The Awakening (12 page)

It was of such stories that Hwenfayre was the avatar. Her eyes, her hair, marked her irrevocably. Her father, whoever he was, was wise to have left her in a town ignorant of many of the tales. Had she been born in another, more sophisticated town, she would not have seen a second summer. Her father was also wise to have bred her far from her own people at this time. The real mystery was how he knew who, and what, his daughter would be, before her birth. Normally, so the stories went, the birth of a High Priestess and Princess was a joyously unexpected event.

He thought as he worked, the hours passing quickly. As the sun dipped behind the mountain that dominated the island, the former mercenary stood back to regard his work. The boat was seaworthy once more. All it lacked was a mast and a sail. These he would fashion on the morrow.

The aches in his body were less than the previous day. His warrior’s body was responding well to the labour, yet he worried about Hwenfayre. Her body was not as strong, not as used to the rigours of privation as was his, and he had not seen or heard her since she returned to the forest.

He made his way back to the cave, where he found a small fire burning. Above it was a pot, in which there bubbled a rich-smelling stew. The construction of the stand was simple and effective: more the product of years of refinement than of a few hours’ trial and error. He couldn’t remember bringing a cooking pot away from their wreck.

All of his trained instincts spoke to him. They sharpened his senses, alerting him to the additional footprints, the half-heard rustling in the forest, the accented voices speaking softly in the cave. Without thought, he stooped and pulled the knife from his boot. As he rose into a fighter’s crouch, he tested the knife’s edge with his thumb. A small drop of blood dripped to the sand.

Hwenfayre was sitting with three women, talking quietly, her back to the cave entrance as Wyn crept in, silent as a shadow.

One of the women saw him enter, knife in hand. Her eyes widened, her hand flying to her mouth. Hwenfayre, seeing this, turned quickly, half-rising as she did so. Her eyes softened when she saw Wyn. She smiled.

‘Wyn,’ she said. ‘Put aside your weapon. These women are no danger, they have come to aid us in our plight.’

Her words were delivered with the quiet, easy flow of command. It was the voice of one accustomed to being obeyed. The soldier in Wyn sheathed his knife and stood easy before he realised he had moved. He stared at her, uncomprehending. Her smile did not waver, yet her eyes seemed to be saying more, giving him a silent plea for help.

Wyn was a simple man; the only form of protection he knew he could give her was the strength in his body. He moved to stand close beside her. The light touch she gave his arm was all the reassurance he needed. With her voice still ringing with authority, Hwenfayre introduced Wyn to the seated women.

Their names were Marran, Wellfyn and Arragone. Islander names. He stared at each of them, remaining impassive, hard. They in turn stared at him, but only Wellfyn held his eye for more than a moment. It was she who had first seen him. She measured him with her gaze and dismissed him with her eyes as insignificant, turning back to Hwenfayre.

‘Please sit with us once again. Tell us more of your story.’ Her voice was melodious, entrancing. It was a voice that Wyn had heard before, many years earlier, and the sound of it was enough to awaken memories long dead.

His mother glared at him, fury stalking the mind behind her blazing eyes. It seemed to the boy that she was doing this a lot more these days than she used to. At least this time he knew what he had done wrong. He knew, he had been told often enough, that to swim in these waters at this time of day was
dangerous, but the water had looked so inviting, so cool after a long day’s work repairing the nets in the hot sun. Declan, his best friend, had dared him, then taunted him, then finally, in the face of his persistent refusals, bet him that he could not swim under the
Two Family Raft
from one side to the other. This was not taken lightly for it was a thirty-stroke swim, and the
Two Family Raft
had the deepest draught of any of the Children’s craft. He had done it before, both boys had, but in the waters of the caruda fish, in the time of the Final Song, it was a fine challenge for such a boy. He was bigger and stronger than most of his peers, which was why he was working the nets so young. Already he was eyeing enviously the men who rowed out each morning, singing the hunters’ song as they left the Rafts to gather food from the ocean’s bounty. Life as a child, even on the
Two Family Raft
, was beginning to pale, and he was eagerly seeking new challenges.

