The Rebel Prince (27 page)

‘
Why?

’ ‘Alberon needs them for a while.’

‘
For a while
,’ hissed Christopher. ‘I’ve been hearing
for a
while
for almost four years.’

‘I know, friend. I am—’ ‘Do not tell me you are sorry, Razi!’

Razi looked bleakly at him. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if uncertain; then he took something from his pocket and went to crouch by the Merron’s neat piles of bedding. Wynter saw the dull gleam of silver in the dim light as he laid the object on the gritty curve of a rolled groundsheet.

‘I had this made,’ he said, ‘back at the Merron camp. I wanted to give it to you, but I was not certain that it was tasteful. And then the situation . . . the situation became difficult.’

He fell silent. He had no need to go on. They all knew how
difficult
things had become. He straightened the object with one finger, pushing it about until it was a perfect circle, glittering against the dark fabric. Wynter leaned to see. Behind her, Christopher shifted but did not come forward.

It was a plaited leather necklace, secured with a beautifully wrought silver catch. Set onto silver mounts and strung onto the leather were four silver fangs and four amber stones, shaped like eyes. Wynter recognised them immediately as having belonged to the Loups-Garous the Merron had caught spying on their camp. She remembered Razi rooting furiously through the dead Wolves’ belongings and understood, at last, what it was he had been seeking.

Razi carefully arranged the necklace, as if displaying it on a jeweller’s board.

‘I swear to you, Christopher,’ he said, ‘one day you shall have them all: twenty-four amber eyes, sixteen silver fangs, eight gold.’ He looked around at Christopher. ‘You shall wear them around your neck, and every day they will remind you that nothing has gone unpunished. I
swear
this to you.’

‘But not today,’ said Christopher. ‘That’s what you’re really saying. Not today.’

Razi nodded. ‘Not today,’ he whispered. ‘I need to reconcile my father and my brother, Chris. I must find a way to combine their visions of the future and so make this kingdom whole. My brother needs David Le Garou in order that he may confound relations between the packs and the Haun. Until this is done, we cannot act.’

‘Your brother’s wrong. You said it yourself.’

‘But perhaps not about
this
. We just need to wait and—’

‘I
have
waited! In
Algiers
I waited! Every passing year I told myself,
soon
will be the time!
Soon!
But it never came! And then you asked me to come here and,
God forgive me,
Razi
, I said
yes
! I said
yes
and I left my girls there! Slaves to those vile creatures! I gave up on my
family
and I believed in this new life of yours. But
the Wolves are here
! Look at them! They’re
here
! There
is
no new life! I want their blood, Razi! You promised me their
BLOOD
!’

On the word ‘blood’, Christopher’s voice rose into a howl. It was a savage, elongated sound, and Wynter couldn’t help it – she took a frightened step back from it. The shadows surrounding her friend were suddenly too thick and Christopher was lost in them. Then he moved, a sly flicker of darkness, and she jumped.

‘Coinín!’ snapped Sólmundr.

Christopher stilled. There was a moment of silence. ‘I’m still here,’ he whispered. ‘I know who I am.’

Sól nodded, and Wynter understood why Christopher had asked him to stay. The warrior gave Christopher a warning look and stepped back again.

‘I will find a way, Christopher,’ promised Razi quietly. ‘Both to secure my father’s kingdom
and
to finish this.’ He rose to his feet and held out the necklace. ‘I swear it.’

Christopher came at last from the shadows. ‘You can swear all you like,’ he said, ‘but it wasn’t
you
that got these. It was the Merron.’ He took the necklace from Razi’s fingers, and he stared coldly into Razi’s eyes until his friend ducked his head and left.

‘Oh, Chris,’ said Wynter, ‘that was unfair.’

Christopher did not look at her. He just stood with the necklace of silver teeth in his hand, his eyes on the door, his face hard.

‘Tabiyb has saved us from Shirken’s plan,’ said Sólmundr softly. ‘He tell lie to his brother, and so has saved us. I must admit, it surprise me that he not take his revenge. It make me think that he will to let Úlfnaor go. It make me think he will to let us all go, even after what we did.’

