“How do, girly? Did you like our dance?”
Christopher sat down on the log and pulled her in so that she was sitting between the warm sprawl of his legs. She leaned her head back against his chest, his arms closed around her and she was at once safe and protected, surrounded in the warm spicy scent that was uniquely his.
“I loved it,” she said. “It was very beautiful.” She tilted her head so that she was smiling up at him and he pulled back slightly to gaze down into her face.
“I’m glad,” he whispered.
“Ashkr said something odd while we were watching the dance,” she said. “He said that Úlfnaor never really believed this day would come. Embla said she had always known it would, but Ashkr said he had never really believed it either. They all seemed so sad, Christopher, and Úlfnaor was actually …” she hesitated for a moment, not wanting to shame Christopher by letting him know she’d seen them both crying. “Úlfnaor,” she said, “seemed very upset when he was dancing.”
Christopher lowered his chin, looking out at the dancers. The fire leapt and flared in his pupils, the shadows of the dancers flickering across his face. He said nothing.
Wynter felt a question rise in her throat and lodge there, like a dark stone. She spat it out before she lost her nerve. “Why are Embla and Ashkr outside of Frith, Christopher? Why are they not included in that lovely dance?”
Christopher’s grey eyes followed Razi and Embla as they, once again, crossed in front of them. Razi was smiling as they spun, and Embla’s hair fanned out behind her, her face illuminated with joy. “They just ain’t,” he said.
Wynter frowned and pulled away, turning to see him better. “Christopher Garron,” she said flatly. “You are asking us to risk our lives leaving here. At least try to explain why.”
Christopher glanced down at her. His dark eyebrows drew together in distress. He shuddered. “I can’t explain, lass, it’s too complicated. I need you to trust me, that’s all. I need you to trust me when I say there ain’t nothing I can do but get Razi away from Embla.” He tilted his head unhappily, his eyes bright. “Please, lass,” he begged. “Please. I need you to trust me.”
Wynter held his eyes for a moment, but she could not stay angry with him. His distress was too deep. The conflict within him too obvious. She put her hand on his cheek. “I trust you, Chris,” she said softly. She rested her forehead against his shoulder, running her hand gently up and down his arm. Christopher settled his smooth cheek against hers. She felt the butterfly touch of his eyelashes on her cheekbone as he blinked, and she slipped her arm around his waist.
“I trust you,” she whispered.
Christopher pulled back a little to see her face, and Wynter turned her head against his arm. Slowly, she closed her fingers around the twisted band of wool that Christopher still wore on his wrist. “Would you like to go back to the tent?”
They gathered their weapons from behind their seat and walked, hand in hand, through the trees and down into the dusky shapes of the Merron tents. The party was a good way behind them now, a bright, noisy background to the gathering darkness. They passed Ashkr’s puballmór, dark and silent, its walls closed up.
Tomorrow felt years away and, right now, Wynter felt no fear of any kind. She was not nervous of the dark, nor of Christopher, nor of the comfort that they intended to give each other. Everything about this moment felt good, everything felt right. Up above them the sky was a bright, moonless expanse of stars, so deep and thick that she could have reached up and run her fingers through their glittering multitudes. She walked with Christopher’s hand clasped lightly in her own, her head dropped back, and watched the sky, utterly entranced.
Christopher, equally enchanted it seemed, walked slower and slower until he was lagging behind, his arm extended as if she were pulling him unwillingly along. At their tent, Wynter turned to him, smiling, expecting to find him looking up at the stars. But he was staring at her, his eyes dark with unhappiness, his face tense.
“Wynter …” he said. Wynter, not Iseult, and she knew at once that he was looking for a way to break free.
Wynter felt her eyes fill with tears and all her calm certainty tumbled down around her, her happiness draining away. She pressed her lips into a tight line and waited for Christopher to extract his fingers from her grip.
“Wynter,” he whispered again. He made no move to pull away, but Wynter saw unmistakable desperation in his face. His eyes slid from hers and his breath quickened, like someone in the grip of a rising panic.
