At Úlfnaor’s nod, Sólmundr translated this and the Merron began to disarm. Christopher and Wynter drew their horses to either side of Razi, shielding him as best they could from the soldiers’ view, and they too began divesting themselves of their weapons.
‘I hope they do not take it in mind to search us,’ murmured Christopher, lashing his katar to his saddlebag. ‘I doubt our brown lad here will pass muster as a pale Lord of the North.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Wynter, watching the lieutenant.
At any minute she expected him to order that they uncover their faces and spread their arms for a search. But once the Merron had safely secured their weaponry, the lieutenant simply wheeled his horse around and led the way into the camp.
Wynter turned to Razi in astonishment, and he looked at her across the top of his scarf, his brown eyes wide. They were to be let through? Just like that?
The Merron began to make their slow and stately progress through the gap in the earthworks, but Razi and Wynter continued to hesitate. The only contact they’d had with Alberon since this whole thing began were the assassins that he had apparently sent to end Razi’s life. What kind of reception could either of them expect here, and what would he be like, this boy they had both loved, now a man they knew nothing of?
Christopher drew his horse close. He looked at Razi. ‘Well, come on then,’ he said dryly. ‘It’s a mite late to turn back now.’
Razi let out a breath, long and slow. Then he straightened his shoulders, pulled his hat low to further hide his face, and urged his horse though the barricades and into his brother’s camp.
ALBERON
THEY WERE led straight through the heart of the camp, heading for the large tent, which was almost certainly Alberon’s quarters. Wynter regarded her surroundings with wary admiration. This was no slow-moving royal entourage, top-heavy with luxuries and cumbersome with staff. This was a lightweight, cleverly ordered military encampment. It had an air of disciplined flexibility to it, and she was sure that the entire settlement could be packed up and spirited away within an hour. There was a feeling of solid authority here, and Wynter had to admit she was impressed.
To the left of the main thoroughfare – surrounded by soldiers’ tents and right under the watchful eye of the royal quarters – was a line of civilian shelters. Wynter saw the brightly coloured domes of the Haunardii yurts; she saw tents painted with Comberman icons, and a pale-blue pavilion tent decorated with unicorns and other Midland fripperies. She eyed these quarters with heightened unease. Haun, Midland and Comberman. Representatives of the kingdom’s three greatest adversaries, come here to negotiate with Alberon behind his father’s back. It was difficult to believe there was any good explanation for that.
The Merron travelled through the camp in stately formation, Úlfnaor and Sólmundr taking the lead. The two high lords kept their heads and their arms bare, as was the Merron tradition, but in defence of Razi, the rest of the People kept their faces covered, their cloaks loosely hiding their rich clothes. Their sturdy Merron horses stepped as light as any trained Arabian, their giant warhounds trotting alongside with courtly discipline and disdain. Wynter did not think that any royal entourage could have looked more majestic.
News of their arrival trickled through the camp, and among the military tents, soldiers paused in their work to stare. Men ducked from doors, people ran around corners to get a look. In the civilian quarters, two Combermen stood in the shade of their awning, watching the newcomers with suspicion. As the Merron drew near, one of the Combermen glowered at the pagan symbols painted on their horses, crossed himself and spat.
There were no Haun to be seen, and their quarters seemed lifeless, the bright felt shelters heavy and motionless in the evening light.
Something caught Wynter’s eye, a dark figure moving through the military tents. She leaned discreetly back to get a better view, then startled at the unexpected sight of a Midland priest wending his way through the camp, a bowl in his hands. He cut a path between the tents and came out onto the thoroughfare ahead of the Merron party. He did not seem to notice the new arrivals, and Wynter saw him duck his cowled head at the low door of the blue pavilion tent and pass inside. She shuddered. As part of his diplomatic duties, Wynter’s father had been forced to spend no small amount of time in the Midland court. It had left Wynter with some horrible memories of Midland priests and the all-too-eager role they played in the inquisitions there.
She glanced at Razi regally astride his gleaming black mare, his attention on the silently waiting royal quarters. Soldiers were crowding the edge of the road now, unwittingly closing in on him.
Unconsciously, Wynter’s hand dropped to the empty belt on her hip.
