The Rebel Prince

AGAIN



AT THE sight of the Loups-Garous, Christopher came to a staggering halt, his knees bent, his arms spread as if to catch a thrown ball. He remained frozen like that, stricken, and Wynter was absolutely certain that he was going to simply stand there and allow the Wolves to advance upon him. She began to dash down the hill, scanning the road as she did, searching for Razi.

Behind her, Alberon called an order to one of his men. ‘Tell the Merron to secure those God-cursed hounds or I shall have them shot.’

Shoving her way past a knot of soldiers at the base of the hill, Wynter caught sight of Razi. He was standing openmouthed at the edge of the road. Sólmundr was shaking his arm and speaking impatiently, as if trying to get his attention. Wynter bit down the urge to scream Razi’s name and veered for him, dodging quickly through the soldiers and the rising dust. As she approached, Razi mumbled something to Sól. The warrior stepped back, shocked, then spun with a cry, frantically scanning the road. He spotted Christopher, still frozen in the Wolves’ path, and began to run towards him.

But at that very moment – just as it seemed utterly certain that the Wolves would see him – Christopher jerked to sudden life. He crouched, reached for his katar, realised it was not at his hip, then turned and darted away between the tents. Sólmundr, still only halfway to his young friend, slammed to a halt and cut right, heading in the same direction as Christopher.

Wynter slid to Razi’s side. At the same moment, Úlfnaor strode from between the tents. ‘Who is these men?’ he asked, squinting at the Wolves. ‘They from the King?’ Then he got a look at the wolf-skins draped across the horses’ rumps, and his face went cold and dangerous.

Oliver was leading the Wolves into camp, his dappled mare skittish next to David Le Garou’s big dark stallion. As he urged the shying horse onto the thoroughfare, Wynter saw Oliver’s eyes inadvertently settle on Razi. The knight’s face creased up in misery and he averted his gaze.

The Wolves were magnificent, their horses beautiful, their clothes and weaponry very fine and rich. David Le Garou’s attention was focused solely on Alberon’s quarters. But his three seconds-in-command were ranked behind him – Gérard, Jean, Pierre – and their slanting eyes scanned the surrounding soldiers, looking for trouble. The two young Arabs followed close behind, calmly guiding their sturdy little horses in their masters’ wake. The silver bells at their wrists and on their boots tinkled merrily, and Wynter felt a moment of blazing rage that the Wolves would bring them here, openly and without any attempt to hide the fact that they were slaves. Then it registered that the Wolves had only one of their three pack mules with them, and that the six dark-dressed shadow-riders that made up the rest of David Le Garou’s pack were nowhere to be seen.

‘Razi,’ she whispered, ‘where are the rest of them?’

Razi ignored her. His eyes were on the tents where Christopher had disappeared. For a moment it looked as though he would just keep standing there, staring. Then Úlfnaor went to speak again, and Razi turned, grabbing him by his shoulders, and hissed urgently into the big man’s startled face: ‘He’s gone for his sword! He means to attack them. He means to attack them at last! We have to stop him!’ He shoved the Aoire back and pushed his way past him, heading for the Merron quarters. Confused, Úlfnaor followed him.

Wynter found herself incapable of turning her back on the approaching Wolves, and instead of spinning and running, she backed slowly into the shadow-filled gap between the tents, her eyes on the brightness of the road. The light tinkling of the slave bells made itself known over the tramp of hooves and jangle of tack, and Wynter crouched slightly as the silhouette of a rider blotted the light. It was Oliver, there one moment, gone the next as he rode past the mouth of the alley. Then David Le Garou went by, his eyes ahead, his fine profile clear against the bright-blue sky. The row of Seconds came next, slowly crossing the bright space, their faces watchful. The dark-skinned Gérard was closest to her, his eyes scanning his surroundings. He turned his head, and before he could see her, Wynter broke from her trance and ran.

She caught up with Razi and Úlfnaor by the Midland quarters. The air was frantic with the baying of hounds, and there was shouting and scuffling coming from the direction of the Merron camp. Jared was herding Mary up the side of the supply tent. The lady was distraught, and she flung herself on Razi, gripping his arm in fear.

‘The dogs have turned savage!’ she cried. ‘They have gone wild!’

Razi grabbed Úlfnaor, pushing him towards the noise. ‘Don’t let him leave!’ he yelled. ‘Take his weapons and don’t let him leave the tents!’ The big man shook his head, confusion still in his face. ‘Christopher!’ clarified Razi. ‘Don’t let him get his weapons!’

Úlfnaor ran, and Razi turned on Mary, clutching her shoulders and glaring down into her frightened face. ‘Get to your tent!’ he yelled. ‘Do not leave it!’ He pushed Mary towards Jared. ‘Do not let her leave her tent!’

