The First Weapon

By Bevan McGuiness

The second book in this beautifully written, lyrical trilogy about power, decay and the hard, cruel path of redemption.
A land of mystery ... a corrupt society ... and rare gifts which have been ignored and forgotten. Hwenfayre has discovered the extraordinary powers of the driftwood harp left behind by a stranger - her father. But unless she learns self-control and discipline, the powers of the harp will continue to consume her. the First Son, Shanek, hunts down the ancient enemy of the Empire. But he is lost to his people, and as his power grows he is taken further and further from the world he knows - and from the person he once was. On tanissan, a man with many names is scheming for the downfall of the triumvirate and the world it protects ... and Aldere continues a journey that will have greater consequences than he could ever imagine ... 'Leave your preconceptions about fantasy behind with this one because McGuiness continues to do the unexpected' Bookseller and Publisher 'reads beautifully ... sweeping and grand in its vision' Good Reading on the Awakening, Book One

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Feb 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9780730401568

Bevan McGuiness

Bevan McGuiness lives near Perth with his wife and daughter. He has been writing for years and has published short stories, book reviews, a novel and pieces for texts on science education.

Book preview

1

Wyn built Hwenfayre a hut worthy of his Princess. She cleared a patch of ground and planted the seeds they had brought with them. They talked long into every night, sharing their love and souls with each other. The seeds sprouted. Their love deepened. He made her a harp of driftwood strung with cord spun from a caruda’s gills and she played it with passion and fire. She would often sit on the southernmost point of their island home and sing to the dark, cold waters as they rolled ceaselessly past.

Time passed quickly, leaving no trace save for the peace that grew in their hearts. Their days were spent in simple pleasures. He scoured the shores for driftwood and bone while she tended their garden. At night, when the wind howled about their sturdy hut, Wyn would sit by the fire and carve while Hwenfayre played the songs that she loved.

Their lives were filled with love and peace, yet Wyn knew that such joy came at a cost. Unease crept into his soul and would not be put aside. Every day that passed became a stolen moment, or at best a debt that would be paid with interest.

It was a cold, blustery morning just before the turn of the Season of the Winds. Wyn suddenly looked up from the shore. Far to the south, the cold stirred. He smelt the ice on the wind and a chill bit through him. No thought was needed as he dropped the wood he was carrying and started running to the southern tip of their island.

She stood staring at the Sea. Its moods here were more subtle, more dangerous than she had seen from the Wall. She had grown to know the Southern Sea as a wild, untamed ocean. With no gentleness or mercy it surged as it willed and brooked no familiarity. It responded to her song, but yielded its power grudgingly. Hwenfayre had grown to love it.

‘Hwenfayre!’

When she heard Wyn’s voice, a smile formed on her lips. His love for her had saved her life twice and now it kept her safe. Her love, like the Sea, was strong. It ebbed and flowed like the tides, never constant, always shifting, always powerful, yet somehow disturbing. She turned from the Sea to look at the man who had rescued her.

‘Hwenfayre! Are you all right?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Wyn. What’s the matter?’

‘Can’t you feel it?’ he asked.

With a sad sigh, Hwenfayre turned back to the Sea. ‘Yes. I can. I was hoping it was not true, but now that you can feel it too…’

‘What is it?’

‘Do you remember that first night when the Southern Raiders attacked the Wall at home?’

Wyn frowned. ‘Yes, I do.’

His expression became grim as he turned to face the grey skies to the south. ‘What’s coming?’ he asked.

Hwenfayre shook her head. ‘I don’t know. But it’s coming soon.’ She stared into the distance. Far to the south, where the skies bled grey into the Sea, the horizon disappeared in a blur of spray and mist. For a moment, a thought, a sense of something other, hovered on the edge of her mind, but it slipped away like the kelp in the tides. She frowned.

‘We should head back,’ suggested Wyn. ‘That storm’s moving fast.’

‘What storm?’ Hwenfayre asked.

‘That one.’ Wyn gestured at a purple-black thunderhead in the southwest. Hwenfayre followed the direction with her eyes. When she saw the massive, swollen cloud, she gasped.

‘How long has that been there?’ she asked.

Wyn shrugged. ‘Don’t know. I just noticed it.’

She grasped his hand. ‘It’s not natural,’ she whispered. Her eyes widened in shock while she stared. Even in the few moments she watched, the towering cloud mass moved closer to their island. ‘And it’s moving very fast.’

