The Awakening (21 page)

When Tapash did not respond, Shanek leaned over and dragged him back to his feet. ‘Where did you get that bow?’ he shouted into Tapash’s pale, bloodstained face.

Tapash gurgled, blood trickling down his cheek. ‘I found it,’ he mumbled.

‘Burn you!’ shouted Shanek. ‘Your life is mine! You will answer me true or you will die here and now.’

‘Then kill me, First Son of the Empire,’ Tapash slurred. ‘I owe you nothing.’

With a curse, Shanek shoved the Tribesman against a tree. ‘Coerl,’ he snapped, ‘bring that back to camp!’

Leone heaved the Tribesman over her shoulder and followed Shanek. Anger, the need for violence, the burning desire for revenge: all much simpler, cleaner emotions, Leone thought, as Tapash’s blood stained her uniform. They were so much easier to deal with than the confusion of the emotions she had been experiencing earlier.

Ahead, Shanek crashed through the undergrowth in fury, muttering and cursing to himself. Leone wished she were close enough to hear what he was saying.

What came over me?
she asked herself again.
What was I thinking? How could I say that to the First Son?

Shanek stopped abruptly. He turned to face her. In the darkness, she could just make out the pale gleam of the whites of his eyes. ‘Coerl Leone,’ he said softly. ‘I just remembered that you offered me your life a moment ago.’

Now it comes
, she realised. Allowing Tapash to slide off her shoulder, she stood straight and drew her sword. With the ritual movements required of a Coerl, she reversed it and handed it to the First Son. He took it, the cold steel sliding across her hand, leaving a fine mark that oozed blood.

‘Leone,’ Shanek said.

He paused, and Leone noticed he had not used her title.
So he strips me of my title first. It’s fair. I deserve to die in shame.
The pause continued. She realised he intended her to respond.

‘Yes, First Son?’

‘I hold your life in my hand right now, don’t I?’

‘Yes, First Son.’

‘Is this power?’

‘Yes, First Son. This is power.’ She was never prouder of her control than at that moment.
Get it done, you burned bastard!

‘If I were the arrogant, cruel, burned bastard you consider me to be, I would kill you now, having stripped you of your title. I would leave you here to
bleed to death in this dark forest and no one would ever mourn you.’ He looked up.

Even in the dark she could feel the intensity of his gaze, and in that moment she knew hope. ‘That is true, Shanek,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘I deserved that,’ he conceded. ‘Leone, until tonight I never realised how much I have come to value your good opinion of me. To hear you say what you did has wounded me more deeply than I care to admit. I want you to promise me something.’

‘Anything, Shanek.’

‘If I let you live, will you promise to give me another chance to win your respect?’

‘Yes, First Son.’

They walked into the clearing side by side. Leone threw Tapash down beside the campfire and retreated into the shadows. Shanek stepped forward, the fire casting a ruddy glow across his face.

‘Why were we not challenged as we entered?’ he snarled.

Muttiah sprang to his feet. He gestured to one of his Fyrd, indicating that he should go and check. Cherise also stood, his focus on Shanek.

‘First Son, what happened?’ he asked.

‘This happened.’ Shanek indicated Tapash, lying at Leone’s feet.

‘Your prisoner? What about him?’

Shanek looked to his own Fyrd. ‘You,’ he said. ‘Harin. Go check on the prisoners.’

Harin leaped to obey and disappeared into the dark. Shanek stared at Muttiah. In the flickering, inconstant light of the fire, Leone saw darkness and
danger in Shanek that she had never truly believed to be there. He burned from within with a power and danger that both repelled and chilled her. In that moment, after the strange events by the stream, her view of him changed forever.

‘Muttiah,’ Shanek hissed. ‘You have some explaining to do.’

‘How so, First Son?’ Caldorman Muttiah, First Caldorman to the Commander of the Army, returned the glare of Shanek, First Son of the Empire, with arrogant confidence.

‘How is it that while under your personal responsibility, a chained prisoner escaped, killed his guards and made off with a weapon? He followed the Coerl and tried to kill her.’

‘The Coerl?’ asked Cherise. ‘Why her?’

‘Good question, Diplomat,’ said Shanek. ‘I’ve been asking that myself.’

‘Probably because…’ began Muttiah. ‘How do you know he killed the guards?’ he asked.

