The Awakening (16 page)

Slowly the pain receded. Through a red haze the dawn broke, sending agonising shafts of light into Wyn’s numb mind. He lay on his back, blinking as consciousness eased its way through the black wall of his stupefied mind.

With a groan he tried to sit up. A sharp, stabbing pain in his chest forced him to lie down again. He was unable to focus either his eyes or his mind, but there was something nagging him. Something was wrong. A warm trickle ran along his chest, slowly pooling just below his sternum. He tried to see what it was but his hand would not move.

His pain-addled mind noticed that his hands were bound tightly behind his back. The ache in his back finally registered as he went to roll over, but once again the sharp stabbing pain in his chest prevented him from doing so. Now annoyed, Wyn forced his eyes open to glare up at whatever was keeping him down.

A man glared back along the shaft of a spear. With a snarl, he snatched the spear away and roughly dragged Wyn to his feet, then, with a shove, pushed him towards the forest.

They walked for what seemed like hours, Wyn stumbling over the uneven path, his uncommunicative companion ever ready with his spear. Wyn tried to concentrate on where he was going but his mind seemed unable to focus. Instead he found himself recalling every moment of the previous day—the assassins, the dead islander, the men he killed, Morag. But mostly he kept thinking about Hwenfayre. Even as he staggered and fell, lurching unsteadily through the forest, her every expression, her eyes, her wild, untamed hair, her smile, the smell of her skin, everything about her kept coming back to him with the clarity that only love can provide.

As that word rang through his mind he stopped short, earning another spear thrust. Without thought he spun about to face his attacker, who casually clubbed him to the ground with the butt of his spear.

Love?
He lay still, feigning unconsciousness to cover his confusion. To be sure, he loved his Princess, his High Priestess, the true daughter of Danan, but he knew this was more. And he also knew he had no business harbouring such feelings. Wyn was not a man given to great emotions. Love was not unknown to him, but what he felt for Hwenfayre confused him. At times he thought he would be overwhelmed by the feelings he had but did not understand.

A kick to his side roused him, and once more he was dragged to his feet. By the time they stepped out of the forest, Wyn’s back was dripping blood from many wounds.

They had come to a village. As soon as they appeared, a cry went up from all who saw them. Within moments they were surrounded by happy,
smiling villagers who seemed overjoyed by the return of the spear-carrying man. For the moment they were content to ignore his bleeding, semi-conscious prisoner. But that changed all too soon. The spear-carrier indicated Wyn. In response, several villagers grabbed Wyn and dragged him away, beating him as they did so.

They took him to a cage made of poles lashed together and threw him in. Then they dragged the cage along the ground until it fell heavily into a pit. Wyn lost consciousness when it hit the bottom.

It was dark when he finally came to. The cage was lying unevenly on the bottom of the pit, having landed on a large rock. He winced and tried to stand but as he did the cage lurched over, falling sideways until it lay flat. The tumble was enough to send him spiralling once more into unconsciousness.

He spent the next few days drifting in and out of consciousness, awakened by water tossed in his face to find the small meals that had been thrown down to him. He drank sparingly from the small puddles left from the water poured over him. His mind drifted, unattached, unaware of his surroundings, dimly noting the fact that his hands had been untied, distantly registering the pain in his body.

He didn’t know if it was morning or afternoon when his mind found its way back to clarity. The light was dim but even. He forced his aching body to sit up, trying to focus his eyes and his brain. His back ached, his limbs were cramped and stiff but his breathing was steady and his heart was beating reassuringly.

‘You are strong.’ The voice was low, soft, feminine. He looked to where he could make out a
woman kneeling on the ground outside his cage. ‘You are strong,’ she said again, ‘but not wise.’

Wyn tried to speak, but nothing more than a harsh rasp escaped his cracked and swollen lips.

The woman passed a water skin through the bars towards him. He unsteadily reached out and took it, raising it to drink. His hand shook so badly that most of the cool water spilled down his chest, but he swallowed enough to wet his throat.

‘Thank you,’ he croaked.

