The Crowded Shadows

by Celine Kiernan

  “Croí an Domhain,” toasted Ashkr. “Ar fad do Chroí an Domhain!”

  The Merron and Christopher downed their drinks, emptying their cups in one swallow. Razi and Wynter hesitated. They glanced at Christopher. He nodded, and they downed the drinks.

  Wynter gasped as honeyed fire burned its way to her stomach. Jesu, she thought, that is unbearably sweet!

  “Gah!” spluttered Razi, “that is bitter!” Wynter stared at him. He tried valiantly to hide his disgust and couldn’t. One eye closed and his entire face puckered in reaction. “Gah!” he said again, laughing. “Woman! Are you trying to kill me?”

  Embla laughed shakily. Christopher took the beaker from Razi’s hand, carefully laying it behind him on the floor.

  Ashkr pulled Sólmundr back against him. “Finish the story, a chroí,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around his friend. “What you do, in our lodge, all the long winter, when firelight paint the walls and the snow pile heavy on the door?”

  Razi gasped, working his tongue around his mouth to rid himself of the bitter taste. “Oh, Embla! he said, “I… I think I need some water.”

  Christopher rose to his knees and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  Ashkr glanced at him, then murmured once again to Sólmundr, “Tell me what you do, Sól, this winter in the lodge.”

  Sólmundr closed his eyes. Two bright tears made an unexpected trail down his cheeks. “I …” he said, “I …”

  “You be happy,” insisted Ashkr, squeezing tightly. “Say it, you be happy.”

  “I… be happy.”

  “And you have beautiful blond man to warm your bed.”

  Sólmundr sobbed, shaking his head.

  “Yes,” insisted Ashkr. “Yes. Beautiful man. As many as you wish.”

  “No,” whispered Sólmundr. “No, Ash. No.”

  “But who warm your heart, a chroí? While that man warm your bed?” Ashkr wrapped himself around Sólmundr and buried his face in his friend’s neck. “You tell me,” he moaned, “tell me, who warm your heart?”

  “You,” sobbed Sólmundr. “You. Always you. Never anyone but you.”

  Wynter stared at the two men, shocked by their sudden distress.

  “Embla!” The alarm in Razi’s voice snapped Wynter’s attention back to him. At the sight of him she lurched to her knees, her eyes wide. He was bent forward, clutching his chest. “Christopher,” he gasped. “Chris… What…?”

  “Shhhh,” soothed Christopher, rubbing his back. He glanced at Wynter and she hunched warily, her hands closing to fists.

  “Christopher?” she snarled.

  “Shhhh,” he said again. “It will be all right.”

  Razi stared around him with unfocused fear. He tried to rise, and Christopher and Embla leapt to catch him, supporting his head and shoulders as he collapsed backwards. Razi cried out and gasped, his arm flying out in aimless self-defence.

  “It’s all right!” said Christopher, his voice breaking in a sob. “It’s all right, Razi… Please …”

  “You’ve poisoned him!”

  “No! No, Iseult! Trust me!”

  But Wynter was already flinging herself backwards, rolling across the furs, and scrambling for the pile of weapons they had left by the door. She scrabbled around in blind panic for a moment, before realising that the weapons were gone. She came to a despairing halt, feeling the air pour through the narrow gap where someone had reached in under the hide wall and drawn their weapons outside.

  Behind her, Razi kicked out and sent the tray of little beakers flying. Christopher was trying to soothe him, repeating that it was all right, everything was all right. Razi lashed at him in rage and fear. Wynter remained hunched by the door, staring in horror through the gap under the wall. The tent was surrounded by Merron, all silently waiting in the rapidly encroaching dusk. Her stomach shrank to a cold walnut at the realisation that this was what Christopher had been doing, that time he had stood here, his shadow thrown against the wall. He had been showing the others where the weapons were, letting them know what part of the wall to lift.

  She turned on him, snarling through furious tears. “God curse you for a traitor, Christopher Garron,” she hissed. “God curse you! What are they going to do with him?”

  “No,” he moaned, shaking his head. “No, lass. Please. It’s to keep him safe. That’s all. I promise you, it’s the only way.”

