seemed to be the only thing she was capable of saying because it came out again, almost immediately. ‘I’m sorry.’
He came and held her close, and she put her arms around him. His slim body was strung with tension, his muscles twitching in the aftermath of his battle to suppress the creature inside of him; the creature that his hatred could make of him. Wynter clung to his tunic and looked up into his face. The eyes looking down on her were clear and grey again. As honest as sunlit water.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, firmly and with a fierceness that overcame her tears. ‘I mean it. The Loups-Garous are monstrous, Christopher. I do not know how you have managed all these years in their proximity. I do not know how you have not gone mad.’
He laughed, a strained thing, on the edge of crying. ‘I thought I had. When they arrived, I thought I’d lost myself. I nearly . . .’ His eyes grew huge at the thought of what he had almost done. ‘I nearly killed Surtr.’
‘But you didn’t,’ she said firmly, and he nodded.
‘Aye,’ he whispered. ‘Aye. That’s right. I didn’t.’
‘What will—’
She was cut short by the door being lifted aside.
Sólmundr peered in. He seemed amazed to find them in each other’s arms; then his weathered face softened into sad understanding. ‘You good?’ he rasped.
They nodded.
‘Tabiyb want to talk. This good with you, Coinín? You want that Tabiyb to come talk?’
Wynter felt the power surge within Christopher’s body, a frightening, physical manifestation of his anger. He abruptly disengaged from her and retreated once again into the shadows.
‘I can’t,’ he growled.
Wynter turned to Sól, her heart battering the inside of her chest. ‘Let Razi in,’ she said.
Sól looked uncertain.
‘Let him in, Sól. Christopher is not about to let the Wolves steal this friendship from him.’
There was a long silence from the back of the tent. Then Christopher whispered, ‘Let him in, Sól. But you stay, too.’
The wiry man nodded and ducked outside. Moments later he returned, shooing Razi into the tent and closing the door behind them. Sól remained by the wall, his face watchful, and Razi came forward, his eyes on Christopher.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Let me kill them, then.’
Razi winced. ‘Chris,’ he pleaded.
‘Let me kill them. Let it be over.’
‘Chris, I can’t.’
‘You can. Let me take my sword, let me take the Merron, let us go kill the Wolves. It is very, very simple, Razi. Do it now. Fulfil your promises. Let me kill the Wolves.’
‘I cannot,’ whispered Razi.
‘Why?
’ ‘Alberon needs them for a while.’
‘For a while,’ hissed Christopher. ‘I’ve been hearing for a while for almost four years.’
‘I know, friend. I am—’ ‘Do not tell me you are sorry, Razi!’
Razi looked bleakly at him. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if uncertain; then he took something from his pocket and went to crouch by the Merron’s neat piles of bedding. Wynter saw the dull gleam of silver in the dim light as he laid the object on the gritty curve of a rolled groundsheet.
‘I had this made,’ he said, ‘back at the Merron camp. I wanted to give it to you, but I was not certain that it was tasteful. And then the situation . . . the situation became difficult.’
He fell silent. He had no need to go on. They all knew how difficult things had become. He straightened the object with one finger, pushing it about until it was a perfect circle, glittering against the dark fabric. Wynter leaned to see. Behind her, Christopher shifted but did not come forward.
It was a plaited leather necklace, secured with a beautifully wrought silver catch. Set onto silver mounts and strung onto the leather were four silver fangs and four amber stones, shaped like eyes. Wynter recognised them immediately as having belonged to the Loups-Garous the Merron had caught spying on their camp. She remembered Razi rooting furiously through the dead Wolves’ belongings and understood, at last, what it was he had been seeking.
Razi carefully arranged the necklace, as if displaying it on a jeweller’s board.
‘I swear to you, Christopher,’ he said, ‘one day you shall have them all: twenty-four amber eyes, sixteen silver fangs, eight gold.’ He looked around at Christopher. ‘You shall wear them around your neck, and every day they will remind you that nothing has gone unpunished. I swear this to you.’
‘But not today,’ said Christopher. ‘That’s what you’re really saying. Not today.’
Razi nodded. ‘Not today,’ he whispered. ‘I need to