The sounds of camp filtered in through the walls of the tent Peaceful and reassuring. Wynter’s eyes drifted shut and without thinking, she ran her thumb comfortingly against the warm skin of Christopher’s chest.
Safe, she thought. Protected. Frith.
Chess
Someone outside the tent called softly in Merron. At the sound of the voice, Christopher sat up immediately and crawled to the foot of the bed. Wynter surfaced from a heavy doze and rolled onto her back, passing her hand wearily over her eyes. The tent was abruptly filled with golden light as Christopher hooked back the door flap and went outside.
“Cad é?” he said quietly. “Tá siad ina gcnap codlata.”
Wynter shifted to see out the door. The older musicians from the tavern were standing with little bundles in their hands, smiling and talking softly. Christopher slouched just outside the door, squinting in the sunshine, his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his trousers. The couple offered him the bundles and he took them with a nod of thanks; it was their freshly laundered clothes and blankets, dry now and carefully folded.
He turned to duck back into the tent, and the woman said something to him, her tone that of someone trying to start a conversation. Wynter saw Christopher’s shoulders slump and he reluctantly faced them again. He answered in monosyllabic Merron, showing no enthusiasm. But it seemed that the two musicians were unwilling to take the hint and they pressed on. When it became apparent that the conversation could not be cut short, Christopher laid the bundles down and sat back on his haunches in that strange, uncomfortable looking manner that Wynter had only ever seen in the tribal people of the North. The couple did the same and the three of them crouched at the door, talking.
“Has he slept?” murmured Razi.
She startled and peered across at him. He was lying facing her, his head cushioned on his arm, his face grave. She shook her head. “I am not certain. I don’t think so.”
Razi rolled onto his back with a grimace. “Good God,” he said tightly.
“Razi,” Wynter was about to ask that Razi examine their friend, was determined that he would not refuse her, when the tent was abruptly filled with shadows again as Christopher came inside and shut the flap.
“Did those two wake you?” he said in quiet Southlandast, laying the clothes at the foot of Razi’s bed. They shook their heads. Christopher sat wearily onto Razi’s pallet. He hunched, gathering his concentration for a moment, then began pushing off his filthy trousers.
Razi’s eyes travelled the length of Christopher’s abused back. His jaw tightened, then he turned abruptly away, pushing back the covers and swinging his legs from the bed.
“You don’t have to get up yet,” said Christopher. “There’s plenty of time before dinner.”
Razi grunted and reached for his clean things.
Wynter averted her eyes from the men’s shameless nakedness. “Throw me my clothes, will you, Christopher?” she said. In response she got a face full of fragrant, sun-warmed wool and linen. “Well, thank you so much,” she said dryly and pulled the blankets over her so that she could change with some decency.
Christopher pulled on fresh trousers and rose to his feet. He shook his hair back and reached behind him, tying his undershirt closed. “I will be back soon,” he said without looking at them, and went to step outside.
They glanced up in alarm.
“Christopher!” cried Razi, leaping to his feet, his britches half-laced. “Where are you going?”
Christopher paused. “There’s something they want me to do in the forest.” He looked from one to the other of them. “You ain’t invited,” he said. “You’re coimhthíoch.”
“Chris,” said Razi carefully. “Will you please step back inside for a minute?”
Christopher hesitated, the light from the door catching the stress in his worn face. He glanced outside; there was a small knot of men and women gathering by the remains of the fire. Christopher tipped his head to catch someone’s eye, gestured for them to wait, and then dropped the flap and stepped back into the tent. “What is it?” he said.
“Embla has invited us to a ceremony tonight, I—”
“Yes,” said Christopher bluntly. “To declare Frith. Úlfnaor told us you had accepted. You should have asked me first, Razi. You should not go accepting invitations to things you do not understand.”
Razi looked alarmed. “Oh,” he said softly. He glanced at Wynter. “Oh, Christopher,” he said, “I accepted for all of us. For Wynter too. Will there be… will it…?”