Within the cloud, lightning flashed. Moments later, thunder rumbled across the waters. White flecks atop the surging swell showed the beginnings of a wind that promised to pound the island. Hwenfayre closed her eyes and smelt the air. The sharp scent of ice was edged with the tang of lightning and overlaid with something else as well; something old, something vast. Again, she almost sensed an awareness, but once again, it slipped out of her mind’s grasp. She opened her eyes and looked away from the Sea.

‘What is it, Hwenfayre?’ Wyn asked.

She shook her head. ‘There’s something…’ she paused ‘…else…out there.’

Wyn frowned. ‘Something else?’ he prompted. ‘What?’

‘I don’t know, but I’ve sensed it before. A long time ago…’ Her voice trailed off and she faced the storm again, just as the first tendrils of wind reached out for them. She smelt the air and it smelt like malice. Ancient anger, hard and implacable, rose in her awareness. Wyn felt her tension through her hand as it gripped his.

‘We need to find shelter,’ she whispered.

Their island was little more than a low mound in the ocean, covered with trees, with a small sandy beach in a sheltered bay. Their hut was set in a clearing above the beach. As they ran through the trees the wind howled after them. Even though he lacked Hwenfayre’s gifts, Wyn knew this was no ordinary storm. He’d lived on or near the Sea all his life and wind did not act this way. Storms do not appear so quickly, nor does wind build with such ferocity. It whipped at their legs and sent debris swirling around their faces. It tore at their clothing as it harried them away from the water’s edge. Rain suddenly smashed down from a sky that darkened with every heartbeat. Within moments they were soaked to the skin while the ground beneath their feet turned to mud. The temperature plummeted.

Hwenfayre was stunned by a wave of anger that swept across her soul. The awareness she had sensed before surged up, threatening to overwhelm her. She stumbled under the inhuman assault. Wyn, still holding her hand, effortlessly pulled her up and off her feet and cradled her against his chest, where she nestled unresisting and safe. He ran through the storm, past the branches that slashed at his face, his feet sure on the ground despite the treachery of the mud. She huddled in his arms, her head resting on his chest. From beneath his rough leather jerkin, she could feel the steady, strong beating of his heart. Despite his exertions, he was still breathing evenly. She knew him. Always, he had taken refuge in his strength. Always, he had sought safety in the physical power of his arms, rather than the mystical that lay in his heritage. It was one of the many things that she treasured. She often felt so frail in the face of the might of the Sea, even as it followed her command, that she needed the comfort that his solid, reliable strength offered. Now, as she had in the past, she sought to hide herself in him.

And, as in the past, he did not disappoint her.

He reached the highest point of their island without pausing. Once there, he gently placed her down on her feet. He spoke to her, but the wind ripped his words to shreds before they could reach her. She looked up to the roiling clouds above. Lightning shot across the sky, flashing the lower surface of the purple-black mass into stark relief. Hwenfayre clamped her hands to her ears but to no avail. The thunder that followed almost immediately was so close it was a single, shattering detonation. Her head rang in the aftermath.

Wyn spoke again, but this time the wind could not take every word.

‘…shelter…rock…only…’ he bellowed. He was pointing at a large rock.

Another searing bolt of lightning tore across the sky. In the flash, she thought she saw a shadow, a gap, at the base of the rock. Before she could move, Wyn pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her head. Even muffled by his arms, the thunder again set her ears ringing. The rain, impossible as it seemed, intensified. Sheets of icy water flooded down from the leaden sky. Soaked to the skin, shivering and stunned by the sudden ferocity of the storm, Hwenfayre felt unable to move or think. She stood in Wyn’s arms and focused on his heartbeat, hearing its solid dependability, its strength. She was unaware that he had lifted her gently and carried her over the mud. He protected her from the wind that tore at them; he sheltered her from the sheeting rain while she clung to him like a child.

Lightning shattered the sky, illuminating their world in another searing flash. In the brilliant moment, Wyn saw that the gap at the base of the rock was more than a simple hollow. Etched on his vision was the impression of an entrance. He put Hwenfayre down in the scant protection of the rock and knelt to look more closely.

