The Rebel Prince (41 page)

Noon passed. The sun set. Night crept in once again.

‘It’s just a suggestion,’ said Christopher softly. ‘I think you should consider it.’

‘No.’

‘But it makes perfect
sense
! Why must you be so damned exasperating?’

‘In what way does it make sense, Christopher Garron? Tell me how, by any stretch of anyone’s fertile imagination, does it make sense for
you
to turn up at the castle bearing papers from the Rebel Prince?’

Presumably in some kind of effort to prevent his brain exploding, Christopher clutched his head between his hands and squeezed. ‘I will explain that the Lord Razi is wounded in the hills and that I am speaking on his behalf,’ he grated. ‘Sól and Boro will protect you and Raz until the soldiers come to find you. It’s. Perfectly.
Reasonable.

’ ‘The Wolves will kill you.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’

‘The Wolves will kill you, and if
they
do not, the King’s men will.’

Christopher scrubbed his face with his hands and muttered darkly in Hadrish. Sól sighed and threw some dried horse dung onto the fire. The moon was dark, the sky heavy with clouds. Beyond their little ring of firelight, the night pressed thick and impenetrable, the air made unbearably cold by the wind.

The Loup-Garou howled low and mournful in the rocks above, and Sólmundr grimaced out into the darkness. ‘I going to kill that
cac
!’ he hissed.

The damnable creature had remained hidden all through the daylight hours, but as soon as darkness had fallen, it had resumed its melancholy song. Boro growled, but Sólmundr refused to let the big dog be drawn out into the rocks. He did not trust that the Loup-Garou really was alone.

‘Iseult,’ persisted Christopher, ‘look at me.
Lass
, look at me!’

She looked at him, her face set.

‘Iseult,’ he said gently, ‘we can’t let him down. What will he say if those papers don’t get through? What’ll he think if we continue to just sit here on our arses and let precious time dribble through our fists? At least if I go ahead there’s a chance of setting things straight. At the very least, it might make their da think twice about shooting off arrows when Alberon rides into sight.’

Christopher waited for her reply, his face earnest in the unsteady light. He was so utterly convinced that he could make it past the gate guards and into the King’s presence that Wynter wanted to kiss him. Razi’s chest rose and fell beneath her hand, their friend as still and as silent as the day before.

‘If Razi has not woken by tomorrow,’ she said, ‘we will strap him to his horse and finish the journey together. None of us goes on without him.’

Sólmundr glanced up at her, but said nothing. He didn’t have to point out how risky that journey might be for Razi; they all knew it.

‘It’s the only way,’ she said. ‘Regardless of what the people may think of him, Razi is still his Royal Highness the Prince, heir to the Southland throne. In his company, no one will prevent our access to the King. Without him, what are we? Nothing but a Northern savage, a gypsy thief and a disgraced murderess, carrying between them the incendiary papers of a rebel prince already declared
mortuus in vita
. Forgive me, but if any of us attempted entering the castle without Razi by our side, we would be dead before we set foot on the moat bridge. Even if Razi . . .’ She paused, the words too hard to articulate. Then she forced herself to go on. ‘Even should he die, we shall still have to bring him with us. Without him we have no hope. With him, there is at least the slimmest of chances that our story will be heard.’

She could not look into their faces, though she could imagine Christopher’s expression well enough.

‘That’s what you want to do?’ he said. ‘You want to strap Razi to his horse like a bundle of luggage, and offer him up to his da as if he were goods being exchanged for favour?’

‘Yes.’

‘You want to trek him across these mountains, regardless of what it does to his health?’

‘Yes, Christopher.’

There was a long, bitter silence, and she finally glanced up. ‘Please don’t look at me like that,’ she said softly. ‘Please, Christopher. Don’t.’ He shook his head and tightened his jaw, and she set her face against his anger. ‘Tell me something,’ she said, her voice harder than she would ever have wished it to be. ‘If the choice were given to Razi himself, what would he do?’ She looked from Christopher to Sólmundr, challenging them to tell her anything but the truth. They dropped their eyes and she nodded. ‘We leave tomorrow,’ she said, ‘all of us. So get some sleep, it is my turn to watch him.’

DAY SEVEN: BOTH SIDES
OF THE COIN

‘C
OME HERE
and eat.’

Wynter gave the pack mule’s straps one last tug and followed Sólmundr to the fire. Christopher handed them a bowl of porridge each and they ate in silence. On the path above them, buzzards squawked and scuffled, their huge wings rustling as they fought over the dead. More circled in the sky overhead, scanning for predators before spiralling down to join the grisly meal. Sólmundr had dragged the nearest Loup-Garou corpse up into the rocks, flinging its head after it like a shot-put. There, too, buzzards hopped and quarrelled as they ate their fill. Wynter tried not to listen; she would be happy to leave those sounds behind.

‘I’m done.’ Christopher threw his bowl to the ground. ‘You clean that.’ He got to his feet, snagged a waterskin and headed for Razi, who still lay within the shelter of the rocks. ‘I’ll see if I can get him to drink. Call me when we’re ready to go.’

Wynter and Sólmundr exchanged a glance and went on with their breakfast. It was the most their friend had said all morning.

