The Awakening (13 page)

It was as Wyn listened, not completely concentrating on the words, that a part of his mind started to warn him. There was something profoundly wrong with all this. If this was indeed Morag, how long had she been on this island? If she had not been here long, who were these other women? If they were simple islanders, as they seemed, why had they accepted her as one of their own? If they were not, then why all this elaborate façade?

If, on the other hand, Morag had been here long enough to have been accepted, then had she too put aside her heritage? Might she be an ally instead of a dangerous enemy? Wyn felt as he did when he entered battle; a strange fusion of excitement mingled with fear. His every sense was preternaturally heightened, alert to every action of these innocent-seeming women who had suddenly become opponents, subject to the full scrutiny of a man of war.

As he watched them, he started to note a few small inconsistencies. Not much. Nothing that on its own would arouse any suspicion, but when watched with a healthy paranoia, certainly enough to worry about. The way they held themselves, the way every motion was carefully balanced. It all clicked into place: these were no more islanders than he was. This was all some elaborate game Morag was
playing. Wyn kept watching but kept his hand close to his dagger.

When the meal was finished it was dark outside. The night had come unnoticed, its arrival lost in stories of island life. Marran stood. Without a word, she collected the plates and utensils. Wyn watched her. As she turned to go to the nearby stream he stood too, suddenly apprehensive.

‘Marran,’ he said quietly. Hwenfayre stared at him, her eyes troubled. He could sense what she was troubled about but chose to ignore her pain. His instincts were screaming warnings to him. Something was very wrong here. He took a burning branch from the fire, holding it away from his face. ‘It will be dark by the stream; perhaps I should go with you, to light your way.’ The apparently casual way that he was holding the flame masked the fact that it placed his face in shadow, allowing him to watch not Marran, but Morag. The sudden tightening around her eyes followed by a brief nod to Marran were all the signs he needed. His decision to accompany the quiet girl was a good one.

He felt Hwenfayre’s eyes on him as he walked into the darkness with Marran. The night swallowed them as they left the bright warmth of the campfire. As the darkness welcomed him, Wyn hesitated briefly, considering the wisdom of leaving Hwenfayre alone, but he continued, believing Morag would pose no physical threat to her. Any violence would be out here, away from the fire.

Around them the noises of the forest became louder, and they became interlopers in a world not their own. Wyn held the flickering torch in his left
hand, near Marran, so that his night sight would improve and hers weaken. His right hand gripped the hilt of his knife. She walked carefully, her feet picking a path through fallen branches. Her breathing was rapid, coming in short, sharp breaths; her movements were jerky. Wyn slipped into a controlled calm. It was the preparation of a warrior entering battle.

The attack was fast, quiet and deadly. Had Wyn not been prepared, he would surely have died.

Two men surged from the bushes. They were armed with daggers not unlike the one Wyn held. At the first movement he dropped into a crouch. The first attacker thrust at Wyn but overbalanced as he swung at the now empty space. Wyn drove up, under the man’s midriff, throwing him heavily to the ground. The man lay stunned, gasping for air.

The second, coming an instant later, went for Wyn’s throat as he rose up. It was an old trick, a move an experienced fighting man would expect. Wyn’s dagger slashed upwards, driving through the attacker’s wrist. His eyes widened in shock, then Wyn struck him across the face with the torch in his other hand. The man fell, unconscious.

It was over before Marran’s plates hit the ground.

The clatter broke the night’s silence. Wyn spun on the startled woman. He stepped in close to her. ‘Who were they?’ he hissed. ‘And what is your part in this, woman?’

She stared blankly, her eyes glazed in shock. Wyn saw the direction of her gaze. His dagger dripped blood onto the ground near the insensible man. He quickly slipped the knife into his belt. ‘I don’t harm
women,’ he assured her. ‘But I need to know what is going on. And I need to know now.’

Marran nodded slowly. ‘Others,’ she started. ‘Back there…’

Wyn dropped the torch and dashed back to where Hwenfayre still sat waiting for him to return. As fast as he ran, it was not fast enough. He burst into the clearing in time to see Hwenfayre being carried, limp and unconscious, over the shoulder of a man dressed in the canvas and leather of a Southern Raider.

