He moved slowly, turning his head in a daze and then suddenly he, too, snapped awake and turned quickly to secure the lead rein to his horse. Wynter nervously rubbed her arms and kept anxious watch up and down the alley. She huffed in exasperation as, instead of mounting his horse, Christopher hurriedly crossed to the barn door and began scooping out a hollow in the earth with his fingers.
“Christopher…” she hissed, but stopped as he took the remaining piece of cake from his pocket and dropped it into the shallow hole. She blinked as he carefully covered it and patted the earth back down. He bowed his head, his lips moving, and then straightened.
“Here,” he said, crossing swiftly to her and withdrew a package from under his shirt. He pressed it into her hands and she looked down at it in surprise. It was a sheet of paper, folded many times, stiff and bulky. “I meant to give it to you in your rooms. It’s a map of the secret passages.” She looked up at him in amazement. “You might need it,” he said, “but don’t try to use it as you go along. Memorise your route first, it’s too dark in there to try and use a map.”
They looked at each other, his eyes gravely holding hers as she held the map to her breast. Then Wynter pushed him gently to his horse. “Go,” she said. “Go.”
Christopher broke away from her with a cry of desperation and whirled, putting his foot in the stirrup and hopping to gain momentum for the rise into the saddle. He began to mount, but he never swung his leg across the horse’s rump. Instead, Wynter saw his eyes lift to the end of the alley and he froze, standing straight in the stirrup, staring at something out of her sight. His face hardened, his brows lowered, and he curled his lip into a dangerous snarl.
Slowly Christopher lowered himself to the ground and lifted his strange knife from his belt. Wynter immediately unsheathed her dagger and crouched, ready to fight or flee. Christopher pushed his horse aside and Wynter saw what had set him on alert.
A huge man loomed at the end of the alley, a sword in his hand. He was nothing but a giant dark shape against the open air, but it was obvious by his size that he was one of Jonathon’s personal guard. He moved to the centre of the alley, blocking their exit, and lifted his sword.
“You go now, girly,” said Christopher, and unhooked the buckler from his belt. He stepped forward and crouched, holding the unusual knife at the ready. The ornate handle was shaped like a squared-off cup, and Wynter saw that Christopher’s entire hand fit into it. He was gripping it somewhere inside, and it covered his hand and wrist with a solid metal brace so that the blade stuck straight out from his metal-clad fist, like a wicked extension of his arm. “Go on,” he repeated softly.
The man at the end of the alley hesitated slightly at the sight of Christopher’s weapon. Wynter sidled out from Christopher’s side and crouched down, her own knife hand held out, her free hand up in a defensive gesture. Christopher hissed in aggravation at her, but said no more about her leaving.
For a moment, the three of them remained motionless, waiting for someone to make the first move. Then the big man began to advance down the alley towards them, menacingly swinging his weapon from side to side. Wynter and Christopher tensed for battle. Then they jerked and flinched as a tall figure reared out of the shadows behind the man and dealt him a ferocious blow to the back of his head. He went down on his knees without a sound and swayed there, his sword hand falling loosely to his side. The tall figure stepped forward and they saw that it was Razi, his distinctive silhouette unmistakable against the rapidly paling sky. He lifted his left arm once more, a wooden cosh clearly visible in his upraised fist, and he dealt the guard another resounding crack to the head, watching coldly as he collapsed at his feet like a sack of grain.
He looked up at them then, his face invisible, his posture contained. He pointed to his chest, made what Wynter took to be a gesture to his eyes and then made a circling movement with his hand. He was going to keep an eye on their surroundings. He pointed at Christopher, and then pointed in the direction of the gate. Very faintly they heard him whisper, “Hurry!”
Christopher took a step forward and gazed up the alley at his friend. Razi paused. Christopher hesitantly raised his hand, holding it up in farewell. Then he touched his forehead, his mouth and his chest, bowing slightly as he did so, his eyes still locked on Razi’s silhouette. For a long moment Razi didn’t move, then he repeated the action, bowing slightly to his friend and holding it for a long time. Then he grabbed the fallen guard by the jacket, dragged him into a stall and was gone, swallowed by the deep shadows of the barn.
