The Awakening (17 page)

Slowly, as the days went by, she talked less and he talked more. He told her about his life after he left the Raft. The places he had been, the wars he had fought in, the men he had killed, the women he had met. But he could not bring himself to tell her of the woman he loved.

‘But you still haven’t told me about the Raft,’ Dinah said one day. ‘And I know,’ she continued in the face of his glare, ‘you keep saying you are not ready, but you only have a few days left before the time arrives for your death. The moon tide is fast approaching, and the preparations for your execution are well in hand.’

‘My execution?’

‘Your execution, assassin. Or had you forgotten why you are here?’

‘No. But I hoped you might have.’

She shook her head slowly. ‘That is not going to happen, assassin. Not given my tasks in this village.’

‘How so?’

‘Do you remember, some days ago, when I came to you and I was upset?’

‘Yes.’

‘That morning the wife of one of the men you murdered gave in to her despair and took her own life.’ Dinah stared at Wyn, her eyes hard. ‘She died in my arms, unprepared for the death that took her. It was all I could do to prevent the rest of her family from coming down here and taking you. I told them not to compound the suffering by making you leave unprepared as well as her. They barely heard me but they respected my wishes.’

‘So you think I owe you something?’

‘No. I was hoping you might respect our customs.’

‘Respect the customs of a people who would condemn me to a death that I have not earned? Respect the customs of a people who plan to murder an innocent man to ease their own pain? I don’t think so.’

Dinah reacted like she had been slapped. Her eyes showed shock and pain, as if betrayed. With an effort, she stood with dignity. ‘Then once more we have nothing to say to each other, assassin.’ She left without another word, but halfway up the ladder she looked back, which she had never done before. A coldly calculating part of Wyn’s mind started to work.

‘My father was Master Carver Aristide,’ he began the next morning before Dinah even sat down. ‘He was a respected man among his people and one who followed the old ways. For many years our people had sailed the Sea, loving her and enjoying her bounty. And every few generations Danan would come to us and teach us again the power of the Sea. She had not come for a long time when I was a boy and there were murmurings that she had deserted us. I remember listening to my father arguing with other men at night who were beginning to doubt the old ways. Our Priestesses had lost the power to control the Sea and to command her bounty. The Children of Danan were losing their way, adrift on the Sea that should have been our home. Even the Southern Raiders were becoming bold in attacking us. The High Priestess of the time was a strong woman but she had none of the old power. She ruled by fear and
manipulation, using the knowledge of Sailers and hunters rather than an understanding of the Sea.

‘I was just a boy but I heard enough to know that things were not as they should be. My mother taught me to read and my father had many books about the old ways. Even to a boy, being ruled by a High Priestess who had no power over the Sea seemed wrong. But this High Priestess had many followers; in fact, I remember that most people seemed to agree with her.’

‘But what was she saying?’

‘That it was time for the Children of Danan to move on, to put aside the old ways and take on new ways. In part I think it was because she had no powers, but there were those who had forgotten the wonder and majesty of the Sea and how she would respond to us. The High Priestess was having her way. So my father approached the Navigator of our Raft.

‘Before he did this, he gave me his tools. I knew what that meant: he was not expecting to come home. The handing over of a Master’s tools to his oldest son or his apprentice is supposed to be done at his retirement from the craft. As he gave them to me, he said, “Son, you are to treasure these tools and use them with pride.” Then he left.

‘I never saw him again. He did not come back from his meeting with the Navigator and it was two days before the lie about his fatal meeting with a blaewhal started to circulate. Naturally my mother was frantic, so she went to see the Priestess of our Raft. She spun my mother some equally thin lie about Master Carver Aristide’s suitable end, about
how he had gone to the Mistress he loved and served and the like.’ Even though he had thought about this story so many times, it was the first time Wyn had ever told it to anyone, and he was surprised to hear his voice grow thick with emotion, to feel the burn of tears in his eyes. He forced himself to continue. ‘I went to the Navigator myself, to ask him what had happened at their meeting. He was kind and friendly, expressing his sadness at the unfortunate loss of my father and how the Raft would miss the skills of such a fine Carver. But when I challenged him about his meeting with my father, he angrily denied such a meeting ever took place. Things got a little heated and I ended up hitting him. He went down like a sack of dead fish and did not get up. I panicked and ran.

