Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1)

by Jonathan Renshaw

  He thought back over the past days, how the jeering had grown louder, how the idlers had gathered. Emroy – who was apparently now hailed as a hero – was in the crowd always. There had been stones, and thieving, and then a spear wrapped in a burning cloth that sank into the thatch, angling down over Aedan’s bed. Clauman had doused the flames and done all he could to protect his property, but the following day there had been three burning spears.

  This was it then. They were leaving. It would probably be seen as flight, an admission of guilt, but what choice was left to them?

  His parents returned and he felt the wagon tip slightly one way, then the other as they climbed onto the driver’s bench. There was a gentle slap of reigns and the wagon lurched.

  “You still haven’t told us where we are going,” he heard his mother say.

  “Quite true,” his father replied.

  There was a short silence. She tried again, “I know you’ve been looking at the maps of DinEilan. Please tell me you aren’t –”

  “I looked at many maps and the only thing I’m going to tell you is to hold your tongue. Homesteads are approaching. Be quiet now.”

  DinEilan. The name echoed in Aedan’s mind like a warning. Once it had been sparsely inhabited, but no longer. Bold travellers attempted to pass through it from time to time and most of them disappeared. The few that returned told of creatures attacking their horses in the night, of trees that moved without wind, of hair-raising calls echoing down the ravines – deep, earth-shaking calls, hollow and savage that had caused them to huddle round their fires and pray for daylight.

  DinEilan was an untamed place with a murky history.

  The only part of it that was charted was the wild hinterland west of the mountain spine. Beyond the mountains was a region said to be a turmoil of rocky crests and deep ravines choked with impenetrable forest.

  Aedan ran his thoughts back over the rumours that had been peppering country talk. There was always bad talk of DinEilan, but it had been growing worse, and stranger. Many travellers had seen things over the mountains – unusual storms, weird and sometimes impossible shapes in the heavy clouds. It was always from a great distance, so nobody was certain unless deep into the ale. Many scoffed at the stories, but Aedan was unable to dismiss them after what he had once seen.

  Though he had never told the adults, the descriptions matched the storm he had witnessed earlier in the year over Nymliss. Nobody had paid it much attention for rough weather was common in the north, but he had watched, and for just an instant, he had glimpsed the impossible.

  The forest had been different since then. Though he was never able to say exactly what, something had changed, something that thrilled and frightened him at once. That was after only one of these storms. DinEilan had seen many.

  But whether or not anyone believed the new rumours, the fact remained that those who travelled or explored near those mountains seldom returned. The sensible explanations involved wolves, bears and the wildness of the land itself. But Aedan wondered if there was more.

  While he could understand his mother’s alarm, he knew his father was no fool. Clauman would never take that road, but like any wise traveller or tracker, he was carrying in his mind a far bigger map than the actual journey required. Keeping his plans from everyone else was just his way.

  As Aedan stared up into the fields of stars above him, he began for the first time in weeks to turn his thoughts forward. As children they had talked often of journeying and exploring the outer reaches of Thirna and beyond. They had imagined and drawn pictures of the places they most wanted to see – the great fortress of Tullenroe, Castath and its famous academy, treacherous Kultûhm lost in mystery, Mount Lorfen – Kalry had always wanted … The thought fell to ground like a swallow dying in mid-flight. The stars blurred and wouldn’t clear again.

  Could she see him?

  For a long time he stared up. Remembering. Aching.

  The track wound down the hill, skirted the palisaded town centre and joined the main road. Though it hurt, Aedan propped himself on his elbows to catch a last look at the village. It slept quietly in the pre-dawn, wrapped in blankets of mist that drifted continuously down the valley – peaceful, perfect.

  How could a place so good, with people so neighbourly have turned on him so unfairly? Not long ago these same people had ridden with him through the night to defend Badgerfields, had followed his trail through the dreaded forest to rescue their neighbours. And some had even run with him in pursuit of Quin.

