The Crowded Shadows

by Celine Kiernan

  The sandy-haired fellow did not reclaim his seat, but instead stayed close to Razi, Wynter and Christopher, keeping himself between them and the warhounds. Wynter was glad of this, as the big dogs had risen to their feet and were growling low, their teeth bared. She knew you should not show fear to a snarling dog, but she suspected that her entire head would fit inside one of these creatures’ mouths, and the image did not inspire courage. She moved closer to Razi, and he protectively took her hand.

  The sandy-haired fellow spoke to the dogs.

  “Tóggo bogé,” he said quietly, “is cairde iad.”

  Christopher translated softly, “He said, ‘relax, they are friends’.”

  The female twin leant forward and looked across the heads of the dogs, blatantly staring at Razi and Wynter’s joined hands. She frowned when she spotted Wynter’s twisted woollen bracelet, and Wynter saw her search Razi’s wrists for its match. Then she flicked a glance at Christopher, found the matching bracelet and grinned. She lifted her eyes to Razi and gave him a private smile.

  Sitting back, she said “Tarraingígí siar!” and immediately two of the great hounds flopped to the floor and laid their heads on their paws

  Her twin sprawled in his chair, his eyes switching from Wynter to Razi to Christopher with great amusement. He rapped his fingers on the table. “Tarraingígí siar!” he said, and two more of the great hounds lowered themselves to the floor. When they continued to growl, the man rapped the table again. “Tarraingígí siar,” he insisted sharply, “Anois!” and the two hounds laid their heads on their paws, whining.

  The male twin smiled crookedly and spread his hands with apologetic good humour.

  “They have temper,” he said in drawling Hadrish.

  His sister grinned. “Just like their master!” she said, her eyes sparkling.

  Her brother elbowed her none-too-gently in the ribs, and the sandy-haired man snorted in amusement.

  Wynter was astonished. When Christopher had told her that the Merron would expect “decorum” this was not the behaviour she had expected. She had been prepared for haughty disdain, a willingness to be offended, not this easy, teasing good humour. She began to fret about what “decorum” might entail.

  In counterpoint to the warm amusement of the others, the black-haired man continued to lean back in his chair, his face shuttered, his fingers tapping in time to the music. His dogs still growled out their warnings and stood as a barrier between the strangers and their master’s table.

  As one, the twins turned to look at him. The man, leaning forward to see past his sister, raised his eyebrows expectantly. When the black-haired man did not respond, the male twin rapped the table and said something impatient in Merron. The black-haired man ignored him.

  “Úlfnaor,” admonished the lady.

  At her gentle disapproval the man rolled his dark eyes in defeat. He waved his hand at his hounds and snarled, “Tarraingígí siar!” looking away into the crowd as he did so.

  The last two dogs flopped submissively to the floor and the male twin gestured that the guests come forward. Wynter felt Razi’s hand tighten on hers as they passed between the hounds, but once they were within the dogs’ protective inner circle he let go.

  The sandy-haired man slid behind the table and stood by the male twin’s chair, his arms folded, his smile gone. Wynter noticed that Wari was regarding them solemnly, and the twins, too, had lost their smiles. Everyone was waiting with the same grave expectancy on their faces. Úlfnaor leaned further back in his chair, his expression challenging.

  Ah, thought Wynter, now comes the decorum. She waited for Christopher to speak. There was a long moment of silence, during which Wynter resisted the urge to prompt her friend. She could hear Razi breathing softly beside her. He shifted his feet. Still no word from Christopher. Wynter wondered if they had misjudged his grasp of the situation.

  After a long, tense wait, Úlfnaor lifted his eyebrows in what looked like pleased surprise and straightened in his chair. He nodded to Christopher.

  Immediately, Christopher stepped forward and bowed his head, bringing his fist to his chest. He spoke directly to Úlfnaor.

  “With respect, Aoire,” he said in Hadrish, meeting the man’s dark eyes. “Would you grant us the honour of hearing our names?”

  The rest of the company grinned and Wynter felt a knot between her shoulder-blades untie itself. He had got it right. Christopher kept his fist to his chest and gazed expectantly at the black-haired man. The silence stretched on and slowly the grins faded and a small frown grew between Christopher’s dark eyebrows.

