The Crowded Shadows

by Celine Kiernan

  Wynter watched suspicion seep through the drug that was addling Sólmundr’s mind. Slowly, his expression hardened as he searched Razi’s face. To his credit, Razi didn’t turn away and his dark eyes remained steadfastly on Sólmundr’s.

  “Who are you, Tabiyb?” asked Sólmundr softly. “Why for you ask me this questions about papers?”

  “I am your doctor, Sól,” answered Razi. “I do not want you getting on a horse and ending up with your guts spilled out across your saddle. Those stitches will not stand up to hard travel. Even if your people were to strap you to a travois I could not—”

  “It not your worry,” interrupted Sólmundr. “You not speak of it again, tá go maith?”

  Razi licked his lips and dropped his eyes. Sólmundr glanced at Hallvor who was gesturing innocently to Wynter that she should drink some water. Wynter smiled and accepted, all her attention on the men’s low, carefully modulated conversation.

  “You know what it is to be blood-eagled, Tabiyb?” asked Sólmundr.

  Razi eyelids fluttered at the thought of that terrible torture. He nodded. Wynter stared at Sólmundr. Her throat clicked around the mouthful of water she was trying to swallow. Blood-eagled, good God.

  “My people,” murmured Sólmundr, “this is what we do with spies. yes? Blood-eagle. I not like see that happen you, Tabiyb.” He looked deep into Razi’s brown eyes and the light tone of his voice belied the edge of iron in his face. “It not nice way to die,” he said.

  “I won’t mention it again,” whispered Razi.

  “Good,” nodded Sólmundr. “I think that good.” There was a moment of uneasy silence, during which Hallvor glanced between the three of them, her dark eyes questioning.

  Sólmundr laid his head back against the hide cushion, watching Razi closely. “You play chess, Tabiyb?” he asked. “I suspect you do. I suspect you play very good, yes?” Razi nodded, and Sólmundr’s face creased into that charming gap toothed smile. “But not so good as me, I think,” he said. “I think I get Hallvor to fetch my board, yes, Tabiyb? And we play. We play many game together, you and me… and your little sister, she stay and watch, yes?”

  Sólmundr turned his attention to Wynter. Although he was exhausted, his eyes sliding in and out of focus, she still felt like an insect under glass when he looked at her. “I not think it good idea,” he said, “I not think it safe, that you two be all alone in this big empty camp. I not like to think that you make mistake. Maybe go in wrong tent, maybe pick up wrong thing. And be accused of spies.”

  Oh God, thought Wynter, oh my God. Razi reached for her hand.

  “You not worry, Tabiyb,” Sólmundr said. “I keep you out of trouble. Nice and safe, here by my bed. I play with you the chess, till the others come back from forest.” He lost his smile for a moment. “Yes, Tabiyb?”

  Razi sat rigid and staring, his hand tight on Wynter’s. He nodded stiffly. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, Sólmundr. Let’s play chess.”

  Seeing

  “It is still your move,” murmured Razi softly.

  Sólmundr rolled his eyes open and licked his lips, peering at the board. They had made less than seven moves in two hours. Still, Sólmundr clung tenaciously to consciousness, shoving his pieces clumsily into place with shaky, sweat-soaked fingers.

  Wynter reclined against the furs of Sólmundr’s bed, her head supported on a roll of hide, her knees bent to ease the pain in her back. She passed the time watching the painted silhouettes on the tent, and worrying about Christopher. The breeze was quite high, and it snapped and shivered at the hide coverings, making the lodge poles creak.

  “You beat me this game, I think,” rasped Sólmundr, pushing a rook into place and slumping back against his hide cushion.

  Razi grunted and surveyed the board. “Hmm,” he said. “And all it took was filling you with opium and removing a portion of your intestines.” He hesitated, his hand hovering over the game, then moved his knight and sat back, eyeing Sólmundr with sly amusement. “Your move.”

  Sólmundr glanced at Razi’s face, then frowned suspiciously at the board. It took him a moment, and then he growled and flung up his hand in disgust. “Cac,” he said. Razi chuckled.

  At that moment Hallvor called from outside the tent and the silhouettes of the guardswomen leapt to their feet and rushed off.

