The Rebel Prince

A STRING OF SILVER LIES



THE WOLVES had not yet moved from the foot of the hill, though Oliver, already mounted and obviously fuming, was doing his best to get them going. Razi did not falter as he neared the milling horses, but the Wolves’ smirks and sly glances made it obvious that they had delayed moving off so that he would be forced to make his way past them.

Wynter was alarmed to see the female Merron warriors striding up the road towards them, their eyes fixed firmly on Razi. Led by Hallvor, the women had their shields in hand, and their weapons, though sheathed, were strapped around their waists. They were coming to protect their Caora. Wynter knew that such a show of strength would bode ill for them, and for Razi, so she lifted her hand to them, her face set in grim warning. Stop where you are! Hallvor saw her, and gestured the others to a halt. Wynter glared and jerked her chin to the tents, get back, and after a moment’s hesitation, the warriors bowed and melted away.

David Le Garou pointedly ignored Razi, but when Jean stepped into Razi’s path and bowed low, Wynter saw Le Garou smile to himself in sly amusement.

‘Al-Sayyid!’ cried Jean. ‘Where go you? Will you not stay with the Prince? Have you not more advice you can give him?’

Razi swerved past without answering.

Gérard chuckled as he swung himself into his saddle. ‘Don’t be a whelp, Jean,’ he murmured.

Oliver’s face darkened. ‘You are clogging up the thoroughfare,’ he snapped at David. ‘Tell your men to get going.’

David just smiled at him, and took his time gathering his reins.

Gérard suddenly walked his horse backwards, and Razi was forced to jerk to a halt as the huge animal blocked his path. ‘Oops,’ said Gérard childishly, but he made no move to pull his mount out of the way. Wynter came to Razi’s side, staring up into the Wolf ’s dark, grinning face.

‘It will be nice to be neighbours again,’ called David Le Garou. ‘One gets so used to the familiar. It feels empty when one does not see the same faces every day.’

Razi clenched his hands and strode away through the choking dust. But Le Garou was not finished, and he wheeled around and kicked forward until they were on a level. Wynter, jogging beside her silent friend, glanced up. The Wolf was simply walking his horse along, matching Razi’s pace. David’s handsome face was serene, his eyes roaming the tents as if seeking a nice spot to picnic.

‘Lovely,’ he sighed. ‘Simply perfect.’

His men fell in behind him, and the whole entourage trotted slowly along beside Razi, their faces painted with glee. Razi just kept striding forward, stubbornly refusing to duck in among the tents and out of Le Garou’s range.

‘Hmm,’ mused the Wolf, arching an eyebrow towards the now silent Merron quarters. ‘That mongrel has finally ceased his yapping. Perhaps the Prince has done the sensible thing and had him muzzled . . . certainly I should do the same, were I lumbered with such an undisciplined beast. They’re simply too untrustworthy, these packless creatures. In fact, I believe I may go so far as to say—’

To Wynter’s relief, Oliver chose that moment to urge his horse between David and Razi, cutting Le Garou off in mid-sentence. The knight kept himself between them and glared across at the Wolf with every ounce of his courtly disdain. ‘You will break off here, Le Garou. Now. Or I shall be forced to make you sleep in the forest with the rest of your mangy curs.’

Wynter lost sight of Le Garou’s face as Oliver danced his own mount sideways, forcing the Wolf ’s big stallion to shy off.

‘We shall talk later, Lord Razi,’ sang Le Garou as he drew away. ‘When I have had my rest.’

And to Wynter’s surprise and relief, the Loups-Garous allowed themselves be herded away, veering towards the tents on the far side of the road, their pack mule and their slaves trotting placidly behind, the sound of bells following them. She watched them ride off; then she ran to catch up with Razi, who had simply kept on walking.

The Merron women were shadowing Razi through the tents, staying abreast of his progress but keeping their distance. Up ahead, Wynter saw Jared standing at the corner of the supply tent, glowering at the retreating Loups-Garous. He had strapped a sword around his waist and his cowl was thrown back, revealing his tonsured head. Mary lurked behind him, her eyes hopping keenly between Razi and the Wolves. Wynter was fairly certain Jared did not know the lady had emerged from the safety of her quarters.

Razi must have seen the priest, because he turned abruptly away from him and cut between the nearest tents. Wynter dodged to keep up with his long-legged stride. The Merron women ducked from sight. Razi just kept walking, apparently with no destination in mind.

‘Razi,’ said Wynter, jogging breathlessly at his side.

He shook his head.