  As betrayed and angry as he felt, he knew the feelings were short-sighted – he had often seen sheep turned, panicked, and led around by one bleating troublemaker. And Dresbourn knew how to bleat. He would have been convincing in the meetings; the town hall would have seethed in response to his speeches.

  As Aedan looked back at the familiar shapes of thatch roofs rising above the outer wall, his feelings were confused. But one wish stood out, a wish that things had been different, that Quin had never found them, that life could have remained unchanged, and that they might have gone on living here all their years.

  He had often pondered death – tragic accidents, illness and sometimes outlaws had occasionally meant loss of the deepest kind to someone in the town – but he had never before felt the stab of grief in his own heart. He had not thought its blade could sink so deep or sting so fiercely. Yet he chose not to hide from the memories that appeared before him.

  His eyes drifted to the side of the road and he began to notice things – the tree they had climbed, where Thomas had got stuck and where they had spent the whole summer day coaxing him back down; a thick hedge concealing a muddy brook perfect for mud pies which had been launched at a passing wagon, where little Dara had yelled that Aedan was standing in her new-made pies. Her shrill voice had carried to the road, and as there was only one Aedan in town, punishment had found them swiftly.

  There was the little wooded nook between hillocks just coming into view. It was a favourite spot where chestnut trees abounded, where they had made little fires to roast the nuts and where, once, the little fire got away and burned down most of the hill. This time it was the smoky clothes and singed eyebrows that gave them away, for they had fought bravely to beat out the flames.

  Aedan smiled at the memory, and it was like fresh water, the first drops just beginning to wash away some of the salt. And it felt good, it felt right, for nothing grows in salt.

  The wagon arrived at Crossroads just after daybreak. It was a large town built around the famous compass-point junction in the middle. The town owed its affluence to the fact that it was the first Thirnish settlement reached by all Orunean trade caravans. The result was a large and very busy market visited from all the surrounding countryside. It was here that Aedan and Kalry had learned the manners and accents of various towns and regions.

  The wheels rocked to a standstill outside a general supply store where Clauman bought a few bags of grain and vegetables as well as fresh loaves and cheese for breakfast.

  Once the purchases were done, he set the wagon rolling again, but to Aedan’s surprise, took the south-midland road.

  “Tullenroe is west,” he heard his mother say. “Why aren’t we taking the west road?”

  “Because, my Nessa, we are not going to Tullenroe.”

  “But – but where then? Surely you can tell me now.”

  Clauman was silent for some time. “Castath,” he said at last.

  “Castath! Nobody travels that road alone. And even if we did link up with a caravan, the journey would take two months!”

  “Three, at the very least. We are going to take the inland track that passes between Lake Vallendal and the DinEilan Mountains.”

  Aedan’s breath caught.

  “Between …” Nessa bolted upright. “But … DinEilan! … And that will lead us right past Kultûhm!”

  “I can read a map.” It was partly true, and it was a tender point. Clauman could interpret the lines and shapes, and he knew the names of places
by memory, but he could not read the text.

  “Clauman, please – we can’t go there! It’s the one place in all Thirna that nobody dares approach anymore. It’s not just tavern tales – you know I have no ear for those – it was historians. One party after another disappeared. I would know. It was one of my father’s chief interests and I read all the reports.”

  Nessa was a scholarly woman from a scholarly family, something for which Clauman never revealed a hint of respect. Aedan knew well what would happen now. Whenever his mother used any kind of intellectual background to win an argument, his father would do precisely the opposite of what she advised. And he did just that, in the worst way. Instead of cutting her down with some retort, he laughed. Whether it was forced or not, Aedan could never tell. He’d heard it so often. His father would now be as set on his course as if his pride depended on it. And perhaps it did.

  Aedan raised himself on his elbows and looked out to the south-west, though Kultûhm would still be hundreds of miles distant. For a long time he held himself up. Everyone had heard of the place. It was to DinEilan what fangs were to a viper. His heart began to pound. What was in his father’s mind? How could he set a course in that direction?

