The Crowded Shadows (42 page)

Razi looked at him for a moment, his face carefully schooled.

“It’s about time,” said Wynter.

“I… I should go and check on Sólmundr.”

Despite his contained expression, Razi’s voice was horribly shaky, and Wynter reached over before he could pull away and dragged him into a fierce hug. Just for a moment he submitted, his chin dropping briefly to her shoulder, his arms closing around her. Then he pushed away. “I won’t be long,” he said.

Half an hour or so later, Wynter saw Razi’s long shadow as he came around the tent. She was lying by Christopher’s side, holding his hand and listening to the peaceful sound of his breathing. He had not stirred since Razi’s departure, his mind finally allowing his body to succumb to the exhaustion of the last few days. Wynter had no doubt that Sólmundr would allow him the use of his bed for as long as he needed, and did not stir as Razi’s shadow dipped to pull back the flap.

“He’s still asleep,” she began, but it was not Razi at all, it was Ashkr, and the look on his face stole Wynter’s smile. She sat up, her hand moving protectively to Christopher’s shoulder. “He’s
sleeping
, Ashkr,” she said.

Ashkr had their hats in his hand, and he came across and handed them to her. “It grow hot outside,” he said. Wynter took them grimly, knowing that Christopher would get no more rest.

“Where is Razi?” she asked.

Ignoring her, Ashkr hunkered down by the bed and shook Christopher.

“Coinín,” he whispered, “wake up.”

Christopher snapped awake with a snort. “
Cad é
?’ he rasped. He ran his hand down his face and licked his lips.

Ashkr reached behind him and uncorked a waterskin, offering it silently. Christopher rolled to his elbow to quench his thirst, and as he drank, Wynter saw the memory of where he was and what had happened seep into his pale face. He lowered the waterskin and stared at her. For a moment, she thought he was going to repeat his previous rejection of her, then he smiled uncertainly. There was a hesitant silence, neither of them knowing where to start.

“Are you all right?” she whispered finally.

He nodded.

“And
…”
she looked down at the token on her wrist, afraid to ask. “Are we…? Christopher, are we still all right?”

He stared at her, his eyes wide. Wynter thought he seemed frighteningly unsure of himself. Then he nodded again. She tilted her chin. “Then what is my name, Freeman?” she demanded. “You seem to have been forgetting it recently.”

Christopher’s lips twitched, his grey eyes glittering even as they creased up into his old amusement. “Your name,” he said, taking her hand, “is Iseult Ní Moorhawke Uí Garron, and you are my
croí-eile
.”

They smiled shakily at each other, and Wynter ran her thumb along the twist of wool at his wrist. “Good,” she said softly. “Good.” Then she clamped down hard on his hand, purposely squashing his fingers so that he yelped. “Don’t you forget it,” she said.

“Ow!” Christopher wriggled his fingers. “A bloody shrew,” he groaned. “I’ve shackled myself to a bloody shrew! My life is ruined.” He glanced at Ashkr and the laughter died in his face. “Ash,” he said.

The two men regarded each other, their expressions heavy with an unspoken understanding. Ashkr seemed to hesitate, then he straightened his back and cleared his throat. “I want to call for Council,” he said.

Christopher’s eyes widened. “Council… why?”

Ashkr looked away. “What it is you tell me yesterday… about there being no place here?” The blond Lord glanced fleetingly at him. “I wish you to press this case. I want to hear proper. I want others to hear proper. So we can make choice.”

Wynter saw excitement grow in Christopher’s tired face. “Will they grant Council?” he said. “I can’t imagine… it’s very late, Ashkr, I can’t imagine they would agree.”

“Yes,” agreed Ashkr. “It very late. Already our business here delayed by Sól be sick.” He looked up at the walls of the tent, his eyes tracing the bear and the lamb. “But, Úlfnaor, I think he will agree. He falter, I think, in his duty, and he welcome delay. Sól too, if it not take too long and make us suffer in the wait. But my sister… ” He trailed off, his face darkening. “Embla, she maybe not want to listen. She tired, I think, of wait.” He looked at Christopher’s pale and worn face. “But still, Coinín, if it happen. If I make it that they agree… will you to speak? What you say to me before? Will you make case?”