Jared, appalled at Razi’s rough manner, put himself between the dark young man and the woman he was so violently shoving about. Mary still clung to Razi’s arm, so that the priest was caught between them.

‘What has happened?’ snapped Jared, his face very close to Razi’s.

‘Loups-Garous.’

The priest went still. Mary stared at Razi, her arm stretched around Jared, her fingers clutching Razi’s sleeve. ‘An attack?’ she whispered.

Razi shook his head. He pushed Mary gently away. ‘Stay in your tent,’ he urged. ‘Presbyter, I beg you, make sure she stays inside.’

Jared nodded grimly and hustled Mary around to their quarters. She gazed back, wide-eyed, until they rounded the corner out of sight. Razi dashed towards the noise of the dogs and Wynter followed.

There was deafening chaos at the Merron tents. Thoar and Surtr were struggling with the huge warhounds, heaving on their collars, trying to keep them in place while the women finished hammering tent pegs into the ground to shorten their chains. The warhounds were snarling and baying, their jaws flecked with foam, wild with desperation to get away and find the Wolves.

The soldier Alberon had sent to secure the hounds was pressed against the canvas of the Merron tent. Úlfnaor was shoving him away, yelling in Merron and gesturing for him to go. Boro lunged for him suddenly, his eyes burning, and the soldier didn’t need any further persuasion. He ran off, his duty done.

Christopher was just ducking from the Merron tent, his katar in his hand, his face set. Sólmundr ducked out after him, his sword also in hand. As he emerged from the tent, Sól shouted to Hallvor and flung her a sword. It sailed across the air between them, its long blade shivering slightly in the sun, and Hallvor rose smoothly to her feet, catching the weapon by its handle.

Sólmundr gestured that she follow.

Úlfnaor yelled something and Sól paused, shocked. ‘Cad é?’ he said.

Christopher kept striding purposefully towards the road.

Razi yelled, ‘Stop him!’ and Thoar and Surtr stepped into the young man’s path. Christopher simply swerved and dodged gracefully past. The warriors glanced uncertainly at Úlfnaor. ‘Stop him,’ repeated Razi, and Úlfnaor nodded.

Surtr sidestepped and put his hand on Christopher’s chest. ‘Cosc ort nóiméad, a luch,’ he said.

Christopher came to a surprised halt. He blinked up at the red-headed warrior for a moment, then looked around the ring of uncertain faces.

‘Come on,’ he said, as if they’d forgotten what they were meant to be doing.

No one moved. Their eyes hopped from Christopher to Razi.

‘Come on!’ urged Christopher, gesturing impatiently that they should follow. Then he caught sight of Razi’s hard face, and Wynter saw his certainty fall away into dismay. ‘Oh no, Razi,’ he whispered.

Razi would not look at him. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘I need to know why they are here.’

‘No!’ Christopher launched himself forward, and the redheaded brothers lurched in surprise then leapt and caught him under his arms, stopping him in his tracks. ‘No, Razi!’ he cried. ‘Not again! Not again.’

Razi, his eyes down, pointed to the Merron tent, and the two huge men began to manhandle Christopher back towards the door. Christopher howled with despair and disbelief. ‘No!’ he wailed again. ‘Noooooooo!’

Razi would not meet his eye and that seemed to enrage Christopher. More than anything, that seemed to tip him over the edge. He went mad then. Snarling and screaming in rage, he struggled against the two brothers so that they almost lost their footing and stumbled under his thrashing weight. He raised his katar, meaning to smash it down onto Surtr’s head. Hallvor leapt forward and grabbed his upraised arms, twisting them so that he was forced to release the weapon. Christopher howled again and kicked out at her, his face vicious.

Wynter lurched to help him, but Razi jerked her violently back.

‘Let him go!’ she cried.

Christopher snarled at her, his face unrecognisable. The brothers dragged him to the tent, and as he was borne backwards into the dimness he released an animal howl. The door fell closed and, out of sight now, Christopher’s inarticulate rage stormed on. Surtr and Thoar roared at him, trying to calm him down.

Furious, Wynter struggled free of Razi’s grip and shoved him away. She ran for the door, determined that Christopher should be released.

‘No, Wyn!’ yelled Razi. ‘Wait! Wait!’

Suddenly the dogs stopped barking, and their abrupt stillness froze the humans in their tracks.

All sounds of the struggle within the tent had ceased.

Wynter clearly heard Thoar say, ‘Coinín?’

The hounds backed to the ends of their chains, whimpering, their tails between their legs. Boro whined in fear, his sharp ears swivelling to catch the sounds from within.

