he must seem as though every single event has been expected and planned for. This has been dealt with now, and for him it must seem to be over. He cannot be seen to be touched by it. But he will come see you later,’ he assured her. ‘When the time is suitable he will come, I promise he will.’
No, he won’t, she thought numbly. He won’t come. He won’t come at all.
‘Have you no idea of that man’s identity?’ asked Razi, sitting her by the Merron fire and crouching by her side.
Wynter shook her head again. The world felt very detached from her, and Wynter didn’t mind that at all. She would be happy if the whole damned thing just sailed away entirely; just drifted off forever. Then perhaps she could have some peace.
Hallvor handed her a beaker of tea. Wynter held it without drinking until Razi took it and placed it on the firestones. ‘Would you like to lie down?’ he asked, his concerned face floating before her. She did not answer.
The other Merron made a noisy return from the road. Úlfnaor said, ‘They letting the Haun go!’ disbelief clear in his voice. Razi stood and the two men exchanged words that had no meaning for Wynter.
Someone nudged her in the back. She shrugged them off. They nudged again and she turned, dully swatting them away. It was Boro, looming over her with anxious inquiry, filling her face with panting, musty breath.
Christopher came running up from the river. ‘Iseult!’ He slid to a breathless halt on the opposite side of the fire, his eyes wide. ‘Lass!’
Wynter shoved Boro aside, elbowed her way past Razi, and ran to Christopher’s arms. He clutched her to him with every ounce of his amazing strength and she buried her head in his chest, clinging silently to him as he fired questions across the top of her head. Sól ran up behind them. There were anxious exchanges in Merron as the two men learned what had happened.
Oliver’s cultured voice broke through the incompre hensible babble. ‘My Lord Razi?’ he said. ‘Is there anything I can do? Would the Protector Lady like to retire to solitude? I could ask if the Lady Mary would give her shelter in her tent.’
Wynter raised her head to glare at him. He bowed uncertainly to her and she glowered in reply. She stepped free of Christopher’s arms and wiped her eyes, her face hard.
‘Who was he, Sir Knight?’ asked Razi. ‘The Protector Lady thinks he knew her father. Is this possible?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘My Lord,’ he said wearily, ‘I did not even know the fellow’s name. His companions treated him with great wariness. They seemed to distrust him entirely . . . I suspect because of his unhinged nature. He simply translated all that was said, and had no part in the negotiations. But always there was about him . . . I cannot explain, my Lord . . . always a sense of patient malice. It was as though, by just being here, he was exacting a vengeance long sought.’
‘His name was Borchu-xah,’ said Wynter. ‘I’m certain of it.’
‘Borchu,’ whispered Oliver, and Wynter saw a moment of recognition cross his face.
‘You know him!’ she cried. ‘The name means something to you!’
Oliver sighed and seemed to shrug himself free of old memories. ‘I am sorry, Protector Lady, but Borchu is a common name among their kind. ’Tis like asking me would I know a John or a Michael. There were plenty of Borchus and Borchu-xahs running about the land before the late King sent them home.’
‘But he knew my father,’ she insisted. ‘I am certain of it. He knew my father and he hated him. Why?’
Oliver tilted his head with that old paternal sympathy, and Wynter fought the urge to slap his courtly face. ‘All the Haun hate your father, Protector Lady. He is famed for routing their invasion and ridding the kingdom of their threat. But it is unlikely that so young a man would have known Lorcan personally. Your father did have an acquaintance called Borchu, and this is what I recalled when you mentioned the name. Do you recall him, my Lord? The chap who worked with St James? It was the man the late King called that yellow weasel.’
‘I do remember Grandfather using that vile sobriquet,’ frowned Razi, ‘and the fact that my father detested it.’
‘Aye,’ admitted Oliver, blushing. ‘Aye, that’s right. The late King used to delight in taunting the present King