“Oh good Frith, it’s fine,” snapped Christopher, unreasonably irritated. “It’s all right. But you do not know these people. You could have been agreeing to anything, anything. You need to be careful.” He looked up into Razi’s confused face and seemed to come to a decision “We are not staying,” he said firmly.
Razi straightened, his eyes hardening. “Now look, Christopher—”
“Razi!” At the tone of Christopher’s voice, Razi shut up immediately and he looked down at his friend with wide eyes. “We must leave tomorrow,” said Christopher softly. “I need you to trust me. We cannot stay.”
There was a moment of silent communication between the men.
“Will you not tell me why?” murmured Razi.
Christopher shook his head, his face tight.
“You understand that I need these people, Christopher? I need them to guide me to Alberon.”
“We’ll find another way. Trust me.”
Razi’s brown eyes roamed Christopher’s face. “Are these people dangerous, Christopher? Are they not to be trusted?”
Christopher looked at Wynter. She smiled, trying to look encouraging. “They ain’t bad people,” he said softly. He looked back at Razi with a blade-like determination. “But right here and now you cannot be with them, Razi. They are old religion. Very, very old religion and you have met their Caoirigh. There’s no taking that back now. You’ve met the Caoirigh. You will never, ever understand them. So we must go.”
“Are we not safer here, than out there, where the—?”
“Razi,” interrupted Christopher, his eyes widening, his pale face drawing down. “I would rather risk facing the Wolves again than have you and Wynter stay here after tonight.”
“Jesu!” Wynter exclaimed.
Razi stood frozen for a moment, his eyes wide. “Christopher,” he whispered.
“I mean it.”
“All right, friend,” said Razi. “All right. If it means so much to you. We leave at first light.”
Christopher nodded, but Wynter could not help but see the uncertainty and fear in his face now that Razi had agreed to leave. “All right,” he said. “Good.” He glanced at her, then turned abruptly and left the tent.
Wynter leant forward to get a better view, and Razi hunkered down to watch as their friend approached the crowd. Úlfnaor, Ashkr and Embla had joined the knot of other Merron, and they seemed to be waiting for Christopher. It appeared as though the entire camp had turned out, and everyone had dressed for the occasion. The women wore long shifts of pale green, the men knee-length tunics and trousers of the same colour. All were bare-armed, as usual, their torcs and armbands and rings casting glittering reflections back at the sun.
Christopher limped towards them, an incongruous figure against the background of tall, well-dressed men and women. Everyone turned to him, smiling, and Christopher nodded dully. Ashkr met his eye and gave him a sad smile. Christopher raised his chin, and Wynter was surprised to see him smile in return. Then Úlfnaor lifted his arms, calling out, and Ashkr and Embla fell into place on either side of him. Wari and Christopher stood behind them, their faces set, their backs straight. Úlfnaor set off into the trees and the Merron followed, forming a neat procession behind their lords. Christopher was lost quickly from sight.
“I think Christopher took Sólmundr’s place,” whispered Razi.
Wynter nodded, not knowing why she felt so disturbed.
Razi got to his feet. “Are you rea
dy, sis?” he asked.
“I would like to clean my teeth,” she began, then looked sharply up at him. He was smiling slyly. “Where are we going?”
Razi just lifted his eyebrows and ducked outside.
The camp was deserted, a sunny, unpeopled landscape of breeze-rippled tents and fluttering washing. Wynter stood for a moment looking about her, amazed at how empty it was. There was no noise from the forest. Nothing at all. She scanned the shifting seashadows of the trees, listening for some sign that over twenty people were moving about in there. But there was nothing. This made her very uneasy and she hurried to catch up with Razi, strapping on her short sword as she ran.
“Whose tent is this?” she whispered as Razi ducked furtively through the door. There was no answer. Just scuffling and a muffled curse.
“Razi!” she hissed, pressing herself against the wall and eyeing the tree-line. “Razi!”
Razi clunked against something. There was silence, then another heartfelt, grunted curse. Wynter glanced into the tent, then back to the trees.
“Whose tent are you ransacking?” she said tightly.
“Úlfnaor’s.”
“Jesu Christi!” Wynter moaned. “Have you lost your reason?”
