“If your father thinks you are dead, he will try to avenge you. There will be chaos unless—”
Christopher was silenced by Razi’s quiet laugh. “Vengeance often comes amazingly slow in our circles, Christopher, and then only if politically expedient. You of all …” There was no sound for a moment. Then Razi spoke again, his voice very broken. “You of all people should know that. Oh God! Simon and his men… and poor Shuqayr! How can…? Chris, I can never make up for this.”
Wynter wanted Christopher to come outside. She wanted to tell him to leave Razi be, to let the poor man suffer in private. She opened her mouth to call him, but Christopher obviously knew Razi just as well as she did because he said, “Wynter and I are just outside, all right? Call through if you want us.”
The door of the bathhouse creaked. Wynter could see Christopher’s hand on the latch. He began to pull the door open, but then hesitated and turned back. “I know I don’t have to say it to you, Razi. You’re no bloody fool; but it weren’t you that killed Shuqayr, and you didn’t cut De Rochelle’s throat or kill his men, neither. And, Raz, I know we don’t ever talk about it, but what that landlord said? It doesn’t signify between us. You didn’t steal my hands from me, Razi, and it weren’t your place to sacrifice a kingdom for the sake of revenge. I ain’t never held it against you, and you shouldn’t go trotting down tired old roads now, just because you’re heartsick and weary.”
Wynter listened for Razi’s response, but there was utter silence from the bathhouse.
“Take as long as you want in there now,” said Christopher. “They can always heat more water if it gets cold.” He stepped out and closed the door. He stood for a moment, gazing unseeingly at the rough wood planking, then he came across and sat on the grass beside Wynter.
He slouched back against the wall. Wynter leaned against him. She slipped her arm through his and took his hand. They gazed out into the orchard.
“I’m so sorry about your dad,” he said at last.
She nodded.
“He was …”
She tightened her grip on his hand. “Please, Christopher. I can’t.”
Christopher shook his head suddenly and his face drew down as though he were about to cry. Wynter tilted her head against his shoulder, turning her cheek into the fabric of his tunic. After a moment he kissed her hair.
“I’m just sorry, lass,” he said hoarsely. “I want you to know.”
She put her free hand on his chest and they sat like that, comforting each other in silence. Gradually the sound of gentle splashing from the bathhouse told them that Razi had decided to wash himself.
“They played football with that boy’s head,” whispered Christopher. “They thought he was Razi. They thought he was Razi and they did that to him.”
Wynter continued to stare out into the golden hazy afternoon, willing Christopher not to say any more. She suspected where this conversation was going and had no desire to follow it to its natural conclusion.
“It wasn’t the King that did this, was it, girly? He wants Razi on the throne.”
“It could have been anyone,” she whispered quickly. “The people hate Razi. They hate him, and now they think he killed my father. Any peasant could have done this.”
“A peasant wily enough to poison the water supply of a group of knights? To get the better of a man like Simon De Rochelle?”
“They think Razi murdered my dad,” she insisted. “The people loved my—”
Christopher cut across her, his voice flat and certain. “I will kill Alberon, if it turns out to have been him.” Wynter groaned and tried to pull her hand from his, but Christopher tightened his grip and turned to look her in the face. His eyes shocked her, how bright and hard they were. “If it turns out that Alberon ordered his brother dragged to his death, and had a football made of his head, I will kill him. Whether Razi wants me to or not.”
Wynter took a breath and clenched her free hand over their joined fists. “You will not have to do that, Christopher. I know Alberon would never hurt Razi. I know it. So you will never have to do that.”
“But if I do?”
Wynter blinked. He was asking her would she still love him? Would they still be friends? “You will never have to,” she said desperately.
Christopher’s face went blank, and Wynter felt him begin to draw away, but he stopped almost immediately and all his brutal determination melted to tenderness. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. “Of course I won’t,” he whispered. “I’d never have to do that.”
Wynter closed her eyes, suddenly too close to tears.