Sól took an uncertain step forward, then he and Razi simultaneously dashed for the door. Wynter went to follow, but Razi pushed ahead of her, literally shoving her aside and dodging under the flap before she could get past. Within the tent, Surtr screamed. There was a rending, splitting sound, and just as Wynter went to duck inside, the red-headed warrior flew past her, propelled backwards from the tent as if flung from a catapult.

The huge man flew ten or more feet before landing with a whoomph in the dust. His tunic was torn open, his belly scored with claw-marks and scarlet with blood. He immediately tried to roll to his feet, his face creased with concern for his brother.

‘THOAR!’ he yelled, falling back in pain. ‘Thoar!’

Wynter ducked into the tent and was confronted with a frenzy of noise and movement. Sólmundr and Thoar had thrown themselves onto Christopher, trying to pin him down. Razi, in turn, had flung himself onto the warriors, trying to pull them away.

‘No!’ he shouted. ‘He does not mean it! Give him a moment.’

Razi kicked Thoar away, at the same time heaving backwards on Sól. The three men tumbled back, propelled by a violent shove from Christopher.

‘Give him a moment!’ screamed Razi as Thoar went to draw his sword. ‘He doesn’t mean it!’

Wynter went to run forward but came to a halt at the sight of Christopher’s terrible face. Utterly transformed, his eyes flashed yellow in the gloom, and he growled and snarled about him like a dog at bay. He was writhing in the shadows at the back of the tent, as if in battle with some unseen demon, his scarred fingers gouging deep claw-marks into the earth.

‘Christopher,’ she whispered.

He made no effort to attack, just remained where he was, struggling on the dirt floor, his body twisting around itself as he tried to overcome his rage. The noises coming from his distorted mouth were not human – they were anything but human – but Wynter understood fear when she heard it. She understood pain.

‘Oh, Christopher,’ she whispered again and knelt on the ground just out of his reach, her hand outstretched as if to comfort him. He continued to thrash and struggle, apparently unconscious of her presence. Razi crawled to her side, his face intent, but he, too, came to a halt just out of reach of his friend and knelt there, doing nothing.

In the end, it was Sól who went to him. He crawled straight past Razi and Wynter and, without hesitation, rolled Christopher onto his back.

Christopher’s yellow eyes widened at the contact; his lips pulled back. His distorted hands shot to Sólmundr’s shoulders. The too-long fingers dug into Sól’s flesh, and the warrior gasped in pain. Gritting his teeth, Sól grabbed Christopher’s face in his hands and jerked the young man’s head around, staring into Christopher’s inhuman eyes.

‘Coinín!’ he cried. ‘Is mé atá ann! It’s me! It’s Sól!’

Christopher opened his mouth, those long, sharp teeth only inches from Sólmundr’s throat. His fingers tightened brutally on Sól’s shoulders and, to Wynter’s horror, blood welled up beneath his fingertips.

Sólmundr’s face tightened in agony, but he did not pull away. Instead he shook Christopher’s head between his hands and yelled, ‘You freeman, Coinín! You not hurt me! You know who you are!’

Christopher’s yellow eyes locked with Sólmundr’s. His fingers abruptly relaxed their grip on the warrior’s shoulders. His face softened in recognition. Then he was Christopher again, just Christopher; his scarred hands clutching the fabric of his friend’s tunic, his fine, narrow face appalled and painted with despair.

‘Oh no,’ he whispered. ‘Oh no!’ He lifted his hand from Sólmundr’s shoulder and stared at the blood that reddened his fingers. ‘Oh no!’ he cried. ‘Iseult! Iseult! ’

Wynter shook her head, her hands pressed to her mouth. She couldn’t speak. Christopher struggled to sit, calling for her and groping blindly about him as if unable to focus his eyes or coordinate his body. Sólmundr drew the young man to him, stilling his frantic attempts to rise, holding him close.

‘Iseult!’ croaked Christopher.

‘Iseult is good,’ murmured Sól shakily, patting Christopher’s shoulder. ‘You not hurt her.’ He looked out through the door to where Thoar was helping Surtr to stand. Hallvor had joined them. Surtr gingerly pressed his fingers to the long, deep gashes on his bloodied stomach. ‘You not hurt her,’ whispered Sólmundr.

By Wynter’s side, Razi rose slowly to his feet. Sól looked up at him. Razi met his eye and the warrior’s dazed confusion iced over to cold disapproval. Wynter did not look up into Razi’s face. She could not take her eyes from Christopher.

Breathless and shaking, obviously in pain, her friend drew in his arms and legs and laid his head against Sólmundr’s chest. He squinted up at Razi through the tangled mess of his hair, and, at the look on Razi’s face, Christopher’s expression filled with bitterness and despair.

