Jonathan renshaw dawn of wonder (the wakening book 1)

DAWN OF WONDER


Book 1 of The Wakening


By Jonathan Renshaw

© 2015 Jonathan Renshaw


All rights reserved
Cover art by Richard Allen and JR


Scene sketches by Richard Allen
All characters and events in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious,
and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.


Contents
Title Page
Illustrations
Pronunciations
Map


Chapters
One
Two

Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twnety-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two

Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four


Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
Fifty-four
Fifty-five
Fifty-six
Fifty-seven
Fifty-eight
Fifty-nine
Sixty

Sixty-one
Sixty-two
Author’s Note


Illustrations
Spoiler alert!
This table is intended as a reference, not a door for sneak previews.
Map
The cliff
Weapons hall
Autumn festival
Murn’s antics
The museum
West


Pronunciations
of the less obvious names and places.
Allisian—a-LIS-ian
Aedan—AY-din
Castath—CASS-tith
Clauman—CLAW-min
DinEilan—din-EE-lin
Dresbourn—DREZ-born
Kalry—KAL-ree
Kultûhm—kull-TOOM (kull as in full)
Lekrau—LEK-rouw (rouw as in now)
Liru—LEE-roo
Malik—MAL-ik

Mardrae—MAR-dray
Mardraél—MAR-dray-EL
Merter—MER-ta
Nymliss—NIM-liss
Orunea—a-ROO-nia
Osric—OZ-ric
Pellamine—PEL-a-meen
Torval—TOR-vil
Ulnoi—ULL-noy (ULL as in FULL)
Vallendal—va-LEN-dil
Wildemar—WILL-dim-ah
Yulla—YOO-la



Even the wind now held its breath.
A hush of anticipation swept through the trees, causing forest creatures to hesitate in their
scratchings and birds to falter in their songs. The woods grew still as everything was pressed under a
deep, vast silence.
It came from the east, from the mountain wilderness of DinEilan. It was like a swelling of the air, a
flexing of the ground, as if some enormous power had been hurled into the earth hundreds of miles
away sending tremors throughout the land.
Directly over a country lane, a young squirrel was clamped to the limb of an ancient walnut tree.
Tawny hair all over its body now rose and quivered as moss began to prickle underfoot.
The deep, shuddering stillness flowed through the woods. In and amongst the trees, fur and feather
trembled in a vice-grip. The squirrel may have lacked the words for what stole into its mind, but in
the same way that it knew the terror of jackal teeth and the lure of high branches, a vague yet
frightening awareness was taking shape. Somewhere, many miles distant, something was stirring,
changing … wakening.
Then the feeling passed as swiftly as it had arrived and the squirrel released its breath and looked

around. It lifted a paw and examined the mossy bark, sniffed, and turned quick eyes to the ground, to
the leaves, to the sky – all in vain. As before, there were no answers to be found. It was the second
time since winter that this alarming thrill had surged through the air, departing without a trace.
But something else now caused little eyes to dart and ears to twitch, something quite different. The
leaves strewn across the forest lane were beginning to quake and shiver. Several pigeons that had
been huddling on the ground burst away in all directions with a wild clapping of wings. For the
squirrel, this was warning enough. It fled across the branch, disappearing up the walnut trunk and into
a knot hole as if drawn by a string.
Before it had a chance to push its head out, a horse and rider hurtled around the bend, apparently
unaware of the recent quieting of their surrounds. Hooves slipped on the moist surface, flinging up
dark clods, but there was no slowing of pace – wide eyes and foamy flecks suggested that the pace


had not slackened for many miles. The tall rider’s green military coat whipped and snapped around
him as he leaned forward in the stirrups, head close to the horse’s plunging neck. In his fist, crushed
against the reins, was a rolled sheet of paper. The speed, the foam, the clutched paper … Anyone he
passed by would have instantly read the look on his face: Please, let me not be too late!
–––
A few miles up the road was the farm of Badgerfields. It held tumbling meadows working their way
ever upwards in the early sun, sheep and cattle working away at the meadows, and an assortment of
labourers who were engaged in something that did not resemble work at all.
Ploughmen whose harrows lay discarded in the fresh new earth were balancing on a fence for a
clearer view. They were placing bets, grinning. On the far side of the river, a cart loaded with dead
wood creaked to a halt. The driver scrambled onto the heap of timber where he peered out over a
lush green pastureland, chuckled to himself, and dug his boots into the wood pile until he had a steady
footing. This was something he was not going to miss.
All around, farmhands dropped their tools, and even the long grass, silvered and heavy with dew,
caught the mood and leaned forward.
Everyone’s eyes were fixed on an old stone bridge over the Brockle River. The walkway was
narrow, the stones doubtful, the wall slippery, and there was a lot of air underneath. To the farm’s

