lay back, wrapping himself in his covers. His head was aching again; Wynter could tell by the tension in his eyes and mouth. She had hoped these headaches were signal to a change in Razi’s condition, but so far they had been nothing but pain: mild, slightly nauseating, and totally free of the burden of memory.
Out in the darkness, the Loups-Garous began their low moaning, and Christopher threw his hands up in frustration and despair. ‘Good Frith,’ he said. ‘Bloody . . .’ He jumped to his feet. ‘Shut up!’ he yelled.
The Wolves chuckled and snickered. ‘Make us,’ they growled. ‘Come and make us, sly-boy.’ They drew the word ‘boy’ out until it was something low and wicked and dirty. Wynter hissed in disgust.
Christopher kicked a stone into the darkness. ‘You come here,’ he muttered. ‘You slithering caic. I’ll feed you to the dog.’
‘You calm down,’ said Sólmundr, ‘or I chain you to my ankle, and it be Boro that wriggle up beside your woman tonight.’
‘Why are they still here, anyway?’ hissed Christopher, prowling the edges of the shadows. ‘Why don’t they go back to their master? Why don’t you go back to your master? ’ he shouted.
Sólmundr looked up at him, his face serious. ‘Because you giving them too much amusement, Coinín. Look at you! They play with you like a toy.’
Christopher flung him a withering look and continued to prowl.
Razi, still lying back against his saddle, watched him pace, his dark eyes thoughtful. ‘David Le Garou,’ he said suddenly, and everyone turned to look at him. He nodded at the question in their faces. ‘I remember him. David Le Garou.’ He gazed at Christopher. ‘We owe him,’ he said darkly. ‘I remember that too.’
Christopher stood very still, as if frightened to disrupt Razi’s newly emergent thoughts. Wynter sat slowly forward. Razi, his hands folded casually on his chest, looked from one to the other of them with the same mildly curious frown on his face. ‘You are both very good friends of mine, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘We’ve known each other a terribly long time.’
Wynter nodded.
‘I owe you both,’ said Razi. ‘I owe you much.’ Then he shook his head, sighed and shut his eyes. ‘Yet I still cannot recall your names.’
‘Do you remember your brother, Razi?’
‘A small boy? Full of life? He loves his hounds . . . Oh,’ he cried, his eyes flying open in surprise. ‘I have remembered my father! He was a wonderful man! Gentle. Kind. He taught me much.’
Christopher exchanged a glance with Wynter. ‘What did he look like?’ he asked.
‘But you knew him surely, Chris?’
At Razi’s use of his name, Christopher’s face crumpled in pain. Razi seemed to mistake this for confusion, and he went on trying to describe his father. ‘He was a smallish man? With dark hair cropped close to his head? Slim, sallow face, big nose.’ Razi smiled in fond remembrance. ‘Bigger nose than head, he used to say. He was a lovely person . . . I am fair sure you knew him.’
‘Oh, aye,’ whispered Christopher. ‘I knew him for a while, but . . .’
‘But what?’ Razi raised himself onto his elbow. ‘But what, friend?’
Christopher frowned desolately at Wynter and she shook her head in dismay. ‘You are describing Victor St James, Razi – your tutor. Your father is the King. St James was certainly no king.’
‘But he was a doctor,’ whispered Razi. ‘He was a wonderful man.’
Wynter nodded sadly. ‘But he was not your father,’ she said.
Razi lay back against his saddle again, lost in confusion.
Out in the darkness, the Wolves once more began to laugh. Christopher flung a stone in impotent rage. ‘Go home!’ he yelled. ‘Go home! You poxy whoreson curs!’
Sólmundr sighed. ‘Your father may not be no doctor, Tabiyb, but he at least rid his kingdom of that vermin.’
‘Aye,’ muttered Christopher, ‘he did that.’
‘Then . . . then why are they here?’ asked Razi.
‘That was your damned brother,’ sneered Christopher, glaring out into the snickering darkness. ‘He invited the poxy things back.’ He glanced across, and the look on Razi’s face made him laugh despite himself. ‘I know,’ he said in sympathy. ‘It’s all just a mite too perplexing, ain’t it?’
Late into the night, Wynter woke from a dream in which her father stood staring down into a valley of silent ghosts, his hands red with blood. She had been shouting across to him from the other side, Da? Da! I don’t know where I am. But even as she called to him,