Wynter nodded absently, watching as her filthy nails dug into the backs of her hands. It had been very easy, in the end, to say the words. It was such a simple sentence, after all, and so quickly over: I think our fathers killed them all. But when she had finally said it, she had felt a pain in her chest, a sharp, tearing sensation, and now she felt nothing.
She spread her hands, watching the firelight play across her grimy fingers. Her nails had left pale half-moon indents in her skin. Wynter regarded them with interest, then tried to fit her nails back into the exact position again, pressing hard. Would it take a lot of pressure to break the skin, she wondered? She dug her nails deep, frowning in concentration.
‘Iseult!’ snapped Christopher, and she glanced up at him, startled. ‘Stop that!’ he hissed.
‘I shall have to see his body,’ murmured Razi again. He scrubbed his hands on his trouser legs and nodded. ‘Yes. After all . . . those scars could have been from anything. You are not a doctor, darling. Perhaps the poor fellow had the smallpox. Perhaps he was mauled by a bear. Perhaps he . . .’ He stopped talking, and his hands stilled. He looked up into the star-strewn sky. ‘Perhaps,’ he said desperately. Then he seemed to give in. ‘Oh God,’ he whispered.
Christopher looked down at Boro, his mouth unsteady. The dog grinned at him and Christopher scratched between his ears. ‘Good boy,’ he whispered.
The night was very still, just the muffled sounds of the surrounding camp, the crackling fire, the snoring of the other warhounds audible. Sólmundr and Hallvor were sitting with the other Merron, grave and withdrawn: after dinner, the soldiers had caught them hassling the Loups-Garous’ slaves down by the river, and the two of them had been returned to their quarters in shame. Úlfnaor had been furious with them. He had made them apologise to David Le Garou and forced them to fetch the Wolves’ spilt water. They had been tense and silent ever since.
Music came drifting from somewhere deep within the camp, a guitar strummed low. Wynter glanced dully at Christopher. He too heard the music, and she saw his face soften at the sound. He shut his eyes, tilting his head to listen as gentle memories played across his face.
‘Maidin Ór,’ he whispered.
Across the fire, Úlfnaor smiled in recognition of the tune and murmured something in Merron. Hallvor glanced fondly at him. Surtr nodded in time with the music, tapping his fingers.
‘Go h-álainn,’ he sighed.
Suddenly, Frangok asked a sharp question and the Merron lost their warm good humour and straightened slowly, their expressions hard. Frangok snapped the question at Christopher. His face drew down in pained understanding, and he groaned, dropping his head into his hands.
‘Oh,’ he breathed, ‘the scum.’
‘What is it?’ mumbled Wynter.
Christopher shook his head.
‘It Maidin Ór,’ snapped Sólmundr. ‘It Merron song! It Merron! Who teach it to coimhthíoch?’
‘I did,’ whispered Christopher, ‘when I were a slave. I taught Pierre to play it on my father’s guitar.’
Sól sank back in shock. ‘But why, Coinín?’ he cried. ‘It Merron song, we not ever—’
‘Because I liked it!’ hissed Christopher, glaring across at him. ‘I liked it, and I used play it, and he made me teach it to him! All right? Is that all right, Sól? Can you accept that?’
At Christopher’s taut anger, Sólmundr softened instantly and held up his hands, his face gentle.
‘Shhhh,’ he said. ‘Shhhhh, a luch. Ná bac faoí . . . it all right.’
Christopher’s face darkened and he bowed his head again. He dug his fingers into his hair and squeezed hard, as if trying to hold himself together.
‘You not to worry, luichín,’ rumbled Úlfnaor. ‘No one blame you. It not your fault that those caic steal everything they see.’
The music continued to float gently around them and it was as if the entire camp had paused to listen, so quiet had the night become. Somewhere out there, the blond Wolf sat and played that lovely tune, and Wynter had no doubt that this terrible pained reaction was the very reason he had chosen it. She imagined him glancing up from the strings to look at David Le Garou, the knowledge of what he was doing clear in his grin, and she wondered if he was still playing Aidan Garron’s guitar.
At that thought, anger blazed hot and clear and sharp within her, and she welcomed it. It felt good. It felt much better than her previous muffling fog. Razi sat at her side, his hands clenched, his face dull, and Wynter glared at him.
