The Awakening Read Free Page A

breathing quickly and her heart was pounding as she gazed into the dark interior of her father’s box.
    Inside, there were three items: a small bag, a roll of parchment and a harp.
    A heavy knocking on her door brought Hwenfayre out of her reminiscences. Startled, she turned away from the cold fireplace to the door. She put down her drink and rose to her feet.
    ‘Who is it?’ she asked.
    A gruff voice muttered something indistinct. Puzzled, Hwenfayre moved quickly to the door and, pressing her ear to the heavy wood, asked again.
    ‘My name is Wyn. I am a guard. We met this morning on the wall.’
    His voice was deep, muffled by the door. Despite that, she could detect an unusual accent, a hint of mystery, something exotic.
    ‘What do you want?’ she asked, unable to entirely hide the interest in her voice.
    ‘I thought that perhaps I might talk to you.’
    ‘What would you have to talk to me about?’
    ‘That song you played this morning. I recognised it. I thought that perhaps we might be kin.’
    Hwenfayre cautiously opened the door and looked out at the big, heavy-set man who had greeted her that morning. In the evening light his coarse features were softened somewhat and he had tied back his mane of thick black hair with a leather thong. It was unusual to see a soldier with such long hair; normally they kept it close-cropped. He stood solidly, confidently, with his hands clasped behind his back. His stance and features made him look menacing, dark and somehow threatening. Her first instinct was to close and bolt the door. But there was something about his intense grey-green eyes that made Hwenfayre pause. She decided against closing the door in his face, and opened it wide and stepped aside. He hesitated, then walked in. As he passed her, Hwenfayre could smell the brine on his cloak.
    He sat awkwardly on the single chair and waited as Hwenfayre dragged an old box out of the nextroom to sit on. They sat for a few minutes in a strained silence, looking at each other. Then Wyn coughed, clearing his throat, in an attempt to make some sound, preparatory to speaking.
    ‘Where did you learn that song you played this morning?’ he asked diffidently.
    ‘I didn’t learn it, I made it up myself. Years ago, just before my mother died. It seemed to fit my mood at the time.’
    ‘That is strange. It is an ancient song of my people, played at our most important ceremonies. To the best of my knowledge, it has never been played or heard by any not of our race. Hearing it played this morning, so beautifully, and by one who looks as though she belongs in the robes of a Priestess, was,’ he paused, searching for the word to express his thoughts, ‘unnerving. To say the least. I felt I had to seek you out and at least find out how you came to be here.’
    ‘I live here. Have done all my life.’
    ‘But surely many outlanders have visited this place? People who have brought their music with them?’
    ‘No. Not many at all. Visitors travel here for market days, but none ever stay. On occasion travelling minstrels may visit, but their stays are brief, and their visits rare. We are not a rich town. But what of you? You are not from this town. Where do you hail from?’
    ‘Everywhere, and nowhere. I travel much.’
    ‘By sea?’
    ‘Yes, mainly.’
    ‘Tell me of the sea,’ Hwenfayre almost begged.
    ‘Ah, the Sea. What can be said of her? She is the loveliest maiden, the harshest witch and the gentlest mother. She gives, she takes, but ever she remains the same. Let me tell you of the time…’
    For several hours, Hwenfayre sat entranced as the guard spun tales of rolling swells, fearsome beasts, mysterious islands and terrible storms. He spoke with a wonder and a love in his voice that touched her soul and lifted her heart. At some stage during those magical hours she picked up her harp and found herself playing some of her own songs, almost in accompaniment to the stories being told her.
    Finally Wyn stood up, preparing to