“I am in earnest, Úlfnaor,” snarled Razi. “You will not use my failings to justify your cowardly, murderous nature. Leave me now, before I do something I will regret.”
“I not try justify nothing to you,” said Úlfnaor. “I try explain that I understand what you feel. How it is you must burn to avenge the death of she who might one day be your croí-eile.”
Razi continued to stand at rigid attention, the light of the fire wreathing his face with living anger. “I care not a jot for your understanding,” he hissed, “I care not a jot for you, Úlfnaor. You are a murderer. A superstitious coward, and were it not for the fact that I need you, I would cut your beating heart from your chest and stamp it into the dust beneath my feet. I advise you to leave me be. I advise you leave me now, as I am very close to acting on my feelings.”
Úlfnaor seemed to hesitate, his black eyes reflecting the firelight. Then he abruptly shrugged his cloak behind his shoulder and reached to the small of his back. In a flash, Wynter drew her knife, Christopher’s black dagger was in his hand, and the two of them were surging to their feet. But instead of a weapon, Úlfnaor took a familiar package from his belt and held it up for Razi to see. Wynter let herself sink back to the ground.
It was the diplomatic folder.
Razi put his hand out to Christopher. “Sit down,” he said softly.
At the sight of Wynter and Christopher’s weapons, the Merron had drawn their swords, but Hallvor waved her hand and murmured for them to stand down. The warriors subsided into cautious watchfulness. Úlfnaor’s hounds stayed by the healer’s side, as obedient to her as they were to their master. Sólmundr made no attempt to move, just looked at Úlfnaor from his position at the base of the tree, no trace of surprise in his face.
Úlfnaor laid the folder on the stones ringing the fire. “When my people come and say that the Princess Shirken ask me to carry her messages, I think to myself, why? Why should it be that this woman, this …” He paused, looking down at the package, distaste rising in his face. Wynter had no doubt that there were many words that would best describe Marguerite Shirken running through his head. She could think of a few: lunatic, for example, zealot, blood-soaked murderer. Tyrant.
Úlfnaor tore his eyes from the package and looked up at Razi. “She who has decorated the trees of our homeland with the heads of the People, why she ask for us to do this very important thing? And not only she ask for Merron to carry her message… she ask for Bear Merron, Tabiyb. She ask for me.” He frowned, searching Razi’s face for signs that he understood.
Razi looked the big man up and down, lifted his eyes to the ring of watchful men and women across the clearing, and then resumed his seat, his face coldly attentive.
“Marguerite Shirken is many things,” said Úlfnaor. “Many, many very bad things. But she is excellent good soldier, and she know always her enemy. She know the Merron,” he said quietly, “and she want us gone. We an offence to her just by being alive.” The big man’s eyes widened suddenly at the memory, and he nodded to himself. “So she asked for me,” he whispered. “And I know at once that I to be the instrument of my people’s downfall. I say to the other Aoirí, ‘No!’ I say to them, ‘send someone else, one of the other tribes… Hawk, Snake, even Panther’.” He chopped his hand down, as if once again addressing the other Merron leaders. “Send someone else…” he hissed.
“What difference would that have made?” asked Wynter, “to have sent another in your place? Why did she want only you?”
Úlfnaor wiped the heel of his hand under his eye and shook his head silently.
“Because you are of the old religion,” said Christopher.
Úlfnaor nodded, his eyes still bright, and Christopher’s face tightened in bitterness. “Shirken knew that you’d have to make the Bridge,” he said. “Your people would never allow you to bring them into a new land without first waking An Domhan to their presence. Shirken knew this, and so she forced your hand. Am I right? She made the other Aoirí send you, knowing that you’d have to sacrifice your Caoirigh, as the old People always must do when crossing to a new place.”
“Also, I think …” said Úlfnaor, “I think that, secret in their hearts, the other Aoirí want this to happen. In their hearts …” He looked up at Christopher, greatly upset.
“They hoped the blood sacrifice would make things better,” whispered the young man.
Úlfnaor’s face creased up and he nodded.