‘The bow he carried. He couldn’t get it from the owner without killing him. And you still haven’t told me why we were not challenged when we arrived.’

Caldorman Muttiah fixed Coerl Leone with a hard glare. ‘Perhaps because the First Son’s Fyrd is not as good as we are led to believe.’

Leone bristled and reached for her sword, but Shanek laid a restraining hand on her arm. ‘No, Coerl,’ he said, still looking at Muttiah. ‘Perhaps the Caldorman is right. Perhaps,’ he shifted his gaze to her, ‘we should send one of our men out to find the guards.’

Leone released her grip on her sword, allowing it to slide back into the scabbard. She gestured to
Ekaterina, indicating that she go and check the guards. As Ekaterina leaped to her feet, Harin strode back into the circle of light cast by the campfire.

‘First Son,’ he declared. ‘The prisoners are all dead.’

‘And the guards?’ asked Shanek.

Harin simply nodded; no words were needed.

‘How can this be?’ asked Cherise.

Shanek gave no answer, he just stared at Harin. ‘Dushyan and Lyaksandra? Both?’

‘Yes, First Son.’

‘And the prisoners? Still in chains?’

‘Yes, First Son.’

Muttiah suddenly roared an inarticulate bellow of rage. Before anyone could react, he took up his axe and launched a brutal attack on the semi-conscious Tapash. He had landed three savage blows, striking Tapash’s head from his shoulders and nearly cleaving the dead body in two by the time Leone could draw her sword. Blood spattered the ground, sizzled in the fire.

Shanek spun his bolas over his head and released it, wrapping the Caldorman with the metal cable around his body, causing him to drop the axe.

Muttiah wrestled against the constricting cable, all the while roaring and cursing. Shanek gave the older man a roundhouse kick to the chest, sending him staggering backwards off balance. When he reached the log he’d been sitting on, he tripped and fell heavily. He continued to struggle against the cable, the barbs scraping against his armour and opening nasty little wounds on exposed flesh. His inchoate cries of rage continued unabated until Shanek kicked him solidly in the side of the head.

The First Son looked down at the old man with an unreadable expression. Coerl Leone watched the whole scene aghast. She had just seen the third most powerful man on the continent attack and kick the third most senior man in the army into unconsciousness.

‘Coerl Leone!’ called Ekaterina.

Leone spun around to see Ekaterina enter the campsite. ‘The guards?’ she asked.

Ekaterina shook her head. ‘All four dead. Shot in the back.’ She held up four arrows. Even in the inconstant firelight, Leone identified Dushyan’s fletching. Along with Badghe, he was the finest archer in the army, and like most good archers he made his arrows to suit his own style. A sudden thought occurred to her.

‘Diplomat Cherise,’ she said. ‘How many of Caldorman Muttiah’s Fyrd were on duty tonight?’

The Diplomat shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Coerl,’ he said.

She gave Ekaterina a quizzical look. The soldier shook her head.
That’s eight I’ve lost today
, Leone thought. ‘What tribe was Tapash?’ she asked.

Ekaterina frowned. ‘I don’t know, Coerl, but Gerhay would know.’

‘Ask him.’

Ekaterina went to seek out Gerhay. Most of the Fyrd had gathered around the prisoners, checking for evidence of how Tapash was able to escape his chains and kill the two guards without anyone noticing.

Gerhay was half-Ettan. Brought up in the Ettan wilderness, his knowledge of the various tribes who wandered the northern wastelands was considerable.
He lacked the colouring of the far north, favouring his Oscrae father. He had brown hair, green eyes and a darker complexion. He took one look at Tapash and spat on the ground.

‘It’s Basharii,’ he snarled. ‘The worst scum of the lot.’

‘How so?’ asked Leone.

Gerhay squatted beside the damaged body. ‘See this,’ he indicated a tattoo visible on the torso. It would normally have been hidden, but Muttiah’s frenzied attack had damaged the leather to reveal it. ‘It’s an arox. They hunt them for sport and breed them as weapons. This one,’ he indicated Tapash, ‘was a torturer. He’d breed the arox for viciousness and feed unwelcome guests to it.’ Gerhay stood. ‘Remind me to thank the Caldorman when he comes to. He’s made the world a better place.’