The water poured in, carrying mud with it, yet the depression did not fill. He reached his hands in and met no resistance. Ignoring the mud, the rain and the wind, he explored the entrance. It was wide enough for him to fit easily and, from the way the water was flowing in, very deep. He turned away to look at Hwenfayre. She was huddled beside the rock, partially protected from the worst of the storm by the slight overhang.

‘Wait here!’ he bellowed. She looked up at his shout and smiled slightly. He assumed she had heard him. With a nod, he turned back to the hole. The flow of water and mud still had not slowed and there was no sign that the hole was filling. A lightning bolt struck a nearby tree, shattering it into a thousand pieces. For a moment, he smelt the electricity on the air before the wind snatched it away. It had been a long time since Hwenfayre had called down the storm to destroy two navies, but he remembered it vividly. Already, this one was worse. Even here, on the highest point of their island, they were not safe.

He took a deep breath and eased his legs into the hole.

As he expected, it was a steep slope made treacherous by the flood of mud and water. His feet had no purchase, so he lowered himself in with his arms, then let go. He slid down with the mud, but fortunately it was only a short tunnel and he landed on a level surface almost immediately.

He stood for a moment, looking and listening, every sense alert and focused. The roar of the storm was muffled and he was able to make out the sound of running water, coupled with the sloshing of the mud slurry flowing away. His eyes adjusted to the dimness. The short tunnel had dropped him in a cavern that seemed to extend away and downwards from the small, level ledge where he stood.

‘Hwenfayre!’ he called. ‘Hwenfayre, come down!’ He looked up towards the opening. He called again.

The flash of another bolt of lightning silhouetted her head against the violent storm. He could not see her face, but she appeared to nod. A moment later, she slid down the mud to land in his arms.

She clung to him while her eyes and ears adjusted to the new conditions. ‘What is this place?’ she asked.

Wyn shook his head. ‘I don’t know, but it’s not natural.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Hwenfayre replied. Her eyes were wide and her voice slightly shrill. Wyn recognised the signs: she was close to panic. He tightened his arms around her slightly.

‘It’s all right,’ he murmured. ‘We’re safe here.’ He sensed her relax slightly in his embrace. Her trust in him was a mixed thing. Every time she put herself totally in his care, his love for her knew no bounds. He knew he would kill or die for her without hesitation. He had killed for her. And yet, her faith served to painfully remind him of his weakness. He was a coarse, uneducated man, more suited to the easy camaraderie of the barracks and field of combat than the quiet life of a caring husband. Gentle words did not come easily. Often he spoke without thought, and saw in her eyes the hurt that brought. His mind was trained in hunting, fighting, killing—not in the ways of women or pleasant conversation.

When he was honest with himself, in the long reaches of the nights as he lay beside his wife, holding her as she slept, he knew he could not even offer her a pure or honest heart. He loved her, but…

Always, there was that but, and he didn’t know what came after it. Such reservation in his mind was troubling. He loved her, but…

He loved her without limit. He loved her in a way he had never imagined possible. When he was with her, he could not imagine spending time with another person. He wanted to live his life with her alone. He knew she loved him equally in return. He loved her, but…

He shook his head to clear it of such disturbing thoughts.

Hwenfayre looked up at his movement. ‘What is it, Wyn?’ she asked.

‘What’s what?’

‘You shook your head. Is there something wrong?’

‘We’re in a cave, on an island in the middle of the Southern Sea, with a storm like I’ve never seen, and you ask what’s wrong?’ he snapped.

Her head dropped back to his chest. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered.

Inwardly, he cursed himself again. He stroked her matted, muddy hair. ‘I’m just worried, that’s all.’

She looked up, her smile reappearing. ‘It will be all right,’ she reassured him. ‘It’s always all right when we are together.’

He forced a smile he did not feel. ‘Maybe,’ he nodded. ‘Maybe.’

Still the mud and water flowed rapidly down the wall at their backs. It continued to sluice off their ledge. He looked around at the cavern. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the low level of light here, he could tell this was no natural cave. The ceiling was an even curve, the floor—about two paces below where they stood—was smooth, and the walls had been worked at some stage in the past. He looked down and saw steps carved in the wall, leading away to his right, down to the floor.

‘Hwenfayre,’ he said softly. ‘Look.’

She turned to see the stairway. As the mud was cascading straight over the edge rather than sideways, the steps were wet but not treacherous underfoot. Her confidence had returned, so she eased herself out of his embrace and made her way down. He followed.

