The Awakening (8 page)

As she followed the First Son, she tried to focus on the important things that she knew should be occupying her mind, but she kept thinking back to the time during their practice bout when Shanek had lain heavily on her. No matter how she tried to drive the memory away, the feeling of his hard body
pressed against her, breathing heavily, his face close to hers, aroused in her a desire that was as intense as it was impossible. He was First Son, she a simple warrior. She had been his guard since he was a boy and he had never shown the slightest interest in her. And, if truth be told, she had never been interested in him, having watched his way with the many women who had entertained him over the years. But suddenly all that had changed; her body had betrayed her then and it threatened to do the same now.

With annoyance, she shook her head, attempting to clear the disturbing images. She hated the way her mind had reacted. It was stupid and inappropriate for her to entertain such thoughts, not to mention the fact that she had no interest at all in him. Not that way, at least.

‘What is it, Leone?’ Shanek asked. He stopped and turned to face her.

‘Nothing, First Son,’ she replied.

He stared at her, his gaze hard and unflinching. ‘You’re lying, Coerl,’ he snapped. ‘I know when you lie to me. And there is something wrong. Something you should tell me about. What is it?’

Returning his gaze, she shook her head slowly. ‘There is nothing wrong you should know about, First Son.’

He continued to stare, oblivious to the gathering crowd that had paused in its merrymaking to gawk at the third most important man in the Empire. ‘You are still lying,’ he hissed. Coerl Leone almost stepped back in shock. His voice was harsh, brutal. It was the voice of a killer. Instinct forced her to grip the hilt of her sword. Training made her grip ease as she saw
Shanek watching her hand. A vicious sneer disfigured his face, then he spun on his heel and stalked towards the Palace.

His abrupt move almost caught the Fyrd out of position, but years of discipline meant they had formed a perfect barrier around him before he made contact with the crowd. As usual their emotionless eyes and ready swords kept the unwashed masses far enough away from nobility.

As they passed through the gates to the Palace of the Thane, the noise, the stench, even the heat seemed to fade. The tension, the anger, the confusion all drained from him as the cool quiet of the Palace replaced the madness of the Celebration.

The Palace of the Thane was a stupendous edifice. It rose like a silken mountain above Ajyne, the sprawling capital of the Asan Empire. As with everything about the Empire, the city’s location was the subject of legend. It was here that the first battle against the Skrin Tia’k had taken place. Centuries earlier, Ajyne had come into being as a small collection of huts around a spring of fresh, clear water. The simple hunter-gatherer lifestyle of the people was violently disturbed by a Skrin Tia’k attack. The Skrinnies had swept across the northern plain like a flood, burning everything in their path. The legend spoke of a hunter of great skill, Ajyne, who had seen the approaching Skrinnie army and rallied his fellow villagers. According to the overblown histories, he led most of the village to safety by eluding the Skrinnies, often avoiding them by seconds. At one stage he led a few hardy souls in a lightning raid that killed the Skrinnie leader. With
the death of their leader, the rest of the Skrin Tia’k army pulled back north, but several young men followed them. When the men’s butchered bodies were discovered, the generations-long war began.

Shanek often wondered which particular spot in the vast city commemorated the skirmish.

He regathered his fragmented thoughts as he strode through the vast parade ground towards the main doors. Behind him, Coerl Leone, still smarting from his anger, kept pace easily, as did his Fyrd. The smooth marble covering the entire open area felt hard, unyielding and unwelcoming after the dusty training arena. His feet jangled with an odd pain with every step he took on the polished surface, making him wonder if he had sustained an injury.

Ahead, the seven steps up to the Great Gates beckoned. Each step, carved from a different rock representing the Seven Orders of Purity, was guarded with an honour guard sent from the seven provinces.

The different uniforms, weapons and features of the guards showed the range of the Empire. Shanek scarcely gave them a glance as he made his way up the Seven Orders, silently reciting his lessons from Domovoi for every step.
‘Granite for courage, basalt for strength, quartz for honesty, slate for compassion, agate for humility, marble for grace and obsidian for love.’