‘You will stay here,’ said Razi flatly.

‘You promised me,’ said Christopher, ‘you promised . . .’

‘You will stay here,’ commanded Razi. Úlfnaor’s dark shadow filled the door, and Razi turned to him. ‘You will keep him here,’ he ordered. ‘That is my wish. As your Caora, that is my command.’

Úlfnaor, his expression lost in shadow, bowed his head in obeisance. Christopher groaned.

‘Stay here, Wyn,’ said Razi, ‘I mean it.’

She turned her head, glaring up at him from the corner of her eye. He was nothing but a black shape against the light. He ducked out the door, and she saw him briefly in the sunlight, striding away between the tents. Then he was gone.

‘He promised,’ rasped Christopher. ‘He said never again. He promised.’

‘Why the Wolves here, a luch?’ asked Sól, searching Wynter’s face. ‘What they have to offer the Prince?’

She shook her head. She glanced sideways at Christopher and the corners of his mouth turned down as he read her expression.

‘Oh, no, lass,’ he whispered, ‘not you too.’

‘There must be a reason,’ she said.

‘I’M SICK OF HIS REASONS,’ screamed Christopher suddenly, making Wynter jump. ‘I’m sick of them.’ He lurched in Sól’s arms so that the warrior almost lost his grip. ‘I want them dead!’ howled Christopher. ‘I want them dead! Like he promised! Like he said! I don’t want this anymore! I want them deaaaddd!’

His howling became less than human again, and Sól was no longer cradling him but holding him down. The warrior looked sadly to Úlfnaor, and the Aoire came forward to help restrain the young man as he battled the hatred within him.

Without rising, Wynter backed slowly to the door, her eyes fixed on her thrashing friend. Sólmundr said something to Úlfnaor, and the big man put his hands on Christopher’s shoulders, murmuring. Wynter thought he might be praying.

Wynter knew that Christopher was no longer a danger to these men. ‘There ain’t no pain,’ he had told Razi. ‘Not when you do it on purpose. It feels good.’ And Wynter could see the pain in him. She could see him fighting to quell what he called his dark power. She had no doubt that this was a battle Christopher would win.

She knew she should stay with him. She knew she should be there for him when he emerged from this fight, weary and sore and needing comfort. Still, she backed for the door.

Sólmundr met her eye as she rose to her feet, and his own eyes widened at the realisation that she was leaving.

‘I need to know,’ she said.

Condemnation flared in the warrior’s face, but Wynter held his gaze. After a moment, Sól deflated and looked away. Having spent his life protecting the man he loved, only to then allow his people to sacrifice him to their god, Sólmundr was in no position to point accusing fingers at those who put duty before love.

‘I shall bring him his answers, Sól,’ she promised.

Sólmundr just shook his head and turned his attention back to Christopher, who thrashed and snarled and struggled beneath his restraining hands. The dogs had resumed their baying, and Wynter strode from the tent, pushed past Hallvor, and kept walking until the sounds of their howls were indistinguishable from those of the man she loved.



Once free from the accusing eyes of the Merron, Wynter paused. Standing in the dusty sunshine, she breathed deep and clenched her teeth and her hands as she tried to get herself under some control.

Razi was striding towards the foot of the slope, his eyes on Alberon’s tent. He passed the knot of older Haun, who were staring up the hill, murmuring anxiously among themselves. He passed the Wolves’ beautiful horses and the slaves who tended them. He didn’t so much as falter at the base of the hill, just strode purposefully upwards as if he had always expected this meeting; as if he had planned for it all his life.

Wynter lowered her chin and dashed after him, dodging the Haun and the horses and the patient slaves. Running to Razi’s side, she fell into step with him, her eyes fixed ahead, her hand on her sword. He came to a halt and she strode on, not looking back.

‘Wyn,’ he said flatly, ‘go back to him. I do not want you here.’

‘Don’t bother, Razi,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not about to waste my time arguing with you.’ She kept walking, but Razi did not follow, and she was forced to stop and look back at him.

His face was utterly hard. ‘You will not meet these men.’

‘Yes, I shall,’ she said. ‘I shall most certainly meet these men. I want very much to meet the men who stole his hands and enslaved his family. I want very much to look into the faces of the ones who hurt those poor girls at the inn. I want to know why it is they still wander about Algiers day after day without you baying for their blood, Razi. I want to know why it is that our brother has called them to his table. I will not sit on my arse like a good woman and let this go on without me. If Christopher is to be once again denied his vengeance, I shall be there to find out why.’

