The Crowded Shadows (49 page)

“Christopher,” she whispered. “Chris… it’s all right.” She took his hand, prying the clenched fingers from the pommel. “It’s all right,” she whispered again.

At the far end of the line Razi plunged from the forest, his eyes wide with concern He scanned the Merron, and Wynter raised her free hand to let him know where she was. Razi pulled his mare to a halt, staring at Christopher. Wynter kept her hand raised and dipped her chin meaningfully.
It’s all right. I have him
. Razi’s mare turned and snorted beneath him, as Razi’s eyes hopped between Wynter and the rigid, staring man beside her. Wynter nodded.
It is all right
. And, with one last look at Christopher, Razi pulled his horse’s head around and trotted to the head of the line again, calling to Úlfnaor as he did. “They are about a mile away,” he yelled. “We must travel fast, and leave that bloody fire behind! Before they follow the smoke right to us.”

Úlfnaor hesitated, no doubt thinking of the ten or more men and women he was leaving behind, then he nodded, and gestured his people forward once again. Wynter squeezed Christopher’s hand and looked behind her. The tents remained silent, grey and still in the misty air, the camp as lifeless as a town of ghosts. Christopher’s fingers moved in hers and she turned to find him gazing at her.

“Are you all right?” she whispered.

He nodded stiffly. His fingers tightened momentarily on hers before he let her go and gathered the reins to him, pulling his horse back onto the trail. “Come on, lass,” he said.

Side by side they followed the Merron into the forest. Up ahead, Razi forged onwards, his eyes cold, his face set. By his side, Úlfnaor pushed his painted stallion through the undergrowth, keeping pace.

As Wynter and Christopher crossed over into the shadows, the Wolves called out once more. This time, neither of them flinched and they didn’t look back.

W
ynter finished securing the edge of her bivouac and looked across the clearing to where Úlfnaor’s people were setting up their shelters. Christopher had wandered across to the Merron side of camp, and Wynter sat back on her heels and wiped her hands, watching as he came to a halt at Sólmundr’s side.

The Merron had left all their luxurious tents and bedding back at their main camp, trading comfort for stealth and speed as they made up for lost time. Wynter had no doubt that as diplomatic envoys representing Marguerite Shirken, one of the Kingdom’s most powerful neighbours, they would be made very comfortable on their arrival at Alberon’s camp. Until then, however, poor Sólmundr was sleeping on hard ground with nothing but a bivouac for shelter, and it was taking its toll.

The warrior was slumped against a tree, his eyes closed, and he did not seem to notice Christopher looking down at him. Boro, however, grinned sloppily and writhed onto his back, offering his belly. The
whump whump whump
of his tail rang out on the quiet evening air. Murmuring nonsense, Christopher hunkered down and scrubbed the warhound behind his ears. Boro’s tongue unfurled like a happy flag, and Sólmundr’s weathered face momentarily creased into that charming, gap-toothed grin.

“Hello, Coinín,” he murmured.

The dimples at the corners of Christopher’s mouth made a brief appearance.

For a while, the two men watched in silence as the Merron went about their work, then Christopher sighed, patted Boro on his head and got to his feet. He said something, his head tilted, his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his trousers, and Sólmundr smiled in response, waving his hand as if to say,
later
. Christopher nodded uncertainly and walked away. Sólmundr shut his eyes once again and turned his head against the trunk of the tree.

Christopher did not look in Wynter’s direction as he crossed to their side of camp. He kept his eyes down as he crouched by their fire, filled the copper basin from the cauldron, laid out his wash kit, and prepared to scrub himself clean of the last four days of sweat and grime. It was the same each time Christopher went to speak to Sól, he would not look at herself and Razi on his return, and Wynter suspected that he kept his eyes down for fear of the disapproval he might see in Razi’s face.

Across the clearing, Hallvor crouched by Sólmundr. She whispered a question, but Sól turned away without answering. He kept his eyes shut, and, after a moment, the healer got to her feet and left him alone, his back turned to his people, his face creased in pain.

