Excerpt: Season of Awakening

The following is from the first chapter of a fantasy novel I am currently writing, also entitled Season of Awakening.

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The next morning started slowly, especially since Stefan didn’t wake until well after the sun was up. Despite everything that had already happened, he had still harboured a hope that he might be able to rise earlier than his host, get his hands on the kind of small boat that one who lived on an island must surely have, and make his way to somewhere near a route used by the Imperial convoys or merchants from one of the Seven Sisters. There were things about his visit to Singaraja he hadn’t been able to tell her – couldn’t tell her, and it would have been better to leave before the questions turned in that direction, because of the risk to him and because of the risk to her. As eccentric as she was and as unusual as her living arrangements might be, it seemed clear that she was just a civilian, and it would have been the best way for him to show gratitude for all she had done.

But when he opened the curtains, he found that it was mid-morning, and the cool autumn sunlight dazzled him for a moment. He craned his neck, taking in the view. Morgan’s garden was unfenced, and the edges blended into the surrounding landscape, relatively seamless except for the longer grass and wild dandelions beyond where she had planted. The island stretched away from him, larger than he had realized; there was even an actual wood in the distance, clearly very small compared to the great northern forests but probably large enough for one to get lost without proper caution.

Even for an astronomer, this was late in the morning, and Morgan was undoubtedly up and about. He dressed slowly, wincing now and then as the aches in his muscles reminded him just how long he’d lain on wood planks that were nowhere near as flat as they should have been. Perhaps it was just as well that it was impossible to make a secret exit now; he had no serious injuries, but rowing would be too much of an inconvenience and an ordeal for a while.

Stefan stretched, massaging his left shoulder as he exited the guest room and shut the

door behind him. In the hall across from the door hung a large painting showing a scrubland pierced by a wide river, the river itself filled with old-style longships of various sizes, sails billowing and dove-marked flags waving. In the background, the square, squat silhouette of a walled city loomed. In the foreground, two huscarls in elaborate chainmail and winged helmets carried a black stone that resembled nothing less than a miniature pyramid, and which was decorated with primitive human-shaped figures and strange geometric designs.

Morgan’s house was like a museum. A museum standing alone on a small island somewhere between Trest and Marbella, with no fences or watchtowers, inhabited by a young widow and some wild birds. A small island that, judging by the peace and quiet, was completely absent from the charts of the Empire’s merchants and Libertalian rogues and Ninevan slavers. It certainly suggested a puzzle; perhaps he would find more clues while waiting for the ship she’d mentioned.

He found Morgan eating breakfast in the garden, accompanied this time by an entire family of starlings who had found something fascinating to dig up next to the path.

“Friends of yours?” Stefan joked.

“Yes,” she replied, setting her plate on the ground next to her. “That little brown one was born in the cherry tree, right outside my window. How are you this morning?”

“Much better, thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Here, let me get you something to eat.” She rose and walked back towards the kitchen door. The birds hopped a couple of steps away, and as they entered the house one had seated himself on her plate, preening his wing feathers contentedly.

Stefan leaned on the kitchen table and watched Morgan rummage through a cabinet, then a couple of wood boxes by the sink. “Do you like cheese?” she asked. “I know I have some around here somewhere . . . ah, here we are. I’m sorry it’s a little old.”

He accepted a plate piled with the cheese along with more black bread. “I’m sure it’s just fine.” He took a bite, and it was. “Thank you again. I was admiring your decorations upstairs. What is that painting in the hall outside the guest room? It looks like an Alfred Alonso, yes?”

“Ah, I know the one you mean – it’s called ’Victory at Heliopolis'.”

Stefan nodded. “Heliopolis? Like the town in Tanis?” He set his plate on the table while she retrieved hers from outside.

“Yes. It shows the Jomsvikings on the way home from their successful raid, taking the Obelisk of Akhenaten as a prize. Are you familiar with the story?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“They say it’s why the Ninevan corsairs go out of their way to attack the Seven Sisters whenever they can.”

Stefan narrowed his eyes, swallowing the last of the cheese in a piece somewhat larger than he probably should have attempted. “Really?” he coughed. “That would have been, what, three hundred years ago?”

“Even more than that, I think.” She hovered over him, a concerned expression on her face, but his coughing subsided rapidly. “I guess they don’t believe in forgiveness.”

“Or moving on.”

“I think I have a history of the Jomsvikings in the study somewhere.” Morgan nodded towards the door, and they went through, picking a path around the orrery and its little balls of light. She stopped in front of a tall bookshelf, running her eyes over the volumes packed in on the higher rows. “I’m pretty sure it’s up there; it should be one of those ones with a gilded spine. Feel free to read it; or anything else, for that matter.”

