Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) (73 page)

Aedan excused himself, saying he needed to fetch a
new shirt from Osric’s house, but he really just wanted to be alone for a while.

None of the boys had noticed the stealthy figures
trailing them through the darkness. When Aedan split off, he drew the
followers, and they closed the distance quickly.

It was the second dull scrape he’d heard. Soft,
easily ignored. There were many cats that scavenged in this part of town.

Since Malik had successfully tailed him in his
first year at the academy, Aedan had been vigilant, constantly checking his
surroundings. But tonight his thoughts were unusually heavy and sluggish.
Another scrape, this time closer. When he turned, it was too late.

The clonk of a wooden batten rang through his
skull. He sprawled forward and tried to roll to his feet, but two men were on
him before he could recover himself. They took an arm each, yanked him up, and
dragged him against a wall.

A third man approached with a deep stride. Aedan,
in spite of his dizziness, recognised him immediately. It was the man who had
called the warning, the one he’d assumed to be the mastermind. But now he began
to hear the chimes of recognition from elsewhere, from before the last gang
roundup, long before. And then the man stepped into a beam of light from an
overhead window.

“I have tried very hard not to despise you,”
Clauman said, “but you are determined to earn my hatred.”

Aedan did not speak. He stared at his father’s
tall figure with growing dread.

“Do you know what you did tonight?”

Aedan guessed in an instant. He looked down, suddenly
ashamed, despite the voice of reason protesting that he should not be.

“Yes, you know don’t you? With all your supposed
knowledge I would have expected you to learn where my interests lay and respect
them. Nearly three years ago you defied me. You overturned one of my projects
and brought about the loss of many of my collectors. Then you cowered away in
your little academy safehouse. Tonight, you robbed me of half my best men.”

“I didn’t know it was your gang.”

“Because you did not bother yourself to find out!”
Clauman shouted, stepping forward. Aedan saw the veins swelling in his father’s
neck and heard the heavy breathing. But Clauman contained himself and stopped
short. A calculating look came into his eyes that worried Aedan even more.

“It’s time for you to pay back, and this is how
you will do it. My operations thrive on information – layouts, numbers,
schedules, and of course, security measures. You will find a way of providing me
with those. If you betray me again, I’ll turn all my attention to destroying
you.”

Aedan was trembling. He knew his father was no
more than a man, yet his words brought back all the fears of childhood. That
same demon began to claw at him again, prying his heart open and hurling
mockery into the depths of his being. It told him that he was a broken, beaten
pulp, and if he did not shrink away and hide he would be crushed. His legs
began to tremble and he felt his back slipping against the stone wall.

“Step aside,” Clauman ordered his two men. They
let Aedan go, and he sagged to the ground. “Answer me,” Clauman said, glaring
at his son.

Aedan’s mouth was dry and his voice would not come
as he tried to form words.

Clauman smiled. “I understand that language. I
will expect you to contact me within a week. Find something that will begin to
pay back the losses you brought about.” He turned and strode away, his men
jogging to keep up.

Aedan saw them dwindle away. The danger was gone,
but something else was gone too, something he needed. He was not sure what it
was, but its absence made him realise that he had escaped nothing by his
silence. He felt a sudden weight settle on him and he understood what he had lost.

Freedom.

He had faced his jailor and not even made an
attempt to gain the key.

Every muscle felt like it was made of shivering
lard, but he pushed himself up, filled his lungs and shouted, though it came
out more like a shriek.

“No!”

The three figures stopped moving. They turned and
began to walk back. There was no mistaking the way his father strode now. The
arms were pushed slightly out over balled fists. Every movement betrayed a pounding,
swinging fury. Clauman did not even break stride. He hit Aedan in the stomach
and hammered him to the ground.

“You dare to speak to me like that? I didn’t think
you needed to be reminded of your place, but I am happy to do the necessary.”
He kicked, causing Aedan to skid back against the wall where he coughed and
gasped for breath.

“Do you understand, or must I carry on?”

