you dare to look, you will see him behind you.”
    The scribe turns and Isabella follows his gaze. Her brother is standing up, resting comfortably on the supportive air, a little way apart. He doesn’t catch her eye and he doesn’t smile. Annoyance and puzzlement flow from him, as clearly as if he has spoken the feelings aloud. She wonders if he can feel her impatience—and regret—and tries to dampen both emotions down, as she has been taught. But what