‘This is not the time for childish displays of defiance,’ he cried. ‘I have had the weight of these creatures hung around my neck since I was fourteen years old, Wynter. Christopher’s life has been blighted by them for as long as he can recall. Do not step in now and act as though you understand a whit of what we feel.’

Wynter didn’t bother to reply. She simply stood with her hand on her sword, waiting for Razi to start up the slope again. Razi snarled and looked away. His eyes slipped to the tents behind which the hounds still voiced their frustration and rage.

‘Do not expect me to go in there with my sword drawn,’ he warned quietly. ‘I doubt Alberon’s plans will afford me the luxury. This world is not simple, Wynter. One cannot always have the blood one wants.’

The dogs howled again, and Razi’s furious mask slipped a little. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

‘Oh, do not fret, brother,’ said Wynter coldly. ‘It is only the warhounds. Christopher is a good man, and strong. I have no doubt that he has already regained his self-control. I wager he has grown uncommonly good at suppressing his feelings. He has, after all, been associating with the likes of us for long enough.’

Razi snapped his eyes to her, and Wynter stared flatly back at him.

‘Fine,’ he said at last. ‘Fine! If you’re coming, let us go.’ And he strode towards the waiting tent, Wynter by his side.





LE GAROU



THE GUARDS around Alberon’s tent eyed Razi and Wynter as they approached. Oliver was standing in the shadow of the awning, and he came quickly forward, striding down the slope to head Razi off before he got anywhere near the wary soldiers.

Wynter expected Razi to shove his way past, but instead he halted, regarding the knight from under his brows.

‘Do not do this, my Lord,’ warned Oliver quietly, ‘please.’

Razi spoke just as quietly, his voice inaudible to the watching men. ‘Either let me past, or kill me, Oliver. Which will it be?’

Oliver regarded him closely, and Razi held his gaze. ‘I shall get access, or die trying, Sir Knight. I ask you again, which will it be?’

Oliver’s eyes fell to Wynter.

‘I shall accompany the Lord Razi.’

Oliver briefly squeezed his eyes shut; then he gestured the soldiers to give the lord and lady access. Wynter and Razi strode into the shade of the awning and straight through the door. Oliver stood for a moment in the sunshine, as if too weary to move, then he followed them in.

The map-table and its four chairs had been brought inside. Alberon sat on one side of it, David Le Garou on the other. David’s Seconds lined the wall behind him, loose-limbed and ready, watching their leader’s back. At Razi’s entrance, they straightened as one, their slanting eyes filled with amused delight.

David Le Garou rose smoothly to his feet, all his teeth showing in a grin. His eyes dropped to Wynter, then back to Razi. ‘Al-Sayyid,’ he murmured. ‘What a pleasant surprise. I had heard that you were dead.’

‘Why are you here?’ asked Razi.

David lifted his eyebrows and he turned to Alberon in feigned shock, as if expecting the Prince to reprimand his brother for his rudeness. There was a moment of heavy silence. Alberon drummed his fingers on the table. Once. A gesture of contained anger.

‘I take it that you know each other,’ he said tightly.

Le Garou shrugged and spread his hands. ‘We have met, in passing. Now and again.’

‘You have done your best these past five years to destabilise my relations within the Moroccan court,’ said Razi. ‘You have done everything you can to use me to drive a wedge between the Sultan and my father. I ask again, why are you here?’

‘The dealings at court were not my idea,’ tutted David. ‘That was my father, the great André Le Garou. It is he who tries to distance the Sultan from his old allies. I have no personal opinion on who rules the Moroccos. But we all must support our fathers, must we not? In word and in deed. One must do one’s father’s bidding . . . Still,’ the Wolf smiled slyly, ‘if my father has been a trouble to you you have never seemed too discomfited, al-Sayyid. If he has offended you in speech or act, you have yet to let it show.’

‘Your father thought I would cry havoc, did he not?’ said Razi. ‘He thought that my pride would drive me to act rashly. He hoped I would run riot with some bloody-handed vendetta and so damage my standing as a diplomat. No doubt he thought a half-breed boy-prince would never have had the self-control to let such an act go.’

Le Garou shrugged. ‘If so, you proved him wrong. How proud that must make you feel.’

Alberon looked warily from Le Garou to Razi, not understanding. ‘What did you do?’ he asked the Wolf.

Le Garou smiled again. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘al-Sayyid thinks we damaged his property . . . some trifling act of vandalism for which he blames us. It is not unusual. The Loups-Garous tend to get blamed for such things. It’s just the way the world is.’