Deliberately, and with firm resolve, Wynter released his fingers. Christopher staggered backwards a step, as though her grip had been the only thing holding him up, and he pushed his shaking hand through his hair, looking around him like a hunted fox. “I… I just realised that I am not tired,” he whispered. “We… perhaps we …”
“It is all right, Christopher,” she said, trying to keep the hurt from her voice, trying very hard not to quaver. “I understand.” She dug her fingers under the stupid twist of wool at her wrist and pulled hard. “I am not a child,” she said, sounding calmer than she felt. “I am not cruel enough to try and hold you to what was nothing more than a moment of kindness on your part.” She tugged at the stubborn wool. “I’ve been unbearably foolish. I only hope that—”
Christopher slammed into her, almost knocking her from her feet. His arms clenched around her and she was reminded of just how strong he really was. He clutched her violently to him and she was filled with fear as her breath was crushed from her. “No,” moaned Christopher. “No. No.”
“Christopher!” she choked, staggering backwards a little under the force of his weight. “Chris!”
Wynter flexed her own, not inconsiderable muscles, and loosened Christopher’s grip enough to get some air, freeing her arms from their prison against his chest. He continued to cling to her and to moan into her neck. No. No.
“Christopher,” she whispered, stunned. She lifted her hands. Uncertainly, then gently laid them against his back. He shook his head. “Christopher,” she whispered again. “What’s wrong?”
He shook his head, burrowing his face against her, his arms tightening.
“Christopher. You know I want to be here? This is something that I want?”
“Can’t,” he whispered. “Can’t… I can’t trust my… I don’t know …” he ground his teeth and vehemently shook his head again.
Wynter blinked out at the night, hurt, confused and mostly scared, lost for a moment for what to do or say. “Perhaps …” she said, “perhaps we can just go inside? We could lie on the furs and close our eyes. We do not have to sleep. We do not have to talk, or do anything at all. We can just lie together, on the furs, and rest.”
They stayed clenched together for a moment without speaking, Christopher’s fists knotted in her tunic, Wynter rubbing unhurried circles on his back. Then she broke away from him, and he let her take his hand. She didn’t look at his face, just led him by the hand into the tent and over to their bed. She took off her tunic and removed her boots while he stood, a silent, motionless shadow dimly outlined against the faintly illuminated walls. “Come on,” she said softly, sitting on the edge of their bed. “Come on, Christopher.”
She saw him bend and heard him remove his boots. She heard the rustle as he unlaced and discarded his undershirt. His shadow disappeared for a moment, then she felt him crawl up the furs on the inside of the bed and lie down in the dark. She felt her way across the covers and found him. “Give me your hand,” she said and he did. She lay down close to him, feeling the heat of his skin, and held on to the scarred, gap-fingered anchor of his hand. She shifted a little closer.
He tensed.
“I’m only going to kiss you goodnight,” she said softly. “Is that all right?”
She felt him nod.
Her lips found his bare shoulder and she kissed it gently. “Goodnight, Christopher,” she said.
“Iseult?”
She waited, her mind racing, but Christo
pher didn’t say anything more, just closed his hand a little tighter around hers. They lay together for a long time with their hands clasped, breathing quietly into the dark and saying nothing.
After a while, light footsteps ran towards their tent and the two of them sat forward, quietly reaching for their weapons. Another set of footsteps caught up with the first and they came to a halt just outside the tent. Embla’s voice, laughing and hushed, came through to them on the still air.
“What for you worry?” she whispered. “They make sport is all, and sleep. Come on, Tabiyb. Come back with me …”
“Wait.” Razi’s voice, low and anxious. “I just want—” He was cut short and there was a moment of breathlessness, a kind of shuffling quiet. Razi released a faint, breathy grunt. “Uh …” he said. “W… wait just a moment, sweetheart. I want to be certain …” Embla chuckled. Razi’s tall shadow fell against the door. Christopher sank back onto the furs and Wynter lay down beside him, closing her eyes. The tent flap was drawn back and there was a long, searching silence.
“You see?” whispered Embla. “They safe, two little mice in their bed. You not always need worry.”
