The Crowded Shadows (55 page)

How unjust
, thought Wynter,
how unutterably sad that they should have been parted
. Her mother and father rose unexpectedly to her mind, and the brief pittance of time that they had enjoyed together before death tore them apart. She hoped that they were together now. She fervently hoped that her father’s ghost did not wander the palace, a thin shadow of his vibrant self, doomed to become nothing but a single-minded shade. She glanced toward Razi—a shadow among shadows, raw and burning still at the loss of Embla—and she squeezed Christopher’s hand, overcome with dread that they might lose each other.

Wynter glanced up into Christopher’s face, about to whisper his name. But, to her surprise, he was not looking at Ashkr and Sólmundr. He was staring into the trees, and even as Wynter turned to him, he snapped to attention, his eyes widening in anger and in fear. She spun to follow his gaze.

A second pillar of light was travelling smoothly towards them through the darkness of the forest. Ashkr glanced in its direction and smiled. He turned to look at Razi. “Tabiyb,” he said, “Embla is coming for you.”

“NO!” howled Christopher. There was a flurry of movement, a sudden, yelling rush of men and women, and Christopher dithered, momentarily torn between leaping backward for his sword and leaping forward to protect Razi.

Wynter drew her knife and dashed forward, followed by Christopher, who stooped and snatched his dagger from his boot as he ran. There was a series of shouts. Frangok’s voice rang out, then Hallvor’s. Úlfnaor yelled. There was a clang of metal on metal, and Wynter ducked instinctively.

Out of the corner of her eye, Wynter saw Thoar dive for his sword. She swerved in his direction, but to her amazement, Hallvor leapt on him, knocking him to the ground. The redheaded warrior exclaimed in shock, and the two Merron rolled into the bushes, grappling for the sword. With a yell, Wari dived to Hallvor’s aid.

Frangok surged forward, her knife in hand, her eyes on Razi. Wynter veered for her with a cry. But almost immediately Úlfnaor flung out his massive arm and hit Frangok hard across the throat. The blow stopped the tall woman in her tracks, and she dropped at Úlfnaor’s feet, gagging and writhing, clutching at her paralysed throat.

Surtr was halfway across the clearing, advancing on Razi, his face set. But Christopher was already heading for him, running full tilt. Even as Wynter spun towards them, Christopher leapt into the air and flung his legs forward in one of his spectacular flying kicks. He caught the warrior on the shoulder, his soft boots impacting the man’s muscular body with a meaty
thud
, and the two of them flew sideways, slamming to the ground in a flurry of leaves.

They slid to a halt near Sólmundr’s feet, instantly rolling apart. Surtr whipped his knife around and Christopher curved his body into an abrupt arc, barely avoiding the slim blade. Wynter saw the tip of the knife catch the cloth of Christopher’s dark tunic and her heart skipped a beat at how close he’d come.

Christopher rolled and Surtr rolled, and both came to their knees, snarling at each other, their knives poised. Úlfnaor came forward, a massive, dark shape striding between the two men, and he knocked Surtr’s weapon from his hand. Wynter had just time to see the shock in Surtr’s eyes before Úlfnaor kicked him in the chest and sent him into the dirt. Surtr sprawled onto his back and Úlfnaor stood over him, his face sharp with threat, his sword pressed to Surtr’s neck. The redheaded warrior stared up at his leader, stunned and hurt, all his fight gone.

Wynter skidded to a crouching halt, breathless.

There was a moment of bewildered stillness.

On the opposite side of the fire, Wari stood over Thoar, his foot on the dazed man’s weapon hand, his sword at his neck. Hallvor, kneeling by Frangok’s side, spoke urgently to her and massaged her throat.

Shakily, Wynter took all this in. She began to straighten, and Christopher, still on his knees, relaxed slowly, his hands dropping to his side. He looked about with the same dazed confusion as Wynter. Their eyes met. Then Christopher’s attention slipped past her and Wynter saw his face slacken in shock. She spun on her heel, following the direction of his gaze.

Soma was striding towards Razi, a knife in her hand, and Razi, trapped by the unwavering attention of his lover’s ghost, was oblivious to the danger. Embla stepped from the trees, staring into his eyes. She placed a shimmering hand on his chest. Razi gasped and jerked his arm upwards, as if trying to push her away.

