Razi came to a halt in front of the awning and bowed. He addressed himself solely to Úlfnaor, and Wynter saw subtle approval brighten the faces of the lord’s party. “I regret we come without gifts to such generous company,” said Razi formally. “It shames me that I cannot add to your bounty.”
Úlfnaor nodded a gracious forgiveness.
Embla, who had been watching Razi as he crossed the camp, rose to her feet with a smile. “Your company is generosity enough, Tabiyb,” she said. “It warm us more than any gift.”
Ashkr, lounging on the floor by Sólmundr’s side of the bed, his attention on a half-played game of chess, clucked like a broody hen and Embla tossed her hair back with tolerant forbearance.
“Forgive my brother,” she said with feline composure. “His brains are in his trousers.”
Ashkr chuckled and lifted his eyes to smile at the guests. Sólmundr, lying on his side under the furs, one arm cushioning his head, the other draped across Ashkr’s lap, laughed quietly.
Úlfnaor shook his head in paternal disapproval at the lords’ childish behaviour. He rose to his feet, a small bowl in his hand, and gestured to Christopher and Wynter that they could take his place by Embla’s side. They bowed in thanks, and the Aoire edged around them, moving to crouch by the fire with Wari and Hallvor.
To Wynter’s immense surprise, the big shepherd began shaping little patties of dough from the bowl in his hand and laying them on the flat irons. He was making griddle cakes! The great and haughty Aoire was making griddle cakes! Wynter shook her head in disbelief. These Merron were incredible. She could not fathom them at all.
At the warm, sweet perfume of freshly baking chestnut dough, Christopher paused on the threshold. He stood looking down at the Aoire, his face wistful.
“Scòn,” he said softly.
Úlfnaor smiled. “This not be long now. Then we eat.”
Christopher went and crouched by the fire, watching the cooking, and Wynter drifted to stand behind him, enjoying the aroma of roasted fish and fowl.
Úlfnaor’s dogs lay obediently on the periphery of the fire, following every move of the cook’s hands. The rest of the warhounds were within the tent, sprawled casually around their masters, their big brown eyes silently assessing the new arrivals. Sólmundr actually had one of the creatures on the bed beside him, its huge head resting on his hip.
“Tabiyb,” Embla extended her hand to Razi, inviting him to her side.
He glanced at Wynter and Christopher. Wynter grinned teasingly at him, while Christopher kept his attention on the cooking Razi hesitated, then he abruptly ducked his head and entered the tent. Embla took Razi’s face between her hands and kissed him on the mouth. He shamelessly pressed himself to her kiss, his hand drifting to her hip. They remained locked deeply together for an embarrassing length of time, and pulled away only when Ashkr tutted loudly. Razi broke into a blushing grin. The pale lady licked her lips, grinned in return and pulled her pirate down to sit beside her on her little pallet of rugs. She leant comfortably against him, and he slipped his arm around her waist.
“Who is winning?” he murmured, his eyes on the chessboard.
“I am,” she said smugly. “Ashkr hope you distract me. He hope I, too, think only with my trousers!”
Ashkr rolled his eyes, and smoothly made what looked to be a very damaging move. Razi and Embla frowned and leant forward as one, their faces identically absorbed. Sólmundr snorted with mirth, and the dog at his hip opened its eyes briefly and sighed.
“Coinín?” Christopher tore his gaze from Razi. Úlfnaor was holding out a freshly baked cake, his eyes kind. “You look hungry,” he said softly.
Christopher took the little cake with a polite smile. He gasped and immediately began tossing it from hand to hand, blowing on his fingers. Wynter laughed, thinking he was being dramatic. Úlfnaor glanced at her. “And you?” he held up another. Wynter took it, squeaked and duplicated Christopher’s desperate juggling act. The cake was, indeed, much too hot to hold. Úlfnaor must have fingers like stone. The Merron chuckled. Úlfnaor grinned.
“You are wicked!” laughed Wynter, and took a bite. “Jesu!” she said, amazed at the smoky deliciousness. “But that is wonderful!”
Christopher broke his cake in two, releasing a cloud of sweet steam. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. “Mmmmm,” he said.
“Good?” asked Úlfnaor. Christopher nodded, gazing at the cake.
