The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

learned. I see that there are other ways of living. So, with the help of my companions, I stand before you today asking if your generosity will enable me to lead my friend into this ritual and if, gods and stars willing, your strength will help me to perform it.”
    By the time he stopped, the boy’s face was glowing and his eyes shone with tears although, as the scribe had instructed, he had the wit not to run to him. Still, Simon could sense the swell of emotion in the boy’s heart and prayed to all the gods that it would not overwhelm them both.
    “I am willing, and I long to help you in this ritual.”
    Johan was the first to answer, and Simon gasped to hear him use the formal words of response. Had he borrowed them from his own memories, or was his knowledge more than previously suspected? He had no time to ponder the mystery further, as Isabella joined her voice of support to her brother’s.
    “I, too, will help you,” she said.
    Only the ravens kept their silence.
    Simon could not do this without them. The custom required all those who watched to be at one with the intentions of the namer and the named. If they were not, he would regain the ability to walk away. His last chance to do so. If that happened, the boy and he would be safe, and his lack of knowledge would remain uncovered. Simon’s pride would be lost, but nothing more. But also, if he walked away, then there would not be another opportunity for the boy to have a name. Amongst the people, a naming ceremony came once only in a person’s lifetime; if it failed, for any reason, it could not be performed again. If he walked away now, the boy would never be able to trust him. And his affection would be shattered. Deservedly so.
    “Please,” he said, turning to the lead-raven. “I need your understanding also.”
    For a long moment, nothing happened. Simon heard only the sound of the breeze and the distant running of water. Then the snow-raven stepped forward, his long claws scratching thin lines into the morning grass.
    Fly then. With him. Our wings are near.
    The words came as if spun out of nothing. They flickered in his thoughts for an instant and then vanished as if they had never been at all. He swallowed. The acceptance had been granted. His only choice was to proceed with the ceremony. But what would he do when he reached the heart of it?
    Taking the boy by the hand, he bade him kneel on the soft grass, smiling at him briefly for reassurance. Simon hoped to the gods that he did not discern the hypocrisy of the gesture. When he was still, the scribe cast his mind back to his own time of naming, trying to see from afar what had happened, what his father had done and all the words he had spoken then. He prayed to forget none of them, and that this time would be always engraved on his friend’s heart. A memory for him of joy, not of despair or failure.
    He knelt before the boy, keeping the required arm’s length distance between them. He sensed the strength and empathy of Johan, the curiosity and judgement of Isabella, and the puzzlement of the birds. No matter. For the time the boy and he were about to enter, he would be able to call on none of them to help. They were the audience but, at the heart of this, the two of them would be alone.
    Stretching out his hands, he lifted the boy’s face up so their eyes met. His skin felt cool to the touch, but Simon could not remove his fingers. Unlike himself and all those he’d seen undergo this rite, the boy had no words that could be heard beyond his flesh. Therefore, to hear him in truth throughout the ritual, Simon would need to be in physical contact with him until they reached the end of it. This interpretation of the ceremony would have been forbidden in his world, but he had no choice here but to do it.
    Now. He had to begin now.
    “You are my friend,” the scribe said. “Do you trust me?”
    The boy nodded. It was enough.
    “Good,” he said. “Because what we are about to do means you will have to share the deepest part of your soul with me. A part of your soul that you may not even fully know. For the name by which a person is known is the heart of who they are. We live by our names, and we die by them, too. This is the way of our people.”
    He paused, unsure whether the gods in whom he didn’t fully believe would be angered by his adulteration of the traditional words. But he felt nothing—no fire from the air and none in his mind, tearing it apart. Perhaps, if the gods