The bet on offer was a knife made of metal. Metal was highly prized on the Rafts of the Children, for life on the waves meant that the only metal to be had was from the landers. Trade with them was limited to certain times of the year, and much of the rest of the year was devoted to gathering such treasures as were prized by those who feared to travel the Deep. To put up against the knife, the boy had his father’s hand-carved set of dice. It was a children’s game, and he felt it was long past time he put such childish things aside. But it would be a shame to lose them; they were the only thing he had of his father’s that he could call his own. All of his father’s carvings had become greatly treasured since he died. He had been the last of the
Master Carvers to master the skill of working with the hard but brittle bone of the mighty grayfin.

The boy knew it was supposed to have been his destiny to follow the lead of his father and take on the trade of carver, but his hands were large and clumsy, better served to the spears and gaffs of the hunters than the delicate tools of the craftsman. His mother had never been happy with his decision. This, together with her grief at his father’s death, had driven a wedge between them. Her anger at his many pranks and daredevil antics was merely a sign of their growing estrangement. For him, it meant that he spent less and less time with her. For her, it meant more time spent staring blankly out at the Sea, lost in memories. She stopped taking care of herself and seemed to shrivel slowly, to collapse inwards. Looking back, Wyn could now remember how his mother slowly faded out of existence, as if the death of his father, her husband, had sucked the life out of her.

He stripped off his shirt. His young body, as yet unfinished, was already showing signs of the strength that would be his when he achieved manhood. With a quick grin, he slipped over the side of the
Two Family Raft
into the cool, dark blue waters. His friend gave him a thumbs-up, then turned and scampered away to meet him on the other side.

Floating in the water, the boy took several long, deep breaths, then soundlessly disappeared beneath the surface.

Immediately, he found himself in an exciting yet terrifying world. It was a world of shifting colours, shades of inconstant light and shadow. Beneath him,
the Deep called with a menacing lure. Above him, the heavy solidity of the
Two Family Raft
bulked large, ominous in its hardness, at once comforting and familiar yet also threatening in its alienness. The raft’s movements were sluggish in the light swell, sending ripples away from the waterline that refracted the sunlight, casting dancing shadows on his body. He paused, watching the play of light and shadow on his skin, then with a strong kick surged beneath the black hull of his home.

As he passed underneath the hull, the light changed, and with it the world through which he moved. It was cooler, darker. The sounds were different. He heard the distant thumping of people walking about, the muffled sounds of loud conversation, a rattle, a hiss.

He drove himself on, resting his hand briefly on the wooden hull, feeling its strength, its aged reliability, its latent power. Ahead, the water lightened as he approached the other side. Beneath, he caught a glimpse of the silver silhouette of a caruda fish. It darted through the water towards him.

His heart pounded and a shock ran through his body, a heady mixture of exhilaration and fear. Even as he pushed towards the light, the old stories of hunters who had lost limbs or their very lives to the frenzied attacks of these voracious predators danced through his head. With a burst of fear-driven adrenaline, he surged upwards.

He was near the end of his strength, the surface of the water a scant stroke or two away, when he felt the first agony of the razor-sharp teeth as they tore into his leg.

The force of the attack thrust him forward, his head breaking the surface of the water. He bellowed in pain. The caruda dragged him back under, the cold water choking off his cry. His lungs filled as he tried to draw breath to cry out again. Drawing on a reserve of strength he was unaware of, he reached down to the fish, grasping it by the gills. He dug his fingers in deeply, gouging, ripping at the soft flesh. Blood swirled around him, clouding his vision. He heaved desperately at the silver predator, wrenching it away from his torn leg. There was a dull crack; the fish went limp in his hands, its jaws releasing him.

Spent, the young man floated up to the world of air. He bobbed up in a slowly expanding cloud of blood, both his and that of the dead fish still locked in his fingers. He looked up into the eyes of his mother, and then turned away. Her anger was plain.

Another set of eyes caught his. They were hard and dismissive. He knew those eyes and normally he would have looked away. It was not for him to hold the eye of one so noble, so high in station, even though they were about the same age. But today, bearing a caruda killed with his bare hands, he dared to hold her gaze.

‘So. He thinks he proves his manhood. But it is such a small fish.’ It was the same voice, mocking, distant, yet compelling.