He had reached the floor and taken a few steps before the obvious anomaly dawned on him. He could see! It was underground and there was only one apparent opening to the outside, and out there it was storm-dark. Down here, it should be almost lightless, yet he could see clearly.

Where was the light coming from? He looked around. The floor was made of slabs, which had been laid with skill. It was strewn with the detritus of decades, but was now being washed clean by the stormwater pouring in from above. He followed the flow of the water to where it ran out through a grate. Briefly, he wondered where it went, but it was not a thought that kept him engaged for long; he noticed a faint vertical line of light on the far wall.

‘Hwenfayre,’ he whispered. He pointed at the line. ‘Do you see that?’

In the dim illumination, he saw her nod slowly. ‘What is it?’

‘Don’t know,’ he replied. He smiled at her. ‘Want to find out?’

‘Not really,’ she said.

Wyn chuckled. ‘Wait here then, Princess.’ He was not surprised by the sudden grip on his shoulder. Her hand tightened and her nails dug in slightly. He nodded in the darkness. ‘Fine, let’s go. Stay close, Princess.’

Together, the two of them made their careful way across to where the illumination cut through the wall. Beneath their feet, the rainwater and debris flowed fast to the grate and disappeared from view. The thin line of light seemed to grow brighter as they approached, casting a faint radiance on the floor. Wyn could see that the slabs were worn and old, showing signs of the passage of many feet.

He stopped by the wall and reached out his hand. The thin line was a break in the wall. With a light touch, he traced the gap upwards, then down. It felt like one edge of a door, but he couldn’t see any handle. Gingerly, he moved closer using both hands to feel for any other gaps. A bolt of lightning sent a shock of brilliant blue-white light searing across the room. In the fraction of a second of light, Wyn saw what looked like a door handle, just to the right of where he was.

‘Did you see that?’ he asked Hwenfayre.

‘Yes,’ she replied.

Wyn moved his hand along the wall towards the handle. It seemed to change in texture, confirming that it could be a door. His hand found the protuberance and gripped it. He tried to turn it, first one way then the other. There was little movement, but he sensed it was frozen with age rather than locked, so he applied more force.

There was a loud crack and the handle turned. Wyn heard a scraping sound from within the door as some ancient movements stirred. He wrenched again and heaved his shoulder into the door. With a grinding protest, it creaked open a little. Wyn threw all his strength into another thrust. Fragments of stone loosened by the mechanism fell on his shoulders as the door slowly ground open.

When it was open wide enough to allow him to enter, he slid inside. Hwenfayre followed him.

As soon as he was fully in, he stopped abruptly. Hwenfayre collided with him. She was about to say something when she looked up, seeing what had made Wyn stop.

Carved in the ceiling was a design of a balance. In each pan was a symbol, and supporting the balance was a bolt of lightning. It was not the design that shocked them into stillness, but the fact that the whole bas-relief carving glowed with a gently pulsating green light.

2

Maija sat quietly at her mother’s feet. She listened as once again her mother told the tragic story of her life to another wealthy visitor. This one was a bit different to the rest; he was still sober. Which was more than she could say for her mother.

‘We were rich,’ she said. ‘Fabulously wealthy, back in Eysteinn. And do you know what happened?’ she asked.

Dinesh Kumara shook his head sagely. ‘I cannot imagine,’ he said, his resonant voice sympathetic.

‘My family decided to sail from Guvor in the north to Sigvaard in the south. It should have taken three days, but on the second day we hit a reef.’

Maija waited for the pause. At this stage, her mother either wiped her eyes or took a sip of her drink. This time, it was a sip. Across the room, Dinesh sat forwards in his seat and frowned.

‘I have a little familiarity with that part of the Eysteinn coast, but I don’t recall any reefs,’ he said.

Lena put down her drink and stared at the darkly handsome man opposite her. ‘You’re correct, Dinesh. There aren’t any reefs in that part of the coast. But we hit something that wasn’t charted and we sank.’

Diplomat Dinesh Kumara sat back in his chair and regarded Lena over his glass. A woman of early middle years, she was attractive, with obvious intelligence and a sense of humour. Her long fair hair was tied back and braided in the current fashion. She was dressed well, if simply, and her house was nice enough. Lena had dark blue eyes and fair skin, but her daughter had eyes like the sea, thick black hair and darker skin. Clearly, her father was not of Eysteinn. Ever since the mother and daughter had arrived several years ago in the Thane’s Gardens, a well-to-do section of Ajyne, they had been a mystery, a point of gossip. The Diplomat, like so many others, was curious enough to accept one of Lena’s numerous invitations.

