He smiled and nodded.
“My father is with Heron,” she continued, “I assume they went to the King.”
Razi gave a bitter little laugh. “So, the wily old bird got to him first, eh? There’s no surprise.”
Wynter paused, the bitterness in Razi’s voice chilling her, and she put out her hand to stay her friend. On the steps above them, Christopher stopped immediately and turned to wait for them, slouching patiently against the wall.
“Razi, is Her—” Wynter glanced up at Christopher who was listening without even pretending not to. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Is Heron no longer our friend?”
Razi bit his lip, whether in impatience or uncertainty, Wynter couldn’t tell. Then he gave her a very pointed look, and when he spoke, his low voice carried, clear and sure, and intentionally up the stone steps to the pale young man above them. “Little sister, I am only certain of having two friends in this castle, and both of them are standing on these stairs with me now. Do you understand?”
Christopher turned and quietly mounted the steps. Wynter watched him until he rounded the corner out of sight. His expression hadn’t changed in the slightest at Razi’s words, and she had no idea if he even understood the responsibility that Razi had just lain at his feet. Lain at our feet, she reminded herself.
“Court life will kill that fellow,” she said, then looked Razi straight in the eye and knew at once that he already understood this. “He’s not suited for it, Razi. He’s too direct. It will destroy him.”
Razi shifted uncomfortably and dropped his gaze. “I don’t intend to be here long enough for that to happen, sis. I’m moving on.”
She almost buckled when he said that. She had to physically restrain herself from grabbing onto him and screaming his name. She swallowed her heart back down into her chest, where it lay like a brick of lead, leaching poison into her system. She shook her head in denial.
“I intend to leave as soon as I can,” he said, looking earnestly down at her. “I’m going to Padua, to teach at the university. They have granted me a fellowship. I will be able to continue my research, is that not wonderful? And, Wyn, I would very much like to set up a household there. I want Christopher to breed my horses for me and I will be needing to build a house… I was going to ask—”
“Razi!” Christopher came running back around the corner, hissing as he raced down the stairs towards them. He jerked to a halt when they turned to him, Razi growling in frustration, Wynter dashing tears from her eyes and gritting her teeth. He held his hand up and retreated a step or two, his face apologetic, but urgent. “The Victuallor is coming, and there’s a man with him, a big, red-haired fellow.”
“Dad!” Wynter pushed her way past Christopher, and ran up the stairs to her father. Moving fast, making distance, just for something to do with all the violent energy she suddenly had bottled up inside her.
Heron and her father came around the bend at a pace, and drew up short at the sight of the youths scattered on the steps below them. Their three faces must have screamed tension because the two older men paused in identical poses of uncertainty, and both said “umm” simultaneously in embarrassed surprise.
Wynter wanted to fling herself into her father’s arms. She wanted to scream, Razi is leaving! He’s leaving already! Instead she came to a decorous halt a few steps below him and bowed stiffly, her tears dry on her face.
“Well met, good Father, Victuallor Heron. How fares the King, good sirs?”
Heron looked past her and jerked his chin at Razi. “His Majesty wishes your presence now, my Lord. He would consult with yourself and the Protector Lord Moorehawke in his chambers.”
Razi stalked obediently up the steps, but Wynter made a small sound of protest and exclaimed, “Father! Are you not to eat? Have you not rested at all?”
Lorcan made an impatient shushing gesture at her, but Razi paused, took a good long look at her father’s face and then turned to Heron, his expression hard. “You have not been able to find me yet, Victuallor. While you are searching, the Protector Lord shall go to the kitchen and have himself a meal.”
Heron stared at Razi for a moment and Wynter saw something dawning in the old man’s face. He turned slowly and looked at her father, really scrutinising him, really inspecting him. Wynter swallowed.
