show her face in farewell, but she remained decently secluded.
The supply tent was a hive of work as the cooks and rationeers began the complex process of feeding a camp of hungry men. From habit, Wynter let her eyes drift across the surface of the activity, watching for danger. At her side, Christopher did the same, his vigilance disguised by his usual careless slouch. She noticed something catch his eye, and he straightened slightly, following a movement in the crowd.
Anthony was making his careful way between the busy men, his little arms stretched out, his attention absorbed in not spilling the kettle of water he held poised before him. As soon as Wynter saw the little servant weaving through the heedless crowd, she startled and swung around to check for Jean. Her only thought was, I hope Anthony is on the hill before that cur sees him, but Christopher was alerted by her sudden turn in the saddle, and he turned to see the cause. Wynter’s heard dropped as he followed her gaze directly to the Wolf.
Jean was dull and listless, his energy obviously sapped by the lingering effects of the poison, and he was simply leaning at the corner of the tents, watching Razi’s progress through the crowd. He had no notion of the child, who was hidden from his view among the men on the far side of the road, and Wynter realised at once that he’d had no intention of causing trouble. But Christopher’s angry face caught Jean’s eye, and the Wolf couldn’t seem to resist the challenge in the young man’s expression.
Grinning, Jean pushed himself straighter and called something in Arabic. Whatever he said must have been wickedly crude, because Razi swung around to look at him, his face raw with shock. Jean laughed knowingly, that horrible cackle, and his eyes flitted from Razi’s scarlet face to Christopher’s. He winked lewdly. Razi snarled and immediately turned away, furious that he had allowed himself to respond.
‘Tóin caca,’ hissed Sólmundr and he, too, turned front, dismissing the Wolf with cool disdain.
Christopher, however, held the Wolf ’s eyes, and as his horse came level to where Jean was standing, Christopher ducked his chin and ran his fingers under his collar, pulling something bright from the neck of his shirt. Wynter knew what it would be before the silver teeth cleared Christopher’s collar, and her heart fell as he tugged Razi’s necklace out into the open and arranged it so that it lay gleaming against the dark fabric of his tunic.
Jean frowned, squinting, and Wynter saw understanding slacken the Wolf ’s face as he recognised the warm amber stones and the glittering silver fangs that now decorated his former slave’s throat. He lifted his eyes to Christopher’s, his smile gone. Christopher grinned. He pressed his scarred finger to the gleaming tip of a silver fang, then slowly extended his arm to point at Jean.
All the implications of this gesture crawled bright and clear across Jean’s face, and he stumbled backwards, horrified. Wynter knew he now understood exactly where the Wolves’ fortunes lay, and she understood, too, that this changed everything.
Christopher had just told Jean, You have no future. He had just told him, This is your fate. One day you too shall be an ornament hung around a slave’s neck.
Jean turned and stumbled away between the tents, and Wynter suspected that Christopher had just undone the only knot that had been holding the Wolves in place. The muzzle of their restraint had come loose, and nothing now remained to hold them in check.
AN UNLIKELY EVENT
AS SOON as they left camp, Wynter pulled Razi aside and anxiously told him about the necklace and its possible effect on the Wolves. He swung to Christopher, appalled, and Christopher, shameless and defiant, simply sucked his teeth, pulled his horse onto the trail and kept going. Razi was left staring after him, speechless. After a moment, Sólmundr edged his horse past and fell into place by his young friend’s side, and they forged on.
Razi and Christopher barely spoke to each other for three days.
The trail brought them higher and then higher still: up beyond the majestic pines into hard-country woodland; above that again into wind-twisted scrub; and then, finally, up into the shale-strewn wastelands and rock that would be their landscape until they reached the other side.
This high into the mountains, the wind was tremendously strong. Slicing across loose beds of shale and rubble, and blasting down the black faces of cliffs, it cut through