‘You are not welcome,’ she replied. ‘You should not be here at all. And you have no right to have survived this long.’

He tried to smile in reply, but merely succeeded in cracking his lips again.

‘If you insist on surviving much longer you will regret it,’ the woman said.

‘How so?’ asked Wyn.

‘If you live until the night of the next moon tide, you will be sacrificed to the Sea.’

‘The Sea is my mistress, lady. I do not fear her.’

‘Maybe not. But you would do well to fear her servants.’ She handed a bowl through the bars, withdrawing her hand quickly. ‘I will bring you food again tomorrow.’ She stood and turned to leave then looked back over her shoulder. ‘Try to die before then.’

He didn’t die that day. Instead, he waited for the woman to come back. She did so just before sunset. It had been a long, very hot day in the cage. With no shelter and no breeze in the pit, he lay exposed to the full heat of the sun as it sapped the energy from his mistreated body.

Despite his exhaustion, he heard her climb down the ladder. He did not turn his head as she padded across the pit and he did not look up as she knelt beside his cage. ‘I see you did not take my advice, assassin,’ she observed as she placed the bowl and flask inside the bars.

Still not moving, he replied. ‘My name is Wyn. And I am no assassin, lady.’

‘I do not care what your name is, but you were found near two murdered men of my tribe with the weapon of their deaths beside you.’

‘I did not kill them.’

‘That is not my concern,’ she said.

‘And what is your concern?’ asked Wyn as he eased himself up into a sitting position.

‘My concern is to guide you on your journey into death.’

Wyn frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘It is the belief of my people that when one dies one is beginning a great journey. It is a journey that no one should undertake ill-prepared. I am here to prepare you.’

‘Your preparations are badly timed, lady,’ he replied. ‘I have no intention of dying yet.’

‘You have no choice in the matter.’

‘We’ll see about that.’

‘As you say, assassin.’ She stood to leave. ‘Until tomorrow.’

‘Until tomorrow,’ said Wyn. He watched her walk away, and as she put her foot on the bottom rung of the ladder he called out, ‘What is your name, lady?’

‘My people call me the Key, but my prisoners call me Dinah.’

‘Until tomorrow then, Dinah.’

She climbed up without looking back.

The next day Wyn was feeling stronger. The day had not been so hot, as clouds had covered the sun. His wounds were beginning to heal and his mind was clearing. Also, the aching thirst had subsided, allowing him to save some of his water to drink during the day.

‘Tell me of yourself,’ Dinah urged.

‘I am a soldier. A man who follows orders.’

‘So who ordered you to kill my two fellow islanders?’

‘No one, because I did not kill them.’

‘But they are dead.’

‘So’s my father. But that doesn’t mean I killed him.’

‘Who did?’

‘What?’

‘Who did kill your father?’

‘History.’

‘Is that a person’s name? Or is it a way of avoiding the question?’

‘Neither. He was killed because he opposed the new in favour of the old. He was killed to let a new way take the place of an old way.’

‘You still have not answered my question: who killed your father?’

‘A young Sailer called Declan. He was a follower of a woman called Morag who wanted to rule my people. My father opposed her, and one day his boat never came back to the Raft. Declan claimed to have seen his boat taken under by a blaewhal. But blaewhals were rare at that time in that place.’

‘Why was he in a boat?’

‘I don’t remember, but he was a Carver, so I guess he was hunting.’

‘You speak in riddles, assassin. Since it appears that you have decided to live, a poor decision in my eyes, we have time. So stop talking as though I know your history. I do not even know what people you call your own.’

Wyn looked up and for the first time held her gaze. ‘I am a Child of Danan,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ she said.

‘You have heard of us, then?’

‘Who of those who live by the sea has not?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Why did you leave your people?’

‘I left to seek a place in the world, since my own place had been taken from me.’

‘How was it taken?’

Instead of answering, Wyn took a bite of food. He was surprised at how, after so many years, it still hurt to remember all that had happened. Slowly he chewed the tasteless morsel. By the time he had finished, Dinah was gone.

He dreamed during the night. His dreams left him sweating and cold in the morning, but he could not recall them.