Aedan understood. The message was sharp and clear.
But another message began to rumble in his mind. It was the message he had understood
as that colossal voice had spoken his name the second time. It was a message so
pure with its kindness, and so terrifying with its power, that the lies had crawled
out from their hidings and melted before it.

From where Aedan sprawled in the stink and grime,
he looked up between the buildings into the great depths of the night, at stars
beyond the reach of the highest mountains. Someone whose voice had made even
those distant stars tremble with awe knew his name.

The same warmth grew in him.

Though he still drew thin, scraping breaths of air,
he pushed himself to his feet.

A weight he could not see was pressing him down,
but he would not bow under it again. He looked at his father and, as he did so,
a covering began to slip. He glimpsed the man behind the horror that had stalked
his past. As with Rork, as with Iver, there was no monster, only a man who had
behaved monstrously. And as before, it made him seem smaller, not bigger.

Clauman laughed a hard laugh. “Want to stand up to
me do you?” He hit again, but this time the blows did not fall as cleanly as
before. Aedan was blocking and ducking. Though there were openings for
retaliation, he took none of them.

Clauman was breathing hard when his son stumbled
and dropped under a furious rain of punches. But this time Aedan rolled quickly
and got to his feet again.

“How about we hold him?” asked one of the gangsters,
stepping up to Aedan – but he stepped too close.

It was a movement like the strike of a python. The
base of Aedan’s palm crunched into the thief’s nose, knocking him over
backwards. A knee followed, driving into the groin, doubling the man over,
bringing his head in line for Aedan’s elbow. A short swing, a solid blow. Before
the man knew what was happening to him, he was sagging. He dropped with a soft
moan.

It was one of Dun’s standard sequences.

The other gangster had been approaching, but now
kept his distance.

Clauman watched his son for a long time before
speaking. “Why didn’t you strike me?” he asked.

“I don’t want to,” Aedan said.

“Still a coward then.”

“No. Because I forgave you. And it took more
courage to do that than hating you. Hating and hitting are easy.”

“Call it what you want, but it seems that my blows
have finally turned you into a man.”

Aedan could hardly believe the words. “A man? You
made me into a cowering worm! It was something very different to your treatment
that got me to my feet. It’s as different from the way you treated me as rain
is from drought.”

“So you hold back your hands and hit me with your
words? Just like a woman. Just like a traitor.”

“I did not betray you!” Aedan cried. “I stayed
with Mother because she needed me more than you did.”

Clauman swallowed. “How is …” He squeezed his eyes
shut and said no more.

“She misses you,” Aedan said.

Clauman’s eyes opened again, but his jaw was
clenched and his look hard. “She has her friends. She chose them.” he said.

“She needed family.”

“And I did not?!” Clauman almost screamed the
question. The light from the window glistened in his eyes now. It was the first
time Aedan had seen anything beyond the rigid, proud barrier – and for the
first time he knew that it had been only a barrier. There was a person who hid
behind it, someone who felt the same pain that he did, who had the same need
for family, for acceptance.

“Even in the Mistyvales, you turned your back on
me,” Clauman said. “If you weren’t learning languages with … with … her,
languages that excluded me, then you were off to that daughter of Dresbourn’s
as if his family was better than ours.”

“It was
you
who drove me away! At
Badgerfields I was never frightened. Kalry was the sister I needed when you
were too angry to be my father. She accepted me
always
.”

“So I did not measure up to your standards, and
that justified throwing me out?”

“Throwing you out?
You
were the one who walked
out. Don’t you remember?”

“I walked out on the meddling of others. Do you
think I
wanted
to lose my family?” he shouted and kicked a discarded
crate so hard that it flew into the wall and shattered.

Aedan’s mouth opened. He had always believed that
this was exactly what his father had wanted. “I thought –”

Someone opened a shutter in the wall above and
stuck his head out. “Keep it down out there, will you,” he called.

Clauman unhooked a short club and flung it at the
window with a roar, sending the man tumbling back into his house. The shutters
slammed closed. Clauman inclined his head for Aedan to continue.

