‘My father is dead, Cori.’
The cat shrugged, drifting now back into sleep. ‘It will happen to us all,’ he sighed.
‘Cori?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Why is the King suppressing the machines?’
‘Oh, human reasons, for human things . . . how is a sensible cat to understand?’
Alberon came and sat quietly on the cot. Wynter continued to stroke the sleeping cat and would not look up.
‘You must think me unbearably hard,’ said Alberon.
She did not reply.
Alberon reached and touched Cori’s head, just once, then withdrew his hand. ‘Thank you for the letters, Wyn. They meant so much to me all these years.’
She glanced up at him in surprise. ‘You received them? You . . . you never replied.’
He chuckled grimly. ‘What had I to write of? Blood and death and betrayal? The imminent destruction of Father’s wonderful dream? You know I have no art with words, Wyn. I would not have been able to lie, and what would the truth have done for you? Your letters were always so happy, filled with such happy things. I couldn’t bear to hurt that. I couldn’t bear to let you know just how bad everything was.’
Happy? Was Alberon serious? Wynter had poured her heart and soul into those letters. All those miserable years, how could Alberon have ever thought she was happy?
‘What . . . what did I write of that was so happy?’
Alberon smiled, a genuine smile this time. ‘Oh you know – all your adventures! Your father’s wonderful inventions. The way he smooth-talked all those vile Northlander toadies. Everything. I especially liked when you wrote down your memories of home. I used to love when the messengers came from the North. Those little pages of sunshine arriving in the middle . . . in the middle of what we had become. I would read them and think, This is what we’re struggling for. This is why we must prevail. You have kept me going, Wyn. I read something of yours every day. Look!’ He reached past her, shifted Marguerite’s papers aside, lifted something. ‘See?’ He handed it to her.
Wynter unfolded it with an unsteady hand. The parchment was creased and tattered, the stain from the wax seal still visible at the edge. It was one of her shorter notes, and she remembered clearly the day she had written it. It had been a particularly hard day – the end of a long week of mass trials in the Shirkens’ castle. They had burned the convicted in batches of ten. Wynter remembered writing this letter with shaking hands, her ears filled with screaming, her window filled with smoke. Until now, she had recalled only that awfulness; the actual contents of the letter had not been part of her memory. Her writing shocked her; how legible and steady it was.
My Dearest Brother,
How much I miss you! I was thinking today of the time we stole the cakes from the Moroccan ambassador’s birthday feast. Do you recall? We were dressed up stiff as coffin mummies in our brocades; still you managed to pilfer seven jam tarts and an entire cinnamon cake. The stains they left on your pockets! You said cake always tasted better eaten beneath the table, and so we sat surrounded by legs, stuffing our little faces while a discreet panic consumed the staff! Razi (of course) was the one to find us. I recall his brief grin as he peered beneath the cloth, then his voice – it was pure Razi – ‘Father, I am certain they are not here. I have searched every inch and there’s naught below but Mama’s little dog.’ Oh! I am laughing aloud now.
Tell me you recollect this!
Alberon’s quiet voice brought her back to the tent and he took the letter, folding it and putting it away again. ‘I have kept them all, you know. I have most of them back at the palace, in my trunk. Safe in my room.’
Wynter felt her face fall at that – the palace had been stripped of every possible reminder of Alberon. She hardly imagined that his room had been left intact. He must have seen something of this in her expression, because his eyes slipped from hers and he cleared his throat.
‘How is Razi?’ he asked quietly.
‘Oh, Albi, why do you not ask him yourself, instead of just telling him to comb his hair and shave his face as if nothing had happened. Why must you act the prince around him?’
‘Oh, please! He has done nothing but act the politician since he got here! He’d talk knots into a string, that man! I feel like I am wrestling a God-cursed eel every time he opens his mouth!’
Wynter huffed. ‘That is just Razi, Alberon; he has never been any different.’
‘He was never thus with me.’
You never before gave him reason to be, thought Wynter. But she did not articulate it. ‘He has only the best of intentions,’ she said. ‘You are his brother, Albi. He loves you dearly – you know this.’
