Razi turned his face to peer at her from under his hair. “Not any more he hasn’t.”
The cold certainty in Razi’s voice sent a chill through Wynter. Razi shut his eyes again and turned his face back into the covers. Lorcan kept combing his fingers through the young man’s hair. His eyes met Wynter’s and she saw her own sorrow reflected there. This was so wrong, that Razi should need to be this person. So wrong.
“I will leave tomorrow,” sighed Razi, “I cannot stay any longer. I cannot bear to stay any longer.”
“It is pointless, I suppose, to ask once again, that you take my daughter with you?”
Wynter jerked at Lorcan’s request and glared at him, but he stubbornly levelled his eyes at her, his face set.
Razi sighed and shook his head. “Please stop, friend. Please. I will only get her killed. Wynter is safer here, far from me. Far from my bloody, God-cursed company.” Lorcan’s eyes fluttered and he moved his hand to Razi’s back, absently rubbing a circle between the poor man’s shoulder blades.
Wynter squeezed her eyes shut in blessed relief. She was free of that complication at least. What a nightmare it would have been, had Razi agreed. Her eyes opened in anxiety for him, and for his safety, should the search for Christopher’s papers continue. “Are Christopher’s papers safe, Razi? Once you are on the road, it will be a lot harder for you to keep them hidden.”
Razi chuckled again. He raised his head, shrugging Lorcan’s hand off him and pushed himself carefully back in the chair. His face was creased with delicious mirth, and he grinned at the two of them as he settled against the cushions. “I don’t have them!” He laughed, amused at their expressions. “Oh, come now! Do you really think that I would send my good friend into the world, unpapered? And he a branded slave? Please.” He continued to grin at their confusion and spread his hands as if to say, honestly now, are you really so dim? “Christopher has them!” he exclaimed, when they still showed no signs of comprehension. “They’re in his dressing trunk. He will find them when next he changes his clothes.”
Lorcan gasped. It had been a bluff. A crazy, dangerous, heart-stopping bluff. And it had paid off. But now Razi had to take his father by surprise. Had to leave as soon as possible, before the wily King began to suspect that all Razi’s power over him was nothing but smoke and mirrors.
And because of this, Wynter, too, would have to leave early. She sank despairingly to the edge of Lorcan’s bed. Razi leant over and shook her knee, completely innocent of the implications of his early departure. “Come on, sis!” he said softly, “No long faces, eh? It’s only one day less.” He grinned at her and she raised her eyes to Lorcan. He was watching her, his face carefully neutral, his eyes sad. One day less.
“Well,” rasped Lorcan, shaking himself. “Shall we have some wine? I know I’d like some!” He smiled at her then, and shrugged. What can we do? that shrug said, What can we do? Make merry and laugh while we may. Tomorrow is another day.
Razi pushed to his feet, smiling hopefully at Lorcan as he did. “I’ll fetch your portfolio, Lorcan? If I may?” The big man nodded in agreement and waved his hand to his dressing trunk. Razi crouched to look Wynter in the eye, shaking her knee again. “Hello? Madonna of the Sorrows? Will you send a page for wine?” Please, please, his desperate smile said, let us not grieve, not tonight.
“Wynter?” he repeated. “Some wine?”
She snapped out of her gloomy reflection and focused on his pleading face, only inches from her own. Overcome with tenderness and pity, Wynter impulsively took Razi’s face between her hands and kissed him, then she placed her forehead against his. She felt Razi’s breath hitch with a suppressed sob, and he tried to pull away. She gently tightened her hands against his smoothly shaven cheeks, keeping him in place. “I suppose,” she said. “That you’d like some cakes, too?” She looked up into his eyes without pulling away and his face creased up for a moment, his eyes full.
“Aye,” he said unsteadily. “I’d like some cakes, too.”
“Jam tarts!” rasped Lorcan from the top of the bed.
“Bah!” cried Wynter in mock irritation. “You men and your sweet things!” She pushed Razi from her and he rose to his feet, moving to kneel by Lorcan’s dressing trunk, where he stayed motionless for a moment, his face hidden, before opening the lid to look for the manuscripts.