With a cry of rage, he threw himself across the intervening space at the man’s unprotected back. Before he could drag the man down he was struck a powerful blow across the back of the head. He fell to the ground, dazed.

As he tried to rouse himself, a kick to the ribs drove him back down. He heard the voice of Morag once more. ‘Leave him. He deserves to live, tasting his failure.’ From where he lay, semi-conscious, he could just make out Morag’s feet.

She crouched, then lifted his head to look into his eyes. ‘Know this, Wyn: I am Morag, High Priestess of the Children of Danan. No one stands before me. No one keeps me from what I desire. I am more powerful than you can possibly imagine, little man. Live. But do not attempt to find me.’ In the flickering light of the campfire her eyes glowed with an unholy power, her face a thing of dancing shadows, its angles giving her a demonic aspect. She opened her mouth and breathed on him. A red mist flowed out, enveloping him. He felt consciousness seep away.

As he sagged into insensibility, he managed to look up at the retreating back of the man carrying
his Princess. ‘Hwenfayre!’ He was able to gasp out her name, but she did not respond.

The darkness swallowed her, leaving him alone to cry her name silently into the echoing sadness of his mind.

After leaving Ajyne, the party headed north along the Northern Way of the Asan. It was a wide, well-travelled route that led from the Capital through two provinces to Aphra, the provincial capital of Darkan. Ettan lay to the west of Darkan so the normal route would take them through Herath and Darkan, then along the Wesron Way to Ettan’s capital, Adrastos.

Coerl Leone was envisioning two weeks on the road. As they left with little more than the hour she had boasted she needed, her Fyrd was unequipped for such a long journey. Her second priority, therefore, after Shanek’s safety, was acquiring supplies. Once on the great Path, there had been no opportunity to offer the general populace a chance to help, so she had to wait until they left the city.

After checking the pack Shanek had thrown together it was clear that he was ill-equipped for any journey. All he had was one change of clothes, his bolas, three books of history and diplomacy, and the fighting kit he was wearing. She was pleased to note he had at least changed out of the lightweight training gear into a proper kit. She was displeased
that he had chosen the standard gear of a common soldier, rather than the more elaborate uniform that was proper. At least she had ensured that all his gear was better quality than normal, even if he was unaware of it.

Leone was relieved that the First Son’s mood had improved since talking with the prisoners. The lightning blow with which he had dropped the arrogant Tribesman was superb. It had taken her by surprise. Little wonder Tapash had no chance to dodge or even move to avoid any of its power. She was amazed that he was still alive. A blow like that would normally crush a larynx.

Another thing she was pleased about was the fading of her inappropriate feelings for the First Son.
No
, she corrected herself,
not feelings; physical responses.
And whilst a physical response to the person of the First Son was bad enough, feelings would be worse. Her body she could discipline.

As she rode behind Shanek and to his left, she kept focused by imagining attack scenarios and how she could best counter them. It was a useful training technique that she practised constantly. So far she had only had to counter one actual attack upon the person of the First Son, and her Fyrd had acquitted itself well.

The attack had occurred when Shanek had taken one of his midnight walks through the squalid Widows’ Corner. Originally founded as housing for the widows of veterans killed in defence of the Thane, this place had slowly descended into abject poverty and misery. It had become a haven for criminals and opportunist slavers.

Shanek was prone to bouts of depression and anger. It was not uncommon for him to slip away from his guards at such times, wandering the dark and dangerous streets alone. Leone said she was his only teacher in martial skills, but these nocturnal adventures had contributed much to his training. As her own instructor had told her, ‘There’s nothing like the imminence of death to sharpen a man’s reflexes’.

On this particular night, Shanek was in a black mood. He had spent a dreary day studying the financial activities of the Southern Province under the critical eye of the Reeve. By the end of the day, the First Son was seething with frustration and ready to strike out at anything.

