The Awakening (4 page)

It was an unnaturally hot summer, and Shanek had taken to sitting outside in casual clothes and bare feet as often as possible, much to the dismay of his father.

Leone, who was charged with his safety, took the additional issues calmly when summoned into First Counsellor Sandor’s presence. ‘He is First Son,’ she said when told of his decision. ‘It is his right to sit wherever he wishes.’

‘But the extra security…’ Shanek’s father, the First Counsellor, began. Rather than finish the sentence, he glared at Cadock, Commander of the Army.

Cadock in turn looked to Leone. ‘Can you guarantee the First Son’s safety even when he chooses to sit outside under a tree, rather than in the Counsellor’s Palace?’

Leone returned her Commander’s gaze. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘So be it then,’ Cadock replied. He bowed to Sandor. ‘Your son’s safety is secure, First Counsellor.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Yes, First Counsellor, just like that.’

Sandor threw up his hands in mock defeat. ‘Very well then. But on your head be it, Coerl Leone,’ he said. ‘You are dismissed, Commander.’

Commander Cadock saluted sharply, turned on his heel and strode from the First Counsellor’s office. Behind him went the three elite fighters assigned to him as personal bodyguards.

When the Commander had left, the First Counsellor turned to Coerl Leone. He offered her a seat, which she refused with a shake of her head. Sandor eased himself into a chair carved from a single piece of tadon wood, a rare hardwood tree from the far south of the continent. It had been hand carved to his exact measurements by a Skrin Tia’k slave and modified every six months to accommodate any changes in his shape. Despite being as hard as rock, it was the most comfortable chair he had ever known. ‘How are his studies going?’ he asked.

‘They are going well, First Counsellor,’ she said.

‘What does that mean?’

‘He listens to the Appointed One and asks many questions. He argues frequently and is rarely satisfied with weak or inadequate answers. I feel he exasperates his teacher with his manner, First Counsellor.’

‘And you?’

‘I do not exasperate the Appointed One, First Counsellor,’ Leone replied.

Sandor smiled. ‘I did not think you would, Coerl. No, I meant, does he exasperate you?’

‘No, First Counsellor.’

‘Why not?’

‘He is First Son. He does not exasperate me, First Counsellor.’

‘Silly question, really, wasn’t it?’

Coerl Leone’s face was impassive. ‘No, First Counsellor, it was not a silly question.’

First Counsellor Sandor nodded. ‘I stand corrected, Coerl. Your loyalty to both me and my son is admirable and a true asset to the Empire. But you do remember that part of your responsibility to me is to keep me honestly and frankly apprised of Shanek’s progress and activities?’ Leone nodded. ‘So,’ continued Sandor, ‘how is he going and what is he doing?’

Coerl Leone paused before answering. Whilst she believed in the Empire and loyally served its rulers, her feelings about the First Son were mixed.

His façade of ennui masked a first-rate mind. He was also showing signs of talent in the arts of battle, especially with the bolas. Yet—and this was the problem—there was something not quite right about him. It was more than his show of boredom, more than his arrogance, more even than his carefully cultivated air of thoughtless superiority. There was an air of hopelessness, almost despair, that underpinned his attitude.

‘Coerl?’ prompted the First Counsellor.

‘I don’t know, First Counsellor,’ she said. ‘I would almost say that he is desperately unhappy.’

‘Unhappy?’

Coerl Leone frowned. ‘I don’t know that unhappy is the right word, First Counsellor, but he is not a happy man.’

‘How about his, um, love life?’

Leone stared impassively at a point just to the right of Sandor’s right shoulder. ‘The First Son is well served, First Counsellor.’

‘Ah,’ replied Sandor. ‘His reputation is well deserved?’

Leone nodded.

‘How does he treat his women?’

The Coerl hesitated.

‘That badly?’ Sandor asked. Forty years as First Counsellor to the Thane had taught Sandor much in the art of nuance. The flicker in the eyes, the tightening of the lips, the slight straightening of her shoulders said as much as he needed to know. If Coerl Leone was surprised at his perception, she did not show it. She merely nodded.