“I thought you did want to leave us,” Aedan said.
“Why did you not come back? You knew we couldn’t have found you.”

Clauman’s eyes dropped and searched the ground.
They found a pair of big boots and suddenly he became aware of the gangster who
was listening with ill-concealed interest. He straightened up and his jaw
locked. “Because I cannot abide traitors.”

“But I did not betray you!”

Clauman looked at him. “Even now you betray me by
denying your help, your repayment.” All his former hardness was returning. The father
and husband who had stepped from behind his shield was gone, and the light now
glinted off a face of iron.

“What you ask of me is wrong,” Aedan said.

“No son of mine would dare instruct me or question
my judgement.” His mouth twisted. “So you cannot be my son.”

He turned and walked away with the gangster who
carried his sleeping companion over a shoulder.

When they had left, Aedan slid down against the
wall and cried like one of the country children in the overcrowded streets who had
lost his father.

Most of the apprentices were still a little moody and
preoccupied the next day, so when Aedan wouldn’t talk about the new bruises, he
was not harried. Dun cancelled their early training session and spoke to them
of the previous day’s work. He was thoroughly pleased with the results.

The gangs of Castath had taken a heavy knock. Twenty-three
small gangs and four large ones had lost many members to the city jails, some
to the gallows. News had spread and it was clear that the days of easy crime
had been interrupted.

Not all the operations, though, had run without
loss. One group of older marshal apprentices had been surprised by a reserve
force. Two of the boys were dead and one critically wounded. The gang was
rounded up during the day as a priority, and every member convicted of murder.

Law-breaking across the city lost much of its
appeal. The surprises continued. Houses that should have been perfect targets
for burglary were found dripping with marshals and soldiers. The city’s honest
folk sensed the change and began to move about with less fear.

The gibbets were full, the jails too. A heavy hand
closed on the city’s crime and several days passed during which nothing more
than petty theft was reported. It was even rumoured that many of the shady
prospectors had found honest employment.

When Osric returned from his two-week patrol, Aedan found out
and went to visit. The general, Tyne and Merter sat at the table – now covered
in a soft cream cloth – before a small mountain of fresh crumpets, a pot of
honey, and mugs of steaming tea. The scene was made cosier by the absence of
lanterns; the room was lit instead by a bright fire humming in the hearth.

Aedan grinned as he looked around. This could only
be Tyne’s influence. He had never seen the room so far removed from its
accustomed stern character, and he had never seen its owner so comfortable.

In that moment Aedan understood that Osric was not
rigid and severe because he enjoyed it – he was that way because he didn’t know
how to be anything else. Aedan had once wondered if the general was too set in
his nature, if that was why he had never married, if there was no place for a
woman, not even Tyne. But it was clear, just by looking at him, that he relished
the softening she brought to his life. And the way the two of them were smiling
ran deeper than the warmth of a greeting.

Tyne’s long hair was loose, falling gently on her
shoulders and giving her an air of homeliness, of womanliness that her tight
braid and uniform had muted. It was almost difficult to believe she was the
same person. Osric’s eyes were unable to leave her for long, even at Aedan’s
entrance.

Aedan ground his teeth with frustration at these
wonderful, silly people. They were like starving urchins hovering before a
feast, trying to convince themselves that food was not the right thing for
them. Their reasons for remaining apart made no sense. Tyne had said Aedan was
too young to understand, but young or old, what right did yesterday’s hurt have
to steal today’s happiness? Only the right that was surrendered, surely.

Here were two fearsome soldiers yielding what they
both longed for without a fight. He wished there was a way he could knock them
from their delusion, but it was Osric who did the knocking.

“Aedan, it’s good to see you again!” he boomed, reaching
over and delivering a clap on the back that struck like a hoof. Merter, sitting
as usual with his back to the fire, gripped Aedan’s forearm warmly, and Tyne
hugged him and asked after Liru.

While Aedan was being plied with tea and
honey-drenched crumpets, Osric took up the conversation. “We heard about the
business with the gangs while we were still out on patrol,” he said. “We were
just talking about it when you came in. Your idea?”