At her side, Christopher chuckled. ‘I keep reaching too,’ he murmured. Up ahead of them, they saw Wari’s sword-hand creep to his own hip, then jerk back as he remembered his empty scabbard. ‘We look so sure of ourselves,’ said Christopher, ‘when we’re naught but ducks walking on ice.’
They were led to the base of the incline that led to the royal quarters, and the lieutenant signalled for them to halt. There was a moment of breathless anticipation, the Merron staring upwards, the jangle of tack and the breathy sighs of the horses the only sounds. At the top of the slope, the white canvas of the royal tent snapped and shivered in the faint breeze, an empty map-table and chairs crouched darkly beneath the awning.
Voices filtered down to them, the words indecipherable in the quiet evening air. Then the insect-netting on the main entrance was pulled aside and two Haun ducked out. They paused as they left the shelter of the awning, pulling their brightly coloured hats down to shade their eyes. The youngest gazed out across the tops of the trees as if deep in thought, but his companion glanced down the hill. At the sight of the Merron, his hand froze on the brim of his hat. He murmured something, and the younger man looked down. He stared for a long time, his flat, honey-coloured face expressionless, his narrow black eyes unreadable. Then he tugged his hat lower, said something to the older Haun and led the way down the hill.
The older man swept by with ostentatious disinterest. But the young man slowed as he approached, his eyes on the impressive Northern horses and Razi’s wonderful mare. Wynter smiled knowingly. The Haun were famously avaricious when it came to horses. Razi would do well to sleep with his reins in his hand tonight.
As he passed her by, the young Haunardii glanced briefly into Wynter’s masked face, then walked on. Wynter swivelled in her saddle to keep him in sight. So that is a Haun, she thought. How strange they look up close.
‘Lass . . . ? Lass!’ Christopher kicked her lightly to get her attention and she spun in the saddle, startled. ‘Is that him?’ he whispered, looking uphill.
A boy of about ten stood in the door of the royal tent – small, skinny, fine brown hair, obviously a servant. ‘Oh, Christopher,’ she hissed, her heart hammering. ‘Have some sense! Does that look like a royal prince?’
At a nod from the boy, the lieutenant dropped from his horse, jogged up the hill, and disappeared into the tent. The Merron sat in silence, waiting. A few moments later, the lieutenant reappeared. He trotted back down and stood squinting up at Úlfnaor, his hand shading his eyes.
‘His Royal Highness thanks you for your duty,’ he said. ‘You may give me the papers.’
Wynter’s heart dropped. Úlfnaor sat for a moment, his face a raw canvas of shock. Then his eyes hardened and he sat straighter, his expression cold. He said nothing.
The lieutenant went blandly on: ‘You have my permission to rest your people and your horses while you await your reply. There will certainly be food available, should you be short of supplies.’
He held his hand out for the papers, no trace of deference in his face. Wynter knew for certain then that he was acting on Alberon’s orders, and that this was a calculated snub against the Merron leader. She wondered if this was an indication of Albi’s attitude to Úlfnaor himself; or was it supposed to reflect his feelings for Marguerite Shirken,
whom Úlfnaor represented?
Úlfnaor remained coldly silent. Sólmundr, however, abruptly clucked his own horse forward, forcing the lieutenant back until he was a respectful distance from the Merron leader. Then Sól drew his mare to a halt and sat looking down on the lieutenant with all the scorn an eagle might show an ant.
‘This my High Lord and Shepherd, Úlfnaor, Aoire an Domhain,’ he said softly. ‘He come bearing papers from Royal Princess Marguerite Shirken of Northlands. He come with permission granted to negotiate with Royal Prince Alberon of Southlands, on behalf of Princess and also on behalf of all the Merron peoples. You may to announce him to your master as a leader of state and member of royal line of Merron peoples. Then you have my permission for to escort us into Royal Prince Alberon’s presence.’
The lieutenant faltered for a moment, and Wynter saw him calculating his options. She felt sorry for the man, caught between the Merron’s fierce nobility and his master’s orders. But when the lieutenant turned to scan the party of coldly staring Merron, this sympathy did not prevent Wynter from straightening like the rest of them and glowering at him with all the haughty disdain she could muster. The lieutenant turned on his heel and took the long walk back to Alberon’s tent.
