Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1)

by Jonathan Renshaw

  The prince’s guard was a group of seven tall soldiers wearing full parade armour. Plumed helms waved and red capes billowed as they marched down the road, each step ringing out with a clash of steel.

  They drew up at the heavy iron gate outside the academy where the captain of the guard summoned the five boys by name and scrutinised them. His eyes indicated just the right amount of professional disapproval.

  “You are to be escorted to the keep. Remain between the head and the rearguard.” With that, he and two flanking soldiers turned and began to march back towards the keep. The boys scuttled after them, not so much in fear of being left behind as of being stamped on by the rearguard crashing at their heels.

  The procession drew more than a few curious faces as it marched between groups of gossips and idlers, strolling parties and couples – all enjoying the lingering afternoon rays that streamed down the west-facing roads.

  The walls of the keep rose before the boys, dark and stern. As they approached, the gates swung open and heavily armed sentries stood aside to allow the procession through.

  The courtyard was bigger than they had expected. An assortment of soldiers and servants hurried about, finishing their duties for the day, or beginning their duties for the night, or possibly just looking busy to avoid being given additional duties.

  The palace stood at the end of the courtyard, and though they had all gazed up at it through the gate, it appeared far bigger now. The building rose perhaps a hundred and fifty feet above them. Aedan noticed how the lowest doors were all eight feet above the ground with stairs leading up to them – stairs that could theoretically be destroyed when under threat. But where the stairs should have been made from wood, these were of polished granite. Clearly there was a conflict of values here.

  The apprentices were handed over to a royal porter whose face hung from his skull like drooping clay and whose eyes registered neither welcome nor hostility. In fact, if it were not for the treachery of blinking eyelids, the unfocussed gaze might have belonged to a corpse. Aedan had heard about this kind of thing. Many important servants considered an appearance of bored efficiency void of interest or powers of observation to be safest. With grave indifference, the porter led them up the stairs and into an airy vestibule of the keep.

  The windows here should have been no more than angled slits allowing arrows to be shot out in almost any direction and light to enter from almost none. But again, the design ideals had apparently been flung away and much larger windows cut into the stone walls.

  The boys were led past guards, through a hall and up a wide marble stairway bordered with alabaster statues – all resplendent in royal robes. They climbed five storeys before the porter turned. He led them into a wide passage so lavishly decorated it made Aedan feel uncomfortable. The windows faced west, admitting bright shafts of bronzed light that glowed off the opposing wall. They passed several grand archways and large rooms before stopping outside a decorated oak door at the end of the passage where the dead-faced porter knocked.

  The spy-latch was opened. An eye inspected them, a bolt slid, and the door was swung open.

  They filed into a spacious room, richly carpeted and decorated with all manner of maps, sketches of weapons, and diagrams of fortresses. On the western and southern walls were large windows – a strangely unwarlike feature for a room dedicated to the purpose of war strategy, but the commanding view gave it some justification. Light from the windows fell on two dozen men sitting at a long table that ran the length of the room. Aedan recognised some of the faces – Osric, Skeet, and Balfore the dandified mayor who was still festooned with chains and rings.

  Aedan knew he was meant to bow to the prince, but because nobody in the room was dressed in any sort of royal outfit and all heads were crownless, he had no idea whom to acknowledge.

  “Bow to your prince, boys,” said Skeet.

  Aedan glanced desperately across at Peashot for some clue, but the smaller boy shrugged. In a kind of disorganised arrangement, they all bowed, each aiming in a different direction. Vayle, at the back, was the only one to get it right. The room fell silent.

  “Boys, do you intend to humiliate me?” Skeet said. “Here is your prince. Do you not recognise him?”

  “Sorry, sir,” Hadley replied. “Sorry, Your Highness. We have only ever seen you from the backs of crowds. We would only recognise you by those big prince clothes and the crown.”

  Though Hadley did not exactly say it, there was in fact nothing remarkable about Prince Burkhart, except for a general appearance of softness. A neatly arranged crop of mousy hair framed a round face with round cheeks, eyes that held more humour than command, and a surprisingly red nose looking as if it had been struck by a heavy bottle, or the contents. Aedan wondered if that was perhaps the young ruler’s means of escaping the strains of leadership.

  The prince laughed, stepping out from the others and dissolving the tension in the room. “That’s alright. I have no love of big clothes or heavy metal hats. I suppose I look rather like the squire of one of these gentlemen here, all of whom probably appear a lot more commanding than I.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean no, sir – Your Highness.”

  Prince Burkhart clapped his hands and laughed again. “Quite right. Your candour would make you abysmal in matters of court policy where none of us may say what we really think. But let’s get to the reason for your presence here. You came up with some interesting ideas in that last design of yours. While we are not convinced that they would work, we admire the boldness – something that qualified strategists will tend to place beneath caution, perhaps to the detriment of their plans. Even if your thoughts do no more than shake us from rutted thinking, it will be well worth the exercise. The ideas of thirteen- and fourteen-year-old boys have never been heard in this room before, but the present exigency calls for unusual measures and creative approaches.

