The Awakening (15 page)

Her name was Erin. She had seen sixteen summers, she had a voice that soared like a bird and she was an orphan. Her smile was like the sun rising on the ocean. But she smiled rarely, and then only fleetingly. When Hwenfayre spoke to her she replied softly, head bowed, refusing to meet her eye.

At first they spoke only of trivial things: the weather, the other girls, Hylin. Whenever the name of the old Teacher of Novices was mentioned, Erin would lower her voice even more and look about furtively, as if afraid. At first Hwenfayre took this to be just another example of Erin’s gentleness, but after a few times she started to believe there was more to it. She decided to ask her about it.

They were on deck. The evening meal had been cleared away and the other Novices had returned to their cabin to practise and study. They stood at the railing, watching the last glimmering of the sun’s rays disappear as the first twinkle of stars started to appear. The sea was calm, rolling softly with small white splashes marking their passage. Around them the sailors were going about their tasks with their usual rough good humour. One or two of the men had greeted Hwenfayre on occasion as she welcomed the dawn or farewelled the day, and as the two Novices stood together they received a couple of friendly smiles. Erin blushed and looked away each time.

‘Erin,’ she began, ‘why do you get so nervous every time Hylin’s name is mentioned?’

As before, the younger girl looked around nervously. There was no one in earshot. ‘You must be careful, Hwenfayre,’ she replied very softly. ‘Hylin is not what you think she is.’

‘What do you mean?’

Instead of replying, Erin shook her head.

‘Tell me, Erin,’ pressed Hwenfayre. ‘What exactly is Hylin? Why are you so afraid of her?’

Erin looked up at her, naked fear in her eyes. ‘I cannot tell you,’ she said. ‘Do not make me.’

Startled, Hwenfayre pulled back. ‘What is it, Erin?’

Again, she shook her head and looked away instead of answering. Somewhere, a lonely seabird called, the sea sighed as it slid past the bows, and Hwenfayre was suddenly cold. She longed for her own harp.

Without another word, Erin turned away from the rail and went below, leaving Hwenfayre alone with the Sea. She tried to keep her mind on what Erin had not told her, knowing that this was her life and she had to learn all she could about it. She did everything she could to keep her mind busy, but no matter how hard she tried, it kept going back to Wyn.

Being here, looking out over the sea at night with the sounds of men going about their tasks behind her, brought the past flooding back. With no more than a passing thought, she was on the wall again. She could feel the gritty rock beneath her feet, smell the city below her, hear the steady, firm footsteps of Wyn as he walked the dawn watch. The memories
swept over her: the gentleness of his hands, the strength in his arms, the dark mystery behind his eyes, the way he smiled at her when he thought she could not see. And the aching cry that rang through her hollow breast:
He left me.

‘Never mind her, Novice.’

The voice at her side startled her out of her reverie. She spun around to see a sailor leaning on the railing beside her, looking out at the sea. He was a tall, rangy man with long hair, bleached by the sun, which fell to his shoulders. He turned to her. His face was craggy, weather-beaten and leathery, with eyes that had seen many sunsets. After an oddly companionable silence, he sighed softly and spoke without looking at her.

‘You the one they call Hwenfayre?’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘Thought so,’ he said, and looked back out to the horizon. He said no more for a time, preferring to watch the night sky. ‘Never mind young Erin,’ he repeated. ‘She’s a nervous little thing. Always seeing what isn’t there.’

‘Like what?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘It’s said, that Hylin is still dark at the High Priestess for her fall from position. Little Erin is nervous about her, that’s all.’

Hwenfayre nodded again, watching him as he looked back out over the Sea. The other sailors had lit the running lamps, the lanterns that burned at night to alert any other ships to their presence. In the flickering light the sailor took on a different appearance. He looked older as the shadows danced across his angular face, more worn yet strangely
wiser. Like all the other sailors he wore an open shirt and canvas trousers, yet he gave no indication that he felt the cold of the night. His feet were bare, toes gripping the gently heaving deck with the surety born of years of living on the open seas. From his rope-belt hung a knife, unlike any she had seen before. It was short with a wooden haft and blade that was a strange milky-blue colour.

‘It’s the tooth of a blaewhal,’ said the sailor.