  “Wouldn’t it be safer to join a caravan and go south?” Aedan ventured. “I’m not going to be much use in an emergency.”

  His father turned and regarded him in silence before replying. “Anyone who follows us would look on the west road first and then on the south. If we take the inland track, nobody would follow us even if they knew where we had gone.”

  Nessa was silent for a time before voicing the obvious question. “Why would they want to follow us?” she asked. “There were no formal charges. Legally we are not fugitives.” Aedan sensed the caution in her voice.

  Clauman laughed. “My, but you are naïve, dear. The law in the Mistyvales now lives in Badger’s Hall where it nurses a hatred for us that you wouldn’t have read about in your books. Innocence and guilt don’t come into it. In spite of what you think, we will probably be condemned for fleeing so-called justice, and there’s a good chance the law will come after us. But I’m more concerned about thieves smelling easy pickings.” He tapped his velvet money-pouch. After a while he began humming to himself, and Aedan craned his neck around to see the bulging pouch that clinked as Clauman patted it from time to time.

  Aedan had been wondering about the unusual brightness of his father’s mood – no angry outbursts, no blaming, not even the silent brooding. Clauman almost seemed positive about their flight, as if he were looking forward to a future that overshadowed all they had left behind. That swollen money bag, no doubt, contributed much to this optimism. Neither Aedan nor his mother would have guessed that they were so wealthy. It was a blessing to know they would not be tempted to steal to feed themselves along the way.

  During the afternoon, they reached a junction. To the left was an overgrown suggestion of a track that led to DinEilan. Undisturbed dust, a mat of settled leaves, and the giant networks of orb spiders showed how long the road had rested unused. Clauman, after inspecting the ground, grumbled to himself and climbed back into the wagon. He continued along the well-travelled road. After two miles he turned off to the left and ploughed through long grass for some time before stopping and walking back.

  When he returned, Nessa asked where he had gone.

  “Wasn’t it obvious?” He threw a look of haughty surprise at her, one of those so-you-don’t-know-everything? looks. “I went to cover the tracks. I don’t expect they would follow us this far after seeing we were headed south, but if they do, I don’t want them seeing where we turned off. If we had taken the DinEilan split through all those webs and leaves and dust, it would have been clear as writing a note.”

  Aedan was surprised. His father really was serious about pursuit. Clauman drove them through the grass and under some large leafy boughs until they broke out onto the disused inland track.

  They camped in the open for five nights before they reached a burned-out stone house. From here the track became very wild. It had clearly remained unused for many years. In sections, Clauman was obliged to take detours to negotiate obstructions and, more than once, to use his axe on trees fallen across the way.

  As the distance lessened, the mountains lost their purple veil. They began to reveal green slopes that would turn gold in the afternoons, and dark rocky faces higher and sterner than Aedan’s imagination had ever painted them.

  For a little over two weeks they travelled in complete isolation. Aedan’s back and limbs began to heal somewhat. He could now sit up, but he could not walk; his legs simply refused to bear the weight.

  At one of the camps, Clauman cut some branches from an elderberry tree and began shaping crutches while Nessa boiled the little dark berries into a jam. Aedan sat and watched, too weak to be of any help. His attention was drawn by the bright chinking call of a tiny wagtail that strutted fearlessly through the camp, hunting for disturbed insects. He envied the little bird’s independence.

  When the crutches were shaped and the armpit rests padded with cloth, Aedan was able to take his full weight on them, swing his legs forward, and stand with his feet together while planting the crutches ahead for another stride. It was a painful process – armpits, back, legs, they all ached. When he fell, which happened often, there was no laughter. He practiced for a few days, but it was hardly worth the effort. He spent most of his time near the campfire, miserable, lost within himself.

  It was Clauman who spotted the smoke – a thin blue, wispy trail that pointed down into a birch grove. When they came near, he stopped the wagon.

