The Awakening (11 page)

‘Wyn, there are many things that I do not understand. Why would any wish me dead? And what power do I have?’

Wyn took a deep breath. ‘Princess,’ he started, ‘you are the living incarnation, the avatar, of Danan. You have her wildness, her passion, her face. You carry the white harp and you sing the songs of the sea. Once every generation or two Danan comes back to our people, but she has been absent for several generations, and our people have changed. We have left behind many of our old ways, and much of our old life. A new way of life has grown among the Children of Danan, and the return of the old ways in you, Princess, may not be welcomed by all.’

Hwenfayre’s eyes grew wider and wider as he spoke. ‘Do you think that these men may have been sent by my own people?’

‘It is possible, my Princess. Power such as yours does not go unnoticed. What you unleashed on the wall would have sent mystic shock waves around the world. Once you have been found, you could well be in danger.’

‘Wyn. What should I do?’

‘I don’t know, Hwenfayre. But we must be careful from now on. And we should leave this island as soon as we can.’

Her eyes were a mystery as she stared at him. She nodded slowly, removing her hand from his.

Wyn stood. ‘But now, Princess, you must rest. You have suffered much, and you need to get your strength back.’

She gave him a small, wan smile that did not touch her eyes, then turned away from him to lie down.

Wyn stared down at the woman who had so changed his life so quickly. Lying on the sandy floor of a cave, on an island many miles from her home, wrapped in his thick blue guardsman’s cloak with her back to him, she looked so vulnerable, so small. Yet her strength, her vitality continually surprised him. He had seen so many princes, so many coerls, all of them powerful, all of them now dead. But this young woman, having but recently left childhood behind, could, given a chance, shake the very foundations of the world with her awesome power. His heart ached within him as he considered the dangers that she could face, knowing as he did that he could not be beside her to protect her from the very people she sought to join. Despite her arcane power, she was a gentle soul with little protection against the guile and malice of people.

Every day the song of morning laid bare her gentleness for all the world to see. It was a song that would always reveal the heart. The soaring poignancy of Hwenfayre’s voice was not to be denied, nor was it dissembled. He longed to take her in his arms, to hide her from what must come, but instead he turned to leave the cave.

During the rest of the day, he worked on making some tools with which he hoped to repair their damaged boat. By the time the sun dipped towards the clear blue horizon, Wyn was satisfied with his day’s work. He had buried the three bodies—the two Raiders and the dead islander—as well as
producing some rudimentary tools. The hard work helped him put aside his growing, and disturbing, feelings for the waif-like girl whom he had taken from the relative safety of home and plunged into the dangers of the untamed sea. All day, whenever he paused either to drink from the clear stream or to eat a little, he found his mind drifting back to Hwenfayre. He caught himself reliving every conversation, every time they had touched, every smile she gave him, every time she had said his name. Most disturbingly, he found himself remembering the feel of her skin as he had undressed her and wrapped her in his cloak.

As a trained fighting man he had met many women. Mostly they had been those unfortunate women who had, for whatever reason, attached themselves to garrisons and plied the oldest trade with the soldiers. He was no innocent and had availed himself of their sweet services as he had felt the need, but this girl had touched his heart in ways that he had never encountered, never known existed. Despite his hard life, his many experiences, nothing had prepared him for how this delicate, frail-seeming young woman had broken down his defences.

For years he had separated himself from any attachment, any closeness. He had built a hard shell around himself that had shielded his pain from those who would seek to touch him. The betrayals of his youth had left him damaged, but now this woman had appeared out of nowhere to drag his hidden past out into the light of day. He was not sure he could survive the pain again. His only remedy was to push his weary body as hard as he could in the hope that
the pain of aching muscle and sinew would drown out other, older pains.

By the time he had made his way back to the cave where he had left Hwenfayre, it was almost dark. There was a small fire burning at the cave mouth, but she was nowhere to be seen. He experienced a moment’s panic before he heard her voice calling him from the nearby stream.