adventure hunter who would give his name as Aedan and his age as almost thirteen – though he had
only recently stopped calling himself almost twelve – it was irresistible. It wasn’t just the lure of
danger, but something it afforded that was far closer to his heart – friendship.
Under a scruffy head and smudged face, there was no missing the eager young eyes that were bright
with hope for the morning’s project. Adventures, he had discovered, became cold and lonely things if
he couldn’t, at some stage, get friends to share them. And friends, even old friends, were never quite
on the level of companions until they shared his adventures.
Whether or not the friends actually wanted to share them tended to have little effect on the
outcome. Aedan had become an expert in coaxing and nudging – and perhaps one or two of those
nudges might have been misunderstood as shoves, but they had been given with the best intentions.
Everyone was always glad afterwards. Mostly.
It had taken much work and perhaps one or two improvements on the facts about the landing, but
Aedan had finally convinced Thomas to attempt the dreaded jump. The images he had painted with his
words were irresistible – the thrill of the leap, the wonders of soaring flight, the softness of dropping
into water. Deep, icy, emerald water that clinked and rattled in the chasm below.
Thomas, after explaining to Aedan once again that he did not want to do this, and being assured in
the most ardent terms that he did, finally conceded and lifted his shaking hands from the lichen-coated
wall. He raised himself by unsteady inches until he stood wobbling on the cold stones a dizzy height
above the river. The soft, pink skin on his back was alive with shudders.
Many eyes watched from various points along the sheer banks but only one other person was on
the bridge. Kalry, a year older and half a head taller than Aedan, bit her lip as she glanced at Thomas
and then peered beyond him, over the wall. It was a long, long way down.
“W – what if I land on a fish?” Thomas was staring past his toes into the hungry river. “These trout
have got spines on their fins. If they are pointing up and I’m going down, it could be like the time I
…” He turned a glorious ruby red and glanced over at Kalry.
When she smiled encouragingly at him, he attempted a careless chuckle, swung his arms, and


almost lost his balance.
“Oh tripe!” he gasped, regaining control of his shivering limbs only just in time.

Aedan was getting worried. He had to help his friend past this remarkably creative pessimism.
How did Thomas manage to think of trout fins?
“Fish always keep one eye looking up,” Aedan said. “They think falling people are eagles, so they
get out the way.” He had a strong suspicion that this might not be entirely true, but it should be, which
was almost as good.
Kalry’s wrinkled nose told him what she thought of it, but he shrugged off the uncomfortable
feeling. Disarming encouragement radiated from this short, scruffy boy.
Mischief lurked.
He tried again, “Once you’re in the air it feels just like flying. The only frightening part is before
you jump,” he said.
Kalry frowned at Aedan and opened her mouth to speak, but he fixed her with a stare and shook his
head. She narrowed her eyes, but held her tongue.
He was about to try the angle of “If you don’t do this now you’ll hate yourself forever” and so on
when he was distracted by a sound that drifted over from the main farm buildings.
The faraway pounding of hooves that had been steadily growing erupted into a harsh cobblestone
clatter. He looked just in time to glimpse something pale and green flashing across the gaps between
dairy, stables and feed barns. The last opening was broader and revealed a large grey horse and a
uniformed rider. They dashed between labourers at a reckless pace. Instead of halting before the main
courtyard rail, the horse actually jumped it and pounded up the fine lawn to the very doorstep of the
manor house. Then the timber shed blocked the view.
Aedan’s curiosity caught alight, but he stamped the flames down. Nothing could be allowed to
distract him now. The interruption, however, gave him an idea, a spark of inspiration that matched
Thomas for creativity.
“The rumours of lowland bandits or slave traders could be true this time, Thomas. This might be
your last chance before you are made a slave for the rest of your life. Or beheaded. Or … or …
locked in your room while our soldiers fight them for years and years until you are too old to make
the jump without getting killed.”
Thomas flinched. “You mean people can actually die from this jump?”
“Of course not. Even Kalry’s done it.”
“But you just said it would kill me if I was too old.”