They had no slaves, so Maija prepared the meal herself. It was a simple affair, but wholesome and tasty. Dinesh found its home-style flavours endearing, if not particularly satisfying. The drink flowed freely, as gossip had suggested it would.

‘You sank?’ he prompted. Lena had poured herself another glass. She was showing signs of losing the thread of her story but when he spoke she looked up and her eyes cleared again.

‘Yes, we sank. I drifted on a plank for two days before the Southern Raiders pulled me out of the Blaewhal Sea.’

Ahh, the mixed ancestry is explained, thought Dinesh.

Lena tossed back the drink in a single gulp. ‘The Southern Raiders are very kind to hwenfayres, you know.’

‘Hwenfayres?’

‘It’s an islander word, it means child of the sea. They use it for people they rescue from wrecks.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ Dinesh conceded. ‘Ah, no thank you,’ he said as Maija rose and offered him another drink. He smiled his thanks to the pretty young woman, but was surprised at her blank response. His flashing white smile was one of his most winning features. It was unusual for any woman not to smile in response.

‘They fed me and nursed me back to health,’ Lena went on after filling her glass again. ‘And then, when we were nearing their island home, they offered me a choice. Either stay with them and become a Raider, or be set ashore on some island. I chose to go ashore.

‘They put me on another ship that was heading north and it dumped me on a small island.’

‘That must have been terrifying,’ murmured Dinesh.

‘No more than being alone among that crew of stinking pirates,’ retorted Lena.

Maija reseated herself at her mother’s feet. She leant back against the chair and Lena absently stroked her rich hair as she continued her tale. Maija gave the impression of having heard it all a thousand times before.

‘I was on that island for two months, going slowly mad, when a ship of the Army of the World happened by. I was rescued and enslaved. They took me to Port Norn and sold me at the Slave Market.’

Dinesh was surprised. Very few ever escaped lifelong slavery, and those who did never ended up in the Thane’s Gardens.

‘I was bought by a Soldier of the World,’ Lena went on.

Now Dinesh could relax. Surely this was all a fabrication; no simple soldier could possibly afford such a slave.

‘He was stationed in northern Ettan, and his Fyrd happened across a wild knot out in the Great Fastness. They escaped with their lives, but he found a red obsidian carving by the body of a Skrin Tia’k. He kept it and bought me with it.’

Such things had happened. Perhaps this tale was not all fabrication.

‘He was a good owner?’ Dinesh asked.

For the first time, Lena smiled. ‘He was a good man. He was kind; he never treated me like a slave. We were legally married and had Maija two years later. But he was killed in Darkan when she was only four.’

‘And he left you enough money to live here…’ Dinesh gestured at the house.

Maija stirred as if to speak, but her mother forestalled her. ‘No, Dinesh, my poor Kalu spent all his wealth on me. When he died we were left in the Widows’ Quarter.’

Despite himself, Dinesh was intrigued. This woman was far more than she appeared.

‘My dear daughter is the one we have to thank for all this,’ Lena went on. ‘She gave aid to a nobleman lost in the Widows’ Quarter, and he supports us here.’

‘Do you know who this nobleman is?’ Dinesh asked Maija.

Before answering she looked up at her mother, and the older woman shook her head slightly. Maija looked back to Dinesh. ‘No,’ she said.

‘No idea at all?’ the Diplomat persisted.

Maija shook her head again.

‘It’s a shame you don’t know his name,’ Dinesh continued. ‘I would like to meet him. Displays of kindness are rare these days.’ He regarded the glass in his hand. ‘What is this drink? I’ve never tasted anything like it.’

Maija let her mind drift as she heard the conversation move away to other, less interesting topics. Just once, she would like to be able to tell the ending of the story truthfully. Their benefactor was no simple nobleman: Shanek, First Son of the Empire, son of Sandor, First Counsellor to Thane Kasimar IV, supplied their wealth. He did so, not out of the kindness of his heart for some long-forgotten act of charity, but in support of his two children: his son Kiran, born to Maija, and his daughter Prasanna, born within days of her half-brother’s arrival, to Maija’s mother.