Lorcan narrowed his eyes at his old friend, his face cold, then he turned imperiously away and addressed Razi, “I am most grateful for my Lord’s benevolence, but I do not yet need to pause. Please, if you are ready, let us continue to our Majesty’s presence.” He gave Wynter a fleeting glance and spoke to her even as he was turning to leave. “I shall return when I am released by the King, child. Go bathe and change and rest; there is to be a banquet tonight at sundown.”
Then he was off up the steps without another word, his riding boots clattering on the stone, his plait swinging heavily behind him. The smell of horse and campfire and hard travel lingered long after he’d turned the corner and gone from sight.
Heron raised his eyebrow impatiently at Razi who gave Wynter a helpless look. As he turned to go, Razi glanced at Christopher and tilted his head meaningfully as he did, look after her. Christopher nodded, and Wynter fought the urge to push him down the steps. Look after her, indeed! Look after Christopher more like. He was the one most likely to get his throat slit on his way to the privy.
Heron lingered a moment, already half-turned to go. “Garron,” he said, “the Protector Lady Wynter and Protector Lord Moorehawke are quartered next to your master’s rooms. Ensure the Protector Lady is settled comfortably.”
Christopher lifted his chin in response and Heron’s eyes flashed at him. You’re meant to bow, you imbecile, thought Wynter. But the Victuallor didn’t bother to comment, he just sneered and padded up the steps after Razi and her father, disappearing quickly from view and leaving the two of them alone.
Wynter retrieved her tools from Marni’s care and stalked to the stables without a word. Christopher strode along beside her, surprisingly quiet. She had expected irritating chatter, attempts to draw her out, flirting. But he just kept pace, his grey eyes thoughtful.
When they got to the stables, he disappeared for a moment and returned with two page boys, organising them with admirable efficiency and good humour so that, fairly soon, Wynter’s and her father’s things were gathered up and transported to their new chambers and she once again had somewhere permanent to lay her head. As permanent as court life could allow, at any rate.
She stood in the middle of their receiving room and looked around her with a heavy heart. It was an excellent suite, a large receiving room with two big shuttered windows looking down onto the orange trees, brightly painted and with cheery tapestries on loan from the King’s collection. Off this was a small retiring room and, off that, two spacious and airy bedrooms, both filled with the glorious light of what was now evening. Wynter was pleased to see that the King had furnished the rooms with all the old furniture of their previous accommodation: her pine bed, with its pretty insect-netting and curtains. The wash stand, her blanket box that her father had carved. All of Lorcan’s bedroom furniture was here, and in the receiving room, the four rounded armchairs, filled with the cushions that Wynter’s mother had embroidered whilst in her confinement. All so familiar and lovely.
But why here? she thought. Why not in their beloved old cottage in the grounds, under the shade of the walnut trees, down by the trout brook at the foot of the meadow? Where they had been blissfully far away from the intricacy of court, and out from under the eye of the King. Where Wynter had been able to get out of bed in the morning and fish for breakfast in the river, still barefoot and wearing her long johns. Where the smell of her father’s workshop had kept the air spicy with wood shavings and resin all day long. Now everything would be protocol, politics and etiquette every minute of every hour of every day. Obviously the King wanted them near, he wanted them observed. He didn’t trust them.
“Do you not like your rooms?”
She was startled out of her reverie by Christopher’s quiet voice, and turned quicker than she should have, staggering a little as her head swam. He was leaning by the hall door, and had the sense to ignore her loss of balance.
“They’re beautiful,” she said as she found her footing, hoping that she sounded sincere. “Very fine.”
He didn’t seem that impressed. “Huh,” he said, and then, looking very directly at her, “Razi said you would hate them. He said you wouldn’t like being confined. He tried very hard to get your cottage back for you, you know. The pretty one? By the stream?”
That was too much – Razi’s attempted gesture of love and understanding. Suddenly her eyes were filled with tears that she couldn’t contain, and she put her hands to her face with a high breathy sob and began weeping.