After he responded, she called to him to wait at the cave mouth. She had a surprise for him. Her voice was stronger than it had been, and she sounded rested. Wyn relaxed slightly, waiting for his surprise.

It came with a rustle. ‘You can turn around now,’ she announced.

He did so, and was greeted by the sight of a smiling Hwenfayre, clad in new clothes. She twirled for him, displaying a grass skirt with a shirt made of fabric reclaimed from her torn shift. Her feet were bare.

With unpractised grace, she curtsied. When her head came up, a smile danced across her lips, her eyes glowed. ‘So, my Prince, what do you think of your Princess? Is she not truly noble?’

Seeing her, shining with pleasure in simple clothes, showing off like a little girl, broke Wyn’s heart. He could not meet her sparkling eyes. Beyond them lay a different reality. He could see the broken bodies floating in the sea after her storm had destroyed the Raiders’ fleet. Instead of her smile, he saw the leer of an assassin, one sent to snuff out the vibrant life that stood before him. It was more than he could bear. Abruptly he stood and, without a word, strode past her out into the gathering darkness.

As he walked away he silently berated himself. He had always been awkward with words. He did not have the ability to say the words that needed to be said. Hwenfayre needed to hear words of gentleness, perhaps even kindness, maybe words of love? But he was just a soldier, a man of war, of violence, who had no words for a woman, not even when she needed them.

Wyn worried about Hwenfayre, how he had left her alone at night, walking away rather than telling her what he meant to say: that she was a beautiful, fragrant flower in a dangerous field. All he wanted to do was take her in his arms and whisper the right words to her, but instead he had walked away like an unfeeling beast. She needed his protection, not his criticism—for he was sure that was how she would take his departure.

He reached the beach and sat down on the sand. The waves rolled in, lapping gently in the darkness. No matter how he tried, he could not excuse his action of walking away when he should have stayed and said what he meant to say. She was a princess, but a princess in a world that would hunt her down and kill her. He spent the night on the beach, leaning against a tree that stood where the sand met the edge of the forest, staring up at the stars, listening to the waves roll up onto the sand. At some stage during the night he fell asleep. His last thoughts were that he hoped he would never be in a situation where he would face her alone, having to say the right words, for he knew he would fail and she would leave him.

The dream started as it always did:
vivid colours, loud noises, pain. Always pain. It never happened
without pain. And running. He was running from something. Running through a dark forest. About his head arrows split the air, whistling past him, never quite hitting him, never freeing him with one sharp pain from the continual, dull, throbbing agony that lay deep within him. He ran, fleeing, but never outrunning his pursuers. They were always the same, always close, never catching him, but never giving him rest.

As he ran, the ground became less solid, turning imperceptibly from firm earth to swamp to water, until he was slogging through knee-deep, then waist-deep, then chest-deep water. The arrows were now javelins, hurled with great force by faceless men who rode on steeds with the white spume of waves for manes. Ahead he could just make out a Raft. It was large, topped with a superstructure that resembled a small town. Desperately he pushed towards the floating village, but as hard as he thrust himself through the water, the Raft receded from him at the same rate. He never came close to it. People heard his cries of anguish and gathered at the edge to cheer him on. They called, they yelled, but all the time they were laughing and cheering. It was a time of great celebration; all were in bright clothes, wearing hats, waving happily. All seemed oblivious to his pain.

Behind him the riders closed in, the wake of their steeds rising about him. He clawed at the water as it threatened to engulf him, but he was sinking, drowning.

But tonight the dream was different.

As the blue-green waters closed over his head, he saw a gentle face, lavender-eyed, framed by wild
white-blonde hair. The face smiled. The lips moved, but no sound came out. Instead, a searing pain exploded behind his eyes, sending brilliant coruscating colours splashing across his vision.

He found himself on the wall, walking the dawn watch. Behind him he heard the unmistakable rippling of a harp song. He went to turn, but he was prevented by a leering assassin carrying a crossbow. The crossbow was raised, aimed at him. As he went to attack, the assassin laughed and spun around, loosing the bolt. It struck home with a sickening wet sound. He tried to push past the assassin, but the man was too strong, picking him up and tossing him contemptuously over the wall. He fell into a darkness that swallowed him whole. Hungry rocks reached up to devour him as he tumbled screaming downwards to his death.

