Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) (71 page)

The rest of the day was spent in a fog of
disappointment lit with the occasional flashes of anger. He could not throw the
book out; neither could he return it so soon unless he wanted to hear Fergal’s opinion
on blinding prejudice and the need to overcome it. He pushed the volume to the
back of his shelf and stacked the rest of his books in front until the red
cover was hidden. Then he concerned himself with other matters and drove the
book from his thoughts.

One of these matters was the arrival of the
emissary from Tullenroe along with two hundred cavalry. The entrance was
spectacular. Prince Burkhart and his entire retinue publically welcomed them,
and – Aedan suspected – privately wished them dead. If there were any
uncomfortable scenes, though, they took place behind thick walls.

–––

When the students returned from recess, so did Aedan’s
greatest source of misery – Iver. Aedan’s friends were used to seeing him
ordered about by the cruel-looking young man. The mood in the group became
heavy as Iver approached. The big senior’s eyes were sifting through the
grounds and it wasn’t long before he recognised his slave. He yelled a summons.
Aedan hurried away to meet him.

“Where have you been, cur? Trying to hide?”

Aedan looked at him with some surprise. “The
commissioned quest to Kultûhm. I thought everyone knew.”

“You did not excuse yourself from me.”

“Prince’s urgent orders. He obviously forgot to
ask your permission.”

Iver stepped up to Aedan until he was looking
directly down on him. He was easily a head taller and much broader. “You
address me as ‘sir’, and you do not presume to be funny or chatty or I will
show you up in front of all your friends as the worm you are.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Iver glared at him for a long, uncomfortable time
before stepping back and giving instructions for an important delivery. When he
was finished he spat in Aedan’s face.

“That’s to remind you of your station. Don’t you
forget it again.”

When Aedan returned to the group, he was
preoccupied as he sat down and wiped his face.

Murn had not been saddled for months and it took a while to
reacquaint him with the leather. Aedan went back to the sand bags and started
over. But it was quicker this time. He worked up the courage to get on the
horse’s back again, at first just sitting, then walking with a lead, and then,
finally, with the bridle.

Sometimes Murn took it into his head to perform,
and then he was a ship in a tempest. It was a game to him; most things were. Students
would come to watch Aedan aboard the dark beast. He tried valiantly to put on a
good show, but mostly he looked like a desperate sailor clinging to the mast for
dear life.

The few moments of trotting or walking were never
long. Murn had too much energy. His antics weren’t vindictive, but shaking Aedan
loose was an entertaining challenge. Aedan put up some jumps which gave Murn a
new purpose. It also gave Aedan several new bruises.

The mischievous ruthrek was still causing trouble
with the other horses, in fact, with anyone or anything that came within range.

A dog once slipped into a neighbouring arena,
yapping at the ponies’ hocks. They neighed and tooted and galloped clear. The
dog was having a wonderful time.

Then it spied the tall, dark horse standing alone
in the middle of its paddock. The dog’s hair bristled, courage poured into its
veins. It stalked into clear ground, head low, shoulders rolling, eyes fixed.
Then, when the distance was right, it launched into a furious, barking charge,
straight for the isolated horse.

The dog left the paddock a moment later, doing at
least double its initial speed. It was no longer barking but yelping, then squealing,
and it’s back legs looked as if they were about to run under its body and overtake
the rest of the dog. Twenty feet behind and gaining fast, was half a ton of black,
barrelling fate. The dog shot under the fence and kept going until its yelps
faded away. Murn thundered to a stop just before the beams, looking mildly
disappointed. He had enjoyed the game.

Liru and Peashot found Aedan in Murn’s stable one
afternoon. A loud tinkling rattle drew their attention. When it stopped they
saw Aedan straighten up and emerge from the stable with a bucket. Even Murn looked
puzzled and nosed over Aedan’s shoulder.

“You
can
tell the difference between a cow
and a stallion, right?” asked Peashot, wrinkling his nose at the bucket.

Aedan grinned. “It’s a rotten habit some horses
have. When they get into their stables they foul the straw. I thought I would
try something to keep the stable clean. Better for his hooves.”

“You do this every day?”

“No. Don’t think I’ll try it again. It splashes.”

Peashot backed away.

“Liru,” Aedan said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you.
You have access to the chemistry labs, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think they would let you take a small vial
of powdered madder root?”

“I’ll see if I can find some. I’m sure it would be
fine. What’s it for?”

“Just a little experiment I was thinking about.” Aedan
would say no more.

It was night. Everyone of Aedan’s classmates bar
Malik was there. They crept past the half-nosed statue of Olemris – still frowning
at his herbaceous audience – past two sentries, between the giant crindo
boards, and through the forbidden boulevard of the law wing. Then they took
cover in the shadows while Aedan knocked at a window.

