“It’s me!” she cried. “It’s Wynter!”
He went limp and they lay tangled for a moment, their hearts thundering in the darkness. Behind them, the Merron shouted in unison, a long rising “HaaaaaAH!” There was a monstrous crack, and a pained creak, like a big door opening. Wynter turned to look, but the clearing was no more than a patch of flame in the darkness There was a loud, yawning groan, then the ground leapt beneath them as a huge boom shook the forest floor. Ravens surged from the trees above, cawing in alarm.
“Embla,” moaned Christopher. Wynter pushed herself from him and crawled forward, staring through the trees. He curled immediately into a tight ball, muttering.
They would have done that to her, thought Wynter numbly. What an awful way to die. She thought of that rushing plummet downwards, and the great smacking pressure; tons of wood crushing you into the mud, and she thanked God for Christopher, and his recklessness and his bravery in saving Embla from such a death.
There was silence from the Merron, and for a moment only the harsh calls of the ravens cut above the angry noise of the fire. Smoke and the pleasant smell of roasted meat drifted through the darkness. Wynter knew the smell would become awful soon, as all human burnings did. The smoke would turn oily, carrying a wretched stink that would not leave the nostrils for days. It was a stench she had hoped never to endure again. They will smell of it, she thought. When we travel with them. They will stink of Ashkr’s death.
Christopher moaned again. Wynter could hear him scrabbling softly in the dirt as he crawled through the bushes. Then another sound rose up through the flame-roar—the Merron, yipping and whooping, breaking from their shock and coming to life, celebrating the final, the most precious sacrifice of their Caoirigh an Domhain.
Christopher staggered to his feet and Wynter turned to find him dimly outlined in firelight, leaning against a tree. “Women go to the earth,” he rasped. “Men to the fire.” His eyes flashed as he turned his head to stare at her. “Despite what they say, it ain’t what we do. I ain’t never seen it before… Only …” He shook his head, his face creased in pain. When he spoke again, his voice was too harsh, too loud as if to counteract his tears. “Only the old religion still worship this way, and only when they are desperate, and frightened.”
He sobbed and covered his mouth to hold back his distress. The light subsided a little, and Wynter crouched in the darkness, staring at him in the dimness. Only the flaring outlines of his cheekbones, the glitter of his eyes and the bright tracks of his tears were visible. “She chose them specially, didn’t she? To support everything she says about my people. She chose them, knowing they’d never be understood.”
Behind Wynter, figures moved against the flames and music was rising, joyful and wild. These people, who had been so kind to her and so generous, were dancing now and singing as they celebrated the murder of their own. Wynter nodded, and scrubbed her wet cheeks. Yes, Christopher was absolutely right. These people confirmed every malicious thing the Shirkens had ever claimed about people of difference. Their vicious campaign against the pagan Merron would be very difficult to argue against after this, and with them, all the others—the Jews, the dissenters, the Musulmen, the reformists—all would burn in the same fires.
“Razi will never understand,” she whispered. Embla once again rose to her mind, all that beauty and all that kindness wilfully slapped down into darkness. Wynter put her hand to her mouth, the firelight trebling and doubling as her eyes filled again.
“She spared Razi,” whispered Christopher. “He, too, was destined for the pyre. Everything they love… everything they love should go with them to An Domhan. Sólmundr and Boro—and Razi—should have burned.” He closed his eyes. “All the Caoirigh had to do was ask, but they didn’t. They spared them. Razi will never understand, Iseult! He’ll—” Christopher turned abruptly, shoving his way through the dark undergrowth, disappearing into the blackness of the trees. Wynter turned back for a moment to the firelight and the singing. Then she stumbled to her feet and pushed after him, following the sound of his clumsy progress until she caught up. She slipped her arm around his waist, and they staggered together through the darkness, heading for the tent.
The dogs were howling. Wynter could hear them scrabbling and running to and fro, their barks coughing to abrupt silence as they hurled themselves to the ends of their chains. Christopher dropped to a crouch in the shadows at the tree line, and Wynter hunkered by his side, silently scanning the empty camp. There was no sign of intruders. After a moment of wary surveillance, they darted across the moonlit space between forest and tents, then slunk around the shadows until they could observe without being seen.