“None of these are your private diaries or something?”

He winked, and she laughed. “No, those are all buried under the apple trees out front. Enjoy! I’ll be back shortly; I need to check my star charts for tonight’s observations.”

Stefan stood up on a conveniently placed footstool and picked out a couple of the gilded volumes. The first turned out to be a book of recipes, but the second was the one she had mentioned, the title Doves of Jomsburg embossed on its cover. He seated himself in an armchair and opened it. The pages were smooth and still carried a distinctive papery odor, the printing in a rounded, flowing style.

The Jomsvikings have been many things over the centuries – pirates, raiders, crusaders, explorers, merchants, knights; and on occasion, all these at once. Those who indulge in metaphor would no doubt say they wear many hats, a fitting expression considering Adailton’s reputation for constantly changing fashions.

His eyes wandered from the page, and he settled deeper into the armchair with a sigh. He usually had little time to spare for reading, much less relaxing, and he had to fight a reflex to feel guilty about being idle, shipwreck or no. The room was light and airy, and the sunlight glinted gently on Morgan’s gadgets and the gilt binding of the more expensive books. He was supposed to be in Adailton soon, yes, but he really should stop and smell the roses (and the books) more often; after all, a man couldn’t wear the same hat all the time, metaphorical or otherwise.

He turned the page. The early parts of the book were written more like poetic prose than a history, and Stefan read of the longboats plying the wide, slow Falskov River to its mouth, where Dove Island lay blanketed in trees under the timeless light of the Queens. He read, letting the images soak into his mind without care for strategies or politics or money, for the first time in what felt like much too long.

He didn’t realize he had fallen asleep again until he heard a clatter from the hallway.

“I’m sorry!” Morgan called. “That was just me. Believe it or not, I dropped this.” She appeared in the doorway, holding an astrolabe. “I’m not quite sure how I managed it, but it doesn’t seem to be broken.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Stefan replied. “How long was I asleep?”

“Hm, about two and a half hours, I think?”

He shook his head blearily, setting the book down on the chair’s arm. “I’m sorry. Must’ve – ”

“Don’t be silly! You’re more than entitled to rest. There’s nothing at all to be embarrassed about.” She smiled, cradling the astrolabe in the palm of her hand.

In the end, the history of the Jomsvikings sat unused on the chair’s arm for the entire afternoon, as he was active in relatively short bursts, interspersed with an hour or two of such heavy weariness that he could barely stand up. By evening, though, he felt quite a bit better. He was reluctant to admit it even to himself, but there was no way he would have made it if he had tried to sneak off the island.

As the sun sank towards the western horizon, the wind died down and the cherry tree

behind the kitchen stood tall and stately. Morgan emerged from the study, carrying the astrolabe in one hand and a small bundle of paper under the other arm.

“Stefan, I was going to ask you – do you feel like joining me tonight to make some observations? I can always use a second person to help with my telescope.”

“Don’t know how much I know about telescopes . . .” Did she know of his troubles the previous night? Her expression betrayed nothing, as yet. “But I’d be glad to.”

The telescope turned out to be on a balcony high above the house’s front yard, accompanied by another small table and chairs and still more calculations scattered across both, weighed down in some places by extra lenses. It was a slim five-foot tube with a little nest of gears and machinery, and he was in his element as he noted which one turned which other, how they related to the markings on the ring that served as the azimuth scale.

“And this,” Morgan said, “adjusts the focus when you look in the eyepiece.”

“Brilliant. I hate to admit I never thought that much about the stars. Until now.”

“Look.” She inclined her head towards the east, where the White Queen was rising glimmering and gibbous above the sea. “Let’s start with her.” His hands flashed over the levers and gears, aiming the telescope straight at the moon. “Take a look.”

Stefan leaned over and peered through the eyepiece. His breath caught in his throat as he beheld a smooth, grey vista, marked here and there with craters and mountains. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness of the White Queen’s surface, he also noticed larger shaded expanses that were almost the color of the sea.

He dragged his attention from the eyepiece. Morgan was smiling at him. “Is that real?” he gasped.

For half the night, they moved the barrel from one star to the next to the next. And as the Red Queen’s white lakes and the Lady of the Morning’s great green halo burned themselves into his memory, and they traced the River of Veles filled with more stars than there were drops in the ocean, he began to understand how people could believe they held some sort of power.