  Sólmundr curled forward with a grunt, suddenly brisk and dismissive. “Leave now, he gasped sharply, “Ash will need sleep.” He reached behind him, groaning with pain at the effort. Razi moved to help, but Sólmundr pushed him away. “No,” he said. “Out, out.” He pulled a waterskin across his lap and took a little parcel from beside the bed. He began unwrappi said. “Out, out.” He pulled a waterskin across his lap and took a little parcel from beside the bed. He began unwrapping it, and Wynter saw that it was a bundle of oat cakes. From outside, the sounds of people talking quietly came drifting across the buffeting air.

  “They’re back!” cried Wynter, scrambling to her feet.

  Razi stood up. Sólmundr glanced at the way he was clutching the hilt of his sword.

  “You not worry,” he said. “It not danger for your family now.” The two men stared at each other. “I swears it, Tabyib.” Razi loosened his grip on the sword, pushing it back on his hip. Sólmundr nodded and went back to unwrapping the oat cakes.

  “I look after Ash now,” he said, laying the food by the side of his bed. “Úlfnaor will take Embla to his puballmór.” He chuckled at the look this brought to Razi’s face. “He and Hallvor take care of her,” he said reassuringly. Razi reddened and looked away.

  Sólmundr grew serious again. He handed Wynter three of the oat cakes. “You mind Coinín now, Iseult,” he said.

  “What?” said Wynter, gazing at the oat cakes, her eyes wide. Why?” she said, in alarm. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He all right in very short time,” said Sólmundr, his attention already turning back to his own preparations. “Just need sleep. Let him eat if hungry, and you make sure he drink many water, tá go maith?” Sólmundr turned painfully, one hand pressed to his wound, the other turning back the covers on Ashkr’s side of the bed. “Out,” he grunted. “Now.”

  Razi spun for the door, his face grim. Long shadows moved against the wall, and before he or Wynter could get out, the flap was dragged back and two men entered the tent. Ashkr was supported limply between them and the men pushed past Razi and Wynter as they helped their lord around to his side of the bed. Sólmundr gazed up at them, questioning them. They eased Ashkr down onto the pallet, pulling off his boots and gently removing his tunic.

  Razi and Wynter stood motionless for a moment, frozen by the blond man’s condition. Sólmundr was talking softly to him, rubbing his shoulders and his back, anxiously pulling his limp hair from his sweating face, but it wasn’t clear whether Ashkr even knew where he was. He was gazing up at the tent walls, his face lax and distressed, his breathing a little too fast.

  Razi took in Ashkr’s bloodless, clammy skin, the spread of his unfocused pupils, and he growled a curse in Arabic. Sólmundr glared at him. “Out!” he rasped.

  Razi ducked under the flap and Wynter followed, the little oat cakes crumbling in her hand. Ashkr’s hounds were snuffling about outside the tent. Razi shoved them away with barely a glance. They whined and skipped aside, then went back to sniffing forlornly at the door. Razi and Wynter stood side by side, shading their eyes against the blazing sun, looking around for their friend.

  The Merron were milling about, talking softly amongst themselves, and Wynter scanned their ranks for Christopher. Suddenly, she caught sight of his familiar figure through the shifting crowd and she was flooded with relief. He was standing on his own two feet, supporting his own weight, talking to Wari and his woman and the two older musicians from the tavern.

  “Razi,” she said, gripping his arm. “There he is.”

  Razi snapped his head around, and Wynter felt him relax as he spotted Christopher. “Good God,” he breathed. “I’ll kill him. Come on, s
is, let us—”

  “Tabiyb.” Embla’s rich voice stopped them in their tracks and they turned to see her break away from Úlfnaor’s protective arm and stumble in their direction. The crowd parted respectfully for her, and Úlfnaor and Hallvor followed in her wake, their hands anxiously poised. She came to a swaying halt in front of Razi, her unfocused eyes gravely scanning his face.

  “Embla,” he said. “What have you done to yourself?” He put his hand to her clammy face. Her eyes were all pupil, the navy irises pushed to the very edge of the blackness, and her skin was shining like wet marble. “Look at you!”

  Uncertainly, Embla spread her hands against Razi’s chest, and her eyes narrowed. “Tabiyb?”

