The Awakening (2 page)

When they reached their small home, Hwenfayre’s mother released her hand abruptly and sat down in her chair by the empty fireplace. She gestured for her daughter to sit at her feet.

‘Child, it’s time that you knew a thing or two,’ she started. ‘I guess you have heard rumours about your…’ she paused, ‘your father. Well, I think it’s past time you knew the truth. Your father was a rootless vagabond, a man of no means or station. He came to me by night and told me pretty lies. When he had bewitched me with his inventions, he took from me what he had no right to. Then he left and I hope he has died.’

Hwenfayre had indeed heard rumours about her father, but they had all been much more interesting than this bald, prosaic tale. She wondered why it was today that her mother had chosen to tell her about her father, but, knowing her mother there was probably no reason.

‘You were born as a result of a lie and a betrayal,’ her mother continued, ‘and you seem much too much like your father for my liking. He loved the Sea and the dawn too. Many times he rose as you did and greeted the dawn as you do. The only thing he left behind when he left was that, over there.’ With a dismissive gesture Hwenfayre’s mother waved at the box that had stood in the corner of the room for as long as Hwenfayre could remember. It was of a dark wood, plain and unadorned except for a single spiral carved into the wood near the lock. A lock that, as far as she knew, had never been opened.

‘It belonged to your father, child. It may as well be yours. I haven’t opened it, never wanted to. Take it to your room. I never want to see it again.’

‘Why not?’ Hwenfayre asked.

Her mother looked at her, looking as close to tears as Hwenfayre had ever seen her. ‘One day, child, you will understand about betrayal and desertion. I hope it will never happen, but it will. Then, Hwenfayre, you will understand why I have never opened this box.’

She stood abruptly and walked over to the box. With a grunt, she pulled it away from the wall and gestured curtly for Hwenfayre to help. Together they pushed it into Hwenfayre’s room, then her mother left, closing the door behind her. From beyond the
door Hwenfayre heard her mother cough. It was a harsh, racking cough that had only developed recently. Her mother had dismissed Hwenfayre’s questions about it, so she had stopped asking.

From that day, until the day she died two years later, Hwenfayre’s mother mentioned neither the box, nor the man who had left it behind. There were times when Hwenfayre’s curiosity got the better of her and she ventured a question about her father. Her mother’s hard glares and occasional rages prevented further enquiries. Hwenfayre sometimes wondered why she was so uninterested in her father; for some reason he rarely seemed important.

Once it was in her room, Hwenfayre was able for the first time to examine the mysterious box. Despite its having been in the room where she cooked, ate and spent most of her time, Hwenfayre had never felt free to look closely at it before. It was almost as though there had been a curse or a spell of some kind on it, keeping her away from its secrets. Now, though, it felt welcoming. She felt that the time had come for her to explore the mysteries and plumb the depths of her past.

Fingers trembling, she traced the outline of the lock and the the carving; everything, even the hinges, gave her a feeling of something forbidden, something arcane. The box was smaller than it had appeared. It stood just lower than her knee and was as deep as it was high. In length, she could stretch her arms out and touch each end.

After feeling the outside, running her fingers over the smooth, hard wood, she turned her attention to the lock. At first it was puzzling as it had no apparent
keyhole, but she quickly discovered that it was a clasp, not a lock, and it was a puzzle-clasp. She tinkered with it for a few minutes and it fell apart in her hands. The pieces tumbled to the floor where they lay in intricate disarray. For a moment she looked at the pieces, distracted by the strange pattern they made. A peculiar dreaminess stole into her mind as she stared. She felt herself becoming light-headed, almost weightless; the room seemed to fade, drift away, swirling around the scattered, glinting pieces of metal on the floor. They shifted, moved, forming into a new pattern, a striking, strong pattern, an image of power and magic. A deep shudder shook the girl’s slight frame as she watched, entranced by the shifting of the glinting fragments. Her eyes became unfocused and she grew giddy with the power of ancient mysteries that swept through her.

