The Awakening (3 page)

Shanek stopped and turned to face her. The Fyrd halted around him, without seeming to hesitate. ‘Just like that? In one hour?’

Leone nodded, her eyes steady. ‘One hour,’ she repeated.

‘But don’t you have families, friends?’ He regarded Leone inquiringly, ‘Or lovers?’

‘If we do, First Son, they are secondary to our duty.’

‘So you’d just up and leave home if I told you?’

‘Naturally, First Son. Of course I would have to inform the Caldorman of my Hearthreu of my movements, which would explain the delay.’

‘And that would only take one hour? You would not have to make an appointment? He is in command of twenty Fyrds himself.’

Leone allowed herself the smallest of fleeting smiles. ‘Yes, First Son, but whilst he commands nineteen other Fyrds apart from this one, I allow myself the vanity of believing this one to be somewhat more important than the others.’

‘What about supplies? Travelling gear? That sort of thing?’

Leone blinked in surprise, almost as much emotion Shanek had ever seen her display. ‘No, First Son. Anything the Army of the Thane require is freely supplied by any who are asked.’

‘So you just take whatever you want?’

‘Not at all, First Son. The people are charged with the support of the Empire, and all they own is the Thane’s by right. They are honoured to aid us in their defence.’

‘But how is taking me to Smisha a part of their defence?’

‘You are First Son. There can be no doubt that any action of yours would be motivated by anything else but the welfare of the Thane and the Empire.’

Shanek’s heart sank at Leone’s words. She was another who believed in his ‘duty’, the duty of First Son to Thane. There was no escape, no hope of his living any life but this one.

There were occasions when he felt humbled by the thought that a superb human being like the one who stood before him would happily devote her life, even sacrifice it if necessary, for his wellbeing. The thought that Leone held her own life as secondary to his every
whim was sometimes almost overwhelming, but not now. He was suddenly filled with anger at the complete pointlessness of it all. The waste of a life like Leone’s was too much to contemplate. He turned away from her and stalked off.

The Fyrd resumed its protective mission, surrounding him with a ring of razor-sharp steel linked to minds and bodies ready to kill. Leone matched his stride, one pace back at his left.

Hwenfayre did not dream that night. Neither did she awake before the dawn and make her way onto the wall to greet the new day. Instead, she opened her father’s old box and read again the letter that he had left for her. The parchment crackled as she unrolled it and laid it flat on the table. Its smell and texture were familiar, sending a tantalising thrill of the mysterious through her, as it had done every time.

To my daughter Hwenfayre,

No doubt when you read this I shall either be dead or long gone from your life. You are not yet born and as I write this you rest beneath your mother’s breast. Every day I can see you growing, and every day your spirit becomes stronger. You are going to be a fine girl, and we shall call you ‘daughter to the Sea’, for you are the very spirit of all that is magical about the Sea. I shall leave you my harp when I go and she will teach you of the mysteries. Be assured that when I leave I shall still love your mother. The love we share will
outlast the Sea itself, but I can stay in this place no longer; I must leave. My Mistress is a kind one, but a demanding one. I speak not of a mistress in the carnal sense but of the One to whom I and all my people have willingly given our hearts. She calls me back, as She will call to you one day. You will not be one with the people about you, and one day you must leave, as I must now. Perhaps, if She wills it, we may meet again. But if we do not, know always that my love and that of my Mistress will be with you.

Your father, Feargus.

It was a different story from the one that Hwenfayre had been told all her life, even by her mother. It raised many questions, not the least of which being the prescience of her father. Certainly, she was not the product of a Southern Raider’s rape, but who was she? Her feelings of not belonging, of difference, of otherness, remained obdurate and indecipherable.

She spent the whole of that day, and the next, making brooches and matching earrings. For inspiration, she used the ancient and peculiar designs of the jewellery her father had left in the small bag in his box so many years before. Those pieces had profoundly affected her in a way that she could not fully articulate. In a way, they encapsulated her feelings for the wildness and freedom of the waves. She longed for the freedom which she had never experienced.

Her thoughts turned often to Wyn, a strangely compelling man who spoke to the emptiness in her
soul. His tales of his life on the sea, his adventures and his journeys, had touched her in a profoundly disturbing way. Hwenfayre felt herself torn between a need to hear more and a fear of learning too much.

She lay in her narrow cot staring at the ceiling above her head, a ceiling that she knew so well, a ceiling that had been her companion through many a long, dark night. She knew every crack, every line, every spider web like an old friend. Each time a new mark appeared on that ceiling, Hwenfayre felt as though her family had grown. But this night as she considered it, the ceiling was as new to her as though she had never seen it before. Each mark took on a new meaning, each crack was a wave, each line a trailing, windblown stream of spray. Hwenfayre was drifting, losing herself in the endless tides of her memory. She allowed herself once more to wander through the distant paths of her secret reminiscences.

