Awakening Page 13

  ‘What’s your name again?’ Morfessa grunted as they manoeuvred though another double doorway.

  ‘Shaan.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ he nodded. ‘I’m Morfessa.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’ Shaan helped him put the young woman down on a raised narrow bed.

  ‘There, that’s good.’ He went over to a set of open shelves, muttering.

  They were in a room, but at the same time it seemed they were in a garden. Four walls surrounded them, but the roof was partly open to the night sky. Tall, slender trees were planted at intervals along with fat-leafed plants and sweet-scented flowers. Underfoot was, in places, thick grass and in others stone tile, and off to the side were areas where thick carpets and pillows were laid on the grass.

  She took it all in a glance but barely absorbed it, uneasiness rising in her along with a driving need to leave.

  ‘If that’s all, I’ll take that fish and go,’ she said to Morfessa’s back.

  He turned and came back toward her holding some jars, thrusting one into her hand, ‘Hold this. Now,’ he smiled at her, ‘you were not expecting this to be my house were you?’ He leaned toward her and said in a conspiratorial tone, ‘Don’t worry, I’m harmless, it’s she who could bring more trouble to you.’

  Shaan looked at the young blonde woman in confusion and Morfessa let out a gruff laugh. ‘She hasn’t told you who she is has she?’ He shook his head. ‘Likes to play at being someone she’s not, does Nilah.’ He sighed. ‘Even when she was a child.’

  ‘I don’t know her. I only met her once before, at an inn. I only helped her because . . .’ she stopped, suddenly aware Morfessa was watching her closely. ‘Because she needed it. She asked me to bring her here.’

  The old man nodded. ‘Thank you. And her mother, the Guardian, also thanks you.’

  Shaan stared at him. Nilah was the Guardian’s daughter? Her heart thudded. Gods, what would happen to her now? She had hardly treated her with the proper respect.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Morfessa smiled. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t. And I know Nilah will say nothing, she’s not supposed to be out in the city on her own.’

  ‘No,’ Shaan said faintly. ‘No. I won’t say a word.

  ‘Good.’ His gaze became measuring. ‘You look very tired.’

  Shaan had the feeling he wasn’t talking about her journey. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Good, then help me.’ He winked at her. ‘And I shall help you. I have salves that will help soothe those aching muscles.’

  Shaan was torn, instinct told her to get out, but it didn’t seem right to just run out now and she still needed that fish. Reluctantly, she went to stand beside him and held various pots and jars as he rubbed different salves into the bruises on Nilah’s neck and chest, and then spent some time massaging her forehead and temples with a strongly perfumed oil. He closed his eyes while he did this and hummed lightly, and Shaan felt the hairs on her arms standing up as energy crackled in the air around him.

  When he’d finished, Nilah was definitely breathing more regularly and some colour had returned to her cheeks.

  ‘Now,’ he turned to her. ‘Come sit over here.’ He indicated a cushioned stool at the edge of the tiled area. Beyond it a thick bed of purple flowers released an herbaceous perfume into the warm evening air. Shaan started to protest, but Morfessa held up a finger. ‘Ah! No complaining.’ He gripped her arm, pulling her to the stool. ‘Your back would have been under considerable strain dragging her up here. I won’t have anyone leaving my home in such a state! Come.’ He made her sit and looked narrow-eyed at her. ‘Look at your face! This cut, those marks!’ He sucked his teeth and shook his head, turning her head this way and that, then went around the back of her and with gentle fingers probed the tight and aching muscles. He continued to make muttering, disapproving sounds as he mixed up pastes and Shaan began to feel as though she were back at the Red Pepino with Tuon fussing over her.

  Slowly, she began to forget who the old man was that was rubbing salve on her cheek and started to relax. It was very warm and quiet. The only sound was Nilah’s breaths and a soft scraping as Morfessa mixed his concoctions in a ceramic bowl and muttered as he spread them.

  He made her remove her shirt so he could rub oil into her back and she held the cloth in front of her breasts. His detached manner was comforting and unthreatening, and the warm oil eased the sharp knots in her back. She started to feel sleepy. The wakeful nights and harrowing stress of the past week was overcoming her, she wanted nothing more than to close her eyes.