Wynter gazed at Sólmundr, sitting there alone with his dog sprawled miserably at his feet. She glanced at Christopher, silently pulling his tunic over his head, then she turned to look at Razi. He was at their highline, tending his horse, his every movement tight with irritation, his dark face grim. Everything about him screamed
stay away
, and Wynter hesitated for a moment, uncertain. Then she took a deep breath and crossed to him.

As she approached, he glanced at her, unsmiling, and went on with his work.

“Razi,” she said. “I want you to examine Sólmundr.”

Razi jerked the saddle blanket from his horse and flung it across a bush. “He has his own healer,” he said.

“I think that he needs
you
.”

Without replying, he crouched by his pile of tack and began to tug his saddlebags free of their straps. Wynter ducked under the horse’s neck and drew closer.

“He is in great pain,” she murmured. “Surely this hasn’t escaped your attention?” Again, he did not reply, and Wynter gazed down at the top of his head, willing him to look at her. “I cannot believe,” she said softly, “that you would exact your revenge on a wounded man.”

Razi froze. Slowly he turned his head and Wynter’s heart bumped in her chest at the expression on his face. Over the course of the past four days Razi had been lost in brooding silence or occupied with orders and plans–distant, glowering, removed. Now he glared at her with unfiltered rage, and Wynter couldn’t help but recoil.

“Do you
dare
to imply that Sólmundr would not have participated in their deaths?” he hissed. “Do you
stand there
and
tell me
that he did not send them to the grave?”

“No, Razi,” she whispered, “I do not.”

Razi went back to fussing with the equipment. Wynter watched as he fumbled awkwardly with the straps, his usually nimble hands rendered clumsy by rage. She crouched by his side.

“Razi,” she ventured “I have no desire to defend the Merron. What they did… it is beyond my comprehension But you are a
good
man. You are a
doctor
. Sólmundr needs you, Razi. This neglect is beneath you.”

Razi sneered “Protector Lady, you have no
concept
of what is beneath me. I have come to think that perhaps is beneath me. Were I a proper man, were I any kind of a man at all, I would… but I am not a man, am I? I am a hollow machine! I am a Clockwork puppet of
state
, and so I do
nothing
when I should act and I habitually allow those who—”

Suddenly Razi unlatched his saddlebags and began a feverish search for his grooming brushes. He threw the contents of the bag about, hardly seeming to see or feel them, and with a stab of panic, Wynter realised his self control might finally be unravelling. She moved closer and carefully laid her hand on his forearm. Razi’s powerful muscles jerked under her palm as if he had only barely stopped himself from flinging her aside, then he froze to an absolute stillness, staring at the brushes in his hands without seeing them at all.

As Protector Lady, Wynter knew that there were many things she should say to Lord Razi now. She should remind him that they needed these people, and that he could not allow his personal rage to come between him and those who would help him fulfil his duty to the future of his father’s kingdom. She should tell him to don his mask, hide his pain and school himself to rigid diplomacy as they had all been raised to do. As the Protector Lady, Wynter should tell the Lord Razi to stop lashing out like a reckless apprentice boy, to straighten up and to behave himself, like the prince he was.

“Razi,” she said firmly, her fingers tightening on his arm.

Razi’s brown eyes flicked to hers, then away again. He waited, his dark face tight, his mouth compressed. He knew what she was about to say, and Wynter knew at once that she couldn’t say it. She couldn’t be anything more, or anything less than simply Razi’s friend.

“Razi,” she said again, gently now. She went to push his too-long curls from his face, but Razi jerked his head from her touch, and she let her hand drop. “I am so sorry,” she whispered. “Truly, Razi. I am so very sorry.”

There was a moment of silence between them, Wynter looking gently into Razi’s face, Razi staring at nothing. Then he turned away. Wynter said no more, just remained crouched by his side, gazing at him in useless sympathy. When it became clear that he would not look at her, she patted his arm, got to her feet and walked back to the fire. After a long moment of inactivity, Razi slowly gathered his grooming tools together and began to brush his horse.

