Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) (19 page)

“I would like to meet this friend of yours –” The
man stopped short at the look on Aedan’s face.

Aedan coughed to clear his throat and swallowed a
few times. “I tried to save her, but I couldn’t.” The man waited, so Aedan
continued. “They were Lekran slavers. They took her as a sacrificial substitute
because she had noble blood.” He pressed his eyes shut. “When I’m grown, I am
going to tear that trade to pieces and sink what doesn’t burn. Every one of
those murdering priests is going to meet his filthy god. She was the kindest,
gentlest person I’ve ever known. As soon as I am strong enough I’m going to
bring them justice and make sure they can’t take anyone else the way they took
her.”

The man dropped slowly to his knee to look Aedan
in the eyes. “Revenge is a selfish pursuit full of empty promise – I would
know,” he said. “But you speak of justice, of defending the innocent by felling
their oppressor. I see that anger is still fierce in you, but I believe you’ll
learn to temper it with wisdom.” He stood to his full height. “How will you
reach this strength you need? Who will train you?”

“I wanted to become a marshal …” He stopped
speaking. The man was eying him critically.

“How sturdy are you? The selection process is
extreme and the training is even more so. You don’t look to be in the best of
health.”

“I’ll recover. I just need a little time.”

“You won’t have time unless you are prepared to
wait a year.”

There were two things that shot through Aedan’s
mind. One was a bellow from his heart saying that it would not stand idly by
for an entire year. The other had an even keener edge – a vision of yellow
curls and raised eyebrows demanding that he get back to where he belonged this
instant. “No,” Aedan said quickly. “I’m ready now.” He wished it were true.

The man nodded. “Very well. Let’s get you enrolled.”

“I tried already. The guard warned me off. He
won’t let me in.”

“Only one guard, you say?”

“Yes. But he was big.”

“There are meant to be three. Come along. If you
are going to be part of the military it’s time you learned something about
discipline.”

Aedan had to run to keep up with the long strides.
Librarians stared as the unlikely pair passed the front desk and left the
building. They marched down the courtyard towards the academy entrance with its
solitary guard, passed it, and turned into a little recess. Two more guards
were crouched in the shade over a board, gambling chips piled on each side.

Without breaking stride, the big man kicked the
board over, causing the soldiers to leap to their feet with angry yells and
blazing eyes. But their eyes were suddenly filled with recognition and fright
as they stared up at the towering intruder. He said nothing. In two swift,
effortless motions, he flat-handed both surprised faces with enough force to
send the helmets flying. His hands were as big and heavy as coal shovels and
must have been just as hard because the soldiers skidded across the bricks and slumped
against the wall.

Aedan glanced around. He could not afford to be
seen in the company of a man assaulting the city guard. But he was too
frightened now of his guide to say anything. This strange man adjusted his suit
and led Aedan back to the entrance where the solitary guard stiffened, saluted
with a trembling hand, and backed against the wall.

“You should have reported them,” the man said, his
eyes sparking like disturbed coals.

“Yes, yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It was just that –”

“I am going in to sign a register. By the time I
leave the building, you will be back here with two new guards and two more will
be chaining the post-deserters.”

The soldier saluted and bolted towards the
barracks on the far side of the courtyard, yelling at the sentries long before
he reached them.

Aedan and his companion turned away and entered an
airy chamber richly ornamented with brass hangings and large paintings. A clerk
sat behind a wide marble desk, talking to a man and a boy who looked to be
about Aedan’s age. He was saying something about fees and enrolment times. The
big man walked past the line of people, snatched a register off the desk, asked
Aedan his and his father’s name, and wrote them in. The clerk noticed, but made
no attempt to interfere.

Aedan’s curiosity was gnawing at him. What kind of
person had such authority? Royal blood might have explained it, but nobody with
royal blood would act with such directness. Perhaps he was rich – rich men
tended to have social power. Dresbourn had been similarly respected. But
nothing like this man.

“Now we need to make a visit to the infirmary,”
the apparently wealthy patron said as he led the way out again, past three
rigid guards, “and you are going to tell me how you arrived here.”

While Aedan was being re-bandaged by a middle-aged
nurse, he told the man about all that had befallen him, leaving out details
that might cast too dark a shadow on his father.