  ‘You’re body is very weary,’ Morfessa said quietly. ‘Have you had trouble sleeping?’

  Shaan’s eyes snapped open. ‘I sleep.’

  He laid large, warm palms against her back. ‘Your body tells me differently.’

  Shaan felt an intense heat radiating from his hands into her muscles, like the spread of hot syrup. It was impossible to retain the tension. She let out a long breath and suddenly felt strangely emotional. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  ‘Sometimes I have . . .’ she stopped and clenched her hands together hard in her lap. It didn’t feel right to talk about the dreams, they were too private, too frightening.

  ‘You have nightmares?’ Morfessa moved his hands up to her shoulder blades, his fingers digging into the tight muscles. ‘Disturbing dreams are an interesting thing. I have spent some time studying them. Oh, it’s all right,’ he said, noticing how tense she was. ‘It’s quite normal to suffer them. For most people they are merely projections of their own worries, a reaction to troubling times in their lives, but for a few they can be something else. You see, dreams can be influenced by the mysterious beings that inhabit the Void.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Shaan tried to keep her voice even.

  ‘Aaah, well,’ Morfessa said, warming to his subject. ‘You see, the Void is many things. It is a dimension unseen by our eyes but felt by our hearts and spirits. The barrier between our world and the nameless place from which all making and unmaking springs. It is the place of dreaming, the source of a seer’s insight and power, and it can also serve as a conduit to the gods.’

  ‘The gods?’

  ‘Yes. There are even some who believe the Four Lost Gods exist there still, that that is where they went when they vanquished Azoth and sent him into the abyss.’

  ‘And what do you believe?’

  Morfessa pursed his lips and gave her a brief smile. ‘I am not so sure. I think they are closer than that.’

  ‘And the Fallen, do you think he has returned?’ Shaan’s breaths were shallow. She wasn’t sure why she’d asked him that. The Advisor’s hands slowed and when he answered his voice was low and measured.

  ‘I don’t know. It seems impossible.’

  Seems. Shaan’s insides felt cold, like a ball of metal weighing her down. Is he here then? Is he back? She suppressed a shiver. ‘Well, they are only rumours.’

  But Morfessa didn’t reply. She searched for something to distract him. Perhaps he could help decipher the strange words in her dream. After all, surely her nightmares were no more than her own worries about becoming a rider? Most likely the words were nothing but nonsense, made by her mind.

  ‘Aah, Advisor, do you know many different languages?’

  ‘Yes, a few, why?’

  ‘I have a friend who heard some strange language recently, some odd words. She was wondering what they meant. I thought perhaps you may know.’

  The old man shrugged. ‘Possibly. What are they?’

  ‘I think she said one was Arak-si.’

  Morfessa froze and drew back, staring at her. ‘What did you say?’ he whispered.

  Shaan grew alarmed at his expression. ‘Arak-si,’ she repeated faintly.

  ‘Where did she hear that?’ he demanded. He was suddenly tense, the lines on his weathered brown face deeper, older.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Shaan wished now she had not said anything. ‘Why, what is it?’

  ‘It is an ancient tongue. The language of the
serpents, though few speak it now.’ He stared at her, his odd-coloured eye watchful. ‘Arak is the name they once called Azoth. Arak-si means one loved by him, his descendant.’

  A hand of ice reached in and squeezed her heart.

  ‘Tell me!’ Morfessa gripped her arm. ‘Where did you hear this?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. No one, I told you, it was a friend.’

  ‘You must tell me!’ His grip tightened and a strange, desperate gleam came into his eyes.

  ‘I don’t know!’ She twisted in his grasp, frightened by his sudden intensity. ‘I have to go now!’ With a shove she pushed him away and sprang off the stool, running for the door.

  ‘No, wait!’ he shouted after her, but she ignored him. Her heart pounding, she raced down the corridor. Behind her, Morfessa was shouting at her to stop but she ran on, racing down the dim halls and past the hidden courtyard, to the front door. Her fish bag and spear were where she’d left them, and not stopping to look over her shoulder, she scooped them up and ran out into the night.