Wyn awoke with a start. Why had Hwenfayre appeared in his dream? What did she have to do with his exile from the Rafts? His departure, although the result of betrayal, had been his own choice. She probably hadn’t even been born when he left.

He was about to rise when he heard a soft footfall. He recognised Hwenfayre from that one sound, his skills of survival returning to him. Rather than open his eyes, he feigned sleep, waiting for her.

She walked past him to stand at the water’s edge. He heard her take a deep breath before starting to play.

The first rippling chords that her fingers lightly drew from the bleached white harp swept him away into another world: a world of shifting colours, of rising swells, of surging currents and
untamed depths. The power of the music lifted him out of his own world, with its worries and cares, aches and pains, and transported him to a different place where life was simple, ordered by powerful, almost primal forces. It was a strange, frightening place.

The music stopped.

‘Wyn.’ Hwenfayre’s voice was quiet, uncertain. He opened his eyes.

She was standing with her back to the sea; the water lapped around her feet, the breeze stirred her hair, rustled her grass skirt. Her eyes were still, deep and unfathomable as she gazed at him. In that moment, more than any other, he saw her as she really was: a creature of the sea, wild, beautiful and dangerous.

‘Wyn,’ she repeated.

‘Hwenfayre,’ he replied.

A smile lit up her face, the vision faded, once more she became a young woman, unsure of herself and lost, clinging to the only link she had to a life that she had left. Wyn regretted leaving her alone.

‘I shall never forget how you say my name. Last night, as I lay alone, it was the thing more than any other that I feared losing. I was afraid you had left me,’ she said. ‘So I stayed awake as long as I could, hoping you would come to me, speaking my name as you just did, afraid that you would not, worried about you, hating you for leaving me alone, needing you.’ As she spoke she cradled her harp against her breast as one would a child. ‘But all the time, I think, deep down I trusted you. I knew that you would be here this morning. And here you are.’

‘Here I am,’ Wyn agreed solemnly. He did not trust himself to say more.

Hwenfayre stared at him. Her eyes locked onto his, briefly, then she looked away, staring into the forest behind him.

‘Wyn,’ she started, ‘I don’t understand much of what you tell me. But I see now that I must accept it as true. Wyn,’ she looked back at him, ‘I will never disappoint you again. I am sorry.’ With that, she walked slowly back into the forest. Wyn watched her go.

He sat, not sure what to do, for some time, allowing his mind to drift.

It was mid-morning when he roused himself from his reflections. He decided it was time to fix their boat, as well as time to leave this island. Briefly he considered staying here, to explore and perhaps seek help from whoever had made this island their home, but he rejected the idea. Still in the back of his mind were those rumours of cannibalism and violence. He had brought Hwenfayre into enough danger without risking her with an uncertain welcome from unknown natives.

His boat-building skills were good, as they were for all of his people. It was a skill with which all who lived on the Sea, all the Children of Danan, were born. The lives of the Children were touched with mystery and magic at every turn. Their heritage was an arcane, mystical one. Every boy-child was trained from birth in the ways of his Mistress, the Sea, and every girl-child was taught the secrets of the denizens with whom they shared their world. It was said of the Daughters of Danan that they could bring from
the Sea a meal by merely asking the fish to come forth. Wyn remembered this to be an exaggeration, yet his memories of his mother’s gathering were dim. Certainly she sang often whilst fishing.

However, it was the Priestesses who aroused the most fear. Their powers over the Sea, their mystical communion with their Mistress, struck terror into the superstitious people who populated the islands and coastal towns. Much was whispered about how they were able to raise mighty beasts to do their bidding, to summon storms on still days, to cause the vessels of their enemies to stop dead in the water even when under full sail, even, it was sometimes muttered, to call down lightning from clear skies. Such stories kept the Children of Danan forever apart from other peoples.