‘What?’ asked Hwenfayre, startled.

‘My knife,’ he replied. ‘You seemed interested.’

‘What’s a blaewhal?’

He pulled the knife out from the rope-belt and hefted it, as if feeling its weight for the first time. ‘The blaewhal is a hunter, a mighty fish that swims these seas hereabouts. They grow to about twenty strokes, so a big one could upset a vessel about the size of this one.’ He reversed the knife and handed it to Hwenfayre, hilt first. She took it.

‘It’s very light,’ she observed.

‘Aye. It is that. But strong. Almost as strong as metal, but more brittle.’

She tested the edge with her thumb, as she had once seen Wyn do. To her surprise, a thin line of blood appeared. The blade was so sharp she had not even felt it slice smoothly through her skin. Eyes wide, she watched the blood ooze slowly from the fine cut, forming a drop on the end of her thumb. Without a word, she held her hand out over the rail and let the drop fall into the Sea. Where the blood fell it was met by a brief flash of phosphorescence.

‘You know our ways,’ observed the sailor. He reached out his hand and Hwenfayre gave him his
knife. He hung it back at his waist. ‘You’ll do fine, Novice Hwenfayre. You’ll do fine.’ He turned to walk away, then paused and turned back. ‘If anyone bothers you, anyone at all, you tell them Declan is looking out for you. That’ll give them pause. Goodnight.’

And he was gone.

She stayed by the railing for a while, watching the inky black swell roll endlessly past the ship, wondering again why Wyn had left, and why the pain of this did not diminish.

The night passed slowly as she lay on her narrow cot, staring at the dark planks above her, feeling the heave of the ship, listening to the slap of the water. She shared this low cabin with four other Novices: Erin, Hagan, Sara and Maeve. As the hours crawled by, she became aware of a different sound intruding. She heard voices muttering. At first she was content to let the sounds wash over her, but then she heard her own name.

Like a wave slightly higher than the rest, her name rose briefly out of the murmur. She strained to hear more, but could not distinguish any other words.

Seized by impulse, she swung from her bed and padded to the doorway. With her hand on the latch she pressed against the door, listening for the sounds of anyone in the passage. She heard none. Slowly, carefully she eased open her door and went outside.

The conversation was coming from Morag’s cabin. Hwenfayre crouched at the door, pressed her ear to the rough wood and listened.

‘I tell you she’s dangerous,’ Alyce was saying.

‘Nonsense,’ said Morag. ‘She’s a child. And she knows nothing.’

‘You are wrong, Morag,’ said a deep male voice that Hwenfayre could not quite place. ‘She is dangerous and keeping her here will bring trouble.’

‘Trouble for whom?’ asked Morag. ‘She has only minimal knowledge, and there’s nothing she can do without the harp anyway.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ asked the man.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The harp is little more than the channel, you know that. What if she is more than we suspect? Could she overcome that?’

‘No. Not as she is,’ said Alyce. ‘And making sure she stays that way is my responsibility.’

‘And Hylin’s,’ observed Morag.

‘Is she under control?’ asked the man.

‘Usually,’ said Morag.

‘Not good enough, High Priestess,’ said the man. ‘Everything needs to be watertight if you hope to get away with such a change in the plan.’

‘It was my plan, I can change it if I wish. And believe me, this could be even better than leaving her to the Raiders. Imagine what we could achieve if we can channel and control that sort of power,’ she said.

‘I still don’t like it,’ the male voice said with a hint of sullenness.

‘So what do you suggest?’ Morag said.

‘I suggest nothing, High Priestess.’

Footsteps sounded behind her. Hwenfayre leaped to her feet and spun around. It was a sailor coming down the stairs. Heart pounding, Hwenfayre scampered back to her room.

Dangerous?
she thought.
Me? Dangerous?

The townsfolk were abuzz with excitement. Not much ever happened in this quiet little village tucked away at the edge of the Great Fastness. It nestled in the shadow of a hill, where it was bypassed by the world outside. This isolation suited most of its inhabitants, who seemed content to be left to their own devices.