Thankfully, Christopher didn’t come to her, and she stood and emptied herself of grief until there was nothing but weariness remaining, and a high green pain in her forehead from the tears. Finally she straightened and pushed the wet from her face with an efficient movement, sniffing deeply to clear her nose. The doorway was empty, but there were voices in the hall, a smoothly polished court voice and Christopher’s Northland accent, arguing.
“… it is my job,” insisted the courtier, “I’m supposed to bring them!”
“Give them to me, you God-cursed flunky, or so help me, I’ll skin you alive.” Christopher’s voice was a low hiss of anger.
“It’s my job—”
A loud slap and a yelp, followed by a shocked silence. Then Christopher’s voice, very calm now, “Are you ready to hand them over, or shall I ensure that you spill them and need go back for more?”
Metal things clattered together to the sound of discontented grumbling, and light footsteps retreated. Then Christopher came in, carefully carrying three large pitchers of steaming water and avoiding Wynter’s eyes.
“Now…” he said, as he skirted round her, then sloshed his way into her bedroom. He set two of the pitchers down by her washstand and poured most of the contents of the last into the metal basin. He took a bar of soap from his pocket and left it on the soap-dish. Then he retreated out the door, returning seconds later with armfuls of big cotton sheets for Wynter to dry herself with.
“Right…” he said, still not looking at her. “I’ll call you in time to dress for the banquet, unless your father is back by then.” And he went out, closing the door quietly behind him.
She was so tired now, her body singing like crickets on a hot day. The evening sunlight streaming through the window was heavy with the scent of oranges and orange blossom, and she closed her eyes for a moment and revelled in the heat and the solitude.
She shuffled into her bedroom, drew the bolt and stripped naked, leaving her stinking clothes in a heap on the floor. There was a sea-sponge on top of the pile of towels, along with a nailbrush, clippers and a comb, all engraved with Razi’s seal. Thank God she wouldn’t have to root for her own.
Slowly, her arms heavy and numb with fatigue, she unwound the leather straps binding her hair and let it fall to her shoulder blades in thick auburn waves. It was stiff and greasy with dirt, though, thankfully, she’d avoided the lice, and she used almost the entire first pitcher scrubbing it and rinsing it until it squeaked. When she was satisfied, she stuck her head back into the basin and combed her hair out under the clean water. It was always easier to unknot the tangles that way. Then she bent at the waist and let the whole heavy curtain of it hang straight and dripping so that she could wrap the length of it in a towel. Finally she straightened up, and with a flick of her hands flung her wrapped hair behind her, leaving it to hang like a long fat sausage down her back.
She threw the used water out of the window and replenished it from the second pitcher. The smell of roses and oranges and the lemon smell of the soap lulled her senses and the room took on a dreamy air as she methodically scrubbed three month’s worth of grime from her body.
She had one clean shift, unused since their departure from Shirken’s palace. It was musty and smelled of damp, like everything up North eventually did. But it couldn’t overpower the smell of lemons from her still damp hair, which she unwrapped and wove into a long braid to tuck under her night cap.
I’ll just lie down for a minute, she thought as she crawled under the insect netting and lay on the cool, lavender scented sheets. I won’t sleep till Dad gets here safe… but she was unconscious before the thought had even registered in her brain.
She was standing in a wide field that stretched all the way to the bright blue horizon. It was filled with red poppies and, as she walked, they stained her feet red, and the hem of her shift. She could hear a high whining cry, as if a sea bird were caught in a net, and she looked around for the source of the noise, because it hurt her heart to hear it. The dye from the poppies began to burn her feet and when she looked down she realised that the flowers weren’t red at all, but white, white poppies stained with blood.
The crying was close at hand now, and she ran to the crest of a hill and looked down into a small valley. Wolves were gathered around some poor dead animal, gnawing and snarling and worrying its carcass. There were so many wolves that she couldn’t see their prey, but she began to understand that the high wailing was coming from it. Oh. The poor creature, it was still alive.
She picked up a longbow that was at her feet and took aim, hoping to put the animal out of its misery. I’ll never be able to draw this bow. It’s too big for me. But she did draw the bow, pulling back smoothly until the fletch brushed her cheek.
