The Gifting

It is silent in the elders’ cave. The dark-haired man with the blue eyes waits. Beside him, his sister is dressed only in black. Her fair hair catches the light from the two torches mounted on the wall. She is in mourning, but he knows it is time for her mourning to end.
“There is no need for us to be here, Johan. Every moment that passes means another Gathandrian dead.”
His sister Isabella Montfort’s tone is bitter, but he doesn’t question it. Over two moon cycles since the death of her lover, Petran, and still he hears her weeping in the morning. Neither is she the only one, but he cannot admit the full reasons for this now. They have all failed; it is not simply himself. At least, he prays it is not. In any case, this battle has been a bloody one. Even though it has been fought largely in the realm of the mind, already it has claimed too many. And destroyed too much. In the land of Gathandria, they have not been used to war. Even the name stands against them: in the old language, it means the place where peace dwells. There is no peace in the mind’s battles. Only one chance to stop it now, and even then success seems so unlikely. Given the circumstances. Given the man who is supposed to save them.
Simon Hartstongue of the White Lands. If it wasn’t so serious, Johan almost believes he would laugh, but he swallows down the emotion out of respect for the place they are in, and also because it is he himself who has proposed this solution to Gathandria’s troubles. Even now, he can’t quite believe it. He has been searching for an answer to the wars for some week-cycles now that their mind-skills have failed—damning for him in so many ways, as Chief Advisor to the Sub-Council of Meditation, but it is true. The only answer that has risen in his thoughts has been Simon. With that has come the slow and possibly shameful tingling of excitement. At last, here is something he can do for the land, something he can offer. Something that perhaps will not fail this time, in quite so blood-soaked a fashion. Not that Johan does not love his job—he does. The minds of men and women are indeed the last great adventure. He has always understood that, although emotions sit less easily in his blood. Knowledge and understanding is all—let others deal with those more untidy urges: love, hate, passion. He will keep to what he knows and excels at: mind-skills and teaching his people the same. But recently he has found himself longing for more… More what exactly? More decisive action that will bring these battles to a swift finish? More clarity? More adventure? Yes, more adventure. That is what he finds thrills him most—the call of the unknown. And, yes he admits this too, the chance to leave the city. For Johan, schooled since their parents’ death many year-cycles ago to be cautious and plan for all eventualities and to love Gathandria above all things, this new feeling has come as a surprise. More than anything, he wants to leave and bring Simon back, to save them all. He knows he has the ability and the strength to do that. At least, he thinks he has.
And it would be almost perfect, were it not for the fact that Johan no longer believes that Simon will have the power to save himself, let alone others; he is simply a scribe, not a soldier. His mind-skills, such as they are, have been abused and he is a coward, too. Naturally, Johan has voiced none of these doubts to his sister. He wants so much to give her hope.
Because it might just have worked—if not for Simon’s bad character. Since Johan made the suggestion one cycle of seven ago, based only on the knowledge of the existence of the cousin he has never met, he has been busy. Over the last seven day-times, while the war raged and Isabella wept, Johan has made it his mission to find out all he can about Simon Hartstongue. He has focused his mind one moon journey’s distance away, in the Lammas Lands and he has gleaned as much information as he can from the minds of the people there. What he has discovered has changed his decision about his mission. Hartstongue is not worth the effort of bringing him here. Let him rot in Lammas. It is what he deserves. The only good act Hartstongue has achieved in the last two year-cycles is the teaching of the people he lives amongst. And his treatment of the boy whom he calls his apprentice. It is a mystery to Johan why this boy has no name, but his seven-days’ study of the Lammas people has shown him that they do not treat the poor with decency. And the boy is certainly poor. Apart from that, Hartstongue’s career in Lammas has been one of destruction, deceit and weakness.
Ah, if Simon had been another man indeed… No matter, soon the First Elder will be here and Johan’s proposal for a solution to this devastating war will be rejected. Perhaps he will even withdraw the offer first. They must find another way.
The heavy curtain behind them opens and the First Elder appears. Johan steps back to allow him entry. Both he and his sister fall to their knees, heads bowed. An aroma of night-musk and cardamom fills the air. The planning potion. A decision has been made then. Even though this is what Johan has been expecting, the fact of it makes him tremble. What will Gathandria do now?
The First Elder speaks at last.
“Get up,” he says, his voice as old and gnarled as the linden-oak in his former garden. “Our people listen best when they are not in a position of humility.”
Though it goes against all their instincts, the two siblings obey.
“What you have proposed, Johan Montfort,” the Elder continues, “has been granted. Your journey will be dangerous and our enemy will fight it with all his might. We must trust that the power the two of you have nurtured will protect you and overthrow all the obstacles in your path if you simply have faith. We will follow your progress with the gifts of the mind-circle and, where we can, we will help you. But be warned, the enemy will fight that also. You are commissioned, therefore, to go beyond the Land of the Mountains to the Lammas Lands and bring back our lost child to us. Find the man who calls himself Simon Hartstongue and bring him here. We believe that, together, the three of you may find mind-power enough to defeat the one who strives against us. But the final battle must be fought here, where the enemy began his work.”
Johan finds he can hardly breathe. He blinks. A thousand protests on the pointlessness of what the elder has agreed to crowd his tongue, but he says none of them. The decision has been made and there is no arguing with it; he and his sister must go through with their plan. How he wishes that he had put his doubts to the elders, withdrawn the offer, before the Council met, but he had not thought it necessary. At the same time, he cannot deny that his own excitement grows at the fact that something is to be done, and it is he who will do it. Away from Gathandria.
“And what if he does not wish to come?” Isabella asks.
Her brother draws in a sharp breath at last. From the beginning, she has been his reluctant supporter, though in the end she had to cast her lot in with him. The elders would not countenance her rebellion. Not in the matter of family and, after all, he and the coward Hartstongue are the only family she knows now.
The elder does not take offence at the interruption. He only smiles. “Then you must persuade him.”
“Using whatever means are at our disposal?”
The answer is a nod. It is obvious to Johan that the meeting is over. He and his sister must face the consequences, both for bad and for good.
Johan speaks, his mind already leaving his doubts behind and sparking a series of steps to take on this new adventure. “My lord, I thank you. We thank you. I wish to go without ceremony, if that is possible. That way, the journey will be easier, as our enemy may not sense it. Do I have your permission for that?”
“Yes. You have. Go in your own timing, and may all our gods be with you both, my friend. For truly, we need whatever help you can provide.”
With a sweep of his arm and a sign of blessing, the First Elder is gone. Johan smiles.
“Come, sister,” he says, not quite meeting her eyes. “If we are to take this journey, then we must start tonight.”
She snorts and tosses her hair.
“Whatever you may tell me over and over again about our lost cousin and the good he has within him,” she says, “all I know is what I have gleaned unnoticed from your mind – that he is a coward and a murderer. What hope can there be for us from such a one as he?”