‘Are there any children yet?’

‘Not that I am aware of, First Counsellor.’

‘Good.’ He stood. ‘Thank you, Leone. As always you are a comfort and a joy. That will be all.’

Coerl Leone saluted by placing her right fist at her left hip to indicate her readiness to fight, followed by the raising of the fist to her chest, showing her willingness to die. Sandor bowed his acceptance. Leone turned and strode from his room, her sandals slapping the marble floor with a beat as regular as a drum.

The First Counsellor sank back into his chair. When he was alone, he allowed the mask of gentle calm to slide from his face. In its place was the deep sadness that he kept hidden from the world. ‘Shanek,’ he whispered. ‘My son. What is to become of you?’

Outside the palatial ancestral home of the First Counsellor, Domovoi and Shanek sat in the cool shade of a massive spreading lonat tree. According to
legend, the fruit tree from the far west of the continent had been planted by the then Thane Scyld III, in memory of a great victory. Shanek could, with a moment of thought, recall the year, some three hundred summers previous, the place of the victory and the name of the First Counsellor of the time, but he had little desire to do so.

Domovoi, the Appointed One, glared at his student with what could only be described as deferential exasperation.

‘Shanek…’ he began.

‘Domovoi,’ Shanek interrupted. ‘We’ve talked about this before. As long as you are going to lecture me about the importance of my place and my duty, you may as well set me a good example by dispensing with the informality. I am First Son of the Empire. Surely you of all people should recognise the importance of correct forms of address.’

The old teacher’s eyes revealed a sudden fire. He then displayed the skills developed over decades of devoted service by closing his eyes briefly, nodding in gracious submission and smiling gently.

‘Of course, First Son. You make a valid point. I shall remember correct address in future.’

It was a small victory, and a disturbingly hollow one. Domovoi might be a pompous old fool, but his devotion to Shanek’s family was beyond question, proven by simple acts such as this one.

‘Please continue, Domovoi,’ Shanek said.

‘As you wish, First Son. You were asking about the place of slavery in our culture. Do you mean human slaves or the ritual slavery of the Skrin Tia’k?’

‘Both. Start with human. We’ll deal with the Skrinnies later.’

‘Human slavery deals with two main aspects of any civilisation—cost and labour. To keep defeated foes as prisoners is a very expensive proposition, and as we only ever keep combatant foes as slaves, they are usually in excellent physical condition, ideally suited to labour. This keeps them gainfully employed, thus reducing the likelihood of rebellion that comes from the boredom so often associated with long-term imprisonment.

‘It is the best use for defeated foes, non-violent criminals and debtors. And not only that,’ he continued. ‘As a deterrent, short- to medium-term slavery is far greater than simple imprisonment.’

‘But ritual torture? The elevation of torture to an art form? What of the Royal Torturers Guild? How does that fit? What purpose does that serve?’

Domovoi frowned. ‘What purpose?’

‘Yes. What is the point of ritual torture, such as we had yesterday? How is the Empire of the Asan served and made better by that?’

‘Surely you cannot be questioning the right of any people to punish wrongdoers?’

‘Punish, yes. But ritually torture to death the friends of suspected plotters for the entertainment of the nobility?’

‘That is our way. It has always been thus.’

‘Oh come now, Domovoi. You can do better than that. “It has always been thus”? How feeble is that! It is not an answer, it is the last refuge of the impoverished mind in defence of the indefensible!’

Rather than answer, Domovoi observed the First Son. He was barefoot, clad in the simple clothes of a scholar, leaning against a tree in a magnificent garden kept for the enjoyment of his family alone. As with so many of the ancestral possessions of this family, there were odd customs associated with it. For example, custom dictated that no visitor was ever permitted to go barefoot within the garden. Neither could anyone not related to the family by blood ever eat any of the produce. Here, beneath this tree, which spread branches over the ceremonial meditation bower, tradition held that neither the First Counsellor nor his son could ever wear shoes of any sort. Over the centuries most of these occult laws had passed into quaint legend, to be trotted out for the amusement of whatever guest happened to be visiting at the time. Recently, however, Shanek had been showing an unhealthy obsession with these ancient customs. The Appointed One saw his duty in directing the First Son towards the future, not the past.