They drew back and leant against the wall, their shoulders touching. Sunlight settled down around them in a dusty haze. The birds continued their joyous trilling in the trees. How life went on. How it all went on around them, in the midst of such darkness.
Wynter began to doze, had actually begun to dream. when she felt Christopher startle beside her. She took a sharp breath, snapping awake abruptly, and looked around for the source of his anxiety.
The bandit was leaning against one of the apple trees at the edge of the orchard, chewing on a toothpick and grinning. His eyes crawled over their entwined arms, slid slyly to the hand that Wynter had resting on Christopher’s thigh. His expression made something scurrilous of their affection, and when he looked back up, he held Wynter’s eyes with a knowing, scornful leer. Immediately her heart began to skitter about in her chest and she felt a rush of shameful panic that no one in her life had ever instilled in her before.
Christopher rose to his feet, and the bandit shifted the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, looking him up and down with confident disdain. He was a good bit taller than Christopher and a great deal bulkier, and Wynter knew that this was all he saw. She could tell that he did not consider her friend a threat.
This careless dismissal of Christopher re-awoke something in her. The real Wynter seemed to step up, and the trembling child this man threatened to make of her slipped quietly away. She rose smoothly to her feet and moved to Christopher’s side. Neither of them reached for their knives, but Christopher’s hands hung loose and ready. His face was blank and watchful. Wynter had her courtmask on, looking up slightly from under her eyes, and she balanced lightly on the soles of her feet.
The bandit’s expression sharpened. He spat his toothpick to the ground, his eyes flicking from Christopher to Wynter. Behind them, the bathhouse door swung open, and Razi came out into the sunlight, shirtless and rubbing his hair with a cloth. He paused as he took in the situation. At the sight of the bandit, he instantly dropped the cloth and stepped forward.
The bandit’s eyes opened just a touch wider. All of Razi’s sinewy power seemed to be burning within him suddenly, and though only half a head taller than the bandit, his rage seemed to tower him over the other man. The bandit’s eyes slid to the long, ugly crescent of scar on Razi’s right shoulder and that seemed to make his decision for him. He shot one more sneer at Christopher and Wynter, tipped his head as if bidding them a fond adieu, and sauntered casually away through the trees.
“Who in God’s name was that?” snapped Razi.
Wynter opened her mouth but couldn’t find the words to explain.
Christopher watched as the bandit disappeared behind the wall of the inn. “That was no one,” he said. “No one. Naught but a ghost.” He turned and looked around him. “Right,” he said, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Right. I’m taking these dirty plates back to the inn. Our girl can have her bath, then I can have mine, and then we’ll all head off, clean and happy and—”
“Christopher?” Razi interrupted suspiciously. “Who was that man?”
“Why don’t you eat that pie now, Raz?” suggested Christopher, gathering the dirty dishes. “Let the sun dry you off. Drink a bit of cider. I’ll only be a moment down at the kitchens. I’ll settle our bill, see that the horses are ready to go, restock our provisions. You stay here and protect Wynter from any more sly-eyed dicks. What say y
ou?”
Razi’s face cleared in comprehension. “Ahhhh!” he said and gave Wynter a sympathetic look. He obviously now thought the bandit was just some slithering peeping Tom. “It’s all right, sis,” he said gently. “He wouldn’t come back now; he probably didn’t expect you to have company. Go on ahead.” He stood aside and held the door open for her. “I’ll be just here, all right?” His voice was so kind and his eyes so tired that Wynter wanted to grab him and hug him. Instead, she passed him out his pie and his drink, and he closed the door behind her.
She heard Christopher murmur and Razi rumble a short reply. His long silhouette moved against the sun raddled gaps in the planks, and he sat himself down against the wall as she unbound her hair and let it fall in a lank mess down her back.
“I am still here, Wyn,” he called suddenly. “Everything is all right.”
She smiled. “I know, Razi. Thank you. Eat your pie, won’t you?”
She heard him sigh again; there was a clink as he picked up the plate. Don’t just look at it, she thought, eat. Finally she climbed the steps and slipped thankfully into the still-hot water, closed her eyes and floated away.