When Maija brought the badly beaten man back to their home all those years ago, she recognised that he was more than he seemed almost immediately. No beggar or criminal outcast spoke with such eloquence.

Neither did a lowly thug have his own bodyguard, trying to keep out of sight. Maija saw Leone and the soldiers many times when they shadowed Shanek home at night and again in the morning when they waited for his daily trip into the market. At first they frightened her, but as the weeks went by it was clear that they were no threat to her or her mother.

After he left and they both found they were pregnant to him, she was shattered by the betrayal. For days, she stayed in her room and wept, unable to face the reality of what he had done to them both.

She never discovered how he found out about their pregnancies but it was soon after they had themselves realised that the first letter arrived.

It was a simple missive, unsigned and unapologetic. With stark, even brutal directness, Shanek informed them that he would not acknowledge paternity but he would see that they would not go without; neither would his children be abandoned. With the letter came a note of credit to one of Ajyne’s finest financial institutions. Lena took the note and claimed a huge sum of money. With it, she bought their home and they turned their backs on poverty. Here, in the Thane’s Gardens, they found a quiet life with genteel neighbours.

Lena also discovered the range of liquors that the Empire boasted.

The Diplomat was kind and civilised. He stayed until Lena passed out. With impeccable manners, he helped Maija carry her snoring mother to bed. There, he laid her down gently, pulled the covers up over her and kissed her goodnight.

As he offered his farewells at the front door, he said, ‘Your mother is an extraordinary woman, Maija. I would like to call upon her again, if I may be so bold.’

Surprised, Maija could only nod.

Dinesh smiled. ‘Maija, after what has befallen Lena during her life, taking too much to drink is a small vice. In my life as a diplomat in the service of the Thane, I have seen many worse, and I have learnt to see beyond them.’ He turned to leave, but hesitated. ‘Perhaps, next time, I might meet the children?’

Maija watched Dinesh Kumara walk away. His expensive robe, lavishly embroidered in rich colours and trimmed with gold, dragged slightly in the street, while his shoes padded softly. She wondered about him. As a noble, a diplomat, Dinesh would surely have met the First Son. Maija had heard a lot over the past few years about Shanek, the man who had fathered her son, and very little of it was good. He was violent and brutal, callous and arrogant. Quick to anger, he had killed numerous nobles with unthinking rage. He was a brilliant plotter and player of games.

And yet he had been gentle to her, and while he stayed with them he had been a good provider. And certainly, his continuing support was more than generous. But could the First Son have tired of his obligations?

Her mind was whirling and speculations like these always wearied her. It seemed she’d been permanently exhausted since the day she discovered her mother was pregnant. What could have been a shared joy became a joint shame. Lena started drinking a week after Prasanna was born. Maija soon became the de facto mother of ‘twins’.

After they moved here, and the children grew up, they allowed the earnest talk she had once had with them regarding their true parentage to fade into forgotten secrets. Maija was their mother and the sometimes-drunk old lady with the expensive clothes was Grandmama. As she watched the Diplomat walk into the shadows, Maija wondered again whether things had turned out for the best. The regular step of a patrol paused as the soldiers passed Dinesh and challenged him. She dimly heard a muffled conversation followed by a salute and the Fyrd continued on its way.

She turned away from the street, closed the door and went inside. That simple exchange told all: the quiet street, the regular patrols, the safety, the comfort of life here—everything that money could buy. So why was she so empty?

You’re a sad cliché, Maija, she told herself. You know exactly why you are so empty. Even your drunk, snoring mother can get a suitor, but you, with your exotic eyes, fine young body and sparkling smile, you have two bastard children. No amount of money can hide that.

And yet, the very thought of her children brought a smile to her face. They were so precious. Ignoring her mother’s contented snores, she pushed open the children’s bedroom door and looked at them. As usual, Kiran had wrestled himself out of the covers and was lying on top of the fine blanket, his black hair tousled with sleep, his arms outstretched as if to embrace the world.

My son, what is to become of you?

Her gaze shifted to Prasanna. With her flaxen hair, her rich blue eyes and her perfect fair skin, she had inherited her mother’s exotic beauty. Shaking her head, Maija wondered how anyone could believe for a moment that these two children could have sprung from the same womb.