Hwenfayre shook her head. The room was real again, and the mystical pattern became the scattered pieces of a child’s toy once more. Shaking her head a second time, she cleared away the last remnants of the disturbing feelings and lifted the lid. It moved easily, hinged at the back, to reveal the contents that had lain undisturbed for twelve years. Despite herself, Hwenfayre was breathing quickly and her heart was pounding as she gazed into the dark interior of her father’s box.

Inside, there were three items: a small bag, a roll of parchment and a harp.

A heavy knocking on her door brought Hwenfayre out of her reminiscences. Startled, she turned away from the cold fireplace to the door. She put down her drink and rose to her feet.

‘Who is it?’ she asked.

A gruff voice muttered something indistinct. Puzzled, Hwenfayre moved quickly to the door and, pressing her ear to the heavy wood, asked again.

‘My name is Wyn. I am a guard. We met this morning on the wall.’

His voice was deep, muffled by the door. Despite that, she could detect an unusual accent, a hint of mystery, something exotic.

‘What do you want?’ she asked, unable to entirely hide the interest in her voice.

‘I thought that perhaps I might talk to you.’

‘What would you have to talk to me about?’

‘That song you played this morning. I recognised it. I thought that perhaps we might be kin.’

Hwenfayre cautiously opened the door and looked out at the big, heavy-set man who had greeted her that morning. In the evening light his coarse features were softened somewhat and he had tied back his mane of thick black hair with a leather thong. It was unusual to see a soldier with such long hair; normally they kept it close-cropped. He stood solidly, confidently, with his hands clasped behind his back. His stance and features made him look menacing, dark and somehow threatening. Her first instinct was to close and bolt the door. But there was something about his intense grey-green eyes that made Hwenfayre pause. She decided against closing the door in his face, and opened it wide and stepped aside. He hesitated, then walked in. As he passed her, Hwenfayre could smell the brine on his cloak.

He sat awkwardly on the single chair and waited as Hwenfayre dragged an old box out of the next
room to sit on. They sat for a few minutes in a strained silence, looking at each other. Then Wyn coughed, clearing his throat, in an attempt to make some sound, preparatory to speaking.

‘Where did you learn that song you played this morning?’ he asked diffidently.

‘I didn’t learn it, I made it up myself. Years ago, just before my mother died. It seemed to fit my mood at the time.’

‘That is strange. It is an ancient song of my people, played at our most important ceremonies. To the best of my knowledge, it has never been played or heard by any not of our race. Hearing it played this morning, so beautifully, and by one who looks as though she belongs in the robes of a Priestess, was,’ he paused, searching for the word to express his thoughts, ‘unnerving. To say the least. I felt I had to seek you out and at least find out how you came to be here.’

‘I live here. Have done all my life.’

‘But surely many outlanders have visited this place? People who have brought their music with them?’

‘No. Not many at all. Visitors travel here for market days, but none ever stay. On occasion travelling minstrels may visit, but their stays are brief, and their visits rare. We are not a rich town. But what of you? You are not from this town. Where do you hail from?’

‘Everywhere, and nowhere. I travel much.’

‘By sea?’

‘Yes, mainly.’

‘Tell me of the sea,’ Hwenfayre almost begged.

‘Ah, the Sea. What can be said of her? She is the loveliest maiden, the harshest witch and the gentlest mother. She gives, she takes, but ever she remains the same. Let me tell you of the time…’

For several hours, Hwenfayre sat entranced as the guard spun tales of rolling swells, fearsome beasts, mysterious islands and terrible storms. He spoke with a wonder and a love in his voice that touched her soul and lifted her heart. At some stage during those magical hours she picked up her harp and found herself playing some of her own songs, almost in accompaniment to the stories being told her.

Finally Wyn stood up, preparing to leave.

‘Well, Hwenfayre, for all the talk of you in the town, you’re a good listener, and that’s the truth. And as fine a harpist as I’ve heard in many a year. But now I must take my leave. I have the dawn watch again, and that Coerl, he’s not a forgiving man. So sleep well, and dream. Goodnight.’

And he was gone.

The slave was taking forever to die.