Razi continued to ignore her. There were soft little clunks as he lifted things and carefully put them down again. Wynter’s hand opened and closed on the hilt of her sword. Come on, come on! she thought, eyeing the impenetrable trees with growing anxiety.
There was a soft little “ah!” and Razi went still. Wynter crouched to look into the tent. “What?” she hissed, but Razi did not have to reply. She recognised a diplomatic folder when she saw one. Razi met her eyes, then he laid the hardbacked folder on the ground and carefully unlaced its ties.
“Shit,” he said, flatly.
“What is it?”
He was staring bleakly at the documents inside the folder. Carefully he lifted one, then another of the thin parchments, his mouth turning down a little more with each one.
“What is it, Razi?”
“The seals are paper thin.”
Wynter rolled her eyes in frustration. Thin seals were an absolute bane. There was no way to dislodge them without cracking the wax, not even a heated knife slipped between parchment and seal would work without damaging the crest in some way. “That explains the hardback portfolio rather than the usual leather roll,” she whispered. “Someone is being very careful.”
“Aye,” murmured Razi distractedly.
“Whose seal is it?”
He held a document out to her. What she saw froze her heart.
“Marguerite Shirken?” she whispered.
He nodded.
“Oh good Christ, Razi. What…?”
A woman called out down by Ashkr’s tent. They were not alone! Another voice answered the first and there was the unmistakable sound of two people conversing as one walked towards the other.
Wynter jerked her head, Get out of there, and Razi carefully secured everything before replacing the portfolio and leaving the tent.
Hallvor was crouched in the shade of Ashkr’s tent, plaiting cured willow bark into cord and humming quietly to herself. Two other women sat with her, their swords across their knees, playing knuckle bones. The three of them rose to their feet at Razi and Wynter’s approach.
“How is Sólmundr?” asked Razi, bowing politely.
The two guardswomen glanced at Hallvor, and she gestured to them to go back to their game. Reluctantly they crouched down into the shade, their eyes on Razi and Wynter. Hallvor led them away from the women, guiding them to the door of the tent. The sun beat down viciously here, the dry ground crackling underfoot.
“Sólmundr?” Razi asked again, looking into the healer’s dark eyes.
Hallvor compressed her mouth and her jaw tightened. “Ní sé go maith,” she said, shaking her head. “Ní… ní… ” she stopped talking and sighed in frustration, knowing full well that Razi and Wynter couldn’t understand her. She gestured helplessly, looking around as if for inspiration. Wynter shaded her eyes, trying to read her distressed face. “Sólmundr,” Hallvor said. “Ní …” she cupped her hands and brought them to her mouth, in a drinking gesture. Then she shook her head.
“He will not drink?” asked Razi, repeating her motion with a slurping sound. Hallvor nodded. Razi grimaced.“ ’Tis too damn hot for that,” he said. “Can we go inside?” He motioned ducking in under the door, and Hallvor shooed the two of them ahead of her, pushing in after them and closing the door in her wake.
The ventilation flaps had been opened in the roof and the tent was cool and shady. The smoke of a little fire basin kept away the flies. Sólmundr was propped up in his bed, lying back against a deer-hide stuffed with straw. His knees were drawn up under the furs, and his eyes were shut, his white face motionless, his hands lifeless in his lap.
Hallvor crouched down at the foot of the pallet and anxiously scanned Sólmundr’s face. Razi and Wynter moved to the head of the bed.
“Hello, Sól,” said Razi, kneeling and taking Sólmundr’s hand. “I hear you’re being a stupid dung-head.” The weathered face creased into a smile, and Wynter saw a flash of the goodnatured man that they had met at the tavern. She knelt down by Razi’s side, as Sólmundr slit his eyes to look at them.
“Tabiyb,” he rasped. “You cured my agony. Your hands are gift to the world.” Wynter could see Razi’s precious opium in the unfocused spread of Sólmundr’s pupils. She could smell it on his breath. We can use this if we are careful, she thought. We can take advantage of his confusion to get the information we seek.
