The Crowded Shadows

by Celine Kiernan

  “We all speak Hadrish, do we?” he said. Then he smiled. “Yes, I can see it in your eyes. You four, at least, understand me.” The Wolf raised himself onto his elbow, clenching his scarlet fist in the dust. “All right, al-Sayyid,” he said, staring Razi in the eye. “I will die screaming, if that is what you wish.” He grinned, blood in his teeth. “I shall scream very loud, shall I? Tell these sheep what a rabid little cur your mongrel is? What a dangerous piece of work you’ve brought in amongst them?”

  Razi’s face went pale, and he jerked back slightly. The Loup-Garou laughed.

  “You should have seen him, when the boys took his trinkets. You should have seen him change! Know what we call his kind?” he gurgled. “Slywolf… Feeblewolf… pathetic, slithering fools who try and deny their nature and run with the sheep.” He spat on the ground.

  Wynter stared at him, disbelieving. “Do you mean Christopher?” she whispered.

  The Wolf turned to his attention to her, and Christopher moaned, twisting his head away. Understanding brightened the Wolf’s blood-stained face and he leaned towards her. “You want to be careful, bitch,” he rasped. “You better take care. His kind can only hold themselves in check for so long, and then—”

  The Wolf jerked forward suddenly, his mouth all fang, his eyes yellow. Everyone skittered back at the inhumanity of his face. He laughed at their fear, and fell back, just a man again, scrabbling with bloody fingers in the dust. But there were claw-marks in the dirt now, deep and long, a permanent testament to the moment when his scarlet fingers had gouged into the impossibly hard ground. He grinned at Wynter. “He didn’t tell you, did he?” he gasped. “You stupid bint. He didn’t tell you that you were bedding a Wolf?”

  Razi surged to his feet. “Shut up,” he cried, “shut your filthy mouth.”

  The Wolf laughed again as Razi loomed over him. “Oh,” he gasped. “You reckless bastard. He’ll turn! They always do. His kind can’t help it. They always bite the hand that feeds them.” He leered at Wynter. “Or eat the bitch that fu—” With a roar, Razi lifted his foot and stamped his heel down onto the Wolf’s temple.

  The Wolf’s head changed shape in a sickening way, and Wynter slapped her hand over her mouth, her stomach rebelling. Razi lifted his foot again and Wynter turned away, everything combining at once to finally bring her stomach into her mouth. She heard the ripe, flat smack of Razi’s heel connecting with the Wolf’s head, and the circle of Merron skipped back as Wynter vomited hot bile onto the ground at their feet. Once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop and she heaved and gagged for what seemed like an eternity as things continued to happen around her.

  Her first coherent thought was Christopher, and she straightened, wiping her mouth with the back of her arm, and looked anxiously to where he had been standing. He was gone, his katar abandoned in the dust, and Wynter stared at the discarded weapon, her spine creeping with cold fear. Then she realised that the Merron were all standing in wary silence, watching as something transpired behind her. The subtle, metallic scrape of a sword being drawn from its scabbard froze her in place for a moment, then she turned slowly and followed the Merron’s gaze.

  Razi had drawn his falchion again and was standing facing Úlfnaor, his arms hanging by his sides, his face unreadable. The Merron Lords were ranged in a pale row, their swords loosely ready in their hands, their expressions wary. Behind them, and all around her, the watchful ranks of the People stood, weapons at the ready, postures tense. Wynter tightened her grip on her own sword, her eyes darting around the crowd.

  Razi took his knife from the sheath on his thigh. Slowly, his eyes on Úlfnaor, he twisted knife and sword so that the blades of each rested along his forearms, then he held them out, offering the weapons, handle first. He lifted his chin and spoke in his deep, clear voice.

  “I am al-Sayyid Razi ibn-Jon Malik al-fadl,” he said.

  Wynter stared anxiously at Úlfnaor, but Razi’s name and title did not seem to register with the big man, and after a pause, Razi went on.

  “I am a messenger for the Good King Jonathon,” he said. “I am dispatched by his Majesty to find the Royal Prince Alberon in hopes of conveying to him his father’s desire for reconciliation, and as an opening for negotiations for peace.” Razi dropped to one knee, his weapons held out for Úlfnaor to take from him. He bowed his head in submission. “But these Loups-Garous will see me dead before I can fulfil my duty, Aoire. I can no longer expose my companions to the danger of travelling alone. I throw myself on your mercy, in the hope that you will understand that what is good for this Kingdom will ultimately be good for your people. I beg your protection. Aoire. I beg your protection in my journey to the Prince.”