Leone recognised the signs and allowed him to ‘slip away unnoticed’ while she and the Fyrd followed discreetly. The attack was fast and brutal. Seven armed thugs swarmed out of an alley, surrounding him. Despite Shanek’s surprise, he had two thugs down before the Fyrd cut the rest to pieces.

‘Coerl Leone!’ The call snapped her out of her thoughts. It was one of Caldorman Muttiah’s Fyrd.

‘Yes,’ answered Leone.

‘The Caldorman would like to speak with you,’ he replied.

Leone looked to Shanek, who nodded his approval, then followed the soldier.

‘What’s this about?’ Leone asked.

The soldier shrugged. ‘No idea, but he’s in a foul mood.’

‘He always is,’ said Leone.

‘Don’t I know it,’ the soldier said with a wry grin.

‘You’re Tanit, from Ettan, aren’t you?’ asked Leone.

‘Yes. How did you know?’

‘You’re riding with the First Son. It’s my job to know,’ Leone said. ‘Do you know what’s going on up there?’

Tanit shook his head. ‘Nothing as far as I know,’ he said.

Leone nodded.

The Caldorman was speaking quietly with Diplomat Cherise when they rode up. He stopped speaking when he heard the horses approaching and glared at her.

‘What is going on?’ Caldorman Muttiah snapped.

‘Caldorman?’

‘Who are these commoners the First Son is dragging along?’

‘They murdered a Skrin Tia’k slave during the Celebration today and the First Son wants to talk with them, Caldorman,’ she replied.

‘Why?’ asked Cherise.

‘I don’t know, Diplomat,’ Leone replied. She regarded the old Diplomat. If the rumours were true, he would be dead very soon. Now that she was close to him she could see the ravages of Danan Fever etched on his face. Indeed, it would not be long now.

‘Well, he’d better kill them or get rid of them somehow, because we can’t be burdened on this journey,’ grumbled Muttiah.

Leone did not reply.

‘Well?’ demanded Muttiah.

‘Caldorman?’

‘What are you going to do about it?’ he asked.

‘Nothing, Caldorman,’ Leone answered.

‘What?’ exploded Muttiah.

‘I am not going to do anything about it, Caldorman. It is not my place to question or influence the First Son.’

‘Humph,’ Muttiah grunted. He turned to speak to Cherise again, but stopped and stared at Leone. ‘What are you still doing here? Haven’t you got a First Son to protect?’

Leone took this as a dismissal and rode back to her place behind Shanek.

‘What did he want?’ asked Shanek.

‘He wanted to know who the prisoners are and why you want them, First Son.’

‘He could have asked me,’ Shanek observed.

‘I told you,’ muttered Diplomat Cherise as the two of them watched Leone back with her Fyrd. ‘I told you she would not be useful in this,’ he went on. ‘Her loyalty to the Counsellor’s line is beyond reproach.’

‘So why is she here?’ asked Muttiah.

‘She was your job. I got the First Son. It was up to you to deal with her.’

‘The Counsellor asked for her specifically, and I am not going up against Sandor. No matter what you promise.’

‘So be it, then,’ said Cherise.

Muttiah sighed. ‘She’s good, and I hate to waste good people.’

‘One time I will have to tell you an old proverb about omelettes and eggs,’ said Cherise.

He left me.
It was her first thought.

‘He left me.’ She was unsure whether she spoke it out loud.

‘Yes, he did, didn’t he?’ The voice at her shoulder was gentle, quiet. ‘But I won’t. When I say that I will stand by you and protect you, I mean it.’

‘Where am I?’

‘Do not fear, Hwenfayre.’ The voice was melodious, flowing like the sea, calming. ‘You are far from danger. Among people who will not allow any harm to come to you.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I am your friend. Rest now, you are still weak from your injuries.’

A soft hand rested, cool, upon her brow. At its touch, Hwenfayre became calm, her troubled mind eased. She drifted into a peaceful sleep, in which she dreamed a child’s dreams of noble protectors, valiant warriors and just causes. And of men who did not leave her side.