  When the black-haired man finally spoke, it was coldly and in Merron. “Cén fáth an teanga choimhthíoch? Nach Merron thú?”

  “With respect, Aoire,” said Christopher quietly. “My company does not speak the Merron tongue. I will not speak above them.”

  The corner of the man’s mouth twitched, and he waved his hand, as if to say, Go ahead then, if you must.

  Christopher nodded formal thanks. “With respect, Aoire. Allow me to say to you that I am Coinín Garron, mac Aidan an Filid.”

  “You are Aidan Garron’s foundling?”

  Christopher lifted his chin and Wynter saw that dangerous spark of pride show in his face. “With respect, Aoire,” he said warningly, “I am Aidan Garron’s son.”

  “And so,” asked the man, “you call yourself filid?”

  The company watched Christopher carefully. They seemed very interested in his reply. He held the man’s gaze for a moment, then dropped his eyes. “I am not of the blood, Aoire,” he said. “I have no right or desire to claim what is not mine.”

  This must have been a very respectful answer, because the twins smiled and the sandy-haired man raised his chin in warm approval. The corners of Christopher’s mouth lifted in a sad smile. The Aoire nodded, and Wynter was surprised to see kindness in his face now, and acceptance. “Very well then, Coinín Garron mac Aidan,” he said softly, indicating Wynter and Razi, “introduce your company.”

  Christopher’s dimples blossomed in renewed delight and he turned to Razi. “This,” he said, laying his hand on Razi’s chest and beaming like a proud father with his first born, “is my great friend and the brother of my heart, al-Sayyid al-Tabiyb.” Razi smiled crookedly at that, and Wynter couldn’t help but grin. Christopher had just introduced Razi as “My Lord the Doctor.” “You can call him Tabiyb, for short,” said Christopher happily, patting Razi’s chest.

  The male twin got to his feet and reached a hand to Razi. “Welcome to our table, Tabiyb,” he said. “My sister is pleased to meet you.”

  The pale lady’s hand dropped beneath the table and her brother leapt slightly as if he had been pinched. The sandy-haired man snickered and even the black-haired man seemed amused. Razi shook hands up and down the table.

  All eyes turned to Wynter, and she bowed formally from the hip as if she were a boy at court. Christopher reached for her and drew her to his side. “This,” he said, “is Iseult uí Garron, iníon Lorcan.” Razi startled at Christopher’s use of Wynter’s proper name, and Wynter gave him a reassuring look. “She is my croí-eile,” said Christopher softly, putting his arm around Wynter’s waist.

  The lady sighed and murmured something in the manner of someone saying how sweet.

  The sandy-haired man grinned. “Dhá luch beaga,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “Rua ’gus dubh!”

  The male twin tilted his head to him, his eyes still on Wynter and added, “A gcuid páistí chomh beag bídeach go gcodlaíonn siad i ndearcán.”

  All the Merron chuckled and clucked like a chorus of hens, their eyes slipping slyly to Christopher. He waved his hand as if to say, Yes, yes. I’ve heard it all before. But his face was flushed and the Merron crowed.

  Wynter regarded their smirking faces, smiling uncertainly.

  “What?” she said.

  “Oh, they’re just being silly. Because they think we’re small.”

  “Tell me,” she insisted.

&nbs
p; Christopher muttered. “They said we’re like two little mice and …” his colour deepened. “Our children will be so tiny they will sleep in an acorn.”

  Wynter felt her cheeks flare red.

  The pale lady took pity on the mortified couple. She stood and extended her arm. “Welcome to our table, Iseult,” she said, shaking Wynter’s hand.

  At the lady’s touch, Wynter started. This was a tribal woman of at least twenty-five years of age, but her hand was as soft and as clean as a newborn babe’s. Wynter could not believe it. Even the sheltered ladies of court had fingers roughened by a lifetime of sewing, their nails often black from soot. In comparison to them, this woman’s fingers were as blemish-free as fresh snow. It was so extraordinary that Wynter forgot herself entirely and stood staring like a half-wit, turning the lady’s hand over and over in her own.