Once the soldier had disappeared from sight, Úlfnaor turned to look Razi in the eye. The question was plain in his face: If this goes the way we thought it would, shall I do as we discussed? Razi nodded, and Úlfnaor turned front as the lieutenant made yet another appearance. There was someone with him, and Wynter’s heart bumped when she recognised who it was. Oliver! Dear God, it was Oliver. Razi’s hands tightened on the pommel of his saddle, and Wynter saw him lean forward slightly as the man they had called ‘Uncle’ began making his way down the slope towards them.
It was five years since Wynter had last seen Oliver, but he was much as she remembered him. He was shorter than King Jonathon, his dark hair fine and straight, but he had the same vivid blue eyes as his royal cousin, the same athletic build. He was thin now, though, his face older than it should be, his eyes strained. Wynter watched as Oliver approached the waiting Merron and she remembered with sadness all this man’s great kindness, all his sly sense of fun. They had been such fast friends, Oliver, Jonathon and her father. He had been such a loyal subject. What had happened to cause him to plot in secret against his King, and to welcome Jonathon’s enemies to his table?
Oliver came to stand by Sólmundr’s horse, and Wynter felt cold determination close over her heart and seal off her fond memories. Uncle or not, this man was now a traitor to Jonathon’s throne. He had knowingly acted against the King, and he had enticed the King’s heir to do the same. At the very least, he had a lot of explaining to do.
‘You refuse to hand over the royal papers?’ Oliver asked, his Hadrish flawless, his cultured voice cold.
Sólmundr began to reply, but Úlfnaor raised his hand to silence him. The warrior bowed to his leader and drew his horse back into formation.
‘I feel certain in my heart that there has been mistake in carrying my introduction to the Royal Prince,’ said Úlfnaor quietly. ‘I certain of this, because if Royal Prince knowed that I am diplomatic envoy for Royal Princess, come with full permission also to negotiate for my peoples, he would have greet me with honour and treat me with respect, as one head of state to another, with the grace and nobility worthy of man destined to be King of his peoples.’ Oliver pursed his lips at this, and Úlfnaor knowingly held his eyes. ‘And so,’ he continued, ‘I allow my Second again to introduce me, knowing that, this time, there will be no more mistake.’
Sólmundr once again clucked his horse forward. He once again made his introductions, and the Merron once again waited. This time, Oliver bowed and the lieutenant smoothly followed his lead.
‘Lord Úlfnaor,’ said Oliver, still bent at the waist. ‘Forgive me. We had been told to expect a simple messenger, not a diplomatic representative. I fear we are ill-prepared. Had the Royal Prince understood . . .’
‘It not matter. I forgive. We go on.’
Oliver straightened. ‘Unfortunately, his Royal Highness is very busy. He begs that you forgive him this, asks that you hand over the papers and says that he will speak with you as soon as time allows.’
Wynter briefly closed her eyes and shook her head. So, that was how it was to be. After all he had done to get here, after everything he had been forced to sacrifice, it was quite clear that Úlfnaor was never destined to get his audience. He would never have the chance to negotiate on behalf of his people. He was to be a messenger in all but name, and Shirken would laugh behind her sleeve to the very end.
There was a long, empty silence, during which time Úlfnaor sat heavy in his saddle, and Sól stared blindly out at the trees.
‘I will come to royal tent,’ said Úlfnaor at last. ‘I will hand papers myself, as is my duty. Then you will show my party to our quarters and I will wait the Prince’s pleasure.’
Oliver blinked in surprise. He had been expecting wounded pride perhaps; had been anticipating an argument. He went to speak, seemed to think better of it, nodded and gestured that the Merron should dismount and follow him up the hill.
Christopher fell into place at Wynter’s side and they strode forward to flank Razi as the party trudged through the last of the daylight to Alberon’s tent. At the royal quarters, Úlfnaor and Sól went forward with the papers. The rest of the Merron closed ranks around Razi, shielding him from sight and obscuring Wynter’s view of the tent. She heard Oliver’s voice as he announced the Merron lords.
‘Your Royal Highness, I present Lord Úlfnaor, Aoire of the Merron people, emissary from her Royal Highness Princess Marguerite of the Northlands.’