‘The Merron are this way,’ she said, pointing. ‘We must tell Úlfnaor. He must be warned . . . he must . . . he must know what to say . . . should Alberon call him. Razi!’ she cried. ‘Please! I am running out of breath!’

Razi came to a sudden halt and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Taken by surprise, Wynter slid to a stop, then slowly came back to his side.

‘Razi?’ she said.

‘Am I to never have one single honest feeling?’ he whispered. ‘Am I never . . . will it always be one betrayal weighed against another?’

Wynter put her hand on his arm. ‘Come back to the Merron,’ she said softly. ‘Come sit and think and—’

‘I cannot,’ he said, pressing his hands harder against his eyes. ‘I cannot face him. I simply . . . I cannot.’

‘My Lord.’ Mary’s quiet voice made Wynter startle.

The lady came from between the tents, Jared trailing anxiously behind her. It was obvious that the priest wished her back in seclusion, and equally obvious that he was not having much luck persuading her.

At Mary’s voice, Razi shook his head and groaned without looking up, but Mary crossed to him without hesitation. Wynter stood back. Mary took her place, reached up and gently took Razi’s hands from his eyes.

‘My Lord,’ she said again, her face gentle with concern.

‘Four years, Mary,’ he whispered, taking both her hands and holding them between his own. ‘Four years I have held my tongue. And today, of all days, I allow myself to speak in anger. Mary, I have ruined everything.’

He spoke to her as if she had every knowledge of what he was saying; as if she were someone he had confided in many, many times over the course of his complicated life. And the Lady Mary looked up into his desolate face with all the sympathy and understanding one would give a cherished friend.

She nodded. ‘Our lives are such, that words can lay the deadliest traps, n’est-ce pas? But you are the cleverest of men, my Lord. You will find a way.’

Razi pressed Mary’s hands to his chest and Wynter saw a flame of gratitude rise up behind his desperation. ‘Thank you, Mary,’ he said.

Wynter could not fathom it, this understanding between two people who had only just met. Where had it come from? But she was extremely moved by it, and she found herself wanting, more than anything, that right here and now, Mary would put her arms around Razi and squeeze him gently and tell him, It will be all right.

‘Are the Loups-Garous a danger to us?’ asked Jared.

‘They are Wolves, Jared,’ sighed Mary. ‘They are hardly likely to invite us to tea.’ She glanced wryly at Razi. ‘Unless, of course, we are to be their entrée.’

To Wynter’s astonishment, Razi smiled. It was a broken smile, to be sure, but a smile nonetheless. Wynter might well have fallen in love with Mary then, so thankful did she feel towards this gentle, soft-spoken, beautifully self-possessed little woman.

‘Come now!’ Mary released Razi’s hands and smoothed the front of his shirt in a businesslike manner. ‘Come to my tent. I shall send Jared to beg some tea, and you will sit in blissful solitude and think for a while with no one to bother you. Oh, do not grimace so, Jared! What could even the most scurrilous mind construe from a woman in my bloated condition and a man of the lord’s standing sharing an innocent pot of tea?’

‘I will speak to Úlfnaor for you, Razi,’ offered Wynter. ‘If you like, you can take your ease for a while. Perhaps get some sleep? You can speak to Christopher later; I am sure that he . . .’

Razi shook his head. ‘Thank you, Wyn,’ he said, ‘but I must face up to this now. To leave it will only make it worse.’ He kissed Mary’s hand. ‘Thank you eternally, sweet woman. I cannot fathom your kindness to me after . . . after what I have done. It shames me . . . I feel . . .’

Mary silenced him with her fingers on his lips. ‘We have been through enough, you and I. I shall not torment you with recriminations, when it is obvious that you already torment yourself. In the small time that I have known you, my Lord, I have witnessed much forgiveness in you, and forgiveness breeds forgiveness. The man you are shapes those around you.’

Razi clutched Mary’s fingers to his lips, his eyes glittering. Wynter felt certain he would come undone. But after a moment he simply drew a breath, nodded, kissed Mary’s fingers once more and let her go.

‘You have business to attend,’ said Mary, smoothing her skirts. ‘I am tired. I shall retire. Protector Lady, a pleasure.’ Wynter bobbed a curtsy, her heart full of gratitude. Mary nodded. ‘My Lord Razi.’ Razi bowed. ‘Feel free to call,’ she said, turning for her tent. ‘I am home most days between sunrise and sunset. You have no need to send a page; I shall receive you with no ceremony.’ And she made her way between the tents, Jared following ruefully in her wake.



When they returned to the Merron, the women had already rejoined the group and the warriors were standing in a huddle, murmuring grimly to each other. At the sight of Razi and Wynter, they fell silent and waited.