Wynter listened as Razi stood quietly in the doorway, looking at them as they pretended to sleep. After a while he sighed. “Embla?” he said.
Embla’s voice was husky when she answered, and slightly muffled Wynter figured she must be standing very close to Razi, holding him perhaps, as he looked into the tent. “Aye, Tabiyb, what is it?”
“When …” he said hoarsely. “When I have finished what I have to do… Stop. Embla.” He turned away and the tent flap fell back into place. “Embla,” he said gently. “Stop. Listen, when I have finished my business and I am free to return to you, do you think…? Would you consider…? Embla, is it possible that we could be together? You and I? Is that something you think you might like?”
Christopher tensed beside Wynter, his hand clamping down on hers. There was a very brief moment of silence from outside the tent, then Embla said softly, “I should like that very much, Tabiyb… that we be together.”
Christopher lurched forward, hoisting himself onto his elbow, staring at the door.
Razi laughed. “Then I shall make it my business to find you, Embla. When this is all over. I shall …” His words were cut short and he grunted softly. There was a series of subtle noises, shifting and sighs. Then Embla whispered huskily for Razi to come on, and they moved away into the night.
“Christopher,” said Wynter. “Are you all right?”
“That bitch,” whispered Christopher, shocking her. He flung himself back against the covers and she felt him put his arm over his face. “Oh God,” he hissed. “That bitch.”
Temptation
The next morning, Embla, Hallvor and Úlfnaor made their way through the shadowy, sleeping tents and helped the three of them carry their stuff down to the grassy plains. Ashkr’s puballmór stayed dark and silent. The blond lord had said his goodbyes the night before, explaining that he wanted Sólmundr to sleep as long as possible before waking up to the truth about Christopher’s departure.
In deference to his wishes they worked in silence, stepping around each other like thieves in the misty pre-dawn gloom, wordlessly emptying the tent of their belongings. On the last trip, Wynter emerged with her final piece of kit, to find Christopher standing motionless in the shadows, staring down towards Ashkr’s tent, his face grave.
“Hey,” she hissed. “Hey.” She came up behind him and nudged him with her elbow. “Come on, we are almost done.”
Embla’s quiet voice drifted through the mist and they both turned to watch as the lady walked down to the plains with Razi. Her dogs ran ahead of them and the tall couple followed on, their heads down, murmuring to each other. Razi had his saddle over one shoulder and Embla carried his backpack in her hand. She had her arm around Razi’s waist, and her silhouette blended into his as their cloaks swung behind them. Christopher watched them with hard eyes. He had been trying to get Embla’s attention all morning, but she had been purposely avoiding him, quite blatantly deflecting Christopher’s every attempt to approach her.
“Come on,” murmured Wynter. “The sooner we leave, the sooner he will be free of her.”
On the grassy plains, Ozkar came to Wynter immediately and she greeted him with an affectionate tug of his fringe. “Good boy,” she said, glancing at Úlfnaor and Hallvor who were setting the last of the things down by Razi’s saddlebags.
Beside her, Christopher murmured in Hadrish as he tended to his little chestnut mare, but all of his attention was focused on Embla, and he glared at her as he spoke. Wynter felt herself grow tense. Christopher’s temper was an unknown quantity at the moment and Wynter was surprised to find herself worrying about what he might do.
Embla stood a little apart from the activity, her cloak pulled tight, watching as Razi tacked up his mare. He kept smiling over at her, his eyes shining, and Embla eyed his body with open, wistful appreciation. Hallvor, her work done, drifted across to her. Úlfnaor handed Razi his bed-roll and stepped back, brushing off his hands. He raised his eyebrows, looking around for stray equipment. They were done.
Abruptly, Christopher stepped away from his horse, his hands opening and closing in nervous anticipation, his eyes on Embla. Wynter reached and took his mare’s reins. She glanced meaningfully at him. If he wanted to speak to Embla, he was going to have to press the issue now.
Úlfnaor picked up Razi’s matchlock, meaning to hand it to him. At the last minute he turned it over in his hands, his dark eyes thoughtful. “What you think of this things, Tabiyb?” he said. “Me, I think they very clumsy. It not good, depending all the time on this black powder. What for you do when no black powder left?”