Christopher could wait no longer. In one quick movement he sheathed his knife and hooked the buckler to his belt. Gathering the reins in his right hand, he put his foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself into the saddle. His horse snorted and shook her head and side-stepped under him with a whickering neigh. Christopher clucked to her and pulled back the reins and sat down hard to make her stay easy. Wynter moved in and put her hand on the sturdy neck, looking up at him.
There were no words. What could they say? I love you? I will see you soon? Wait for me? What did any of that mean in this situation? He was going. He would never be back. There was nothing they could do about it.
The horse moved under him again and stepped sideways and tried to turn. A muffled shout from behind the barns made the two of them startle and look up. In the dim stalls, they heard a brief dash of metal, another muffled exclamation and a thud. They stared, straining to hear. Then Razi’s tall figure, stooped and running, shot along the back wall of the stalls and disappeared around the corner.
Wynter turned urgently to Christopher. “Go!” she hissed, and slapped the horse’s shoulder, causing it to jump forward on him. He took it as she meant it and urged the anxious creature into a trot, leading the line of animals up the alley. Wynter stepped back as the laden pack mule jogged by and watched as the line of horses got to the corner, and turned out of her sight.
She watched the dust of their passage hanging pale in the air, then she took off after them, sprinting to try and catch up.
At the edge of the exercise yard, instead of trying to follow along the horse path, Wynter cut down between the barns, raced across the paddocks and pushed through a hole in the yew hedge. She ran through the gardens, her feet flying in the dark, blind and moving on instinct, until she broke through the shadows into the wide expanse of the main thoroughfare and the gravel drive that led to the gates.
Christopher was advancing on the gate, his spare horses and the pack mule making far too much noise for comfort. As he reached the big arch, she saw a sentry step forward and faintly heard his voice challenging Christopher to produce his papers. Christopher bent forward, and she saw the guard reach up to him. There was a long pause, during which she saw Christopher turn in the saddle and look back. She resisted the urge to lift her hand. The sentry said something and Christopher turned back to him again.
She startled and whirled as someone dashed across the gravel to her. It was Razi. He came to a sliding, breathless halt beside her and clung to her shoulders. They turned to watch anxiously as the sentry walked away from Christopher’s horse and into the gatehouse. There was a momentary, agonising silence, and the sound of the gate chains came drifting across the morning. The shadows under the arch were split with a thin line of grey as the great double horse-gates were opened. Then Christopher was silhouetted against the morning light as he urged his horse through the gates and out into the free air. He took off at a high trot, they could see him already on the upward slope and heading for the trees as the gates began to slip closed. He had made it out.
Let him stay safe, prayed Wynter desperately. Let him stay free.
Razi tore his eyes from Christopher’s retreating back and looked down at the hand he had resting on Wynter’s shoulder. He frowned and tilted his head in confusion, staring at her clothes. The gate swung shut with a thud. Above the trees, the sky was just shimmering to palest lemon. The cockerels in the barnyard began to crow. “Wynter,” said Razi quietly, “i
s that not Christopher’s jacket?”
The Twisted Man
Wynter pulled distractedly at the dark fabric of Christopher’s jacket, running her fingers down the wooden buttons, pulling the collar up around her face. She had no doubt that it was his only jacket and squeezed her eyes shut in a mixture of regret for him and selfish bitter joy that she had this piece of him, scented by him and warmed by his body, to keep for her own.
Razi looked anxiously all about them as the light rapidly grew in the sky, and the trunks of the trees began to take definition in the morning air. He tightened his grip on Wynter’s shoulders and drew her into the deep shadows that lingered beneath the trees. “Sis,” he whispered, “let me return you to your rooms now. It is not safe.”
Wynter nodded absently, her mind still filled with Christopher, but as Razi turned her on her heel and began to guide her back towards the palace, two things happened that made her abruptly dig in her heels. Firstly she saw a discreet flash of movement under the trees that made her startle. She looked quickly away before Razi noticed the direction of her gaze, her heart hammering in anticipation.