  Wynter flung herself onto her knees by Razi, her eyes flicking up to take in Úlfnaor’s uncertain face. “Razi!” she hissed, putting her hand on his outstretched arm. “Razi, stop. You can’t.” Razi didn’t look at her, just continued to hold his weapons out in supplication, his head bowed. Wynter tugged at his arm, begging him in Southlandast. “They will kill you, Razi! Christopher says …”

  “It matters not.”

  “Razi! Did you hear me? They will—”

  “It matters not, Wyn. I will not bring you back out there alone.”

  Wynter turned to Embla. “Tell him! Tell him what Christopher said to you. Tell him!”

  Embla’s eyes were wide with panic, and she stepped back, her hand to her mouth, not knowing what to do. “Oh lady, please!” begged Wynter. She dashed her hands under her eyes, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Lady, please!” she insisted firmly. “Please! Tell him that he cannot stay!”

  Embla remained silent, and Wynter looked around for Christopher, or Ashkr, or Sólmundr, anyone who might support her, but they were nowhere to be found.

  Úlfnaor reached down and placed his hand on the hilt of Razi’s knife. Wynter looked up into the man’s dark eyes. “Don’t, Aoire,” she whispered. “I beg you.” Úlfnaor glanced at her, his expression hard, then he took Razi’s weapons from him and handed them to Wari.

  Wynter got slowly to her feet, expecting that at any minute the Aoire would demand her sword from her. Úlfnaor watched her carefully, but made no move to disarm her. Razi allowed his empty hands to drop to his sides, his eyes still on the ground. Embla continued to stare at him, her hand pressed to her mouth.

  Wynter backed slowly away. She knocked against something with her heel. It rolled away in the dust, and she knew without looking that it was the severed head. Her foot nudged against the Wolf’s body and she sidled her way past it, her eyes fixed on Razi and the heavily armed warriors standing over him. Úlfnaor’s dark eyes followed her as she backed through the surrounding Merron. The crowd parted and soon Wynter found herself on the outside of the circle, staring through the silent ranks of warriors as Razi continued to kneel, vulnerable and defenceless, in their midst. She got one last glimpse of his kneeling figure, then the wall of Merron closed against her and Razi disappeared from her sight.

  Wynter ran towards the river, instinct taking her to the little beach where she had last found Christopher. Sure enough, there were footprints leading across the sand, and in the shadows of the willow trees, at the far end of the beach, she saw his slim silhouette.

  “Christopher!” she screamed, running towards him. “Christopher!”

  The hunted look on his face brought her to a halt a few yards from him. He glanced at her, then away, for all the world like someone waiting for a stone to be flung at him. The Wolf’s horrible words fell between them like a dark wall, and for a moment Wynter faltered. Then she lowered her chin and did the only thing she could think of.

  “Christopher!” She shot forward and grabbed his arm, startling him. “Razi has thrown us under Úlfnaor’s protection! I told him not to! I told him that they would kill him, and he did it anyway! Úlfnaor has taken his weapons, Chris. Razi has told him that he works for the King! What are we to do?”

  Christopher stared blankly at her, and Wynter shook his arm. d
esperate. “Chris! Help me! What do we do?”

  He looked around him for a moment, utterly lost. Then he closed his eyes and twisted his arm from her grip. “Get Sól,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “Sól.” He pushed her gently away.

  “Chris …” she staggered back a few steps, panic rising in an uncontrollable tide. “Chris,” she lifted her hands. “What…?”

  “Get Sól!” His unexpected shriek made her leap and cry out. “I want Sól.” He howled this last word, and Wynter skittered back even further. Christopher moaned and staggered out into the shallow water, his fists clenched at his temples.

  A long shadow fell across them, and Wynter spun with a cry. Ashkr was standing on the edge of the sunlight, staring at Christopher. Wynter instinctively put herself between them, her sword half drawn. Get back! Ashkr stepped forward, his eyes locked with hers. Gently he closed his hand over Wynter’s and pushed down until her sword was once again sheathed in its scabbard. Then he strode past her, wading out into the shallows to stand by Christopher.