‘When shall we act?’ she asked.
‘Soon,’ he whispered. ‘Give me time.’
‘For what? The Haun have gone back to their leaders, bearing the message Alberon wished. What use have you for the Wolves now?’
Razi sighed and shut his eyes. ‘Please, Wyn,’ he said.
Christopher looked up from between his hands, his face hard. She met his eye, rage to rage. ‘Soon’ was not enough.
The music ceased without warning, cutting off in mid-chord, as if the guitar had been snatched from the player or dropped from his hand. It was so abrupt an ending that everyone sat frowning for a moment, waiting for it to start again. Christopher straightened, staring out into the quiet night. The silence stretched on, and the sounds of the camp filtered in to fill the void. Hallvor glanced at Sólmundr, sidelong, from the corner of her eye. Sólmundr studiously did not look her way.
With a warning growl, the warhounds stood up, and the Merron snapped to attention, following the hounds’ gaze.
‘Stand down your dogs,’ said a familiar voice. ‘I must speak to my brother.’
Wynter and Razi got to their feet as Alberon stepped into the light. His face was drawn, his red cloak bundled around him as if for comfort. Oliver, just visible in the shadows at his back, eyed the assembly with caution, but Alberon only had eyes for his brother.
‘Razi,’ he said hoarsely, ‘do you know?’
‘Wyn told me,’ whispered Razi.
Alberon shook his head. He drew his cloak even tighter and stayed at the edge of the light. ‘Jesu,’ he whispered. ‘To have slaughtered them all. Even women, Razi . . . even little children. I cannot conceive of such a wicked act. It is no wonder Father struggled so hard to hide those machines.’
With a whine, Boro trotted across to the Prince. The Merron straightened anxiously and Oliver tensed, but Alberon, ever a lover of dogs, just glanced down and fondled the hound’s sharp ears. He seemed to lose himself for a moment in this innocent activity; then he took a deep breath.
‘Razi,’ he said at last. ‘What are we going to do? How am I ever to bridge this rift?’
‘We must talk,’ said Razi quietly.
Alberon glanced with uncertainty at the ring of attentive faces sitting around the fire.
‘Not here,’ said Razi.
Alberon nodded. ‘Come on,’ he said and wearily gestured Razi to his side.
Wynter and Christopher went to follow, but Razi held his hand out to still them.
‘Stay,’ he said.
They leapt to object and Razi snapped at them, ‘Stay, goddamn it.
’ Wynter drew herself up in frozen disbelief. He would deny her this? After all they had been through, he would leave her out in the cold? ‘Razi!’ she cried.
But Razi strode past without another word, and she watched in useless rage as he followed his brother out into the dark.
‘Cad a rinne tú? ’
Christopher’s incredulous whisper scratched the surface of a dream, so that one minute Wynter was gazing into her father’s face – impossibly young and streaming with rain, as he screamed, ‘Stop them! For Christ’s sake, Rory! Stop them!’ – and then she was struggling awake, her hands clutching the empty blanket where Christopher should have been.
She lifted herself onto her elbow, looking all about her.
Christopher was at the door of the tent, a black shadow dimly outlined against the faint glow of the dying camp fire. Someone was with him, just a dark shape at first, until he spo
ke and Wynter recognised Sólmundr’s distinctive throaty rasp. The warrior murmured something low in Merron, and Christopher exclaimed in shock.
Sól clapped a hand to his friend’s mouth. ‘Shhhhhhh, a luch,’ he said. ‘Shhhh.’
Wynter made out Christopher’s nod, and Sólmundr carefully removed his hand from his mouth. She peered around the tent; it was empty but for her. Razi must not yet have returned. She reached for her tunic.
After Razi had left, the women had discreetly retired to the Merron quarters, leaving Christopher and her alone. Wynter had thought nothing of it, and she had simply stalked into her tent and lain down, taut as a bowstring, her head filled with anger. But then Christopher had lain down beside her, put his arms around her and pulled her gently to him, and she had instantly come undone. Before she knew it, she had been sobbing into his chest, great shuddering lungfuls of breath, long gasping sighs; too grief-stricken to stop, too overcome to speak.