  Razi murmured, “Sister” in dismay, and Wynter looked up, suddenly aware of herself again. “Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed, mortified. “I am so sorry! Your hands are just so beautiful! I’ve never …”

  The lady smiled tightly and extricated herself from Wynter’s grip. All around the table, the Merron were wary suddenly, and grave, and Wynter saw that they were looking to Christopher. He was staring at the lady with wide-eyed comprehension and a kind of frozen disbelief. She stood very straight and still, her eyes locked on his. Christopher looked to her twin, and reluctantly lowered his eyes to take in the man’s hands. Wynter followed suit and saw, that he, too, had impossibly clean, unblemished skin and beautifully tended nails. Slowly, Christopher raised his eyes. The man gave him a knowing, wistful kind of smile, and nodded.

  “Caoirigh Beo,” whispered Christopher. He turned to stare at Úlfnaor, who met his eyes without expression. There was a general air of suspense amongst the Merron lords, and their eyes darted between their three guests.

  Razi cleared his throat. “Forgive me,” he asked, his deep voice uncertain. “But…?”

  “They are the Caoirigh Beo,” said Christopher flatly. “They are treasured. They are… they are protected.” His tone brooked no more questions and Razi lifted his chin in feigned understanding and let it go.

  There was an uneasy silence, and then the male twin held out his hand and looked Christopher in the eyes. “With respect, honoured person,” he said, “would you grant us the honour of hearing our names?”

  Christopher frowned, his grey eyes uncertain. Razi and Wynter looked at him in concern. They needed him to go on, surely he knew that? Whatever his differences here, he must not refuse. Christopher took a deep breath and held it for a moment as if gathering something inside himself. Then his body relaxed, his face softened, and he took the twin’s offered hand. “With respect, a dhuine uasail,” he said. “The honour would be ours.”

  Smoke

  The sandy-haired man bowed slightly and touched his chest, flashing his charming, gap-toothed grin. “Allow me to say to you that I am Sólmundr an Fada, mac Angus an Fada, Fear saor.”

  Christopher glanced sharply at him, his eyes widening. “Fear saor,” he whispered. Sólmundr offered him his hand and Christopher shook it vigorously, a stunned smile on his face. “Well met, Sólmundr.”

  Sólmundr faltered at Christopher’s intense look, then moved on to offer his hand to Wynter and to Razi. He turned and introduced them to the male twin. “This,” he said fondly, “is My Lord, Ashkr an Domhain.”

  Ashkr leant forward, his bracelets flashing. Despite his soft skin, his handshake was firm and strong.

  “Well met, Ashkr,” said Razi.

  Ashkr’s sister smiled expectantly and Sólmundr introduced her as the Lady Embla. She nodded at Christopher and Wynter, then turned all her attention to Razi. “Tabiyb,” she said, her voice rich and low. “At last, we know each other’s name.”

  She leant across the table, her pale hair swinging forward like a veil of flax and Razi shook her proffered hand, staring without speaking. Wynter cast a smiling glance at Christopher, expecting him to be amused, but his attention was still, inexplicably, on Sólmundr.

  Embla clasped Razi’s tough, dark hand between her own soft ones and tilted her head. A slow smile spread across Razi’s face. He held Embla’s gaze and ran his thumb against the soft white flesh of her wrist. There was a moment between them that seemed to suspend the room.

  After a long silence, when it seemed that neither Razi nor Embla were inclined to separate, Ashkr snorted and poked his sister in the side. She broke away with a secret smile and Razi rubbed his palm dreamily, as if feeling the memory of her touch. Embla drifted slowly down into her chair.

  Sólmundr cleared his throat and raised his arm to formally introduce the black-haired man. “Respected people,” he said, “allow me give you the honour of naming our Aoire—our Shepherd—Úlfnaor, Aoire an Domhain.”

  Unlike the others, Úlfnaor did not offer his hand, but no one seemed to take exception to this. Instead, Christopher bowed with grave formality, a proper bow, deep and lingering, his tangled hair swinging forward to hide his face. Razi and Wynter quickly followed suit.

  “We are honoured,” they said.

  “The honour is mine,” rumbled Úlfnaor.

  With that, the Merron relaxed into such a sudden and unexpected informality that Wynter was left reeling.

  “Sit! Sit!” urged Sólmundr. He leant across, gesturing to the stools that dotted Wynter’s side of the table, then pushed at Razi’s shoulder and pressed Christopher down. Embla offered a bowl of olives to whet their appetites, and Ashkr called to the landlord to bring more tankards and a pitcher of wine. Úlfnaor leant back and murmured to Wari, who quickly left and returned with the meals that Razi and Wynter had ordered.