“I agree with you,” said Razi, tugging the stirrups into place. “But it’s the future, I’m afraid. There is nothing can be done about it. Here, if I may?” He ducked under his horse’s neck and took the weapon from Úlfnaor. “Let me show you something.” The two men bent their heads over the weapon.
As soon as the men had turned away, Christopher darted forward and grabbed Embla by her arm. “I need to talk to you,” he murmured, staring into her face. The lady sighed, not looking at him, and Wynter saw Christopher’s fingers clamp down. “Now,” he hissed.
Embla grew very still. She turned her head to stare coldly into Christopher’s hard, grey eyes. Hallvor frowned, and the warhounds turned their heads, their ears pricking forward. There was a moment of breathless suspension; Hallvor, Embla and Christopher poised on the brink of something, the dogs bristling. Wynter’s hand dropped to the hilt of her sword.
Then Embla laughed in false good humour and waved her hand in dismissal. She glanced at Hallvor, took Christopher’s arm, and purposely moved him away from the wary healer. Christopher guided her across the dewy grass and brought her to a halt by Wynter’s side.
Wynter glanced furtively at Razi. He and Úlfnaor were still utterly engrossed in the gun. Razi pointed at the river, and Úlfnaor swung the weapon to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel at the dark and foggy water.
“Embla,” whispered Christopher, “before Tabiyb goes, you need to tell him that you can’t be together. You need to tell him that he’s not to come back and find you.”
Embla frowned, and Christopher pulled her closer, his fingers digging into her arm. “You tell him, Embla. I don’t care what you say. Tell him he’s too young for you. Tell him you were only making sport. Tell him you’re wed… anything. Just convince him not to come back for you.”
Embla tugged her arm free, drawing herself to her full height. “I not want to!” she hissed. “Why for I not have this? Why for I not get this for me? Ashkr, he—”
“Ashkr is different Embla, you know that, because Sólmundr is different. It’s cruel and Ashkr should never have let it happen, but at least Sólmundr understands, at least it’s been his choice. Tabiyb will never understand!”
“Stop it, Coinín. Stop! It not fair you say this thi
ngs! Why you be cruel? Why you make me not happy on this my seachtain deireanach.”
“You are misleading him,” said Christopher. “You are knowingly offering things you cannot give.”
Embla gazed at him for a moment, then her face changed and she leant her head close to his, gently persuasive now. “Coinín,” she whispered. “You know Tabiyb not ever mean to come back. I just woman he make sport with, that all. He leave now, and he go back to his life. He become wrapped in his business, and he forget all about the promise he make to me.” Embla laid her hand beseechingly on Christopher’s arm. “But Coinín,” she whispered. “You know what I like to believe? I like to believe Tabiyb maybe will think of me sometime, and he maybe will smile. I like that, Coinín. I like that I will live in his heart, and now and again I will make someone like Tabiyb smile.”
Something in Embla’s face twisted Wynter’s heart when she said that, some hopeless yearning. The pale lady put her hand over her own heart and said, “I will carry this thought with me, Coinín. It will get me through much things.”
She stopped talking and held Christopher’s eyes with her own.
To Wynter’s immense surprise, Christopher’s expression softened. “Listen to me,” he said. “You don’t know Tabiyb like I do. He always keeps his promises. He will come looking for you, Embla. He will come, and then what will happen?”
Embla studied Christopher’s face, her eyes wide.
“When he finds out, he won’t understand,” said Christopher. “He’ll lose his head, Embla. He’ll kill Úlfnaor, he might even get to kill Sólmundr, and in the end the People will have to kill him. And it will be because you have misled him. Is that what you want? You want Tabiyb to die because of you? Because you misled him?”
Christopher gazed up into Embla’s face, his eyes filled with compassion. There was a brief moment of silent communication between the two of them. Then Embla abruptly turned and walked stiffly to Hallvor’s side. Hallvor saw her lady’s unhappiness and she glared at Christopher. Wynter stepped to his side, glaring back.
The Crowded Shadows Page 28