Shanek, Son of First Counsellor Sandor, hereditary advisor to Thane Kasimar IV of the Asan peoples, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had seen this display before. There were, he decided, only so many ways that a slave could die on the Axle. And once you’d seen them all, they became repetitive.

Admittedly, this slave was showing more resilience than most, but death would come to her soon enough and the show would be over. And then it would be back to the studies; the interminable, execrable studies. Once more he would have to listen to Domovoi the Appointed One, his teacher in the Arts of Leadership, droning on about duty and noble tasks.

‘Attend me, Son of the Counsellor,’ the ‘Annoying One’ would pronounce. ‘Yours is a sacred destiny, to continue the honourable line of First Counsellors, the line that has extended back as far into our history as records are kept.’

And how dull that history had become. Year after year of massive victory following massive victory until
the entire continent lay under the benign rule of the Thanes of Asan, where it had continued, quiescent, for all these long, insufferably boring centuries.

How he longed for something, someone, anything that would break the monotony!

But no, the conquered remained conquered and the enslaved rested easily under the light yoke of Asan slavery. Of course they rested easily; the alternative waited here in the Arena, together with the Axle, the Maiden and the various other devices of slow death.

Today was a special show. The leaders of the most recent abortive attempt at uprising, together with their wives, children, family and most of their friends, were being executed for the private viewing pleasure of the nobility. Most of the would-be revolutionaries had been disappointing. Several, knowing what lay ahead, had passed out at the sight of the Maiden as she rumbled out into the Arena. The Maiden earned her name from the large X-shape onto which her victims were strapped. Around the four arms were blades and other devices that slowly closed upon the bodies of her lovers, completing her harsh embrace. One or two had apparently died of fear, for they remained still and silent when their bodies were slowly broken and torn apart in the Maiden’s embrace.

The memory of disappointment was as pungent as a taste in Shanek’s mouth. To their credit, the Torturers recognised the poor showing of the slaves and dragged out a few more to finish up with. Some of them had never seen the Axle before so they were at least conscious before it started. For some years this display had been his only real pleasure. It was
something he would never admit, but lately he was finding even the Arena dull and lacking its usual appeal. Looking around at the gathered nobility, he wished he could recapture his old fervour for the kill, as those here still had, but he feared it was gone.

A respectful sound at his elbow roused him. He turned to see a liveried servant hovering nearby. Shanek’s raised eyebrow prompted the servant to speak.

‘A drink, noble Sir?’ He offered Shanek a tray on which were several gold goblets containing a range of exotic beverages. The Son of the First Counsellor selected one and waved the man away.

It was one of his favourites, rioko, a rare mix of a powerful liquor brewed only in the western provinces and a seductively sweet blend of herbs. Served warm with shredded mint leaves floating on the surface, it was a potent drink that cost about a week’s wages for an artisan. Shanek enjoyed both the taste and the cost; that, and the fact that it was one of the few drinks of which he could stomach enough to get drunk. One of the many annoyances of being in his family was this hereditary intolerance of alcohol. It was not that he could not hold his liquor; quite the contrary, he was mildly allergic to it. Any more than two or three drinks and he was ill for days.

He sipped the drink, savouring the sweet burn, relishing the sensation of intoxication that followed almost immediately. It almost took his mind off the tedium of the dying slave. If only she’d hurry up and die. Couldn’t she understand how hopeless it was to struggle on? Death would be a relief, at least to him; he was becoming bored.

Finally, she died, her last scream filling the Arena. The gathered Noble Families clapped appreciatively as Akem the Master Torturer bowed. The Thane waved his acknowledgment of the Torturer’s performance.

With a perfunctory nod to his father and the Thane, Shanek rose from his seat and left the viewing area, accompanied by the latest of his entourage of flunkies and lickspittles. This collection had little to recommend it. There were the requisite climbers and social graspers, together with a couple of military types who sought power the same way many sought sex. Shanek considered one or two of the climbers interesting, mainly due to the sisters they brought with them.

He knew his father had hopes for a suitable marriage, but given the utter invulnerability of his family’s position Shanek wondered why. With a certain justification, he felt he could marry the cheapest whore from the most rat-infested tavern on the continent and still maintain his position and power, so the petty manoeuvrings did little but bore him.