‘The next morning I was dragged in to answer for my actions before the Priestess of our Raft. I should have guessed there was something wrong when instead of my own Priestess, the High Priestess herself sat over me. The Navigator stood up and spun some fanciful tale about me spreading lies about him and the High Priestess. I told the truth as I knew it, foolishly including my father’s worries about where the High Priestess was leading us. Up until that moment she had been listening to me like some gentle aunt, but suddenly her mood changed. She became hard and cold. When I finished, she pronounced judgment on me. I was to be stripped of my father’s tools and his name. My mother and I were to be denied our position and our home on our Raft. We were made paupers, with no way of ever changing our situation.

‘I stayed with my mother for a few years, eking out a living doing odd jobs until she faded away and died. Then I left.’

‘And why are you going back?’

‘Why do you think I am going back?’

‘Aren’t you?’ she asked gently.

‘Yes, I am,’ he admitted.

‘So why?’

‘I found the Danan. I was taking her home when we were washed up on your island by a storm. Somehow the High Priestess knew we were here and took her away from me.’

Dinah nodded, her eyes unfathomable. ‘You die tomorrow night when the tide runs at its peak.’ She stood and walked to the ladder. ‘Die well, Wyn,’ she said without turning back.

Dinah did not return the next day. Instead Wyn was visited by a man in ceremonial garb. In one hand he held a long heavy-bladed spear, in the other he carried a sack. With a single sweeping motion of the spear he sliced open the cords holding the cage closed. When the door of the cage swung open, he tossed the sack inside, then turned and climbed out of the pit. As Wyn watched him go, he became aware of several other men, similarly garbed and armed, ringing the top of the pit. All thoughts of escape faded.

He looked at the sack. Inside there was a flask of water, a bag of fruit, some ceremonial artifacts and a small vial. The vial had a note attached to it.

Assassin,

This sack contains your requirements to travel into death. Most are significant to our
beliefs, which I know you do not share, but this vial is special. Take it with you as you journey but do not make it a part of you. Remember that the caruda fears that which it cannot see and when you go back to your Mistress, swim deep and swim always towards the light.

Die well, Wyn.

Dinah

Two hours after darkness fell, Wyn was dragged out of the pit and led at spear point to a high cliff overlooking the sea. Below him the inky water heaved slowly. Above him the moon shone brightly. He stood in silence with his escort of about twenty men. They were clearly waiting for some sign, some event that would signal the end of his life.

A sudden hissing, roaring sound erupted from the waters below. He looked down. The water that moments before had been calm was now boiling and churning like a pot on a fire. The Sea was alive with thousands of fish, each one creating a brilliant trail of phosphorescence as it thrashed about in a frenzy.

‘Assassin,’ intoned one of the men behind him. ‘You are to be offered to the waters in payment for your crime. The caruda that run below come every year when the moon tide runs. They will be your executioners. Die well.’

The rest of the men lowered their spears and advanced on Wyn, driving him towards the cliff edge. As he backed away from the spear points that glinted in the moonlight, he took the vial that Dinah had given him. He unstoppered it, turned and dived off the cliff.

As he fell, he stretched his arms above his head holding the unstoppered vial in one fist, being careful not to squeeze it.

He hit the water hard, the brutal impact driving the air from his body. The searing agony that swept through him burned like fire. Down he plunged, through the water that was bright with the trails of thousands of seething caruda fish. But a strange thing happened. The violence of his entry into the water had crushed the vial that Dinah had given him. As he had half expected, a thick black ink poured out, enveloping him and entirely covering the phosphorescence caused by his passing.

Instead of tearing him apart, the caruda fish were driven away from this rude black missile that plunged through them. He tore through their ranks, deeper and deeper, until he had passed right through the school. With his head pounding and his chest screaming, he turned himself upright, to swim back up, when the words in Dinah’s note came to him:
swim deep and swim always towards the light.
Ignoring the pain, he looked around.