  “The internal moat, the rolling discs, and the dye – crafty one that – are all fresh ideas, and those are most welcome here. The dyes we will certainly attempt as it will cost us little. The angle of the sun will probably play a strong role in their success. The moat does give us some interesting possibilities. An external moat would need to be at full depth all the way round before a siege begins. There might not be time for that in our case. But if it is behind a protective wall, it could be partitioned off, drained and deepened in a section where tunnelling is taking place, then flooded again in preparation for the tunnel’s arrival.

  “The rolling discs are interesting – especially on the downward slopes where they could roll at speed for a mile or more. On the level, however, we feel that they would not travel any great distance before collapsing and might not be that difficult to avoid. We will still build the prototype and see what happens. Soaked in oil and set alight they would prove devastating if they could reach an enemy camp.

  “As you can see, we place a high value on original concepts. So now that you know what we think of your ideas, we would like you to see if you can spot the flaws in ours. Before you look at the plans, I want to make two things clear. Firstly, if you speak of any of these things outside this room, you will all be built into the foundations of the outer wall.” He smiled, but his brows were raised in a way that assured the boys this was not a joke. “Secondly, there is to be no polite deference. If you observe a flaw, you speak of it. You have been brought here because of your original perspectives. It is your duty to voice them. Now, let’s get to it.”

  Five chairs stood open at the centre of the long table and the boys were invited to take their places before the large map unfurled there.

  As Aedan settled into a plush velvet chair, he decided that he liked this prince. Burkhart struck him as an open and up-front man, someone with whom he would always know his ground. He shifted the chair up and focussed on the map, eager to say something that might win the prince’s approval.

  The drawing was complicated and the annotations numerous, but the work was so neat that things became quickly clea
r.

  Trying to concentrate under the weighty eyes of the city’s war council was not easy. Lorrimer, if he was absorbing anything, gave no evidence of it and fidgeted constantly. Aedan was the first to speak.

  “Is this a tunnel?” he asked, pointing to lines that led from the outer wall to a small fortified hill.

  “Yes,” Burkhart replied, hovering over the map. “Leaving that hill to an enemy is not an option as it gives an excellent prospect for catapulting the city. It is a ghastly shortfall of the original city plan. Fortifying and holding the hill is a necessity. It will also give us an excellent means of guarding our own eastern wall, forcing an enemy to take the sloping ground on the northern, western and southern aspects. Do you see a problem?”

  “Wouldn’t they suspect a tunnel? And if they drew a line between the two structures and looked for the way plants grow differently after the soil has been disturbed, especially if it’s dug from the top, then wouldn’t they be able to sink a shaft and enter our own tunnel, entering both the city and hill fortress?”

  “That is why there are very heavy iron doors on either side,” said the prince. “Passwords would be required to get in.”

  Aedan nodded and tried to hide his frown.

  “Speak, young man. You dislike the idea? You have a better one?”

  “Well, I was just thinking that if the tunnel was breached, the hill fortress would not last as long without supplies and reinforcements. I was wondering if we could use the first tunnel as a trap and dig a second one in secret, one that maybe wanders off to the side before coming back to the fortress, so they would never guess where to dig.”

  Osric and Skeet exchanged a quiet grin. The reactions in the room ranged from amusement to shock. Some of the men had pages in front of them and began drawing.

  Osric spoke up. “If a tunnel entry were attempted, there would most certainly be senior officers in the party. We could have the decoy tunnel enter the city and open into a large hall that has no exits except in the roof – a prison. False doors and racks of equipment could be installed to allay suspicion. When they have gathered a good force in the hall and begin hacking at the false doors, granite slabs could be dropped in place, sealing the tunnel as effectively as the wall. We would have a fine catch of useful prisoners.”

  The idea caught fire and a dozen discussions broke out. The prince smiled and turned to the boys. “What else?”

  Peashot indicated a spot outside the north wall. “This is where I would build catapults if I were attacking. It’s the most level and it would be out of range of the hill fortress. It would make a good camp too. Why don’t we use it as a dump site for the next few years?”

  The prince threw his head back and laughed.

  The rest of the meeting progressed with the same informal tone and Burkhart continued to speak to the boys more as a brother than as royalty.

  But something had begun to gnaw at Aedan’s ease. Would he and his friends really be allowed to leave the castle, carrying secrets of such weight after being warned with no more than a wagging finger? He had read of tunnels that had been kept secret by holding the diggers on site until the work was done and then thanking and murdering them. But as he watched Burkhart exchanging a joke with Skeet, he did not think this prince would be capable of even blackening someone’s eye. He was all laughter and good will, though he did not appear to be all concentration. The man flounced about the room, exchanging a joke here and a story there. He would get distracted by something outside the window, then suddenly remember himself and rush back to the map with a furrowed brow, urging everyone to focus themselves.

  The fresh perspectives had unlocked a whole cascade of ideas, and old warlords brimmed with new plans. The urgency of the situation rendered many of the traditional, time-consuming methods inappropriate. So tradition was relinquishing ground to innovation.

  The meeting was not quite done when everyone’s attention was drawn away from the maps and plans. Something very unusual was happening in the sky. Men clustered at the windows as clouds began to weave themselves into peculiar arrangements. It almost looked as though they were alive. The room grew very quiet.

