The Crowded Shadows (37 page)

Wynter nodded again. Úlfnaor sat back. He looked around the camp, his dark eyes resigned. “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!”

“W
e 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 forward, 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.

“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.