The warhounds were in a frenzy of distress, all their attention focused on Ashkr’s tent. As Wynter watched, Boro flung himself to the end of his chain and scrabbled desperately against the earth in a futile attempt to reach the door. Christopher rose to his feet and lowered his crossbow, listening. From within the tent, barely audible above the noise of the hounds, came sounds of a muted struggle. Something clattered softly and there was a faint cry, choked off almost immediately. Boro howled and flung himself once again at the tent.
Wynter and Christopher took off in a run, heading straight for the door. Sliding to a halt, they pushed their way through. Christopher dived left, Wynter dived right, and both came to a frozen halt—in similar attitudes of shock and despair.
“No!” shouted Wynter, rolling to her hands and knees and shooting forward.
With a choked cry, Christopher flung his bow aside and scuttled forward to join her. “You bastard,” he screamed. “You bloody …” His words were lost as he shoved his arms under Sólmundr’s shoulders and heaved upwards, taking the warrior’s weight. Wynter scurried around behind the tether pole and struggled to free the belt by which Sólmundr was attempting to hang himself. It wasn’t hard to do, the pole was only about four feet high, and once Christopher had shoved Sólmundr upwards and supported him against the wood, Wynter found it easy to slip the tether pin free of the belt and let the loose end slip back through the tether ring.
She staggered back, and Christopher and Sólmundr slithered down, coming to rest in a tangled heap at the base of the pole. Christopher scrabbled at the man’s neck, digging his fingers underneath the tight leather, and worked the buckle free so that Sólmundr could breath. Sólmundr gasped and heaved air into his lungs, howling in despair.
Flinging the belt to one side, Christopher spun back around, his face scarlet with rage. “You bastard!” he screamed again. “Don’t you dare!” The warrior slid to his side on the scattered cushions, sobbing, his arms coming up over his head, and Christopher instantly curled around him. He knotted his scarred hands in the rich fabric of Sólmundr’s tunic and in the tangled waves of his sandy hair. “You owe me!” he sobbed. “You owe me.”
Wynter’s legs started to shake and she let go, sliding her weight down the tether pole until she was kneeling on the cushions, her forehead resting against the smooth wood. She closed her eyes and listened to the men weep. Then she turned and crawled across the mats and the furs until she got to Razi.
Still unconscious, and untroubled now by his former discomfort, Razi slept innocently on. Wynter laid her forehead against his temple, trying not to think about the morning, and about what they would tell him when he woke. After a while, she pushed the cushions to one side and lay behind him, her head resting between his shoulder-blades, her hand on his neck. His pulse thudded steadily beneath her fingers. She closed her eyes and for the rest of the night she just lay there and listened to him breathe.
Cold Morning
“Get your hands off him!” snarled Wynter. The look on her face must have been unmistakable, because Hallvor stepped back immediately and moved aside so that Wynter and Christopher could help Razi to his feet.
At the door, a warrior stared in, her eyes wide with curiosity, and Christopher snarled at her, “Croch leat! Agus ná bí ag stánadh.”
Razi, startled at Chr
istopher’s sharp tone, turned to blink uncertainly at him. Christopher glanced up into his shocked face and adjusted his grip on Razi’s waist. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “We’ve got you.”
“What happened to me?” slurred Razi, his voice thick.
Christopher looked away. “It’s all right,” he said again, miserably. He glanced across at Wynter who was supporting Razi from the other side. She nodded and the three of them began to make their way to the door.
Razi stumbled and groaned, overcome again with nausea. He had remained unconscious for the entire night, and when dawn began to break and they still could not rouse him, Wynter and Christopher had reluctantly called for Hallvor’s aid. To Wynter’s dismay, the healer had administered yet more drugs to counteract Embla’s initial dosage. Even then, it had taken Razi an alarming amount of time to regain his senses, and he had been confused and distressingly vulnerable ever since.
“Wynter?” he groaned as they pushed his head down and helped him to duck through the door. “What has happened to me?” Wynter hated the shaky uncertainty in his voice, and she looked away, furious and miserable.
“Shhh,” she said. “It’s… shhh, you will be all right.”