Iver’s heavy-browed face appeared. Aedan began
handing the costly wine bottles through the window. Even he could tell that
this was good stock. Iver had made it clear that a single broken bottle would
be repaid with a broken arm. Aedan had treated the bottles like gold, wrapping
them in his own clothes to protect them. When the last bottle was handed over, Iver
said something and Aedan bowed slightly and withdrew.

“Are you going to tell us now why we are here?”
Hadley asked on behalf of the waiting group.

Aedan spoke in a whisper. It only took two
sentences and the entire group rushed to the window as one. They stayed low,
not looking, but listening.

There was a good party going on inside. Many
women’s voices were mingled in the din.

Corks popped, Iver’s name was cheered, and there
was the sound of back-slapping. The bully’s voice could be heard as he bragged
about his little slave. There was a clinking of glass and the gurgling of wine.
A toast was proposed, something about shaping the world any way they pleased.
More cheers were heard and then everything grew strangely silent. There was
some violent coughing.

“Wow! Kicks like a mule!”

“What year did you say this was?”

“Sort of smells like a mule too.”

“I think one of the bottles was a bit corked.”

“Mine tastes funny. Actually it tastes … it tastes
…”

“I think I’m going to throw up!”

“Iver, what filth have you bought us?”

“Quick, she’s going to be sick!”

“No! Not on the carpet!”

“If you’ve poisoned my Gertie …”

The small crowd of listening boys was shaking so
violently with suppressed mirth that it seemed they would burst apart. They
scampered and staggered around the corner where they laughed until they ached.

“Ah,” Peashot sighed, stumbling up to Aedan. “If
only Murn could have been here to take pride in his work. The world’s first horse
wine-maker. Oh – madder root – it’s a red dye isn’t it?”

“With a bitter taste. I had to match the colour to
the original wine. I hope it didn’t spoil the flavour.”

The reprisal came early the next day. Aedan was
alone, flicking acorns over the benches. Iver marched down to him at a pace
that was nearly a run. He caught Aedan by the collar and twisted it, pinching
the skin.

“You want to die?” he snarled.

“I’m sorry, sir, was the wine not good?” Aedan
spoke loudly. Too loudly.

“Keep your voice down, you impudent beggar.”

“Why? Don’t you want people to know that you’ve
been forcing me to smuggle your wine? I thought that would make you seem
strong.”

“Don’t play with me, worm. Remember, I have five
witnesses to defend me and you have –”

“Twenty-eight.”

Iver stared. Aedan pointed to the trees where the
long line of his classmates appeared, less only Malik and Cayde. Eleven of the
girls were there too, having got wind of what was happening. This was something
they would not miss. The large group waved and called greetings to the senior,
whom they all addressed as “Sir”.

Iver let Aedan’s collar go.

“I would be more than happy to stay on as your
smuggler,” Aedan said. “I have really enjoyed my position just recently. No?”

Iver spat. Aedan brushed his face off, turned and
walked away.

“Come back here you snivelling cur, and I’ll …”

Aedan came back.

Iver clenched his fists and shook. But it was all
too obvious that if he beat Aedan to a pulp, there would be a whole line of
witnesses to testify at his expulsion hearing. And if he lost … Aedan was
looking at him in a way that was almost – almost eager.

“I’m resigning,” Aedan said. “And I’m also
removing that little first-year boy from your employment. If we” – he gestured
to his friends – “speak of what we saw, you face not just expulsion, but
barring from all forms of legal practice in the district. I checked with my
master of legal studies.”

Iver looked like he was about to explode. His eyes
grew black as a winter’s night and his face turned pink and swelled up, but his
hands stayed at his sides. Eventually he threw off some choice threats and
curses, and marched back across the field to a chorus of cheering and applause.

Winter had the day in a firm grip and was filling it
with a wind made of ice and nails. Aedan was happy for once to be indoors,
though he regretted not bringing a lantern. He was cleaning out Murn’s stable
which – while providing an escape from the wind – was dark as night on this
gloomy morning. Telling the good hay from the soiled was not easily done by
sight, and he was not prepared to lower his nose and sniff. He held his breath
and thought, with a grin, of Iver, as he tossed another forkful of pungent hay
to the side.

Snatches of voices slipped through the open door as
they rode the gusts of cold air. Aedan looked out from his dim stable and immediately
pulled back. It was the royal guard, plumes and capes being flung about them,
spoiling their dignity. It made them look like perched birds when the wind
catches them from behind.

Ahead of the soldiers, wrapped in thick coats,
were two men Aedan would have recognised from any distance – the Prince, who
walked with an unusually eager spring to his step, and Ganavant who, as always,
thumped beside him like a giant bullfrog. Two more men walked on the other side
of the prince, and it appeared as if he was giving them a tour of sorts by the
way he pointed and talked.

