The Crowded Shadows

by Celine Kiernan

  Christopher spoke quietly in Southlandast, his eyes on Wynter. “Hallvor is just being nice,” he said. “You ain’t got no idea how strange you are to her, Iseult, and she’s just being nice. It ain’t her fault that you don’t speak Merron.”

  “Leave her be,” warned Razi, his deep voice carrying low and dangerous across the evening air. “She doesn’t want that woman’s concoctions.”

  Wynter was surprised to see a steely resentment rise up in Christopher’s face. “How long do you think these people will keep on trying before they reckon you just ain’t worth their time?” he said. “How long do you think it will be before you wake up one morning and they’re gone? Then where would you be? Alone in a forest with Wolves after you, that’s where you’d be.” He turned to Hallvor, his face apologetic.

  “Christopher,” Wynter hesitated for a moment, her eyes on the leaves at his feet. “Would you tell Hallvor that I do not have need of her tea.” She lifted her eyes briefly and dropped them again. “But there are things I would like to rinse out at the river, and I would love to bathe. Could you ask…?” She stopped. Wait a moment, she told herself, Dad taught you better than this. Taking a deep breath, Wynter straightened and looked Hallvor in the eye, addressing her directly.

  “Hallvor,” she said respectfully, “I thank you very much for the offer of your tea.” She bowed, and Hallvor bowed graciously in response. “I apologise for my childish reaction. Where I come from, women are very… very private. I am not accustomed to such openness. I have no need of your tea, Hallvor, but thank you so much for your kindness. I should, however, like to go down to the river and wash out my supplies. Should the women be heading that way, I would very much like to accompany them. I could help you in gathering food and you could provide me with company and protection.”

  Christopher translated softly. Hallvor nodded, her eyes on Wynter, her grave face warm with understanding. Wynter suddenly realised that this was exactly how her father would have behaved in a situation where there was no shared language. The way Hallvor maintained eye contact with Wynter, and not the translator; the way she had opened communications through the finding of common ground; her patience—all these things Wynter had seen before, as Lorcan went about his diplomatic work in the North. It occurred to Wynter that this stringy woman, grimy and sweat soaked, her bare arms smudged with dirt, was far more refined and subtle a diplomat than she would ever have given her credit for.

  Once Christopher had finished translating, Hallvor bowed again and, speaking directly to Wynter, told her that she intended to leave for the river within a few moments. Wynter nodded, and the healer crossed back to her own people, patting Christopher on the shoulder as she left.

  Christopher watched her leave, then wearily dragged his hands across his narrow face. Wynter regarded him evenly from beneath the shadow of her hat. His pale body was still dappled with bruises, his eyes swollen with lack of sleep. She thought gratefully of Úlfnaor’s insistence on lighting fires. Tonight, it would be good for Christopher to sit within the comfort of flickering light and, please God, go to bed with a belly full of hot food.

  As if sensing her stare, Christopher glanced around at her.

  “How do,” she said softly.

  He eyed her. “We friends again?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I suppose,” she said. “For want of anyone better.”

  He rolled his eyes and Wynter grinned, the whole thing suddenly amusing to her. “You’re a bloody menace, woman,” he said, smiling despite himself. “I never have a clue what’s in that redheaded noggin of yours.” Wynter looked past him to the Merron and he followed her gaze. The men had slung their longbows across their shoulders and were tying back their hair. “I had best go,” he said, stooping to gather up his crossbow and quiver. “I’m to join the hunt.”

  Wynter bent to retrieve her wash kit and linen. “And I’ll go and be nice to our murderous sisters.” She looked squarely at him as she straightened and he nodded, understanding that nothing was forgotten.

  Christopher slung his quiver on his back and shouldered his bow, warily eyeing Razi as he did. Wynter expected Razi to protest their being separated and she turned to him, ready to argue the point of showing their trust in the Merron. But Razi just stared silently from his position by the horses, his grooming brushes held loosely in his hand, his face unreadable.

  “Úlfnaor is having a hard time with his people,” said Christopher quietly. “They don’t think you can be trusted, Razi. They think you’ll slit our throats as soon as you get the chance, steal Shirken’s papers and then leg off. They think you’ll betray them to the cavalry and then have Úlfnaor tortured into giving up the Prince.”