His inexplicable anger at the death of the Skrinnie was fading, but no matter how he considered it he had known and felt things he had no right to know or feel.

He scarcely noticed the armoured guards who heaved open the massive doors with such efficiency
that he did not have to break stride. Without a thought Shanek passed the wondrous entrance, gold-plated and adorned with magnificent works of art from across the Empire, and strode into the presence of the most powerful man in the Empire.

When he reached the requisite twenty paces, still blood-spattered and clad only in his training kilt, he dropped into a one-kneed crouch, bowed his head and pressed his hands, still gloved, against the polished granite floor. The metallic clink of the bolas balls rang incongruously in the silent hall.

‘First Son,’ the Thane’s rich tones eased their way across the hall, ‘thank you for your prompt attendance. I know how busy you are.’

Still bowed, Shanek stiffened at the sarcasm in the Thane’s tone. Although his life was safe from the Thane’s vengeance as a result of his birthright, punishment for insolence and sundry offences could still be wrought. More than one First Counsellor had carried out his office maimed.

‘Stand up, Shanek,’ the Thane went on. ‘Your pretence at obeisance offends me.’

Shanek stood and regarded his ruler. The Thane was a vigorous man in his late forties. He had fathered eight sons and seven daughters by his eight wives. Tradition held that each of the seven provinces provided the Thane with a bride, and he was free to choose another for himself. Normally the heir would come from the chosen wife, but this Thane was himself a son of one of the provinces, so speculation was rife as to whom he would choose from his own brood to continue his line.

Thane Kasimar IV stared back at Shanek. ‘First
Son,’ he continued, ‘Appointed One Domovoi tells me your studies are progressing well.’

Shanek prided himself on his control, but the Thane was an experienced man.

‘This surprises you?’ the Thane asked.

‘Yes, Sir. It does,’ replied Shanek. In deference to the source of their power, the Thanes eschewed formal honorifics, preferring the simple military ‘Sir’.

‘Why is that?’ the Thane asked.

‘We argue and disagree often, Sir. And…’ he paused, considering his next words carefully, ‘I don’t think he likes me.’

Kasimar frowned. ‘Your birthright protects you from most things, Shanek First Son, but beware. Arrogant presumption is not a crime but it is not a virtue. Domovoi has served this Empire and me personally for more decades than you have drawn breath. He enjoys my favour and his skills are not to be treated lightly by anyone.’

Shanek bowed his acceptance of the rebuke.

‘As it so happens,’ Kasimar went on, ‘you are wrong. He holds you in very high regard.’ The Thane paused to accept a morsel from a waiting Skrinnie slave. ‘Which is why your father and I have decided that it is time to put your training to use.’

Shanek looked across to where his father sat, half-hidden in shadows behind and to the left of the Thane’s throne. He was looking up, but Shanek could not see his eyes. Shanek waited for the Thane to continue.

‘Do you see this throne?’ Kasimar asked.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘It was carved from a single piece of red obsidian, found eight hundred years ago on the slopes of Mount Tintal. The Skrin Tia’k living there at the time brought it here and had it carved into this throne. Obsidian, you will remember, is the symbol of love, the final step unto purity. Do you think there is any significance in their gift?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Really? You don’t see it as a gift of love?’

‘No. I don’t believe the Skrinnies have ever held any love for us, and their choice of gift is more likely to be a show of their disdain.’

‘How so?’

‘We cannot assume that a race so different from us will either understand or accept our beliefs. They have their own and will most likely view ours with contempt. I think their choice of our symbol of love would be a deliberate show of their hate. Using our own symbols against us, Sir.’

‘Are the Skrin Tia’k so subtle?’

‘Without question, Sir.’

‘I am glad you think so, because I am sending you on a diplomatic mission to meet with the Council of Ettan.’