Aedan had no desire to be seen by Burkhart or his
councillor. He wanted to keep as far away from those men as possible. The
corners of his stable were sunk in darkness, so he moved into the blackest one
and waited. He just wanted them to pass on. The party appeared to have stopped
nearby, judging from the voices.

Then the two strangers stepped into the doorway of
Murn’s stable and began to speak, keeping their voices low. Something about
them struck Aedan as unusual, but when he heard the words he understood. They
were speaking Vinthian. He could follow most of the conversation.

“What think you of the city so far?”

“I think she will like it. I think she will like
it very much.”

“Can they withstand the Fenn?”

“Let’s hope so. We may not find another leader so
ralge
as this young prince.”

“Let us ask if we can inspect the defences.
Considering the
krulua
, it is not an inappropriate request.”

Aedan had understood all the words but
ralge
and
krulua
. Burkhart’s nervous manner suggested that there was some kind of
foreign courtship underway. If that was the case then
ralge
probably
meant desirable or something, and
krulua
courtship. He ran the new words
through his mind a few times so he would be able to ask about them later.

The two men had finished talking. They were
looking out at the paddocks, looking at Murn.

“That is an animal worth remembering,” the nearer
of the two said. They watched for a long time.

Aedan did not like the way they admired his horse.
He was happy to see the last of them as the party reassembled and moved away
across the lawns.

Aedan ran back to the main buildings as soon as Burkhart
turned the corner and was hidden from sight.

“Finished the book already?” Fergal asked as Aedan pushed the
door open.

Aedan dropped his gaze. “No. It’s something else.
Can we be overheard?”

“Not if you close the door.”

Aedan did so and took the seat Fergal indicated.
“Do you remember you once said you thought Prince Burkhart had another
motivation for suppressing any rumours of danger to the city?”

“I do.”

“Well, I just overheard another … Stop laughing at
me. It wasn’t my fault. I was busy in the stable and they happened to have a
discussion in the doorway of
my
horse’s stable.”

“I apologise. I’m only amused at your consistency.
Let’s hear what concerns you.”

Aedan repeated the conversation as well as he
could remember. When Fergal made no response, he offered an opinion. “It looked
to me like the prince was showing off. Is there a woman he wants to impress?
Some royal Vinthian he is courting?”

Fergal did not answer. “Recite the conversation
again slowly,” he said, taking up a quill and a blank parchment, “this time
without translating it.”

Aedan did so. “What does
ralge
mean?” he
asked.

“Somewhere between innocent and trusting.”

“Oh.” Aedan saw how big a difference that made to
the meaning. “And
krulua
?”

“Negotiations.”

“So this has nothing to do with a romantic
arrangement, then, does it?”

“That might be there too, but the discussion you
overheard implies a political arrangement, such as a trade agreement or
military alliance, and this would indeed be a strong reason for Burkhart to
suppress rumours of danger or anything that might cast his city in a bad
light.”

“Who is the woman they talk about?”

“Officially, King Renka still holds the throne in Vinterus.
But one of our sentinels –”

“Sentinels?”

“A delicate word for something else. You’ll learn
about them in time. One of our sentinels delivered a message that has not yet
been circulated. It contains only unproven suspicions. Princess Irrinel is
considered by many in that palace to be ambitious and black-hearted enough to
murder her parents for the throne.” Fergal paused. “Our sentinel suspects she
has already done so and is hiding their deaths while she consolidates her position.
What you overheard seems to confirm this.”

“Do you think Prince Burkhart knows?”

“Whether he believes he is negotiating with Renka
or Irrinel is of little consequence, because we are forbidden by our king to
form any kind of alliance with Vinterus. They are a treacherous nation with a
history of dishonour and underhand dealings. Burkhart, it would appear, is
making free with the southern reaches of his father’s kingdom as if it were his
own. If I know King Elgar, then this is news that would most certainly bring an
end to Burkhart’s rule here.”

“Another secret that could get me hanged,” Aedan
groaned.

“Not hanged. That’s only for public executions.
Dungeon axes and swine feed-troughs are for hushing.”

Aedan put his head in his palms for a while. “Can
we get word to Tullenroe, to the king?” he asked.

“We would need far better proof than we now have,
or stern eyes would be turned on us. We need to wait until it is clear what is
happening, until it can be proven. Then we will send word.”

“I would give a few toes to see the last of this
prince. Being in his city is like standing in a bear trap that’s been jammed
with a stick. I keep wondering when the stick will break.”

“Don’t panic, Aedan. For the time being we are no
great threat to Burkhart. He has far more troublesome things on his mind. He is
not likely to think of much beyond these negotiations and the Fenn threat. We
will find a way to deal with him eventually. Something will slip and we’ll have
our proof. Hang onto your toes for now. If things get desperate you can make
Burkhart an offer.”

Aedan laughed. Fergal’s eyes were lost in thought
while his hand dug somewhere through the wild bush of a beard, probably just as
lost.