‘Oh!’ cried Christopher. They both turned to see him drop to his hands and knees and peer into the shadows of the rocks. He smiled broadly. ‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Hello,’ answered Razi.

Wynter and Sól flung their bowls aside and ran to crouch at Christopher’s side. Razi was sitting against the rocks, his covers tangled around his legs. He seemed so startled by their abrupt appearance that Wynter couldn’t help a shaky laugh.

‘Hello, Razi,’ she whispered. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Fine,’ he said.

‘Your head, it not pain you?’

Razi turned his dark eyes to Sól. He thought for a moment. ‘My neck hurts,’ he said. ‘I feel stiff.’

‘Come out of there, man!’ cried Christopher. ‘Have something to eat!’

Razi emerged, blinking, into the sunshine and they guided him to the fire, supporting him on either side as if he were an old man. Wynter sat him down on a rock.

‘You want to drink?’ asked Sól. ‘You thirsty?’

‘I’m thirsty,’ said Razi.

Sólmundr offered him the waterskin. Razi took it, but then just sat with it in his hand, gazing at it. Sól flickered a glance at Wynter. ‘You not thirsty, then?’ he asked.

Razi just kept looking at the waterskin, as if uncertain what it was.

‘Um . . . are you hungry?’ asked Christopher, snatching away the water and thrusting a bowl of porridge into Razi’s hand. ‘You must be hungry.’

‘I’m hungry,’ agreed Razi, but he made no effort to touch the food.

‘Then eat it,’ said Wynter, her heart beginning to flutter in her chest. Razi gazed up at her, his eyes wide with uncertainty. ‘
Eat
it, Razi,’ she cried.

Razi ate the porridge, scooping it mechanically into his mouth. When he was finished, he left his fingers in the bowl and sat there, puzzled, food on his lips.

‘Razi . . .’ ventured Wynter, but his look of strained confusion stopped her from asking,
What is wrong?

There was a moment of silence between them. Then Christopher took the waterskin, dampened the corner of his cloak with it and wiped Razi’s face and fingers clean.

‘Come on,’ he said hoarsely, helping Razi to his feet. ‘We’re going.’

When Razi saw the horses, saddled up and ready to go, his face lost all its puzzled vacancy and he broke away from his friend and went to his mare. She whinnied and stamped, happy to see him.

‘Hello, darling,’ he said, stroking her noble face.

Wynter got slowly to her feet as Razi confidently went through his usual pre-ride check. Apparently oblivious to the terrible scratches and cuts on the poor animal’s skin, he ran his strong hands down her legs and checked her hooves. He made a careful examination of her horribly scuffed tack, tightened the girth and checked the balance of the saddlebags. Satisfied, he patted the lovely animal on her bruised neck, murmured in Arabic that she was ‘a wonderful beast’, then swung smoothly into the saddle.

Backing the mare from between the other horses, Razi drew her around and smiled at Christopher with the same politeness that he would give any groomsman in any tavern stables.

‘Thank you, my man,’ he said. ‘She’s in fine form.’

‘Yes,’ whispered Christopher.

‘You took good care of her.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

At his friend’s bleak stare, Razi lost his certainty for a moment, and his eyes hopped from Christopher to Wynter and back.

In the ensuing silence, Sólmundr gathered up the breakfast things and roughly scoured them clean. ‘Let us to go,’ he said, and crossed to stow the equipment and take to his horse.

‘Are you joining us, young lady?’ Razi asked Wynter. ‘This seems a bleak enough place to linger. It might be wise to stick with us for a while. At least until we’re somewhere more hospitable.’

‘All right,’ she whispered.

Razi frowned in sympathy. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said, ‘we shan’t let anything happen to you.’ He smiled – Razi’s warm, encouraging smile, now completely devoid of any trace of recognition – and gestured for Wynter to get onto her horse. ‘Come along, it will be all right now. We’ll look after you. Pretty soon you’ll be home and safe, and all this will seem like a bad dream.’

Wynter took to the saddle. Everyone waited, as usual, for Razi to take the lead, but he simply sat there. After a moment, he glanced anxiously at Christopher, and there was some small hint in his expression that he knew something wasn’t right.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘but I’m not too certain where we are headed.’

Christopher’s face creased for just a moment; then he nodded, cleared his throat and pulled ahead, leading the way up the gravel path to the head of the gully. Razi’s expression cleared of all doubt and he fell unquestioningly in behind Christopher’s little mare – absolutely content to allow someone else lead the way.

Christopher led them from the relative tranquillity of the gully back into the unrelenting gales of the mountain passes. The wind snatched all attempts at communication from them, and for hours they travelled with their heads down, their eyes squinted against the blasting air.

Fear and shame vied in equal measure for dominance within Wynter. Her reaction to Razi’s condition was a gall in her heart. Battling the gale and her own anxious thoughts, she was appalled to find herself dwelling more on the effect that Razi’s confusion would have on the kingdom than on Razi himself. Had her friend been limp and unconscious, it would have been easier to fret for him. But there he was, strong as ever, guiding his mare with his usual skill through the harsh mountain terrain – yet he was completely useless.