Aedan frowned and kicked the stone paving. “I didn’t mean that part. It sort of sneaked in there
without me actually wanting it.” He glared at Kalry with an unspoken demand for help, but the girl’s
hazel eyes were now full of laughter. She shook her head and buried her amusement behind a tousled
mass of sun-and-barley hair. Aedan had to soldier on alone.
“Think of it, Thomas. Once you jump you’ll be one of us, one of the Badgerfields Elites. And …
and you can have my second sling.”
“Didn’t you break it yesterday?”
“It could be fixed.”
Kalry, the smile still lingering, held her hands up with a look that was really a soundless groan.
Aedan was equally unimpressed with the strength of his arguments, but he was grasping now. The
golden moment of decision was passing by, and it would not come again.
Just then a cloud drifted in front of the sun. Thomas shuddered as an inquisitive breeze explored
his soft skin.


“I – I think I’ll wait for it to warm up a bit first,” he said. “Anyway, I want to know what’s going
on at the manor house. I can see lots of people running.”
Aedan’s and Kalry’s eyes met, and something flickered between them. As Thomas bent over – the
first of several careful manoeuvres in getting down from the wall – two pairs of hands reached up and
provided the “encouragement” that they would later claim he had as good as requested.
The howl of terror that split the morning and echoed down the chasm would live on in Aedan’s
dreams for years to come, always bringing a sigh and a smile. The falling boy actually ran out of
breath before he hit the icy river, allowing a theatrical pause before the sharp smack of belly and
limbs. It was the loudest landing they had ever heard.
“Aedan, I think we might have killed him,” Kalry said, her eyes on the frothy impact point far
below.
Without a word, Aedan was over the edge and in the air, plummeting towards his friend. Kalry
was not far behind. She was airborne by the time Aedan hit the water.
The river crashed up around him. He always said that cold water felt less wet, more like liquid
stones. It certainly felt that way now as the brisk current jostled him downstream. His feet throbbed

from the impact, and he’d forgotten to block his nose resulting in a stinging shot to the brain, but there
was no time to worry over such things. The moment he surfaced, he spun around looking for Thomas.
Kalry landed about six inches away and gave him the best fright of his young life. By the time he
could see again, she had taken the lead in the rescue of their friend.
“Kalry, you wind-brain!” he spluttered. “You – you could have made me shorter!”
Kalry laughed as she swam away with the current towards the disturbance in the water that was
Thomas. He was gasping in snatches. Eyebrows raised almost to his hairline indicated that he was
still experiencing the full force of the shock and the cold – the Brockle was a river born of snowmelt
and hidden by forest until it rushed into the sun only a mile upstream. The two rescuers caught up and
guided their friend out of the current onto a sandy bank. He crawled from the water in a series of
desperate jerking movements.
“I’m going to kill you Aedan,” he gasped.
“Kalry helped.”
“Then I’ll kill you twice.” He panted and coughed up an impressive quantity of river. “I’m going to
hang you and after that I’ll skin you alive.”
“You mean ‘skin me dead’. That’s what people are after you hang them.”
If Thomas was impressed by Aedan’s expertise in the area, he did not show it. He whimpered as
he touched his belly. It was blushing like sunrise, as if he’d spent the day sprawled out on the sand
and been scorched to a crimson perfection. Even Aedan winced at the sight, but he recovered quickly
and leaned forward.
“So did you catch a fish?” he whispered.
“Aedan!” Kalry said.
Thomas glared, assembled his still-wobbly legs beneath him, and clumped away. He seemed to
have forgotten that he was a mild boy and stopped after a few yards to cast a very dangerous look
back at the guilty pair.
Aedan tried to look apologetic but then realised he didn’t feel apologetic. He knew Thomas would
thank him one day. Well, perhaps not quite thank him, but at least join in the laughter.
Or at least not scowl at the memory.
Though it hadn’t gone exactly as planned, Thomas had finally shared the adventure.
When they were alone, he turned to Kalry, “Another successful mission for the Elites. Thomas is a