  Wynter took her seat, still dazed by the sudden turn in atmosphere, and all the Merron laughed at their guests’ confusion. Sólmundr, having ensured that everyone was sitting comfortably, went to take his own seat. He was lowering himself into his chair and turning to Ashkr to make a smiling comment when Wynter saw him blanch, and he froze, half-in, half-out of his seat. He bent over with a grunt and gripped the table, gritting his teeth against what looked like sudden pain.

  Ashkr clutched his friend’s arm and bent to get a good look at the other man’s face. “Sól!” he said in concern, “an bhfuil drochghoile ort arís?”

  Sólmundr bowed his head, nodding, and his knuckles whitened against the table.

  Razi half rose from his stool. “What is it?” he said.

  “Sól has …” Ashkr spun to Embla and asked her something in Merron.

  She ran her hand over her belly. “In his guts,” she said. “He is bad. Only this three day.” She stood and looked into the crowd. “I will to get Hallvor.”

  “My friend is a doctor,” exclaimed Christopher. “He can help.”

  “We have own healer!” snapped Úlfnaor.

  “And a wonderful one, no doubt! But my friend is a physician! Of the blue robe!” Christopher held up his hands to demonstrate, the long, clean scar of his left arm a testimony to Razi’s skill.

  Sólmundr bent lower, his eyes widening.

  “Get Hallvor!” cried Ashkr, rubbing the small of Sólmundr’s back.

  Wari and Úlfnaor began to scan the crowd, but Sólmundr relaxed suddenly and straightened from his pained crouch. He stood for a moment, his hand pressed against the base of his stomach, and then he grinned.

  “It gone again,” he said, blushing in sudden embarrassment.

  Ashkr continued to gaze up at him, his face drawn, his hand on Sólmundr’s arm, and Sólmundr tutted. “It is good, Ash.” He grinned around at the company. “I tells you, it this rotten Southlander food. It not suit my gut.”

  Ashkr nodded reluctantly, watching his friend as he took his seat.

  Razi sat back down, studying the man’s face for further signs of pain. “Where is the discomfort, Sólmundr?” he asked, “when it comes.”

  Sólmundr tsked impatiently and waved his hand to divert all attention from his stomach. He leant across and tapped the
table in front of Christopher. “Coinín,” he said. “You stare at me all the time. Why for?”

  My God, thought Wynter. These Merron! They are so direct! Now she knew where Christopher got it from. Sólmundr rapped the table again, insistently.

  Christopher hesitated, then he said, “I, too, am a free man.”

  Sólmundr frowned, not understanding, and Christopher reached over and pressed his fingers to the scars on the man’s wrist. He repeated himself in Merron. “Is fear saor mise freisin, Sólmundr.”

  Sólmundr’s frown deepened and Ashkr grew solemn. To Wynter’s surprise, he reached for Sólmundr’s hand. Their fingers entwined for a moment on the table top, Ashkr’s smooth hand squeezing Sólmundr’s roughened one, and then Ashkr released his grip and sat back, looking at Christopher.

  “Who took you?” he asked quietly.

  “The Loups-Garous.”

  The Merron winced at the dreaded name.

  Christopher lifted his chin to Sólmundr. “You?” he asked.

  “Barbary Corsairs.”

  Razi groaned, and Christopher nodded.

  “They sell me for… um …” Sólmundr murmured something to Embla. She thought for a moment, then shrugged apologetically.

  Úlfnaor, reaching for an olive, glanced up and said, “Galley slave.”

  Sólmundr nodded his thanks. “They sell me for galley slave,” he said. “I galley slave for …” he held up two fingers.

  “Two years?” asked Wynter, aghast, and he nodded again. Two years chained in the dark, in his own filth, toiling day and night without respite. Wynter looked at his good-natured face and couldn’t imagine it.

  “Then, one day …” Sólmundr made a whistling noise, his hand flying through the air to represent a cannon ball or some such thing, and then he hit the table with a loud bam! The hounds jerked, growling at the noise, and Sólmundr grinned at them. “Oh, shush,” he said, “Stupid fellows!”