The Rebel Prince (4 page)
Eyes wide, Wynter turned forward in the saddle. A few moments later, Sólmundr kicked out his left leg, and his boot scored a mark into the bark of a nearby tree. Up ahead, Hallvor ducked under an overhang. As she pushed it out of her way, the end of the branch got bent in two somehow; the broken piece happened to point back in the direction they had come.
After a calculated moment, Wynter glanced back once more at Christopher. He winked at her. Wynter grinned. These people would have no trouble finding their way home, whether Alberon wanted them to or not.
They cleared the trees suddenly and were confronted with a sturdy earthworks barricade. A squad of men stared down at them from atop its walls, crossbows at the ready, and the party found themselves neatly caught between these guards and the silent body of horsemen who had accompanied them through the trees.
Without a word, Alberon’s lieutenant trotted past the sentry-point and disappeared into the camp beyond. The Merron were left to jostle for position in the cramped space, the guards eyeing them with impassive curiosity. Wynter pushed Ozkar through the crowd and brought him neck-to-neck with Razi’s mare.
Razi was staring through the gap in the barricade, and Wynter peered past him, trying to get a good look at Alberon’s camp. It seemed exceedingly well situated. Occupying a rising slope, a stream at its foot, a shale cliff at its back, the camp was not only easily defended, it was also in a position that could be easily fled, should the need arise.
‘Clever man,’ murmured Razi.
Wynter nodded in agreement. Clever man indeed. Albi had chosen well.
She glanced at the soldiers on the barricade. They seemed well fed and highly disciplined; not at all what one would expect from a ragged band of rebels fleeing the King’s wrath. It would appear that her childhood friend had grown into an excellent leader.
Turning her attention back to the camp, Wynter found what she was looking for on the high ground furthest from the gates: a square tent, bigger than the rest and set apart from the others, its only ornamentation the royal pennant that flew from its centre pole. She stared at it, as if her will alone could make Alberon appear from its canvas depths.
The lieutenant returned. ‘You must disarm,’ he said to Úlfnaor. ‘Tell your people to fix all their weapons to their saddles. You shall be permitted to ride through the camp, but once at the royal quarters, you must dismount.’
At Úlfnaor’s nod, Sólmundr translated this and the Merron began to disarm. Christopher and Wynter drew their horses to either side of Razi, shielding him as best they could from the soldiers’ view, and they too began divesting themselves of their weapons.
‘I hope they do not take it in mind to search us,’ murmured Christopher, lashing his katar to his saddlebag. ‘I doubt our brown lad here will pass muster as a pale Lord of the North.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Wynter, watching the lieutenant.
At any minute she expected him to order that they uncover their faces and spread their arms for a search. But once the Merron had safely secured their weaponry, the lieutenant simply wheeled his horse around and led the way into the camp.
Wynter turned to Razi in astonishment, and he looked at her across the top of his scarf, his brown eyes wide. They were to be let through? Just like that?
The Merron began to make their slow and stately progress through the gap in the earthworks, but Razi and Wynter continued to hesitate. The only contact they’d had with Alberon since this whole thing began were the assassins that he had apparently sent to end Razi’s life. What kind of reception could either of them expect here, and what would he be like, this boy they had both loved, now a man they knew nothing of?
Christopher drew his horse close. He looked at Razi. ‘Well, come on then,’ he said dryly. ‘It’s a mite late to turn back now.’
Razi let out a breath, long and slow. Then he straightened his shoulders, pulled his hat low to further hide his face, and urged his horse though the barricades and into his brother’s camp.
T
HEY WERE
led straight through the heart of the camp, heading for the large tent, which was almost certainly Alberon’s quarters. Wynter regarded her surroundings with wary admiration. This was no slow-moving royal entourage, top-heavy with luxuries and cumbersome with staff. This was a lightweight, cleverly ordered military encampment. It had an air of disciplined flexibility to it, and she was sure that the entire settlement could be packed up and spirited away within an hour. There was a feeling of solid authority here, and Wynter had to admit she was impressed.
To the left of the main thoroughfare – surrounded by soldiers’ tents and right under the watchful eye of the royal quarters – was a line of civilian shelters. Wynter saw the brightly coloured domes of the Haunardii yurts; she saw tents painted with Comberman icons, and a pale-blue pavilion tent decorated with unicorns and other Midland fripperies. She eyed these quarters with heightened unease. Haun, Midland and Comberman. Representatives of the kingdom’s three greatest adversaries, come here to negotiate with Alberon behind his father’s back. It was difficult to believe there was any good explanation for that.
The Merron travelled through the camp in stately formation, Úlfnaor and Sólmundr taking the lead. The two high lords kept their heads and their arms bare, as was the Merron tradition, but in defence of Razi, the rest of the People kept their faces covered, their cloaks loosely hiding their rich clothes. Their sturdy Merron horses stepped as light as any trained Arabian, their giant warhounds trotting alongside with courtly discipline and disdain. Wynter did not think that any royal entourage could have looked more majestic.
News of their arrival trickled through the camp, and among the military tents, soldiers paused in their work to stare. Men ducked from doors, people ran around corners to get a look. In the civilian quarters, two Combermen stood in the shade of their awning, watching the newcomers with suspicion. As the Merron drew near, one of the Combermen glowered at the pagan symbols painted on their horses, crossed himself and spat.
There were no Haun to be seen, and their quarters seemed lifeless, the bright felt shelters heavy and motionless in the evening light.