“I’ll let Osric know,” he said. “In fact, I think
the academy high council should be told.”

“May I know who they are?”

“Considering the context in which your name will
be mentioned, it is a fair request. I am chairman. Sorn and Edreas – whom you
do not know – along with Giddard and Balfore hold the other seats.

“Balfore, mayor of the city south?”

“Yes. We needed a man with strong political
influence. He has done fine work for both the city and the academy. He would
not approve of this disloyalty to the throne.”

“Seeing the prince reminded me of the last time I
overheard them … and I was wondering …”

“No, Aedan. I am not going to show you what lies
beneath the academy.”

“I
hate
mysteries that are forbidden. They
are like meals you have to watch other people eat.”

“Did I forbid you to search or explore?”

“Won’t I be punished if I’m caught?”

“Of course. And I will be most surprised and a
little disappointed if you see that as a closed door.”

“You have a strange set of ideals, Fergal.”

“Nothing to do with ideals. I consider it to be
part of your training. I gave my word not to admit anyone, and I will keep
that. You are training to be a marshal, and marshals are required to go where
others cannot. Your explorations will not be by my enabling and will be for
your advancement and ultimately for the good of Castath.”

Aedan grunted and rose to his feet, but Fergal was
not one to forget things.

“Have you even started on the book?”

Aedan frowned. “No.”

Fergal said nothing. It struck harder than the
worst of Dun’s shouting. That silence gnawed at him all the way back to his
dorm. He pulled the red volume out and looked at the cover. The design was as
familiar now as his own hand. He sat down, opened the book and tried to read.
But it had the same effect as a plate of rotten offal.

“No!” he growled, shutting it and putting it back.
“Not that. Anything but that!”

He drove it out of his thoughts again, but it was
like shaking a pebble to the front of his shoe – just when he thought it was
gone, it would slip back and make its presence felt. The only means of getting it
out was by reading the book, and he could not do that. He
would
not do
that. So he nudged the pebble away and pretended and thought of other things
until it slipped under his tread and made him wince and almost scream with
frustration. But that was the course he had chosen and he held to it.

–––

Since news of Eastridge had arrived in Castath, much
had changed. Aedan had noticed on his return that there were fewer soldiers
patrolling within the city. Castath had no separate police force – all internal
security was managed by the military – so when garrisons had been posted in a
broad arc to the east, the military presence back home was thinned.

As a compromise, marshal apprentices and student
officers were assigned to patrols, assisting them from time to time in order to
supplement the numbers. Even so, there was no hiding the fact that fewer eyes
watched inside the walls.

A cruel counterpart to this was the growing number
of naive countryfolk that had moved to the city from their isolated homes in
the east.

The result was not unforeseeable.

Aedan and Lorrimer were paired with a group of soldiers
– the very old and very young. All they managed to do was aid those they found
beaten and robbed, and load up those who had fared worse. The patrols were too
few to be everywhere they were needed, and spotters picked them out from a long
way off.

Aedan’s mood sank through the day, but it was the
last scene that turned him white with anger. An old woman, her skin cut and
swollen with puffy bruises and her jaw struck almost from her face, hung
weeping over a dead man, presumably her aged husband. The depth of her
heartache was like a solid weight that rose with her soft keening and settled
on the shoulders of everyone there. The younger soldiers were constantly
brushing their cheeks as they tried to help her up and lift her onto the cart,
but with feeble arms she fought them off and clung to the dead man, burying her
face in his neck, gently brushing his thin white hair. “Oh Sherwin, Sherwin, my
Sherwin …” she cried. The couple’s rough country clothes told enough of the
story.

Lorrimer stood at a distance with his back to the
scene. Aedan tried to watch but kept turning away, striking at the air with his
iron-sheathed quarterstaff, wishing it was not air that he was striking.

That night he visited Osric’s house. The general was packing
for a fortnight-long patrol in the east.

“I saw an old couple near Miller’s Court today,” he
said, sitting down. “They were old enough to be grandparents. His neck was
broken and it looked like they used a hammer on her face. What is happening to
our city? We send our garrisons out to defend it and it begins to cut itself up
from inside.”

Osric paused, waterskin in one hand, oatmeal loaf
in the other. “The irony of war,” he said. “It has always been this way. We are
taught to think that the battle lines separate the good from the bad, but the
truth, as you are beginning to understand, is less comfortable. When we have
clearer knowledge of Fenn movements, perhaps we can pull back some of the
patrols. Until then the dogs will take their chances.”

“Osric, what are the Fenn after? I know it’s not
silver. We don’t have much left. It wouldn’t be food because their soil is just
as rich as ours. What do we have that could justify a full scale war?”

“You’ve done some study in trade. What gem could
bring about a war if even a small deposit were found?”

“Earthstars. But we don’t …”

Osric looked at him in silence.