Thus it was, many years later, that Wyn looked once more into the eyes of Morag, youngest daughter of the High Priestess of the Children of Danan. No matter that she called herself Wellfyn; Wyn knew those eyes.

Her eyes moved across his face, dismissing him. He saw no glimmer of recognition, which, given that she would have believed him dead, was not unexpected. Wyn had looked into the eyes of his enemies enough times when life and death hung on a single stroke of a sword to recognise what he saw there. This woman, whatever she called herself, did not remember him. That gave him some respite, time to consider what to do, for Morag would know exactly who, and what, sat opposite her.

But the question remained: what was she doing here?

Whatever the answer was, it clearly did not involve violence, at least not yet.

Marran, the smallest of the three, rose diffidently and went to see to the meal. Wyn watched her. She turned to him, smiling shyly. He returned her look impassively, her smile faded, her shoulders slumped slightly as she stirred the simmering stew.

‘And you, Wyn. What is your part in this magical tale?’ He was brought back by the mellifluous voice of Morag as she addressed him.

‘I have no part in it, my Lady. I stand by Hwenfayre wherever she decides to go.’

‘My Lady?’ she laughed gently, clapping her hands together in glee. ‘So noble. So protective of your young friend. Yet,’ her eyes narrowed, the humour vanishing to be replaced by a hard glint, ‘Hwenfayre tells us it was you who first recognised her song. How is that?’

‘I have travelled much, my Lady. I once journeyed with one who knew something of the ways of the Children.’

‘And who was that?’ she asked.

‘I never knew his name, my Lady. He died soon after we met. It is the way of fighting men.’

‘So it is. So it is indeed.’ Her tone was speculative, unconvinced. Wyn returned her stare unflinchingly, as one with nothing to hide may do. Their eyes locked for a moment, then she looked away, apparently satisfied for the time being. He steadfastly refused to look at Hwenfayre, knowing she would hear the lie and wonder at it. She would not, he was sure, dispute him, yet he could not risk allowing Morag any hint of suspicion. Were Morag to guess at his true heritage there would be no telling what she could do. The powers of the High Priestess, even one merely trained to the position rather than born to it, were daunting. And as a child Morag was, he recalled, already being spoken of as a worthy successor to her mother. The storm that had brought them to this island suddenly took on a new, frightening aspect.

Unconsciously the fighting man took hold of the haft of the knife tucked into the waistband of his pants. Quelling his own thoughts, he forced himself to listen to Hwenfayre as she continued to detail her life’s journey.

Her voice had lost the cadence of command, slipping back into the simple, young woman’s voice that he was used to. He relaxed slightly. Marran came back from stirring the pot.

‘It is ready,’ she said quietly.

Morag smiled. ‘Thank you, Marran.’ To Hwenfayre she added, ‘Marran is the finest cook in our village. Her meals are always wondrous. Come,
let us eat.’ She rose with the grace of a princess, extending her hand to Hwenfayre.

Without hesitation the young woman took the proffered hand and went with Morag. Wyn stood and went with her.

Marran’s stew was all Morag had promised: hot, wholesome, rich, heavy with tender meat, thick with vegetables. Wyn had not had its equal for some years. Neither, apparently, had Hwenfayre. As they ate, Arragone, the third woman, who had so far said little, told them about the island upon which they had landed so fortuitously.

It was the largest of an archipelago that consisted of seven inhabited islands and twelve smaller uninhabited islands, some of which were little more than rocks. The main source of food was obviously the ocean, but the soil on the other side of the island was rich, yielding the vegetables and herbs that so enhanced the stew.

There was little commerce with outsiders, with trading mainly limited to inter-island dealing. The islands formed a loose confederation of sorts, banding together when necessary, squabbling over the usual irritations, sharing the hardships and joys that came with island life. It was a life that had held no attraction for Wyn before, and hearing about it again still failed to entice him. There was something inherently stultifying about living in a small community bounded by ocean, yet land-bound. It was true that the islanders sailed much between the islands, but there was nothing of the explorer or adventurer in an island sailor. No, he reminded himself, it was either the open land or the open sea,
not some in-between existence that lured him. He chanced a look at Hwenfayre. She looked torn: half-captivated by tales of a way of life exciting and alien to her experience, half-wondering at what this turn of events might mean.