The Crowded Shadows (56 page)

“Oh, Embla,” sighed Ashkr, throwing up his hands in fond exasperation. He pulled his sister to him and squeezed her tight. Their embrace sent a flare of ghost-light high into the tree above them. Threads of ghost-fire shimmered in the bark of the trunk behind them, and pale phosphorescence writhed to momentary life along the branches over their heads.

“Do not cry!” laughed Ashkr, pushing his sister to arm’s length. He grinned in his usual teasing way. “This is what I
want
. Understand? You and Sól must just learn to live with it.”

Embla swiped her face clear of tears. “All right, Ash,” she said. “All right, my heart. I understand.” She broke free of his arms and took a deep breath. “All right,” she said.

Embla smiled at her brother and put her hand on her heart. “Goodbye, Ashkr, Son of the World. You have been my best friend and my rock. My life would have been empty without your smiling presence. My heart will be broken at your loss.” Despite her set face, Embla’s voice cracked on these last words and it took her a moment to go on. Then she straightened to her full regal height, tightened her hand to a fist and lifted her chin. “
Ar fad do Chroí an Domhain
,” she said. “As always, All for the Heart of the World.” And with those words, she was gone.

Ashkr watched his sister’s light fade away. Just as the last shimmering glow was going from the air, he reached as if to touch her once again. “Not for the World, Embla,” he whispered. He glanced sharply at Úlfnaor. “Not for the World, Shepherd,” he commanded, “But for Love. You remember that. You teach it.
Ar son an Ghrá
.” Then he turned abruptly, knelt at Sól’s side and, with shocking roughness, shook his friend awake.

“Sólmundr,” he said. “Sól!”

Sólmundr jerked and opened his eyes with a grunt. He immediately registered the feeling of ghost-hands clenched on his shoulders and he gasped hoarsely with the pain of it. Ashkr glared down into his face, and Sólmundr stared up at him, confused and alarmed by Ashkr’s fierceness.

“
A chroí
,” he breathed.

Ashkr shifted his grip to the back of Sólmundr’s scarred neck, and Sól cried out, his body arching like a bow, as ghost-fingers clamped down on his bare flesh. Ashkr slid his free hand down to the site of Sólmundr’s terrible wound and pressed his palm hard against the bandages there. Wynter heard a sound like a branding iron hitting flesh, and Sólmundr’s fingers dug into the bedding on either side of him, his hands closing into agonised fists. He cried out again, and the Merron stepped towards him, then stopped, uncertain what to do.

Christopher lurched forward, but Wynter gripped his arm, pulling him to a halt. She stared at Ashkr’s luminously determined face. “Wait,” she whispered. Christopher hesitated. Wynter squeezed his arm and he stayed uncertainly by her side.

Ashkr bowed his head, grinding his teeth as if in pain. Both he and Sólmundr were shaking now, as ripples of ghost-fire radiated from Ashkr’s splayed hand and spread across Sól’s body.

Hissing and popping, tendrils of green light writhed across Sólmundr’s chest, flowing up his arms and entwining his neck until he was wound all around with thick ropes of crackling power. Sparks cracked hotly across his lips and teeth and eyelashes, and he sobbed and arched as Ashkr pressed down harder and harder against his wound. Gradually the light from the two men became almost too bright to watch.

A desperate, agonised groan filled the clearing, and Wynter, squinting now against the brightness, was shocked to realise that the sound was coming, not from Sólmundr, but from Ashkr. As the light intensified, so too did the ghost’s pain, and soon Ashkr was doubled over, eyes opened wide, teeth bared in agony.

“Stop!” pleaded Sólmundr. “Stop!”

Suddenly Ashkr screamed and the ghost light expanded to an unbearable level.

There was a flare of white.

Sólmundr yelled out, “Ash!”

Then the light collapsed and was abruptly gone.

Wynter stumbled backward in the sudden darkness, her ears ringing with the aftershock of nothing. She brought her hands instinctively to her head and moaned. It felt as though a gunpowder barrel had just exploded soundlessly in her face, and she reeled drunkenly about, unable to get her balance. Someone to her left said something too loudly in Merron, and someone behind her coughed harshly as if to clear their lungs of smoke. She heard someone say her name, but it was far away and muffled.