Christopher stared at Ashkr. “Aye,” he said. “I will.”

“Chris?” asked Wynter cautiously.

“You let me handle this now, lass,” he said, speaking in quiet Southlandast. “You just make sure that Razi don’t give any promises, all right?” Before Wynter could reply, Christopher turned to Ashkr and said, “Come on, my Lord. Let us go press for Council.”

O
n arriving back at the plains, Wynter was gently taken by the arm and escorted to Razi’s side. Though the Merron had returned Christopher’s weapons, they left Razi and Wynter unarmed and the two of them were placed sitting on a log in the shade, thoroughly excluded from the activity. Two warriors hunkered in the dust a few feet away, guarding them and silently following the proceedings from afar.

There was an air of tense dissatisfaction amongst the milling ranks of warriors, and they huddled around Ashkr as he furiously pressed his case. There were raised voices and sharp gestures. Everyone seemed to have an opinion and everyone seemed determined to be heard. Now and again, one or another of the Merron would glance across at Wynter and Razi, their looks filled with confusion, pity or just plain animosity. Embla and Úlfnaor were silent, their faces tight. Sólmundr sat hunched against a tree, listening gravely to the babble.

Razi, taut as a bowstring, switched his attention from Christopher to Embla, to Úlfnaor and back. Wynter kept her eyes on Christopher. He was standing by Ashkr’s side, listening quietly as the Merron Lord argued with his people.

Neither Wynter nor Razi bothered with conversation. Everything that might happen now was out of their control, their future depending on the decisions of others.

Abruptly, Úlfnaor clapped his hands and yelled a firm command. All the urgent chatter came to a halt and the Merron grudgingly moved into a rough semicircle and hunkered in the dust. Christopher joined them. Ashkr, Wari and Úlfnaor went to stand by Sólmundr. Embla dithered for a moment, her face grim, then she flung her hands up in surrender and took her place by her brother. Sólmundr’s position against the tree had become the equivalent of the royal table at a banquet, and the row of Merron lords stood flanking their seated friend, their arms folded.

It was full light now, and a clear blue sky burned above the trees. Wynter squinted across the growing heat shimmer, watching as the Merron got settled. It was difficult to believe that only three hours earlier they had taken to their horses, planning to ride out of camp.

Úlfnaor stepped forward and looked around, his face expectant. One of the warriors raised her hand and, at Úlfnaor’s nod, stood to say her piece. Everyone listened in polite silence as she gave a short, earnest little speech. With a jolt, Wynter realised that this was the Council. Ashkr had got his wish and, without fuss or circumstance, the debate was already underway.

Razi spoke quietly by her side, his eyes on the lords. “Do you know anything about these meetings, Wyn? Are they anything like Father’s council?”

Wynter ran her eyes around the circle of crouching men and women, and couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Jonathon’s po-faced councilmen squatting in the dust. She lost the smile quickly; Jonathon’s councilmen might be a bunch of brittle old twigs, but with one stroke of a pen they could destroy this whole camp. They could destroy this whole nation.

Sadly, Wynter surveyed the ring of grimly attentive warriors and their casually imposing row of lords.
They haven’t a hope
, she thought.
They will never fit in here
.
It would be madness for Jonathon even to let them try
. These were a people rapidly running out of time, a nation lost to time.

She glowered and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees in an unconscious mirror of Razi’s pose. She hadn’t bothered to answer Razi’s question and he didn’t seem to mind. He just sat frowning across at the Council, anxiously rubbing his fingers against his palms in that old, unconscious gesture. After a while, his agitated fretting grated on Wynter’s nerves and she reached across and clamped down on his hand.

“Stop it,” she hissed. He stiffened and sat upright, his hands clenching, and she was instantly sorry. She patted his arm. “Sorry,” she whispered.

“I will not bring you back out there alone,” he said tightly. “I cannot. I cannot. I won’t. If Christopher is about to try and persuade them
…”
He shook his head.