‘It ain’t what Lorcan was, lass,’ he had murmured. ‘It ain’t what he was. You know that. He were a lovely man.’ She had shaken her head, bawling silently against the fabric of his shirt. ‘Maybe it was the King that done it,’ he said. ‘Maybe it was the King’s da. You ain’t ever to know, lass, because the King ain’t ever likely to tell you, is he?’ She had clung tighter, drawing him in, wanting him close, and he had stroked her hair. ‘Lorcan was never anything but good to you,’ he whispered, rocking her gently. ‘Ain’t that all you need to know? He was never anything but good to you.’
She had tumbled into sleep like that, weeping inconsolably, with Christopher holding her close. Now her nose and eyes burned with the aftermath of it, and the bed was cold because Christopher had left her to go whisper at the door. She pushed back the covers and dragged her cloak around her, shivering at the intrusion of night air. Good Christ, it was damnably cold.
‘Chris,’ she whispered, jerking on her boots and getting to her feet. ‘What in God’s name are you two doing?’ Christopher didn’t answer, and she went to the door, suddenly nervous. The small space in front of the Merron tents was empty. Christopher was gone.
THE MERRON WAY
ÚLFNAOR’S HOUNDS had run to the end of their chains and were peering up the alley between the tents, their postures curious. Wynter ran past them, strapping her sword in place, and came to a halt in the shadows, peeping out into the moon-washed thoroughfare. The camp was utterly silent and empty of life, but Wynter knew that there would be patrols, and the guards around Alberon’s tent would see any movement on the road if they were looking that way at the time. A shadow caught her eye, a fleeting impression of movement at the far edge of the road. She saw Boro outlined briefly against the moonlit side of a tent. He took a corner and trotted from view.
Oh, curse you, she thought. You fools. She glanced anxiously at the royal tent, then ran across the too-bright road. Crouching low as if that might save her from detection, she hurried along the narrow belt of shadow beneath the awnings on the other side and turned into the alley after Boro and the two infuriating men he was no doubt accompanying.
Alberon had certainly fulfilled his promise to quarter the Wolves far from Razi’s tent. In fact, as Wynter trailed the two men through the seemingly interminable rat’s nest of the camp, she found herself wondering if he had quartered the damn creatures on the moon. She moved as quickly as she could, all the time praying that she did not trip on one of the many guy-ropes or boxes of supplies that lurked slyly in the black shadows. The last thing she needed was to bring the canvas crashing down onto a squad of sleeping men.
She was picking her way, stork-like, through a particularly dense configuration of guy-ropes when a sound brought her to a listening halt. It was Sólmundr, speaking softly and chuckling. Wynter crept to the edge of the shadows and peered out. She was at the outer fringes of the camp, the army tents standing with their backs in a row, the open space of the Wolves’ cooking area separating their quarters from the soldiers’. Behind that, the ground sloped down to horse-lines, the river, the brooding barricades and trees.
Sólmundr was wandering around the Wolves’ camp, his sword in his hand, Boro at his side. Christopher was standing by the almost dead camp fire, a slim black shape in the moonlight. He was looking down at the sprawled body of a Loups-Garous’ slave. The young man was crumpled and motionless, a bowl of spilt food on the ground by his out-flung hand. Wynter stepped from the shadows, stunned. At the door of the Wolves’ tent Sól hissed something, and both Wynter and Christopher looked up as the warrior stepped across the slumped body of the second slave and disappeared inside.
Christopher stooped, grabbed the nearest slave by the ankles and dragged him into the shadows of the awning. He left him there, bundled against the motionless form of his companion, and followed Sól into the tent. Wynter quietly made her way to the door. Slipping into the shadows beneath the awning, she crouched and laid her hand on the chest of the nearest slave. He was breathing gently, his companion the same. Wynter rose to her feet, peering into the tent.
There was darkness within. Then the quiet striking of a flint. A fire-basin flared to life, illuminating Sól, who was crouched intently over it. He glanced up at Christopher and moved aside as if presenting a gift. The light from the basin filled the gloom and the interior of the tent was revealed.