Then a voice came through clearly—brokenhearted and sobbing; just the one word, repeated over and over. “No… No… No.”

Wynter lifted her head and squinted in the direction of the voice, stung by the sorrow and the loss in that one repeated syllable.

Sólmundr was kneeling at the base of his tree, one arm wrapped around his stomach, the other supporting himself against the wide trunk. He was looking desolately out into the darkness, crooning his one word litany over and over.

Someone stumbled to her side, bumping into her, and Wynter clung to them without thinking. She glanced up to find Razi’s face looming above her. He was staring at Sólmundr, stunned. “Good God,” he said.

He let go of her and went to step forward, but someone grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back. Both Wynter and Razi spun, their arms flashing upwards. Úlfnaor stepped back immediately and spread his hands to show he meant no harm. He jerked his chin in Sólmundr’s direction and they turned to find that Christopher was already at the man’s side. The other Merron moved forward but Úlfnaor halted them with a gesture, silently motioning them back.

“Sólmundr?” Christopher crouched down, laying his hand on Sól’s shoulder. “Sól…?”

“
Tá sé caillte
…
tá sé caillte
…”
keened Sólmundr, shaking his head and rocking to and fro. “
Ó, a chroí
.”

“Sól,” Christopher leant forward, peering under Sólmundr’s arm, trying to see his wound. “Can you just
…”
he pushed the man’s strong shoulder and turned him so that his back was against the tree. Sólmundr slid down until he was sitting on the now tangled heap of bedding. “Let me see.” Gently Christopher pulled Sólmundr’s arm away and lifted the bandages. “Good Frith!”

Sólmundr raised his hands to cover his face and Christopher took the opportunity to push his shirt higher, tugging the bandages aside. Wynter stepped forward, Razi and Úlfnaor by her side. She heard Hallvor exclaim in awe, and a murmur of wonder rippled from Merron to Merron.

Christopher ran his fingers across Sólmundr’s stomach. There was no sign of the wound, no infection, not even the slightest mark remaining. Only the old, tangled network of scars and lash marks from Sólmundr’s years as a slave now marred the man’s pale skin.

Christopher spread his scarred fingers against the site of Sólmundr’s operation.

“He has saved you,” he said.

Sólmundr dropped his hands and thumped his head against the tree, staring desolately into the branches above him. Christopher gazed up at him.

“He has saved you,” he said again. Sólmundr shook his head in despair and Christopher shook him by the shoulder until the warrior slid his eyes to him. “You’re going to live, Sól,” he said, grinning luminously into Sólmundr’s tear-stained face. “Ashkr
saved
you. You’re going to live.”

“I
not hungry.”

“You owe me,” said Christopher cheerfully, “and so must do as I say. I command you to eat.”

Sólmundr slid Christopher a withering look. He snapped the leathery ribbon of venison from the younger man’s hand and turned back to painting his horse. “I knowed man like you before,” he muttered darkly, sticking the dried meat into the corner of his mouth and dipping a brush into a bowl of blue dye. “He used stand at head of galley with whip in his hand.”

Christopher, already walking back to his side of camp, grinned and waved dismissively over his shoulder.

“I crushed his head with my shackle-chains!” called Sólmundr, carefully refreshing the outline of the bear that snarled across his horse’s flank.

“Yes, yes,” laughed Christopher. “You are a fiery and dangerous brute. My blood runs cold with fear.”

Wynter smiled as Christopher came up behind her. She finished cinching the girth on Ozkar’s saddle just as Christopher slid his arms around her waist and dipped his face to her neck.

“What about you, Protector Lady?” he murmured, slyly nipping at her ear. “Are you hungry?”

“Unhand me,” she said. “You are a lecherous cur.”

“Mmhmm,” he agreed. “Amazing how two nights of good sleep will restore a man’s appetite.” He pulled her close, his lips moving against her neck.

Wynter elbowed him in the ribs and Christopher broke away with a grin, slipping around to her side, his arm looped around her waist. He followed her gaze and the two of them surveyed the clearing.