‘You are distressed today, First Son?’ Domovoi asked.

Shanek sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun as it shone through the leaves. The bark was rough against his back. He enjoyed the sensation almost as much as he did the feeling of the dirt on his bare feet.

‘May I be permitted to know the reason, First Son?’ Domovoi continued.

Shanek shrugged. ‘I don’t really know, Domovoi,’ he said. ‘But something is not right. I feel…’ he paused, seeking the right word, ‘disappointed,’ he said finally.

‘In what?’ asked Domovoi.

‘I don’t know. Everything.’

Domovoi frowned. ‘Everything, First Son? The birds disappoint you? The trees? The earth beneath your feet?’

Shanek smiled. ‘No, Domovoi. Not everything. In fact most things do not.’

‘But what does?’

‘I really do not know. But there’s this all-pervading sense of…’ he paused again, groping for a word, ‘wrong.’

‘Wrong?’

‘Yes. Something, and something significant, is wrong.’

‘Can you be more specific, First Son?’

‘The Asan, us. We are wrong.’

Domovoi sighed. Always it came to this. He had been the Appointed One to Shanek’s father and he had asked the same questions, come to the same conclusions. In between his times as Appointed One, he had taught at both of the finest locii in the Empire. Whilst there he had been exposed to the keenest minds, and with them he had wrestled with the ethical dilemmas now plaguing the First Son.

Truly, he welcomed the evidence of such a perceptive mind. It was just that he wished that just once, someone would ask something new. With the barest flicker of an eyelid, he brought his mind to order and composed himself to address Shanek’s concerns.

‘The issue of the ethics of slavery is one that has exercised the finest minds throughout the history of the Empire—’ he began.

‘And one that will always remain to vex us in our quiet moments of introspection,’ Shanek completed. ‘Yes, Domovoi, I have read your lecture on the subject. As it is the definitive work, it would be lax of me not to. But you did not address the core issue.’

‘Which would be what?’ asked Domovoi.

‘How can one person own another?’

‘It is not a question of ownership, but one of power.’

‘No it is not,’ snapped Shanek. ‘Power over a person is not ownership.’ He looked at Coerl Leone standing nearby. ‘Leone,’ he called.

‘First Son,’ she replied.

‘Are you my slave?’ he asked.

‘No, First Son, I am not.’

‘But I have power over you,’ Shanek said.

Leone hesitated as she thought about the question. ‘No, First Son, you do not,’ she said finally.

Shanek stared at her. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘You have authority over me, not power. I follow your orders willingly and accept your authority by choice. But you do not exercise power over me.’

‘All right then,’ Shanek conceded. ‘Let’s say I accept that. What is your definition of power?’

‘The ability of one to decide on the life or death of another without their consent.’ She regarded him levelly, her eyes boring into his with an unreadable expression. ‘You could not kill me, First Son.’

Shanek tried to grin in the face of her stare, but failed. ‘I’m getting better, Leone,’ he said. ‘It won’t be long and I may well best you in the battle ring.’

‘That is not what I meant, First Son,’ she said.

When Hwenfayre went back to the wall she was not sure whether she wanted to meet Wyn or not. It was the first time she could remember going with such disquiet in her mind. Part of her keenly wanted to see him, if only for a moment, to reassure herself that he was indeed real, yet part of her was hoping that he would not be there.

When she arrived, the dawn was not far off; already the first tendrils of light were touching the skies, painting the night with the colours of morning. It was a cold morning and the wind was from the north. It was not a strong wind, but it carried with it the promise of winter. She could smell the ice and feel the chill on her skin.