And secondly, as Razi put his strong hand on the small of her back and murmured that they should hurry, Christopher sprang vividly to her mind. Wynter recalled how he had been unwillingly confined to his room these last four days or more. It occurred to her that the poor man had been dependent on Razi for every meal, forbidden to participate even in the provisioning of his own journey home. In an effort to keep Christopher safe, Razi had, to all intents and purposes, made him a prisoner. Razi gently pushed her, trying to get her moving again, and she realised that this was what he intended for her. If Razi had his way, he would lock Wynter up in Lorcan’s suite, safe and protected and completely helpless until he himself was gone and – as Razi saw it – no longer a danger to her. But she couldn’t afford that! She had things she needed to do! Things that she could not allow Razi be party to.
To Razi’s obvious shock, Wynter stopped dead in her tracks and twisted from his grip.
“Wyn…” he said, and she held her hand up to stop him.
Wynter raised her chin.
“I’ll make my own way from here, Razi.”
“But…” he was completely thrown at her sudden coldness. He looked around in confusion for a moment, then she saw his face clear with understanding. He leant down to look pleadingly into her face. “Oh, Wyn,” he said. “Don’t be angry with me, please. He couldn’t stay. Can’t you see? He couldn’t… They would have…”
The hopelessly misplaced guilt in his voice almost shattered Wynter’s resolve and she moved to comfort him, then stopped. She let her face harden. She could use this, Razi’s inaccurate interpretation of her motives, she could use it. She stepped back into the shadows and drew Christopher’s jacket tighter around her.
“Just let me be a while, Razi. I can find my own way back.”
His face fell, his eyes wounded. Then his expression darkened and he stepped closer to her, leaning over her from his great height. “Now, you look,” he said, his voice low, his eyes intent. “I just knocked five of my father’s personal guard cold off their feet. Worse, even, than what my father might do about it, is the fact that the men themselves might seek revenge upon me. And I shall not have them get to me through you. I will not have you pay that price for my actions! You are safe in your rooms, Wynter, and I intend to get you there. So stop acting the stubborn baby and do as you are told!”
Wynter jut her chin at the familiar tone. All Razi’s advantages of height, of strength and of birth were suddenly heavy in his voice, and Wynter lowered her head and glared at him in warning that he could not do that with her. She would never, ever, allow him to become his father, never, not in her presence at least, not in relation to their friendship. He locked eyes with her, his face set, and then his eyes cleared suddenly as he became aware of how he was snarling into her face, how he was looming over her, this small woman in her shift and robe, vulnerable to him and alone in the dark. He stepped back so fast that he almost stumbled, and stood a couple of paces back from her, his hands hanging by his side, lost.
She held her hand out, her voice soft. “Razi,” she said gently, and he glanced at her, fearful of her ire. “I promise you that I shall take care. I just need to be alone for a small while. I will walk in the yews, I may stroll down the chestnut avenue and then I shall go back to the suite. All right?” His lips parted in helpless distress and he blinked. Wynter’s heart wrung for him. She kept her hand up to prevent him following, and began to turn slowly away, her eyes still on his face. “Go get some rest, Razi. Please. You’re all worn out. Go get some rest… and I shall see you later.”
She walked quickly away, sticking to the shadows, staying deep in the trees. At the corner of the gardens, where she would pass behind a hedge and out of sight of the drive, she turned and looked back. Razi was still standing amongst the trees, his arms hanging loose by his sides. He was facing away from her, staring over the bailey walls to the outside hills and that small bit of wild forest visible to him against the dawn sky. He looked like a lost soul, abandoned and completely alone. Wynter clenched her jaw and forced herself to turn away.
Mist began to rise up from the damp morning grass as Wynter put distance between herself and Razi. The world coalesced into grey on grey. The sky became vivid with sunrise. She stayed close to the hedges and walls, keeping herself small and inconspicuous. Despite what she had said to Razi, Wynter had a deep fear of Jonathon’s men, and the idea of falling victim to their wrath terrified her. It was still very cold, and she buttoned Christopher’s jacket around her as she slipped along.