Prasanna stirred and muttered in her sleep. Maija was not surprised that she was the one to sleep uneasily, for she had not only inherited her mother’s looks, but also her wild temperament and unfettered lust for life. Even so young—she had yet to start her cycles—she was always the difficult child. Wilful, disobedient and selfish, she was often the source of as much anger in the home as she was joy. Her wildness also brought her the ability to squeal with unfettered joy and laugh in simple glee at even the simplest of things.

Maija closed the door and went to her own bedroom, where she undressed and climbed under the plush blankets. In the hour or so it normally took her to fall asleep, she wondered where Shanek was, and what he was doing, safely ensconced in the Palace of the Counsellor.

Next morning, Kiran woke early. It was his favourite part of the day, just before dawn. He loved to get out of bed before anyone else was stirring and go to the small upper room. There, he could sit and watch the sun rise over the roofs of the Thane’s Gardens. He would sit perfectly still as the first rays of light shot across the eastern sky, and imagine that he was riding a mighty horse across the plains, the cool air in his face with vast open spaces all around him. He could almost smell the rich earth beneath the pounding hooves of his horse and taste the fresh, clean breeze that swept down the Arc Mountains and across the Great Fastness.

The sun rose further, sending shimmering shadows across the tiled roofs and bringing light to the city of the Thane. Kiran sighed as he watched the dawn turn into morning. From below, he heard the sounds of the day’s beginning.

His mother called for Prasanna to ‘shift her lazy bones’ because ‘there’s work to be done, child’ and ‘breakfast won’t make itself’. She rattled and banged about for a while as she started the various preparations for the family’s day. His grandmother groaned as the light entered her room. Hung over again, thought Kiran. With another sigh, he stirred from his place and made his way back down the narrow stairs to the real world.

Light streamed in through the large windows that faced the rising sun, picking out tiny motes of dust as they danced in the air. His passage disturbed them, sending them into paroxysms of excitement, spinning crazily past him.

‘Kiran!’ called his mother. ‘Kiran, are you up yet?’

‘Yes, Mama,’ he replied.

‘Come and help me with breakfast,’ she said.

He padded softly into the kitchen where his mother was already cutting up fruit and placing it in bowls.

‘Here,’ she said, pointing with her knife. ‘Make up the jerva. The pot’s already boiled. The sugar’s over there. You know how your grandmother likes it.’

As always when he heard his mother refer to her mother thus, he remembered their extremely disturbing conversation a year or so earlier. He knew that his mother thought he had, like his sister, chosen to put aside the oddness of their family, but he hadn’t. If anything, he revelled in it. With their curiously mixed accents, their colouring and their situation, they were already odd here in this rich area of Ajyne. When he added in the fact that his sister was only his half-sister and his grandmother was also the mother of that half-sister, they became positively scandalous as well as exotic. He knew it was only their apparently limitless wealth that allowed them acceptance here, and he was determined to enjoy it while it lasted, for clearly this all must end one day.

The aroma of the steaming jerva sparked his senses, bringing him back from his thoughts. Two spoonfuls of sugar stirred into the hot brown drink completed his grandmother’s morning wake-up brew. He cupped the warm mug in his hands and carried it into her room.

‘Good morning, Grandmama,’ he said softly as he entered.

She stirred and grunted at the intrusion. When her eyes opened blearily, she smiled at Kiran. ‘Good morning,’ she rasped. The rich aroma of the jerva reached her and the smile broadened. Lena sat up and held her hands out for the drink.

‘Ahhh, perfect,’ she sighed after her first long sip. ‘You will make a fine husband, young Kiran.’

Kiran grinned, having heard the same comment almost every morning for as long as he could remember. Although he appreciated the thought, he doubted its accuracy. The future for the unclaimed bastard son of a noble was rarely bright.

Lena finished her drink and eased herself out of bed. She stretched luxuriously, running her hands through her rich hair. Kiran watched her, wondering about the story he’d heard her tell visitors so many times as he lay awake, listening in his bed. He believed it, every word, but he knew there was more.

‘Grandmama,’ he said suddenly.

Lena lowered her hands and turned to look at him. ‘Yes?’ she said.

‘Why do we live here?’ he asked. Why did I ask that? he thought.

‘Do you mean here in this house, in this district, in this city, or in this country?’

‘All of it, I guess,’ Kiran replied slowly. He was still puzzled about where his question had come from.

