This is not your fault. But Christopher’s reaction to Razi’s condition was so calm, so hard-faced and practical, that it left Wynter with no room for anything – not anger, not forgiveness, not even affection. Christopher had become remote and as brittle as ice. He cursed quietly to himself, tugging at the luggage, and Wynter was just about to ask him to stop fiddling and to sit down when he strode past her, something in his hand.
‘Here,’ he said, crouching by the fire and plopping the doctor’s bag at Razi’s feet.
Sólmundr tensed. Razi frowned uncertainly, and Wynter sat straighter, clutching the folder to her chest. She waited for Christopher to demand, Do you know what this is? Do you recognise it? But instead, he snapped the catches on the bag and opened it.
Razi jerked forward, as if tempted to stop him.
‘It fell off the mule,’ said Christopher, peering inside. ‘Some of the vials are broken.’
‘Be careful!’ Razi shot out a hand and grabbed Christopher’s wrist, stopping him from reaching into the bag. Gently he pushed the young man’s hand aside. ‘If you cannot tell the contents of the broken vial, a cut could prove disastrous.’ He smiled reassuringly at his friend. ‘I should like to check it for myself.’
Christopher watched as Razi took the bag and began an expert survey of its contents. As their friend sorted through the tools of his trade, Wynter saw Christopher working himself up to speak. As he struggled to articulate his question, Christopher’s emotions seemed to worm their way to the surface of his composure, so that when he finally spoke his expression was achingly raw and vulnerable. It stabbed Wynter to see all the hurt and all the guilt that he had been hiding from her. She almost cried at the knowledge that Christopher had chosen not to share with her his pain and grief.
‘Is anything important broken?’ he finally managed.
How would he recall? thought Wynter bleakly. He barely knows who he is.
But Razi answered without hesitation. ‘There is not much damage. Just a few tonic vials and a crushed pillbox.’ He glanced up, smiling, and it almost broke Wynter’s heart when he said, ‘Everything is just as it is meant to be. Nothing of any importance is lost. What happened to it?’
‘It fall when Wolves attack,’ said Sólmundr.
Razi made no response to that, but his attention focused on Sólmundr’s bruised face as if noticing the wounds for the first time. ‘That cut on your cheek is quite inflamed,’ he said. ‘I can treat it for you, if I may?’ He must have mistaken Sól’s silence for reluctance, because he smiled again. ‘I’m a doctor,’ he said. ‘Did you not realise that? Here, come over and I shall see what I can do.’
As Sól submitted to Razi’s care, Christopher gazed at Wynter. The knowledge of what had been retrieved was written large in his glittering eyes. Wynter tilted her head and smiled sadly, the knowledge of what remained lost written in her own.
DAY EIGHT: MESSAGES
DAWN DID not break to birdsong in this particular valley, or even to rosy tinted skies. Instead, the light seemed to drizzle in, grey and uniform, as if seeping up from the rocks themselves.
Wynter pushed herself upright and groaned. How do soldiers do this, she wondered, day after day on a campaign? Of all the tasks presented to them, how do they ever manage to push their bruised bodies from bed?
Alberon, she realised with a wince, would be the one to answer her that.
Carefully, she disentangled the covers and slipped from Christopher’s side. Neither he nor Sólmundr stirred. Like all Merron, they trusted their warhound to guard them in the night, and Boro had been the camp’s sole sentinel against the Loups-Garous.
‘And a good job you did of it too,’ she whispered, crouching to fondle his ears. He gazed ruefully up at her, not lifting his chin from his paws. In order to prevent him from running after the Wolves, Sólmundr had tethered the warhound to his ankle, and Boro could not quite reconcile himself to the indignity. There was a palpable air of embarrassment about him. ‘Never mind, dog,’ murmured Wynter. ‘You’re still a big brave beastie.’
The hound sighed and submitted to her caresses with stoicism. Once again, Wynter thought what an incredible creature he was. Sól could make his fortune from the breed. She had observed as much to him the night before, and Sól had commented dryly that he preferred his lungs inside his ribcage, if