  Razi ran his thumb under Embla’s eye and shook his head in disapproval and concern. Wynter flicked a nervous glance at Úlfnaor and Hallvor. They had come up behind the couple, crooning in Merron, laying comforting hands on Embla’s shoulders. Gently, Úlfnaor took the tall woman by her elbows and murmured soothingly as he turned her away from Razi. “It all right, Tabiyb,” he said kindly. “We take care of her now.” Embla went with them placidly enough, but she couldn’t take her eyes from Razi, and she continued to strain her neck to keep him in sight as Hallvor and Úlfnaor led her away through the tents.

  Wynter took Razi’s elbow. “Come on, brother,” she whispered. “Let’s get Christopher.”

  Their friend was still standing at the edge of the crowd, chatting. Everything seemed normal, but as they approached, Wynter noticed Wari’s croí-eile take the big man by the elbow and begin to lead him away. As he turned, Wari stumbled and his woman had to put her hand on his chest to steady him. Wynter felt a little muscle tighten in her jaw. Razi began to push his way forward.

  One of the musicians spotted them approaching. She said something, and Christopher turned slowly to look, pushing his hair behind his ear and smiling vaguely.

  “What did they give you?” demanded Razi, striding up to the smaller man. “What did they give you, Christopher?” He grabbed Christopher’s chin, staring into his spreading pupils, and pressed his fingers to his clammy neck.

  Wynter came to an anxious halt by their side, clutching Sólmundr’s oat cakes to her chest and glowering at the Merron.

  “Tóg go bog é,” said Christopher softly. “Níl mé ag eitilt …”

  “Speak properly, Christopher!” snapped Razi. The musicians frowned and stepped forward as one, moving protectively to Christopher’s side.

  “ ’S’all right,” Christopher pushed them back. “He’s just worried.” He smiled, pushing them again, and waved them away. “Go on,” he said.

  The musicians eyed Razi warily. He glared back. The woman handed Wynter a full waterskin, looking into her eyes and clasping Wynter’s hands around the neck of it, as if to show Wynter how important it was.

  “All right,” Wynter nodded, her eyes flicking to Christopher. The woman pointed to Embla’s tent. “Yes,” snapped Wynter. “Yes. To lie down, I know.” The musicians still looked uncertain, but Christopher shooed them away, and they reluctantly left him in the care of his two glaring coimhthíoch friends.

  “What. Did. They. Give you?” demanded Razi again.

  “ ’S’all right, Razi,” Christopher licked his lips and looked around vaguely. “I ain’t flying, don’t worry. I know who I am.” He ran a shaking hand over his forehead. “We just held their hands while they flew. Me and Wari, we just held on …” He closed his eyes. “Oh …” he said. “Very tired.”

  Suddenly, Razi grabbed him and swivelled him towards the tent, making him gasp and stagger. “Woooo!” said Christopher, fluttering his hands and blinking around him. “Not a good idea!” he warned.

  “Razi!” Wynter slapped his hands away from their friend. “Go easy.”

  Ignoring her, Razi grabbed them both by an arm each and hustled them to the tent. He shoved them inside and dived after them, pulling the flap shut with a snap. If it had been a wooden door, Wynter thought that he would have kicked it, he was so enraged.

  “What happened, Christopher?” said Wynter, eyeing Razi, and gently pushing Christopher down onto the bed. The young man was starting to shake now, sweat beading his upper lip and his eyelids, his pale arms slippery. Remembering what Sól had done for Ashkr, Wynter pulled back the covers of their bed. “In,” she ordered, pulling off his boots. “Come on, get in. Under the covers.”

  Christopher crawled into the centre of the bed and curled into a shivering ball. Wynter huddled the covers over him. “Found out …” said Christopher. “Merron… carrying papers… destined for your brother.”

  Razi crossed quickly to hunker by the edge of the furs, his face questioning.

  Christopher grinned at him. “Oh,” he laughed, his teeth chattering. “We friends again now?”

  “Oh, shush,” muttered Razi, “You’re a bloody trial to my patience.”

  How do you know that they are destined for Albi, love?” Wynter asked gently.

  Christopher closed his eyes. “Uh …” he said. “Uhhh… they, uh, they included him in their bluh… bluh… blessing. Her too …” His voice trailed off into shivering silence.

  Wynter grabbed his hands through the blanket. “Chris!” she said in alarm.

  “Be over soon,” he murmured. “Need sleep.”

  “Who are the papers from?” asked Razi softly.

  Christopher opened his too-black eyes again, staring at them without really seeing. He was almost gone. “Uhh,” he said again. “Marguerite …” Wynter’s hands tightened around his. “Marguerite …” he said again urgently, as if afraid they might not have heard him the first time.

