it gently from her grip. ‘Chris, this has nothing to do with how I feel about Razi. This has to do with bigger things. Surely you can see that?’
He remained silent, his face set, and Wynter sighed. ‘The world is not simple, Christopher,’ she said, ‘and I am going to talk to the Prince.’ She went to move away and Christopher put his hand on her elbow. She paused, not looking at him.
‘I’ll walk with you,’ he said.
There was smoke coming from the ventilation holes at the top of the Haun yurts. The first in line was quiet and lifeless, just like yesterday, but Christopher murmured that there were at least three Haun in there. Wynter smiled wryly – he must have been sniffing about in the night, getting the lay of the land. Her heart once again swelled with warm pride; her man was the best kind of sly.
They walked slowly, side-by-side, their eyes on the Haun crouched outside the second yurt. One of them was the young man of the day before, and with him was his companion and another older man. The two senior Haun were occupied with boiling something over the fire. The young man seemed in the process of changing his clothes. He had already removed his many layers of colourful jackets and vests, and as Christopher and Wynter came level with him he was just untying his undershirt. Wynter politely glanced away as he slipped free of the garment, but her eyes snapped immediately back at the sight of his scars. Christopher almost stopped walking in shock, but they both recovered themselves in time and simply slowed their pace, their eyes uncontrollably drawn to the young man’s back.
The scars were old, puckered and stretched with time. Their shapes had distorted as the young man’s body had grown from what must have been that of a very small child at the time of his injury, to his present age of perhaps twenty or so. His stocky body was firm and closely muscled, as if he had worked hard all his life, but his strong back was marred with a row of ugly puncture wounds, starting just above the waist of his trousers at his left hip and continuing up to his right shoulder. Four in all, they were deep, evil-looking holes, as if a cruel giant had held him down as a child and neatly drilled his back with a sharpened stick.
The man put on his clean shirt, and as he tied the stays his eyes lifted to meet Wynter’s. She immediately averted her gaze and passed on by.
‘Good Frith,’ whispered Christopher, ‘how did he survive that?’
‘Excuse me!’
The cultured voice stopped their progress, and they turned to find the young man advancing on them. He drew on a jacket as he came, his focus on Wynter, his black eyes and his broad-featured face politely unreadable. He looked Wynter up and down as he came to a halt, his attention particularly drawn to her hair. When he spoke, she was impressed by the smooth courtliness of his manner and his remarkable Southlandast, only very faintly tinged with an accent.
‘Lady Green-eyes,’ he said, ‘I am struck by the colour of your hair. It is magnificent.’
Wynter blushed. Christopher snorted softly in disgust.
The young man smiled and made a motion with his hand. ‘And those unique eyes,’ he said. ‘Like translucent jade. How unforgettable.’
His face was as blandly polite as before, but there was something in this man’s voice that Wynter did not like, and she felt herself grow tense.
At her side, Christopher huffed. ‘Ain’t you a poetic wee thing?’ he said.
The Haun’s eyes flickered his way, then back to Wynter. ‘Unique eyes,’ he repeated softly. ‘Even among your own kind, I would say. Defining.’
Wynter’s heart had begun to beat a little quicker, and she raised her chin, a suspicion growing.
‘Am I to take it that you knew my father?’ she asked. ‘Is this what you are implying?’
The man grinned suddenly and it reminded Wynter of the little orange cat that, a lifetime ago now, had led her through the passages at home. Like this man, its grin had been filled with hatred, and its disdain for her had been so deep that it had never even offered her its name.
‘The Protector Lady Moorehawke,’ said the Haun. ‘Of course.’
At her name, the older Haun suddenly rose to their feet, their faces wary, and their dark eyes hopped tensely between Wynter and the young man.