  “Wait here,” he said, gripping a heavy staff and heading into the trees. A little while later he returned wearing an amused expression. “Now this,” he said, “I did not expect.”

  They stopped the wagon outside what Aedan first took for an enormous log-and-panel cottage, only that it appeared to have been built more like an inn. Just outside the front door stood a middle-aged couple. The man was tall and broad of shoulder with workmanlike hands, an ox’s head and a mouse’s expression. It was the woman who dominated the porch. Her short but solid frame was crowned with a wild eruption of yellow, curling hair pulled back from eyebrows that looked to have been raised all her life, demanding from the world just what it thought it was doing. Not even the smile could conceal that this was a woman who knew how to take charge.

  “Welcome, welcome!” she cried, clapping her hands in front of her. “You are our first guests these past four years. Oh this is so exciting! I am Harriet and this is Borr. We have so much to ask and so much to tell. This is going to be wonderful! Oh look at your wagon, packed to bursting. You must have been on the road a long time. Oh my! What is this? What happened to you?”

  Aedan had managed to slide himself out of the wagon and was making his way over on his crutches.

  “A long story,” Clauman answered for him.

  “Well there will be plenty of time for stories later, but I think now we should get you settled in. Yes?”

  Clauman nodded.

  After a silent handshake, Borr hefted the two large sacks that Clauman handed down to him. He led the group through the parlour and down a passage where he opened a door and led them in.

  He frowned.

  His wife shrieked.

  The guests stared around in astonishment.

  Cockroaches rushed from them like a receding tide, flowing over a few dead rats and frogs. Grey drapes that had once been spiderwebs were now transformed by dust into useless sagging folds that caught nothing more than lizard droppings and expired moths. The floorboards were caked in a fungus so well established that it might have been mistaken for moss were it not for the overpowering smell of rot – it was as if they had stepped into the bowels of a giant mushroom.

  “Oh dear,” Harriet said, “Oh doubly dear. Oh mother of a … Sorry, pardon me, it’s just that, oh, oh my …”

  It turned out that the rooms had been left in perfect order three
years back and Harriet had expected, somewhat foolishly, to find them a little dusty perhaps, but no worse than that. A hole in the roof explained much of the destruction.

  After showering her guests with apologies, Harriet found two rooms that were in a less shocking condition, and she spent the remainder of the afternoon apologising and scrubbing beside Nessa who would not be kept from sharing the burden of cleaning. The men unloaded in silence while Aedan got the kitchen fire going and was given a chicken to pluck. By the time he was finished, it looked like he had made a fairly complete transfer of feathers from the chicken to himself. Leaving Harriet to finish the scrubbing, Nessa chopped carrots, celery and potatoes, and tipped them with a sprinkling of salt and a sprig of rosemary into the pot to keep the chicken company. The result was a simple yet toothsome pot-roast. Borr nodded in surprise and appreciation when the meal was served that evening. Harriet mumbled something about the meat being underdone.

  After the meal that was never without the buzz of conversation – for the women had become fast friends – Clauman accepted Harriet’s invitation to remain at least until Aedan’s injuries had healed. He offered to pay for accommodation, but she reminded him that money had no value this far from town, so it was agreed that everything would be shared, both labour and food.

  “Is the rooster going to sleep in the house?” Clauman asked, as everyone retired for the night.

  “Oh, don’t you worry about him,” Harriet laughed. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to manage my livestock. He’s no early riser that one. Laziest chicken in Thirna. We call him Snore.”

  Snore angled his head and gave Clauman a challenging stare, then, clucking confidently, made his way with great dignity to the parlour window where he hopped up onto the backrest of a deeply scratched chair and buried himself in his feathers for the evening. Clauman looked sceptical.

  Morning had not even begun to intrude on the night’s reign when there was a feathery disturbance at the same window. A soft whooshing of wings and scraping of claws suggested a few stretches. Then the starry silhouette revealed the shape of a beak and crown as the king of the morning threw his head back – and roared.