‘This not what Embla and Ash give their lifes for,’ hissed Sól, getting to his feet. ‘That we be messengers for tyrants and bitches to Wolves. This not what we is. This not the Merron way.’ He flung his empty bowl to the ground, took Boro by his chain and stalked after Christopher.
Úlfnaor sighed and pressed his fingers to his temples. His warriors watched him from the corners of their eyes, and concentrated on their food. No questions were asked, and Úlfnaor made no effort to translate for them.
‘It not right, Tabiyb,’ he said eventually, ‘that we let those cur wander about after what they do to Coinín. Even if he not have been one of the tribe it would be not right, but Coinín, he Sól’s son now. He wear the bracelets of bear Merron . . . it our duty and our honour to avenge him.’
‘Úlfnaor,’ grated Razi, ‘if you truly wish to attain this new life you keep asking for, you must be willing to try and live it.’
The big man grew silent and thoughtful, and Razi flicked a glance to Wynter. She briefly met his eye but didn’t speak. She had nothing to add to the conversation. Her mind was a numb void, her chest constricted with anger. Sighing, she slammed her bowl on the fire-stones; the food tasted like sawdust and ashes to her anyway. Frangok eyed the uneaten dinner and Wynter nudged the bowl towards her with her foot.
‘Take it,’ she said. ‘I shall vomit if I have more.’
Frangok’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at Wynter’s use of Garmain.
Wynter didn’t acknowledge her, just drew up her knees and laid her head against her crossed arms, watching as Christopher came into view between a gap in the tents. He was striding furiously down the slope towards the river and the horse-lines. Sólmundr quickly caught up with him. Boro wove about ahead of them, pulling at his chain and snuffling in excitement. The men fell into step, their heads down. Wynter followed their progress until they passed from view. She would not be foolish enough to intrude on them. Christopher had made it perfectly clear that he wanted to be left alone.
All through that long day, Wynter had been hoping that Alberon would send a message, if not to Razi then at least to her, as a beginning to reconciliation with his brother. But there had been nothing. Now evening was coming on, and the rhythms of the camp were slowing, the smoke from the fires hanging sweet and hazy in the lowering light. It did not seem likely that a pardon would be granted today.
Wynter was distressed by this, but she could not in honesty say that she was surprised. One did not call a crown prince ‘foolish’ at the negotiation table. At the very least, it would have wounded Alberon’s pride to hear himself described in such terms, particularly when he had gone to such pains to confirm Razi’s status as his right-hand man. Wynter squeezed her eyes shut. God help them, but it had been such a stupid, stupid thing to say. And then to compound it with ‘I shall not let you’! What an absolute and unmistakable assertion of superiority. What a disastrously contemptuous thing for a bastard son to say against his royal brother. In many a court, those words alone would have been enough to see the end of Razi.
‘Jesu,’ she whispered to herself. ‘What are we to do?’
There was a small scuffing of ground as someone sat down beside her. Wynter smelled cook-fire, and the lingering scent of bitter herbs. Hallvor’s smoky voice spoke, low and private: ‘Luichín, you speak Garmain. It’s a shame we didn’t know this sooner, eh?’
Wynter shrugged. She was in no mood for talk.
Hallvor looked across at Razi, who was frowning in their direction, obviously trying to understand.
‘Ah,’ she breathed, ‘but your companions do not speak it. Even had we known this about each other, it would have been wrong for us to converse, a chroí. It is a terrible disrespect to speak above one’s company.’ She smiled down at Wynter, her usual, grave smile, her dark eyes kind. ‘Still, I am glad I know this about you. So glad, that I think I shall now commit a terrible sin against manners and have a conversation with you.’
Oh, God, thought Wynter. Go away. Please. Her eyes drifted to the last place she’d seen Christopher and she pulled her knees in tighter against her chest.