  Small oil lamps lit up the garden beds near the house and Shaan sped past them down the path and toward the gate. She’d just gained the trees when the sound of another gate banging made her falter. Did he have guards here? Her breath short, she darted behind a tree and peered out. A tall young man dressed in white was walking across the garden toward the house. He had broad shoulders and long limbs and his hair was black and thick. He moved with a long arrogant stride and she pulled back into the shadows as he passed.

  As though feeling her gaze, he stopped and turned. Her stomach contracted, a chill tapping her spine, as he peered up the path. His jaw was clean-shaven and angular, his cheekbones high. He was more than handsome. He was pale and dark at once, light and shadow, and while he scanned the darkness she couldn’t seem to move or even look away. Her breath felt constricted. Transfixed, she stared until, eyebrows drawn together, he turned away and went into the house.

  Holding her bag and spear in shaking hands, Shaan watched until he closed the door then she ran for the gate, wanting to put as much distance between herself and this place as possible.

  Morfessa ran to his study. He unrolled sheaf after sheaf of parchment, tossing them to the floor as he went, his hands frenzied as he searched desperately through his old notes. Where was it! It had to be here! Kicking rolls of paper from his path, he climbed onto a stool and reached back into the depths of his shelves, throwing jars and dusty ornaments to the floor.

  Finally, his hand closed on what he sought: a long scroll, pushed to the back of his shelves. He drew it out, climbed down and carefully unrolled it across his desk. With shaking hands he peeled back the first layer and ran a finger along the line of cramped writing. Halfway along he paused, his breath stopped in his chest, staring at the words he had written so long ago.

  My research suggests Azoth may have used the Birthstone to father a child on a mortal prior to the destruction of his Empire. (Ref. scrolls 1–7). Further research has revealed the child may have survived the annihilation. What does this mean now??

  He looked up from the scroll and stared across the room. How could he have forgotten writing something so important? He seemed to be forgetting so much lately. He shook his head. No matter, he had it now.

  And if what Shaan had said was true, if someone she knew had heard these words, who could have spoken them? No one but himself and Veila, as far as he knew could speak the ancient tongue; he doubted there were even many serpents alive today who could. It was a dead language; it had died with the Gods. But now . . . what did it mean? Could his old theories be true?

  Arak-si: ‘loved one, descendant of Azoth’. It was amazing, impossible, terrifying. A line of mortals descended from the Fallen.

  Would they know who they were? Was the person who had told Shaan the word ‘Arak-si’ one of them? Could he or she be the catalyst for Azoth’s return? Could the descendants of that first child he had seeded so long ago have been feeding him with strength over the last two thousand years? Could their existence be binding him to this mortal world, allowing him to finally break free of his prison?

  A chill ran over him. The gods had not been able to have a child with a mortal, it was forbidden. But Azoth had stolen the Birthstone from the others, forcing them into shadow and taking all the power of the Stone for himself. And he had had it for over five hundred years. He had figured out how to use it to merge humans and serpents into a new kind of creature, why could he not have found a way to plant his seed in a mortal?

  The old man stared at the scroll as a sudden frightening thought came to him. Was it possible that Azoth had planned this all along? When the Four Lost Gods had found a way to influence Amora to steal the Stone and free them, they had gone to defeat Azoth knowing the only way was to use the Birthstone against him, and then banish it to a hidden realm. Had Azoth known somehow that the others would defeat him and made a plan for his own survival? Had using the Birthstone to create life in a mortal somehow created a connection in the child both to him and the Stone? And would that connection continue on in his descendants? Was it so strong that now, right now, Azoth was resurrected, alive and walking among them?

  His mouth dried and Morfessa went hurriedly over to his wine jug. Pouring himself a generous glass he downed it in one long swallow, then poured another, closing his eyes and savouring the fire of it hitting his belly. It was all so much to take in. He stared at the scrolls. He would spend the night going carefully over them, then tomorrow he would speak to Rorc, show him the scroll and all his others. Rorc would know what to do. Perhaps he could even bring the girl, Shaan, back here, find out all she knew. He was sure she was hiding things about this friend of hers. Perhaps there was no friend. He paused, the glass at his lips.

