The Rebel Prince (5 page)

It was five years since Wynter had last seen Oliver, but he was much as she remembered him. He was shorter than King Jonathon, his dark hair fine and straight, but he had the same vivid blue eyes as his royal cousin, the same athletic build. He was thin now, though, his face older than it should be, his eyes strained. Wynter watched as Oliver approached the waiting Merron and she remembered with sadness all this man’s great kindness, all his sly sense of fun. They had been such fast friends, Oliver, Jonathon and her father. He had been such a loyal subject. What had happened to cause him to plot in secret against his King, and to welcome Jonathon’s enemies to his table?

Oliver came to stand by Sólmundr’s horse, and Wynter felt cold determination close over her heart and seal off her fond memories. Uncle or not, this man was now a traitor to Jonathon’s throne. He had knowingly acted against the King, and he had enticed the King’s heir to do the same. At the very least, he had a lot of explaining to do.

‘You refuse to hand over the royal papers?’ Oliver asked, his Hadrish flawless, his cultured voice cold.

Sólmundr began to reply, but Úlfnaor raised his hand to silence him. The warrior bowed to his leader and drew his horse back into formation.

‘I feel certain in my heart that there has been mistake in carrying my introduction to the Royal Prince,’ said Úlfnaor quietly. ‘I certain of this, because if Royal Prince knowed that I am diplomatic envoy for Royal Princess, come with full permission also to negotiate for my peoples, he would have greet me with honour and treat me with respect, as one head of state to another, with the grace and nobility worthy of man destined to be King of his peoples.’ Oliver pursed his lips at this, and Úlfnaor knowingly held his eyes. ‘And so,’ he continued, ‘I allow my Second again to introduce me, knowing that, this time, there will be no more mistake.’

Sólmundr once again clucked his horse forward. He once again made his introductions, and the Merron once again waited. This time, Oliver bowed and the lieutenant smoothly followed his lead.

‘Lord Úlfnaor,’ said Oliver, still bent at the waist. ‘Forgive me. We had been told to expect a simple messenger, not a diplomatic representative. I fear we are ill-prepared. Had the Royal Prince understood . . .’

‘It not matter. I forgive. We go on.’

Oliver straightened. ‘Unfortunately, his Royal Highness is very busy. He begs that you forgive him this, asks that you hand over the papers and says that he will speak with you as soon as time allows.’

Wynter briefly closed her eyes and shook her head. So, that was how it was to be. After all he had done to get here, after everything he had been forced to sacrifice, it was quite clear that Úlfnaor was never destined to get his audience. He would never have the chance to negotiate on behalf of his people. He was to be a messenger in all but name, and Shirken would laugh behind her sleeve to the very end.

There was a long, empty silence, during which time Úlfnaor sat heavy in his saddle, and Sól stared blindly out at the trees.

‘I will come to royal tent,’ said Úlfnaor at last. ‘I will hand papers myself, as is my duty. Then you will show my party to our quarters and I will wait the Prince’s pleasure.’

Oliver blinked in surprise. He had been expecting wounded pride perhaps; had been anticipating an argument. He went to speak, seemed to think better of it, nodded and gestured that the Merron should dismount and follow him up the hill.

Christopher fell into place at Wynter’s side and they strode forward to flank Razi as the party trudged through the last of the daylight to Alberon’s tent. At the royal quarters, Úlfnaor and Sól went forward with the papers. The rest of the Merron closed ranks around Razi, shielding him from sight and obscuring Wynter’s view of the tent. She heard Oliver’s voice as he announced the Merron lords.

‘Your Royal Highness, I present Lord Úlfnaor, Aoire of the Merron people, emissary from her Royal Highness Princess Marguerite of the Northlands.’

This was greeted with silence, during which Wynter imagined Alberon stepping into the sunlight. Úlfnaor and Sól kneeling in the dust. Úlfnaor holding out the package of letters. She imagined Alberon reaching forward and taking it. She tried to picture him as something more than the boy she’d known. In her mind, she tried to form him into a man. But nothing came to her, nothing but a clear image of him as she had last seen him, a ten-year-old boy standing in a doorway, the bright sun in his hair, his hand raised in farewell – her final sight of him as she had ridden away from the palace. She waited for his voice, wondering if she’d know it. He did not speak.