member at last.”
“I feel horrible,” she said.
“It was good for him. He’ll be happy about it one day.”
“I think I’m going to feel horrible until then.”
“Nonsense. Make him a pearlnut pie and he’ll forget everything after the first bite.”
“Will you help me search for the nuts then? They aren’t easy to find this time of year.”
“As long as it’s quick. I want to see what all the fuss is at the house. And as long as you don’t
expect me to bake.”
“We have to give him something nicer than the fall, so you won’t be baking.”
“Wind brain.”
“Frog nose.”
They let the bright spring sun dry them as they jogged over the hayfields towards the mysterious
pearlnut tree. This tree, a curiosity known to the whole midlands, was unnaturally big – several
hundred feet high, its smooth leathery trunk almost as wide as the hay barn. Every autumn it produced
large nut-like seeds with a translucent milky flesh that Kalry described as a mixture of pecan nuts,
honey and snow.
But there was more that intrigued them than the size and the magical taste of the kernels. In the last
year something strange had happened. It was Kalry who discovered it by putting her ear to the trunk
and listening as she often did. With a startled cry, she’d leapt away. But fright dwindled before
curiosity. When she pressed her ear to the smooth bark again, her expression slowly melted into quiet
wonder.
“It’s sighing,” she explained, “not in a sad way, but big and full with thoughts of delicious soil and
warm sun and crisp, clean air that drifts high up where pearlnut leaves can tickle the feet of cheeky
low clouds.”
Aedan argued at first that it was just the sound of wind passing down the trunk the same way those
hollow, eerie sounds pass down a chimney when the sky is restless and the house is empty. But then
he too put his ear to the tree. It was quiet for a long time, and he was almost out of patience when he
heard a deep rumbling breath that didn’t sound much like wind and that made him think of soil and sun

and air. Still, determined to prove his point, he stepped back to indicate the wind in the boughs.
There hadn’t been any.
Since then he had always felt a slight quiver in his bones when approaching the tree, and he felt it
again now.
But before he and Kalry had covered half the distance across the east field, their attention was
drawn by William, the elderly but still-strong farm manager, who was engaged in a lively discussion
with Thomas. William pointed to the manor house and the boy raced away. Then William spotted
Aedan and Kalry and started running towards them.
“Now we’re in for it,” said Aedan.
Kalry was watching William. “I don’t think he’s coming to talk about the bridge,” she said. “He’s
running. He never runs.”
Aedan stopped. Kalry drew up alongside him.
“There’s Emroy,” Aedan said, pointing at a red-headed youth, “going like he’s got a wasp in his
rods. Hope he has. And isn’t that Thomas’s father over there by the sheep pens? He’s running too.”
Old Dougal was surging up the hill, limp forgotten, hands flailing about him as if attempting to gain
some additional purchase from the air.
“Aedan,” said Kalry, taking his arm. “Something has happened. Aedan, I’m scared.”


“You!” It was William, bellowing as he came within range. Though his words were aimed at them,
his eyes cast frantically about the perimeter of the farm. “Get to the house now! Keep in the open and
move quickly!”
“What is it?” Kalry asked, but William was already bounding away and turned only to yell,
“Run!”
He was not a timid man, but the worry beneath his words was thicker than flies in a pig pen.
They ran.
William threw his voice out across the fields. From all directions labourers began hurrying
towards the manor house, shaken from their stations like over-ripe apples in a wind grown unsteady –
the first gusts of a storm.

When Aedan and Kalry reached the courtyard outside the main buildings, they found a small crowd of
farm workers gathered in fluttering nervousness. Dresbourn, the farm owner who was also Kalry’s
father, stood at the front of the crowd in earnest conversation with the stranger in the bright green
military coat.
Half-a-dozen men were posted as lookouts, standing on the nearby roofs of hay barn, dairy and
timber shed. The uniformed stranger paced before Dresbourn and called regularly to the lookouts.
Aedan was balancing on an empty wheelbarrow, peering over the heads that towered in front of
him.
“Can you see what’s happening?” Kalry asked.
“I think he’s waiting for everyone to get here.” Aedan said. He jumped down and they headed over
to a cart that had just been loaded with hay. After some scrambling, interrupted by a series of sneezes,
they were balanced at the front edge overlooking the restless gathering.
There was some assurance to be found in the backdrop of the grand manor house. It was three
storeys high with solid walls, heavy doors, and thick oak shutters on the windows. It could certainly
be made secure, but in truth, it was no fortress. The peaceful midlands did not call for battlements or
turrets.
Aedan fixed his eyes on the stranger who had most people’s attention. He was an impressive man
– tall, powerfully built, even intimidating, as could be seen from the fawning of those near him.
Though his words did not carry to the back, his posture and manners told of great authority, an
impression cemented when he turned from the lookouts to the swelling crowd with bold, intelligent
eyes, eyes that caused most to find sudden interest in their shoes. This, Aedan thought, was no mere
soldier. This was the kind of man the great histories were filled with, and he was here in the rural
Mistyvales!
Aedan and Kalry leaned forward, trying to catch the spillage of several dozen conversations
beneath them, but it was clear that nobody had the slightest clue as to why they had been wrenched
from their labours – not that anyone minded. The two friends listened all the same, wild speculation
being no less exciting than actual facts, and as there was nothing they could do to hurry things along,