It was light when she awoke. Her first thought was for her harp. Somewhere deep within her she knew it
was dawn, and such a dawn as this deserved to be welcomed, to be greeted with the respect it warranted. She reached out to where her father’s harp always lay. She sat up with a start. It was not there. Heart pounding, she took stock of her surroundings.

She was in a narrow cot. Her covering was a single blanket of a fine weave. It was soft and warm. Beneath the blanket she was naked. She was in a room with a low ceiling, and dark walls and floor. It was all of wooden planks. There was no decoration, save a single round window to her left. The room moved slightly, a gentle rocking motion. Was she on a boat?

Wrapping the blanket about herself, she stepped lightly to the window and peered out. The sea stretched away from her unbroken to the horizon. Sparkling blue, it called to her, welcoming her home. The rising sun caressed the rolling swell with gold, a seabird called soulfully, a gentle breeze teased out small whitecaps. Hwenfayre pushed open the window and breathed in deeply, taking the smells of home into her heart. She exhaled slowly. Even though the air left her, the feeling did not. She felt alive, free.

Closing her eyes, she breathed in deeply again, raising her arms above her head. The blanket fell unheeded to the floor as she drank in the rich beauty of a morning at sea. Her lungs filled with fresh air as her heart filled with joy. Unbidden, the words of her song to the morning came to her lips. Softly she sang. She sang with passion, she sang with love, she sang with power. She sang without her father’s harp. It was something she had never done before; it was something she had never even considered possible.

As she sang, her eyes closed, her mind soaring, a jarring, discordant note seared across her mind:
He left me. He left me to walk in the dark with that shy islander girl.
The song died on her lips. She was suddenly cold, alone, naked. Quickly, Hwenfayre gathered up her blanket, closed the porthole and hastened back to her bed. There she lay, staring at the wooden ceiling, thinking nothing but that one thought.
He left me. Why did he leave me?

It was dark when she finally slept.

When she awoke it was still night. The boat was quiet, the sea still. She felt more alone than she could remember. Despite having slept, she was unrested, sandy-eyed and troubled. And hungry. It occurred to her that she had not seen anyone or eaten since…since he left. No, she would not think about that again. She had to get on, do something. At least eat something.

As she rose, she realised that she was clothed. She seemed to remember that she had been naked when she first woke up, but now she was robed in rich, warm clothes. There was a lantern flickering, hanging from the ceiling. She ran her hands uncertainly over the fine cloth of her dress. It was soft, unlike anything she had ever dreamed of wearing. Blue. It was ocean blue. But in the inconstant light of the lantern, the colours shifted, flowed like the ocean. Green, blue, indigo, bright flashes like the sun on a wavetop; it was beautiful. And the feel of the cloth on her skin as she moved was like a caress, soft hands gently easing away the pain, like Wyn’s hands when he had tended her burns that first day on the island. The memory of it thrilled her. She had been conscious, but as he had
soothed her she pretended to be asleep, allowing him to cleanse the hurt, to drive away the memories of what she had done, of what she had become. She knew it was wrong, she should not have let him touch her, look at her, but it had made her feel so alive, so beautiful.

He left me.

There was no escaping the confusion and pain contained within that simple sentence. With everything he had said and done for her, how had he been able to leave her? Why had he deserted her, just before…Just before what? What had happened?

With a sigh she sank back onto the bed. With her elbows on her knees, she rested her head in her hands, trying to remember, to know what had happened. She could remember that Wyn left with the shy islander, Marran, then Wellfyn handed her a piece of fruit, then nothing.

And now she was here, on a boat at sea, dressed as a princess, alone. Turmoil raged in her mind. She swept to her feet and strode to the door, dress swirling about her legs as she moved. As she put her hand to the latch, she paused. Did she know what lay beyond? What if she were truly alone?

Wyn, why did you leave me?

Hwenfayre. My name is Hwenfayre
, she told herself.
I am a Child of Danan. I can do this.
Summoning her courage, she opened the door.

Outside was a passage, low-beamed, dark and narrow. To her left was a stairway, to her right another door. She went left.