It had been a good day and she left home on an errand for her mother after spending time with her while she worked with the other women. Despite her mother’s bitterness about her status, she did have friends among the women of the town.

She skipped happily along the narrow alley thinking of the good times ahead when a hard shove caught her unawares, sending her to the ground. She fell heavily and cried out in pain. Despite the often happy times she spent with her mother and some of the women of the town, her differences were marked enough to make her a target for taunts from some of the boys of the small town.

The scrape on her knee bled freely; the bright red trail trickling down her shin, making its way past old scars and half-healed wounds. She looked up past her tangled white-blonde hair at her tormentor. He was a big solid boy, a year her junior and half as big again as she. His thick black hair and dark skin marked him as a local boy, born and bred to the life here in a frontier town. He, together with two or three fellows, had come upon her in ambush.

The taunts were nothing new, just the usual—‘whore child’, ‘white freak’, ‘witch’—nothing to worry her; she’d heard worse. What made this day different was the new boy. Something in his eyes made Hwenfayre flinch. Never had she seen such naked hatred. He had the look of the vicious bully, the cornered cur, about him. He bunched his fist and drew it back. The other boys urged him on, clapping and yelling.

‘What’s this?’ A heavy hand grabbed the fist as it started down towards Hwenfayre’s face and a deep voice cut across the boyish cries. Startled, the bully turned to see a pair of implacable eyes boring into him.

‘I think we can leave the girl alone, can’t we, boys?’ he said, not once taking his eyes from those of the bully. As if by magic, the others melted away, leaving only one of Hwenfayre’s tormentors, his hand still firmly clasped in the newcomer’s strong fist. He gave the boy a shake and released him. ‘Now, be off with you.’

With a single backwards look, the boy scampered away down the dirty street, disappearing into the deep shadows that filled the Poor Quarter.

After watching him flee, Hwenfayre turned to consider the man who had intervened for her. He was a tall man with strong features. He wore a traveller’s cloak, which was stained with the dust from the road. His boots were black and dusty and his clothes were sturdy and worn, but his face was kind and Hwenfayre felt strangely warmed when he smiled at her. His clear blue eyes sparkled as he held out his hand to help her to her feet. Reaching out, Hwenfayre took his proffered hand. It was warm and strong, with calluses on palm and fingers. He easily lifted the slight girl to her feet.

‘It’s Hwenfayre, isn’t it?’ he asked.

‘Yes. How did you know?’

‘It’s a long story. Come, let’s see to that knee. And I think you could do with a meal.’

She looked up at him with surprise, but there was no guile in his eyes so she smiled and nodded. He did not release her hand as he started to walk away. Hwenfayre went with him, skipping along in an effort to keep up with his long strides. She was touched by his thoughtfulness when he shortened his stride and slowed slightly to allow her to keep up.

He led her to a corner of the market where a large tree stood. Its shade often sheltered young couples who sought its cool dimness to sit close together. Hwenfayre quickly forgot the pain of her scraped knee and the tormenting boys when the man eased the pack off his shoulder and opened it. Inside she saw a harp and some food. With a quick grin at her, he started to unpack the wrapped food to reveal bread, some cheese, a bottle of water and a wineskin.

A young couple, also seated under the tree, watched as the man started to prepare a simple meal. When it became apparent that Hwenfayre would be staying, they stood and walked away. With a puzzled look on his face, the man watched them leave.

‘And how, pray, can such a young and small child be such a deterrent? What are you, ten, eleven summers?’ he looked gently at Hwenfayre.

‘I prefer to measure in winters, kind sir, and I have endured thirteen.’

‘Hwenfayre, I suppose you would like to know how I know your name and why I sought you out?’

She nodded slowly, not taking her eyes from his face.

‘First, my name. I am called Adam. Some have called me Adam the Nimble-Fingered, but around market towns like this I tend to leave that addition out. I travel, tell tales and play the harp. Enough of me; do you know that you are famous?’ He paused and raised his eyebrows at her, quizzically. ‘No, I didn’t think you would. It’s true; a friend of mine was in this town a month or so ago and told me to look for you. Apparently, you play the harp. My friend was most impressed with your skills.’

‘Your friend was mistaken and you have wasted your time, for I am no minstrel,’ replied Hwenfayre.

In response, he merely twitched his eyebrows and knelt to dress her still-bleeding knee. Taking a cloth from his pack, he wet it and gently washed her wound. He wiped the blood away and cleaned the dirt and small stones that had been left embedded in her flesh. His hands were strong and his fingers deft. As she watched his head, bent over as he tended to
her knee, she noticed that he was starting to lose his hair, forming a small bald spot. In a peculiar way that, more even than the gentle hands or the kind words, endeared him to her. She found something real, something inherently
human
in a man who was losing his hair.