Aldere, a young man of about twenty summers, walked with his mother Katya towards the open area in the middle of the village that served as both occasional meeting place and market. He held her arm gently, guiding her as she made her slightly unsteady way across the ground. Everyone they met politely ignored her uneven gait, her unkempt hair and her bleary eyes. It was after noon and she had been drinking for a while by now. They pretended not to notice, partly out of respect for what she had been, partly in pity for what had happened and partly out of shame for their own part in her tragedy.

All this Aldere knew and understood. Some of it he shared or they all thought he did. Some of the guilt was projected onto him.
You should have done something
was implicit in their eyes, but he felt no guilt for either his mother or his father. Neither was his fault.

Around them, the rest of the village was moving purposefully towards the bench set at the edge of the open area. Old Harald stood beside the bench with his liver-spotted hand resting on the shoulder of a man who was seated uncomfortably beside him. He had a simple travellers’ bag at his feet and resting across his knees lay a funda, an elegant stringed instrument. Aldere stared at the beautifully carved instrument. It had a deep sounding-bowl at one end made from at least a dozen strips of different wood from all over the Empire with a long neck of tadon wood stretching as long as a man’s arm to where the tuning keys sparkled in the morning sun. The strings also glinted, showing they were made of metal wire rather than the usual stretched gut.

Aldere knew very little about money or precious things, but he knew this stylish device for accompanying songs and tales was worth more than his village. He had mixed feelings about this. On the one hand he was in awe of such a piece of art, but on the other he wondered what his village could do with the money they could earn by selling it. For a moment, while his mother paused to cough, he allowed his mind to wander in such realms of fantasy—perhaps a new goat for Sylvia, the blacksmith’s wife, or a healer to stay in the village for a few days at a time on a regular basis, or perhaps some new tools and building materials for the never-ending maintenance a village needed.

His mother started walking again. He stirred and walked with her, matching his gait with hers so as
not to rush her. She was worse than normal this morning, but he would not judge her for her weaknesses. Life had not been kind to her. The chair he carried on his back would allow her to sit comfortably and he would sit at her feet.

Harald waited until the village settled into a sort of hushed expectation before speaking. As a young man Harald had run away to join the Army of the World. He served the Thane far to the south before being injured and returning home. The Thane still paid a small pension every season that made Harald the man with the most money in the village. This, combined with a powerful voice and his military bearing, made him the de facto head of their little community. Aldere found it interesting that Harald was always referred to as the man with the most money, never the richest man in the village.

‘Friends,’ he boomed. ‘Today we have a visitor in our village. Yngwie,’ he indicated the man at his side, ‘has travelled far and brings us tales and news of the world.’

Aldere followed Harald’s gesture and considered Yngwie. It was immediately obvious that he had travelled a long way. He had short red hair, fair skin that showed a light dusting of freckles across his face and the most startling green eyes. His hands wandered over the strings of the funda, drawing from them the most beautiful sounds Aldere had ever heard. Harald talked on, but Aldere did not hear any of what he said, so engaged was he on the funda. When the sound of Harald faded Yngwie started to speak.

‘I have travelled from afar and come with tales of adventure and mystery, tales to scare, tales to warn,
tales to instruct.’ As he spoke, the lyrical flow of his words, so strangely accented, was accentuated by the skilled playing of his wondrous instrument. Aldere knew he was not listening to any normal traveller. This was a rare gift.

‘This day,’ Yngwie went on, ‘I bring you a tale of our shared past, the great heritage of the Triumvirate.’

A shiver ran through Aldere as the whole village caught its collective breath, for ‘Triumvirate’ was a word whispered by the very old, and its meaning was shrouded in mystery and ignorance.

‘Long ago,’ Yngwie recited, ‘the Hard Ones rose up to do battle against the Soft Ones. For many seasons they slaughtered and destroyed, until it was clear the Soft Ones would be wiped out. One day, when all seemed lost, three great leaders arose: one on the Sea, one on the land and one to rule over all. These great leaders had names of legend and powers beyond human understanding. The Danan, the Karanatikisa and the Chandajagat strove alongside the Soft Ones and prevailed against the Hard Ones. When their task was done they left us, but their legend lived on.

‘As time went by, their true names were lost and replaced with other names. The Guardian and the Weapon are names used here in the Empire, but elsewhere they are known as Vahan the Lost and the Pivot. It matters not what they are called; their tasks remain as they have ever been. They stand guard over us and will reawaken when they are needed.’

