Princess Marguerite. She is the key.’ He turned to Wynter. ‘What is she like?’ he asked.
‘An unrelenting tyrant,’ she said tightly.
Alberon laughed. ‘I have no doubt you think so. But that is not what I meant. I meant what does she look like, sis? Paintings can only tell one so much, and one wonders, doesn’t one, how such strength would manifest itself in a woman.’ He looked fondly at Wynter. ‘She would have something of your look, I imagine? A certain fierceness about the eyes? That keen watchfulness not usual in a woman?’
‘I am nothing like her,’ hissed Wynter. ‘It appals me that you would suggest it.’
Alberon grinned, amused at her ferocity. ‘Oh, don’t be tiresome, Wyn. In her letters, Marguerite constantly reminds me of you: her directness of speech, her single-mindedness.’
In her letters. Wynter exchanged a glance with Razi.
‘You have been in regular correspondence with the Royal Princess?’ asked Razi.
‘For many months now.’
‘To what purpose?’
Alberon just smiled slyly and reached for Marguerite Shirken’s folder. There was a watchful silence from Razi as the Prince undid the ties and quickly leafed through the sealed parchments.
In the silence that accompanied Alberon’s examination of Marguerite’s letters, Wynter was ashamed to find herself battling wounded feelings. She had to admit, she was stung beyond any political rage by Alberon’s communication with Marguerite Shirken. Over the past five years, Alberon had never once replied to Wynter’s many personal notes and letters, and she had assumed that they had been lost in the upheaval of the insurrection. But this seemed unlikely now, considering his apparently rich communion with the Northland Princess. She cradled the sleeping cat and stroked his brittle shoulders. She told herself to grow up. So Alberon had not answered her letters. So what? She was no court moppet, willing to take offence at every perceived slight. Alberon had been a prince at war. He would have had no time for the frivolous scribblings of his lonely little sister. He had bigger things to consider, she thought.
She looked beyond the firelight. The camp was lost to darkness, the mountains surrounding them invisible in the night. I know my place, Lorcan’s patient voice whispered in her memory. I know my place. Wynter had always thought she understood that, had always thought she knew exactly what it meant to put one’s self second to matters of state. Now she was not sure. She was not certain she had the depths of selfless calm that had allowed her father to accept his lot in political life. Down below, the Merron camp fire winked at her like a knowing orange star. We know what that’s like, it seemed to say. We know how you feel.
‘For Christ’s sake, sis! Wake up!’
Wynter came back to herself with a start. Razi and Alberon were staring, Razi concerned, Alberon impatient.
‘Tell me of Gunther Shirken,’ Alberon demanded, as if for the third time. ‘I understand he is ill? His mind is unsound?’
‘You are tired, Wyn,’ said Razi softly. ‘Would you like to lie down?’
Alberon regarded her curiously, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Are you tired?’ he asked. ‘Because . . .’ He gestured to his tent, as if offering her the chance to retire.
She shook her head.
‘It has been a terrible journey, Alberon,’ said Razi. ‘You have no idea. Wynter, perhaps you should consider—’ ‘I am fine.’ Wynter drew herself up, cutting Razi short. ‘King Shirken is an old man, Albi, and my father always claimed that he had a skewed view of this world. But his health is good and he is in firm command of himself. He is in no way of unsound mind. Why do you ask?’
Razi rolled his eyes in defeat and gave up, switching his attention back to the conversation.
Alberon dived straight back into it. ‘Marguerite tells me that her father is more and more unbalanced,’ he said. ‘His legitimate purges have turned to persecutions. His renewed inquisitions are causing unrest. She tells me that the Northlands is on the brink of ruin.’
Wynter hesitated, momentarily overcome with memories of the North. The awful inquisitions, the terrible mass executions. It took her a moment to push these images down. ‘Certainly, Shirken is a rabid cur,’ she said. ‘In truth, I cannot understand how he has survived this long without bringing his country to its knees. While we were there, my father did a tremendous amount of work healing old wounds, but he feared that it was a frail kind of stability. His great worry was