‘Thanks, Gerhay,’ muttered Leone. The Ettan saluted and went back to the rest of the Fyrd. Leone was wondering what a Basharii Tribesman would have been doing with a trader in Ajyne.

And what burned ill-luck had brought him here, now?

Another thought occurred to her, one that sent a chill through her body. What if it was not luck?

Hwenfayre hummed quietly to herself. Another day of learning the words of songs she knew as well as if she’d written them. After a morning of music training, there were pots to clean and fish to gut. Then an afternoon of history and traditions lessons before the evening meal. Despite the tedium and drudgery, she found she was beginning to enjoy herself.

After overhearing the conversation about herself that night, she had decided to revel in her danger. Hylin was a teacher who demanded absolute attention and complete belief. No questions or debate were permitted. Whilst Hylin had cowed the other Novices with her sharp tongue and stern glare, Hwenfayre chose to ignore the steely gaze and snapped responses. Instead she drew on the tales that Wyn had told her to question everything the old Mistress of Novices taught. As well as the tales, she paid attention to the words of the songs. Most of them were simple songs about the Sea and her ways, but some spoke of devotion to a Mistress, of summoning power, of commanding the forces of the ocean’s might.

Whenever she asked about the meanings of these songs Hylin would fix her with her best icy stare and give one of two responses. She would either declare, ‘Novice, the meaning of that song is not permitted to anyone who has not achieved the rank of Priestess’ or ‘Novice, you speak of things you clearly do not understand’.

It became a game for Hwenfayre to keep a record of how often Hylin used each response. Today it was two priestesses and three not understands. It had been a good day. She had managed to soundly irritate old Hylin and at the same time Erin had given her one or two suspicious, yet calculating looks. At the end of the class she walked beside Hwenfayre, giving her a sidelong glance.

‘What is it?’ Hwenfayre asked innocently.

‘Why do you bait Hylin so?’ she asked.

Hwenfayre paused before answering, in part to consider what to tell her, but in part to allow a sailor to pass by. No matter what she was going to tell her new friend, she was sure she did not want it to be heard by a sailor.

‘I am not convinced,’ she started, ‘that Hylin is telling us everything. I cannot help but think there is more to being a Priestess than just overseeing justice and singing a few songs at ceremonies.’

Erin’s eyes widened as if in shock. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she said, watching Erin closely. ‘But I think there’s more. I think there’s something they’re not telling us.’ Erin’s response, neither too shocked, nor too comfortable, told Hwenfayre that she had
chosen wisely. If she were to be dangerous to Morag she would need allies.

The other girls who shared her room, Maeve, Hagan and Sara, were also on her list as possible allies, but they were proving less open to her ideas. Late at night, as she and Erin talked about the songs and stories they had practised during the day, the three girls lay silent, perhaps listening, perhaps sleeping. But they never raised a dissenting voice when Hwenfayre questioned the Teacher of Novices, unlike so many of the others.

In some ways it was like being back home. She was the outsider, the different one. Everyone knew her even though she did not know all of them. People she did not know would nod and refer to her by name, then fall silent as she walked by, watching, always watching. But there were differences. There she was denigrated, here she was feared.

It took her several days to realise the difference, but once she did, it was clear. The looks she received were not dismissive; they were nervous and quickly ended. The older members of the crew were the most afraid. It was they who most quickly averted their eyes or refused to look at her. Any who were about Morag’s age or younger seemed less afraid but even they gave the impression of nervousness around her.

It was subtle, and she was not always sure that she was seeing what she thought she was seeing, but for all of her life she had been on the receiving end of stares and looks, so she was accustomed to it. In fact there were times she could recall when it seemed that she went for days without talking to anyone, but she
was better at reading looks than she was at understanding conversation.

Every day she started her morning by slipping from her narrow bunk and creeping up on deck to greet the dawn. She took her harp, not her own which she still could not find, but the Novice harp she had been given. It had a harsh, scratchy tone and it was cracked, but it was better than no harp at all. Most mornings she met the High Priestess at the prow. Since the day when Morag had so finally extinguished her hopes, Hwenfayre had hardly spoken with her. Some mornings Morag acknowledged the Novice, but most she did not. Even so, Hwenfayre was sure that the High Priestess was becoming more uneasy about her presence every day.