this seemed the best way to endure the waiting.
They made an unusual pair. Both were without siblings and had, by all appearances, adopted each
other. Aedan was a short boy whose brown skin owed as much to sun as soil, whose clothes were
constantly sprouting new rips and stains and never lost the smell of wood smoke, and whose eyes
were either brimming with adventure or lost in deep musings that, when spoken, seemed strangely
misplaced in a boy so small and grubby. The workings of his young mind were in fact so
extraordinary that he was sometimes referred to as the Brain. Dorothy, who ran the kitchen and was
forever pursuing his muddy steps with a mop, quickly amended this to the Drain.
What proceeded from Aedan’s thoughts was a combination of boyish mischief and deductive
genius. In superstitious circles, some whispered that he was unnaturally gifted – or tainted. The
menfolk, especially the old soldiers with whom Aedan was forever discussing the wars, were
repeatedly astounded by his knack for thinking like a seasoned military strategist. The women were
appalled. Their efforts to direct his thoughts to milder, more age-appropriate interests and to steer his
feet along cleaner paths met with absolute failure. He remained stubbornly battle minded and mud
brushed.
Kalry, on the other hand, was able to share most of Aedan’s adventures and yet remain
surprisingly neat and clean, which in Aedan’s estimation was more or less to miss the point. There
was one part of Kalry, however, that was never neat. It was her hair. Aedan had once said that she
could conceal herself anytime by leaping feet first into a hay rick. Unfortunately the implied
comparison was a little too good, and after seeing the look on her face, he had never mentioned it
again. The problem was that Kalry’s hair was not that easy to tell apart from hay – it was a stubbornly
untameable, straw-like mass that hung long and wild down her back. It fell in an assortment of braids,
stalk-like shafts and rebellious curls. The whole effect of the wind-blown tangle was something that
drew concerned pats from grandmothers and barbed teasing from children. Aedan secretly adored it,
though he couldn’t bring himself to say so. As he saw it, Kalry’s wild hair was to her what coppery
leaves were to autumn.
He spotted Thomas on the far side of the yard and was trying to gauge how angry his friend was
when Kalry interrupted his thoughts.
“What’s that mark on your neck?”
He stiffened. “Nothing.”

“Was it Emroy? Does your father know?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” After a while he glanced at her and recognised the soft frown he
hated seeing.
But he couldn’t tell her. Not about this. When a tree was being ruined from inside, the bark would
hide its shame, at least for a time. Aedan had kept his bark wrapped tight. He wanted none to know,
least of all Kalry.
But there was another reason he could not speak of it. When he had confided in Brice, the news
had reached the boy’s parents, and Aedan had been asked to stay away from their farm. He wasn’t
going to lose Kalry too. The silence strained between them and he began to feel very lonely.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he said. “The thing is … well, Brice and I aren’t friends anymore
because I told him.”
Kalry looked at him and at the bruise on his neck again. Her voice was gentle when she leaned
over and whispered in his ear.
Aedan caught his breath.
She leaned back. “It’s him isn’t it? He did this.”


Aedan was silent, his jaw grinding.
Kalry put her arm through his. “See, I’m still your friend, and I won’t tell.”
His throat bunched up tight and he felt pools forming in his eyes. It took all his concentration to
keep them from spilling, to keep the pain inside. But Kalry would know anyway; she mostly did. And
she held his arm fast.
The last group of labourers arrived, breathing heavily, eyes casting frantically around them. The
stranger appeared to be concluding his discussion with Dresbourn and making ready to address the
crowd.
“First to guess his origin?” Kalry offered.
“If you are prepared to lose,” Aedan said, glad of the diversion.
“I won the last three, remember.”
“Well I wasn’t really trying my best.”
“Who says I was? Let’s both try our best this time, then there are no excuses.”