“So your mother’s friends have become your slave-lords,
and to boot, you are friendless, homeless and penniless. Well, I think I can
solve a part of that. Follow me.” He strode, Aedan jogging at his side, to a
row of closely built apartments, and ducked under the doorway on the ground-level.
It was hardly the lodging of a wealthy man, and Aedan was left wondering again.
Furnishings were simple, but the uniformity, the symmetry and the intimidating
spotlessness of the place pointed to an owner who tolerated no deviation from perfect
order.

A military man? That would explain a lot. For some
reason the idea of a soldier and a library did not blend. Only the highest
ranking officers would be found among books, and those men did not have time
for dirty little runaways. Seating himself at the heavy oak table, chair
protesting furiously, the man motioned for Aedan to do likewise.

“Your trials will begin on the first day of
winter, when you will find a bunk with the apprentices. Until then you may
remain here, pending your mother’s permission. Fees are dealt with. I’ll have
clothes delivered by evening. All I ask is that you keep the place tidy and
help with the cooking if you have any skill, for I certainly lack it. Most of
my meals turn out like that greasy sludge we boil and throw from the battlements.
It’s even been suggested that my stew might be a more effective deterrent for
attackers …”

Aedan was crying now. The man’s kindness had knocked
down his walls. The accumulated strain and injuries poured from him in deep
sobs.

“You don’t have to eat it.”

The sobs gave way to laughter and the jumbled
flood of emotions carried on for some time. “I don’t know how to thank you,” Aedan
said at last. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Cook something I can swallow without effort and
I’ll be thanked enough. My name is Osric.”

Aedan stared, mouth agape. “Osric? General Osric?
The
General Osric?

“To you I am just Osric. Understand?”

Aedan nodded, trying not to stare, failing.

“Supper will level your opinion of me.”

It was true. There was plenty of stew to be had
and Aedan went to bed hungry. Osric never cooked again. And Aedan ended up
apprenticing to his childhood hero, the most famed of all Thirnish generals, as
a chef after all.

Any warmth now brought by the sun fled early, and
when the night sky was clear, shallow pools that lay in the open reflected icy
stars for only a brief spell before they froze into opaque tiles. But strollers
who happened to tread too freely on one of these tiles would be given the chance
to see stars of their own. Though light blankets of snow settled occasionally, the
frail coating seldom lasted the day, unlike the deep northern drifts.

Aedan stepped carefully through the darkness along
streets that were now familiar to him. He had not intended to be up so early,
but Corey, an old friend of Osric’s and owner of a bakery known to the whole
city, had a way of charming sleep from the clutches of the sleeper. Aedan’s
morning began an hour earlier when the wind drifted down from the south-east,
from where Corey filled the air with maddening vapours. Dreams of roasting
barley bread, golden oat cakes, and his special blended-grain breakfast loaves
that crunched as if singing to the belly, were enough to wrench anyone from
slumber.

It wasn’t long before Aedan was at the service
door marked in the darkness by a frame of golden light. The main entrance had
not been unbolted for sales, but as the general’s apprentice, many back doors
were now open to him. He slipped inside and, before long, re-emerged, satchel
bulging with breakfast loaves, and one, of course, in his hand.

On the way back, something caught his eye and he
slipped into an archway against a door.

Shapes were moving further down the road, darkly
clad men whose movements were furtive and stealthy. They were busy with a
window, expertly removing the shutters. Two of them climbed inside while the
rest kept watch.

Suddenly the door of Aedan’s alcove was shoved
open, knocking him into the road. The light of a lantern fell directly on him as
a man in his nightgown emptied a basket of refuse at his feet and told him to push
off. The door slammed. The gang was looking at him. They knew.

“Tripe!” he said, and ran.

He glanced over his shoulder – three of them were
in pursuit. On an inspiration, he ducked into a broad lane that ended with a sharp
bend. It was the worst place he had found for running at night; he still had
the bruises. Nearing the end of the road, he slowed gradually, carefully, until
he was walking. The men appeared at the top of the road at a run. Aedan put his
hands in his pockets, smiled at them and sauntered around the corner. He heard
the pounding of angry tread, the gritty crunch of boots on stone, then of boots
on something far less gritty, and then the horrified screams as three pairs of
boots took to the air and three bodies skidded along the ice and slammed into
the wall. One lay groaning, but two scrambled to their feet and hobbled after
the little shadow that darted around another corner.