Seeing a faint glow somewhere below him, he struck out and down towards the light. The pain in his chest, the burning from his wrist, which he had almost certainly broken, and the red agony in his head threatened to overwhelm him as he thrust his protesting body on.

The light became brighter, took on shape. It was a lantern, a flame. He felt his eyes were playing tricks on him, he was almost dead, his head felt as though it was about to explode, when suddenly he broke the surface of the water.

Gasping, he pulled himself out onto a ledge, where he lay drawing the cool damp air into his aching lungs. It was a few minutes before he was able to give any heed to his surroundings.

He was in an underwater cave. The only way out was up a narrow tunnel that stretched above him. Beside him the lantern flickered, casting inconstant light on the walls. A rope attached to the top of the lantern snaked its way up the chimney. Something about this cave seemed wrong, filling him with the need to leave as soon as possible, so he dragged himself to his feet and considered the climb.

It would not be difficult, even in his aching state, so he reached up into the narrow gap and started climbing. The rock was wet, dripping with sea water. He frequently disturbed small scuttling creatures that rattled away from his groping arms as he searched for handholds, but there was little or no plant life. It was clear that this whole area was normally underwater and never received sunlight. He knew that should puzzle him but his mind was focused on the next hand or toe hold as he pushed upwards.

Finally he heaved himself out of the chimney, to lie face down and panting on a sandy beach.

‘So you are both strong and wise after all.’

‘Your note was not that hard to understand, Dinah,’ he said, rolling over and looking up at the woman who sat cross-legged beside him.

She smiled gently, the first time he had seen her smile. It was a melancholy sort of a smile, slightly lopsided, but genuine. ‘I was rather proud of the subtlety,’ she said. ‘I was sure no one would dare to
open the gifts of the Guide, but it doesn’t pay to be careless.’

‘True.’ He sat up, wincing as muscles protested. ‘But why? I thought you believed me to be an assassin.’

‘No. Not from the first time I saw you,’ she disagreed. ‘I have seen murderers. I have spent time with hard men, evil men, preparing them to make their journey into death. And no murderer ever spoke as you did. I decided that you had to go and find your Princess.’ She reached out and smoothed his hair back from where it had fallen over his eyes. ‘I always knew this cave would come in handy one day.’

Wyn frowned at her, partly in confusion at her words, partly in concern at what her gesture might mean.

As if sensing his thoughts, Dinah removed her hand and stood to pull the rope that raised the lantern. ‘The cave below is only open on the nights of the moon tide. I discovered it years ago when I came down here to escape the sound of the executions above. Some peculiarity of the tide holds the water back, emptying the cavern and opening the tunnel. It fills up again soon after the moon sets and is inaccessible until next time.’ She raised the lantern above her head to shine it around the beach. ‘This is my special place. My father showed it to me on the day he named me his successor.’ Wyn looked at the beach. It was short, maybe ten strokes across, with overhanging rocks that would shield it from above. No one on top of the cliff would ever know it was here. The black water lapped gently a few paces from
where Wyn sat. Just offshore, rocking with the sea’s motion, was a boat rigged for open-water sailing. Seeing the direction of his gaze, Dinah went on, ‘Yes, Wyn, go. Go and seek your Princess. Save her. Save yourself.’ Abruptly the lantern went out. In the sudden darkness he heard the sound of softly running feet, then, from a distance, ‘Don’t die, Wyn.’

And she was gone.

It was a good boat. Well built and well provisioned, it would serve him nicely. Within a few hours Wyn knew she was one of those boats that sailors speak of as being well behaved. She sat evenly in the water and responded smoothly to his guidance, easing over the swells comfortably, her sails swelling proudly in the breeze that bore him swiftly away from the island.

Sailing on a calm night under the moonlight gave him time to think about his strange encounter with Dinah, time to think about her words and her actions. How easily he heard her, how completely he misunderstood her every word. Why had she sent him to his death merely to offer him escape? He shook his head to clear those disturbing thoughts, only to have them replaced with thoughts that were just as disturbing.