“Nuh
.…
” he said. “Don’t
…”

Soma raised her knife.

“Razi!” screamed Wynter. “Razi.”

At her voice, Embla tilted her head and looked past Razi to Soma.

“
Ar fad do Chroí an Domhain
,” whispered Soma, staring at the ghost, her eyes wide with fear. “
Ar fad do Chroí an Domhain
.”

She drew back for the fatal blow.

Dreamily, almost slowly, Embla lifted her hand, and Soma jerked to a frozen halt. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes bugging in distress.

“Soma an Fada, daughter of Sorcha an Fada,” murmured Embla, her lips curving fondly. “You are released from your duty.”

Embla spread her fingers and the knife dropped from Soma’s hand and tumbled to the leaves by her side. Embla glanced at the weapon and it shot away through the leaf-mould, slithering out of Soma’s reach, coming to rest against the fire-stones. Soma dropped to her knees with a moan and clutched her knife-hand, rocking as if in great pain.

Embla smiled at Wari. “Wari an Fada, son of Sven an Fada, come forward and tend your other-heart.”

Wynter gaped at the beautiful apparition, unable to comprehend the difference in her speech. All the fractured hesitance had gone from Embla’s voice, and she was speaking with an unprecedented fluency, no trace of her drawling accent remaining. Wynter was certain that Embla had spoken Southlandast, a language that Wari did not understand. But the huge man was already striding forward, his face twisted in concern for his wife, and Wynter understood at once—Embla wasn’t speaking Southlandast. She wasn’t speaking Merron. Embla was speaking some other language, at once strange yet familiar, unknown and yet known to them all.

Wari helped Soma to her feet and she retreated into the sanctuary of his arms, cradling her hand and whimpering. Cautiously, his eyes fixed on Embla’s ghost, Wari led his wife back to the others.

“Rise up,” murmured Embla, gesturing to the Merron. “Rise up now, and cease this struggling against one another.”

The warriors did as they were told, the former combatants helping each other to their feet, and Embla once again focused her attention on Razi. She smiled her slow, heated smile, her eyes roaming his face. He seemed suspended by the shimmering hand she had pressed over his heart, and his body was vibrating slightly out of his control. He still had his hand up, the fingers spread, as if to ward Embla off, and he stared at her, wide eyed, his face twitching in distress.

Christopher came to Wynter’s side. “Let him go,
Caora
,” he said softly. “He ain’t yours.”

Wynter raised her knife, though she knew it was useless against this kind of threat. “Let him go, lady,” she whispered. “Please.”

Embla ignored them both. Only Razi mattered to her and she gazed at him with yearning tenderness. “Tabiyb,” she breathed. “My good man.

At her voice, all Razi’s pain seemed to leave him and his body relaxed against her supportive hand. He blinked at her as if seeing her anew. “Embla
…”
he whispered, amazed. He reached as if to touch her translucent face. “Em
…”
he said. His dark eyes shone suddenly brighter, filled with the broken reflections of Embla’s pale light. “I would have taken care of you,” he whispered. “Why would you not trust me to take care of you?”

Embla half-closed her eyes and sighed, as if Razi’s words were the sun and she were basking in their heat. Dreamily, she ran her hand up his chest, leaving shimmering ghost-fire in the wake of her trailing fingers, and she cupped Razi’s cheek in her palm. At the touch of ghost-flesh, Razi’s lips parted over gritted teeth, and he moaned in pain, even as he pressed his cheek further into her hand.

“My good man,” sighed Embla again, watching him through lowered lids. “My good omen. What a blessing you were to me.”

She ran her thumb over his lips, and Razi shuddered, wisps of ether rising from his warm skin. His eyes rolled back under their heavy lids, his face grew blank, and his long body began a slow tilt forwards.

“Embla!” cried Wynter. “Release him!”

Embla withdrew her hand in quick alarm, and Razi staggered, his eyes flying open. She put her hands on his chest to steady him, and he gaped at her, his mouth open, his face vacant.

Embla stared at Razi in sad understanding. He was lost to her, and she to him.

For a moment she watched as he tried to collect his fuddled wits, then her face hardened. She took a deep breath. She drew herself up. When next she spoke, her voice was deep and rich with command, all her cool nobility brought to bear on the dazed man before her.