The stairs were narrow and steep, leading up to the deck. She went up carefully, the smell of the sea
drawing her on. At the top, she stopped and looked around. She was on a two-masted ship under sail. A number of men were working. They moved quietly, tending the sails, busy at tasks she did not understand. There was a man at the wheel. Above her the moon was visible, shining softly down on a still sea. The man closest to her stopped in his task and stared. His gaze was intent, yet was not disturbing. He nodded, then gestured to the prow of the ship. Hwenfayre followed his gesture with her eyes.

Standing motionless, clad in pure white robes, was Wellfyn. As if she felt Hwenfayre’s gaze upon her, she turned. In the soft glow of the moon she looked ethereal, with her long raven hair tumbling down her back. Her smile was kind. She extended a hand towards Hwenfayre, beckoning her to come forward.

Hesitantly, Hwenfayre walked to join Wellfyn in the prow. She took the woman’s offered hand and stood beside her, looking out over the dark sea. ‘It’s beautiful, is it not?’ asked Wellfyn.

‘It is,’ agreed Hwenfayre. ‘When I lived on the land I used to welcome the morning from the wall. I thought nothing could ever be more beautiful than that. But I was wrong.’

‘There is nothing like sunrise at Sea. Perhaps we should welcome the sun as it should be done on such a day.’ A sailor had moved soundlessly to hand Wellfyn a harp. Hwenfayre looked at it carefully. While it was not her harp, it was very similar. The carvings on the face were not as intricate, nor was the workmanship as perfect, but it was a fine instrument
nonetheless. Wellfyn released Hwenfayre’s hand to take the harp. She lightly drew her fingers across the strings. They responded with a cascading ripple of sound that sent shivers down the spine. With a faraway look in her eye, Wellfyn started to play the song that welcomed the morning. It was the same song that Hwenfayre had been playing for so many years. Unconsciously, Hwenfayre started to sing along quietly with the harp.

As the words flowed from her lips there was a brief falter in the music, quickly recovered. She sang on unconcerned. It was good to finally share this moment with someone who understood. Not only understood but also joined with her, savouring the moment in song. Only after the last echoes of the harp’s song had faded did she realise that it was only her voice that had welcomed in the morning. She looked at the beautiful woman standing motionless at her side. Wellfyn was staring unblinkingly at the horizon where the first rays of the sun were colouring the sky a pale pink. In her hands the harp was shaking very slightly.

The women remained silent, sharing the dawn as the sky gradually lightened. It was only when the sun had cleared the horizon that Wellfyn finally moved, turning to face Hwenfayre.

‘I imagine you are hungry,’ she said. ‘My physician decided it would be best to let you sleep as long as you wanted. He felt it would aid in your recovery. And judging by the colour in your cheeks, he was right.’ She held out her hand. ‘Come.’

Her words were bright, friendly, she was smiling, but her eyes told a different story. Hwenfayre was
troubled to see a hardness, an edge to her eyes that was at odds with the rest of her expression. Despite her misgivings, Hwenfayre took Wellfyn’s hand, walking with her below decks to share a meal.

As they walked hand in hand the men stepped aside, bowing deeply. There was respect, honour, as well as a little fear in their expressions as the two women passed them. Behind them, the noise level increased as men started talking and calling out to each other. By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, the deck of the ship was a rowdy, lively place.

The room where their meal was laid out was larger than the one in which Hwenfayre had awoken. The ceiling was still low, but there were two portholes that spilt more light into the room. The morning sun illuminated a large table laid with a wonderful array of food. Hwenfayre was able to identify some of the foodstuffs, but most she had never even seen before. There were fruits, meats, breads, jugs of juices, milk and pastries. Hovering along the walls of the room were a number of young girls. As the two women entered, the girls ceased talking, their eyes focused on Wellfyn. She appeared not to see them as she swept to the table. Seating herself, she gestured for Hwenfayre to do likewise as she selected some food from the platter nearest her.