“Coinín.” At Sólmundr’s soft voice, Wynter felt Christopher tense. He glanced reluctantly into the tent and Sólmundr smiled at him. “Come sit by me?” he invited warmly. “Talk for while? You and me?”
Ashkr briefly lifted his eyes to Christopher, then turned his attention back to the chessboard. Embla kept her gaze fixed on the game, her hands clenched in her lap. Razi frowned unhappily and his eyes slid away.
Christopher looked down for a moment, his face blank. Then he carefully laid his uneaten scòn on the fire stones and got to his feet. “It would be my pleasure,” he said.
As Christopher ducked into the tent, Sólmundr shifted painfully, trying to push the hound from his hip, and hoisted himself up against the stuffed deer hide at his back. Ashkr and Razi leapt to aid him.
“Amach leat, Boro!” said Ashkr, pushing the unwilling hound from the bed. It ducked its shaggy head in a futile attempt to make itself invisible, and wormed its way back to Sólmundr’s side.
Sólmundr chuckled breathlessly and scrubbed between the dog’s sharp ears The dog butted its head up into his caress, licking his toughened fingers and scarred wrists. “Stupid fellow,” murmured Sólmundr. “I can tie him, if you want?” He waved his hand, indicating a pair of posts that were embedded in the ground behind the bed. Wynter had assumed they acted as a support for the cushions, but now she saw that there was a hoop-and-pin at the top of each where the hound’s chain could be secured.
Christopher shook his head. “I ain’t scared of him,” he said.
Carefully, Sólmundr manoeuvred himself to face away from the others. He settled heavily into the deer hide cushion and patted the blankets. Christopher crawled across the bed and sat down beside him. The warhound placed one massive paw on Christopher’s lap, and, with a gusty sigh, laid its head back against Sólmundr’s stomach. “What do you want to talk to me about?” said Christopher quietly. Sólmundr leaned in, and their soft conversation was lost to hearing as Ashkr suddenly disputed a move and Embla took noisy exception.
“Úlfnaor,” said Wynter quietly, watching as the Merron finished their cooking. “I have no desire to cause offence …” she let her voice trail off, waiting for Úlfnaor to give his consent for her to continue. At court, this sentence was a signal that you were offering what might be unwanted advice or information. Everything hinged on the response. If the reply was “Then do nothing to offend” you had been told that your advice was not wanted. If the reply was along the lines of, “Good intentions are never an insult”, then you had been given an invitation to proceed. Wynter crouched uncertainly by the fire and squinted through the smoke.
“I not offended, lucha,” assured Úlfnaor. “You good.”
Wynter hesitated, knowing that he hadn’t understood. Razi was, as usual, paying attention to everything, and without looking up from the chessboard, he said, “My sister would like to discuss something, Úlfnaor. But she does not wish to cause offence in the asking.”
Úlfnaor smiled in wry amusement. “You ask me what you need, lucha. I promise, I not set my dogs on you.”
“This food you have trapped and caught?” Wynter waved her hand at the meal. Úlfnaor looked at her, suddenly alert. “And this wood that you have gathered to cook it on? It is not legal. If the cavalry came upon you they would—”
“We need licence?” he asked softly, his face sad.
Wynter nodded.
“Even here?” he asked, waving at the deeply forested land around them.
Wynter nodded again. Úlfnaor sat back. He looked around the camp, his dark eyes resigne
d. “Even here,” he said.
“Úlfnaor,” asked Wynter. “Has it got very bad? Up North? Have things got worse?” He nodded, and she shook her head in despair. “But when I left, about four or five months ago, Shirken had… well, things had settled down quite a bit. There had been talk of a treaty for your people, and of rights of way, licences to hunt and gather in perpetuity …”
The Aoire snorted. “Yes,” he said. “There had been talk.”
“But had a treaty not been signed?”
“When the Red Hawk left, all that withered away,” said Úlfnaor. “Shirken, his hatred, it come back to his heart again and he rage once more against his own. Then his hatred, it begin again to hiss, hiss, hiss against the People.” The big man shook his head. “The Red Hawk,” he said wistfully. “My people say he excellent good man. But he called away too soon, and now… ” he spread his hands, his many rings flashing. “All good things fall away before they are ready. And my people, they suffer.”