  “I wish to see this from the turret,” said Burkhart. “Anyone who desires to join me is welcome.” He rushed to the back of the room and sprang up a circular stairway. Osric and Skeet followed, but the rest stayed at the windows. Aedan looked unenthusiastically at the remaining company and headed for the stairs, followed by the other apprentices.

  The turret had an outer walkway large enough to accommodate them easily. The only trouble was that the battlement was high, even the lowered crenels. Aedan was on his toes and Peashot had to climb up and rest on his belly and elbows.

  Out to the west, the plains were still awash in the last rays of a sinking sun, but as the clouds started to gather over the Pellamine Mountains, the impossible happened.

  The solid thunderheads peeled away, their tops seemingly torn off by some mighty wind. And where there should have been the pale blue of afternoon, stars appeared with astonishing brightness and gleamed through the deep dark sapphire of night.

  The wind died down and silence took hold of the earth and sky.

  Aedan was gripping the stone wall so hard his fingers had lost their colour. Lorrimer whined softly. In the street below, citizens crouched against the walls. Dogs scampered this way and that, not knowing where to run until they shrank and cowered in alleys. Flocks of birds descended on roofs, huddling and making themselves small.

  All watched.

  All waited.

  The stillness burst apart with a roar. It was a sound like thunder, only deeper, bigger and fuller, like a voice, yet unlike any earthly voice. It was as if the sky itself had spoken. The rumblings shook the stones of the palace as if it were no more than a mound of bark and leaves. Everyone clutched the walls and Lorrimer shrank down into a corner. Peashot fell from his perch and stayed on the ground.

  Everything fell silent again, but it was a silence that waited. To speak would have been wrong for a reason none could have explained but all understood.

  The cloud lit up and a bolt of lightning fell onto the Pellamines. But just as Aedan had once seen it do over Nymliss, the shaft of light did not flicker and vanish; it latched and began to glow, seeming to pour fiery gold into the depths of the granite mountain.

  As quickly as it had appeared, the golden bolt was gone. A deep boom rolled over the city, causing the land to shudder once more. Before the rumblings had died away, the wind picked up again and that deep silence was ended. Clouds broke into fragments, scattering, as the rift in the sky closed and stars were covered over by the pale hues of late afternoon.

  It was some time before the prince recovered himself enough to unlatch his hands from the battlements and walk silently back down the stairs. The others followed, but Aedan hung back. His face was pale and his voice was full of jumps and jolts as he called Hadley, “Did you hear something in that first peal of thunder?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Aedan began to reply, but then changed his mind. “Never mind,” he said. “We’d better get down there.” He led the way, but soon wished he hadn’t because he was trembling so violently he had to match feet on every step like a small child or an old man. Eventually they reached the council room.

  “Well,” the prince was saying, “I must confess that I had doubted the rangers’ reports, but there’s no doubting what we’ve just witnessed. Is there anyone who can venture an explanation?”

  Blank looks faced him, many still tinged with fear.

  “There is one man who might be able to offer an explanation,” said Balfore.

  “Ah, him. Yes. And I suppose I will have to listen to the answer in ‘the original Gellerac’. I am well aware of the theories Culver put forward, and I will not pretend to be impressed by them. Today’s event will certainly send him right back to his archives. But for now we need to appease the masses quickly and simply. I know there is little love in this room for divi
ners, but perhaps they are worth hearing on the matter.”

  “They’ll have explanations, no doubt,” grumbled Osric. “But how can you actually endorse them? Do you really think the answer to what we just saw is going to be found while poking through the entrails of a goat? As if the beast ate the explanation to the mystery? What just happened was something, something …”

  “Real?” Skeet offered.

  “Exactly!” Osric slapped the varnished wood before him with his open hand. The table shuddered to its gums as if struck by a logger’s axe. “These diviners thrive on mystery because as long as there’s no evidence they can’t be challenged. When asked how they come by their insights, they act as if we are just blind to the secrets they can see in the sticky goo between kidneys and intestine. Utter swill! Our people deserve something better in answer to what we just saw.”

  The Prince smiled. “Your straight talk would make you an awful politician, Osric. And no, I do not mean that as a compliment.” There were a few polite chuckles. “The thing you need to see is that the truth can actually be a harmful draught. People who seek answers are often not looking for truth. Diviners accept this and give them agreeable answers, at a price. Everyone is happy.”

  In spite of Prince Burkhart’s easy manner, the members of the war council were apparently wary of entering into argument with him. Osric was clearly not, and continued to speak his mind freely.

  “Surely happy is the wrong word when speaking of delusion.”

  “I think happy is the right word,” said the prince. “Consider the man seeking counsel on how to woo a mermaid. He does not want to be told to snap out of his idiocy and select a fellow human; he wants to be told to cover himself in fish oil, make a garment of mackerel fins and spend a whole night, from moonrise till moonset wallowing in the seaweed of a tidal pool while singing of his love. That would give him the hope for which he would gladly pay a sheep or two.”

  “But it’s a false hope, an empty promise. How can we at the same time offer walls of real stone and guidance of false ideas?”