Then he was gone, and Wynter fell to her knees in the dust, her hands clawed, her eyes staring, her heart clogged in her throat.
Razi bellowed ‘no’, and Wynter turned just in time to see him fling himself between Alberon and the horse. Razi threw up his arms, turned his face away, and the messenger hit him full force.
Rider and horse exploded into cloud and dust, scattering the air with particles of light. Razi was flung into his brother’s arms, his coat and his hair beaded in phosphorescence. As Alberon staggered under Razi’s weight, Wynter saw his eyes lift to the barricades. His face fell, and Wynter spun once more to face the trees, seeking to find the source of his despair.
More riders were galloping from the forest. Their faces set, their crossbows drawn, they passed through the thick walls of the barricades, their eyes fixed on the Rebel Prince. Wynter recognised the two in front; knew them by the Merron arrows that still pierced their bodies and their blood-blackened horses. They led a charge of glowing nebulous men – victims of God knew what distant battle – all intently following the two ahead. Wynter ran towards them, screaming, ‘No! No!’ They advanced unheeding on a hurricane of dust and cold. As one, they raised their crossbows and fired. Instead of the thwack of arrows there came a belch of smoke from each bow, a roar as from a series of cannons. Trails of smoke shot outwards, passing over Wynter’s head, ruffling her hair. She spun, following the smoke as it arced its deadly trail to the hill above her.
Alberon looked up, his face illuminated by the advancing light. Razi frowned and turned, too late to see. The missiles hit and the brothers were consumed in fire.
A warhound growled in the gloom, and Wynter snapped awake, listening. The dog growled softly again, but there was no urgency to it and no other noise except for the gentle breathing of the tent’s sleeping occupants.
Christopher lay beside her, quietly dreaming. His arm was heavy across Wynter’s waist, his silver bracelets digging into her ribs. She burrowed against him, deep into the warmth of their shared bedding, and inhaled his lovely scent, trying to clear her head of the stench of gunpowder. Christopher murmured something and chuckled softly in his sleep. Wynter took his hand. The ragged ends of his woollen bracelet tickled her wrist. His slim body was warm against hers, a warm strength and a comfort to counteract the terrible chill of her dream.
Razi was asleep beside them, stretched out long and motionless, flat on his back. She watched carefully for the rise and fall of his chest – making sure that he was still alive. Gradually the horror of the dream began to fade.
The warhound growled softly again, his chain clinking. The hounds were tethered just outside the tents, dauntless guardians in the dark. Wynter shifted her head, trying to see them, but they were nothing but grey shades at the dim hollow of the door. Outside, the first robin trilled in anticipation of the day. He was a touch premature, as the sky had hardly begun to grey and the camp was lifeless and still.
Razi sighed. He dropped his arm from across his face and Wynter saw his eyes flash in the gloom. He was awake, staring at the ceiling.
‘Wyn?’ he whispered.
‘Aye.’
‘He plans making some of Lorcan’s machines and gifting them to the Midland Reformists.’
Wynter shot to her elbows. Damn it, the brothers had stayed up talking! She had assumed they would go directly to bed, but they must have continued their conversation long after she had stumbled off. She shook her head in grim frustration and cursed herself for having missed out.
‘Midlanders!’ she whispered. ‘The occupants of the blue tent, I assume?’
‘Aye,’ breathed Razi, looking up at her. ‘In return for your father’s weapons, the Midlanders have promised to keep Tamarand off Marguerite’s back. While she is usurping her father’s throne, they will use the machines against Tamarand, their own King. They hope to pummel him into signing the Reformer’s Charter of Rights and so bring an end to his terrible inquisitions.’
Wynter thought about that for a moment. She had to admit, it was quite a good plan. With Tamarand distracted by internal conflict, he would be unlikely to leap to Shirken’s aid. It was possible that Marguerite could have her father dethroned and herself crowned before anything could be done about it.
‘You know, if they carry this off, it is quite possible that the Midland Reformists will succeed in ending Tamarand’s tyranny. My father suspected that the reform had much secret support within Tamarand’s court. His people are long weary of his madness.’