The Red Hawk. The Protector Lord Lorcan Moorehawke. Wynter had almost forgotten this Northlands nickname, given to her father due to his mass of dark red hair. She lowered her head at this unexpected mention of him, her eyes suddenly and uncontrollably full. Lorcan. He had worked so hard, he had given so much, and most of the good he’d done seemed to have already slipped away, as temporary as a barricade of snow. Could good never prevail? Was it always to be just that? A barricade of snow? Wynter swiped furiously at her eyes and looked off into the camp.
“It all right, little mouse,” Úlfnaor’s voice was gentle, his large hand patted her shoulder. “We see what we can do here, eh? If maybe the place that send us the Red Hawk will open its arms to the People? We see how our luck goes, once An Domhan knows we here.”
He shook her knee to get her to look at him and his eyes narrowed with concern. “What they do here?” he asked. “If you not have licence for hunt and gather? What the soldiers do to us if they come?”
Wynter sniffed and wiped her face. “For places like this,” she gestured toward the deep woods. “Where there are no guild bonds. Well, usually there is a fine. You understand? Money? And, of course, they make you buy one—a licence, that is.”
Úlfnaor was squinting at her, as if trying to figure out a hidden meaning to her words. “They just ask for money?” he said.
Wynter nodded.
“Then they gives you licence?” he asked, carefully scanning her eyes to make sure.
Wynter nodded again. To her surprise Úlfnaor’s pale face broke into a disbelieving grin. He waited, as though expecting a punchline, then he squeezed her knee and bent double, thoroughly overcome with laughter.
Wynter glanced around the tent in confusion. Ashkr and Embla were equally tickled; Ashkr, his face bright with good humour, chuckled, and Embla laughed through splayed fingers. her eyes sparkling. The non-Hadrish speakers were looking between Wynter and their Aoire, grinning in bemusement as the black-haired man’s laughter continued. Only Sólmundr and Christopher, focused entirely on their own conversation, did not look up. Wynter glanced their way, just in time to see Sólmundr swipe discreetly at his eyes. With a start, Wynter realised that both men were crying.
“Oh, mouse!” cried Úlfnaor, slapping her knee, and gasping for breath. “Oh, there nothing more better than good laugh!”
A Gentle Night
“We lift our arms.” Christopher slowly rose from a crouch, lifting his bent arms out from his body. He leaned to the side and shuffled in a rhythmic circle, sweeping his arms up like the spreading wings of a hawk. “This shows how we fly above hatred, and soar above our petty differences like a bird, circling high.”
Úlfnaor crooned low in his throat, his deep voice the throbbing heartbeat of the Merron song. His people hummed, their harmonies drifting in and around Úlfnaor’s voice. There were no words, only sound, and the shuffle, shuffle, stamp of the Merron’s stately dancing. Slowly, the Merron spread their arms and tilted their bodies. They had become circling hawks, moving slowly around the ceremonial fire.
“We push our hands out.” Christopher brought his hands to his shoulders, palms outwards, and pushed, spiralling downwards as he did, until his arms were outstretched before him, his knees bent. He stamped, his head down, and paused for a silent beat before rising. His arms drifted elegantly behind him. “To show that we reject conflict, past and future. It has no part of us here.”
The Merron stamped as one, and paused, pale dust rising from their soft boots. The firelight shone through their curtains of hair and illuminated the bracelets on their outstretched arms. There was a moment of suspension, then they rose upwards in perfect unity, their arms drifting behind them.
Through the flames, Wynter watched Christopher, his dark hair swinging as he spun in place. He stepped to the side and turned away from the fire, his arms coming upwards, his face lifting to the sky in the gesture that symbolised the greeting of the dawn of friendship. He had his back to her, so she could not see his face, only the outline of his slim body, so slight next to his lofty companions.
“You like our dance, Iseult?”
Wynter turned and smiled into Embla’s face. The lady had leant forward to murmur in her ear, and even this close she was beautiful. She smiled at Wynter affectionately, kindness radiating from her.
“I like it very much, Embla. I think it is very beautiful.”
