face opening in surprise. His hand dropped to his side. His full lips curved into a smile. He whispered, ‘Razi.’
Wynter gazed at him in wonder, and the world narrowed to just that moment, to just him. Alberon. She hardly registered Oliver bellowing for the guards, barely felt the Merron close in again to protect Razi. The clatter of the approaching soldiers was just a faint echo on the air.
Alberon. Alberon was here.
He is so tall, she thought in amazement. And indeed he was; tall as Razi, and strongly built, the bounding athleticism of their father evident in his broad shoulders and solid body. His previously curling hair was shorn to a choppy red-blond thatch, his pale eyebrows stark against his sun-browned skin. But his eyes were still the same, his vivid blue eyes under those sleepy lids. Still Albi. Still him.
Wynter felt a smile begin on her lips, but even as she went to step forward, Alberon’s face closed up, his brows drew down, and his court-mask slipped smoothly into place. No longer the lost brother, no longer the childhood friend, it was a prince who now stood before her, and the expression on his face brought Wynter to a standstill. As Alberon lowered his chin and eyed Razi across the dust-laden air, Wynter felt a cold certainty that it was not a brother he saw, but a potential rival and a suspected adversary in his recent struggle with the King.
The sound of the advancing soldiers slammed into Wynter’s consciousness. The Merron jostled close as they crowded around Razi. The warhounds began barking, and Úlfnaor yelled at them, ‘Tarraingígí siar!’
Someone among the advancing soldiers shouted, ‘Shoot those damned dogs!’
Without taking his eyes from his half-brother, Alberon lifted his hand and cried, ‘Enough!’ At his voice, the soldiers came to a jangling halt.
In the relative silence, the warhounds’ growls were very obvious. Sól murmured, ‘Tóg go bog é,’ and the big dogs stilled. The late evening air filled with the shuffling of feet and the murmuring of anxious men. There was a dangerous edge to the sound: the nervous anticipation of battle. When Razi cleared his throat and stepped from the protective circle of the Merron, Wynter had to physically prevent herself from pulling him back.
He walked into the open and spread his arms to show that he was unarmed.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ he called. ‘The Lord Razi begs permission to come forward and address you.’
Wynter regarded Alberon tensely. This was a calculated beginning on Razi’s part. It established both Razi’s recognition of Alberon as rightful heir to the throne, and Razi’s acceptance of himself as nothing more than a lord. With these few simple words, Alberon, and more importantly, Alberon’s men, had been assured that Razi had no pretensions to the throne.
Alberon nodded coolly, and Razi walked forward to kneel in the dust at his brother’s feet.
Wynter shifted her weight. Beside her, Christopher stood in lethal stillness, his grey eyes fierce within the shadows of his scarf. Razi’s instructions, should Alberon simply decide to strike his head from his shoulders, were for the two of them to hide among the Merron, then slink quietly away. When Razi had told them this, Wynter and Christopher had eyed each other and mutually held their peace. Neither of them had any intention of slinking quietly away.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ said Razi. ‘I come to you in the name of his Majesty, the good King Jonathon, and offer my service as envoy and ambassador, should your Royal Highness so choose to make use of me.’
Here we have it, thought Wynter, her heart pounding. Here it is.
Razi had just made it known that he had come in the name of the King. He had just knelt, unarmed and defenceless, at Alberon’s feet, and told him that he would not aid him in his opposition of the crown. Wynter held her breath. Alberon now had two choices: he could take this opportunity to open dialogue with his father, or he could strike the head from his half-brother and thereby rid himself of the only other successor to Jonathon’s throne.
Alberon spoke without looking up from his brother’s bowed head. ‘Clear the tent,’ he said, addressing Oliver in Southlandast.
Oliver faltered. ‘Your Highness, I don’t think . . .’
‘Oliver. Clear the tent.’
Reluctantly, Oliver disappeared into the royal quarters, almost immediately reappearing with the servant boy, a secretary and a royal guardsman in tow.
Alberon jerked his head at the staff, and they retreated to join the waiting soldiers. ‘Come in,’ he said,