The Rebel Prince - By Celine Kiernan Page 0,63

did not look up into Razi’s face. She could not take her eyes from Christopher.

Breathless and shaking, obviously in pain, her friend drew in his arms and legs and laid his head against Sólmundr’s chest. He squinted up at Razi through the tangled mess of his hair, and, at the look on Razi’s face, Christopher’s expression filled with bitterness and despair.

‘You will stay here,’ said Razi flatly.

‘You promised me,’ said Christopher, ‘you promised . . .’

‘You will stay here,’ commanded Razi. Úlfnaor’s dark shadow filled the door, and Razi turned to him. ‘You will keep him here,’ he ordered. ‘That is my wish. As your Caora, that is my command.’

Úlfnaor, his expression lost in shadow, bowed his head in obeisance. Christopher groaned.

‘Stay here, Wyn,’ said Razi, ‘I mean it.’

She turned her head, glaring up at him from the corner of her eye. He was nothing but a black shape against the light. He ducked out the door, and she saw him briefly in the sunlight, striding away between the tents. Then he was gone.

‘He promised,’ rasped Christopher. ‘He said never again. He promised.’

‘Why the Wolves here, a luch?’ asked Sól, searching Wynter’s face. ‘What they have to offer the Prince?’

She shook her head. She glanced sideways at Christopher and the corners of his mouth turned down as he read her expression.

‘Oh, no, lass,’ he whispered, ‘not you too.’

‘There must be a reason,’ she said.

‘I’M SICK OF HIS REASONS,’ screamed Christopher suddenly, making Wynter jump. ‘I’m sick of them.’ He lurched in Sól’s arms so that the warrior almost lost his grip. ‘I want them dead!’ howled Christopher. ‘I want them dead! Like he promised! Like he said! I don’t want this anymore! I want them deaaaddd!’

His howling became less than human again, and Sól was no longer cradling him but holding him down. The warrior looked sadly to Úlfnaor, and the Aoire came forward to help restrain the young man as he battled the hatred within him.

Without rising, Wynter backed slowly to the door, her eyes fixed on her thrashing friend. Sólmundr said something to Úlfnaor, and the big man put his hands on Christopher’s shoulders, murmuring. Wynter thought he might be praying.

Wynter knew that Christopher was no longer a danger to these men. ‘There ain’t no pain,’ he had told Razi. ‘Not when you do it on purpose. It feels good.’ And Wynter could see the pain in him. She could see him fighting to quell what he called his dark power. She had no doubt that this was a battle Christopher would win.

She knew she should stay with him. She knew she should be there for him when he emerged from this fight, weary and sore and needing comfort. Still, she backed for the door.

Sólmundr met her eye as she rose to her feet, and his own eyes widened at the realisation that she was leaving.

‘I need to know,’ she said.

Condemnation flared in the warrior’s face, but Wynter held his gaze. After a moment, Sól deflated and looked away. Having spent his life protecting the man he loved, only to then allow his people to sacrifice him to their god, Sólmundr was in no position to point accusing fingers at those who put duty before love.

‘I shall bring him his answers, Sól,’ she promised.

Sólmundr just shook his head and turned his attention back to Christopher, who thrashed and snarled and struggled beneath his restraining hands. The dogs had resumed their baying, and Wynter strode from the tent, pushed past Hallvor, and kept walking until the sounds of their howls were indistinguishable from those of the man she loved.

Once free from the accusing eyes of the Merron, Wynter paused. Standing in the dusty sunshine, she breathed deep and clenched her teeth and her hands as she tried to get herself under some control.

Razi was striding towards the foot of the slope, his eyes on Alberon’s tent. He passed the knot of older Haun, who were staring up the hill, murmuring anxiously among themselves. He passed the Wolves’ beautiful horses and the slaves who tended them. He didn’t so much as falter at the base of the hill, just strode purposefully upwards as if he had always expected this meeting; as if he had planned for it all his life.

Wynter lowered her chin and dashed after him, dodging the Haun and the horses and the patient slaves. Running to Razi’s side, she fell into step with him, her eyes fixed ahead, her hand on her sword. He came to a

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