Aedan took several more turns in quick succession
and tunnelled into the darker alleys. He was sure he had lost them, but decided
it would be best not to show himself in any of the broader roads. It meant a
detour through the squalid part of town where he had met the Anvil and his gang.
The Heaps was the official name of the area, but everyone knew it as the Seeps.

Most of the illegal trade and shady dealings in
the city happened here. No signs marked businesses – at least, not accurately.
The barber could produce a few combs and a rusty razor on inspection, but no
client ever emerged from his rooms with shortened hair. There was a cloth
merchant who couldn’t tell the difference between wool and silk but who was
able to supply, to those who earned his trust, second hand jewellery at
impossible prices. The innocent purveyor of pipe tobacco had patrons who seemed
to have been leached of health. They would often enter his store in a frantic
itch of paranoia, then, a little while later, float out with distant eyes and
bleary smiles. The taverns here were dirty and loud, and the attached inns
served a number of other purposes. Soldiers regularly swept the areas and made
some arrests, but a business that needs no signboard simply dissolves away at
the slightest hint of trouble.

Aedan was making his way through a section where
only the most desperate pursuer would follow. No one but a drunk or a fool
walks through the darkness at the back of a sleazy tavern, and he was just that
fool. At least he would be left alone. Rancid air spoke forcefully of the night’s
party – the inland celebration known as Harvesters’ Toast. There would be many
sore heads today. He feared that his would be one of them. His throat tightened;
he felt dangerously close to retching. The vapours were particularly ripe this
morning. One of his shoes sank into something soft; in the darkness, there was
no telling what it was. He blocked his imagination, forcing himself to walk
without thinking.

The next street was hardly any better. This part
of town needed a rainstorm with a temper. A few shadowy forms darted ahead of
him through the narrow walkways, no doubt on shadowy pursuits. The streets
opened up a little and he quickened his pace. Just ahead were the academy and
military courtyard. He raced over the open ground and reached the door to
Osric’s apartment as a clerk ducked out.

“Good luck,” the man said, wiping his brow. “You’re
late. The general is waiting for you and it looks like he ate a thunderstorm
for breakfast.”

“But I’m still early.”

“Not early enough for him. It’s the opening
assembly this morning, remember.”

Aedan hadn’t forgotten, but the detour through the
back alleys had taken longer than expected. The sky was growing light. He took
a deep breath and stepped inside.

“Aedan!” Osric spoke in a shattering tone of raw
command. Even after seeing the gentler side of the man, Aedan still found it
easy to preserve a healthy respect. Sometimes the general could be truly
frightening. It had become clear that the first impression had been more or
less correct – Osric was in fact built from a combination of metal, flint and
fire, a solid monolith of a man that towered around seven feet off the ground.

The steely frown he now directed at the boy would
have withered a number of veteran soldiers in their shoes, but Aedan recognised
this as the general’s frustrated look, one that held no personal threat. Most
of the officers, in fact most who knew the general, were cautious. Aedan was
one of few who had learned to interpret “Where in the name of blackest torment
have you been?” as “I’ve been worried about you.”

“It is the morning of the assembly!” Osric barked.
“Do you want to be late?”

“I got spotted by a gang working Baker’s Lane. Had
to run.”

The frown relaxed slightly, then deepened into a
familiar look of pained exasperation. Aedan wondered what he had done wrong,
but suddenly guessed it and sighed as Osric began,

“Could you not have given just half a thought to
your appearance before leaving the house? It looks like you mopped the floor
with your head, you are wearing your sleeping shirt, and there are bread crumbs
all over your face! You would agree that I don’t put much stock in appearances,
but responsibility demands complete respectability.”

Aedan did not agree with the first statement at
all, and wasn’t too sure about the second, but he held his tongue. There were
very few days when Osric didn’t make some complaint about his appearance,
especially his shoes. Even now he saw the general’s eyes fixing themselves with
growing ire on that area.

“What, in all the rotting wastes, did you walk
through?”

“I was keeping off the main roads. I had to take a
detour.”

“So you managed to find a route through a swamp?”

Aedan considered explaining, and then realised
that Osric’s swamp was several degrees better than the reality. If only it had
been a beautiful swamp…

In the end he abandoned his defence and said, “I
brought you breakfast. Got the oven fire going before I left so you can melt
cheese on some of Corey’s breakfast loaves.”