Wynter realised with a sudden jolt of horror that he was speaking of Christopher and of what had been done to him. It was abruptly, shockingly clear that Christopher’s terrible mutilation, the theft of all that he was, had been done for no other reason than to get at Razi. It had been nothing more than a vicious jab at al-Sayyid. Christopher had been taken and broken like a stolen toy, all as a petty attempt to goad Razi into vengeance and ruin his reputation in the Sultan’s court.

She stared at David Le Garou’s slyly smiling face and understood at last the depths of Razi’s restraint and of Christopher’s patience. For nearly four years, her friends had suppressed their rage and their grief, all for the sake of this kingdom. Wynter wondered how often in those years Razi had told Christopher soon, soon, and how often he had needed to go back on his word.

The hounds outside the tent raised their voices once more, and Wynter struggled to quell the hatred that rose within her and the rage that threatened to cloud her vision.

‘Jesu, Razi,’ sighed Alberon wearily. ‘Whatever these men did, I shall be certain they make reparation for it, but now is not the time to settle old scores. Horse theft and broken trinkets will need to be put aside for the time being. We have bigger things to hand.’

‘Yes, al-Sayyid,’ said Le Garou, smirking at Razi. ‘Please do not fret. Though the Wolves have naught to do with your loss, I am certain we should have no trouble replacing your damaged goods. After all, though rare here, such things are ten a penny where we come from. I believe I may even have some with me, if I look in my baggage.’

The Wolf called Jean snickered, and Alberon and Oliver looked sharply at him. Wynter saw a cold resolve harden in Alberon’s face, and it served to settle her nauseating rage. She knew that Alberon could not possibly have grasped the context of the Wolves’ vile needling, but the look on the Prince’s face told her that he would not tolerate their sly amusement at his brother’s expense. Whatever Alberon’s original thoughts towards Razi’s inclusion in these talks, Wynter was certain the Wolves had just won their rival a place at the Prince’s table.

Sure enough, Alberon patted the chair on his left. ‘Brother,’ he said, ‘come now, and take your place by me. As ever, I should benefit from your contribution to my affairs. Your insights are always so acute.’

Le Garou lost his smile, and Razi rounded the table to sit at the Prince’s left hand. He was darkly contained, his movements smooth and unhurried. When he had taken his seat, he folded his hands on the table and gazed blandly at Le Garou as if waiting for him to read from a menu, or serve up some tea. His calmness astounded Wynter; it reminded her exactly what Razi was capable of.

Oliver moved to stand at Alberon’s back, his hands resting on the handle of his sword, consciously mirroring Le Garou’s three watchful guards.

‘Protector Lady,’ said Alberon, ‘you will attend?’

Wynter nodded stiffly, grateful that he had chosen to recognise her and not, as would have been his right, ignored her and shamed her into leaving of her own accord. She did not commit the horrible presumption of sitting at the treaty table, nor did she set herself up as Oliver’s equal in guarding the Prince, but she crossed instead to take a seat on the relative obscurity of Alberon’s cot.

The row of Seconds followed her movement with bemused interest. Even before crossing the tent, she had succeeded in forcing down her rage. By the time she took her seat, she felt almost nothing – so deeply had she buried her feelings. Her face cold, her hands steady, she settled herself on Alberon’s cot, then stared at the leering Wolves until they looked away. Their expressions gave no doubt that they presumed her to be Razi’s woman, and the idea of it entertained them no end.

‘Pretty,’ murmured Gérard.

‘But small,’ added Pierre, ‘scarcely more than a mouthful.’

Wynter glanced at Razi and Alberon, expecting them to rage, but either they had not heard or they refused to be needled by it. Pierre smirked to himself and licked his lips.

Were you at the tavern? thought Wynter suddenly. Was it you? She knew it was not. These higher-ranking Wolves had not been involved in those terrible deeds at the Wherry Tavern. Still, looking at their faces, Wynter could not help but recall the feel of teeth and fur against her cheek, the clench of iron-strong arms around her body, the hot blast of a chuckle in her ear. Christopher had sacrificed himself to save her from them, but the landlord’s daughters had not been so lucky. The face of the eldest girl was a clear memory, bruised and swollen and white with shock the next day, her little sister’s broken body laid out before them on the kitchen table. Wynter closed her hand on the hilt of her sword. Her face betrayed nothing, but there was a sudden acid pain in her belly, and she wondered if it was all her hidden anger and fear, finally burning itself into the pit of her stomach.

There was a small movement beside her and she slid her eyes left. Coriolanus cowered in his little nest, his beautiful eyes huge. Wynter thought she had never seen a cat so close to tears. Forcing her fingers to release her weapon, Wynter reached and discreetly stroked his trembling back. It seemed to comfort Cori a little, but it also centred Wynter and let her think.

David Le Garou pushed back the embroidered tails of his moss-green coat and resumed his seat. ‘Your Highness—’ he began.