At the bedroom door, she paused to look back at them. Lorcan was surreptitiously pushing back the covers and reaching for his robe. He winked at her and mouthed, I’ll get up for a while. She shook her head in exasperation, but made no move to stop him as he slipped his arms into the sleeves and laboriously pushed himself to his feet. With a look of utter concentration he took aim, and then launched himself at the fireplace. Razi yelled in shock and consternation when the big man plopped breathlessly down in the fireside chair, and Lorcan laughed in delight at the wonderfully startling effect he’d had on his young friend.
Big child! thought Wynter fondly and turned to leave.
They all froze at a quiet knock on the hall door.
“Oh, get rid of them!” cried Lorcan, “whoever the hell they are!”
Razi stared anxiously up at her, the folio on his knee. Wynter’s face hardened. It didn’t matter who it was – messenger, councilman, guard – she was determined they wouldn’t get access tonight.
“Stay here,” she whispered and crossed quietly to the hall door. Another knock, a little louder than before. “Who is there?” she queried, her voice cold. “It is much too late for callers.”
Razi had followed her and was standing in the retiring room door, listening. The two of them shrank back at the familiar voice of the King.
“Open the door, Protector Lady. I would speak with your father.” Jonathon spoke quietly, his face obviously very close to the other side of the door.
No! Wynter turned to Razi in despair. He had folded over on himself, utterly distraught. No! No, no. Was he to be denied even this? His last night. His farewell? He turned and staggered into Lorcan’s room. He looked like a man who had been kicked by a horse.
Wynter panicked for a moment. How could she deny the King? “I… give me a moment, your Majesty… I am undressed.”
“Make haste.”
She ran from the door to Lorcan’s room. Razi had fallen to his knees at Lorcan’s feet, his arms wrapped around the big man’s waist, his head buried in Lorcan’s chest. Lorcan smoothed his hair, his cheek pressed to the top of the young man’s head.
“Shhhhhh,” whispered Lorcan helplessly, “Shhhhhhh…”
The King knocked on the door again. Insistently this time.
Razi,” cried Wynter softly. She felt her tears, wet and hot on her cheeks as she tried to pull Razi from Lorcan’s arms. “Razi!” she begged “Please!” Then she realised that Lorcan was also gripping tightly, refusing to let the young man go, and she gave in. She flung herself on Razi and rested her cheek against his heaving back.
Suddenly Razi threw them off. He literally shook himself out of their arms with a violent shrug and surged to his feet, his tear-stained face shining in the firelight. He turned immediately from them to stalk out of the room. While Razi was still in the doorway, Jonathon knocked once more and Razi spun in rage and glared at the hall door, his fists clenched. Wynter had never seen such utter hatred on his face.
“Razi,” hissed Lorcan.
The young man turned to him at once. He spread his hands in helpless grief, his eyes lost.
That was Lorcan’s last sight of Razi. Then he was gone.
No Way Back
As soon as Wynter unlatched the bolt, Jonathon slipped into the room and shut the door carefully behind him. He looked Wynter up and down, frowning slightly at her dishevelled hair and puffy eyes. He smelled strongly of wine and Wynter took a step back. She had an abiding distrust of drunkards.
But the King was only a little unsteady on his feet and his eyes, though red and heavy, were lucid. He stood swaying slightly, and peered past her to the retiring room.
Wynter nodded, keeping her distance. What the hell do you want? she thought. On this night of all nights, couldn’t you just have left us alone?
Jonathon looked uncertain for a moment, and expelled a deep sigh. Then he ran his hands through his curls in a movement that was so Razi that it knocked Wynter sideways. She had expected impatience at being kept waiting, or rage at the fact that she had obviously not been getting herself dressed. But Jonathon seemed so diffident standing there, so unsure of himself, that she was uncertain of which way to act. Then he seemed to come to a decision, and to Wynter’s shock, he actually patted her shoulder before passing into the retiring room and leaning in at her father’s bedroom door.
“Lorcan,” he said, hesitating on the threshold, his hand on the lintel.
“What do you want, Jonathon?” Lorcan’s rasp came clear and cold.