She was drying her hair in the sun when Christopher hurried back up through the orchard and came jogging up the path. He had been gone so long that they were seriously beginning to fret. He stripped off his tunic as he approached and bundled it in his hand, then reached back and pulled the tie on his undershirt. He unpinned his hair as he elbowed his way in the bathhouse door, and it fell in a heavy coil past his shoulders.
“Won’t be long,” he said.
In barely any time at all he came stalking from the bathhouse, his hair soaking, his clothes damp from having been pulled over wet skin. He moved immediately to gather up his things.
“Come on,” he said. “It’s getting late.” He shrugged on his knapsack, slung his crossbow and quiver across his back and shouldered his saddle bags. “Come on!” he demanded, and Wynter and Razi froze, alerted by the unaccustomed sharpness in his voice.
He looked up to find them staring. His eyes slid to the side. “We need to go,” he said. “It’s getting late.” Wynter slowly met Razi’s eyes. He shrugged and the two of them hurried to pack their things. Whatever it was, they weren’t going to dawdle. If Christopher wanted to leave that badly, they’d leave.
The yard was quiet when they went to fetch their horses, all the tarmen drowsy after their dinners. There was a line of men snoozing and smoking pipes on the benches in the yard, their tankards at their feet, but they barely raised their heads as the three travellers rode from the stables, heading for the exit.
They had almost made it out the gate when a woman began shouting and screaming from the complex of buildings at the back of the inn. Wynter looked back to see the sleepy men beginning to rise to their feet. The woman’s cries became more coherent as she neared the yard, and Razi brought his horse to a halt and looked back as her words became clear.
“… needs help! Someone help him! Someone get help!”
Razi immediately went to turn back. He opened his mouth to call that he was a doctor, but Christopher reached across and gripped his wrist, silencing him and staying the dancing turn of his horse.
“Ain’t naught you can do,” he said quietly. “Fellow was careless, got himself crushed beneath a barrel. He’s naught but a ghost now.” He looked at Wynter. “All right, sweetheart?” he said. “He’s naught but a ghost.”
He let go of Razi’s wrist and reined his horse back a few steps, awaiting his decision. Wynter and Razi stared at him for a moment, their eyes wide. Then, as if someone had dropped a starter’s flag, or given a secret command, the three of them turned their horses and trotted out of the yard and off up the road.
Distant Storms
It was late at night and the moon was shining brightly by the time they finally slid from their saddles. They had just enough energy to tend their horses, then they didn’t so much set up camp as sprawl, exhausted, on their randomly scattered bedrolls and gawp up at the milky stars. They were still deep in the monstrous pines, but they had made excellent progress. By noon the next day they would be back at the river and ten days after that they would be in Alberon’s camp and the truth would at last be within their grasp.
After a while, Razi hauled himself up and settled himself on a tree-trunk, preparing to take first watch, but Wynter and Christopher had secretly agreed to split the first two shifts, and they were determined he would not win out. Christopher silently took the cloak from Razi’s shoulders and threw it onto his friend’s bedroll, while Wynter folded her arms and glared her support.
“Go to sleep,” he commanded. “You’re taking third watch.”
Razi groused and bitched, and generally stamped about for a few minutes as he tried to bully them into submission. But within moments of grudgingly laying down, he was unconscious. Wynter smiled at Christopher across Razi’s sleeping back. Christopher winked at her. She wrapped herself in her cloak, lay back and was gone as soon as she shut her eyes.
* * *
Seconds later, Christopher was insistently shaking her awake.
She rose to the surface of consciousness as if struggling her way through tar. Christopher mumbled something incoherent. He stumbled his way to his bedroll and was out cold before she’d even wiped the sleep crumbs from her eyes.
Wynter blinked around in bewilderment. The clearing was swimming in moonlight. The horses were softly breathing spectres against the trees. At her feet, Razi’s dark silhouette sighed and muttered in his sleep.