The Loups-Garous were scattered in various attitudes of collapse, their large bodies slumped or sprawled, depending on how they had fallen. David Le Garou lay on a tangle of furs, his head back, his eyes closed as if in gentle sleep. Jean was stretched facedown at his feet, an arm flung outwards as if he had been reaching for his leader when he fell. Gérard was slumped as he had obviously been sitting, his back against a pile of saddlery, a deck of cards scattered all about him. Pierre had tumbled onto his side, the guitar still in his hand. His glossy blond curls covered his face, gleaming in the guttering light.
Sól grinned at Christopher, his eyes bright with bitter satisfaction. He went to speak; then he saw Wynter step into the moonlight by the door and his face fell. He rose slowly to his feet. Christopher turned to her, and Wynter saw it in his eyes: he was just as stunned as she. He had not been party to this plan.
Sól’s expression hardened. He dipped his chin. ‘You not rob this from him,’ he warned.
Wynter stepped across the slaves and dropped the tent-flap behind her, cutting out the clear moonlight. Sól regarded her anxiously as she drew her sword. The fire-basin flared, sending orange light and dark shadows leaping across the Wolves’ unconscious faces.
‘What do you intend to do after they are dead?’ she asked quietly.
Sólmundr grinned, slow and dark, taking her question as approval of his plans. ‘Good woman,’ he whispered.
Christopher turned from her and moved slowly around the tent. He nudged Pierre with his toe, rolling him onto his back. The guitar slipped from the Wolf ’s limp fingers, hitting the ground with a faint melodic resonance. Christopher stepped over it and stood gazing down at Gérard.
‘You dosed their water?’ he asked softly.
‘Hally, she gives to me the slow poison. She say to me, it maybe not kill the Loups-Garous because of what they is. It maybe to just put them under. She worry over this, but I glad it not kill them. I glad they alive for you, though I sad they not be awake to know it when you at last take your vengeance.’
Christopher crossed the tent and sank to a crouch by David Le Garou’s sleeping body. The Wolf ’s long brown hair was fanned untidily across his face. Instinctively, Christopher reached to push it back, but at the last moment he hesitated and withdrew his hand.
‘I will to leave after,’ said Sólmundr. ‘And all can be my fault.’
‘Oh no, Sól,’ said Wynter. ‘No. You can’t leave. We can find another way to deal with this.’
Sól smiled at her. ‘There not be another way,’ he said. ‘But it good. I proud to do this. After everything that Coinín has risk for me and for Ash, to avenge him and his first father is my honour.’
<
br /> ‘We’ll find another way,’ said Wynter firmly.
She glanced at Christopher, who, seemingly oblivious to the conversation, continued to crouch by David Le Garou, staring into his face. She was amazed at how calm he was. After everything that he had suffered at the hands of this man and his pack, she had expected more than this peculiar stillness. She went to speak again, but Christopher drew the long black dagger from his boot, and Wynter and Sól became very still and quiet.
With no discernible emotion, Christopher used his knife to flick the hair from David Le Garou’s face; then slowly, almost caressingly, he ran the tip of the dark blade along the Wolf ’s brow and down his temple. David Le Garou’s eyelid twitched, and Christopher paused. His knife slid across to press lightly against the corner of Le Garou’s eye. Wynter readied herself to look away, but instead of pressing harder, Christopher simply sighed and ran the tip of the knife down the Wolf ’s cheek.
The blade scraped audibly against the light stubble on Le Garou’s jaw, traced the vulnerable swell of his Adam’s apple and came to rest against the lightly beating pulse at Le Garou’s throat.
‘I could,’ whispered Christopher.
He pressed down, dimpling the flesh beneath his blade. The smallest bead of red welled up at the sharp tip of his knife, and Christopher’s lips parted. He tilted his head, watching intently as David’s blood trickled a thin red path to the Wolf ’s collar. Christopher lifted his eyes to David’s face. Whatever he saw there seemed to break his strange detachment, and he snarled in sudden anger. Snatching the Wolf by his hair, Christopher dragged David’s head up until their faces were within inches of each other. With a hiss that might have been a word, he once again pressed his knife against the pale arch of David’s neck.
‘I could!’ he said.
He snapped the knife away from David’s throat and plunged it between David’s legs, jerking the blade up into his groin. ‘I could,’ he said again, staring into the Wolf ’s slack face. ‘I could take you apart, little by little.’
The Rebel Prince Page 22