Shanek’s mind raced. Ettan was a subject province, one of the seven. It was far to the north, its northern border lost in the brutal foothills of the great northern mountains. The only problems that ever arose in Ettan were involved with raiding parties of bandits, escaped Skrinnies or periodic clean-ups of the various monsters that wandered down from the icy mountain peaks. Ettan’s history was one of political stability. A diplomatic mission
was unheard of.
What is this really about?
Shanek wondered.

He had little time for reflection, though, as the Thane continued.

‘I assume you will want to take a small entourage, but not this time. You will be travelling light and fast.’ He raised his head to Coerl Leone. ‘You are ready to travel?’

Leone saluted. ‘Yes, Sir,’ she said.

‘First Son,’ the Thane’s voice took on the cadences of formal speech, ‘you are directed to travel with your Fyrd and sundry others to the province of Ettan where you will take part in the diplomatic negotiations that will take place there. You will receive all information you require whilst travelling.’

Thane Kasimar IV stood and raised a sword above his head. He gestured to the ground, indicating the strength garnered from rock, and then to the sky, whence comes rain, and then to Shanek, now ritually set apart for service unto death for the Empire. Shanek was bound beyond law to complete his mission or die trying.

To return unsuccessful was death by torment in the Arena.

The Sea was calm. It had stayed calm now for several days, the sun beating mercilessly down on the small, open boat. The sounds of a still Sea surrounded the man and the woman who lay side by side on the planks that separated them from the depths: the gentle lapping of the water, the light flap of the limp sail that formed a shelter over them, the distant cry of a lonely gull as it winged its way across the vast ocean.

The woman stirred slightly, groaning as she attempted to sit up. Her movement caused the boat to rock, sending small ripples over the glassy Sea. She stretched, dragging her fingers through her tangled white hair. Her skin, which had always been fair, almost to the point of being white, was reddened and burned by the sun, painful where her torn, thin shift no longer covered her.

Her companion, a large, heavy man, opened his eyes at the rocking of the boat. His face was as badly burned as the woman’s, but he looked less gaunt, less exhausted. With obvious effort, he lurched to the side of the boat and reached over to pull something out of the water.

It was a bottle that had been tied to the gunwale. He handed it, still dripping, to the fair-haired woman. At first she shook her head, but at his silent, insistent offering she took it, unstoppered it and took a small sip. A tiny dribble ran down her chin, dripping onto her sunburned chest. Feeling the unexpected coolness, she wiped the drop with her finger, which she then licked carefully. With a small smile that opened up one of the surburned cracks in her bottom lip, she handed the bottle back to the man. He accepted it gravely, shook it slightly, and dropped it back into the water.

It was a scene that had been played out many times, but there were few times left when it would occur. Unless they found land soon, it was clear that both of them would die.

As he watched the young woman lie back under the makeshift shelter, the former guard shook his head slowly with deep regret. It was an ignominious end for such a woman. In the three weeks that the two of them had been together on this small boat, her nobility and strength of character had pleased and heartened him. She would need both when, if, they reached their destination.

As he thought of their destination, his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. Despite her dreams and obvious power, the young woman, who had already sunk back into a light, restless sleep, would not find life easy among her people. His own memories of them were not happy. He looked at her lying in the bottom of the boat, and sighed. How different she was from the frightened and unsure girl who had fled with him on that dark-omened night when she came into her power.

That night, when she stood to take his hand, he knew his life had changed irrevocably. With her decision to flee her home with him, she had not only chosen to flee a dangerous and uncertain life, she had also chosen to pursue her dreams. His knowledge of the world into which they had thrown themselves was limited, despite the tales he had told her earlier. Most of his travelling on the Sea had been as a mercenary or galley slave, not as a sailor. In truth, his job as wall guard had been the best that he had had for some years. But he had known his responsibility as soon as he had seen her heralding the morning with her song.

No matter that he had left his people behind so long ago, no matter that he had turned his back on his heritage, their shared heritage. He had a duty to those who had given him life. The Danan must be returned to her Children. He knew his own motives were unclear, even to himself, but he knew about duty. The Thane and his soldiers had taught him that much. He looked again at the young woman, barely more than a child, lying in the boat, and shook his head. What was he hoping to achieve?