  “Coinín,” he said.

  Christopher gasped out another long, desolate moan and bent almost double.

  Wynter took three or four splashing steps towards them, and he cried out, twisting away. “No,” he moaned. “Not her. Tell her to go. Get me Sól, Ashkr, I want Sól.”

  Wynter came to a wounded halt, staring.

  Gradually, without any force, Ashkr pulled Christopher up and around so that the young man’s bowed head was resting against his chest. Christopher pressed in, and Ashkr’s eyes met Wynter’s across the top of his head. Wynter stood with her hands pressed to her mouth, tears rolling down her face. She didn’t know what to do. Ashkr, his face unreadable, slowly tightened his arms and pulled Christopher close.

  Spoken

  They took Wynter’s sword and her dagger and brought her to Embla’s tent. Razi was already inside, and he surged to his feet as she ducked in the doorway, his fists up, ready to fight.

  “It’s me!” she hissed, holding her hands out.

  He strode forward and grabbed her shoulders, looking behind her. “Where is Christopher?”

  Angrily, she shrugged free of his grip. “They took him! He would not see me! He would only see Ashkr and Sólmundr, and they took him!”

  Razi covered his face with his hand and groaned. He spun away and stalked to the opposite end of the puballmór where he stood in the shadows, his head in his hands.

  “You should have told me!” she hissed, and Razi shook his head. “How dare you not tell me?”

  The tent flap was lifted and a tall, dark shape filled the door. Razi leapt forward, grabbing Wynter and pulling her back. Then the door fell back into place and they saw that it was Ashkr, grave and staring, his eyes moving between the two of them.

  “Tabiyb,” he said. “Coinín say you always know this about him, but you never will to talk.”

  Colour flared to Razi’s cheeks and he averted his eyes.

  Ashkr looked him up and down. “So Coinín tell truth,” he said softly. “You shamed of him.”

  “No,” cried Razi. No, of course not …”

  “Yes,” insisted Ashkr. “Yes! You shamed, Tabiyb You hide Coinín’s nature. You make him hide even from his croí-eile.”

  “No,” cried Razi desperately. That was Christopher’s choice. He has always suppressed this part of himself! He has never wanted—”

  Ashkr stepped forward, his face close to Razi’s. “Come now, then,” he demanded. You come talk. You let Coinín know he good.”

  Razi’s arms dropped to his sides, and Wynter saw guilt and helplessness rise up in his dark face. He spread his hands and whispered, “I do not know what to say. I… I have never known what to say.”

  Ashkr softened instantly. He put his hand on Razi’s neck. “You just be his friend, Tabiyb. That all Coinín need from you, to know you his friend.” He smiled and pushed Razi’s hair back from his face in a strangely paternal gesture. “It be good,” he said, then he turned to Wynter. “Iseult,” he said. “I will talk with you.”

  Razi gripped Ashkr’s arm, panicked. “No!” he said. “Christopher would not want us to—”

  Ashkr gently removed Razi’s hand from his arm. He turned again to Wynter and she glared at him, her anger at Christopher and at Razi suffusing everything. Unfazed, Ashkr held up his wrist and tapped the plaited copper and silver bangle he wore there. “You know what this mean?”

  “It is a token of fidelity,” she answered tightly. “It means you have pledged yourself, heart and body, to Sólmundr.”

  He nodded. “From time I know what it is to love, I know I love Sól, and he, too, always feel this way for me. For long time I try to pretend I not feel this—because of who I is and what I is… Caora Beo. But, true in my heart, Iseult, Sól the only person I ever feel this way for. He make me happy. I like think I make him happy too. So …” Ashkr trailed to silence and closed his fingers around his bracelet.

  Suddenly his face drew down, and Wynter knew he was remembering something terrible. Something that brought him great anger and pain. Against her wishes, she felt her anger subside.