“Deal.” Aedan spat in his hand and offered it to Kalry who grimaced and brushed the glistening
palm with a handful of hay.
“Boys are such barbarians,” she muttered.
The stranger raised his hands for silence and the courtyard fell into a deathly hush.
“I am glad that you were able to get here so quickly,” he said as he paced before them, his
agitation all too obvious. “Your manager is to be commended for his promptness and efficiency” – he
indicated William who acknowledged the compliment.
“I am Lieutenant Quin of the Midland Council of Guards. I have been assigned to the Mistyvales,
to sound the warning that will soon be ringing through every corner of the midlands, and to assist in
protecting our people. I am here to oversee and strengthen whatever defences are in existence. Sir
Dresbourn of Badger’s Hall has examined my commission.”
In spite of his surging curiosity, Aedan felt himself shrink away at the mention of Dresbourn’s
noble title. He hated being reminded that Kalry was of noble blood. In the rural Mistyvales, social
distinctions were not given much weight, but the potential for separation still haunted him. Dresbourn,
however, did not appear displeased at this reminder of rank. He took a deep breath and puffed up –
an unflattering effect for an already puffy-looking man – before closing his eyes and inclining his
head, indicating that the lieutenant should continue. The man turned back to the crowd, shook his arms
and straightened the green coat of his uniform.
“For the past thirty years, the central midlands has been unthreatened by Lekran slave hunting,
especially the wind-flung areas like this. Rumours and warnings of slave traders have always turned
out to be as empty as cargo holds in the wake of pirates. The consequence is that these areas have
been softened by ease. We fear that this has now been discovered.
“Recently, one of our parties, while scouting south of here, sighted a Lekran slave convoy from a
distance. Our men were outnumbered and could take no action, so they rode to the nearest town,
Glenting, where they discovered that dozens of townsfolk had been taken. One here and one there as
they became isolated. The slavers were swift, not one was seen, and not one captive escaped. We
suspect that Glenting is only the beginning, that all isolated midland areas will now be seen as
lagoons full of trapped fish.”
“We should move to the town centre!” Dougal shouted in a thin, wheezing voice. “Keep the
women and children in the middle. Reinforce the walls. Let them try take us there. We’ll show these

filthy Lekrans something they’ll carry to their island graves!”


There was an outburst of agreement, disagreement, and a general din of nervous commentary. The
lieutenant raised his hands for silence. When the last conversations had died away, he shook his arms
and straightened his coat again, a shadow of annoyance or perhaps discomfort crossing his face.
“I am glad you made that suggestion. It is a good one, but in this case I think we are too late for
that.”
He paused to let his meaning sink home. The eyes that stared back at him were growing large and
white. Men edged to the outside of the circle, grasping pitch forks and shovels.
“Yes,” Quin said, nodding at them, “I believe they are already here, and unless I’m sorely
mistaken, this farm will be the first target. It is the ideal size, and sufficiently isolated. If I am right,
then travellers attempting to reach the town, even large groups of us, would make easy targets. On the
road, the advantage is theirs. They are well-armed and highly trained. We would stand no chance.
“Sir Dresbourn agrees with me that the wiser move at this stage is to fortify the manor house until
it looks like a sea urchin. My orders are to ensure that you do not make yourselves vulnerable, so I
must insist that you remain here until guard reinforcements arrive tomorrow. Sir Dresbourn has
already agreed to this. Do I have your cooperation?”
There was a murmur of agreement. After a brief conference with Dresbourn and William, Quin
began issuing instructions. Riders were dispatched to the farm’s homesteads. Everyone was to be
brought to the manor house. Livestock in distant fields was to be left for the evening; only the nearby
fields could be cleared. Nobody was to move alone or unarmed.
Among the older listeners with longer memories, there were deeply worried faces, and some of
the younger children were crying.
Aedan frowned and turned to Kalry. “Think it’s real this time?” he asked.
“Never been real before,” she said, “at least not in our time.”
“Well, even if it’s not another snot-in-the-wind story, I think we’re safe here with everyone
around.”
Kalry sighed. “You with your snot and spit. It’s no wonder you can’t write poetry when your brain
is full of ideas like that.”