Christopher had just finished washing himself and was standing by the fire, naked as a babe, towelling himself dry. Wynter blushed and dropped her eyes. She still was not quite used to his utter shamelessness.
You had better get used to it
, she thought,
you having pledged yourself to him for ever
. She glanced shyly at him and crouched by the fire, laying out her own wash kit.
For ever
, she thought.
My Hadrish boy
.

Truth be told, she was a little jealous of Christopher’s complete lack of self-consciousness. She suspected that the Merron would hardly blink an eye should she discard all her clothes and saunter brazenly amongst them. However, a lifetime of conditioning was not so easily overcome, and she would just have to make do with stripping to her undershirt and britches, and giving herself as good a wash as that would allow.

She glanced at the fires. A terrible risk with the Wolves lurking. Christopher had been appalled at Úlfnaor’s sudden insistence on them. Razi had simply been angry. They were, he said, a terrible waste of his time. Wearily, she sat back on her heels and closed her eyes. Every inch of her ached. Wolves or no Wolves, waste of time or not, it would be sweet to wash and to drink hot tea. It would be a blessing just to sit still.

Sighing, Wynter pressed her hand to the base of her belly and let the heat of her palm ease the cramping there. Her woman’s time had come upon her the day they had left camp and had just finished its final day, thank Christ. She hated dealing with that particular complication when she was travelling.

Soft footsteps approached, and Wynter glanced up to find Hallvor gazing down with her usual grave composure. A vivid memory blazed unbidden to Wynter’s mind—the tall, dark-haired woman outlined in fire, Ashkr writhing behind her, his screams turning to shrieks as the flames set his hair alight. With an effort, Wynter pushed this memory down and straightened, her face schooled to polite enquiry. Christopher was just finished lacing his britches, and he glanced warily at the healer. Wynter was aware of Razi slipping around from behind his horse and glaring across the distance between them, his grooming brushes in his hand. Hallvor bowed towards him, but her politeness went unacknowledged.

Wynter got to her feet, deliberately drawing the woman’s attention from her glowering friend. “Good evening, Hallvor,” she said.

Smiling, the woman bowed again. She said something questioning and kindly. Out of habit, Wynter glanced to Christopher, waiting for him to translate. He was frozen in the act of pulling on his undershirt, and Wynter was stunned to see his face blaze to scarlet.

Oh, Good Christ!
she thought, immediately on alert,
what now?
If the subject was bad enough to make her shameless Hadrish boy blush to the roots of his hair, Wynter was fairly certain that she simply wouldn’t want to hear it.

Hallvor nodded encouragingly to Christopher. He dropped his eyes as he tied his shirt, and the expression of helpless embarrassment on his face almost made Wynter laugh. He held his tongue for a moment, and took his time rolling his sleeves to his shoulders. Then, without looking at either woman, he mumbled something inaudible, his chin buried in his chest, his face half turned away.

“Pardon?” asked Wynter, leaning forward slightly, amused, despite her wariness, at his unaccustomed reticence. “I can’t hear you.”

Christopher’s colour deepened and he tutted, his discomfort slipping into irritation. Hallvor said something and Christopher waved his hand impatiently, as if to say
I know, I know, don’t go on
. He hesitated. Then he sighed, squared his shoulders, and looked stoically out into the trees.

“Hallvor says that she knows it is late,” he said, “and she is sorry that she did not offer before. But she would like to offer you now some blackberry leaf tea to ease your woman’s pains.”

Wynter snapped upright and snatched her hand from her belly.

“
Christopher!
” she cried, mortified to feel her face blazing.

“What?” he said belligerently.

“For Godssake! That’s just not… a man doesn’t
…”

Christopher compressed his mouth “It’s just blackberry leaf tea, lass. To ease your woman’s—”

“Christopher! I will
not
speak to a man about such things! It’s not
right
!”

“I ain’t just any
man
!” he said indignantly, but his face and neck were mottled red, and his eyes were anywhere but on Wynter. Confused, Hallvor murmured something diffident, and Wynter leapt in, cutting Christopher off before he could translate anything more.