“So you sit there and tell me that you had no choice? Is that it?” Razi’s words were hissed and low, his voice barely cutting above the sound of the fire. “No choice but to murder two of your own?” He sneered bitterly and shook his head, then he spat into the fire, a sudden, compulsive gesture of contempt.
Úlfnaor took a moment, then drew a deep breath and sat up straight. “I not know how she will manage it,” he said evenly. “But I believe Shirken will somehow make it known to Royal Prince Alberon what it is I must do when we come here. She will use this as excuse to finish her war against the People and when she does… paf!” He slapped his hands together. “We will to be caught, Shirken on one side, the armies of Royal Prince Alberon on the other, and in the middle …” he dusted his hands, as if wiping away a crushed insect. “The Merron. Destroyed in one final sweep. An entire peoples gone.”
Wynter knew he was right. Beside her Christopher sat leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, staring quietly at the big man. Razi’s expression did not change, and Wynter thought perhaps he didn’t think it such a bad idea that the Merron be swept away, that he might even think it a good thing.
“You could have told her ‘no’,” said Razi. “You could have stayed at home.”
Úlfnaor took in his unyielding expression, and went on. “There was a man,” he said. “He work for your King, as you do. Maybe you to know him? He a good man, he try to do much for the Panther Merron.” Úlfnaor lifted his hand to his head, indicating his hair. “My people called him the Red Hawk.”
This unexpected mention of Lorcan knocked Wynter back, grief stabbing through her chest.
“I told he a big man?” continued Úlfnaor, still trying to describe Lorcan. “Almost big as Merron. He have wide shoulder, much …”
“I knew the Protector Lord Moorehawke,” snapped Razi sharply. “You are not worthy to speak his name.”
Úlfnaor stared at him, then at Wynter, who averted her glittering eyes. Christopher looked down at his hands, distress evident in his face, and understanding dawned in the big man.
“Oh,” he whispered sadly, “what befell him?”
No one answered. Wynter because she could not. Razi because he would not.
Úlfnaor sighed and nodded. “I sorry that he gone. He good ma—”
“Do not …” hissed Razi. “Do not use Lorcan’s name to curry favour with me. I will not tolerate it.”
Úlfnaor looked Razi hard in the face. “The Red Hawk tell my people that in this Kingdom here, justice not only about the strong crushing the weak. He say, that in this Kingdom here, even the weak and even the very low, they can to have justice because the King here, the Good King Jonathon, he make what he call a Charter of Rights. Is this the truth?”
When it became clear that Razi would not answer, Wynter spoke in his stead. “Yes, it is true,” she said. “King Jonathon established a Charter of Rights and a system of justice whereby even the lowest of persons can argue their case in law against even the highest.”
Úlfnaor stared at her as if this were more than he could ever have hoped for. “The Red Hawk, he say that all this laws wrote down, permanent and unchanging.” Úlfnaor scribbled his fingers across his palm, as if writing. “That any man who can to read, can go see this laws, to know them for himself and so it always easy to understand what is law and what is outlaw?”
Wynter nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “There are copies in every town hall, free and available for any man to read and copy at will.”
“Any man who can to read,” whispered Úlfnaor.
He glanced across at Christopher. “Your father teach you to read, Coinín?”
“He did,” said Christopher evenly, his mouth twisting into a knowing little smile.
“Yes,” said Úlfnaor. “An filid Garron always much concerned that the Merron learn to read.”
“He was indeed.”
“Your father very strong in this desire,” said Úlfnaor, “He all the time say we never will control our own history until the day we able to write it down. It make him much trouble with the council.” Christopher regarded him silently, that bitter little smile still in place. After a moment Úlfnaor nodded. “Your father was right,” he said softly.
“I know he was,” said Christopher.
“This charter?” said Úlfnaor, turning his attention to Wynter again. “It apply to all?”
“Even the King himself.”
“Even the King himself?” repeated Úlfnaor in disbelief.
Wynter nodded.
“It not a trick?” he said. “The King, he not one day say ‘this is law’ and then next day say ‘this is outlaw’ so that you never to know where you stand?”