“I had to do something,” Aedan said. “Men can’t be
permitted to behave like beasts.”

“Couldn’t agree more. You and your friends did a
fine job. Has your mother stayed safe through all this?”

“Yes. She is safe. When I arrived in my patrol
uniform she didn’t recognise me at first. We had a good laugh until Harriet
arrived. I wish it was Harriet who didn’t recognise me. Ever. To her, I am the
cause of all griefs in Thirna. The Fenn would not be threatening our borders if
I had just done everything she insisted on.”

They laughed, but Aedan was quiet.

“Aedan,” said Tyne. “Are you alright? You look
like you’re heavy inside.”

“I met my father,” he said, after considering
whether or not to mention it and deciding, as with Lorrimer, that carrying it
alone was doing him no good. “It was almost like he really wanted to put our
family together again, but he ended off by disowning me.”

This might have been enough for Osric, but Tyne wanted
to know all the details. When Aedan had finished telling the story, they were
thoughtful.

“What made him beat you as a child?” she asked.
“Don’t answer if it’s too bold a question.”

“Once I tried to stop him hurting my mother when
they were arguing. He said I had betrayed him. Before, on his angry days he
used to just ignore me. After that he didn’t ignore me anymore.”

Osric looked as if he was about to smash a hole in
the table. His breathing was shallow, his face flushed, and his lips tight with
the effort of holding back whatever snapped and growled inside.

It was Tyne who eventually spoke. “I am glad that
you were able to face him. I think it is what we were all hoping for. It’s a
bitter sadness, though, that he did not decide differently. Pride is the
biggest thief of all. But perhaps he will yet change his mind.”

Aedan might have reacted to anyone else pointing
out his father’s error, but there was no blame in Tyne’s voice and no doubting
her sincerity. He remembered how his father had recognised and condemned Dresbourn’s
pride years ago, yet held fast to his own.

“Perhaps,” he said. He wondered if she knew how much
hope stood behind the word.

–––

The room was dark. Daylight was several hours away,
but Aedan knew further sleep would be impossible. It was the same dream and
this time it was sharper, sterner. The image of that Lekran book would appear
and he would hear the word “Read”, then he would wake as if he had been pushed
from slumber. He knew he could ignore it, turn over and wait for daylight, but this
time it was as though there was urgency in the voice. It was the same huge
voice that he had twice heard. He was caught between wanting to obey it and wanting
to avoid that sickening book.

The blankets were warm. He turned over and closed
his eyes, but the sense of disappointment that poured over him was so deep that
he sat up.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll do it.”

Working by feel, he got up, pushed aside the books
on his shelf and drew out the volume from where it was buried. Then he took his
thickest blanket – for the night was cold – scraped around until he found his
lantern, and crept out the door and down the passage to one of the study coves.
He lit his wick from the night lamp that was mounted nearby. The disappointment
had left him, he noticed, and in spite of his hatred of everything Lekran, he
felt a curious peace.

Perhaps, he thought, this was not so much about
getting over his hatred as it was about getting over his sensitivity. He would
not be much use in a war against a nation whose culture he could not face
without a wave of sickening weakness. What he was doing now was like building a
resistance to poison in gradual increments. It was beginning to make sense. The
time had come for him to look in the face of his enemy and not turn away. There
were forms of strength that came only at a great price.

With a new feeling of purpose, he wrapped himself
in his blanket, dug into the couch, and began to read.

The first chapter was entitled “Homes, Social
Structure, Customs and Celebrations”. The going was slow. There was much he did
not understand given his poor handle on the language. He had just begun the
section dealing with religion when Dun’s whistle filled the passage.

He had read through the night.

Hiding the book under his shirt, he slipped back
into his room before many pairs of curious eyes found him.

Strangely, he did not fall asleep during his
classes. That night, during his study session, he continued where he had left
off and finished the section on religion. He turned to the next section.
Sacrifices. His heart began to pound as he skimmed over the words. It was as he
had feared. On Ulnoi, they did not sacrifice goats or cattle.