  Razi’s dark eyes narrowed slightly and his generous mouth curled at the corner. Wynter swallowed at the glint in his eye. She suspected that the Merron weren’t far wrong in their assessment of his intentions. When Razi’s use for them was over, Wynter suspected that the Merron would quickly discover the true depths of Kingsson wrath. Christopher was no fool, he could not possibly be unaware of this; still he carried on speaking, his eyes fixed on Razi’s face. “Úlfnaor is leaving you here alone with Sólmundr and the papers as a measure of trust, to prove to the others that he hasn’t misjudged you.”

  “He is leaving me alone, but taking my family with him,” said Razi quietly. “That is no great test.”

  “I betrayed you,” Christopher said. “And Iseult is my croí-eile. These people think they are protecting us from you.” He paused, waiting for Razi to speak. But Razi just lifted his eyes to regard the Merron, his lip still curved into that knowing half-smile, and, after a moment, Christopher walked away without looking back.

  “I’m going, Razi,” whispered Wynter. His expression did not change, and after a while she nodded uncertainly and settled the wash kit on her shoulder. “All right then,” she said, “I will see you soon.”

  Wynter turned away, her stomach knotted, her heart heavy with misgivings.

  As she passed him, Sólmundr waved a tired farewell.

  Ceap Milleáin

  This late in the season and this high in the mountains, the heat leached quickly from the air and the day slid very rapidly into night. As Wynter hurried back from the river, she could not help but fear the swiftly growing shadows. The Wolves had not howled for two days. Razi maintained that they had turned back in search of their lost men. He insisted that they were far behind. Still, Wynter pulled the hood of her cloak tighter and quickened her pace to keep up with the other women.

  They moved quietly around her, their steps light and confident. It would not be easy for anyone to catch them unawares, and Wynter once again found herself in grudging admiration of them. They were unlike any women she had ever met, except perhaps Marni, and she found herself more comfortable in their fierce, independent company than she cared to admit.

  Hallvor pushed through the dark branches of the trail and Wynter jogged along behind her, keeping close. The healer had a dozen fish hanging from a pole on her shoulder and they gleamed in the dappled light of the new-risen moon. A knapsack filled with hazelnuts and water-root bounced on her narrow back, her long dark hair tangled in its straps. She had been very kind to Wynter at the river. Despite their having no shared language, she had conveyed a warm, maternal protectiveness.

  She is a murderess, thought Wynter, a religious fanatic.

  Hallvor glanced back and smiled encouragingly.

  Culland, one of Úlfnaor’s warhounds, loped silently alongside her, his tongue lolling, and Wynter took comfort in his massive presence. Somewhere to her left, Soma and the other warrior, Frangok, were speaking softly to each other, their progress through the undergrowth a whispering shush in the gathering dark. Wynter also felt protected by them. They too had been kind.

  They protected Embla, too, she reminded herself. They were kind to Ashkr.

  She pushed onwards, miserable and conflicted.

  Soon the scent of wood smoke came drifting through the trees and Wynte
r’s chest knotted in renewed tension. They were nearing the camp. Razi, she thought, peering through the gloom, please do not have done anything you’ll regret.

  The glow of the campfires became visible, glimmering softly through the shifting leaves. The women paused, listening for conversation. There was nothing. Wynter strained for sounds. Silence.

  Hallvor gestured to the hound and he shot ahead. The women drew their swords and darted after him. Breaking into the flickering light of the clearing, their faces hardened at the sight of an empty camp.

  Wynter looked around in confusion. She was surprised to see both campfires blazing merrily, neat little stacks of wood at their sides. She had fully expected Razi to neglect the Merron fire in favour of their own, but it was obvious that he had been carefully tending to both. Nonetheless, Sólmundr was gone, his cloak tossed aside at the base of his tree, and there was no sign of Razi in the quiet, crackling gloom.

  Frangok spat on the ground and snapped something angry at Hallvor. Wynter took a wary step away from her, her hand on her sword. Oh, Razi, she thought in despair. No! What were she and Christopher to do now? And then, even worse, she thought, what if the Wolves have him?