‘You have brought slaves to this camp,’ interrupted Razi.

‘Oh, are we to speak of slaves?’ asked Le Garou, raising his eyebrows in fascination and folding his gloved hands on the tabletop.

‘They are forbid here.’

Le Garou sighed patiently. ‘I remind you, slaves are only forbid to those residing in your father’s kingdom, al-Sayyid. Travellers are allowed their property.’

‘Only if travelling the port road, and only after paying the appropriate taxes. We are far from the port road here, David, and I have yet to hear of Wolves paying taxes.’

‘I have dispensation.’ Le Garou looked pointedly to Alberon.

‘I did not sanction the conveyance of human chattels,’ corrected Alberon.

Le Garou sat back, spreading his hands in mock defeat. ‘Then I shall set them loose,’ he said. ‘Perhaps they’ll be fortunate enough to find work somewhere – or perhaps they can throw themselves on your charity, al-Sayyid? Your generosity being what it is.’

Razi lowered his chin, his lip curled back to reply, but Alberon silenced them both with a raised hand.

‘Enough!’ he said sharply. ‘We have business to discuss, and I shall not be distracted from it! Monsieur Le Garou, when you are resident here I shall not tolerate the retention of slaves. Those whom you and your men cannot gainfully employ, you must free with ample purse to set them up in a trade. You understand?’

Le Garou shrugged. Wynter and Razi gaped at Alberon. When you are resident here? Could he be serious?

Alberon turned to Razi. ‘Lord Razi,’ he said firmly, ‘we shall stick to the subject that Le Garou and I have brought to this table. Your own agendas will fall aside.’

Alberon turned back to Le Garou and went to speak, but almost immediately his lieutenant made himself known at the door, and the Prince hung his head in exasperation while Oliver went to take a message.

While waiting, David Le Garou smiled across the table at Razi, who still stared at Alberon in disbelief. ‘Those dogs sound a mite savage, my Lord,’ said the Wolf, tilting his head to the distant baying of the Merron hounds. ‘I hope they are well fettered.’

Razi turned his head as if on rusty hinges, and Alberon looked at Le Garou from under his brows, irritated at the obvious resumption of verbal hostilities.

Le Garou just kept smiling at Razi. ‘Of course, there’s naught more dangerous than an unchained cur,’ he murmured. ‘One would hope the owner of such an animal would be wise enough to keep him tethered.’

At his back, the row of Wolves grinned, and Razi regarded them with hatred.

Oliver came and whispered in Alberon’s ear. The Prince’s young face brightened into a wicked smile. ‘Oh, I have no doubt they do,’ he said. He glanced at Le Garou as if sharing a great jest. ‘The Haun have requested access to my presence.’

David Le Garou chuckled. ‘Of course they have.’

‘Tell them no,’ said Alberon, and Oliver nodded and went to convey the message to the lieutenant.

‘My arrival has thrown them,’ smiled Le Garou. ‘Poor things. They do rely so on my father’s collusion in the Sultan’s demise. They can only be alarmed at my unexpected communion with you.’ He sighed and ran his gloved hands across the tabletop, his eyes on Alberon. ‘Now,’ he murmured, ‘tell me my reward.’

‘The Lord Gascon De Bourg,’ said Alberon. ‘You recall him, Lord Razi? A foolish man. So foolish, indeed, that he sided with my father’s enemies during the insurrection.’

‘This proved bad for his health?’ asked the Wolf.

‘Extremely.’

‘And his heirs? Can I presume that their father’s foolishness prove bad for their health?’

‘It proved fatal.’

‘As it should. No house should take arms against a king and live to think the better of it. Tell me, your Highness, this dead traitor to your father . . . he left a sizeable estate?’

‘Large, rich, well established. It has vineyards, lake and pasture. Marvellous stock and well managed tenantry. The King has planned to divide it between four of his supporters, and a fine living they all would have made of it too . . . I shall ensure it is given to you instead, Monsieur Le Garou, in its entirety. You and your men will be set for life.’

Le Garou sighed again and closed his eyes. He rolled his head as if some unseen hand were kneading the tension from his shoulders. ‘An estate,’ he breathed. ‘At last.’

Wynter shook her head. She watched Alberon closely. This must be some kind of trick. He was planning to fool the Wolves somehow; there could be no other explanation.

Alberon’s eyes went hard. ‘Now, Monsieur,’ he asked flatly, ‘what do you offer me?’