This was greeted with silence, during which Wynter imagined Alberon stepping into the sunlight. Úlfnaor and Sól kneeling in the dust. Úlfnaor holding out the package of letters. She imagined Alberon reaching forward and taking it. She tried to picture him as something more than the boy she’d known. In her mind, she tried to form him into a man. But nothing came to her, nothing but a clear image of him as she had last seen him, a ten-year-old boy standing in a doorway, the bright sun in his hair, his hand raised in farewell – her final sight of him as she had ridden away from the palace. She waited for his voice, wondering if she’d know it. He did not speak.
Instead Oliver said, ‘His Highness thanks you.’
At Wynter’s side, Razi held his breath, waiting. She resisted the urge to take his hand. The wall of cloaked and masked Merron was blocking their view, and Wynter felt closed in by them. She could not breathe. She longed to push them all aside and pull the scarf from her face. She longed to shout, Albi! It’s us! It’s Wyn and Razi! We are here! She glanced at Christopher, standing to Razi’s left. His hands were clenched.
Úlfnaor’s voice rang out suddenly, his tone urgent, as though Alberon had begun to turn and the Merron leader wished to prevent him leaving. ‘Your Royal Highness! I have other package for you, it also my duty to deliver into your hands.’
There was a pause, as if the Prince was taking his time turning back. A surprisingly deep voice said, ‘Another package?’
Razi took off his hat and scarf. He let the Merron cloak drop from his shoulders. He lifted his head. The Merron parted ranks, and the brothers were finally revealed to each other.
Alberon stood with his hand shading his eyes, puzzled. It took him a moment to comprehend; then he stepped forward, his face opening in surprise. His hand dropped to his side. His full lips curved into a smile. He whispered, ‘Razi.’
Wynter gazed at him in wonder, and the world narrowed to just that moment, to just him. Alberon. She hardly registered Oliver bellowing for the guards, barely felt the Merron close in again to protect Razi. The clatter of the approaching soldiers was just a faint echo on the air.
Alberon. Alberon was here.
He is so tall, she thought in amazement. And indeed he was; tall as Razi, and strongly built, the bounding athleticism of their father evident in his bro
ad shoulders and solid body. His previously curling hair was shorn to a choppy red-blond thatch, his pale eyebrows stark against his sun-browned skin. But his eyes were still the same, his vivid blue eyes under those sleepy lids. Still Albi. Still him.
Wynter felt a smile begin on her lips, but even as she went to step forward, Alberon’s face closed up, his brows drew down, and his court-mask slipped smoothly into place. No longer the lost brother, no longer the childhood friend, it was a prince who now stood before her, and the expression on his face brought Wynter to a standstill. As Alberon lowered his chin and eyed Razi across the dust-laden air, Wynter felt a cold certainty that it was not a brother he saw, but a potential rival and a suspected adversary in his recent struggle with the King.
The sound of the advancing soldiers slammed into Wynter’s consciousness. The Merron jostled close as they crowded around Razi. The warhounds began barking, and Úlfnaor yelled at them, ‘Tarraingígí siar!’
Someone among the advancing soldiers shouted, ‘Shoot those damned dogs!’
Without taking his eyes from his half-brother, Alberon lifted his hand and cried, ‘Enough!’ At his voice, the soldiers came to a jangling halt.
In the relative silence, the warhounds’ growls were very obvious. Sól murmured, ‘Tóg go bog é,’ and the big dogs stilled. The late evening air filled with the shuffling of feet and the murmuring of anxious men. There was a dangerous edge to the sound: the nervous anticipation of battle. When Razi cleared his throat and stepped from the protective circle of the Merron, Wynter had to physically prevent herself from pulling him back.
He walked into the open and spread his arms to show that he was unarmed.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ he called. ‘The Lord Razi begs permission to come forward and address you.’
Wynter regarded Alberon tensely. This was a calculated beginning on Razi’s part. It established both Razi’s recognition of Alberon as rightful heir to the throne, and Razi’s acceptance of himself as nothing more than a lord. With these few simple words, Alberon, and more importantly, Alberon’s men, had been assured that Razi had no pretensions to the throne.
The Rebel Prince Page 3