  Razi weakly lifted his arm, then let it fall. His head and shoulders were supported across Christopher’s lap and he was trying in vain to push the young man away. His eyes rolled beneath heavy lids, closed briefly, opened again. Gasping, he made one last attempt to grab the front of Christopher’s shirt. He succeeded only in batting at his friend’s chest, and then his arm slithered down to fall slackly between them and his body went limp in Christopher’s arms. Wynter cried out in despair.

  Ashkr called out something and bright light flared across the hide walls as a ring of torches roared to violent life outside the tent.

  “You come take care of Tabiyb, Iseult,” said Embla. She was helping Christopher lay Razi down onto the furs, rolling him gently onto his side, propping him into position with cushions at his back. “This herbs very strong. They may to make him sick, and if you not careful, he can to choke.”

  Wynter watched, frozen, as Christopher passed his hand over Razi’s curls. He glanced at her. “Come on, lass,” he said softly. “Come take care of our lad.”

  Behind her, Ashkr whispered to Sólmundr, “Let me go now, a chroí. You know I got to go.” He still spoke Hadrish, and Wynter wondered if it were so that the Merron outside would not understand.

  “Iseult,” said Christopher urgently. “Come here. Please.”

  “We got no time,” said Embla. “Come here.”

  Wynter scrambled across the mats and pushed Embla to one side. “Razi!” she cried, shaking him and peering into his slack face. “Wake up!”

  Christopher grabbed her arm and she jerked away from him with a cry. He grabbed her again and pulled her up to face him.

  “There’s no time!” he yelled. Wynter snarled at him, and his fingers dug into the tops of her arms. “I want you to look after Razi,” he hissed urgently. “Don’t leave him on his own.” He pulled her closer. “And don’t leave Sól on his own. I don’t trust what he told Ash, I don’t think he does intend going on. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

  Wynter blinked at him in frantic confusion. She could feel her anger draining from her, leaving only fear.

  Embla had crossed to the others, and when she spoke, her voice was soft and persuasive. “Ash,” she said. “Let him go. Ash, let Sól go. He not part of this no more.”

  She guided her brother to his feet, but Ashkr kept hold of Sólmundr’s hand, stretching his friend’s arm up as he stood. The men were not looking at each other, their faces curiously vacant, but their hands remained joined as if welded.

  “Let go,” murmured Embla, prising their fingers loose. “Let him go, a chroí.”

  Christopher got to his feet and Wynter was too stunned to do anything but watch as he crossed the tent and crouched to look into Sól’s face. “Let go now, Sól,” he said. “You’re out of time.”

  Abruptly Sólmundr shook Ashkr’s hand away. Ashkr stumbled backwards, his face despairing, then he seemed to gather himself, and, with a deep breath, straightened and stiffly turned to face the door. Embla joined him. Outside the tent there was no sound but the gutter and flare of torches and the soft clink of the warhounds’ chains. After a moment, Embla reached out and took her brother’s hand.

  Christopher stayed crouched by Sólmundr, gazing into his eyes.

  “You not have to keep your promise,” whispered Sólmundr, his empty fist clenched to his chest. “I know it too much to ask.”

  “I shall fulfil my promise, Sólmundr. I swear it.”

  Sólmundr’s face softened in desperate gratitude. “You not let them see you, Coinín,” he warned. “You know what they do if they catch you. Úlfna
or, he will not be able save you from it.”

  Christopher nodded.

  Wynter rose to her knees. “Chris …” she whispered, very frightened for him suddenly. She understood now that Christopher meant to join the Caoirigh. He intended to leave with them and to hand himself over to that silently waiting throng.

  There was a murmur from outside. Embla looked back. “We need to go, Coinín.”

  “Christopher!” cried Wynter, surging upwards.

  Christopher lurched to his feet and dashed across the tent to her. He grabbed her and she clenched her arms around him, pulling him in. “Don’t go!”

  He whispered into her hair, speaking only for her. “Stay in the tent, girly,” he whispered. “You’ll be safe in the tent.” He pulled back, glaring into her eyes. “Listen, no matter what happens… no matter… no matter what happens, these people will look after you now. I promise you that. I want you to promise me that you will accept their protection. Promise me that you’ll force Razi to accept it.”

  “Oh God, Christopher! What are they going to do to you?”

  He shook his head, his eyes full. “Promise, Iseult! Please! Tell me you’ll accept their protection, no matter what. Even if… Iseult, just promise me you won’t fall prey to the mastery of the Wolves!”