Dinah was late. It was well after sunset when she climbed down the ladder with his food and water. As before she knelt by the bars to his cage, but he could tell there was something wrong.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

She shook her head and a tear trickled down her cheek. ‘Nothing to concern you, assassin.’

Wyn nodded. ‘I am no assassin, Dinah,’ he said.

‘You were telling me about finding a place in the world,’ said Dinah, wiping the tear away, her voice becoming businesslike.

‘After I left the Raft I sailed east. When I made land I signed on with a mercenary unit fighting a small war. I guess I wanted to fight, to somehow lose myself, maybe even die. It was an ugly little skirmish but I survived. And I learned a few things about myself. Not all of them good.’ He stopped to eat, watching Dinah. She watched him back, her face impassive. He continued. ‘I did that sort of thing for years. Sign up, survive, leave. But then I found myself a guard in a walled town by the Sea. I had managed to avoid the Sea up until then, but she kept calling to me. No matter how I try to avoid her, she always calls me.’

‘Calls you?’

‘I can’t explain it, but I went to her. I signed up as a common guardsman. I’d had worse jobs. At least I had a roof over my head and regular meals. But I’d only been there for a few days when I heard the song.’

‘What song?’

‘The Song of the Morning. It was one of the ancient songs of my people, sung to welcome the morning. I hadn’t heard it since the day I left the Raft.’

‘That’s something I still haven’t worked out. Why exactly did you leave the Raft?’

‘After my father died there was no place for me any more.’

‘But surely you had a life, a family to care for?’

‘My mother made it clear she did not want to have anything to do with me and I had no other family. Before my father died I was settled in what I was going to do. I was going to be a Carver, just like him. But Morag changed all that with her plans.’

‘But you still haven’t told me what her plans were.’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘I do not think you will be ready to leave this life and journey into death until you do.’

He smiled wryly. ‘Sounds like the best motivation to keep my mouth shut that I’ve heard for many a long day.’

‘So be it, then.’ She left without another word.

They did not speak for a few days after that. He was unwilling to start the conversation and she seemed willing to wait him out. All the while he felt himself getting stronger; his mind was clear and he spent much of the day thinking of a way to get out of his cage. It was going to be difficult as the bars were firmly tied with stout fibres and were themselves as thick as his forearm. His food was brought to him in a wooden bowl that was taken away when he had finished, and his water came in a skin. He had no tools. For a while he tried to work at the fibres but they were coated in a resin that made them hard as rock.

The part of the day he did not spend trying to escape he spent thinking about Hwenfayre. Just the thought of her name was enough to confuse him. Perhaps it was just infatuation with a girl who needed him he tried to tell himself, something that would pass. But even as he thought it he knew it was
not true. There was something about her that held him captive. It was not a simple physical attraction; he’d had enough of those to know what they were like. No, this was more. And it was not a simple case of young love; he’d had his share of that, too. He loved his Princess in a way that he had never thought himself capable of loving anyone. It was as though his recognition of his feelings in the forest had opened a floodgate of emotions that, now released, could not be held back. He tried to tell himself she was just a child, but he knew that to be a lie also. Even at seventeen she had a fire, a command about her that left him helpless. He had to find her again.

Then one day Dinah started to talk.

At first she spoke of her own people, their ways, their beliefs. Then she spoke of herself. She had no family, no lover, very few friends. Her role as guide into death gave her much grief as she watched those around her die, yet it gave her the wisdom that is found in grief. Wyn listened closely, in part out of a natural human need for company, but also to learn about his captors, perhaps to find a way to escape so that he could find Hwenfayre again.

Yet as he listened to Dinah’s tale, he found himself becoming interested. For the next few days, instead of her trying to learn about him, he learned about her. She was lonely, often sad but never despairing.

The guide into death for her village was a position that had been in her family for ten generations. As she was unmarried and fast approaching the end of her childbearing days, the task of selecting someone to take over from her was weighing heavily upon her mind. It was as if she needed to talk, to clear her
mind, help herself think. But she never called him by name.