It had not been easy to win the confidence of the town’s mystery woman, but he was a man experienced in campaigns, and he had laid good plans. Knowing, as he believed he did, the woman’s heritage, he spoke to her of the Sea. He spoke lyrically, drawing on the half-remembered tales of his childhood. His stories evoked the beauty and power of the oceans that both terrified and fascinated her young soul.

The greatness that had lain dormant within her was awakened.

But it had all gone horribly awry when the foolish Coerl, curse his stupid meddling, had interfered. He had spoken with her, filled her mind with thoughts of love and such things. He had no right to. At least he had had the decency to die at a good time, providing her with the strength she needed. Inwardly the man shuddered as he remembered how close she had come to succumbing to the treacherous lure of the harp’s song as she stood watching the battle.

When the Coerl had died, the psychic shock that had run through her mind had been the catalyst to truly awaken her latent power over the mystical energies she had unwittingly unleashed. Despite the fact that the erstwhile guard had little understanding of these energies, he had heard many stories concerning them. He had faced death many times, but nothing frightened him more than those stories had.

‘Wyn.’ The voice was weak, hoarse and tired. It awakened him from his musings.

‘What is it, Hwenfayre?’ he asked gently.

‘We tried, didn’t we?’ She stared intently at him, the strength shining from her almost glowing lavender eyes, which belied the weakness in her voice.

‘Tried what, my Princess?’ he responded, attempting to forestall whatever expression of defeat she was about to utter.

‘Tried to reach them. Tried to get home. We did, didn’t we?’

‘Yes, my Princess. We tried, but we are not yet dead. We have water, there’s a little food left, and while the weather holds fair we can still hope.’ He
reached out and stroked her tangled hair. She smiled, a small, cracked smile as she leaned into his hand.

‘Wyn.’

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing. I just wanted to say your name once more before I die.’

‘Nonsense, Hwenfayre. We are not destined to die yet.’ He tried to withdraw his hand but she held it, pressing it against her cheek. He was shocked to feel how weak her grasp had become. ‘You should sleep,’ he suggested, easing his hand away. ‘Don’t try to talk too much. You need your strength.’

With a knowing look, Hwenfayre nodded slowly and sank back down onto the boards, resting her head on Wyn’s guardsman’s cloak that he had rolled up for her as a pillow. Once again, Wyn was struck by the tragic unfairness of it all. Hwenfayre had spent her life seeking her soul, her purpose, and within weeks of finding it, before she had any sort of chance to deal with the reality of who she was, it appeared that she would die, here, in the midst of what she loved so dearly, yet in such ignorance. Wyn knew more of the Sea and its vagaries than his young companion, and he faced it with fear.

That first night, they had run together along the back alleys of the Poor Quarter to a little-known gate that led them to an ancient stair. They followed it down to the rocky beach where Wyn had earlier hidden his small boat. When he first hid it there he had fervently hoped to let it lie and rot. The first morning he saw Hwenfayre had changed all that.

Their preparations had been, of necessity, minimal. Hwenfayre brought nothing more than her
harp and some clothes. He had anticipated her decision to leave and had brought some food and water and extra cloaks.

As they sailed out of the bay below the town, Hwenfayre had watched in stunned disbelief as they passed the wrecked warboats and shattered bodies that floated in the black waters. When they finally reached open water, she turned to Wyn, tears streaming down her face. ‘Did I do all of that?’ she asked hollowly. In answer, all he could do was to nod gravely. She did not speak again for two days; she just sat in the bow of the boat, staring blankly ahead as if awaiting judgment.

During this time Wyn was able to reacquaint himself with his long-unused knowledge of sailing, navigation and survival on the open Sea. In truth, he was grateful for her silence, for he was too occupied with keeping them alive to answer any of the questions that she was bound to ask. By the time she had faced and quietened her personal demons, Wyn was better prepared and more confident for the flood of curiosity that had to come.