Slowly, Wynter’s confusion drained from her, and she cursed and bowed her head. It was time for her watch. She forced herself to get to her feet and staggered about for a while to get her blood flowing. When she was fairly certain that she wouldn’t drop off as soon as she stopped moving, she pulled her cloak around her and sat on the tree trunk, listening to the quiet movements of the night.
Time passed. The stars wheeled overhead, and the moon made its steady progress across the sky. Over the horizon, far, far away, thunder rolled dryly. Wynter thought about her father. In her mind, Lorcan stood in a meadow at sunrise, looking over the river by their home. The sun was in his hair and he lifted his hand and whispered, Look, darling. There, on the far bank. A deer!
She did not think that anything short of a scream would wake the men; still, when the tears came, she buried her face in her cloak and muffled her sobs.
“Razi,” she whispered, reaching to shake him awake. He opened his eyes before she even touched him, and she withdrew her hand, smiling. He gazed back in curious, wide-eyed detachment and she realised that he was still asleep, with his eyes open. “It’s time for your watch,” she said, patting his chest.
Razi blinked vacantly a few times. Then the childlike roundness left his eyes and he winced, rolled over and pushed himself up with a groan. “Oh, bloody hell,” he hissed. “I miss my bed.”
He heaved himself to his feet and shambled about to get the kinks out of his legs. Then he wandered over for his habitual check of the horses.
Christopher was fast asleep, flat on his back, his covers pooled around his ankles. He was as lax and as sprawling as a puppy, his mouth open slightly, his breath sighing out into the still air. Wynter watched his chest rise and fall, his pale undershirt glowing softly in the waning moonlight. She hitched her cloak and shuffled to his side.
“Wynter!” Razi’s sharp call startled her, and she glanced over at him, nervous suddenly that he might object to their sharing a bedroll. To her surprise he gestured to Christopher and whispered, “Check for his knives!”
His knives! Wynter peered down at their sleeping friend. She didn’t see any knives, but she hesitated now, wary. She had forgotten Christopher’s tendency to leap from his sleep with a blade in his fist.
“Christopher?” she whispered. “Chris?”
He startled, his hands jumping slightly as he opened his eyes. “Sea? Táim anseo …” He cleared his throat and looked up at her, frownin
g. “Girly?”
Shy now under his blinking, grey-eyed confusion, Wynter nodded tentatively to Christopher’s bedroll. “Is… is it all right?” she whispered.
Christopher gazed at her, not quite awake. His eyes wandered for a moment as if he was about to fall back asleep. Then he lifted his arm in bleary invitation and Wynter lay down into his embrace. She put her head on his chest and looped her arm across his warm stomach. He snaked his arm around her waist, pulled her in close and sighed. She felt his breathing deepen and his body relaxed beside hers.
She lay with her eyes open, looking out into the clearing. She could hear Razi taking the aired clothes down from the trees and folding them away into their bags. He did not seem bothered in the least by their intimacy.
This is strange, she thought, this lying here together. And it was strange. But somehow it was also fine. It was comfortable, and good, and right. She closed her eyes and settled her cheek against Christopher’s chest, listening to his heart pump steadily beneath her ear.
“I didn’t think you’d come back to me,” he said, surprising her that he was still awake. She opened her eyes again and felt his voice vibrate inside him as he said, “I thought you’d think me too wicked, after what I did to that man.”
She turned her cheek against his shirt again, taking comfort in the soft fabric against her skin, and she inhaled his smell, that lovely spicy odour. She tightened her arm around his waist. For a moment she hesitated, then she whispered, “Do you think it wicked that I’m glad he’s dead?”
Christopher didn’t answer. He was blinking up at the stars, just as she was blinking out into the moon-washed trees, both afraid of what the other must think of them. “I was afraid that he would follow us,” he said. “I was frightened of what he might do. If he found you alone again.”
She nodded against his chest. Me too, she thought. Me too.
“I couldn’t stand the thought of it,” he said, tightening his arm around her.
“My God,” said Razi softly, his voice heavy with dread. “Did that man hurt you? Did…? What did that man do to you, Wynter?”
The Crowded Shadows Page 7