  Wynter gripped Christopher by the tops of his arms, the silver of his bear-bracelets cold beneath her hands. “Stay!” she hissed. “What could they do to you if you stay?”

  He shook his head.

  “Stay! Please, they can’t make you go.”

  Christopher gently shrugged free of her grip. He kissed her fingers. “They ain’t making me do aught, lass. It’s my choice. Once we decided to stay, I couldn’t just stand by and… I can’t let him down, lass. If you knew, you wouldn’t either.” He glanced down at Razi. “You’ll tell him I’m sorry, all right? Tell him it was all I could think of to keep him safe.”

  “Tell him yourself!” cried Wynter. “Where are you going that you can’t tell him yourself?”

  “Coinín,” Ashkr’s whisper made them both turn. A dark shadow had fallen across the door. Embla glanced back at Razi, she looked at Wynter, then turned away. Ashkr did not look back at all. Sólmundr stared expressionlessly at the dancing flames of the firebasins, his hand still clenched over his heart.

  Ashkr bowed his head. His hand tightened briefly on Embla’s and they parted. The pale lady stooped, lifted the door flap and ducked outside. As soon as Embla and Ashkr had stepped out into the flaring light, Christopher turned and walked after them.

  Wynter didn’t try and stop him, she didn’t reach for him or speak in any way. She was simply too numbed by confusion and fear. So Christopher ducked through the door and passed outside and Wynter silently watched him go. He took his place beside the twins. For a moment he was outlined darkly against the torches and the waiting Merron. Then a figure stepped in from the side, the tent flap was dropped, and he was gone.

  A Promise Kept

  Wynter sank to her knees beside Razi, her eyes on the door. Outside, there was the unmistakable noise of many people shifting quietly about. Wynter listened, trying to make out voices. There was nothing. She flicked a glance at Sólmundr, who was leaning back against one of the tether poles, staring blankly at the walls. He looked like a man who had been hollowed out and left an empty shell.

  “Sól,” whispered Wynter, “what will become of them?”

  He didn’t reply.

  Suddenly Razi gasped and drew up his knees, startling her. He curled desperately and groaned. Wynter was certain he was about to vomit, but as quickly as it had hit, his distress drained away and he relaxed again into sleep. She pushed the cushions tighter around him and took his hand. Outside the tent, a man spoke, and a shadow passed rapidly across the wall. The torches bobbed about for a moment and then the light began to fade as they were carried away.

  No! Wynter scrambled forward. Christopher! Peering through the gap, she was alarmed to see the crowd padding away into the darkness. Already the torches were nearly out of sight. Soon the Merron would disappear into the forest and that would be it. She would have to sit here and wait, not knowing.

  Wynter laid her hand on the door. She glanced across at Sólmundr. The warrior just continued to gaze at nothing, not caring whether she stayed or went. Behind them, Razi moaned in renewed discomfort. He drew up his knees, clenched his fists again, then slowly relaxed once more. Wynter waited, listening as Razi’s breathing evened out. She shouldn’t leave him. Christopher had begged her not to leave him. Christopher. Gritting her teeth, Wynter ducked under the door flap and ran into the gathering darkness.

  The warhounds rose to their feet, and Wynter felt them rush forward as she ran past. There was a sharp, metallic clink as they reached the ends of their chains. She glanced back. There were only three of them, and they stood in a row watching her, their heads cocked in canine curiosity, blessedly silent. Good dogs, she thought, stay quiet. Then she rounded a tent and they were lost from sight.

  Sliding to a halt, she crouched in the shadows at the edge of camp. The Merron were at the tree line already, just a bobbing line of orange torches. Before she could even catch her breath, the forest sucked the torchlight into itself and she lost sight of the procession.

  She dithered for a moment, frozen by fear of discovery. Then she stumbled to her feet and dashed across the open ground, her heart in her mouth. What if someone was watching? What if there were pickets? The words blood-eagle scrabbled across her mind. Then she was amongst the trees and swamped in inky blackness, running blindly forward, though she had no idea which way to go.

  She ran for several aimless minutes, then jerked to a halt, listening in the dark. The forest around her was as silent as a grave, and she could hear nothing to indicate that she was on the right track. She began to push forward again, moving as quietly as she could through the thick undergrowth.