  The door clicked behind him and Morfessa turned around with a start, wine splattering onto his shirt.

  ‘Prin!’ He looked at the young man standing in the doorway. ‘Where have you been?’

  The young man’s eyes went to the wine on his shirt and the scrolls all over the floor, but he did not give him an answer. ‘Someone has been here, who was it?’ Prin’s voice was calm but there was an undercurrent of command that Morfessa didn’t like.

  ‘Who I have in my house is not of your concern,’ he said. ‘You were supposed to deliver some reports to the Guardian today, did you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Prin’s gaze slid slowly across the open scroll on the desk and then back to Morfessa. ‘Would you like me to clean all this up for you?’

  The way he was looking at him made Morfessa suddenly very aware of the wine on his shirt, and the unsteadiness of his hand.

  ‘No, I’ll do it myself.’ Why did he feel that the young man was mocking him behind those purple dark eyes? ‘Go tell the cook to prepare a meal for me.’ He spoke sharply but Prin didn’t appear concerned. A small slow smile crept across his lips and he titled his head slightly at him. ‘As you wish, I will leave you then.’ Quietly he withdrew, the door clicking shut behind him.

  Morfessa let out the breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. Insolent, that was how he would describe Prin’s current behaviour. But it was not only insolence. He hated to admit it, but sometimes the young man made him more than a little nervous. He took another long draught of the wine, and not sure why, went to the door and turned the lock.

  16

  Tallis pushed at the muthu’s flank. It made a deep grunt and swished its short tail, but didn’t move. He pushed again and it swayed a little toward the wall of the cave. Sweat ran down his naked back and his skin itched. He swore and punched the muthu in the ribs. It spat at him and bared its teeth. Bearing his own teeth back he wedged his shoulder against its side and heaved. It staggered and with a snort moved to the back of the pen where it stared balefully at him.

  Tallis swept the dung away from where the beast had been standing and dumped it in a basket then gave the animal a long look before he moved out and dropped the pole across the entrance. Cleaning the m
uthu pens had always been the least favourite of all his chores as a boy, now he had to do it again. He picked up the big basket by its double handles and dumped it in the fuel storage enclosure then headed out into the main tunnel. He badly needed to wash and, head down, he made his way toward the hot springs on the other side of the great cavern, avoiding the eyes of those he passed. News travelled fast in the Well. Most would know by now he had not been made Outcast. He was sure many would not be pleased.

  His head felt heavy and dull. He’d slept badly, his sleep disturbed by strange dreams of serpents covering the sky and fire devouring the sands. And he could not stop thinking about his sister. He had begun to wonder if the vague feeling he’d always carried of difference was because she was not here. He had been with her in his mother’s womb – what had they shared there? Was the strangeness that was inside him, also in her?

  It was a disturbing yet comforting thought that somewhere there was another like him. Perhaps another clan had taken her in. She was not dead, of that he was sure. He did not know why or how, but he knew she could not be dead as certainly as he knew he could not tell anyone of it. It would only mark him further as an outsider. He strode through the passageways feeling weary and caged.

  He wished he were out hunting with Jared. His earth brother had left early that morning with five others, but he had not been allowed to go. He didn’t know if he would ever be trusted to hunt again. What did that leave? Was his place now to be nothing more than half a clansman? Good only for cleaning up after muthu or repairing the weapons?

  He glanced up as he moved through the great cavern. The fire pit was cold but Irissa and three others sat by it. They sent quickly averted glances his way, their eyes tracking his movements. He changed his course, heading closer to the mouth of the cavern, but a large group of men suddenly entered blocking his way. Thadin was among them and cast him a hard look. Tallis swerved back toward the centre. His path took him close by Irissa’s group and he could not help looking at her as he passed. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment he thought she would speak to him. She half rose, then hesitated and in that moment Marita pulled her down, whispering and casting him a narrow-eyed look. Not long ago she’d been casting different looks at him. He kept moving, pretending he hadn’t seen.