Aedan was about to say that he thought poetry the only repulsive one of the three, but Kalry preempted him. “Want to finish the game? I’m ready to beat you again.” She grinned.
“Alright bigmouth,” he said. “You go first.”
“Only if you promise not to use my ideas.”
“Promise.”
“Don’t! … spit in your hand again.”
Aedan lowered his hand and blew out his cheeks at this girlish silliness, then folded his arms with
an almost-concealed smirk and settled back to listen.
For years, the two of them had been sharpening their uncommonly acute minds with games like this
that intrigued yet baffled their friends – and even some of the adults. Aedan enjoyed the challenges
almost as much as he enjoyed winning them, but it had been a while since he had tasted the sweetness
of victory.
Kalry took a breath, glanced over at the lieutenant, and began. “I think his uniform is from either
Rinwold or Stills. They are the only towns that would have such ugly fashions like the hideous
pointed collar and the swallow-tail jacket. He struts like a rooster when he walks and he looks at us
like those snobby south-midlanders who only pretend to like other people. And … what was the other
thing?” She narrowed her eyes. “Oh yes – and his accent is high. He says each word really carefully,
like a man who has studied how to make speeches. None of that seems like backward Stills, so I say


he’s from Rinwold. What’s your guess?”
Aedan was silent for some time. “I’m just confused,” he said at length. “Every time I tried to settle
on an idea he did something to squash it.”
“You still need to put your origin down before we ask him.”
Aedan thought again. “My first idea, and the only one that seems to work, is that he must live near
the sea because he kept making boat and fish comparisons. I don’t know what sea urchins are, but I’m
sure you don’t find them in the midlands. I’ll choose something coastal and not too far north, like
Falls Harbour.”
“The sea comparisons … Good point,” she conceded. “I remember that now. We might both be
right though. He could have grown up at the coast and moved away later, but if he did, he must have
worked very hard to lose the western accent. Let’s go find out.”

They clambered and slid down the hay and dropped off the back of the cart under a small shower
of straw and dust. Dougal had pulled the lieutenant aside and was whispering questions, nodding
rapidly at the brief answers and then attacking with further questions. The lieutenant was giving all
the signals – tapping hands, stamping feet and wandering eyes. He finally tired of the business, and
while making a last reply, he spun on his heel and strode away, directly towards Aedan and Kalry.
The annoyed cast of his features changed as he saw the slender young girl with the warm eyes. He
smiled.
It was only a flash, but Aedan had a sudden impulse to push him away.
“Lieutenant Quin,” she said in her bellish voice, “can we ask you where you come from?”
The smile slipped and he narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean by that?”
Aedan was liking this lieutenant less and less. That was no way to talk to Kalry.
“We have this game,” she explained. “We try to guess where people are from by using clues. I
guessed Rinwold, and Aedan guessed a coastal town like Falls Harbour. Did we come close?”
Understanding eased his features, but he remained aloof when he replied. “Rinwold it is. I
congratulate you. You are as discerning as your father. It is always a pleasure dealing with others of
noble blood.” He kept his eyes on her.
Aedan flinched. He had wanted to ask further details, but was only too happy when the man turned
and strode away. He wondered why a soldier had bothered to find out who was related to whom.
“I don’t like him,” Aedan said.
“That’s because he made you lose your fourth in a row,” Kalry laughed. “And wasn’t I right about
his snobbishness? Wanted us to know about his noble blood too.”
Aedan was frowning, lost in thought. “Kalry,” he said, “if he hadn’t been wearing that uniform,
would you still have thought he was from Rinwold?”
“Well that’s the point, isn’t it? We’re supposed to use all the clues that we have to lead us to a
conclusion.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he got a good promotion through a friend, and he’s actually spent most of his
life doing something shady in one of the seaports. That would explain his bad manners. And there’s
something else about him. Something I can’t put into words. Something that worries me. If this slave
business actually turns out to be real, I don’t think I want him in charge.”
Kalry looked at Aedan. Her eyes had grown a lot more serious. “He did make a lot of sea

comparisons, didn’t he?”