The King dropped his head, the firelight crowning him in burning gold.
“Allow me enter, brother. I would speak to you.”
The seemingly genuine request in Jonathon’s voice had Wynter narrowing her eyes in suspicion. I wonder, she thought, would you really leave, if my father refused you entrance?
It seemed that Lorcan was considering the same question, because there was a long, heavy silence during which the King continued to lean at Lorcan’s door, waiting. Finally she heard her father say, “I am tired, your Majesty. Another time perhaps.”
The King straightened and stared in at Lorcan. Wynter held her breath, waiting for the explosion, anticipating the sudden rush of temper. But Jonathon just stood very still for a brief moment. Then he dropped his head, pushed himself from the doorframe and turned to leave.
Wynter stood, frozen and anxious, as the King approached her. But he simply made his heavy way past her and drew back the bolt to the hall door without comment. He had already crossed over the threshold when Lorcan called out.
“Jon!”
The King paused, his posture tense, listening. There was another long pause, then Lorcan said quietly, “Come back here.”
Jonathon stepped back into the room and closed and bolted the door. As he passed through the receiving room, he picked up one of the heavy round chairs and carried into Lorcan’s room.
Wynter loitered in the door for a moment, eyeing the King as he clumsily placed his chair in front of Lorcan and sat himself down. She raised her eyes to her father and awaited his instructions. Lorcan was slumped in his own chair, glowering. He had rubbed his face clean of tears and pushed his tangled hair back behind his shoulders; there was no softness in his eyes now. He glanced at his daughter, “Come in, Wynter,” he said. “Sit down.”
Jonathon looked over his massive shoulder at her, not pleased. But he didn’t object when she crossed the room and perched at the end of the bed.
“I have not yet eaten, Father,” she said. “I may eventually have to grab a bite in the kitchen.”
Lorcan met her eye and understood immediately. She had business to do, business that he would assume had to do with her early departure. He nodded, “Whenever you feel hungry, dear, you go right ahead. Otherwise, stay as long as you wish.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Then Lorcan turned his full attention to the King, his face hard. Jonathon returned his gaze and, for a moment, the two men silently regarded each other across the remains of their tattered friendship.
Lorcan’s face remained stony and Jonathon was the first to look away. He shut his eyes and shook his head. He looked into the fire and seemed to consider something. Reluctantly, he reached into his shirt and withdrew a folded piece of paper. He clutched it for an instant, as if unwilling to part with it. Then he leant across the space between himself and Lorcan, and held it out in offering.
Lorcan frowned at it, as if it might bite him, and Jonathon gestured with it impatiently, thrusting it at his old friend. “For Christ’s sake!” he growled eventually. “Take the bloody thing!”
Lorcan took the paper, his face tight. He snapped it open and scanned the contents. Wynter saw his face go slack, and she saw him read and reread and then once more read the entire document. His eyes lost their focus then, and he lowered the page, staring at nothing for a moment. Then he turned his gaze to Jonathon, scanning his face with renewed suspicion.
The King groaned in genuine distress and held his hand up as though to ward off an accusation. “Oh, brother…” he said, averting his eyes. “I fully deserve that look… but have some mercy on me, please. I swear to you, there are no demands attached. It is yours. It’s all yours,” he mumbled. “Too late, I know, but I wish you whatever joy is left of it.”
Wynter could hear the effects of liquor in Jonathon’s speech, and it made her nervous. Drunk men were always so unpredictable and strange. She straightened and slid warily from the bed, alarmed at the expression on Lorcan’s face. She stood, watching him for a moment as a confusion of emotions fought for dominance. He looked as though he might cry, as though he might scream, as though he might rear up and strike Jonathon down. His breathing was just a touch too fast, his cheeks flaring red. Finally, his eyes on the King, his jaw working, Lorcan flung his arm out, offering her the paper. The fire illuminated it briefly in his outstretched hand, Jonathon’s fluid script visible in shadow through the backlit parchment.
Wynter took it. It was, of course, her father’s licence of work. Signed and sealed, all in order. Granted, free and willingly, and for what God-known reason, she couldn’t tell. She read it, the paper trembling in her hand and she lifted her eyes to glare at Jonathon, who sat with his face averted still.
