Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) (2 page)

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 overripe 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 reassurance 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 hayrick.
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 pre-empted 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?”