Wynter exchanged the briefest of looks with Razi. Not until recently, she thought. “It is a very new system of governance,” she said, “and so is still finding its feet, but the King is determined to make it work. And so he shall, if things are not disrupted beyond repair by this misunderstanding with his heir.”
“So this what you work for, Tabiyb,” said Úlfnaor. “You work to save this charter.” It was a statement, not a question. Úlfnaor tapped his finger against the folder. “While I maybe work to kill it.”
Razi stared at Úlfnaor, his eyes a little wider. This strange turn in the conversation had unexpectedly swept him from his black thoughts of vengeance, placing him right back into the political and diplomatic heart of things. Wynter could see in his eyes that he was thrown by this, and did not know how to react.
Úlfnaor went on, “I think you very important man, Tabiyb much more than simple messenger. I am wrong?”
Razi did not respond, and Úlfnaor nodded in approval. “If so, I tell you now that this,” he poked the diplomatic folder with his finger, “this will be poison to your King’s vision of the future. the future that the Red Hawk so proud of.” He met Razi’s eye. “You tell the Royal Prince that, Tabiyb Razi. You tell your Royal Prince that whatever this bitch promise him, whatever it is she ask him for in return, it will to rot him. Tá go maith?”
“Why not tell him this yourself?” whispered Razi.
Úlfnaor laughed and shook his head. “I cannot to take the risk. I not know what way the wind it blow today or tomorrow. I only know that my peoples must to depend on goodwill of these peoples.” He tapped the folder again. “I not to risk pissing them off, because they may hold the life of my peoples in their fist… but Tabiyb,” he leant forward, urgent now, imploring, “Tabiyb, in my heart, I hope it you that hold the Merron in your hands. I hope it you, and your Good King Jonathon. Because otherwise …” Úlfnaor hesitated, afraid to articulate his fears, and when he spoke again his words were so soft as to be almost inaudible. “Otherwise, I think all is lost for us. All is lost for everyone.”
“What do these papers contain?” Razi demanded abruptly, indicating the folder. Wynter winced. Razi was asking the Aoire to betray Shirken’s trust, to violate his duty and break the oath he must have sworn when he undertook it.
Úlfnaor frowned, his lips compressed in disapproval. “Even if I knew this,” he said, “I would not tell you.”
Razi tutted reflexively and sat back, but Wynter knew that he had not really expected Úlfnaor to give him the information.
Úlfnaor gazed down at the folder once more, running his work-roughened fingers across the embossing on the cover.
“In many way I the perfect instrument to carry these papers,” he said softly. “I strong in pride and so will see my oath through to end. I faithful to my own kind and so ask for nothing but chance to negotiate for them. I followed by many loyal warriors who will to die for me if I needs it. And also I ignorant savage what cannot to even read my own name.” Úlfnaor slapped his hand down on the folder, his lips drawing back bitterly from his teeth. “Even if I open this folder and break all the pretty little seals within, what could they tell me about the future of my people? Nothing!” He spat the word. “Nothing! I not have the skill to understand them.” He whisked his hand over the folder as if tempted to throw it into the fire.
“Since always my peoples have provided for themselves with these,” he held his hands out to Razi, his beautifully crafted rings flashing in the firelight, his palms ingrained with a lifetime’s work. “And this,” he reached behind him and savagely jerked his sword free of its scabbard, holding it out for Razi to see. “Since An Domhan first split itself into man and beasts and trees, these have been the only things we have needed for to survive. The Merron are strong, Tabiyb Razi, we clever, we brave! We needs no one but ourselfs!” Úlfnaor shook the sword in his two hands, his frustration and anger breaking from him in a low cry. Then he flung the gleaming blade to the ground at his feet: “But no more,” he said, “not any more.”
He looked over his shoulder at his people. “The world has changed on us,” he murmured. “Our lifes no longer in our own hands.
Úlfnaor turned to look Razi in the eye and his next words chilled Wynter to the bone. “I could to kill you here, Tabiyb. In this clearing, in the middle of this forest I could with no problem crush you. You would be dead, my people would be safe from you. I could do this easy, I know it. But I know also that outside this clearing, when we in camp of Rebel Prince, you will to be the stronger man. There, you can to crush me, and my peoples with me.”