‘Aye,’ whispered Christopher. ‘Well . . . Razi ain’t no hypocrite.’ He lifted the necklace, the silver teeth glittering between his scarred fingers. ‘But he ain’t no Merron, either, is he, Sól?’

Wynter did not like the implications of this. ‘Christopher,’ she said, ‘you must not act.’

Christopher looked at her, that stubborn razor of a look which she had always admired and which now sent a spear of icy panic through her heart.

‘Chris,’ she said, ‘please, I beg of you, do not act.’

‘Don’t worry, lass,’ he whispered. He gave her a smile, but it was a thin sliver of a thing, his lips stretched tight across his teeth, his eyes hard – and he did not give her his promise.

TRINKETS AND HONOUR

‘W
HAT WE
do about them?’

‘Nothing. Like Tabiyb say.’

Sólmundr glanced at Razi and back again to Úlfnaor. ‘We just to roll and show our bellies, this is what you say?’

‘No one is asking you to roll over for the Wolves,’ said Razi. ‘I’m simply asking for time, that’s all.’ His eyes flickered to Christopher, but his friend, hard-faced and silent, did not look up from his dinner. ‘Not everything can be solved with a sword to the back of the head, Sólmundr. Give me time to find a better way.’

‘When we get to talk to the Prince, then?’ asked Sól. ‘When the Merron get to make our case for new life?’ Neither Úlfnaor nor Razi replied, and Sól shook his head in disgust. ‘So,’ he rasped, ‘we pissed on at home. We pissed on here. And now we must to lie down and let Wolves piss on us too.’

‘I told you, Sól. No one is asking you—’

Christopher stood abruptly, left the remains of his meal by the fire and strode away. There was a moment of silence; then Wari took Christopher’s abandoned dinner and began eating it. Hallvor looked at him in amused disapproval and the big man shrugged blandly. After a decent moment, Soma helped herself to a morsel.

‘This not what Embla and Ash give their lifes for,’ hissed Sól, getting to his feet. ‘That we be messengers for tyrants and bitches to Wolves. This not what we is. This not the Merron way.’ He flung his empty bowl to the ground, took Boro by his chain and stalked after Christopher.

Úlfnaor sighed and pressed his fingers to his temples. His warriors watched him from the corners of their eyes, and concentrated on their food. No questions were asked, and Úlfnaor made no effort to translate for them.

‘It not right, Tabiyb,’ he said eventually, ‘that we let those cur wander about after what they do to Coinín. Even if he not have been one of the tribe it would be not right, but Coinín, he Sól’s
son
now. He wear the bracelets of bear Merron . . . it our duty and our honour to avenge him.’

‘Úlfnaor,’ grated Razi, ‘if you truly wish to attain this new life you keep asking for, you must be willing to try and live it.’

The big man grew silent and thoughtful, and Razi flicked a glance to Wynter. She briefly met his eye but didn’t speak. She had nothing to add to the conversation. Her mind was a numb void, her chest constricted with anger. Sighing, she slammed her bowl on the fire-stones; the food tasted like sawdust and ashes to her anyway. Frangok eyed the uneaten dinner and Wynter nudged the bowl towards her with her foot.

‘Take it,’ she said. ‘I shall vomit if I have more.’

Frangok’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at Wynter’s use of Garmain.

Wynter didn’t acknowledge her, just drew up her knees and laid her head against her crossed arms, watching as Christopher came into view between a gap in the tents. He was striding furiously down the slope towards the river and the horse-lines. Sólmundr quickly caught up with him. Boro wove about ahead of them, pulling at his chain and snuffling in excitement. The men fell into step, their heads down. Wynter followed their progress until they passed from view. She would not be foolish enough to intrude on them. Christopher had made it perfectly clear that he wanted to be left alone.

All through that long day, Wynter had been hoping that Alberon would send a message, if not to Razi then at least to her, as a beginning to reconciliation with his brother. But there had been nothing. Now evening was coming on, and the rhythms of the camp were slowing, the smoke from the fires hanging sweet and hazy in the lowering light. It did not seem likely that a pardon would be granted today.