Something caught Wynter’s eye, a dark figure moving through the military tents. She leaned discreetly back to get a better view, then startled at the unexpected sight of a Midland priest wending his way through the camp, a bowl in his hands. He cut a path between the tents and came out onto the thoroughfare ahead of the Merron party. He did not seem to notice the new arrivals, and Wynter saw him duck his cowled head at the low door of the blue pavilion tent and pass inside. She shuddered. As part of his diplomatic duties, Wynter’s father had been forced to spend no small amount of time in the Midland court. It had left Wynter with some horrible memories of Midland priests and the all-too-eager role they played in the inquisitions there.
She glanced at Razi regally astride his gleaming black mare, his attention on the silently waiting royal quarters. Soldiers were crowding the edge of the road now, unwittingly closing in on him.
Unconsciously, Wynter’s hand dropped to the empty belt on her hip.
At her side, Christopher chuckled. ‘I keep reaching too,’ he murmured. Up ahead of them, they saw Wari’s sword-hand creep to his own hip, then jerk back as he remembered his empty scabbard. ‘We look so sure of ourselves,’ said Christopher, ‘when we’re naught but ducks walking on ice.’
They were led to the base of the incline that led to the royal quarters, and the lieutenant signalled for them to halt. There was a moment of breathless anticipation, the Merron staring upwards, the jangle of tack and the breathy sighs of the horses the only sounds. At the top of the slope, the white canvas of the royal tent snapped and shivered in the faint breeze, an empty map-table and chairs crouched darkly beneath the awning.
Voices filtered down to them, the words indecipherable in the quiet evening air. Then the insect-netting on the main entrance was pulled aside and two Haun ducked out. They paused as they left the shelter of the awning, pulling their brightly coloured hats down to shade their eyes. The youngest gazed out across the tops of the trees as if deep in thought, but his companion glanced down the hill. At the sight of the Merron, his hand froze on the brim of his hat. He murmured something, and the younger man looked down. He stared for a long time, his flat, honey-coloured face expressionless, his narrow black eyes unreadable. Then he tugged his hat lower, said something to the older Haun and led the way down the hill.
The older man swept by with ostentatious disinterest. But the young man slowed as he approached, his eyes on the impressive Northern horses and Razi’s wonderful mare. Wynter smiled knowingly. The Haun were famously avaricious when it came to horses. Razi would do well to sleep with his reins in his hand tonight.
As he passed her by, the young Haunardii glanced briefly into Wynter’s masked face, then walked on. Wynter swivelled in her saddle to keep him in sight.
So that is a Haun
, she thought.
How strange they look up close.
‘Lass . . . ?
Lass!
’ Christopher kicked her lightly to get her attention and she spun in the saddle, startled. ‘Is that him?’ he whispered, looking uphill.
A boy of about ten stood in the door of the royal tent – small, skinny, fine brown hair, obviously a servant. ‘Oh, Christopher,’ she hissed, her heart hammering. ‘Have some sense! Does that look like a royal prince?’
At a nod from the boy, the lieutenant dropped from his horse, jogged up the hill, and disappeared into the tent. The Merron sat in silence, waiting. A few moments later, the lieutenant reappeared. He trotted back down and stood squinting up at Úlfnaor, his hand shading his eyes.
‘His Royal Highness thanks you for your duty,’ he said. ‘You may give me the papers.’
Wynter’s heart dropped. Úlfnaor sat for a moment, his face a raw canvas of shock. Then his eyes hardened and he sat straighter, his expression cold. He said nothing.
The lieutenant went blandly on: ‘You have my permission to rest your people and your horses while you await your reply. There will certainly be food available, should you be short of supplies.’
He held his hand out for the papers, no trace of deference in his face. Wynter knew for certain then that he was acting on Alberon’s orders, and that this was a calculated snub against the Merron leader. She wondered if this was an indication of Albi’s attitude to Úlfnaor himself; or was it supposed to reflect his feelings for Marguerite Shirken, whom Úlfnaor represented?
Úlfnaor remained coldly silent. Sólmundr, however, abruptly clucked his own horse forward, forcing the lieutenant back until he was a respectful distance from the Merron leader. Then Sól drew his mare to a halt and sat looking down on the lieutenant with all the scorn an eagle might show an ant.
‘This my High Lord and Shepherd, Úlfnaor, Aoire an Domhain,’ he said softly. ‘He come bearing papers from Royal Princess Marguerite Shirken of Northlands. He come with permission granted to negotiate with Royal Prince Alberon of Southlands, on behalf of Princess and also on behalf of all the Merron peoples. You may to announce him to your master as a leader of state and member of royal line of Merron peoples. Then
you
have
my
permission for to escort us into Royal Prince Alberon’s presence.’
The lieutenant faltered for a moment, and Wynter saw him calculating his options. She felt sorry for the man, caught between the Merron’s fierce nobility and his master’s orders. But when the lieutenant turned to scan the party of coldly staring Merron, this sympathy did not prevent Wynter from straightening like the rest of them and glowering at him with all the haughty disdain she could muster. The lieutenant turned on his heel and took the long walk back to Alberon’s tent.
Once the soldier had disappeared from sight, Úlfnaor turned to look Razi in the eye. The question was plain in his face:
If this goes the way we thought it would, shall I do as
we discussed?
Razi nodded, and Úlfnaor turned front as the lieutenant made yet another appearance. There was someone with him, and Wynter’s heart bumped when she recognised who it was. Oliver! Dear God, it was Oliver. Razi’s hands tightened on the pommel of his saddle, and Wynter saw him lean forward slightly as the man they had called ‘Uncle’ began making his way down the slope towards them.