her gaze. ‘Don’t fret, luichín. Your croíeile will return to you. When a Wolf loves, he loves with everything he is. There is no stronger bond.’
Wynter straightened. ‘There are many Wolves among the Merron?’ she whispered.
Hallvor shrugged. ‘Some. Those who survive their childhood grow to be good strong warriors, loyal and proud – not like those caic that call themselves Loups-Garous and are raised as naught but rabid cur.’
‘Those who survive their childhood?’
Hallvor shrugged again. ‘Not all are lucky enough to have someone like Aidan an Filid Garron to raise them.’ She settled her arms across her own bent knees, looked thoughtfully down towards the river. ‘Wolf children can be very wild,’ she murmured. ‘You know, if he ever gives you trouble like today?’ She tapped her temple. ‘Hit him hard in the head. They can’t keep the Wolf-shape once they’ve been hit in the head.’
‘Hallvor! I would never hit Christopher in the head!’
‘Never say never, girl. A man is a man – especially when he is a Wolf!’ Hallvor slid a wry glance at her, and Wynter was no longer sure if the woman was being serious or simply trying to cheer her up. Hallvor chuckled at her confusion. Her dark eyes switched from Wynter to Razi, who was in desultory conversation with Úlfnaor. ‘I think it is a strange and wonderful thing,’ she said softly, ‘how Tabiyb and Coinín are brothers-of-the-heart. And you with your pale skin and Tabiyb with his black, yet he sees you as his sister.’ She frowned. ‘I had thought it meant good things for us here. This great love between three such different people.’
‘If we can heal the rift between Razi and the Prince there is still hope,’ said Wynter.
Hallvor glanced at her and her wry smile told Wynter that she didn’t hold out much hope of reconciliation between the brothers. The healer squeezed Wynter’s knee and made to rise to her feet. ‘Well,’ she sighed. ‘Ashkr and Embla made Tabiyb our Caora for some reason. If it was not to heal a rift, then it must have been for some other purpose. We shall have to see.’ This casual mention of the sacrificed dead froze Wynter’s heart. On impulse she grabbed Hallvor’s hand, halting her rise to her feet. Have you no guilt? she wanted to cry. Do you feel no shame?
Hallvor sank to her haunches, her face concerned. ‘What is it, luichín?’ she said. ‘Have you more questions about your man? Do you fear for him?’
How can you do it? thought Wynter, still gripping the woman’s hand, staring desperately into her face. I want to know! I want to know how you can have killed like that, then just go on as normal!
She went to ask, but Surtr’s voice cut her off before she could speak.
‘Tá na Haun ag imeacht, a Aoire.
’ Wynter looked around. The red-haired warrior was standing at the corner of the tents, gesturing to the road. Úlfnaor rose to his feet. He thumped Razi on his shoulder. ‘Surtr say the Haun is leaving.’
Razi shrugged listlessly and stayed where he was, but Wynter got to her feet and she and Hallvor went with the men to look.
Once Alberon had shown his hand and the Haun had realised that their plans were come to naught, they had immediately begun packing. It was quite obvious that they could not believe the Prince would be lenient with them and were keen to leave before he changed his mind about sparing their lives. After all, to a Haun, the clearest form of message was often the poor envoy’s severed head returned home in a box. Clearly these men did not trust that Alberon’s methods of communication with their superiors would be anything less than blood-soaked. Wynter could not help but wonder what reception these men would receive at home. Her father had told her the Haun punishments for failure were often savage in the extreme. Being pressed to death under the corpse of your own horse was one she remembered most vividly.
As she rounded the corner of the tents, the older Haun were already urging their horses down the road, their heavily laden little pack mares tottering along behind. Some of the camp had come out to watch them leave, but Wynter was impressed to note that very few of Alberon’s soldiers stood about staring at the fleeing men, and that those who did line up to watch confined their reactions to smirks and a few subdued whistles.