“I fear we are a touch underdressed,” said Wynter.

Indeed, the Merron were washed and brushed and polished as never before, dressed in formal pale green, every movement of hand or arm bright with the glitter of silver jewellery. The tall warriors had also adorned their horses, renewing the painted decorations on their hides and polishing their ornate tack until it shone. Even the rangy warhounds were decked out in silver ornaments, their collars and braceleted front legs gleaming in the sun.

Christopher nodded to where Razi had just finished consulting with Úlfnaor. “Behold our dusky pearl,” he said. “I think we will have to recommence calling him Your Highness.”

Wynter eyed their friend as he approached them. Lost in thought and unaware of their scrutiny, Razi was folding his maps back into their case as he walked. His boots shone like mirrors and he had changed from his simple, dark, travelling tunic into a well-tailored coat of deepest scarlet. He was clean shaven for the first time in weeks, and without his curling, piratical beard Wynter thought he looked at once much younger and infinitely more lordly than before.

“If we do call him Your Highness,” she observed softly, “it could well be the death of him.”

Christopher’s arm tightened around her. “Don’t, girly,” he said. “Don’t say that. He is safe now.” He lifted his chin, smiling with dark pride. “He is
An Caora Nua
. These people would die before they let Alberon do him harm.”

Wynter tightened her jaw and bit back her doubts. She could not forget so easily what these people had done to their last Caoirigh, and she could not bring herself to trust that they would not do the same to Razi. As for Razi himself, though he seemed to have mastered his temper in the two days since the ghosts’ dramatic visitation, Wynter was not too certain that his feelings had changed. She doubted that he would be so quick to relinquish his revenge.

The man in question glanced up and caught his friends staring. Whatever expression was on their faces, it made him falter, his eyes skipping between them.

“Well, then
…”
he said. “It is time.”

Wynter nodded gravely.

Razi studiously occupied himself with fixing the map case to his saddle. “Úlfnaor is certain that we will meet with a contact today. Should all go as planned, we will be in Alberon’s camp by nightfall.” He paused. “By nightfall. It is difficult to believe.”

“What is the plan?” asked Wynter.

Razi glanced at Úlfnaor. “We will allow the Merron make first introductions. Úlfnaor wants to judge Alberon’s intentions towards his people and does not want my presence to skew their reception. I think he is wise. My addition to their party can only serve to complicate what seems an already tangled set of negotiations.”

“And you hope we will pass unnoticed?” said Christopher dryly. “No offence Razi, but you’re a touch of coal amidst the snowdrops here, ain’t you? And Iseult and I, while pale enough, are like a couple of circus midgets next to this lot. We can hardly expect to remain inconspicuous for long.”

Razi glanced sideways at his friend. “We can only do what we can do,” he said, gathering his reins and preparing to mount. “Even the first few minutes of Alberon’s greeting should give Úlfnaor a fair measure of his feelings towards him. That is something at least.” He hopped the stirrup and rose fluidly into the saddle. “Perhaps we will get lucky,” he said, eyeing their richly dressed companions, “and the flare of sunlight on silver will blind all to our presence.”

Wynter gazed up at him and made no effort to hide the concern on her face.

“Are you ready, sis?” he asked. She nodded and he crooked a brief smile. “Then let us go, we have no more time to waste.” He kicked his mare forward and trotted across to where Úlfnaor was just mounting his own horse.

“Well, lass,” said Christopher, “tonight will tell us much.”

He smiled at her, his grey eyes clear as ever. His arms were permanently bared to the shoulder now, exposing the silver spirals of the tribal bracelets that he wore in place of his own. With his long, loose hair and his borrowed, pale-green cloak, Wynter thought he looked very much the Merron, despite his relative lack of height.

“You look entirely at home,” she said, and even to herself, her tone was hard to fathom.

The smile slid from Christopher’s eyes, and Wynter instantly regretted its loss; it had been too long gone as it was. He straightened from his easy slouch, his hand shot to the bracelet at the top of his left arm, and he glanced uncertainly around.