  “Then those pirate come,” whispered Ashkr, “and my Sól, he is gone. I eighteen when this happen, and I understand with perfect clearness that I have lost only good thing in my thóin caca of life. Three long year he gone, and my heart it bleed every day… then here he is! I not believe it! My Sól! Walking from out the trees! It like dream. I look at the scars on his body. I see his poor neck and—”

  Ashkr gritted his teeth and bit down on his emotions. He took Wynter’s hands in his own, looking down at the tokens they both wore on their wrists. “This what I need tell you,” he said. “I sorry I go on and on. This really what I need you to know …” He seemed uncertain suddenly, as if not sure he should be saying this. Wynter squeezed his hands. She nodded encouragingly.

  Ashkr’s voice lowered. “Sól, he go through many thing when he slave,” he said darkly. “He suffer many hurts. He… he made feel shame, Iseult. You understand?”

  Wynter swallowed, her eyes full. She nodded.

  “Sól, he think that if he tells to me this things, then that be all I will ever see. He think I will look at him and not see him no more, but only what it is was done to him. He think it better to keep all this things inside him. Not said.” Ashkr leaned in close to Wynter, willing her to understand. “Shame make Sól not speak. This thing that keep him silent to me. This thing that keep Coinín silent to you. It shame. They fear the truth will make us turn away, Iseult. This why they hide from us this very important things. You understand?”

  Wynter nodded again, and Ashkr searched her glittering eyes.

  “Good,” he whispered. “That good. Now!” He abruptly dropped her hands and turned to Razi. “Now, Tabiyb. Come tend this wounds on Coinín’s back. Give to him reason to tell you what he feels.”

  Razi remained pressed against the wall, his face frozen, and Ashkr dipped his chin. “It all right, Tabiyb,” he said gently. “Be strong now, like good man you are, and go be friend to Coinín.”

  For a very brief moment Wynter thought Razi was going to refuse. Then he lurched for the back of the tent, plucked his doctor’s bag from the shadows and ducked through the door. She went to dash after him, but Ashkr stopped her.

  “Your chance come next, lucha. We take our time getting there, tá go maith?”

  Wynter nodded. “All right,” she said.

  The sound of Christopher weeping brought her to an uncertain halt by Ashkr’s tent. It was a muffled, keening sound, underlaid with the deep murmur of Razi’s voice. Wynter rested her hand on the wall of the tent and listened.

  “But I can feel it!” said Christopher, his voice rising in panic. “I’ve let it out, Razi. After all these years—after everything that’s happened me—now I let it out! And I can’t control it! Any bit of anger at all! Any bit of desire, and it leaps up in me! I’m bad, Razi! I’m dangerous!”

  Wyn
ter bowed her head. She glanced back at Ashkr and Sólmundr, sitting in the shade of the trees, watching her tensely. Sólmundr gestured her to go inside.

  Razi mumbled something, and Christopher interrupted him sharply. “You know I will! You’ve seen what I’m like!”

  “Christopher,” said Razi, his tone very clear and measured, “that was years ago, and you were out of your mind. You were crazed with fever.”

  “I could have killed you! You could have died.” Christopher broke into sobs again, and Wynter could take no more. She stumbled her way around the side of the tent and pushed through the door.

  The two men jumped at her abrupt entrance, and Christopher wailed in horror.

  “No!” he cried. “No! Iseult! No!”

  The sight of him almost drove Wynter from the tent in fear. His swollen, blotchy face, his frantic desperation. He is a Wolf, she thought. A Wolf. At her expression, Christopher hid his face, and Wynter cringed with shame. Oh, you fool, she thought, he is Christopher. That is all. That is everything. Clenching her hands against her own cowardice, Wynter stepped in and let the door drop behind her.

  Razi had been kneeling by Ashkr’s bed, holding Christopher in his arms, but at her approach Christopher snatched himself away and retreated to the middle of the pallet, his head in his hands, his knees drawn up. He was barefoot and bare-chested, dressed only in his trousers, and Wynter figured that he had finally allowed Razi tend to the cuts on his back.

  “Christopher,” she said softly. He moaned and shook his head. Wynter moved closer to the bed. At her approach, Christopher pressed his face harder into his knees.

  Razi shifted uncomfortably. “Sis,” he whispered, his face pleading. Don’t. Please. Don’t say anything.

  Wynter hesitated. Then she stooped and, without thinking, removed her boots. She took off her tunic. Then she crawled across the furs of Ashkr’s bed and knelt beside Christopher. She put her hand on his back. Razi took a shaky breath, staring at her. She leant close and whispered in Christopher’s ear.