He got to his feet. “By leaving you alive, I put my peoples’ life in your hands, Tabiyb Razi. And so I offer myself to you, instead, as ceap milleáin. If you want it. I ask only that I get to finish my work first.”
He waited for a reaction, his face expectant. Wynter regarded the Aoire in confusion. What was ceap milleáin? Christopher was tense and quiet by her side, and she did not betray her ignorance by glancing at him.
Razi’s expression did not change and he continued to sit, staring across the flames, his dark eyes hooded, his hands resting loosely between his knees. When he made no move to further the conversation, the big man nodded, sheathed his sword, and gathered up the folder.
“Think about it, Tabiyb Razi,” he said. “My Fadaí will support me in this, and so my people will accept it.” He stood for a moment, gazing down at Razi who did not look up to meet his eye. “I understand you hesitate,” said Úlfnaor softly. “I not mean to try and control your need for revenge. I not mean to… limit you. But in my heart hope you accept.” Then the Aoire bowed, an unprecedented move on his part, and crossed in silence to his people.
Christopher released a long shaky breath and scrubbed his hand across his mouth. “Good Frith,” he whispered. “Ceap milleáin …”
“What does this mean?” said Razi, his eyes on Úlfnaor. “What is he offering me?”
Christopher hesitated, and Wynter realised that he was nervous of what Razi might do with the information.
“He is offering himself,” said Christopher at last. “Úlfnaor is offering himself as ceap milleáin… as …” he searched for the words. “As… appointed blame? Um… appointed guilt?”
“Scapegoat?” she whispered and Christopher nodded.
“Aye,” he said. “As scapegoat. I’ve never heard of an Aoire offered as ceap milleáin,” he said. “It’s huge. It’s powerful, Razi. I …” He glanced at the Merron. Nervously, he rubbed his hands on his trousers. He looked frightened. “It’s huge,” he whispered again.
Razi’s face remained hard, his eyes on Úlfnaor. “What does that mean to these people?” he said. “In what way does it affect our situation?”
“It means …” Christopher trailed off. He licked his lips, his eyes travelling the knot of glowering warriors across the camp. “They must acce
pt it,” he assured himself. “When you wreak your vengeance on Úlfnaor for Embla’s death, they must accept it and wash their hands of any retaliation.” He looked at Razi suddenly, his face sharp. “But the rest are exempt from punishment for her death, Razi! You understand? Everyone is exempt. Only Úlfnaor takes the blame. It’s how the tribes halt feuds that have gone too far. And you must let him finish his business,” he warned. “It’s law. You must let Úlfnaor deliver those papers and complete his negotiations for his people and then let the others go home. It’s law, Razi! You must!”
“Must I?” said Razi softly. “Really? I must?” Wynter turned to stare at him. “And what if I refuse?” he said, his words low, his eyes darkly flickering in the firelight. “What if I refuse his offer, what then?”
Christopher looked shocked. “Then …” he trailed to a halt, utterly lost for words. It apparently had not occurred to him that Razi would refuse. “Then,” he said. “I suppose… you …” He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered.
“Why would you refuse, Razi?” asked Wynter carefully. “What would it gain?”
Razi stared at the Merron from hooded eyes and she knew why. Razi did not want his revenge meted out like a dose of physic, controlled and curtailed. Razi wanted blood. He wanted blood. And only he would decide whose blood and how much.
“Razi …” she whispered.
“Razi,” interrupted Christopher. “This is the equivalent of your father kneeling at an enemy’s feet and handing him his crown. You cannot possibly understand how significant this is to these people.”
Razi stared at him for a long moment, then looked down into the fire and would speak no more.
Return
Christopher sat at the campfire with the Wolves and played his guitar. He had, as usual, lost himself in the piece, and his eyes were closed, his pale face rapt as his long fingers moved in nimble precision against the strings. Wynter, chained with the rest of the slaves in the shadows and the cold, sighed, never wanting the music to stop.
The Crowded Shadows Page 38