Outside the tent, the frigid air hit them like a slap, and Razi straightened with a gasp, squinting in the dim early light. After a few steps, he pulled Wynter and Christopher to a halt, his arms tightening on their shoulders as he got his bearings.
Mist was rising, slow and white from the grass, and the dew was just beginning to glitter in the first shimmer of morning. High above the trees, a thick pall of smoke dirtied the clarity of the rosy sky. Blearily, Razi took all this in, then he noticed the small band of Merron horsemen and women waiting by the forest, and his frown deepened at the sight of his own mare, and Wynter and Christopher’s horses, all tacked up and ready to go. His dark eyes widened as he picked Sólmundr from the row of waiting horsemen, Boro lying miserably at his horse’s feet.
Wynter saw memory seep into Razi’s face.
“Darling,” she whispered. “Listen …”
“Wait …” he said, his voice deepening. “Wait a moment.” He began to shrug free of her grip. “Wait a moment,” he said again, looking around him. “What?”
“Listen, Razi …” But he was pushing away from her, and stumbling backwards, staring at Christopher.
“What did you do?” he cried.
The warrior by the tent stepped protectively to Christopher’s side, her face wary. Hallvor ducked through the door and joined her. The healer had Razi’s cloak in one hand and his backpack in the other. She looked Razi up and down and said something soothing, but Christopher did not translate for her. Instead, he just stood, flanked by the tall, well-armed women, silently watching his friend.
“Razi,” said Wynter, stepping forward, her hand up. Razi glanced at her, then he spun away and stumbled down the track between the tents, tripping and only barely keeping his feet as he tried to run. Wynter strode after him, her heart clenching as she realised where he was heading. “Razi!” she called, breaking into a trot. “Don’t!”
She caught up, easily outstripping his uncoordinated pace, and grabbed hold of him. “Listen!” she pleaded, slipping around to face him, putting her hands on his chest. “Razi, please!”
He stared past her and she saw the shock and dawning horror in his face as he took in the circle of beaten ground where Embla’s tent used to stand. With a cry he pushed Wynter aside and staggered across to stand in the centre of the bare earth. He stared at the ground. “Where…?” he said. “Wynter? Where…?”
Wynter’s eyes filled with tears and she shook her head, her hands spread helplessly before her. She did not want to say it. Someone moved quietly behind her and Wynter turned to find Christopher standing in the shadows, watching. He had Razi’s cloak in his hand.
The jingle of tack and the soft thud of hooves came drifting through the tents. The Merron were walking their horses along the tree line, shadowing Razi’s progress through the camp. They came into view and brought their mounts to a halt, their watchful faces pale in the shadow of the forest. Hallvor had joined them; she pulled her mare up beside Úlfnaor’s horse and waited in patient silence.
Razi lifted his eyes to the pall of black smoke that stained the sunrise. He inhaled deeply and Wynter knew that he was registering the dark, bitter scent of the pyre that lay beneath the fresh morning air. “No,” he whispered. “Oh no.”
“Listen,” said Wynter again, but she did not know what to say to him and so trailed into useless silence. Razi lurched suddenly towards the forest. She darted across and knotted her fists in his tunic. Oblivious to her presence, Razi jerked forward, three shambling steps, and Wynter had to stagger with him, clinging to his tunic to prevent herself from being flung to the ground. “There is nothing to see, Razi! Believe me!” she wailed. “There is nothing!” Heedless, Razi continued to wade forward, and Wynter clung to him in panic, trying in vain to stop him.
“Embla is dead,” said Christopher, his flat voice hitting them like a randomly thrown stone.
“Oh, Christopher!” gasped Wynter, appalled at his bluntness.
Razi froze, his eyes widening, and slowly he turned to stare at their expressionless friend.
Christopher dipped his chin, his eyes locked on Razi’s. “We drugged you,” he said, his voice hard and toneless. “Embla and I put it in your drink. That’s why you feel so ill. That’s why you can’t remember. Then Embla and Ashkr went into the forest and they allowed their priests to murder them. They believed that this was their honour and their duty, and that it was necessary for the survival of their people.”
Wynter felt Razi begin to shake. He clenched his fists, his eyes overflowing, and took a step towards Christopher. Wynter tightened her hands in his tunic. “Stop, Razi,” she said. “Stop, now.”