Hwenfayre
, he thought,
where are you?

In his mind, awash as it was with confusion, it was that one thought that drove him on. Several times in the first week or so of his travels he saw inviting islands, rich with lush greenery, surrounded with
sparkling waters teeming with fish, but each time he stared at an island he saw a pair of lavender eyes, wild, untamed white-blonde hair and a luminous smile.

He left the islands behind and ventured out into the open ocean. The swell deepened, lengthened and grew more powerful as if spreading its shoulders for battle. The wind freshened, carrying with it the distinctive smell of the deep ocean. Beneath the boat’s keel, the water grew darker, colder and less tame. It took on the aspect of a wild thing; no longer the pet of the islanders, it became its own creature, one against whom a sailor could truly test himself in a contest as old as humanity itself. Wyn’s boat seemed smaller, more fragile, more at risk as his instincts grew more wary and his senses became heightened.

Like all warriors, he relished the contest, feeling in himself the old strengths and drives reawaken. He felt more alive than he had for years with the savage joy of a life-and-death struggle filling his being. So many things he thought he had forgotten came back to him, so many skills and memories surfaced as the years he had spent away from his home sloughed off him like an old cloak. The Sea filled his mind, washing him clean once more, but Hwenfayre filled his dreams.

He slept when the Sea let him, and then only briefly, but whenever his eyes closed he could see her face, hear her voice, almost feel her skin. There were times when he was awakened suddenly, not by a shift in the wind or a change in the swell, but by the half-heard strains of a harp playing over the sea, welcoming him into the morning.

The boat was well stocked with dried fish and vegetables, and the time-proven equipment used by all the islanders to distil sea water into fresh using the sun’s heat, and simple tools needed to gather food from the Sea’s bounty.

Thus it was almost a disappointment when, some weeks after setting out, he sighted another sail.

It had distinctive rigging, which he felt he should recognise. He stared at it as it approached. Then it dawned on him. A shock of fear thrilled through him, galvanising him into action. One by one, he tossed the water purifier, the fishing gear, his food and his stored water overboard. He tore his clothes and pulled down his sail. Weighting it with his boots, knife and belt, he tossed it overboard as well. Then he sat down to wait while his empty boat bobbed in the light swell.

The ship altered course slightly to head directly towards him. With a speed that confirmed his first suspicions, it bore down on him. Soon he could see the white water at its bow as it tore through the swell, and hear the cries of its crew.

But, as it drew closer, the voices changed from what were unmistakably yells of bloodlust to sounds of concern.

‘Ahoy!’ came the cry from the ship. ‘How fare you, traveller?’

‘Not well,’ he called back.

A coarse but good-natured laugh greeted his assertion. ‘That we can see, traveller. Care for a ride?’

Wyn made a show of considering the offer. Finally he nodded. ‘I think I might accept your kind offer. My afternoon’s sailing has begun to bore me.’

Again a burst of laughter greeted his words. A rope was tossed to him. He caught it and made it fast to the prow of his boat. The crew above him pulled him close, then he climbed up the rope. As he reached the railing, rough hands grabbed him and hauled him aboard while other men clambered over the side to secure his boat.

‘Welcome, traveller,’ said a sailor. He was a huge man dressed in the leather and canvas of a Southern Raider.

Wyn thanked his early lessons of their ways. Whilst they were violent and brutal reavers of any who sailed the sea, they were committed to rescuing any who had fallen afoul of her whims. He remembered his father telling him the only way of avoiding the Raiders’ violence was to be drifting and lost on the open ocean.

The massive man before him looked Wyn over carefully. ‘You don’t look like a castaway and there have been no storms hereabouts recently. What is your tale?’ As the man spoke, the mood of the others changed perceptibly. A quiet muttering began and a number of the crew started to finger the hilts of their swords in anticipation. Wyn became aware that his life hinged on his answer.