Unsure, but hungry, Hwenfayre started to help herself to the sumptuous feast laid out before her. Every time she looked up or reached for something, one of the girls darted forward to fetch it for her. For a time she was content to eat, assuaging the pangs of hunger her day’s sleep had left her with, but finally
she was content and sat back from the table. Looking up, she saw Wellfyn watching her intently. Hwenfayre smiled weakly.

‘Full?’ asked Wellfyn.

‘Yes, thank you. That was lovely,’ she answered.

‘Good. Now I imagine you have a number of questions that you would like to ask.’

Hwenfayre paused; there were so many things she needed to know. ‘Who are you?’ It was a start.

‘My name is Morag. I am the High Priestess of the Children of Danan. You are onboard my personal transport, the
Kelpie.
We are presently on our way to rejoin the main rafts that house most of the rest of my people.’

‘Why did you tell me your name was Wellfyn?’

‘There are times, my dear Hwenfayre, when I must leave my people and travel abroad in the world. At such times I often need to hide myself behind a mask of anonymity. We are not a people who are always understood. Our ways seem strange to those who live on land. Often our people are the target of silly superstitions and mindless fear. So in order to protect ourselves, we sometimes conceal our true identity.’

‘But I am one of your people, aren’t I? Why did you need to hide yourself from me?’

Morag smiled slightly. ‘There are two things there. First, it is not yet certain as to whether you are one of my people or not. There are a number of issues that need to be cleared up first.’ A shock ran through Hwenfayre, shaking her to the core. Before she could comment, Morag continued. ‘Then there was the man with whom you were travelling.’ Hwenfayre could
only stare dumbly. ‘He is known to us. He is not what he claimed to be. I believe he was masquerading as a simple mercenary soldier?’ She raised her eyebrows inquisitively at Hwenfayre. She nodded, unable to speak. ‘You are very lucky to be alive, child. The man you know as Wyn is an assassin in the pay of a people you know as the Southern Raiders.’ Morag paused, picking at a morsel of fruit. She bit it appreciatively as she studied Hwenfayre. After a moment’s silence, she continued. ‘As you slept, you talked a little. You are concerned, vexed even, as to why he left you that night. He accompanied my Marran to the stream in order to kill her. We found her body the next morning. Do you remember how he, so kindly it seemed, fetched you your food?’ After a nod, she continued. ‘It appears that he poisoned your meal, which explains your unconsciousness. When he came back after killing Marran he found you unconscious. He attacked Arragone, seriously injuring her. I was able to flee and fetch some help. By the time I returned with some men, he had taken you. We pursued him for some time through the forest, finally overpowering him on the beach.’

‘Did you…?’

‘Kill him? Yes, of course we did. He was a very dangerous man.’ Morag looked deep into Hwenfayre’s troubled eyes. ‘So the answer to your question is: he left you to kill Marran, after poisoning you. No doubt he did so in order to deliver you to his employers.’

‘But,’ she struggled to find the words, ‘why?’

‘Money no doubt. Such men as he are easily bought.’

‘But if he wanted to kill me…’ she began. Morag held up her hand.

‘He is dead,’ she said in a businesslike tone. ‘Put him out of your mind. You have more pressing things to consider. Specifically, who you are. This is the first time you have been fully conscious since you were poisoned, and I need some answers myself.’

‘Answers to what?’

‘Questions about you. Who you are, where you came from, that manner of thing.’

‘But I told you everything on the island.’

‘Oh, that fanciful story.’ Morag sniffed disdainfully, dismissing Hwenfayre’s tale. ‘No, I need more. I need to know more about your father, your mother, how you came to learn that song you sang this morning.’

‘I wrote the music myself, when I was fourteen. The words,’ she hesitated, ‘the words Wyn taught me.’

‘That is impossible,’ snapped Morag. All trace of friendliness vanished from her face. Her eyes glinted dangerously. ‘I think that perhaps you might need to spend a little time thinking very carefully about the answers you plan to give me.’ She stood abruptly, gesturing to one of the girls who hurried to collect her plate. ‘We shall meet to talk again later.’ She smiled once more.