“Kal-ree!”
The courtyard was still emptying when Dorothy’s voice rang through the commotion. She was,
without doubt, grandmother to the whole farm, but the greying of her hair had not been accompanied
by the slightest flagging of energy. There was enough wit and zest in her veins to match any of the
young troublemakers. “Over here, my girl. Vegetables to be washed. We need all hands in the kitchen,
even little ones. Aedan, you too, you mangy mud-vole – though you do look surprisingly clean this
morning …”
She stepped in front of him, hands on hips, a half-smile tugging the dimple in one cheek. “Been in
the river, haven’t you?”
Aedan nodded.
“A sad day for everyone downstream,” she said, giving his ear a tweak as he darted past. She
followed him, still talking. “Well at least you won’t be able to leave my ingredients dirtier than you
find them. Now don’t just stand there looking at what has to be done. Hop to it before I give you
something to hop about!”
By late afternoon, labourers armed with rusty swords and frail spears returned from the nearby
fields. In the manor house, belongings and weapons cluttered the floor in every room. Fireplaces
were set to work against the air that had turned cold. Salted pork, preserved figs, and bowls of nuts
were brought out from the larder to ease the waiting while a thick mutton-and-vegetable stew began to
weave heady aromas through the house.
Dorothy’s cooking was legendary. It had once been said that she could turn soil to cake. William,
her husband, had remarked that he could achieve the reverse, earning himself a sharp smack with the
rolling pin.
The men had gathered in the main hall and were now discussing shifts of three groups that would
be rotated through the night. Aedan, eager to know how the defences would be arranged, was listening
intently to the scraps of talk that carried through to the kitchen where he was still imprisoned. He
heard the outer door open and William’s voice, usually so bold, was deferential as he explained the
new idea to whoever had entered. Aedan guessed that it had to be Lieutenant Quin.

“I appreciate that you have been so proactive” – it was definitely Quin – “while I have been
scouting the surrounds. But from what I see, the manor house is strong and well situated. Such
precautions as you suggest would be excessive. Remember that these are slavers who rely on speed
and stealth, not force of numbers, so the gathering of this many people would, by itself, ensure safety.
When weathering a storm with all sails down, the greatest enemy is panic. We can all relax, trust me.
Situations like these are my daily occupation.”
From the responses, it was clear that everyone approved. It eased the tension considerably. Soon
the house began to fill with talk and laughter as bellies were filled with an ample supper.
Dorothy found out about the morning’s business at the river and punished the two recreants by
sending them back to the kitchen to clean the dishes. Aedan was hopeless. He started by washing and
handing the crockery to Kalry to dry, but what she received was a stream of wet, dirty plates.
“Aedan! You wash dishes like you’re worried about getting infected by them.”
“Washing dishes is disgusting.” Aedan was trailing the cloth over a plate, clearly trying to keep
his fingers dry.
“You play with slugs and dung beetles, use horse droppings for target practice, and spit in your
hand.”
“So do you.”
“I don’t spit in my hand.”
“Washing dishes is still disgusting,” Aedan grumbled. “All those things are clean dirt. This job is
just revolting. And anyway, you hate it just as much as me. I’ve heard Dorothy moaning at you and
calling you back to clean properly lots of times.”
“Well at least I do my washing quickly, even if it isn’t perfect. Here, let me wash. You can dry.”
“Fine.”
The new arrangement worked far better and it wasn’t long before they were finished, leaving a
pile of almost clean, completely wet dishes on the counter. Aedan draped the cloth over the top to
reduce the chance of someone noticing and calling him back to dry them properly. If Kalry had
noticed, she was saying nothing. She had never cared much for these mundane chores. Storybooks,
sketchpads and fireside conversations had far too strong a grip on her affections and drew her away

more than Dorothy thought acceptable. But the old lady was not here now and Kalry wasted no time
heading for the door.
Aedan lingered, hovering at the gap between the heavy shutters that looked out towards the forest.
He willed his eyes to travel into the foggy darkness gathering behind the boles of elm, sycamore, oak
and hornbeam.
Nymliss was a forbidding forest even in daylight, a dim world of ancient things and terrible
secrets preserved only in folklore. At least that was what the folklore said. But the stories were not
without effect. Few dared enter the forest, and those that did were mostly shunned, the superstitious
folk marking them as tainted by the feared darkness within. Aedan had never bothered himself with
such ideas, and as the son of a forester, had been quite at home tracking, exploring, hunting, and
wandering freely under the leafy roofs.
What he had found in there had not entirely convinced him that the folklore was wind and smoke.
There was something about the forest that demanded his respect, though what it was he could never
decide. And ever since that peculiar storm, he had felt as if there was something whispery about
Nymliss, almost awake, not in a haunting way but as if it were more alive than before.
Now, however, what he imagined in the deep shadows had a much clearer shape and intent.
“What is it?” Kalry asked.