Wynter was distressed by this, but she could not in honesty say that she was surprised. One did not call a crown prince ‘foolish’ at the negotiation table. At the very least, it would have wounded Alberon’s pride to hear himself described in such terms, particularly when he had gone to such pains to confirm Razi’s status as his right-hand man. Wynter squeezed her eyes shut. God help them, but it had been such a stupid,
stupid
thing to say. And then to compound it with ‘I shall not let you’! What an absolute and unmistakable assertion of superiority. What a disastrously contemptuous thing for a bastard son to say against his royal brother. In many a court, those words alone would have been enough to see the end of Razi.

‘
Jesu
,’ she whispered to herself. ‘What are we to do?’

There was a small scuffing of ground as someone sat down beside her. Wynter smelled cook-fire, and the lingering scent of bitter herbs. Hallvor’s smoky voice spoke, low and private: ‘
Luichín
, you speak Garmain. It’s a shame we didn’t know this sooner, eh?’

Wynter shrugged. She was in no mood for talk.

Hallvor looked across at Razi, who was frowning in their direction, obviously trying to understand.

‘Ah,’ she breathed, ‘but your companions do not speak it. Even had we known this about each other, it would have been wrong for us to converse,
a chroí
. It is a terrible disrespect to speak above one’s company.’ She smiled down at Wynter, her usual, grave smile, her dark eyes kind. ‘Still, I am glad I know this about you. So glad, that I think I shall now commit a terrible sin against manners and have a conversation with you.’

Oh, God
, thought Wynter.
Go away. Please.
Her eyes drifted to the last place she’d seen Christopher and she pulled her knees in tighter against her chest.

Hallvor followed her gaze. ‘Don’t fret,
luichín
. Your
croíeile
will return to you. When a Wolf loves, he loves with everything he is. There is no stronger bond.’

Wynter straightened. ‘There are many Wolves among the Merron?’ she whispered.

Hallvor shrugged. ‘Some. Those who survive their childhood grow to be good strong warriors, loyal and proud – not like those
caic
that call themselves Loups-Garous and are raised as naught but rabid cur.’

‘Those who survive their childhood?’

Hallvor shrugged again. ‘Not all are lucky enough to have someone like Aidan an Filid Garron to raise them.’ She settled her arms across her own bent knees, looked thoughtfully down towards the river. ‘Wolf children can be very wild,’ she murmured. ‘You know, if he ever gives you trouble like today?’ She tapped her temple. ‘Hit him
hard
in the head. They can’t keep the Wolf-shape once they’ve been hit in the head.’

‘Hallvor! I would never hit Christopher in the head!’

‘Never say never, girl. A man is a man – especially when he is a Wolf!’ Hallvor slid a wry glance at her, and Wynter was no longer sure if the woman was being serious or simply trying to cheer her up. Hallvor chuckled at her confusion. Her dark eyes switched from Wynter to Razi, who was in desultory conversation with Úlfnaor. ‘I think it is a strange and wonderful thing,’ she said softly, ‘how Tabiyb and Coinín are brothers-of-the-heart. And you with your pale skin and Tabiyb with his black, yet he sees you as his sister.’ She frowned. ‘I had thought it meant good things for us here. This great love between three such different people.’

‘If we can heal the rift between Razi and the Prince there is still hope,’ said Wynter.

Hallvor glanced at her and her wry smile told Wynter that she didn’t hold out much hope of reconciliation between the brothers. The healer squeezed Wynter’s knee and made to rise to her feet. ‘Well,’ she sighed. ‘Ashkr and Embla made Tabiyb our
Caora
for some reason. If it was not to heal a rift, then it must have been for some other purpose. We shall have to see.’ This casual mention of the sacrificed dead froze Wynter’s heart. On impulse she grabbed Hallvor’s hand, halting her rise to her feet.
Have you no guilt?
she wanted to cry.
Do you feel no shame?

Hallvor sank to her haunches, her face concerned. ‘What is it,
luichín
?’ she said. ‘Have you more questions about your man? Do you fear for him?’