She waited patiently for a glimpse of the poor creature, which still screamed in that horrible, high pitched way as its blood sprayed up and coloured the poppies all around it. The wolves began to fight over some small morsel of the creature’s flesh and their ranks parted for a moment. She caught a glimpse of sky blue robes and an arm as it flung upwards, in an attempt to escape, or as a reaction to the movement of the ravaging wolves, she couldn’t tell.
Oh, she thought, with an interested detachment, it’s Razi.
She notched the bow a little tighter, released her breath and let the arrow fly with a high singing whine. It seemed to have a long way to go, this arrow, and she was able to trace its flight every inch of the way, admiring how it twisted and swung gently from side to side as it cut its way through the air.
By the time it reached its target all the wolves had gone and it was only Razi, alone and bloody, lying among the dripping poppies. The arrow found its mark with a loud knock as if Razi’s heart was made of wood, and his body leapt at the impact.
The sound reverberated around the little valley, repeated and repeated in a quick rapping succession. Razi’s eyes opened and they were grey and slanting and it wasn’t Razi at all, but Christopher Garron. He lifted his head, his hair all bloody, and looked at her in terrible hurt and confusion.
“Wynter,” he said, and the knocking continued to echo around the valley as she dropped the bow in horror at his bloody mouth, his accusing eyes.
“Wynter,” he said again and his voice was fading, getting farther away as all his blood poured out onto the flowers.
“Wynter.”
“Wynter!”
She woke with a startled gasp.
The shadows had grown but it was still light outside, she couldn’t have been asleep more than two hours. Christopher was calling her name and knocking softly but urgently on her bedroom door. “Wynter, Razi and your father are coming. I don’t think your father is well.”
The Eternal Engine Failing
Wynter scrambled from beneath the netting and rushed to unbolt the door, pushing Christopher back as she flew past him.
“Where are they?” she demanded, looking about her wildly. “What’s wrong with my father?”
Christopher put his finger to his lips and gestured to the receiving room. Wynter followed him unthinkingly across the room, until she realised that the hall door was ajar and their rooms open to the scrutiny of anyone who might pass by. She was im
mediately aware of her thin shift and her night cap, and she hesitated in the receiving room as Christopher continued out into the hall. He didn’t notice her lagging behind, and he went out and stood, openly staring down the corridor, his face grave.
Oh, for goodness sake, had he no sense?
“Christopher,” she crossed the receiving room and hissed from behind the door, keeping herself hidden from the corridor. “You can’t just stand there looking!”
He flicked a glance at her and went back to his blatant staring. “Why not?” he whispered. “No one is paying any heed.”
“People here are always paying heed,” she said, flinging her hands out in exasperation. But he just kept on looking, a small frown creasing his eyebrows. “What is it?” she asked, longing to see. “Can you see my father?”
Christopher glanced at her again, and then back up the corridor. His eyes were troubled, his face uncertain, as if he was unsure how to explain the situation. Finally, he grunted impatiently, grabbed her shoulder and pulled her through the door.
“Look,” he murmured.
Lorcan and Razi were standing at the junction of the two corridors, about fifty or sixty feet from Christopher and Wynter. They were deep in heated discussion with Heron and three other black-robed councilmen, and for a moment Wynter wondered what on earth Christopher was talking about. Her father looked fine. He was listening intently while Razi gestured and grunted out some low, angry diatribe to the exasperated men in front of them.
Then Wynter noticed how straight her father’s back was, how rigid, how his arms were stiff at his sides, his big hands balled into fists. She saw that he wasn’t listening at all, not really, he was just standing there with an expression of grim determination on his face. As she watched, Razi discreetly placed his hand on her father’s back, right between his shoulder blades, and she saw the muscles tense along Razi’s arm, his shoulder jumping into taut relief as he took her father’s weight without the other men realising it.
The Poison Throne Page 5