  Hallvor lifted her sword to indicate the highline on the far side of camp.

  “Féach,” she said softly.

  Wynter looked in the direction indicated and nearly sobbed with relief. Razi’s big mare was still there, dozing in line with the other horses.

  Hallvor released a low whistle and called warily into the darkness beyond camp. “Sól? An bhfuil tú ansin?”

  Something moved in the shadows and all the women crouched, their swords raised, but they straightened almost immediately when they saw that it was Culland, with Boro at his side. Culland jogged across to the women, but Boro stayed on the edge of the trees, the firelight shining in his eyes. A low whistle sounded behind him, and the big hound turned immediately and slunk away into the darkness.

  “Sól?” called Hallvor, more confident now.

  Sólmundr’s familiar rasp came drifting hoarsely through the trees. “Fan noíméad… Bhí orm mo chac a dhéanamh …”

  Hallvor relaxed. Whatever Sólmundr had said, the Merron women sheathed their swords, shaking their heads dryly at each other. The sense of relief was palpable.

  Boro came trotting into the clearing again, Razi and Sólmundr on his heels. Razi, his dark eyes shuttered, was supporting Sólmundr with an arm around his waist. Sólmundr was labouring along, his mouth crooked into a pained smile, his hand pressed to his stomach. He rasped something at the women, which made Soma and Hallvor laugh, and then he grinned at Wynter.

  “I had need for to relieve myself,” he panted. “Tabiyb, he help me.” He tightened the arm he had draped across Razi’s shoulders, squeezing his neck in rough good humour. “He very kind to me, this one,” he said, adding teasingly, “though he make too much talk. Is that not right, Tabiyb? Talk, talk, talk, till almost I tell to him… ‘shut up, Tabiyb, you too noisy for my brain’.”

  Wynter half smiled, torn between delight at Razi’s irrepressible kindness and anxiety at his cold, ill-tempered expression.

  “Here,” said Razi, pushing Sólmundr into Hallvor’s arms. “Take him.” He turned away immediately, heading for his side of the clearing.

  Sólmundr slung his arm across Hallvor’s shoulders and called after him. “Thank you so much, friend. I very grateful.” Razi ignored him, striding angrily away.

  “You good man!” called Sólmundr.

  But as soon as Razi had turned his back, the wicked fun drained from Sólmundr’s face. Grimacing in pain, the wiry man turned his forehead into the crook of the healer’s neck and his hand knotted in the tunic at her shoulder.

  “Ó, a mhuirnín,” Hallvor whispered, turning her cheek into the sandy waves of Sólmundr’s hair. She murmured comfortingly to him and Soma came forward to help get him settled against the base of the tree.

  Frangok began to unload the newly gathered supplies. Wynter was tempted to help, but after a moment’s hesitation, she crossed instead and sat opposite Razi, who was crouched by their fire. He did not speak and they sat in tense silence, staring into the flames as Hallvor’s whispered conversation came drifting across the crackling stillness of the camp.

  The healer was undoing Sólmundr’s bandages, trying to get a good look at his stitches. As she pulled back the lower bindings, he cried out in sudden pain, his voice instantly muffled by his hand against his mouth, and Wynter saw Razi’s clasped hands tighten against each other, his nails digging into the flesh. At the sight of the wound, Hallvor said something sharp and appalled, and Razi leapt instantly to his feet, staring across the clearing.

  Wynter gazed up at him. Go! she thought. Go to him. But at that moment, the rest of the men chose to return, a doe slung between them, their faces glowing in triumph, and Razi turned away, his expression shuttered once more.

  Christopher, a brace of hare dangling from his hand, met Wynter’s eyes as he emerged from the shadows. Wynter glanced over at Razi, tightened her mouth and shook her head. No change. Christopher grimaced and crossed to hunker by the Merron fire. Grimly, he proceeded to skin his catch. Drawing her knife, Wynter went to crouch with the Merron. She held out her hand and Christopher gave her the still warm body of the other hare.