She stood motionless on the wall, watching and feeling. At some stage—she could never recall doing it consciously—she uncovered her bleached white harp and started playing. The melody, as familiar to her as her own soul, yet strangely new every morning, flowed through her body, lifting her out of the mundane, freeing her from the commonplace, as it always had done. As always, her spirit drifted up
and away, up with the music that her fingers drew from her father’s harp. She flew freely with the birds, and then dived joyously into the waters where she swam and played with the fish. She travelled through mysterious grottoes and trailed her fingers through the swaying weed. It was a time of peace and joy for her, yet for the first time thoughts of another intruded. As she flowed with the music she sensed someone else beside her, someone else who felt the call of the sea, someone who might understand her restlessness. Every time she turned in her soul to catch a glimpse of who it might be, the sense of presence faded away, out of reach.

She reached the end of the song and reluctantly willed herself back to reality. The breeze had strengthened slightly and the swell was rising. Hwenfayre lingered; she knew that she had to return to her home soon to avoid the worst of the taunts, yet the feeling of the wind as it stroked her hair and ruffled her skirt was hard to put aside. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to lose herself again in the almost sensual feel of the wind’s gentle caress.

‘I thought you would have left by now.’ A strong voice beside her shocked her out of her abstraction. Her eyes snapped open and she spun around to look at the Coerl. He stepped back and held up his hands. ‘I mean you no harm.’

‘What do you want?’ she asked.

‘Nothing, nothing at all. I have seen you many times up here at dawn. And I have wondered why it is that you come.’

‘I come because I am safe here. The streets down there are,’ she paused, ‘dangerous. At times.’

‘Aye, that they are. Yet standing here, alone, before the dawn, isn’t that dangerous too?’

‘No. Isn’t your job to protect me? To keep me safe?’

The Coerl smiled. ‘I suppose that it is my job to protect you. One that I enjoy. And one that I do willingly.’ He hesitated and shifted awkwardly, as if troubled. On impulse, Hwenfayre reached out and touched him on the arm. Beneath her fingers his arm felt hard and strong. He straightened and looked her in the eye.

‘I have never met anyone like you.’

‘I would be very surprised if you had. Don’t you know that I am a witch, a sea daemon? I have been known to eat babies as they sleep in their cots.’

‘Yes, I have heard that,’ replied the Coerl, smiling once more. ‘I have always found it strange that one so small could eat so many babies and yet not seem to put on weight.’

Despite herself Hwenfayre felt a smile begin to hover on her lips. This Coerl did not seem to be quite the hard and stern man he appeared. Yet she felt uneasy, and she could put no name to her unease. She decided to ignore it.

‘What is your name?’ she asked.

‘Niall,’ he replied. ‘It means “warrior” in my language.’

‘And what language is that?’

‘I am originally from Herath, although my father was an islander,’ Niall said. ‘He often told me about his life on the Sea and I am beginning to think he was more than just an islander. He often spoke of his ability to sense a coming battle or a storm on the
waters. I think I inherited his fey sense of impending danger because I am always the first to know when something is coming. It has helped me in my life as a Soldier of the World. But whatever else I inherited from him, I certainly did inherit his talent for trouble. As a boy I was driven from my village. There was some problem with some missing silver. I wandered for several years, surviving as best I could. Finally I headed west. I became a soldier for the Thane and gradually worked my way up through the ranks. After a time, I tired of the Great Fastness and sought a posting near the sea. I have been here ever since.’

‘Such a short tale for such a long story. I am sure that a minstrel or a bard could make much of a story such as yours, Niall,’ said Hwenfayre. ‘Did you meet my father?’

‘Yes I did. Feargus was a strange man. He often stood on the wall, as you do. But he never played the harp; he sang.’

‘What did he sing?’

