The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

in his heart: those he’d been born amongst and grown up with and who had become his enemies; the numerous people over the years who’d driven him out of their villages as he travelled—no, fled —from place to place; all of them up until the woman who’d betrayed him to the soldiers two year-cycles ago; and Thomas the blacksmith; then the mind-executioner himself of course; and…
    His hands curled into fists. He’d found his answer.
    “Ralph Tregannon,” Simon whispered. “My most feared enemy is Ralph. The one whom of them all I thought I could trust. I was wrong, wasn’t I? I gave him love, offered him friendship, and he betrayed me. But, still, I want him. Love him, even. This, more than any of the others—and believe me, I have many enemies—this makes him the most feared of them all.”
    Simon stared at the raven and saw no hint of attack. What he’d spoken aloud had winded him so he lay back, arms outstretched and body supported by what might have been ground or was equally likely to be something of the bird’s strange making. Taking a deep breath, he continued to gaze upwards and watched as the view shimmered and clouded over.
    After a while, when he was able to, Simon spoke again. But he did not sit up to face the silent interrogator.
    “And the third of your questions,” he said. “Believe me, I have not forgotten it. I was simply…thinking. What fills my darkness hours? Here, I cannot answer you singly, no matter what threats you may make. I must answer you with what I find in myself, nothing more and nothing less. What fills my darkness hours are grief, the fear of what the morning may bring, and denial of the self I left behind. See, you have it all. So, tell me, what will you do with me now?”
    By the time the scribe finished, he was sitting up, muscles tensed, ready for action. Though the gods alone knew what action that might have been. In a sudden wild movement, the bird spread out his wings, as if to match Simon’s arms, covering him in darkness. The pounding of his heart sang in his ears, chilling the blood to ice. He closed his eyes, waiting for what must surely be the kill.
    A moment later, he was not yet dead. The wings plunged downwards, wrapping him in their cushioned warmth, and he felt the sudden punch of the raven’s beak on his face, piercing the scar which Isabella had tried to heal.
    Simon cried out, and felt himself being lifted off the ground and up into the air, rising higher and ever higher. The pain in his cheek deepened as the bird’s beak seemed to burrow further into the flesh. Simon scrabbled at him with his hands, trying to make him stop—but the bird was too strong, and he could find no purchase on the smoothness of his body. He yelled again, and the twist of his mouth only made the pain fiercer. The raven’s wings released him, but the beak still clung to his face, and cruel talons grasped his legs.
    They began to fly. Or rather the raven began to fly, Simon merely pinioned in his grasp like a mouse seized by a bird of prey. Each beat of his wings sent a further lash of pain through Simon’s body, building up to a crescendo until he thought he would faint, but that release was denied him.
    He didn’t know how long the strange flight lasted. The sky changed from the pale blue it had been before, in wherever the place had been where the raven had taken him for his questions, and he became aware of clouds and the sound of birds. A sudden rush of nausea to the stomach and he realised they were dropping downwards, faster than his body could comprehend.
    The land met him as gently as the touch of a summer river against its banks. Green. Soothing. When he opened his eyes, the snow-raven had released him and was in the act of stepping away, his great wings folding home. The ground beneath felt soft, as if he was lying on a bed of herbs, but he caught no scent, which might have proved it. The raven turned his head sideways and looked at Simon. He could tell nothing from the bird’s gaze. He could only tell that he lived still. What might be to come, Simon did not know.
    Along with the clouds and birdsong, the whisper of voices now. Voices he knew. He did not dare turn to look at them.
    The raven bent his head and plucked one perfect white feather from his breast. A droplet of blood formed where the feather had been. Reaching forward, he laid the feather at the scribe’s feet as if laying an offering at a shrine to the sky gods. Simon took it. The air