Razi grunted, holding the wiry man’s wrist between his fingers, counting his heartbeats. “Do not insult me with hollow flattery, if your intent is to kill yourself with neglect,” he growled mildly. Sólmundr chuffed a tiny laugh and his eyes slipped shut. Razi pushed the covers down and loosened his bandages. “Coinín tells me that you have work to do here,” he murmured, lifting the bindings and looking at the wound. “Yet you refuse to get well. You are too lazy to fulfil your duty to your people? Is that it?”
Sólmundr turned his face away, clenching his fists at Razi’s touch.
“A pox on my people,” he said softly.
Wynter and Razi glanced at him, shocked, but Sólmundr hardly seemed aware of what he was saying. He opened his eyes and stared at the wall of the tent. The painted silhouette of a lamb shivered in the breeze, sleeping peacefully beneath the splayed forepaws of a great bear. “A pox on them,” he breathed, “and their ways. Let Úlfnaor deliver that bitch’s papers without me. Let him dance to beat of her drum. I not go no further.”
Wynter and Razi glanced at Hallvor, but her eyes were on Razi, watching as he checked for infection. Razi began to bind the wound again, nodding reassuringly to Hallvor. “Those papers are important, Sólmundr,” chanced Razi, glancing at Wynter. “Surely you know this. Surely it matters to you that they get through.”
Sólmundr frowned at the little painted lamb. “Nothing matter. Nothing ever mattered except him. Now I useless. Cannot keep even my final promise …” He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face with his hand.
“Well, it did not take him long to replace you,” said Wynter with a flash of inspiration. “Christopher has already taken your place at his side. He has accompanied him to the ceremony.” She had hoped for jealousy, thought it might spur Sólmundr to anger and jolt him to life, but to her amazement, when Sólmundr whipped back his hand and stared at her, it was hope she saw in his eyes.
“Coinín?” he breathed. “Coinín takes my place?”
Hallvor looked sharply at him. “Sól?” she asked.
“Hally,” he said, “Tógfaidh Coinín m’áitse?”
Hallvor’s eyes welled up and she nodded reluctantly. She murmured something about Ashkr, something that made her hang her head in shame.
Sólmundr laughed. “Oh,” he said. He scrubbed at his eyes. His breath hitched. “Oh, they did not tell me! They thought it would to hurt me.
Oh, Iseult!” He sat forward suddenly and grabbed Wynter’s hand.
“Be careful, man!” cried Razi. “You will burst your stitches!”
Sólmundr flopped back against the cushion, dragging Wynter forward as he clutched her hand to his chest, his eyes closed. Then he licked his dry lips and glanced at Hallvor. “A chroí,” he whispered. “Rud éigin le hól.”
Hallvor’s solemn face cracked into a grin and she leapt to her feet. She grabbed Wynter and Razi around their shoulders, squeezing them together with shocking strength. “Buíochas leat, “she whispered into Wynter’s hair. “Buíochas, a luichín.”
Wynter was suddenly reminded of Marni, and the memory of that fierce, gigantic woman brought a momentary lump to her throat. She swallowed down on the unexpected emotion and nodded, patting Hallvor on her sinewy forearm. The dark-haired woman broke away and strode to the door, disappearing for a moment, and returning with a waterskin and three wooden beakers.
Sólmundr accepted the water with obvious thirst, and Hallvor stroked his hair and his strong arms and patted his back as he drank. Eventually he lay back against the cushions, his face weary, hunched slightly with the pain of his wound.
“So,” said Razi, eyeing Sólmundr. “I have not wasted my good sutures, my priceless opium and my precious time on a man who is determined to die, then, have I, Sól?”
Sólmundr just smiled in reply. “Coinín will take my place?” he asked. “He will stand by Ashkr?”
Razi glanced at Wynter. “He is in the forest now,” she said evasively. “He fulfils your duty as we speak.”
Sólmundr shifted carefully in the bed. “I must speak to him,” he murmured. “But somehow, I think …” He smiled up at the ceiling. “Aye, Coinín is a good man.”
“And what of your other duties?” asked Razi. “You will not be fit to travel for at least a fortnight and even then only very slowly. It is vital, surely, that those papers get through? How long do you have before they must be delivered?”