‘My last captain did not like my taste in rum,’ he said. The other man frowned. ‘He seemed to think,’ continued Wyn, ‘that his rum and mine were different, and he took it badly that I preferred his.’ A smile spread across the Raider’s face. ‘So when I sampled his rum once too often, last night as it happened, he suggested I find myself a new boat. But as I did not have one on me at the time, he gave me
one.’ The smile broadened; a few chuckles were heard from the crew. ‘Sadly,’ Wyn continued, ‘he neglected to give me anything else but the boat. I was starting to get hungry.’

‘Welcome aboard the
Gretchen
,’ said the Raider. ‘You’ll find we have no such silly rules here. What’s one’s is all’s.’ A cheer went up from the others as Wyn became one with the Southern Raiders.

The big man gave the order to alter course and the crew dispersed immediately to their various tasks. Wyn was left alone, staring at him. ‘I am the Captain of this vessel,’ he said. ‘My name is Marek, but you can call me “Captain” or “Sir”. We have only one rule aboard, and it’s easy so everyone can understand it: I give the orders, you obey them.’

Wyn nodded. ‘I understand, Sir.’

‘I think we’ll get along fine. What do they call you?’

‘Wyn, Sir.’

‘Wyn,’ he looked up to the top of the mainmast, ‘it’s time for the lookout to be relieved. Go aloft.’

‘Sir.’

He worked hard, but the food was good and plentiful and the rum as free as Marek had said, and the crew were pleased to have another pair of hands to share their labours. It was clear that once the Captain had accepted him, there were no doubts about him from the others. He was one of the crew immediately. A hammock was slung for him below decks, some gear was found for him and he was welcomed at the meal table. He quickly discovered that he had chosen well with his explanation about his predicament, for a brash
disregard for authority was common. These were men bonded together by the harshness of their lives, their shared struggle against the Sea for existence and their paradoxical reverence for their captain.

His hammock was slung between a big islander named Sacchin and a wiry, dark-skinned man called Garth. Within a few days of joining the crew, Wyn decided Marek was a good captain. He showed a canny knack for the winds and a firm hand in commanding the men. Wyn, with his long black hair, heavy frame and fighter’s stance, fitted in immediately. Most of the men had a past, so his reticence to speak of his own was not out of place.

He had a good head for heights, and the solitude that being on top of the mainmast brought appealed to him, so he found himself aloft regularly. It was about two weeks after joining the Raiders that he caught sight of a sail.

‘Whereabouts?’ called Marek when Wyn had bellowed his sighting.

‘Port bow,’ he called back, pointing.

‘Come about,’ ordered Marek. The helmsman responded by spinning the wheel about and the ship heeled over as it altered course to intercept the vessel.

The
Gretchen
cut through the slight swell smoothly as it made its way towards the other sail. High atop the mainmast, Wyn frowned. The ship they were chasing was not behaving like any other he had seen. Instead of fleeing at the first sight of the distinctive rigging and sail of the Raiders, it seemed to be slowly turning away, as if damaged. The crew were preparing themselves for an attack, distributing
weapons, lighting the fires, shutting all hatches. Marek himself, always armed, spent the time carefully watching the other ship.

Abruptly he spun around and stared towards the other horizon, but Wyn was ahead of him.

‘Sail!’ he cried, pointing. A second sail had appeared on the other side of the Raiders’ vessel. It came fast, rigged for speed, cutting through the water straight as an arrow towards them. Marek called orders, discerning the trap. The sailors threw down their weapons, scrambling to put about. As soon as the
Gretchen
started to turn, the first ship put aside any pretence and drove towards them. White water appeared at her bow as she trampled the waves beneath her.

Wyn felt the old thrill again, half terror, half excitement: that sharpening of the senses as imminent death approaches swiftly; that intoxicating dread of the fight mixed with the adrenaline surge of anticipation. Every nerve of his body sang as he watched the oncoming ships. Even as he did so, he readied himself for the fight, winding a leather strap around his left fist, tightening his belt for the cutlass he would soon have and tying back his hair. Then he waited for Marek’s orders.

They were not long in coming. ‘Any more sails?’ the Captain bellowed.