One morning, when the south wind was bitter and clouds were scudding across the sky, Hwenfayre stood at the prow of the ship, softly singing a welcome to the morning. It was a song that she rarely sang; it spoke of melancholy, a quiet sadness that sometimes settled deep within her. She stood staring at the grey Sea, watching the slow swell as it eased across the water, her fingers unconsciously caressing the strings. Unbidden, the words of the song came to her lips and she sang of the pain, the longing that sometimes flooded her soul. As she sang, the waves of sorrow that swept across her were almost too much to bear.

Her eyes closed as she sang, her fingers faultlessly flowing over the strings. She lost herself in the song, allowing her spirit to soar. The sadness, the deep aching sorrow that had threatened to overwhelm her, faded as the song took her. A gentle peace beckoned
her from somewhere; she could almost taste it as she reached out with her spirit.

‘What are you doing, girl!’ The words cut across her thoughts; the hard slap cut across her face. Her fleeting moment of peace was dashed. With a cry, her hand went to where her cheek stung from the blow. Her eyes snapped open and she spun to stare at the High Priestess. Almost unnoticed, her borrowed harp slipped from her grasp and fell into the sea.

A sudden rage boiled within her, seizing her with a violence she had never before felt, and she took a short step towards Morag. The High Priestess stepped back at Hwenfayre’s unexpected fury.

For a moment the two of them stared at each other, neither moving.

Morag was the first to move. Regaining her composure in the face of Hwenfayre’s blazing eyes, she stepped up to stand so close their noses almost touched. ‘Don’t you ever play that song again!’ she hissed. ‘You have no idea what you are playing with.’

‘Do you?’ asked Hwenfayre. She did not flinch under the High Priestess’s anger. Startled by her response, Morag blinked and hesitated. Hwenfayre seized the initiative. ‘If what Hylin is teaching us is any indication, you have no idea yourself of what power lies in these songs,’ she said, so quietly that no one but Morag could hear.

The High Priestess narrowed her eyes dangerously. ‘You are a child, Hwenfayre. And you do not know everything, not by half,’ she snapped. ‘Do not presume to instruct me in the ways of the Rafts.’

‘I think someone should,’ muttered Hwenfayre as she went to move past Morag. But as she did, the High Priestess grabbed her arm and dragged her in close again.

‘Be very careful, child,’ she hissed. ‘People have died for much less.’

‘Then kill me,’ said Hwenfayre, looking Morag in the eye.

‘We shall see, Hwenfayre,’ said Morag, pushing her away. ‘We shall see.’

Hwenfayre watched her stalk away, her anger subsiding as quickly as it had arisen, leaving her feeling empty and strangely unsatisfied. She had not felt like this since the day she first met Wyn. That day, too, she had meant to greet the dawn but failed. But unlike that day, today she had been prevented by malice.

It was something she knew she would not forget.

Morag went below after speaking briefly with one of the sailors. Hwenfayre continued to watch the High Priestess as she disappeared down the companionway. So it was that she did not notice Declan’s approach.

‘Are you sure you want to do this, Novice?’ he asked quietly.

Startled, Hwenfayre spun around to face Declan. Briefly her anger flared again, but she forced it down when she saw Declan’s kind expression. ‘Do what?’ she asked.

The sailor nodded towards where the High Priestess had disappeared below decks. ‘The High Priestess Morag is not to be trifled with, Novice Hwenfayre,’ he said. ‘She is the leader of our people and has much power.’

Hwenfayre snorted dismissively. ‘Power? She hardly knows what her own songs mean.’

‘Not all power is mystical, Novice,’ he gently chided. ‘There is a great deal of power in commanding a people feared throughout the world. It may be that we do not live up to your dreams of a magical race who can conjure up storms and monsters at will, but we are not so lightly dismissed by those who share the Sea with us.’

‘How so?’

Declan smiled as he looked away, out over the Sea. ‘We have been sailing these waters since before most histories began. As a people we know more of the vagaries and mysteries of her ways than any other ever has. Even in a simple battle on the water we would defeat any enemy, with or without mystical help. And that is assuming these songs you sing are what you think they are.’

Hwenfayre nodded. ‘But I have seen what these songs can do.’

