(Page 1 of 13) Stormwatcher by fiona wallaceSUMMARY: Caedun thinks that music is all that's important in life. When he becomes a pawn between two kings he is about to learn some harsh lessons...‘Caedun?'
He ignored her, intent on whittling the last hole in the flute. The wood was springy and soft, and the knife had grown blunt as he worked, leaving each hole more ragged than the one before. As it got warmer he'd wriggled under the bushes to his favourite place, a cave roofed with wide, leathery leaves that smelled like a mixture of apple and cat pee if you rubbed them.
‘Caedun!'
She was closer now, and the garden was so small she'd find him any minute. He should have gone back to the beach, however hot it was. No one bothered chasing him there. He slid the knife back into its sheath and pocketed it and the flute. Sighing, he crawled back out onto the path and ambled toward the tiny paved area at the back of the house.
His mother stood a few paces from the door. She was wearing one of her court dresses, the blue-grey one with tiny cream flowers along the hem.
She frowned as he approached. ‘Oh, look at the state of you!'
Caedun glanced down at his shirt and trousers. He couldn't see anything wrong. He shrugged. ‘I've been out.'
‘Yes, but really—oh, just come inside. You have to get changed.'
‘Why?'
‘Because Master Treakin is performing for the king tonight, and he asked me to bring you.'
‘He wants me to watch?'
‘No. He said you were to bring your harp.'
‘My harp?' He stared at her.
‘Yes. Now hurry up. He wants to see you for some practice first.' She turned towards the house, and when he did not follow, stepped back towards him with an exaggerated sigh, grasped his arm and bundled him inside and up the stairs. ‘I suppose I should be glad you run around in rags all day. At least your best clothes stay clean. There,' she pushed him towards his bedroom. ‘Everything's laid out for you. Be quick.'
He grasped one thing; the sooner he was dressed, the more time he'd have to practice. And if he was to perform for the king he needed as much practice as he could get. He kicked off his shoes and flung his stained shirt and trousers into a corner.
His mother had laid out his best clothes; a finely woven shirt that she had embroidered herself at the collar and cuffs, a pair of darkest blue trousers and jacket, and black polished boots. He was just doing up the last buttons when she reappeared.
‘It still fits?'
He nodded, yanking at the jacket, unable to hide his disappointment. It fitted him just as well as it had two months ago. He hadn't grown at all. He was the smallest fourteen year old in Raeval.
‘Come on, then,' she said. He grabbed his harp and followed her.
The garden had been shady and indoors it was cool, but at the front of the house the sun reflected off the marble buildings, hazing the road and the sea ahead. The heat prickled at his eyelids and he squinted, raising an arm to shield his face. His mother walked quickly, and he noticed he didn't have to run as fast as he usually did to keep up with her.
Perhaps he was growing after all.
It wasn't far, and with his mother there he couldn't dawdle the way he usually did. They crossed a small park, the trees giving welcome respite from the sun, and then followed a narrow road to where Treakin's house stood, with nothing but a wide stretch of beach and the sea beyond it.
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