Osric eyed him, clearly not ready to be mollified.
Finally he turned and finished with, “Clean habits are the first guard against
disease. A single desperate campaign will teach you that. One day you will
accept it. Now where is this breakfast?”

The courtyard hummed with excitement. Three hundred
boys had gathered from the city and the surrounding villages. Positions within
the Castath marshals, or grey marshals as they were often known, were coveted
for reasons noble and otherwise. The marshals carried great authority and were
trained in ways that were a matter of enduring mystery to those outside their
ranks. Curiosity, therefore, was a strong lure. Others felt the temptations of
power. It was understandable for a family to want one of their sons to be a
grey marshal. But the ambitions of most were headed for disappointment as the
majority of applicants would be filtered out and referred to the regular army.
Many fathers who stood around, loud with such eager praise for the institution,
would soon be its most bitter critics.

Aedan had not wanted his mother walking through the
city for the sake of a ceremony, so he and Osric had visited her the day before.
Aedan had laughed when she hung wordless at the sight of the towering general.

“Told you they didn’t exaggerate,” Aedan said.

She had been full of encouragement over the
trials. Remembering her words gave him an added layer against the cold.

Boys from the same villages chattered nervously,
shoving and stamping in the chilly dawn, waiting for the mayor’s opening
speech.

Aedan felt a sharp sting behind his good ear – the
other side of his head was still dressed with some light bandages. He spun
around in time to see a small boy with bright red hair turning away and almost
managing to conceal a peashooter against his wrist. Aedan watched. Slowly the head
pivoted and the young eyes met his. They stared with such a grotesque parody of
innocence, defying accusation – a look that was almost hostile. Aedan felt his
skin grow hot. He was tempted to walk over and even the score, but at that
point there was a general stirring and hushing as people began turning to the
front.

Three men approached the steps of a wooden podium.
Aedan recognised those on the outside as two of the masters of studies whom he
had met briefly at Osric’s house. They were both short and grey, and their
lined faces appeared to be etched with the letters and runes that had been so
many years before them, but apart from this, they could not have been more
dissimilar. Giddard, who crabbed his way up the stairs on the left, was
withered like a man who had missed too many meals, and Rodwell, stumping
heavily and filling the space on the right, appeared to have eaten them. The
man in the middle, who by his splendid robes and chains would have to be
Balfore, mayor of the city south, was tall and strong, and strode with
confidence. He was a striking leader displaying golden hair, golden rings, and
a golden voice with which he now greeted the assembly.

“Blessings of the dawn to you,” he said, his words
ringing across the courtyard.

Aedan wrinkled his nose at the man’s lofty
expression. It would have been pompous even for a gathering of kings.

“It is a fine day to embark on a noble course such
as you have chosen. And well have you chosen. The Castath marshals are our
pillars of strength, our shields of honour, and our ambassadors who carry
themselves not with pride, but with the humility of service to our people.”

There was a warm buzz of agreement and loud
cheers. Aedan wondered if the rest of the speech would continue along these
lines – fine words chosen to hide facts behind a pretty glow. He wondered if “spies”
was hiding behind the word “ambassadors”. Recently, he had learned that the
marshals were not only trained in the ways of war, but were taught to speak
several languages and that much of their time was spent in places where foreign
relations were complicated. But this was of minor interest. What mattered to
him was that of all positions associated with the military, the mention of
marshals was the one to draw instant attention, even fear. Whatever their
training was, he wanted it, needed it.

“As you all know there are only a few places made
available each year.”

Silence fell over the courtyard.

“For the next two months, tests will be held until
the selection of twenty is made known and training begins in earnest. I would
speak to those of you who do not find a place in the final number. Be bigger
than the petty lure of jealousy. Remember that the selection process is not
about choosing the best boys, but choosing those who are most suited to this
particular form of service to our great city.”

A few grunts and calls of agreement sounded from
various points in the crowd.

“It is important that we do not have marshals in
whose ears other callings sing more sweetly. The next two months will enable us
to know who belongs here. Today I ask of you two things: Commit to giving more
than you have ever done; and have the bigness of heart to embrace either
continuation or redirection with equal ardour.” Balfore pressed his gaze masterfully
over them. “We are glad to have you all here this morning. May you advance with
honour.” He bowed his head and stepped back as the crowd applauded.