Declan allowed a fleeting smile. ‘Do not underestimate the Sea and her ability to surprise even the most experienced sailors. I have seen many strange things that most men would describe as sorcery.’ He turned away from her to stare out at the open waters around them. ‘The Sea is vast and dangerous and it can turn on you like a caruda, but it cannot be commanded. Not by the High Priestess, not by any man, nor,’ he turned back to look at her, ‘by you. Be very careful, Novice. You seem a nice girl; it would be a shame to see you end up as fish food.’ With a nod and a half-smile, he turned and walked away.

It was hard for Hwenfayre to concentrate on her lessons, her mind constantly replaying the two conversations. Whilst the High Priestess had startled and angered her, it was Declan’s quietly understated threats that unnerved her. There was something far more terrifying in his simple statements than in the harsh blustering of Morag.

With her mind wandering, it was not surprising that she missed most of what Hylin was talking about. But towards the end of the morning’s lesson the old Mistress of Novices hummed a few bars of a song. There was something about the melody that caught Hwenfayre’s attention. With a start she realised it was the song she had tried to sing that morning. When she looked at Hylin she found her teacher staring back at her with a calculating look in her eye. Their eyes met and Hylin nodded slightly and stopped humming.

At the end of the lesson, Hylin gestured for Hwenfayre to stay behind. Normally this would have meant a scolding, so the other girls scampered quickly past her. When they were alone Hylin closed the door.

‘I hear you managed to annoy the High Priestess again, Novice,’ she said without preamble.

Hwenfayre nodded.

‘Normally I would not recommend that as a wise course of action,’ Hylin went on. ‘But there are times when, with care, it can be, um,’ she paused, searching for the right word, ‘profitable.’

Hwenfayre’s eyes widened at her choice of word. ‘Profitable?’ she asked. ‘How so?’

Instead of responding, Hylin stepped aside and ushered Hwenfayre out. ‘I will see you tomorrow,
Novice,’ she said. ‘When we will be learning a new song. A song without words.’ Hwenfayre went through the door, but paused at Hylin’s final words. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘there are many songs that can be sung without a harp and still retain their power.’

Hwenfayre spent the day considering what Hylin had said. During her few moments of rest in between her tasks, she hummed the tunes she would normally play on a harp. It was strange but not altogether unpleasant. On a number of occasions as she hummed, she noticed her fellow Novices staring at her as if half-recognising the tune. Only Erin held her eye long enough to look surprised.

It took several days of this quiet practice before she felt confident enough to greet the dawn without a harp. She felt the lack of her morning welcome keenly, but believed it was worth the sacrifice, especially when the morning was so magnificent. Even as she dressed for the day, the soft pre-dawn light washed over her from the porthole. She hurried up on deck, every nerve tingling.

As before, the crew was working quietly, indicating that the High Priestess was also on deck. Hwenfayre smiled to herself, thinking how appropriate it would be for Morag to be present when she sang this song.

The High Priestess was standing alone in the prow of the ship, staring out at the slowly brightening sky. Gently, almost absently, Morag fingered the strings of her harp as she watched another dawn at sea. As Hwenfayre walked silently to stand behind her, Morag started to sing the song to greet the morning. The rich and beautiful sounds washed over
Hwenfayre, filling her soul with the simple joy of being alive and on the water.

The music took her as she listened to the High Priestess’s soaring, rich voice. Despite herself and her reasons for being there, it lifted her above the simple and led her away to a time and place in her mind where she was free of all distractions, free to think and be herself. She felt herself being drawn back, back to where she first came alive, to that time and place where she most loved this music and felt its magic. Back to the time she first met Wyn.

She remembered his stories, his strong, callused hands, his frightening strength, but most of all she remembered his timeless eyes. The way he could stare at her and seem not to see her but someone else, someone who she wanted to be but could not be. The way he had so gently undressed her and eased her pain with his hard but kind hands. The way he spoke of the Sea with such longing and love.

The way he left her.

Abruptly the peace left her soul and pain jolted her back to the here and now. Back to the High Priestess. Back to the reasons she stood alone at dawn. But as she stood, remembering, the song in her heart changed. Instead of the peaceful, uplifting greeting song she had planned, a different song came to her. A song of great anger, of pain and loss, came to her lips. She sang words she barely knew, words she had sung only once before.