Razi sighed and she barely made out the tired shake of his head in the darkness. He did not approve this toppling of yet another royal house.
‘There are Combermen here too, Razi. What of them?’
‘They are Comberman liberals, sympathisers to the Midland Reform. They come to pledge their support. Should the Midland Reform succeed, the Combermen have assured the reformists that there will be no reprisals from them.’
‘Have they the power to make such a promise? The Comberman Sect is terribly strong in Comber’s ruling classes; I find it unlikely that any liberal faction would have much foundation for . . .’ A cold possibility occurred to her and she faltered in shock. ‘Oh, Razi, is Alberon offering them a machine, too?’
Razi’s silence told her that he suspected so.
Wynter did not like the vista this unfolded. Those mighty weapons, kept firmly in Southlander control, would be a terrific boon for Jonathon’s frail little kingdom. But proliferated willy-nilly among the surrounding factions? It took all the advantages of sole possession from the Southlanders and put the kingdom right back into a position of inferior strength.
Razi shifted quietly beside her. ‘Wyn? Can you imagine those machines in the hands of the Comberman Sect or, God forbid, if Tamarand himself got his hands on one? And worse, can you imagine Marguerite Shirken and what she might do with them?’
‘I am sure Alberon must have considered this,’ she whispered. ‘Why do we not—’ Behind her, Christopher groaned and rolled onto his back. ‘Good Frith,’ he sighed. ‘What are you two yelling on about at this hour of the night?’
Wynter smiled down at him. He was barely awake. ‘Albi is convinced that King Shirken has lost his reason,’ she whispered.
‘Wouldn’t be surprised,’ mumbled Christopher sleepily. ‘The old bastard has always been cracked in his brainpan.’
‘Marguerite plans to overthrow her father,’ she whispered. ‘Albi plans to support her. He thinks she will be a stabilising force in the North.’
Christopher lost his drowsy loose-limbed torpor and lay very still and quiet. ‘A stabilising force?’ he said at last. ‘That ain’t what I’d call her.’
Razi sighed. ‘Alberon also plans supplying the Midland Reformists with two of Lorcan’s war machines, in order to help them force an end to Tamarand’s inquisitions. In effect, he is plotting the usurpation of both of our father’s strongest neighbours.’
Christopher huffed dryly. ‘Does he plan on invading the Moroccos, too?’ he whispered. ‘Just for the sport of it?’
‘This is not funny,’ hissed Razi. ‘Alberon is bent on restructuring the kingdoms of Northern Europe. He will bring the entire delicate house of cards falling down around our ears.’
‘Well then,’ sighed Christopher, ‘we can all reshuffle, and start a new game.’
Razi tutted, frustration evident in his quiet voice. ‘This is no joke, Christopher.’
Christopher rose to his elbow and looked at Razi across Wynter’s back. ‘Good job I ain’t laughing, then, ain’t it? Marguerite is a bloody-handed bitch, Razi, but she ain’t no worse than her father. Alberon is simply trading one tyrant for another – what of it? And if he helps end a decade-long series of inquisitions in the Midlands, I say power to his hand.’
Christopher glanced at the sleeping Merron, then leaned across Wynter to whisper quietly down at Razi: ‘You know what?’ he whispered. ‘Leave him to it and let’s you, me and Iseult take ourselves home to the Moroccos. This is all just the same
old song with a different set of notes, Razi. That’s all it will ever be. All your hard work, all the things you and Lorcan sacrificed, none of it has made one whit of difference in the end. You ain’t ever going to change anything here, Razi; it ain’t ever going to end! Ain’t you tired of it? Don’t you want some life? Don’t you want some joy?’ He glanced down at Wynter, then back to Razi, who remained silently motionless in the shadows. ‘Don’t you want something better than this, Razi?’ he asked softly. ‘Let’s go find something better than this.’
‘I cannot,’ said Razi.
Christopher growled and hung his head in aggravation.
