The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

effectively over the Lammas regions. Or rather, it had until now.
    Simon had first met him two autumns past, when the leaves began to turn golden, the sun’s rays grew weak, and the young field-herons finished growing, ready for the arduous journey south. It had been a day of bitter wind and harsher memory; he’d been forced further north than he’d ever been, travelling nearer the distant mountains, feeling a frisson of dread at their dark shapes.
    Passing through one of the Lammas villages at evening, a young woman, her fingers stained with dirt and red pigment from the dyeing mill, had taken pity on the scribe and given him food, water, and shelter for the night. She’d turned away when Simon had tried to thank her, not even asking for anything in return. Perhaps he should have been made wary by that, but he was too faint with hunger and thirst to pay attention.
    Three days later, Ralph’s men were waiting for Simon in the morning by the well before his mind had grown fully awake. The woman must have added something to the meat she’d been giving him. The scribe expected to die then, but what came afterwards had changed everything. Ralph Tregannon’s offer had given him life in exchange for power. Simon’s power.
    Now, however, that power was weaker because of the poor use he’d made of it, and his mind flitted away from the track it had been following. It was best to tackle one problem at a time; he’d learned long ago not to take on the troubles of the world. There were far too many even for a scribe like himself to note down. He had to keep in the present. For whatever reason, Ralph had seen fit to lock him up in this room of rats and filth.
    Thinking of the filth brought another urgent need to mind. Still weak, Simon crawled over to the pile of stinking straw and made what use of it he could, in the same way that countless other prisoners here had done. As he looked around the bleak walls, he could see faint scratch marks in the stone. Names and the numbers of day-cycles dwelt in darkness. The marks of men he had helped to send here. They would be pleased that the scribe was now following in their footsteps. No doubt it was what he deserved. The irony of it almost made him laugh.
    After relieving himself and covering up the mess with cleaner straw—what little he could find—Simon returned to the farthest corner and tried to sleep. He suspected he’d need his strength for whatever Ralph had planned. Was there no end to the man’s complexities?
    His dreams were of journeys. No humour in them either. Instead they were cold and filled with nameless fear. A sense of something threatening behind him, and a dark path in front. Feet unable to move, and lips unable to cry out. The sky full of branches, looming closer, suffocating him. Unable to catch his breath, unable to… A sudden switch to a river, foaming, dancing, white flecks sparking from the current. For a moment, Simon was on the bank, hands stretching towards something he couldn’t see, feet trapped in mud. A figure? Then the rush and roar of the water around him, trying to scream but again there was no sound. The shock of it pulling him under, pulling him…
    Rough hands at his shoulders, shaking him awake, dragging him to his feet. The river dropped away, the tingle of it resonating through his head.
    “Get up. Now. ”
    Simon stumbled upright, somehow managing not to fall. In front of him stood two soldiers, dressed in the Tregannon heraldry. A gold star bisected by a black sword. The taller of the two wore a silver badge of office on his left shoulder. His thin beard did nothing to hide the pockmarks across his cheek. It was his comrade—a stocky, clean-shaven boy—who was prodding Simon with his spear.
    “Get up, you bastard devil .”
    The insult made Simon flinch. Something terrible must have happened for a Tregannon man to call him that within the shadow of his ruler, under whose protection he had lived for so long. What could it be? And why hadn’t he sensed the possibility before now?
    “All right, I’m up. What do you want?” Simon asked, as boldly as he dared. “What does the Lammas Master want with me?”
    If he’d thought using Ralph’s most honoured title might have gained him something close to respect, he was wrong. The younger man lashed out and the spear struck Simon in the ribs. He doubled up, grunting.
    “Don’t speak again, mind-dweller, if you want to stay alive,” the officer said, his lips drawn up into