Le Garou’s face darkened with bitter satisfaction. ‘My father has denied me my due too long,’ he whispered. ‘He grins at me and calls me his best, but keeps me to heel like a common whelp while lesser sons get their title and are released. I grow weary of an old dog’s suspicion. His lack of faith has made of me that which he feared all along.’ He tilted his head, his smile cold. ‘I will split the packs for you, Prince. I will draw my father’s allies from him with the promise that they will join me in my new life. The ones who are left in his command will smell his weakness and tear him apart in their efforts to gain control.’ He jerked his head towards the camp. ‘Those Haun await confirmation that my father and his Corsair allies are ready to forge an alliance to topple the Sultan. They will be sore disappointed when I break the news of my father’s change of heart.’

‘A change of heart which exists only in your imagination,’ murmured Alberon.

Le Garou grinned wide and Wynter clearly saw the Wolf behind the man. ‘I am my father’s voice and claw, Prince. Why would they doubt me? The Haun are weak already. Spread thin by time and distance, this is a blow their leaders will not recover from. When they realise that the Loups-Garous are no longer on their side, their scheme for an invasion of the West will be destroyed. They too will rip themselves apart with recrimination and struggle. The Western Haun will be weakened beyond repair.’

Razi huffed. ‘What use are Wolves and Corsairs to the Haun?’ he murmured. ‘Why would they seek the support of ragtag pirates and rabid ungovernable scum like you?’

Le Garou glanced darkly at him from the corner of his eye. If looks could poison, Wynter was certain Razi would have dropped to the floor and writhed to his death in the dirt.

‘The Haun would have much to be grateful for if the Corsairs and the Wolves pull the Sultan from his throne,’ snarled Le Garou. ‘When he is no longer in charge, this kingdom will no longer have an ally in the Moroccan court and the Haun need have no fear of reprisals when they ride in here and rape your land. They would be so very, very grateful to my father for this, al-Sayyid. So grateful. They have already offered to give what is left of this kingdom to those who helped them gain power. And my father and his allies will merrily divide it among themselves. The Corsairs will receive the Southland ports and free rein over those damned shipping lanes of your father’s. The Loups-Garous will gain dominion over the port road. And the Haun?’ The Wolf grinned, too wide a grin, with too many teeth, and his eyes darkened until there was no colour left in them at all. ‘The Haun will simply let loose on the Europes, for sport, to see what they can get.’

Wynter’s hand tightened on Coriolanus’s back, and the cat shuddered and mewed softly in fear.

‘But I can halt all that,’ said Le Garou. ‘With one or two words from me, it all falls down; the Moroccan throne will be safe, the Southlands will remain secure. All I ask in return is a home of my own.’

‘Lies,’ said Razi.

Le Garou slid his dark gaze to him again, and Alberon turned to regard his brother with open interest.

‘The Corsairs have lost all their supporters,’ said Razi. ‘Thanks to the Sultan’s reforms, even their old Slawi allies have turned against them. They are adrift at sea – portless, friendless outlaws, desperate for a haven. And the Wolves? You are as you always were: a loose alliance of disparate packs, some strong, some weak, too rabid ever to come together long enough to act as one.’

Alberon frowned at Le Garou and Wynter could see that he was listening, really listening to Razi’s words. Hope rose in her chest as she saw the Prince regard the Wolf with new eyes.

Razi went calmly on. ‘The Sultan’s enemies have no strength, David, and you know it. Your father and his allies are naught but noisy, squabbling bandits and rabbletrash. They have no hope of uniting a force strong enough to topple the Moroccan throne. You have come here with nothing but empty words, and have hoped to build an empire upon them. You will not succeed.’

‘Do you really expect the Prince to listen to you?’ growled Le Garou. ‘You, who has set your arse on a velvet cushion this last five years while your little brother has hacked his way through your father’s enemies?’

‘No,’ warned Alberon, pointing a finger at the Wolf. ‘That is enough.’

‘You?’ continued Le Garou, snarling at Razi despite Alberon’s obvious disapproval. ‘How dare you accuse me of empty words, when all you ever have is words? You gelded calf!’ he cried, slapping the table. ‘You ball-less bint! Do not force me to test you, al-Sayyid. I would tear your throat with a look!’

Alberon surged to his feet, and David sat back, suddenly aware that he had gone too far. Wynter was utterly certain, then, that Razi had won. Alberon’s rage convinced her so. Then Razi made his terrible mistake, and two angry sentences brought the Prince’s wrath swinging back around to fall on his brother: ‘You will not use my brother’s foolishness as a tool to further your own ends,’ said Razi to the Wolf. ‘I will not let you.’

As soon as he had uttered them, Wynter could see that Razi wished the words unsaid. His eyes widened, and he all but slapped his hand across his mouth. But the damage was done. Alberon’s rage turned cold. Le Garou’s uncertainty became a grin, and the battle was lost.