Sólmundr and Christopher were sitting by the fire, Christopher leaning against his friend, gazing darkly into the flames. Sól murmured and stood, his expression belligerent, and Christopher looked up. To Wynter’s distress, his narrow face hardened, and without a word he pushed awkwardly to his feet and made his way into the Merron tent, pulling the flap down behind him. She came to a halt, staring at the starkly closed door.

Úlfnaor bowed warily, and Razi tore his attention from the tent and bowed in return. ‘I must speak with you,’ he said.

Úlfnaor gestured to the fire and Razi took a place beside it. All the Merron except Sólmundr crouched and listened carefully as Razi began to explain the things that Marguerite Shirken had said in her papers. Wynter ignored everyone and picked her way around Úlfnaor’s dogs, heading for the tent.

‘He not want talk to you,’ said Sólmundr coldly.

Wynter just glanced at him and passed on by. With a grimace, the warrior went to join his companions by the fire, and Wynter ducked past the growling Boro and into the tent.



‘I’m angry,’ said Christopher. ‘It ain’t a good time to come calling.’

His voice was hoarse and gravelly, barely recognisable as his own. He stood at the back of the tent, a slim darkness among the shadows, and Wynter couldn’t help but feel a prickle of fear.

‘I cannot see your face, Christopher,’ she said softly. ‘Will you come into the light?’

He laughed, the harsh, dry sound of a sneer articulated. ‘You’re afraid of me,’ he said.

‘Do you expect me not to be?’

There was silence; then he came forward so that his face was dimly visible in the interior gloom. His eyes were strange. His usual sly grace seemed wickedly transformed. It was as though the Christopher Wynter knew – that loose-limbed, smiling blade – had become something dark and prowling; something horribly ready.

‘Oh, Christopher,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t.’

‘I can’t help it,’ he hissed. ‘I’ve had enough.’

Wynter spread her hands. She shook her head. Her eyes filled with tears.

‘I know, love,’ she said. ‘I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s not fair.’

Christopher gaped at her, his mouth open. He seemed so astonished by her tears that Wynter would have laughed were she not suddenly occupied with sobbing into her sleeve.

‘Don’t . . . don’t cry,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry.’ It seemed to be the only thing she was capable of saying because it came out again, almost immediately. ‘I’m sorry.’

He came and held her close, and she put her arms around him. His slim body was strung with tension, his muscles twitching in the aftermath of his battle to suppress the creature inside of him; the creature that his hatred could make of him. Wynter clung to his tunic and looked up into his face. The eyes looking down on her were clear and grey again. As honest as sunlit water.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, firmly and with a fierceness that overcame her tears. ‘I mean it. The Loups-Garous are monstrous, Christopher. I do not know how you have managed all these years in their proximity. I do not know how you have not gone mad.’

He laughed, a strained thing, on the edge of crying. ‘I thought I had. When they arrived, I thought I’d lost myself. I nearly . . .’ His eyes grew huge at the thought of what he had almost done. ‘I nearly killed Surtr.’

‘But you didn’t,’ she said firmly, and he nodded.

‘Aye,’ he whispered. ‘Aye. That’s right. I didn’t.’

‘What will—’

She was cut short by the door being lifted aside.

Sólmundr peered in. He seemed amazed to find them in each other’s arms; then his weathered face softened into sad understanding. ‘You good?’ he rasped.

They nodded.

‘Tabiyb want to talk. This good with you, Coinín? You want that Tabiyb to come talk?’

Wynter felt the power surge within Christopher’s body, a frightening, physical manifestation of his anger. He abruptly disengaged from her and retreated once again into the shadows.

‘I can’t,’ he growled.

Wynter turned to Sól, her heart battering the inside of her chest. ‘Let Razi in,’ she said.

Sól looked uncertain.

‘Let him in, Sól. Christopher is not about to let the Wolves steal this friendship from him.’

There was a long silence from the back of the tent. Then Christopher whispered, ‘Let him in, Sól. But you stay, too.’

The wiry man nodded and ducked outside. Moments later he returned, shooing Razi into the tent and closing the door behind them. Sól remained by the wall, his face watchful, and Razi came forward, his eyes on Christopher.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘Let me kill them, then.’

Razi winced. ‘Chris,’ he pleaded.

‘Let me kill them. Let it be over.’

‘Chris, I can’t.’

‘You can. Let me take my sword, let me take the Merron, let us go kill the Wolves. It is very, very simple, Razi. Do it now. Fulfil your promises. Let me kill the Wolves.’

‘I cannot,’ whispered Razi.

‘Why?

’ ‘Alberon needs them for a while.’