‘No.’

At Wyn’s answer, Marek waved him down. He quickly climbed down the ropes to the deck where a cutlass was thrust into his hand. With a nod, the Mate indicated for Wyn to take his station at the port bow. He stood between Garth and Sacchin,
both of whom preferred the axe to the cutlass as their weapon.

Sacchin grinned tightly at him as he arrived. ‘A good day for a fight, eh, Wyn?’

Wyn looked up at the cloudless blue sky above and felt the fresh breeze on his face as he replied, ‘As good a day as any to face death.’

Garth snorted a mirthless laugh. ‘It’s just the sort of day I would choose to die. Three months out, three to go, my lady at home about to give birth and scarce plunder in the hold. Perfect.’ He gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘How about you, friend Wyn? What sort of day would you choose?’

‘Cold. Grey. Winter I think is the only time to die.’

Sacchin laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Hah! You sound like a woman, Wyn. Next you’ll be telling us there’s a girl waiting somewhere. A girl of such great beauty that her smile outshines the sun, and when you left her you couldn’t tell her you loved her. And now you’re worried you’ll die without her knowing.’

Wyn shot him a dark look, his eyes hard.

‘There is!’ cried Sacchin in delight. ‘Hah! I knew it! The dark and silent Wyn has a woman. The man is human.’

‘And you, Sacchin?’ asked Wyn softly. ‘Do you have a woman?’

‘Me? No. I fled my home a criminal and an outcast. There’s no woman left to cry over Sacchin’s untimely death on the seas.’

‘That death will come much sooner if you cannot hold your tongue,’ growled Marek. The Captain was standing behind them, staring over Wyn’s shoulder
at the first of the oncoming ships. ‘I want your mind on that crew over there, and on how many wives you can have lamenting their widowhood tonight.’

Sacchin nodded, the smile almost leaving his face.

A battle at sea fought under sail is a strangely slow-motion event. The ships approach each other at the behest of the wind, engaging each other in a dance of jibes and tacks that is almost ritualistic. A certain inevitability takes over as they move closer, the tension growing until it is almost unbearable. On all three ships men gripped weapons with palms grown sweaty, gave silent prayers to their various gods and waited.

‘Release!’ came Marek’s roar and the first of the volleys from their mangonels were loosed. They shot their loads of heated metal fragments across the water. Immediately both other ships responded, loosing their own projectiles. From the ship to the starboard came red-hot sand, stinging and burning any unprotected flesh. From the ship to the port came pots of hot oil that burst in a splash of flame on the deck.

Men sprang to their tasks, some putting out flames, others reloading the mangonels while others prepared the grappling hooks. Another volley from each vessel sent more men screaming to the decks as metal, oil and sand reaped their deadly harvest. Wyn felt a harsh sting as glowing hot sand burned small holes in his shoulders. With a snarl, he brushed them off, his hand coming away bloodied. Beside him, Sacchin had experienced a similar fate, but the cheerful islander laughed out loud as another set of scars adorned his back. A bucket of water was tossed
over them as a fellow crewman noticed their injuries. The water cooled the burns, but the salt stung. Wyn turned and nodded to the man, but he was away immediately, refilling his bucket.

By now the ships were close enough to see the men each would soon be trying to kill. Some men tried to disguise the true nature of a battle but Wyn always went in with the clear reality before him. He looked his opponents in the eyes, so that he could remember them. Later, he made peace. For now, he stared across the water and selected his first.

Moments later, the three ships were locked together. Each deck became a swirling mass of men and weapons as the melee engulfed them all indiscriminately. Wyn found himself backed against the railing by a swarthy sailor who fought with a sword and a dagger. All his instincts came together, blocking out everything but the fight. He thrust, parried, dodged and slashed, driving the other man back, then ran him through. There was no need to seek out another opponent; one stepped up to him as soon as the first fell. He fought until his cutlass weighed heavy on his aching arm, until his chest and shoulders were a mass of wounds and his lungs burned with every breath. The air was thick with smoke, the screams of the maimed and dying and the smell of blood.