‘I never heard it fully; he sang low and softly, always ceasing his song when I came too close. He would never turn to me as I approached, but he always knew it was me. “Niall,” he’d say, “don’t you know it is rude to creep up on a man when he is concentrating?” And then he would tell me of his daughter; his child of the sea he’d call her. As far as I knew back then, he had no child. But he would describe her to me as though she were standing before him. After he left, I forgot about her.’ Niall paused and looked directly at Hwenfayre, the intensity of his stare making her look away. ‘When you started to clamber up the stairs to the top of
the wall as a child his words came back to me. He had described you perfectly. The first time I saw you I felt that I knew you, but you were a child and I could think of no way that I would know one so young. But then, when you started to play the harp, my blood ran cold in my veins. It was the same tune that your father sang. It all came back to me, and I knew then that you were no ordinary child. So I made it my business to look out for you, to keep an eye on you. By then, however, the story of your mother’s rape had spread and was widely accepted as truth, and there was nothing I could do about that.’

‘Why have you never told me of this before?’

‘I have tried, Hwenfayre, but you would never listen. You always ran when I came to speak to you.’

‘I did, didn’t I?’ said Hwenfayre, smiling.

‘I would like to see you smile more often, Hwenfayre. You are a woman of great beauty; it is a shame for you to hide behind a serious face so much.’

‘I haven’t had much reason to smile. My life has not always been exactly what I might want, despite having so doughty a protector,’ Hwenfayre teased gently. To her pleasure, Niall laughed at the gibe. As she laughed with him, she took the opportunity to glance around to see if there was anything that might have been causing the strange feeling of unease that refused to leave her.

‘Indeed,’ replied Niall, who seemed to be unconcerned, ‘I have not been as careful a protector as I might have been, but you have managed to survive despite my neglect.’

Hwenfayre laughed again. Niall laughed with her. It had been many years since Hwenfayre had laughed with another person. To the best of her memory it was the only time she had ever laughed with a grown man. They talked: he of his life by the sea in this fortified town, she of her love for beautiful things.

A peculiar feeling of wrongness swept over her again.

‘Niall, is it just me, or is something about to happen?’ she asked, unable to put aside the feeling any longer.

‘You feel it too? I thought you might.’ He looked around at the apparently peaceful scene. ‘I haven’t felt anything like this since I was last in battle. Maybe I should go and have a look at the wall.’ He became the Coerl once again as his eyes swept the horizon. Hwenfayre suddenly felt afraid. She shivered and drew her shawl around her shoulders tightly.

‘If you will excuse me, Hwenfayre.’ Niall said. His eyes were hard and his face blank. ‘I have to leave.’

‘Can I come with you? I feel that I might be safer with you than on the streets,’ she asked. Her tone, almost pleading, almost desperate, caught him off-guard. He blinked in surprise.

‘If you wish. Although if my instincts are still reliable you may regret your choice. Something is wrong.’ The Coerl’s tone had become cold, distant. ‘If you are set on coming with me put your shawl over your hair so that my men won’t recognise you. Not that there is any problem but some of the men are superstitious. You know how it is.’

He stalked ahead of her, moving towards a guardsman who saluted the Coerl briskly.

‘Tell me, man, is there anything amiss?’ the Coerl barked.

‘No, Sir. Nothing to report,’ replied the guard. If he was at all surprised by either the Coerl’s question or the intensity in his tone, he did not show it. He also did not so much as look at Hwenfayre.

‘Stay alert, soldier. This is no time to be lax. Spread the word, ten lashes for any man not at his post.’

‘Sir.’ The guard continued his pacing of the wall.

Without so much as glancing in her direction the Coerl strode away from Hwenfayre. It appeared that he had forgotten her presence. However, she heard him mutter, ‘Stay close, this is no time to wander off.’

Catching his mood, she only grunted in reply and hurried to walk by his side, and they walked together in silence along the wall.

The tension mounted and Hwenfayre’s fear grew with every step she took. Her eye was caught by a flash of light far out at sea. She stopped and stared out towards its source, gripping Niall’s arm.

‘What is it?’ snapped the Coerl as he turned to face her.

‘I saw something out there.’ She pointed. There came another flash, which lasted longer and seemed closer than the previous such flash. ‘There it is again! Did you see it?’