‘I . . . I shall try harder to hold my patience.’ Alberon glanced at her. ‘He really approves this match of yours?’ At her warning look, he spread his hands in defeat. ‘I suppose between us both we can afford to support you,’ he sighed. ‘You and your gypsy.’
Wynter gritted her teeth against a reply.
‘I am sorry about Lorcan, Wyn. I want you to know that. It must seem that I do not care, but I do. It is so difficult, these days, to react to things the way one should.’ Alberon’s attention drifted to the door and he watched the insectnetting blow in the breeze. ‘I am calm, or I am angry,’ he said softly. ‘There seems to be nothing in between.’
‘Why did our fathers suppress the machine, Albi?’
‘I don’t know!’ he cried, animated once again by his frustration. ‘It makes no sense to me! Father simply dragged it into the light one moment, then pushed it back into the shadows the next. It was madness! We had already lost so many men! Things had come so damn close. Then to find that we’d had, all along, the ability to make these wonderful machines! That we’d actually had one to hand and had not used it until the very last moment? My God, Wynter!’ he lowered his forehead onto his clenched fists, his face hidden.
‘My God, I was so angry I almost killed him.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘I’m only talking to you,’ he mumbled. ‘I’d never say it out loud.’
‘Well, it is a little late for caution in any case. The poor man thinks you mean to usurp him, Alberon. It has broken his heart.’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t let it go, Wyn. I simply know that this will work.’
Wynter stroked the cat and carefully considered her words. ‘I think that certain aspects of your plan have flaws. This marriage to Marguerite Shirken, for example.’
He looked up at her from between his fists. ‘Are we about to trade insults over marriage partners, Wyn?’
She tightened her jaw and slid him another warning look. ‘As I was saying, your plan has flaws. I think you could do with sitting down with your courtly brother and discussing some of the finer details. But on the whole, Alberon, I agree with you. I think the production of more machines is this kingdom’s great hope. I cannot understand our fathers’ suppression of them.’
Alberon lifted his head to gaze at her in wonder, and he looked so like her childhood memory of him that Wynter nearly cried. ‘Really?’ he asked.
‘Really,’ she whispered.
‘And Razi?’
She dropped her eyes. ‘Razi can be persuaded. Later.’
‘Oh . . . I see.’
He sighed, and there was a moment’s thoughtful silence between them.
‘That Haun,’ said Wynter, ‘I think he knew my father.’
‘The youngest one? Their linguist?’ At her nod, Alberon pushed wearily to his feet and went to the door, looking down into the camp. The insect-netting blew about him in the wind, and he looked like a red-clad ghost seen through mist. ‘He is a strange fellow. I think he might be mad. I suspect he was one of the Lost Hundred.’
Wynter startled at that. The thought had not even occurred to her. ‘He would have been very young when the Haun were sent east,’ she said doubtfully.
‘Aye. But think about it, sis. His excellent Southlandast, his fine manners. He has a feel o
f the palace about him, don’t you think?’
Wynter stroked the cat and thought about that. It certainly would explain a lot. The young Haun would have been perhaps six or so in the aftermath of the Haun Invasion, and so it would be possible that he could remember her father. Particularly if his family was among the Lost Hundred and was connected in some way with the life of the palace. Of all the Haun sent east, it was those Southlands-born nobles and businessmen – the so-called Hundred Lost Families – that had suffered the most. The young Haun’s family would have lost everything when Jonathon’s father expelled the Haunardii from the Southlands. No wonder he was so bitter. That kind of injustice would spread rage through generation after generation of the dispossessed.
Wynter’s stomach went cold suddenly and she looked over at Alberon, her eyes wide with unwanted inspiration. They had been told that the Lost Hundred had been sent back east. That their goods had been piled onto their well bred backs, their weeping families loaded into carts, and their land and businesses redistributed among the Southland aristocracy. But what if it was even colder than that? What if something else entirely had been done? Something that so ate at Lorcan and Jonathon’s consciences that they could not bring themselves to articulate it – even to each other.