“We thank your Majesty,” she hissed, “for your kindness and generosity in granting my father his licence of work. What a pity you could not have found it in your heart to trust him with it before you drove him into the ground.”
“Does this mean, Jonathon, that you want me to leave?”
At Lorcan’s dry whisper, Wynter bared her teeth in panic and clutched her father’s shoulder. Oh no, surely not! Surely you won’t throw him out? Not in this state? Not when I am about to abandon him into your care?
But Jonathon raised his eyes to stare at his old friend, and his face was so deeply distraught that Wynter had to blink to ensure it wasn’t a trick of the light. He shook his head inarticulately, searching Lorcan’s pale and shadowed face and finding only recrimination there.
“Friend,” he managed finally, “have I become such a monster, that you would believe that of me?”
There was no reply from Lorcan, but Wynter felt his posture soften a little, and she wondered what it was that he was thinking. For herself she could not see past the man who had so cruelly mistreated Razi, who had almost cost Christopher his life, and who had set Alberon fleeing like a fox from hounds. She looked into the soft pleading of Jonathon’s wine-flushed face and saw only self-indulgence and a childish desire for absolution.
Jonathon tilted his head, wholly concentrating on Lorcan, his voice low and despairing. “Lorcan?” he said, as if asking her father a question. “Today, Razi beat five of my men out of their senses. Not just that… but I suspect he also had three of them killed… they were in the forest, and have yet to be found.” Jonathon paused in disbelief, shaking his head and looking at nothing for a moment, trying to puzzle it out. “Razi did this,” he murmured. “My Razi.”
Lorcan was merciless. “You have always known, Jonathon, what that boy is capable of when protecting those he loves. What the hell did you expect? After you pushed him so hard?”
“But what choice had I!” cried the King, genuinely distressed “Tell me what I could have done differently, Lorcan? Tell me how it is possible to change anything, now that it’s all in motion?”
“I cannot do that, friend,” said Lorcan softly. “Because I still do not truly know what it is that you have done.”
Jonathon laughed bitterly and flung up his hands. “Other than oppress my people and ruin my beautiful boys? Other t
han that?” He looked Lorcan up and down, and met his eyes, his throat working. “Other than drive my good friend almost to his grave because I did not trust him to have my back?” He bit his lip, his eyes bright. He made a helpless gesture with his hands. “I am sorry, brother. I have no idea how we can get through this. And I am sorry for it.”
There was a moment’s silence. Wynter felt Lorcan lean forward a little. He gazed into his old friend’s face. Wynter did not like how shallowly he was breathing. She shifted her hand from his shoulder to his back. “Perhaps,” Lorcan said hoarsely. “Perhaps it is not too late? If you forgive Alberon, if you revoke the mortuus…”
Jonathon sat back, ruefully shaking his head. “Lorcan, do you think I would have done all this, were I not certain of Alberon’s intentions? The boy is set against me. He plans a coup. There is no doubt of it. As we speak, he and Oliver gather representatives to their camp. They are deep in negotiations with all the rival factions that nibble the edges of this fragile kingdom.” The King looked into the fire, his eyes wide. “They will gather their allies, and, using your machine, they will attempt to wrest the kingdom from me.” He shook his head again, sighed, and closed his eyes. “I am caught. I can think of no other options. Other than to kill Alberon and destroy poor Razi by putting him in his place.”
“Using my…” Lorcan’s muscles jerked under Wynter’s hand. “They have the machine?” He gripped the arms of his chair, and Wynter could feel him trembling.
“Father,” she murmured. “Calm yourself…”
“No!” cried the King impatiently, “they do not have the machine. There is only one left, and it is…” he glanced at Wynter, “in my care.” He looked again at Lorcan and there was something new in his eyes now. A sulky kind of vindictiveness that put Wynter on alert.
“I used your machine to suppress the insurrection, Lorcan… Oliver was there… he was on the crew.”
Lorcan groaned and covered his face with his hands, and Wynter saw a bright moment of satisfaction flare in Jonathon’s face.
The Poison Throne Page 35