‘Well,’ Lena began, sitting back down on the edge of her bed. ‘We live in this house because it is a very nice house with everything we could ever want. We live in this district because it is a very nice district with nice people and it is safe for my lovely grandchildren to grow up in.’ She paused to smile at Kiran, who smiled back. ‘We live in Ajyne because it is where your grandfather and I lived before he was killed.’

‘Why didn’t you go back to Eysteinn?’ Kiran blurted out.

Lena was taken aback by the sudden interruption. She frowned, and Kiran was afraid he had offended her, but after a moment her frown softened. ‘I don’t really know, Kiran,’ she said slowly. ‘I’ve often wanted to, and Purity knows we can afford it, but…’ her voice trailed away and her gaze grew misty. ‘No, I don’t know.’

‘Do you want to?’ he asked.

Lena continued to stare at the wall, as if she had not heard the question. Kiran was about to ask again when she shook her head. ‘No, I don’t,’ she said in a whisper. ‘I don’t like it here all that much, but I have nothing to go home to. I lost everything in the shipwreck. All my family is dead.’ ‘But you have a new family now,’ said Kiran in a small voice.

Lena still did not look at him, continuing to stare blankly at the wall. ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘I have a new family now.’

Kiran waited for her to say more, but she didn’t move, so after a few minutes, he quietly left.

In the kitchen, Prasanna was finally out of bed. She was still in her nightclothes, her hair was tousled and her eyes were bleary. When Kiran came in, she turned on her chair to glare at him.

‘Do you have to make so much noise when you get up before dawn?’ she snapped. ‘I was fast asleep and you woke me up!’

Kiran ignored the outburst; his sister was always waspish first thing in the morning. Instead, he took his own seat and pulled his bowl towards him. The continuing hot weather had played havoc with the fruit crops and his favourite satrine, a rich citrus from Southern Province, was becoming hard to get. This morning, they had melon from Oscran and tindalberries from Ajyne. Tindalberries were small red berries that grew on tough bushes native to Ajyne. They were tart to the point of bitterness, with spiny skins. That such a poor fruit would even be sold here in the Thane’s Gardens was a good indicator of how deeply the dry weather had cut into the harvest across the continent.

He chewed the berries mechanically while Prasanna sulked. She liked melons, but claimed the berries gave her a stomach ache. Kiran often thought his sister should shift her habits so that she simply slept through morning and woke up in the afternoon.

‘Kiran, what are your plans for today?’ his mother asked him, disturbing his thoughts.

‘I was planning to go over to the Jade Market. There’s a carpenter who told me he would show me how to use an adze today.’

‘I don’t understand why you bother with all that nonsense,’ Prasanna observed.

‘He bothers because he needs to learn a trade,’ sighed Maija. ‘And any skills he can bring with him to a master will help him to be accepted.’

‘I know all that,’ Prasanna snapped. ‘What I don’t get is why he even bothers with a trade at all. I mean, we’re rich. Why should any of us bother with work?’

‘The money won’t last forever, Prasanna,’ said Maija. ‘And even if it does, without trade skills Kiran could become just some useless rich loafer.’

Prasanna snorted. Kiran knew she hadn’t listened to a word their mother had said. ‘We’re rich. He doesn’t need to work, neither do I.’

Again, the same argument, thought Kiran. Doesn’t she ever get tired of the same thing? But as always, he ignored her petulance. She seemed to argue for the sake of it, and if she found a position that annoyed Maija, she used it whenever she could.

The fact that her de facto mother was also her half-sister would have troubled Prasanna had she ever thought about it, but despite her obvious intelligence, it did not loom large in her mind. Rather, she spent her time working out ways to annoy and wheedle a way around her. The two were more similar in character than either of them ever cared to admit, but Maija’s sudden responsibilities had almost crushed the life—and certainly the rebellion—out of her.

As she sat at the table, weary already, watching her two children bicker and eat, she wondered where she might be had Shanek chosen only one woman in the family, instead of both. She imagined she would be where she was now—only happier, and with just the one child. But which one? Would she be happier had Shanek chosen her or her mother? She looked at Kiran and dismissed the thought immediately; the boy, with his quicksilver wit, sparkling smile and surprising wisdom, was her life. As much as her present situation wore her down, she would never be without her darling son.

A carpenter? She looked at him and mentally shook her head. No, he was more than a worker with wood. But how like him to consider such a humble life.

‘Prasanna,’ she said. ‘Leave your brother alone. If he wants