‘Albi,’ she whispered, ‘did you see that man’s back?’
Alberon did not seem to hear her. His attention was fixed on a point at the far end of the camp, and as Wynter spoke he drew back the insect-netting and frowned in concentration.
‘What is it?’ she said.
On her lap, Coriolanus tensed, and his claws exposed briefly in his sleep. ‘No . . .’ he whined. ‘No.’
In the camp, the warhounds suddenly began to howl.
‘What is it, Albi?’ she said again, gently placing the cat into his nest and crossing to join the Prince.
Alberon stepped outside. ‘A messenger from the pickets,’ he said. ‘My envoys must be here.’ He lifted his hand to the rider just arrived at the base of the slope, and the man nodded, wheeled his horse around and trotted back towards the barricades.
‘We shall have to chain those damn hounds,’ mused Alberon.
Indeed, the warhounds were going mad. Wynter could hear them baying and howling down among the tents. At the base of the slope, Christopher was standing with his back to her, his attention focused on the far end of the camp, and something in his posture set Wynter on edge. He looked like a dog that has scented trouble. As she watched, he began to walk in the direction of the barricades. Then, without warning, he broke into a jog. Within moments, Christopher was running.
On the main thoroughfare, Sólmundr and Razi emerged from between the tents, their faces turned expectantly towards the barricades. They must have heard that there was a new arrival and come to see. Christopher shot past them. Razi called after him, but Christopher ran by without looking his way. Sól and Razi began to follow, but the young man was already far ahead of them.
Dodging and weaving through the curious men now crowding the road, Christopher seemed utterly focused on getting to the gates. The frantic baying of the hounds urged him on, and Wynter followed his desperate progress with increasingly cold alarm.
‘Alberon,’ she whispered, ‘who are your envoys?’
Alberon just watched the barricades, his face attentive.
Fez. He had said that they were coming from Fez. Wynter followed the Prince’s gaze to the end of camp, and when the Loups-Garous rode their horses through the barricades she felt no surprise at all.
AGAIN
AT THE sight of the Loups-Garous, Christopher came to a staggering halt, his knees bent, his arms spread as if to catch a thrown ball. He remained frozen like that, stricken, and Wynter was absolutely certain that he was going to simply stand there and allow the Wolves to advance upon him. She began to dash down the hill, scanning the road as she did, searching for Razi.
Behind her, Alberon called an order to one of his men. ‘Tell the Merron to secure those God-cursed hounds or I shall have them shot.’
Shoving her way past a knot of soldiers at the base of the hill, Wynter caught sight of Razi. He was standing openmouthed at the edge of the road. Sólmundr was shaking his arm and speaking impatiently, as if trying to get his attention. Wynter bit down the urge to scream Razi’s name and veered for him, dodging quickly through the soldiers and the rising dust. As she approached, Razi mumbled something to Sól. The warrior stepped back, shocked, then spun with a cry, frantically scanning the road. He spotted Christopher, still frozen in the Wolves’ path, and began to run towards him.
But at that very moment – just as it seemed utterly certain that the Wolves would see him – Christopher jerked to sudden life. He crouched, reached for his katar, realised it was not at his hip, then turned and darted away between the tents. Sólmundr, still only halfway to his young friend, slammed to a halt and cut right, heading in the same direction as Christopher.
Wynter slid to Razi’s side. At the same moment, Úlfnaor strode from between the tents. ‘Who is these men?’ he asked, squinting at the Wolves. ‘They from the King?’ Then he got a look at the wolf-skins draped across the horses’ rumps, and his face went cold and dangerous.
Oliver was leading the Wolves into camp, his dappled mare skittish next to David Le Garou’s big dark stallion. As he urged the shying horse onto the thoroughfare, Wynter saw Oliver’s eyes inadvertently settle on Razi. The knight’s face creased up in misery and he averted his gaze.