‘Adam,’ she asked suddenly, ‘are you a good minstrel?’

‘Aye, I am. Very good. In fact, without foolish modesty, I am regarded as one of the best. Why do you ask?’

‘You don’t dress like a successful minstrel. And you are not arrogant and rude, like most minstrels.’

‘And you have met so very many of them, haven’t you?’ replied Adam, teasing her gently. ‘There,’ he said straightening up, ‘I think that should do very nicely. What do you think?’ He gestured to her now-clean knee. When washed and cleaned, it did not look so very unpleasant. Indeed Hwenfayre felt slightly embarrassed at all the fuss over such a small thing. Adam rose and sat beside her. He helped himself to bread and cheese, gesturing for Hwenfayre to do likewise. She did so, hungrily.

‘Tell me of your harp,’ he asked suddenly.

‘What do you want to know?’ she answered through a mouthful of cheese.

‘Where did you get it?’ Adam answered, his expression very intense.

‘It was my father’s; he left it for me when he went away. He left before I was born. I never knew him. Why?’

‘This friend of mine who heard you play, he described your harp in great detail, and it sounded
very much like one I saw many years ago. I have wondered if it might be the same one as I saw. If so, it is a true mystery how you came to own it.’

‘Why so?’ Hwenfayre asked.

‘It was being played by a man in a town far from here. He was a traveller, an ambassador I guess you would say, for the Children of Danan. He walked into the inn where I was playing one night. Big, he was, broad shouldered and heavy-set. He stood in the doorway and shook himself like a bear. Spray and salt scattered around him and he threw his cloak towards the barman.

“‘Who’s the best minstrel in these parts?” he bellowed at us all. With my usual charm and grace I stood up and bowed deeply.

“‘It is I; I cannot lie.” That did not impress him. He looked me up and down and snorted at me.

“‘Perhaps you can learn some humility as well as some new tunes.” With that, he produced the most wonderfully made harp I have ever seen. It was not big, about so wide, by so high,’ Adam gestured with his hands, showing a size slightly smaller than usual for a travelling harp. ‘It was made from a single piece of driftwood, bleached white by the sea and decorated with the most intricate scrollwork imaginable. And when he played, it was like no music I have known. It flowed like the tide, sweeping over me, taking me away. I begged him to teach me but he laughed, and shook his head.

“‘Oh no, my young minstrel. This song is not for you. It has a destiny all its own. But I shall teach you many others. Come.” He held out his hand to me and I followed him out of the inn. For the next two
years I followed Feargus as he wandered far and wide across the land, singing and playing his magical harp.’

‘How did you know it was magical?’ asked Hwenfayre, eyes wide.

‘I don’t think it was actually magical, but when he played it, it seemed to take on a life of its own. He told me it had a name, but he would never tell me what it was. He’d always just say, “She’ll tell you herself, one day.” He always referred to it as a woman, and he would hold it gently, lovingly, as one would hold a child. I remember at night, when we were on the road, we’d sit by the fire and he’d spin the most wonderful tales about life on the sea, and how he and his people would travel by the stars, crossing and re-crossing the seas. It was a very special time for me.’

‘But what does it have to do with me?’ asked Hwenfayre.

‘Does this tune mean anything to you?’ Adam whistled a few bars of a complex melody. She felt a chill. She hugged herself tightly and stared at the minstrel. Despite her initial feelings of being able to trust this man, she found herself shaking her head.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t know it.’

The tall minstrel’s face fell. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘It was a foolish hope anyway.’

They continued to talk for a while, and he played a few songs and sang a little. He taught her some songs and they sang them together, but all the time she could sense that he was restless and wanted to leave. All the time, Hwenfayre wanted to call him back, to tell him, to ask about her father, but
something stopped her and finally she watched him stand and take his leave. He walked away without looking back.

When she went home to her mother, she told her about the strange encounter and was dismayed to see her face cloud over with the first signs of anger she had come to know so well. It was these sudden surges of strong emotion that preceded the bouts of bitterness that finally led her into the ill health that claimed her happiness and eventually her life.

‘Nonsense,’ she scoffed. ‘A magical harp carved of driftwood? Whoever heard of such silliness? Now, be off to bed with you!’

Hwenfayre’s lip trembled with the onset of tears, but her mother would not gather her in her arms to comfort her, so she sadly tucked herself into bed to listen to the sounds of her mother’s slow descent into a troubled sleep.

At night Hwenfayre sometimes cried herself to sleep as she lay in her narrow cot. Frequently she would reach out and touch her bleached white harp, tracing the delicate, intricate scrollwork that adorned its surface.

When Hwenfayre’s mother died, not long after the meeting with the minstrel, she started to make the jewellery that she sold in the marketplace. She rose early every morning and made her way to the wall with her harp. Every morning she played the song that she had written herself, the song that Adam had whistled.