Aldere had the sense that this was little more than an introduction, a preamble to the true tale. He was
right, for when Yngwie finished he looked up and, with a smile, lifted the tempo of his playing. His voice took on the cadences of a song as he launched into a rousing ballad of ancient adventure and danger. As the ballad progressed, Aldere felt a lessening in his focus. Much of the song, he knew, was a simple story with little basis in truth and much ponderous moralising. He gave himself up to enjoying the pleasures of a skilled performer plying his art.

When Yngwie ended his songs—after several calls for old favourites, all of which he played without hesitation—he rose and bowed. Harald stood to shake his hand with tears in his eyes.

‘Our thanks, Yngwie,’ he said. ‘You have honoured our simple village with your skills and we are very grateful.’

‘Nothing shows gratitude more than food, wine and a roof for the night,’ Yngwie answered.

His response, although expected, still brought a chuckle from many villagers and offers of hospitality were made by several families. Yngwie was in the process of deciding when Aldere’s mother stirred.

‘Nonsense,’ she snorted. ‘Come on, Aldere, let’s go home.’ She leaned heavily on his arm as he helped her to her feet. When she was upright, she rested her head on his shoulder. ‘You’re a good boy, Aldere,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

He patted her arm gently and lifted her chair.

On their way back home, Michaela joined them. She was about Aldere’s age with skin the colour of rich chocolate, sparkling dark eyes and long black
hair that she always kept tied back in a thick braid. Already past the normal marrying age, Michaela had dismissed three suitors from other villages whom Aldere knew of. She had never shown much interest in him either. They were not really close, just slightly more than acquaintances.

‘What did you think of Yngwie?’ she asked.

‘He’s very good,’ Aldere said.

‘No, that’s not what I meant,’ Michaela said. ‘What did you think of the stories?’

Aldere shrugged. ‘They were stories. Good stories, but just stories.’

‘They weren’t true?’ she asked.

Aldere shook his head and her face fell.

‘Of course they weren’t true,’ Katya said. ‘That’s the nature of travellers like him; they tell pretty stories and get a free feed.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s a fair trade.’

‘I suppose it is,’ Michaela conceded.

‘Michaela!’ The call came from her father. He was standing by his cart with the normal angry expression on his face. ‘It’s time we left.’

‘Yes, Father,’ she called back. ‘I’d better go,’ she said, turning back to Aldere. ‘I’ll come by and see you both tomorrow,’ she promised as she rushed away to join her father.

Aldere watched as she clambered up onto the cart. When she was seated at the reins, she smiled at him and waved. He returned the wave before taking his mother’s arm again and starting the walk home. She crossly pulled her arm away from him to walk unaided.

‘What are you doing?’ she demanded.

‘Just helping you, Mother,’ he said, deliberately misconstruing her words.

‘No,’ she snapped. ‘What are you doing ignoring that girl? She won’t wait forever, you know. And wasting your time with me is not helping you.’

‘She has never given me any idea that she is waiting for me, Mother,’ he said.

Katya snorted derisively but continued walking. Aldere walked with her, ready to help if she stumbled.

When they arrived home, Jaya, one of the other villagers, was there waiting for them. She held a large pot of something that smelled delicious. Aldere greeted her cheerfully.

‘I made too much for my family,’ she explained as she held out the pot towards them. ‘I thought you might like some for your meal today.’

‘Thank you,’ said Aldere, but his mother walked past without acknowledging the gift and closed the door firmly behind her. Aldere caught Jaya’s eye and shrugged apologetically.

‘Bad day?’ Jaya asked kindly.

He shrugged again. ‘Not so bad,’ he said. ‘But she’s had better.’

‘What is it this time?’

Aldere sighed. ‘It’s always the same things. Regret, grief, guilt, too much wine.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’ she asked.

Aldere shook his head. ‘We just have to wait. And hope that time will ease the hurt,’ he lied. His mother was damaged by what had happened to her, and no amount of time would make it better. How he knew this he was not sure, but know it he did. His mother
would die a lonely, bitter, desperately sad woman and there was nothing he could do except help ease her suffering where he could.

He thanked Jaya again for the food and went inside.