And come it did.

It started with the outpouring of anguish over the death of the Coerl. He was shocked at the intensity of her pain over Niall’s death. Wyn was equally shocked at the story she told him of seeing Niall’s death in a strange waking dream while she sang on the wall during the battle. Once she had cried herself dry over Niall’s death, she turned with an almost disturbing pragmatism to other things.

She started with the predictable ‘Who am I?’, progressing to the equally predictable ‘What am I?’
The former mercenary was unwilling to answer either. What he was able to tell her were the tales of their shared heritage that he had heard from his mother as a small child, sitting on her knee.

‘We are of a race that long ago eschewed the land to follow the trackless wilderness of the open Sea,’ he told her. ‘In the very beginning of our history we were a simple farming people who lived under the heel of an oppressive Thane. A mighty hero named Morgan first challenged the Thane’s armies and he led our people in revolt. We rose up and smote the forces of oppression, driving them out of the lands that we claimed as our own.

‘However, the Thane did not take kindly to such a bloody nose as we had given him, and he sent against us his full might and drove us from our homes. We wandered dispossessed for a generation, across the wilderness of the borderlands, until we found ourselves by a shore. It was a lonely, windswept shore with little shelter. It was nowhere, and we were no one.’ As he spoke, Wyn’s words took on the cadence and flow of lines long memorised, lines that had been repeated over generations. ‘The truth of our situation sank in slowly as we sat on the wet sands and looked out over the raging ocean. Our people sat in silence. Despair swept over us as our spirits sank lower.

‘How long we sat there is not remembered. What is remembered is that a woman stood. She had long, tangled white hair that blew in the wind. Her lavender eyes were alight with an intensity that shone. With great passion she spoke of a love so deep, a hunger so profound, that none could refuse
her words. Long she spoke, and bold were her words.

‘She spoke of the Sea. She spoke of its power, its beauty. She spoke of the freedom that came from a life lived far from the land and its confinement. Her words and her passion inspired us all. We fell with a will to the task of building the boats that would take us from the dry land forever. It is not known how it was that we land-dwellers knew how to build such boats, nor how we came to be at a shore where wood might be found. But we did not think of such things at that time; we were inspired, we were alive.

‘Finally the time came for us to leave the land behind. As we boarded our boats the search went out for the fair-haired woman who had so inspired us. But she was not to be found. Indeed, as the quest went on, it was discovered that no one knew from what family she came. The only thing we knew of her was her name: Danan. She had left us, but she left us her love of the Sea, her name and, most strangely, a deep understanding of our new Mistress and her ways.

‘Over our history her face has reappeared. Whenever a girl-child is born with lavender eyes and white hair wild as the sea, there is rejoicing among our people, for we know that Danan has returned to us.’

At this, Hwenfayre’s eyes narrowed, taking on a dangerous glint. She never told him what his words meant to her, but she insisted on hearing the tale over and over again.

Now, as she lay in the bottom of the small boat, close to death, Wyn’s heart broke as he contemplated
what might have been. With thoughts of lost dreams troubling his mind, the former mercenary lay down to sleep beside his dying Princess.

He was awakened by the movement of the boat. It was rocking, rocking heavily. Water slopped over the side, splashing on his face. In surprise, he sat up quickly. Beside him Hwenfayre moaned in her sleep as she rolled with the boat’s motion.

It was dark, but he could easily make out the rising swell around the boat. Above him, the wind was picking up, whipping their small sail about. He reacted quickly, but without the instinct of a true seaman. The boat heaved, throwing him off his feet, and he fell down, waking Hwenfayre.

‘Wyn! What is happening?’ she cried.

Before the big mercenary could answer there came a solid crunch. The boat shuddered and Wyn was thrown off his feet. He crashed heavily into the gunwale, striking his head. As he slid into unconsciousness the last thing he saw was Hwenfayre’s terrified eyes staring into his, her mouth open in a silent cry.