‘For a while,’ hissed Christopher. ‘I’ve been hearing for a while for almost four years.’

‘I know, friend. I am—’ ‘Do not tell me you are sorry, Razi!’

Razi looked bleakly at him. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if uncertain; then he took something from his pocket and went to crouch by the Merron’s neat piles of bedding. Wynter saw the dull gleam of silver in the dim light as he laid the object on the gritty curve of a rolled groundsheet.

‘I had this made,’ he said, ‘back at the Merron camp. I wanted to give it to you, but I was not certain that it was tasteful. And then the situation . . . the situation became difficult.’

He fell silent. He had no need to go on. They all knew how difficult things had become. He straightened the object with one finger, pushing it about until it was a perfect circle, glittering against the dark fabric. Wynter leaned to see. Behind her, Christopher shifted but did not come forward.

It was a plaited leather necklace, secured with a beautifully wrought silver catch. Set onto silver mounts and strung onto the leather were four silver fangs and four amber stones, shaped like eyes. Wynter recognised them immediately as having belonged to the Loups-Garous the Merron had caught spying on their camp. She remembered Razi rooting furiously through the dead Wolves’ belongings and understood, at last, what it was he had been seeking.

Razi carefully arranged the necklace, as if displaying it on a jeweller’s board.

‘I swear to you, Christopher,’ he said, ‘one day you shall have them all: twenty-four amber eyes, sixteen silver fangs, eight gold.’ He looked around at Christopher. ‘You shall wear them around your neck, and every day they will remind you that nothing has gone unpunished. I swear this to you.’

‘But not today,’ said Christopher. ‘That’s what you’re really saying. Not today.’

Razi nodded. ‘Not today,’ he whispered. ‘I need to reconcile my father and my brother, Chris. I must find a way to combine their visions of the future and so make this kingdom whole. My brother needs David Le Garou in order that he may confound relations between the packs and the Haun. Until this is done, we cannot act.’

‘Your brother’s wrong. You said it yourself.’

‘But perhaps not about this. We just need to wait and—’

‘I have waited! In Algiers I waited! Every passing year I told myself, soon will be the time! Soon! But it never came! And then you asked me to come here and, God forgive me, Razi, I said yes! I said yes and I left my girls there! Slaves to those vile creatures! I gave up on my family and I believed in this new life of yours. But the Wolves are here! Look at them! They’re here! There is no new life! I want their blood, Razi! You promised me their BLOOD!’

On the word ‘blood’, Christopher’s voice rose into a howl. It was a savage, elongated sound, and Wynter couldn’t help it – she took a frightened step back from it. The shadows surrounding her friend were suddenly too thick and Christopher was lost in them. Then he moved, a sly flicker of darkness, and she jumped.

‘Coinín!’ snapped Sólmundr.

Christopher stilled. There was a moment of silence. ‘I’m still here,’ he whispered. ‘I know who I am.’

Sól nodded, and Wynter understood why Christopher had asked him to stay. The warrior gave Christopher a warning look and stepped back again.

‘I will find a way, Christopher,’ promised Razi quietly. ‘Both to secure my father’s kingdom and to finish this.’ He rose to his feet and held out the necklace. ‘I swear it.’

Christopher came at last from the shadows. ‘You can swear all you like,’ he said, ‘but it wasn’t you that got these. It was the Merron.’ He took the necklace from Razi’s fingers, and he stared coldly into Razi’s eyes until his friend ducked his head and left.

‘Oh, Chris,’ said Wynter, ‘that was unfair.’

Christopher did not look at her. He just stood with the necklace of silver teeth in his hand, his eyes on the door, his face hard.

‘Tabiyb has saved us from Shirken’s plan,’ said Sólmundr softly. ‘He tell lie to his brother, and so has saved us. I must admit, it surprise me that he not take his revenge. It make me think that he will to let Úlfnaor go. It make me think he will to let us all go, even after what we did.’

‘Aye,’ whispered Christopher. ‘Well . . . Razi ain’t no hypocrite.’ He lifted the necklace, the silver teeth glittering between his scarred fingers. ‘But he ain’t no Merron, either, is he, Sól?’

Wynter did not like the implications of this. ‘Christopher,’ she said, ‘you must not act.’

Christopher looked at her, that stubborn razor of a look which she had always admired and which now sent a spear of icy panic through her heart.

‘Chris,’ she said, ‘please, I beg of you, do not act.’

‘Don’t worry, lass,’ he whispered. He gave her a smile, but it was a thin sliver of a thing, his lips stretched tight across his teeth, his eyes hard – and he did not give her his promise.