  The trees ahead were abruptly silhouetted against a flare of light, and Wynter crouched, staring, as, one after another, a series of torches were lit around the perimeter of a huge clearing. Soon the forest ahead was ablaze with light, a flaming heart at the centre of the darkness. Somewhere within that blinding radiance a great bass drum began to throb, its rhythm slow and deliberate.

  The trees above Wynter s head came alive as unseen things began to call harshly in the rustling branches. Wide-eyed, Wynter peered up into the darkness. With a cry, something huge launched itself into the air above her. A chorus of croaking, angry caws followed as the occupants of the treetops fought amongst themselves. Ravens! The trees were full of ravens, woken from their sleep and set to quarrelling by the unexpected light. Wynter ducked her head, cursing, as twigs and bits of debris rained down on her. She blinked her eyes clear of dust, and began to creep forward as the enormous birds jostled and argued overhead.

  It was difficult to focus against the light, and for a moment the Merron were nothing but black figures moving against a backdrop of fire. Then Wynter’s eyes adjusted and she saw clearly. Ashkr and Embla stood side by side a short distance away, their backs turned to Wynter. At Ashkr’s right hand was Christopher, at Embla’s left, Wari, and all four stood to stiff attention, watching the ceremonies. Wynter peered beyond them, trying to take everything in.

  At the centre of the clearing loomed an enormous, horseshoe-shaped structure of neatly stacked logs and bundles of twigs. A great, dark shape, it brooded in the flickering light of the torches. The space encircled by its arms cradled a deep, unyielding mass of shadow, against which the Caoirigh were illuminated like icons.

  It is a pyre, realised Wynter suddenly. They have constructed a pyre. She shrank back, her fists closing against the loose leaf-mould, her mind trying to retreat They have constructed a pyre. For whom?

  More torches flared to life, and they revealed another structure, towering behind the squat body of the pyre. At first Wynter thought it was a marble pillar, then she saw that it was the trunk of some enormous tree, severed from its roots and held up
right by wedges and ropes. It had been trimmed of its branches and shaved of its bark. Sap wept from the pale wood, oozing in long, glowing rivers down its length.

  Halfway up this pillar, perhaps twenty feet from the ground, a deep niche had been carved into the wood. Etched in shadow like the heart of the pyre, this space was just big enough for one person to stand within. Wynter stared at this wavering, man-sized patch of darkness, and the lump of terror in her throat grew so big that she could not breathe.

  The Merron began to chant, and dark figures came forward, advancing on the twins. As they approached, Ashkr and Embla lifted their arms from their sides and held them out in identical poses of acceptance. Ashkr’s hands were shaking.

  Hallvor came from behind the pyre and stood to one side, her head bowed. Her bare arms were looped with coils of willow-bark cord. She looked as though she were wrapped all around with thin, dark snakes. Slowly, she lifted her arms to shoulder height, and Wynter saw that the ropes were decorated with many small medicine bags and crow feathers. The medicine-bags swayed like small, black malignant growths.

  Úlfnaor stepped from the shadows. His dark hair was loose as usual and flowing around his shoulders, but he had dressed it with black crow feathers; they twirled and fluttered as he strode past Hallvor and came to stand before the Caoirigh. Solemnly, the Aoire kissed each twin on the cheek, and at each kiss, the surrounding people chanted something low.

  Christopher and Wari crouched to pick something from the ground. There was a warm flash of firelight on copper as each man lifted a shallow metal bowl and turned to face the Caoirigh. Christopher’s face was briefly outlined in fire. Wynter saw him glance at Ashkr, then he bowed his head and his expression was lost in shadow.

  The drums and the Merron chant stopped dead. In the heavy, crackling silence Úlfnaor drew his knife and slowly cut into Ashkr’s outstretched forearm. Ashkr jerked slightly and his hands clenched, but that was all. To Wynter’s horror, Christopher calmly lifted his bowl and caught the stream of blood that poured from Ashkr’s wound. Úlfnaor repeated the ritual with Embla. The pale lady flinched as the knife cut her flesh, but then, like her brother, she stood perfectly still as her blood drained brightly into Wari’s bowl. The sound of liquid trickling against copper was horribly loud.