“There ain’t nothing you could have done to prevent Embla’s death,” said Christopher. “Nothing. And you could never have talked Embla out of it. Never. No one alive could have.”
Razi took another convulsive step forward and Wynter pushed on his chest, frightened by his rage. Had he wanted to, Razi could have flung her aside like a kitten, but he hardly seemed to notice her presence, so concentrated was he on Christopher.
Christopher went on. “Don’t tell yourself that you could have fought them either—stolen her away somehow, and saved her that way. Embla would have killed you herself, Razi, rather than desert her duty to An Domhan.” He stepped close suddenly and Razi loomed over him with rage-black eyes. Christopher gazed up with fearless calm. “There was nothing you could ever have done to stop this,” he said. “You meant nothing to Embla when compared to her duty. Do you understand? You could never have come between Embla and An Domhan.”
“They killed her,” grated Razi, his voice coming harsh and rusty from between viciously gritted teeth.
“Hush,” said Wynter, spreading her fingers against his chest. “Razi, hush now. Think—”
“They killed her!”
Christopher nodded. “And Ashkr too. It was—”
Razi cut him short with a hiss. “I will destroy them.”
Christopher stared unflinchingly into Razi’s furious eyes. “Do you recall,” he said softly, “what you told me that time in Algiers, when I came to you with my plan to rescue my girls?”
Razi’s muscles leapt under Wynter’s hands. For a moment he gaped at Christopher, his mouth open, his eyes wide. Then he threw himself backward and spun clumsily away, staggering once more towards the trees.
“Wait!” Wynter ran after him and Christopher followed suit, the two of them striding along on either side of Razi as he stumbled towards the forest. “Razi!” she begged, appalled that he might run into the trees, terrified that he would witness the contents of that still burning pyre. That he would see that terrible fallen tree “Please!” she cried. “There is nothing to see there! I swear it to you!”
But Razi wasn’t listening to her. He was desperately
trying to block out what Christopher was saying. “Marcello was so angry at you,” said Christopher. “He was so angry that he threw a chair through the rosewood screen, do you remember?”
“Stop! Stop it!” Razi flung his hands up to cover his ears.
Christopher overtook him and dodged in front, walking backwards, trying to catch Razi’s eye. “He was angry because he thought I’d be destroyed, Razi. But I wasn’t. I understood. In the end, I honestly understood.”
Razi came to a halt, his face desperate. He turned right and then left, trying to avoid Christopher, and then he just stood still and closed his eyes. Slowly he hunched his long body forward and brought his hands to his head. “Oh, don’t, Chris,” he whispered. “Please don’t do that to me.”
Christopher stepped in close, his head bowed, his forehead almost on Razi’s shoulder. “I understood,” he said, “because I knew you meant every word of it. You weren’t just saying those things to shut me up. It wasn’t just a clever way to let things go. You really meant it. Do you remember?”
Wynter put her hand on Razi’s back. He shook his head. “Don’t,” he whispered again. “Please.” Wynter rubbed his shoulder, staring at Christopher. He had yet to break from his calm, flat composure, his eyes fixed on Razi’s averted face.
“I remember every word,” whispered Christopher. “I remember it as if it were yesterday. You said, ‘To my eternal shame, the sufferings of those that you love can be nothing to me when weighed against the future of my father’s kingdom, because in my father’s kingdom the freedom of thousands like them hangs in the balance’. I remember that, Razi, because sometimes it’s the only thing that lets me sleep at night. It’s the only thing that helps me live with the fact that we let so much go unavenged.”
Wynter’s eyes overflowed and Razi moaned, clutching his head. Christopher kept staring at him, saying nothing more. After a moment Razi looked up and met his gaze, his own eyes full. “I do not understand why these people have spared us, Razi,” Christopher said. “After what we have witnessed, God knows they’d be much better off had they slit our throats and left us in a ditch. But they have spared us, and they seem determined to aid you in fulfilling your duty to your father’s kingdom.” He lifted Razi’s cloak and held it out to him. Razi looked from his friend’s face to the cloak and back again.
The Crowded Shadows Page 35