The Wolves were magnificent, their horses beautiful, their clothes and weaponry very fine and rich. David Le Garou’s attention was focused solely on Alberon’s quarters. But his three seconds-in-command were ranked behind him – Gérard, Jean, Pierre – and their slanting eyes scanned the surrounding soldiers, looking for trouble. The two young Arabs followed close behind, calmly guiding their sturdy little horses in their masters’ wake. The silver bells at their wrists and on their boots tinkled merrily, and Wynter felt a moment of blazing rage that the Wolves would bring them here, openly and without any attempt to hide the fact that they were slaves. Then it registered that the Wolves had only one of their three pack mules with them, and that the six dark-dressed shadow-riders that made up the rest of David Le Garou’s pack were nowhere to be seen.
‘Razi,’ she whispered, ‘where are the rest of them?’
Razi ignored her. His eyes were on the tents where Christopher had disappeared. For a moment it looked as though he would just keep standing there, staring. Then Úlfnaor went to speak again, and Razi turned, grabbing him by his shoulders, and hissed urgently into the big man’s startled face: ‘He’s gone for his sword! He means to attack them. He means to attack them at last! We have to stop him!’ He shoved the Aoire back and pushed his way past him, heading for the Merron quarters. Confused, Úlfnaor followed him.
Wynter found herself incapable of turning her back on the approaching Wolves, and instead of spinning and running, she backed slowly into the shadow-filled gap between the tents, her eyes on the brightness of the road. The light tinkling of the slave bells made itself known over the tramp of hooves and jangle of tack, and Wynter crouched slightly as the silhouette of a rider blotted the light. It was Oliver, there one moment, gone the next as he rode past the mouth of the alley. Then David Le Garou went by, his eyes ahead, his fine profile clear against the bright-blue sky. The row of Seconds came next, slowly crossing the bright space, their faces watchful. The dark-skinned Gérard was closest to her, his eyes scanning his surroundings. He turned his head, and before he could see her, Wynter broke from her trance and ran.
She caught up with Razi and Úlfnaor by the Midland quarters. The air was frantic with the baying of hounds, and there was shouting and scuffling coming from the direction of the Merron camp. Jared was herding Mary up the side of the supply tent. The lady was distraught, and she flung herself on Razi, gripping his arm in fear.
‘The dogs have turned savage!’ she cried. ‘They have gone wild!’
Razi grabbed Úlfna
or, pushing him towards the noise. ‘Don’t let him leave!’ he yelled. ‘Take his weapons and don’t let him leave the tents!’ The big man shook his head, confusion still in his face. ‘Christopher!’ clarified Razi. ‘Don’t let him get his weapons!’
Úlfnaor ran, and Razi turned on Mary, clutching her shoulders and glaring down into her frightened face. ‘Get to your tent!’ he yelled. ‘Do not leave it!’ He pushed Mary towards Jared. ‘Do not let her leave her tent!’
Jared, appalled at Razi’s rough manner, put himself between the dark young man and the woman he was so violently shoving about. Mary still clung to Razi’s arm, so that the priest was caught between them.
‘What has happened?’ snapped Jared, his face very close to Razi’s.
‘Loups-Garous.’
The priest went still. Mary stared at Razi, her arm stretched around Jared, her fingers clutching Razi’s sleeve. ‘An attack?’ she whispered.
Razi shook his head. He pushed Mary gently away. ‘Stay in your tent,’ he urged. ‘Presbyter, I beg you, make sure she stays inside.’
Jared nodded grimly and hustled Mary around to their quarters. She gazed back, wide-eyed, until they rounded the corner out of sight. Razi dashed towards the noise of the dogs and Wynter followed.
There was deafening chaos at the Merron tents. Thoar and Surtr were struggling with the huge warhounds, heaving on their collars, trying to keep them in place while the women finished hammering tent pegs into the ground to shorten their chains. The warhounds were snarling and baying, their jaws flecked with foam, wild with desperation to get away and find the Wolves.
The soldier Alberon had sent to secure the hounds was pressed against the canvas of the Merron tent. Úlfnaor was shoving him away, yelling in Merron and gesturing for him to go. Boro lunged for him suddenly, his eyes burning, and the soldier didn’t need any further persuasion. He ran off, his duty done.
The Rebel Prince Page 15