The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

seemed to grow dense with the promise of something about to happen, an agreement reached. But of what kind? Then the bird stretched out his wings and mounted the skies again, heading back in the direction Simon thought the two of them might have come from, but he could not be sure of it. In a strange silence, the flock, who must have been waiting where he could not see them, spread their wings, too, and followed.
    In a matter of moments, they had disappeared from view. Despite the pain he had experienced—which now he realised had vanished—a jolt of loneliness spread through him.
    Simon reached up to touch his face where the raven’s beak had stabbed him, but felt nothing. Not even the remains of the scar tissue from Thomas’ knife. But it had seemed real. Not a dream. At the time, he’d been sure of it. So why was he uninjured?

    Johan
    “Simon? Are you all right?”
    The moment the birds have gone, Johan springs towards the scribe. He hunkers down so their faces are level. Simon looks exhausted, but there is something different about him. A kind of peace he hasn’t noticed before.
    “Johan,” Simon grasps his hand and brings it up to his cheek. Johan is startled at the gesture but doesn’t draw back. “Yes. As I’m sure you’ll realise of course, I’ve been having a wonderful time. But before I try to explain it all, tell me one thing.”
    “Yes?”
    “The raven. He pierced my skin here, with his beak. But, now I can feel nothing. What do you see?”
    Johan laughs and withdraws his hand. Simon’s ability to recover from any kind of ordeal is astonishing. “Your vanity shines through, my friend. So I do not think you are the worse for whatever has happened. The raven took you away and the other birds prevented us from trying to follow you, even if we had known how to find you. But now…”
    “Now…?” the scribe prompts him.
    “Now you are restored to us and the skin on your face is as whole as it was when I first saw you. The snow-raven has healed you.”
    Simon stares at him. “Thank the gods. But why? I don’t deserve such generosity.”
    “Then perhaps you are wrong in your reckoning of yourself. Perhaps we all are.” Johan stands up and beckons to the others. “Come, I think it is safe.”
    The next moment, the boy is in the scribe’s arms.
    “It’s all right,” Simon whispers over and over again. “It’s all right, I’m safe. We’re all safe.”
    Johan hopes his words are true but fears he can do little to guarantee it. Something tells him there is more happening in their drama than he is wholly aware of. He is proving after all to be a poor leader of men.

    Isabella
    She places her hand on her brother’s shoulder for a moment before withdrawing it. She does not want him to be so troubled. She has thought of what to do, but she needs Gelahn’s power in order to do it. The power of true and swift death. What Isabella intends will take away all Hartstongue’s strange new resolve. The mind-cane and the blessing of the snow-ravens will not help him then. For now, she must deceive and deceive once more.
    “I too am glad to see you returned to us,” she says, unable despite her best efforts to put much warmth into her voice. “I thought we had lost you.”
    The scribe hesitates. “At times, I thought the same.”
    Isabella stares into his face though, unlike the others, she cannot bring herself to touch him. “This healing is miraculous. I could not perform such an act with all the herb-skills my mother taught me, and my skills are only a small part of the gift she had.”
    Hartstongue looks away. “Sometimes, that can be a blessing. You should not be ashamed, Isabella.”
    At such insight and courtesy, she can’t help blinking. The scribe coughs and gets to his feet. The small, white feather that the snow-raven had plucked from his breast and given to the man falls to the ground, and she wonders what it means. Her brother reaches down and picks it up.
    “It’s beautiful,” he says, handing it back to Hartstongue. “I do not understand why the great bird should give you this, except as a sign of his approval or a promise that he will be with you again one day, but it is beautiful.”
    “Yes.”
    It is not long of course before the scribe is indulging his vanity by gazing at the reflection of his face in the stream, under the pretence of washing. Johan smiles and shrugs, but Isabella sees her opportunity to plant a thought in Hartstongue’s mind. She steels herself