He closed the book and closed his mind to the
persistent voice. He was not yet ready for this. Would he ever be?

It took him a long time to fall asleep that night,
but when he did, he dreamed immediately. He saw the chapter clearly before him
–
Sacrifices
was written boldly across the page and the same voice
called him to read.

In his dream he shouted, “But I can’t! The pain …”

“Courage,” the voice replied.

Then he awoke.

As before, it was dark. Muttering, he tore himself
away from the warm cocoon of his bed, gathered the book, blanket and lamp, and padded
over the icy flagstones back to the study nook. After settling down and
wrapping the blanket until there were none of those little breezy gaps, he
began to read, thinking what a ridiculous, meaningless and injurious waste of
hours this was. He knew he needed the toughening, understood the value of the
exercise, but was beginning to doubt if this was the most effective approach.
Nevertheless, he pushed his eyes along.

The words on the page made him wince, as if each
one was a knife stabbing out at him. He was so desperate to fend off the
meaning that he almost missed a sentence hidden within the awful details, but
the further he moved from it, the more it tugged him back until he left his
place and returned to the nagging line.

Vraanenim slaggo lag srette buuin.

As with much of what he was reading, he only
grasped part of the idea.
Vraan
was women,
Vraanenim
,
he
assumed with a shiver, were the female sacrificial victims or supposed
volunteers. He didn’t care.
Lag
– must,
slaggo
– age, but
srette
buuin
meant nothing to him.

At first the words drifted in his tired thoughts,
disconnected, irrelevant. Then, like shards of magnetised iron, they began to
snap together and formed an idea, an idea that sprang from the page and struck
him full in depths of his sleepy mind, shattering his drowsiness.

He gasped, a sudden wheezing gasp, as if a great vat
of icy water had been emptied over his head. The couch skidded back into the
wall with a thump as he lurched to his feet, dropping the book and tipping the
lantern so that it smashed on the floor and went out. He didn’t even notice.

His eyes grew wide and his twitching mouth opened
further as the thought took hold of him. Snatching up the book, he took off
down the passage at a speed that set the paintings rattling in his wake. By the
time the blanket had crumpled to the ground, he was out of sight.

Never had he covered the distance to Fergal’s office
so quickly. In his haste, he flung the covering boards right off the platform
in the display room, but he was already darting down the stairs by the time
they banged into the ground. Even if he had stepped on one of the trigger-steps,
the trap would have opened on nothing more than his dust.

“Fergal! Fergal!” he shouted as he flew along the
dark corridor and whipped under the archways. He did not wait for an answer. He
knocked and opened the door in one movement and came to a quivering stop in the
office that apparently never slept.

“Aedan, what manner of –”

Aedan ignored him and interrupted, “Fergal, what
does
srette buuin
mean? It’s Lekran for a number or an age. I need to
know. Now! Please!”

Fergal sat back in his large chair, aiming a
severe look at the young intruder, but then the raised eyebrows settled down
again. “It is neither a number, nor an age,” he said, “but a ceremony that
represents both. It is the entry into womanhood, which, for Lekrans happens at
the age of eighteen. Now before we go any further, I insist on knowing what
this is about.”

Aedan was pale and looked very much like he was
about to drop to the ground.

“Quin deceived us,” he whispered. “Kalry is
alive!”

Then he did drop to the ground and woke a little
while later to see Fergal holding a bottle under his nose. His nostrils were
complaining about red-hot pins.

The big man helped him into a couch, then sat back
in his own chair and faced Aedan. A soft whisper of fire and a quiet pop from a
burning log were all that disturbed the silence for a while. Fergal would be
the last person to feel the need to fill it with words.

“Read me the section,” he said, looking with
disapproval at the book that showed the corner of a page sticking out where it
should not be, and a small stream of oil running down the cover. Aedan did not see
any of this. He found the page easily – it was the one that had been folded
when the book dropped at his feet. He read the line and looked at Fergal with desperate,
expectant eyes. The wait was the worst torture he had ever known.