Wynter ran her hand up his bare arm and he looked down at her, his pale face floating above hers in the dark. She resisted the urge to push his hair from his forehead in case he felt she was making a child of him. ‘This is a delicate situation, love,’ she whispered. ‘There are bridges burned between the King and his heir that only Razi can remake. Alberon has devised a wonderful plan to strengthen this kingdom, and Razi is his only means of persuading the King to listen. Without Razi’s influence—’
‘Wonderful plan?’ said Razi. He huffed under his breath. ‘My father’s kingdom is a miracle, Wynter. He has maintained its stability all this time, not by brute force but by diplomacy and by care. The tyrants that surround us may continue to shred and tear at their own people, and their policies may be vile beyond conscience, but my father has maintained the most cordial of relationships with them all. They make use of his port road; they benefit from the safe shipping lanes that he has established via his relationship with the Sultan. And while they may sneer at his ridiculous laws and at his scandalous humanism, they leave us be – because Father has ensured that they all profit by his continued presence on the throne and because he has never once posed a military threat to them.’ Razi shook his head. ‘Alberon will toss all that aside,’ he said. ‘He will give it all up, in the futile belief that violence will end violence.’
Razi paused. Wynter and Christopher waited in silence for him to continue. Wynter wished that she could see his face more clearly; she could get nothing from his soft, calm voice. ‘My father’s kingdom is a miracle,’ he whispered again. ‘I have no intention of aiding my brother in its destruction.’
Wynter lifted herself to her elbow, shocked at the implication of her friend’s words. ‘Razi,’ she whispered, ‘you cannot mean to betray him?’
‘Betray him? Good God, Wynter. What would make you use such a word against me?’
‘Without your support, Alberon is dead, Razi. He is dead. You can’t be unaware of this!’
‘What Alberon proposes will destroy our father, Wyn. It will destroy everything! I cannot let this happen. But I will not betray him. How can you even . . . ? How can you even begun to have . . . ?’ Razi moaned in sudden desperate frustration and covered his face with his hands. He lay in total silence for a moment. Wynter was certain he had his teeth gritted, his eyes squeezed tight. Finally he pushed his hands back through his tangled shock of curls and took a deep breath. When next he spoke, his voice had dropped back to its calm, even tone.
‘Once I have found a way out of this, and I have the bloody fool back home and settled down, I shall begin to dissuade him. Particularly in relation to this damned marriage – does he honestly believe that Marguerite Shirken will breed him anything but vipers? He may as well simply hand this kingdom over to her and her spawn.’ He paused again, Wynter staring down at him, her heart hammering in her chest. ‘Yes,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Once I get him home. Once I have him settled, then I shall begin to make everything clear to him. Slowly and carefully—’ ‘Razi,’ said Wynter. ‘Alberon is not some fractious baby to be dismissed to his bed with a beaker of warm milk. He is heir to the throne of this kingdom, and he is making decisions as such. Why must you dance around him so? Talk to the man! Talk to him! Give him the respect of sharing your opinion.’
Razi twisted to face her. He went to speak, but Christopher shushed him suddenly, his attention on the door. One of the warhounds had growled again, this time with intent. The three friends stilled, listening carefully.
The air had brightened, and they saw the misty shapes of the great hounds standing to attention outside the door. One of them trotted from sight, its long chain clinking gently. There was another low chorus of growls as the remaining dog-shadows lowered their heads. They were all looking in the direction of the Midland tent. Quietly taking their weapons, the friends pushed back their covers and crawled to the door. Behind them, the Merron women stirred.
Christopher crouched at the edge of the door and peered out. Wynter and Razi crept to his side, strapping on their swords. The Midland quarters were dark and motionless in the morning gloom. From this position, Wynter could only see the back of the tent. There were soldiers surrounding it, their faces bored, their attitudes weary, as if they’d been standing guard all night.
Hallvor came to kneel behind Wynter, her eyes on the soldiers. The healer gestured the dogs to her side and they came reluctantly. She leaned to whisper in Christopher’s ear. ‘Cén fáth na saighdiúirí, a Choinín?’
He shrugged and shook his head. ‘She wants to know what they’re doing,’ he murmured, but before Razi could answer, a cultured Midland accent rang out from the front of the tent.
It was a man, very affronted and annoyed. ‘What in the name of God are you doing?’ he demanded. ‘Have you lost your reason? Let me pass!’