They were seated on the edge of the activities. Embla, Razi and Ashkr sitting on a freshly sawn log; Wynter and Sólmundr comfortably nestled in heaps of furs at their feet, their backs against the log. The six warhounds were ranged placidly about them, snoring. Boro, as ever, lay by Sólmundr’s side, his great head in the wiry man’s lap. Dusk had gathered rapidly and the fire was just beginning to blind them to the surrounding forest. If Wynter looked overhead and let her eyes adjust, the sky was a navy bowl, brightly encrusted with stars.
Razi, his eyes on the dancing, absently ran his hand up the arch of Embla’s back and rubbed her shoulders. Embla had her arm looped across his knee, her soft white hand casually stroking the inside of his thigh.
“You know what these mean?” she asked Wynter. “These steps?”
Wynter nodded. “Christopher told us,” she said. “He seems to love this ceremony very much.”
“So he should,” said Embla wistfully. “It means so much good things. It is… it is gentle? Is that correct? Gentle?”
Wynter nodded. Gentle, yes, an excellent word.
“You do not dance this ceremony of Frith, Embla? You and Ashkr and Sólmundr?”
Embla smiled. “No,” she said. “We do not. Sól would, if he in health, but me and Ash? No. Me and Ash, we outside of Frith.” The fire flickered in her eyes, and for a moment Embla’s face was solemn.
Wynter glanced at Sólmundr, propped against the other end of the log. Ashkr had leaned forward, his arms clasped around his friend’s shoulders, his chin resting on the top of Sólmundr’s head, and the two men were watching the dancing with what could only be described as sorrow.
Ashkr murmured something in Merron, and Razi glanced at him. “Pardon?” he said softly.
“Coinín, he cry as he dance.”
Both Razi and Wynter glanced sharply across the flames, looking for their friend. Sólmundr reached up and took Ashkr’s hand.
“Úlfnaor too,” he said.
Wynter snapped her attention to the Aoire. Sure enough, the big man’s face caught the light as he spun, and bright tracks of firelight reflected from his cheeks and sparkled in his eyes.
“Poor Úlfnaor,” murmured Embla. “He not think this time ever come.”
“He not able to face it, I think,” said Sólmundr, tightening his grip on Ashkr’s hand.
“I not think it ever come either, said Ashkr. “I—” he bit his lip, cutting himself short. He looked across at Embla, turning his cheek to rest against Sólmundr’s wavy hair. “You think it ever come, Embla? You ready?”
Embla turned to face her brother, and her bright hair swung forwar
d, blotting her expression from Wynter’s sight. “I always know it,” she said. “I never lose sight.”
Ashkr lowered his eyes. Then he turned to look out at the dancers again, his chin resting on Sólmundr’s head. Sólmundr brought his friend’s fingers to his lips and kissed them. “You not worry,” he said softly.
Suddenly Embla turned away from the dance and buried her face in Razi’s neck, pulling his arms tightly around her again. Razi held her close, his dark hand moving to caress the back of her head. His eyes met Wynter’s for a moment, and they stared at each other, alarmed. The dancers revolved, their gentle song rising above the crack and hiss of the fire, dust lifting from their rhythmically tramping feet. At their head, Úlfnaor spun, raising his arms high above his head, his face alive with tears, the fire burning in his eyes.
The ceremonial dance ended with a long, suspended silence, then a single upwards clap of the dancers’ hands. There was a ripple of laughter, hair was pushed back, grins were exchanged, and as Seemed to be their way, the Merron dissolved into immediate, happy informality The musicians rushed to grab their instruments and suddenly the gathering was a party. People began swinging each other around in exuberant sets, dancing for the sheer fun of it. Suspicious-looking waterskins began to pass from hand to hand.
Embla leapt from Razi’s embrace and pulled him up by his hands “We will dance now, Tabiyb! Show me how high you can leap.”
Razi, dazed at her sudden change of mood, allowed himself to be dragged into the heaving crowd and they whirled away into the sets. Wynter leaned forward, looking for Christopher. Where had he got to?
Embla and Razi came spinning around from behind the fire. Wynter saw that Razi, even as he swung his lady round and round, was searching the shadows, anxiously looking for Christopher. Then Razi’s face brightened, and he grinned and lifted his chin in greeting. His eyes were fixed on a point just over Wynter’s head and she relaxed, smiling. Sure enough, within moments, a pair of hard, slim arms slipped around her shoulders and that lilting Northland accent murmured in her ear.
The Crowded Shadows Page 27