There was one man, however, who had managed to attract his interest slightly. He was new to the Capital, the youngest son of some outlying neo-nobility who had their roots in a robber-baron past. They had established something of a foothold in the wilderness and displayed intelligence when the benevolent armies of the Asan had advanced upon them. They promptly surrendered and handed over all control to the Commander of the Army. In recognition of their intelligence, the Commander had generously left one or two of the ruling family alive.

Now, several tamed generations later, a scion of this might-be noble line was here seeking his fortune. Shanek turned to regard Zahir closely. Perhaps he was not here for that purpose. There was something cunning about him. He lacked the simple, wide-eyed sycophancy of the other climbers. As he walked from the Royal enclosure, Shanek gestured for Zahir to walk beside him.

‘What did you think?’ Shanek asked him.

Zahir frowned. ‘I am new to the Capital, First Son. I lack the appreciation of the Torturers’ art.’

Shanek nodded. ‘It was a poor show,’ he agreed. ‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘what entertainments do you enjoy in the hinterland?’

‘Riding, hunting the great wyvern and singing.’

‘Singing?’ asked another of the entourage. Shanek flicked the outspoken man an annoyed glance. Remembering his face, he marked him for an early grave. How dare he interrupt!

Zahir missed the glare and displayed no displeasure at the man’s rudeness. ‘Yes, singing, noble Sir. Our choirs and soloists are highly regarded. Several are even performing in the Capital at present.’

‘Hmmm.’ Shanek was already losing interest.
Maybe this one is not so different after all. Singing, indeed!
He waved him away, his mind drifting to other, more engaging thoughts. When his gaze left Zahir, he failed to see the satisfied smile that flickered across the young noble’s face.

‘A good day in the Arena.’

The voice startled him out of his thoughts. He looked around to see the daughter of one of his father’s toadies smiling at him. She was about his
age, and one of the renowned beauties of the court. With her jet-black hair curled in the latest fashion, her flashing white smile and her sparkling blue eyes, she was eye-catching enough. Her body, full and willing, was memorable, but her mind was as empty as the pleasure he had taken from her.
What is her name?

‘Marcene!’ Her father called. She spun around, her hair flying.

Marcene, of course! She has a sister.
Shanek frowned. He could not remember her sister’s name, either. And he should; he’d had her too. Marcene was having a low, intense conversation with her pompous father. Shanek shrugged and turned to walk away.

‘First Son,’ Marcene said. ‘Did you enjoy the Arena today?’

‘Not particularly,’ he said, turning back to her. ‘I thought they were a bit dull. Only three made it to the third stage of the Maiden.’

Marcene frowned, putting a small crease in her perfect forehead. ‘True,’ she agreed. ‘But that last female was strong.’

Shanek shrugged, hoping she would go away. ‘Seen worse.’

‘You’re thinking of that barbarian chieftain, aren’t you?’

Despite himself, Shanek grinned at the memory. ‘He was good, I have to admit.’

Burgen, the barbarian chieftain, was a warrior of repute who had led a rebellion against the benign rule of the Asan. For just under a year, he and his band of rebels had made audacious raids against
outlying towns. They overran a number of military outposts and caused a minor headache for the Commander of the Army of the World.

When the army finally caught up with and destroyed the rebels, they brought Burgen back to the capital in chains. He was a magnificent specimen of a man, huge, with the long white hair characteristic of the Tribes and eyes burning with rage.

The few remaining rebels were dealt with quickly by simple methods for the pleasure of the crowd. They roared in appreciation as the last fell lifeless to the blood-soaked sands of the Arena, then stilled as the huge barbarian leader was led naked into the sun. He was chained to four soldiers, two at each wrist, and they struggled to hold him as he surged across the Arena, shouting his defiance. He glared disdainfully at the Master Torturer as Akem examined him.

The crowd screamed in exultation as Akem turned to the Royal Quarter, where Thane Kasimar IV of the Asan peoples sat comfortably.

‘Thane,’ Akem bellowed in his powerful voice, ‘I feel this man deserves nothing less than the Axle.’