Oliver’s voice drifted quietly across the air. ‘Get back inside, Presbyter, please.’
‘I must attend my Lady’s need! Tell your men—’ ‘Shut your face,’ said Oliver wearily. ‘Get inside, sit on your damned arse, and await the Prince’s pleasure.’
Wynter met Razi’s eye. ‘Let us go see,’ she suggested, and before Razi could speak, she ducked from the tent and out into the cold air.
MARY
ALBERON WAS tramping down from his quarters as Wynter rounded the blue pavilion tent. He was swaddled in a thick red cloak and his young face was tired, his brows drawn down. Now that she was outside and in the growing light, Wynter saw that Razi, too, was drawn-looking, his skin grey with fatigue. The brothers must have been up for most of the night, talking.
Wynter glanced behind her. The Merron women had emerged, their swords drawn. Christopher gestured them to stand down and the warriors slipped discreetly into the neighbouring tent where their male companions lay sleeping.
There were more soldiers guarding the entrance to the blue tent, and Oliver stood just outside the closed door, speaking quietly to a lieutenant. Wynter, Razi and Christopher came to a wary halt at the corner. At their appearance, the soldiers came to attention, eyeing them suspiciously, and Oliver turned to see what had alarmed his men. His eyes dropped to Christopher and Wynter’s bared blades, then lifted meaningfully to Razi’s face. Razi spread his hands in a gesture of non-interference, and the three friends sheathed their weapons. Oliver tightened his jaw in irritation then turned his attention to the Prince, who was just coming up the main thoroughfare.
‘They up?’ grunted Alberon. Oliver nodded. ‘You say anything to them?’ Oliver shook his head. ‘Come on, then.’ The Prince went to duck in at the door and Oliver stayed him with a hand on his arm.
‘Highness,’ he murmured, ‘we can’t just crowd in. She has no maid, no type of chaperone at all, other than that . . . that fellow. It’s not seemly.’
Alberon sighed impatiently. ‘For Christ’s sake, Oliver—’ he began.
‘Highness, it is not seemly. This is not some camp-follower we’re discussing here; a certain amount of propriety, surely, must be maintained, even in the roughest of situations, and for a woman in her—’ ‘Oh, enough,’ groaned Alberon, flinging up his hand. He looked around him in desperation and saw Wynter standing at the corner with Razi and Christopher. ‘Protector Lady,’ he called, gesturing her over. ‘And you, too, Lord Razi, please.’
‘Wait here please, Chris,’ said Razi softly. ‘Do not try to
come any closer. And, Chris, when you have the chance, it would be best to leave your weapons back at the tent as my brother has ordered. Do your best to persuade the Merron to do the same.’
Christopher nodded. Razi straightened his bed-crumpled shirt and crossed to his brother, Wynter following silently behind. She eyed the guards as she passed through their ranks. They were sneering at Christopher, and she had to push down her anger at the contempt in their faces.
Suddenly Boro trotted in from nowhere, and all the soldiers stiffened, their sneers wiped away at the sight of the giant hound wandering free from his chain. Wynter saw the barest trace of dimple crease the corner of Christopher’s mouth at the alarm in the soldiers’ faces.
‘Ná bac faoí, a chú,’ he murmured. ‘Níl iontu ach amadáin.’
Whatever he’d said, Boro must have agreed, because he flopped to the ground, laid his head on his paws and closed his eyes, dismissing the soldiers from his sight. Christopher slouched against the tent-pole, the massive creature snoozing placidly at his feet. The soldiers turned their eyes front, and Wynter smirked in satisfaction at the colour in their cheeks.
She was startled by a hand closing on her arm and she turned to find Alberon frowning down at her. He flicked an irritated glance at Christopher and drew Wynter around so that she was between Razi and himself.
She found herself hemmed in, with Razi, Alberon and Oliver surrounding her. Each of them was considerably taller than her, and she had to look up into their faces like a child loomed over by adults. Unconsciously she stepped back, and Razi, at least, had the self-possession to give her some room. ‘What can we do for you, brother?’ she said uncertainly.
The Rebel Prince Page 10