  “Shirken, Christopher? Marguerite Shirken?”

  Christopher nodded. “Aye,” he breathed. “Marguerite Shirken. That bloody… that bloody… witch-hunting bitch.” He slipped away, dropping into an unnatural sleep, his lips parting, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  Razi pressed his fingers to Christopher’s neck. Then he pulled the furs up to the young man’s chin and sat back on his heels, his face dazed.

  Wynter shook her head. So it was true—the papers were destined for Alberon. There could no longer be any doubt in her mind. Marguerite Shirken, daughter and sole heir to King Shirken—the woman whom her father referred to as “That Vile Serpent”—was secretly in communion with the Southlands heir.

  “Oh, Razi,” she whispered. “What is he doing? Our fathers spent the last five years keeping those people out of Southland affairs. Dad gave his health keeping them off Jonathon’s back. Between the two of them they sacrificed so much to keep those bloody-handed, evil …” She felt herself begin to choke on the words. All the things she had seen up north, all the terrible things, came back to her in a violent burst of sound and smell, and she shut her eyes at the memory of it.

  Razi put his hand on her shoulder. Wynter’s fists clenched in the furs of the bed and she shook her head again. A terrible sense of betrayal began to burn in her chest. For the first time, for the very first time, Wynter felt herself really begin to rage against Alberon. “I’ll kill him, Razi,” she said. “I’m going to kill him. Everything would be all right if it wasn’t for him. Jonathon would not have been pushed to tyranny. You would be safe. Dad …”

  Razi got abruptly to his feet and stalked to the back of the tent. “I’m going to pack our things,” he said. She glanced at him as he hunkered down before their neat piles of tack and saddles and began snapping things into order.

  She was just going to help him when shadows moved across the wall. Someone was circling the tent. They came to a halt at the door.

  Razi leapt to his feet, his hand on his knife. “Who is there?” he hissed.

  “Please, I may to come in?” Ashkr’s familiar voice was both a relief and a shock, and they looked at each other in amazement. What was the man doing out of bed? He had been barely conscious the last time they saw him.

  Frowning, Razi ducked outside. He let the flap fall back behind him, and his long shadow stretched
protectively across the door. “What do you…?” he began, then Wynter heard the tone of his voice change utterly as he got a close look at the Merron Lord. “Good God!” he said in dismay. “What are you doing on your feet, man? Hallvor? Why have you allowed him out like this?”

  Ashkr interrupted him, his voice strained. “Please, Tabiyb, I like come inside. I not have much time before Sól, he wake and catch me gone.”

  Razi pushed the door flap aside, and Hallvor aided Ashkr across the threshold. Once inside the tent, the tall blond man nodded to the healer and pushed her gently towards the door. She gave him a very concerned look, and then went and crouched outside, waiting.

  “I need… I need speak to Coinín,” gasped Ashkr, stumbling towards the pallet. He came dangerously close to toppling headfirst on top of their sleeping friend, and Wynter and Razi lurched forward in alarm, helping him to sit on the bed.

  “Coinín is sleeping, Ashkr,” said Wynter. “He has not slept properly for three nights.”

  Ashkr looked down at Christopher’s twitching face. “He not sleep properly now, luch bhocht. Oh …” He closed his eyes suddenly and put a shaking hand to his forehead, hunching forward.

  Razi laid a hand on his damp arm. “You are icy,” he muttered. He flung one of Embla’s furs over Ashkr’s shoulders, dragging it tight at the man’s chin.

  Ashkr huddled into the blanket as if it were the depths of winter. “I not stay long,” he whispered. “I still sick from the seeing… I needs …” He blinked as if trying to get his bearings. “Coinín,” he said. He leant over Christopher, looking down into his face. “Coinín,” called Ashkr softly, his hand hovering over Christopher’s shoulder. “It all right. It over.”

  Christopher moaned, his eyes fluttering rapidly beneath their dewy lids, and his body jerked abruptly under the covers as if he’d been struck.

  Razi lifted his hand as if to stop Ashkr. “Be careful,” he whispered.

  “Coinín,” called Ashkr again. Christopher growled long and low in his chest, a frightening, animal sound. Ashkr suddenly dropped his hand to his shoulder and squeezed hard.