Eventually she came to a good place, quiet and secluded but open enough that no one could sneak up on her. She tucked her hands under her armpits and loitered at the base of the yellow dovecote. She didn’t have to wait for long. The orange cat slunk casually from the blackness of the yews and came to a sighing halt in the grey haze of the morning light. It yawned idly and sniffed, grizzling and tutting as if Wynter had interrupted a particularly good nap and it were impatient for her to get down to business.
You came for me! thought Wynter irritably, but she held her tongue and her patience, and finally the cat rolled its eyes and tipped its head to the avenue of chestnut trees.
“The spirit waits,” it said. “He has not much time for loitering; I suggest you hasten.”
Wynter cursed in exasperation, and resisted the urge to kick the cat across the courtyard. She ran as fast as she could to Rory Shearing’s avenue.
“Rory!” she hissed, coming to a skidding halt on the leafy path. “Rory! I’m here!” They’ll kill me if I’m caught! I’ll be gibbeted! I’ll be hung! She called out again, regardless. “RORY!”
There was nothing for a moment, and then she felt it, that particular prickling of the skin, the strange expansion of the light that signalled an apparition. Rory materialised right in front of her and she staggered back a few paces with shock. He was in an awful condition. “Rory!” she gasped in dismay.
He swayed in front of her, apparently finding it hard to see or to focus on her. There were patches of him missing, faded away entirely, just gone, and what was left of him kept flickering quickly on and off and fading in and out of focus. He slumped and swayed, and staggered from side to side for a moment until he got his ghostly feet under him. He looked past her, blinked, turned his eyes back to her, tried to focus. Finally he seemed to see her. “Child,” he said, his voice a moth wing against a window pane. “I seek your father…”
“No, Rory!” cried Wynter urgently. “My father is too ill! You are to deal with me! Understand! Bring your news to me!”
Rory squinted at her uncertainly. He lost his grip on the conversation and his eyes drifted to the left, his lids slipping closed, his head drooping. He began to lose definition.
“RORY!” Wynter clapped her hands loudly.
Rory slammed back into focus again, snapping his eyes to hers. “He will not travel!” h
e shouted as if waking from a violent dream. He focused on Wynter, staring into her eyes, and she gasped and felt her spine snap painfully straight. Rory, in his desperation, was concentrating too hard. It felt like cold water rushing through her, freezing inside her. Her body forgot to breathe and her heart stuttered in her chest. She choked on the word stop! and tried to lift her hand.
“He will not travel…” said Rory again, hopelessly, and then disappeared completely as his strength deserted him. Wynter, released from his terrible scrutiny, slumped to her hands and knees, gouging in the leaves as she tried to force a breath into her frozen lungs. A few yards away, Rory floated back into being again, but weak now, and sagging. He did not look at her, just drifted in the shadows, his arms wrapped around his stomach, his head down.
The cat hissed behind Wynter suddenly, its voice sharp with fear. “Soldiers! They are almost upon you!”
The urgent warning sent Wynter scrabbling mindlessly off the edge of the path. Rory faded from sight. She flung herself onto her stomach and wriggled through the leaf mould until she was hidden beneath the gnarled branches and thick foliage of a laurel. Thank God for Christopher’s jacket. Without it, she would have been a vivid white shape in the gloom of the undergrowth. She tried to push her lower half deeper into the bush, hiding the pale skirts of her shift and robe. She pressed her face into the dirt and froze as three soldiers staggered through the trees and came to an unsteady halt right in front of her. Their boots scuffed and dug at the leaves as they tried to keep their feet, and she saw with terrified relief that they had erased all traces of her presence on the path.
It was three of Jonathon’s men. One of them was barely conscious, leaning against his companion with buckling legs and a heavy head. The third man was obviously in command, and he paced ahead of the others, scanned the trees and then stalked back, grabbing the injured man’s arm and shouldering half his weight.
The Poison Throne Page 33