What king would? His heir threatening the throne, toppling his allies, restructuring his carefully established relationships? If Jonathon allows all that to go unpunished, he may as well just hand the boy his crown and have done with it.’ He shook his head grimly. ‘They ain’t going to succeed.’
Wynter glanced back at the brothers. They had taken one of Razi’s maps and were comparing it with Alberon’s, measuring the distances and frowning. ‘Razi is a remarkable diplomat,’ she whispered. ‘He simply has to persuade Jonathon to meet with Alberon and—’ ‘He won’t succeed!’ hissed Christopher, turning to her. She squeezed his hand and glared at him in warning to keep his voice down.
He turned his face to the insect-netting again, and they listened for some sign that the brothers had noticed. But the low conversation carried on behind them and, after a moment, Christopher tilted his head to her once more.
‘As soon as the King finds out that Razi lives, he’ll take up arms and he’ll kill the Prince, and that will be an end to it all. Razi will be forced to the throne, and we’ll be attending his funeral by Christmastide because there ain’t no way Jonathon’s beloved subjects will let his brown bastard live as heir.’
The cold possibility of this clenched itself around Wynter’s heart. Christopher held her eye for a moment before turning his face back to the camp. Behind them, there was the rustle of another map being unfolded. Alberon murmured something and Razi huffed in amusement. He made some dry remark and the two brothers chuckled.
Christopher’s hand tightened against Wynter’s and she drew his fist up to her heart. She stared blindly through the mist of the insect-netting as all the desperate possibilities of what might come to pass wormed their way through her mind.
At the beginning of all this, Alberon had no doubt believed that his father would back down. It must have seemed so unlikely that Jonathon would simply sweep his heir from him and begin afresh with Razi on the throne. Regardless of anything else, the consequences to the kingdom of such an act would have been apparent even then. By now, though, Alberon had to be aware of the hopelessness of his position. In his guilt over the Bloody Machines and his violent desire that they not continue in use, Jonathon had made the rift with his heir too public. He had taken things too far. Now, no matter what Razi did or said, how could the King ever permit Alberon return to the throne?
Neither Razi nor Alberon were fools. Wynter knew that they both understood the unlikelihood of turning back this tide. Still, they seemed determined to forge ahead – Alberon in his steadfast belief that he could strengthen his father’s wonderful kingdom, Razi in the hope that he could reconcile all.
‘There is nothing else they can do,’ she whispered.
‘I know.’
‘This is their only chance.’
‘I know.’
‘I will not abandon Razi to do this alone, Chris.’
‘Oh God, lass! I know! Neither would I.’
She smiled. ‘I never suspected you would.’
Down in the camp, a muted trumpet called muster to dinner, and the two of them paused to listen to the distant clatter of men falling into line.
At the map-table, Alberon sighed. ‘I am clemmed,’ he said. ‘Will we tidy up in the hopes that someone may present us with a meal?’
Wynter listened, with her back turned, as the brothers folded maps and cleared away pens and folios. Christopher sighed and shook his head. He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his free hand, hopelessness and misery clear in every line of his face.
Wynter kissed his scarred fingers in sympathy. ‘Would you like to meet an old friend of mine?’ she whispered. At his surprised nod, she led him past the table to Alberon’s cot.
‘He’s asleep,’ she said, pulling back the insect-netting and sitting on the bed. ‘He’s not terribly well.’
Christopher hesitated at the sight of the cat. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Uh . . .’ He glanced back at Alberon, then turned to face her and widened his eyes in secret warning. ‘I don’t tend to get on with cats,’ he said. ‘They tend to be . . . hmm . . . alarmed by me. Seeing as how your Southern cats are a touch more vocal than most, is it wise that I . . . ?’
He contorted his face in a ridiculous attempt at nonverbal communication, obviously concerned that Coriolanus might leap from his nest screeching ‘Wolf ’ at