Instead Oliver said, ‘His Highness thanks you.’

At Wynter’s side, Razi held his breath, waiting. She resisted the urge to take his hand. The wall of cloaked and masked Merron was blocking their view, and Wynter felt closed in by them. She could not breathe. She longed to push them all aside and pull the scarf from her face. She longed to shout,
Albi! It’s us! It’s Wyn and Razi! We are here!
She glanced at Christopher, standing to Razi’s left. His hands were clenched.

Úlfnaor’s voice rang out suddenly, his tone urgent, as though Alberon had begun to turn and the Merron leader wished to prevent him leaving. ‘Your Royal Highness! I have other package for you, it also my duty to deliver into your hands.’

There was a pause, as if the Prince was taking his time turning back. A surprisingly deep voice said, ‘Another package?’

Razi took off his hat and scarf. He let the Merron cloak drop from his shoulders. He lifted his head. The Merron parted ranks, and the brothers were finally revealed to each other.

Alberon stood with his hand shading his eyes, puzzled. It took him a moment to comprehend; then he stepped forward, his face opening in surprise. His hand dropped to his side. His full lips curved into a smile. He whispered, ‘Razi.’

Wynter gazed at him in wonder, and the world narrowed to just that moment, to just him. Alberon. She hardly registered Oliver bellowing for the guards, barely felt the Merron close in again to protect Razi. The clatter of the approaching soldiers was just a faint echo on the air.

Alberon. Alberon was here.

He is so tall
, she thought in amazement. And indeed he was; tall as Razi, and strongly built, the bounding athleticism of their father evident in his broad shoulders and solid body. His previously curling hair was shorn to a choppy red-blond thatch, his pale eyebrows stark against his sun-browned skin. But his eyes were still the same, his vivid blue eyes under those sleepy lids. Still Albi. Still him.

Wynter felt a smile begin on her lips, but even as she went to step forward, Alberon’s face closed up, his brows drew down, and his court-mask slipped smoothly into place. No longer the lost brother, no longer the childhood friend, it was a prince who now stood before her, and the expression on his face brought Wynter to a standstill. As Alberon lowered his chin and eyed Razi across the dust-laden air, Wynter felt a cold certainty that it was not a brother he saw, but a potential rival and a suspected adversary in his recent struggle with the King.

The sound of the advancing soldiers slammed into Wynter’s consciousness. The Merron jostled close as they crowded around Razi. The warhounds began barking, and Úlfnaor yelled at them, ‘
Tarraingígí siar!’

Someone among the advancing soldiers shouted, ‘Shoot those damned dogs!’

Without taking his eyes from his half-brother, Alberon lifted his hand and cried, ‘
Enough!
’ At his voice, the soldiers came to a jangling halt.

In the relative silence, the warhounds’ growls were very obvious. Sól murmured, ‘
Tóg go bog é
,’ and the big dogs stilled. The late evening air filled with the shuffling of feet and the murmuring of anxious men. There was a dangerous edge to the sound: the nervous anticipation of battle. When Razi cleared his throat and stepped from the protective circle of the Merron, Wynter had to physically prevent herself from pulling him back.

He walked into the open and spread his arms to show that he was unarmed.

‘Your Royal Highness,’ he called. ‘The Lord Razi begs permission to come forward and address you.’

Wynter regarded Alberon tensely. This was a calculated beginning on Razi’s part. It established both Razi’s recognition of Alberon as rightful heir to the throne, and Razi’s acceptance of himself as nothing more than a lord. With these few simple words, Alberon, and more importantly, Alberon’s men, had been assured that Razi had no pretensions to the throne.

Alberon nodded coolly, and Razi walked forward to kneel in the dust at his brother’s feet.

Wynter shifted her weight. Beside her, Christopher stood in lethal stillness, his grey eyes fierce within the shadows of his scarf. Razi’s instructions, should Alberon simply decide to strike his head from his shoulders, were for the two of them to hide among the Merron, then slink quietly away. When Razi had told them this, Wynter and Christopher had eyed each other and mutually held their peace. Neither of them had any intention of slinking quietly away.