The Coerl followed her direction. The flash came again.

‘To arms! To arms!’ he yelled. ‘Raiders! Raiders from the Sea!’ In a move that shocked her, but one she understood, he shoved her into a dark recess. ‘Stay there,’ he hissed.

The guards on the wall mustered quickly and the Coerl barked orders. Showing the signs of an iron discipline, the men moved to their stations and prepared themselves to face whatever was coming to their city.

The Raiders came fast, their dark warboats carrying the torches that Hwenfayre had seen. She stood in her niche, for the moment alone, mesmerised by the scene that was being played out before her. On the Sea, the Raiders’ warboats swept towards the cliffs, while above them the soldiers hurried about their business, preparing their defences against the attack that was sliding inexorably towards them. Bows were strung, arrows were carried in bundles to each bowman, large cauldrons were filled with oil and fires lit underneath them. Swords were loosed in their scabbards, crossbows were cranked back and loaded, orders were shouted, armour was tightened, metal rattled against stone and metal. Somewhere in the town a baby cried and a woman screamed. Dogs started to bark and the sound of running feet grew as more and more people came out of their homes to assist in the defence of their town.

Hwenfayre watched the ordered chaos with a sense of detachment, and without consciously thinking she took out her harp and started playing.

As she played, the Raiders in their boats drew closer. The shouts of the defenders on the wall became louder and more insistent. There were torches lit and the fires under the cauldrons flickered, sending crazy shadows dancing over the wall. Hwenfayre could see the Coerl from where she
stood. He was moving confidently among the men, directing, ordering, advising and correcting. Wherever he went, he left behind him men with straighter backs and steadier hands. An air of strength seemed to surround him like an aura. For the first time she felt what it was like to be inspired. Above her the lightening sky watched the unfolding drama with indifference as the Raiders prepared their assault.

The first cry of a dying man caught her by surprise.

The harsh sound shocked her into sudden awareness. The guard had taken an arrow in the chest and he fell backwards, close to where Hwenfayre hid, absently playing her harp. He screamed in agony. His face was distorted as he grabbed the shaft, his heels drumming the ground. With his last gasp he reached out a hand towards Hwenfayre and tears of pain ran down his face. He died, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the flickering red firelight.

Around her she could still hear the clamour of men shouting, of grappling hooks shot from catapults below as they rattled onto the stone battlements and of the pounding of feet as still more defenders ran to their stations. But all she could see was the face of the dead guard who lay before her, his hand still reaching out to a hope that had never come. He had been a young man, about nineteen summers, with dark hair and brown eyes. When standing he had been tall and strong, but now he seemed shrunken and somehow obscene with his contorted face and the ugly arrow shaft protruding from his chest. She noticed that he was wearing a
marriage band about his wrist. A widow had been born already this day.

An anger rose within her breast that she had never experienced before. She felt that she must do something, strike back at the stupidity, the futility of what she was seeing. Other men were screaming in pain as the arrows and hooks from below found their marks. She watched in horror as one man was caught by a wickedly barbed hook and dragged screaming over the wall as the Raiders in their boats jerked the rope back. Despite her anger she felt impotent to affect the abomination before her eyes.

She kept playing her harp, her fingers weaving their complex tapestry on the strings, evoking sounds and melodies that she could not recall ever having played or heard before. Yet the music kept flowing, becoming faster and stronger, lifting her heart and assuaging her anger. She continued playing, losing touch with the reality of the screaming and the dying, becoming more and more entwined with the strains of the music that flowed from her fingers.

So lost was she in the music that she was unaware of the change in the weather. The wind started to whisper, then to wail, then to howl. Below there came the increasing sounds of breakers as waves started to surge and then to crash on the rocks. Clouds formed, piled up and then clashed together, sending great bolts of lightning tearing through the air, searing the sky. Mighty explosions of thunder rolled around the wall, drowning out the cries and screams of fighting men. Rain lashed down. The wind howled. The waves smashed with insensate fury against the rocks, and Hwenfayre played.