The Thane nodded. ‘So be it,’ he called back.

The barbarian stood calmly as the Torturers scurried about, preparing for the entrance of the most hideous of their devices. It was a large, cumbersome machine, but what it could do to a human body had to be seen to be believed.

At one stage the machine stopped, overbalancing slightly as it ran over a slave. Burgen actually laughed as the Apprentice Torturers struggled to right it before it fell over. Akem, Master Torturer to
two Thanes and three First Counsellors, regarded the laughing man with a thoughtful gaze.

‘Perhaps,’ he called to the Thane, ‘our guest does not fully appreciate the Axle’s capabilities.’

The Thane, knowing what was coming, waved his agreement. The Master Torturer nodded and turned to his Apprentices. Slowly, he walked along their ranks until he stood before a big man. He was a final-year Apprentice, a very promising torturer about the same size as Burgen. Akem spoke softly to the young man and then gestured to the guards.

Before the crowd knew what was happening, the Apprentice was hustled across the Arena and strapped into the Axle.

He lasted all the way to the Sixth Level, something rarely achieved. The Master Torturer was well pleased with his training, as the Apprentice only screamed once, just as he died, but the effect on Burgen was devastating. The big chieftain had gone noticeably pale, and, just before the Apprentice reached the Third Level, lost control of his bowels.

Shanek almost laughed out loud at the memory of Burgen’s dying screams. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I was thinking about the barbarian. He was good.’

‘Much better than the Commander of the Army,’ said Marcene.

Shanek grunted. ‘He was feeble. No wonder it took him so long to capture Burgen. I think he should have been allowed to watch, though. Rather than starting the proceedings.’

Marcene smiled, but her smile faded as Shanek, with calculated rudeness, turned his back on her and walked away, his keen entourage following.

Putting her from his mind, Shanek made his way past the rest of the obsequious crowd of lesser nobility to where his own Fyrd waited. They were superbly trained soldiers, hand-picked by the new Commander of the Army for their skills and discretion. As he approached, the Coerl of the Fyrd snapped to attention. Behind her, the twenty members of the First Son’s Fyrd fell into perfect line, their breastplates gleaming, their weapons close to hand.

Leone, Coerl of the First Son’s Fyrd, was a striking woman who had earned her rank by skill and intelligence. Confident dark eyes gazed evenly at the world around her, aware of her superiority. She carried herself as a wolf among dogs, knowing that the first man or woman to challenge her would be the first to feel the edge of her blade. Her long black hair, tied back by a leather thong, fell to her waist in defiance of the accepted warriors’ tradition of wearing the hair short.

There was nothing humble or apologetic in her even stare as she regarded Shanek’s approach.

‘First Son,’ she said, saluting sharply. Her voice was soft, but carried easily across the noise of the crowd.

Shanek nodded in deference to her. ‘Coerl Leone,’ he replied. ‘Here to rescue me from another dull day of ritual torture?’

Without a hint of a smile, the Coerl nodded. ‘If such is your wish, First Son.’

‘Sadly, Coerl, whilst it is my wish, it is not my lot. More ritual torture awaits me. The Annoying One, Domovoi, hankers for my presence.’ Turning to those who still followed him, Shanek made to speak, thought better of it and turned on his heel,
dismissing them from his presence and his mind. He strode out into the street.

It was an indication of the level of their training that the Fyrd required no more than a look from their Coerl to form a defensive ring about the First Son before he had put his foot on the paved surface of the road. As was appropriate to her station, Leone walked at Shanek’s left shoulder, one pace back.

‘Tell me, Leone,’ Shanek said without turning his head, ‘exactly how far does your devotion to me extend?’

‘First Son?’ Leone asked.

‘Well, let’s say that, for example, I said take me away from all this.’ He gestured at the teeming streets around them, taking in the grand architecture of the Capital, the thriving commerce, the swarming masses. ‘Would you take me?’

‘Where would the First Son wish to be taken?’

‘How about the home of that new fellow, Zahir?’

‘The Ettan city of Smisha? We could be ready to travel with you in one hour, First Son.’