‘Your Royal Highness,’ said Razi. ‘I come to you in the name of his Majesty, the good King Jonathon, and offer my service as envoy and ambassador, should your Royal Highness so choose to make use of me.’

Here we have it
, thought Wynter, her heart pounding.
Here
it is
.

Razi had just made it known that he had come in the name of the King. He had just knelt, unarmed and defenceless, at Alberon’s feet, and told him that he would not aid him in his opposition of the crown. Wynter held her breath. Alberon now had two choices: he could take this opportunity to open dialogue with his father, or he could strike the head from his half-brother and thereby rid himself of the only other successor to Jonathon’s throne.

Alberon spoke without looking up from his brother’s bowed head. ‘Clear the tent,’ he said, addressing Oliver in Southlandast.

Oliver faltered. ‘Your Highness, I don’t think . . .’

‘Oliver. Clear the tent.’

Reluctantly, Oliver disappeared into the royal quarters, almost immediately reappearing with the servant boy, a secretary and a royal guardsman in tow.

Alberon jerked his head at the staff, and they retreated to join the waiting soldiers. ‘Come in,’ he said, and without waiting for Razi to rise, he turned on his heel and disappeared inside.

Oliver strode quickly after him.

Stunned, Razi remained on his knees for a moment. Then he got uncertainly to his feet and followed Oliver inside. Wynter glanced at Christopher. Just as the shadows of the interior swallowed their friend, the two of them dashed across the sun-baked ground and ran in the door before any of the guards could stop them.

Wynter slid into dimness, startling Razi and Alberon. The brothers leapt apart. Alberon, swiping tears from his eyes, drew his sword and pushed himself ahead of the unarmed Razi. The interior of the tent was filled with shadows as bellowing men rushed the door. Christopher spun to face them and Oliver leapt at him, a knife in his hand.

Razi pulled the knight back, yelling, ‘No, Oliver! Stop! Albi, it is Wynter! It is Wyn!’

Wynter ripped her scarf aside, and Alberon, his sword poised to strike her, jerked to a halt, staring in disbelief. ‘Wyn!’ he cried.

Soldiers shoved their way into the tent, snarling in anger, weapons raised. They advanced on Christopher, and Alberon waved them away, all his attention on Wynter.

‘It is fine,’ he said. ‘You lot can go . . .’

The soldiers hesitated, eyeing Christopher, who glared dangerously at them, his fists raised. Alberon finally tore his eyes from Wynter, took in his men’s posturing, and yelled in sudden anger, ‘Oh, get
out
!
Out
for Christ’s sake, you useless chards! They could have killed me twice over if they had wished! Get out!’

The men retreated in shame, and Alberon immediately turned back to Wynter, his face transformed with joy. ‘
Wyn!
’ he yelled, slamming his sword into his scabbard. ‘Look at you!’

To Wynter’s shock, he took her face between his hands and stooped to kiss her. First on the mouth, then on the forehead, then on both cheeks, each kiss harder than the last. Then he grabbed her around the waist and spun her until she was breathless.

‘Look at you!’ he shouted. ‘Look at you! My little sister! Still no taller than a thumb, but all grown up nonetheless!’

He dropped her suddenly, and turned once more to his brother. Wynter staggered, and Christopher came forward, steadying her with his hand on her back. She blinked, dazed, and watched in numb disbelief as Alberon grabbed Razi’s face, looked him in the eye, laughed again and pulled him into a fierce hug.

‘He sent you! I knew he would! I knew it! I knew the stubborn old bull wouldn’t hold out long once you’d come home! I knew you’d make him listen!’ He grabbed the back of Razi’s head, knotting his fingers in his brother’s curls. ‘Oh, but it was a cruel ruse,’ he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. ‘For him to make me think you were dead. That was too cruel, Razi. It was too cruel . . .’ Razi’s face creased up at that, and he squeezed his brother tight. ‘It was too cruel,’ whispered Alberon, and that was the last he said for a while, words being too much for any of them.