“Listen to me, Lord Razi Kingsson, Most Important Son of Jonathon the King. I would speak with you.” Embla waited until Razi was able to focus on her, then she stared into his eyes. “This world is dark,” she said. “You fear that soon you will drown in its darkness.” She lifted her hand, but did not touch his face. “You must not drown,” she commanded. “It is your duty not to drown.”

Razi gazed desperately at her, his eyes glittering.

Embla nodded, as if to seal a bargain, then her eyes slipped past Razi and came to rest on Úlfnaor. “There is to be no more blood,” she said. “This is a new beginning.”

Frowning, Úlfnaor shook his head—he did not understand.

“No more blood,” insisted Embla. “Ashkr and I. We are to be the last.”

Hallvor cried out in Merron, very distressed, and Embla looked kindly at her. “Do not despair, Hallvor an Fada, Healer, daughter of Ingrid an Fada. The Bridge is strong here. It has always been strong. We were foolish to think otherwise, and arrogant. Here, as everywhere, the People walk as one with the World’s Heart, and the Bridge needed no blood to open its gates. Its gates were always open, its path free to all.” Embla turned once more to Úlfnaor. “This is
your
duty Úlfnaor, Shepherd of the World. You understand? There shall be no more blood. You must teach this. This is your duty.”

Úlfnaor nodded, his eyes wide. Embla looked pointedly from one to the other of the warriors that surrounded him. One by one they dropped to their knees and bowed their heads as if taking an oath, and Embla smiled in approval. She put her hand on Razi’s shoulder. “Behold,” she said to the kneeling men and women. “Your new Caora.”

Christopher hissed in a breath.

“Christopher?” whispered Wynter, her heart hammering. “Did she just…?”

“Shhhh!” he hissed sharply, his eyes on Embla. “Shush.”

Embla looked from Merron to disbelieving Merron. “
Caora
Nua
,” she said. She stared at Úlfnaor and he stared back at her, his face shocked.

“Embla,” Ashkr’s quiet voice drew his sister’s attention to him. He was kneeling by Sólmundr’s side, his face grave. “You must go now. You have done your duty.” Embla frowned sadly and he smiled. “It is all right, my heart. Say your goodbyes, free your man from his loss.”

“No,” whispered Razi. “Stay.” He once again lifted his hand to Embla’s face, and she tilted her cheek to his touch. Her shining hair drifted up and clung to Razi’s fingers, twining like glowing weed around his arm. Razi bent his head to her, his dark face outlined by Embla’s pallid light, his eyes filled with her glowing reflection. For a moment, their lips almost touched. Then Embla frowned, turned her head and stepped away. Razi
…
was left alone in darkness, his fingers touching cold air.

Christopher froze and gasped in shock as Embla passed too close, and Wynter jerked him backward, pulling him free of the ghost’s chilly shadow.

“Good Fr… Frith!” he hissed, his teeth chattering.

Wynter rubbed his back, her eye on Razi. He stumbled a few steps, his hand to his forehead, as if unsure of where he was.
Caora Nua
, she thought, her heart filled with dread.

Embla’s voice drew her attention.

The pale lady was leaning over Sólmundr, peering into his unconscious face. “He has not much time, brother.” She glanced at Ashkr. “You sincerely wish to do this?” He tutted and gave her a reproving look.

Embla sighed and straightened. Ashkr rose to his feet, and they stood side by side, gazing down at their dying friend. Sólmundr, bathed in the combined aura of the two powerful spirits, grimaced and shifted uncomfortably, his fingers jerking in distress.

“I will miss you, Ash,” said Embla softly.

Ashkr smiled again, his eyes fixed on Sólmundr. “You will have the comfort of the World to keep you, my heart.”

Wynter was astonished to see tears well up in Embla’s eyes. They shimmered for a moment on her ghostly lashes, then overflowed in phosphorescent trails down her face. “You shall be no more,” she whispered. “How am I to bear that? The knowledge that you shall be no more? How…? Ashkr, how shall
Sól
bear it? That he shall have no hope of ever seeing you again?”

Ashkr tutted gently. “Do not cry, Emmy.”

Embla shook her head and buried her face in her hands.