  As she worked, Wynter watched from the corner of her eye as Úlfnaor deposited his bow by the bivouacs and went to check on Sólmundr. The warrior lifted his chin in greeting as his old friend approached, and Úlfnaor squatted by his side, his face tender. He asked a question. Sól nodded, and gasped a reply through gritted teeth, his hands clenching as Hallvor tended his wound. Úlfnaor glanced at Razi, and Wynter saw a moment of grave pleasure cross the Aoire’s face. It was the kind of look a father might give a son who has lived up to his expectations.

  “Úlfnaor would like to speak with you.”

  Razi grunted and threw the scraps of his meal onto the fire. “We have already planned tomorrow’s journey,” he said, wiping out his bowl. “There’s nothing left to discuss.”

  “Úlfnaor has formally requested permission to speak with you,” said Christopher. “Are you asking me to go back to the Merron and tell their leader that you are snubbing him?”

  Razi gazed at him, and Christopher held his eye. There was a moment of belligerent silence, then Razi broke eye contact and Wynter relaxed, knowing that he would acquiesce. She returned her attention to cleaning out her bowl and did not look up again, not even when Razi said, “Very well,” and Christopher walked away from their side of camp.

  She was just putting away the cooking things when Christopher returned, two beakers of hot tea in his hands. “Thanks,” she said, accepting one of the beakers.

  Christopher nodded and sat down. Úlfnaor had come over and was standing on the opposite side of the fire, his eyes on Razi. Their friend kept his seat, gazing wordlessly up at the Merron leader, his face cold.

  “What does he want, Chris?” murmured Wynter.

  Christopher shook his head. He didn’t know.

  Úlfnaor gestured to the ground, may I sit? Razi gave no indication of consent, but after a moment, the big man took a seat anyway. Ceremoniously laying his sword on the ground behind him, he turned to Razi. “I thank you for your kindness to Sólmundr,” he began. “You a good man, I very grateful.”

  Razi did not acknowledge Úlfnaor’s words. Úlfnaor continued, “My people thinked that you would maybe to hurt Sól… out of need to venge yourself for what you believe we done wrong. But I know you would not to do this… not yet.” Razi frowned at that and Úlfnaor smiled in understanding. “The Merron understand the importance of vengeance to honourable person, Tabiyb. We respect it. In order to survive, a good man must kill his enemies, or he die instead. The strong crush the weak. It the way of the world. We know that true justice only come when you feel the blood of your enemy on your own two hands, nach ea?” He held out his hands, palms up, as if to show the blood on them. “We understand,” he repeated
softly. “It the way of the world.”

  Razi lifted his gaze from Úlfnaor’s outstretched hands and met his eye. There was a moment of laden silence.

  “I understand you love Embla,” whispered Úlfnaor. “You had hopes for her.” Razi’s eyes narrowed and he straightened slowly. This was not a subject he was willing to discuss. “But I must explain to you, you not see Embla the way we see her, the way she see herself. She and Ash, they warriors destined for honourable death, holy warriors. They the bridge between the People and An Domhan. They die in this new land, so to wake An Domhan to our life here, so to ensure that others not to die, so that—”

  “It is a man’s duty to protect the ones he loves,” interrupted Razi quietly, “not to spill their blood in the hope that their deaths will make his life easier.”

  Úlfnaor flinched. He stared at Razi for a moment as if looking into an unexpected abyss, then his face hardened and he went on. “Fine words, Tabiyb,” he snapped. “Words worthy of a perfect world. But I think perhaps that a man like you, a man of duty… I think perhaps you understand what it is to sacrifice a friend to bigger things.” His eyes flicked to Christopher, dropped to his mutilated hands.

  “What?” cried Christopher, appalled. “I never …! Razi, I never said …”

  Razi rose slowly to his feet. “Your time to speak is over, Úlfnaor. We are finished.”

  Úlfnaor glared up at him, but Wynter had seen it briefly in the big man’s eyes: the comment about Christopher had been a guess, a wild stab in the dark, and the Aoire was shocked at its impact. She put her hand on Christopher’s arm and he turned to her, his eyes huge.

  “Iseult! I never… I wouldn’t …”

  “Shhh,” she said, looking into his eyes, squeezing his arm. “Shhh. I know.”