Wynter looked at him, his rigid posture, his determined face. “Razi,” she said, “Christopher is convinced that if you stay, these people will see you dead. He seems to think that you will object violently to their practices. He is
…”
She hesitated to comment on Razi’s relationship with Embla. “He is worried that you will force them to do you harm.”

“He underestimates me,” said Razi, “if he thinks I cannot extend my tolerance to some dubious pagan rituals. He, of all people, should know that I have been forced to tolerate far worse in my time.”

“I believe,” said Wynter carefully, “that—as Christopher sees it the problem may lie with Embla’s involvement in things. Pagan practices are quite… are supposed to be
…”
She bit her lip, unwilling to detail the types of
practices
in which pagans were reputed to indulge.

Razi swallowed. “Embla is a grown woman. I cannot control what she does. If her religion involves
…”
He resumed the anxious fretting of his hands. “It does not matter to me,” he said softly. “It is not the sum of what she is to me.”

Wynter put her hand on his arm and squeezed gently. Glancing up at the Merron, Razi’s eyes widened and he shot to his feet. Wynter followed his gaze, and rose slowly to stand by his side.

Christopher had raised his hand and was waiting to be recognised. At a nod from Úlfnaor, he pushed himself to his feet and stepped forward. There were some cries of protest as he began to speak, some attempts to shout him down, but the objectors were shushed quickly and decisively, and Christopher was allowed to continue.

At first, Sólmundr listened without reaction. But as Christopher’s quiet voice went on, the warrior slowly turned his head to stare at Ashkr. Wynter could see a barely contained hope rise up in Sólmundr’s weathered face, a spark of excitement that he could not quite conceal. Ashkr glanced at him only once, then looked away.

By the time Christopher finished speaking, Embla’s face was incandescent with fury, Úlfnaor’s blank with shock.

Christopher bowed and returned to his place within the circle of warriors. He crouched in the dust, his eyes down. There was a moment’s stunned silence, then many arms shot upwards, asking for permission to speak. Úlfnaor looked blankly around. He did not seem to know what to do. When he remained silent, Embla stepped into the ring and swept her arm up, yelling. The Merron slowly lowered their arms, shocked at having been denied their right to speak.

For a moment, Embla stood, fuming, in the centre of the circle. Then she took a deep breath, straightened her back and turned to address her people. She spoke formally and forcefully and at length. A speech, a rousing speech. The Merron listened carefully, and Wynter saw her win them over.

During this speech, Úlfnaor glanced unhappily between Embla and Christopher, and once again there was the sense of a man with an invisible weight pressing down on him. When Embla was finished, she turned back to him and glared. The big Aoire regarded her with sad eyes, then his mouth tightened in agreement and he bowed. Embla returned to his side, her back straight, her shoulders stiff with tension. Wynter saw her glance once at Razi, then look away.

Úlfnaor looked around the circle once more—there were no more hands raised. He glanced at Ashkr. The blond man was staring blindly at the ground. He seemed miles away. Úlfnaor nodded. He raised his hands and seemed about to make a statement, but then Ashkr, his head still down, muttered something, and the Aoire stepped back.

Ashkr stood for a moment, staring at the ground. Then, to the obvious shock of his people, he swept a hand upwards, snapped a command, and strode from the circle, heading straight for Wynter and Razi. Úlfnaor called after him and Ashkr shouted back over his shoulder something that Wynter took to mean
wait
. He stalked across the dusty sunshine and came to a glowering halt in the shade before the two
coimhthíoch
.

Everyone but Christopher turned to watch.

Ashkr looked so fierce that Wynter stepped back a pace. Razi, however, was collected enough to manage a stiff little bow. Ashkr bowed impatiently in return, and then motioned that they sit. He crouched in the dust at their feet, looking Razi grimly in the eye. “I still call you Tabiyb?” he asked.

Razi coloured and nodded. “It is the title I prefer to all others,” he said. “So yes, please, continue to—”

“You listen what I tell you now, Tabiyb. You not tell me no lies now, you agree? You not twist truth or hold nothing into your heart for me now, when I ask of you this questions?”