The Rebel Prince

THE MERRON WAY



ÚLFNAOR’S HOUNDS had run to the end of their chains and were peering up the alley between the tents, their postures curious. Wynter ran past them, strapping her sword in place, and came to a halt in the shadows, peeping out into the moon-washed thoroughfare. The camp was utterly silent and empty of life, but Wynter knew that there would be patrols, and the guards around Alberon’s tent would see any movement on the road if they were looking that way at the time. A shadow caught her eye, a fleeting impression of movement at the far edge of the road. She saw Boro outlined briefly against the moonlit side of a tent. He took a corner and trotted from view.

Oh, curse you, she thought. You fools. She glanced anxiously at the royal tent, then ran across the too-bright road. Crouching low as if that might save her from detection, she hurried along the narrow belt of shadow beneath the awnings on the other side and turned into the alley after Boro and the two infuriating men he was no doubt accompanying.

Alberon had certainly fulfilled his promise to quarter the Wolves far from Razi’s tent. In fact, as Wynter trailed the two men through the seemingly interminable rat’s nest of the camp, she found herself wondering if he had quartered the damn creatures on the moon. She moved as quickly as she could, all the time praying that she did not trip on one of the many guy-ropes or boxes of supplies that lurked slyly in the black shadows. The last thing she needed was to bring the canvas crashing down onto a squad of sleeping men.

She was picking her way, stork-like, through a particularly dense configuration of guy-ropes when a sound brought her to a listening halt. It was Sólmundr, speaking softly and chuckling. Wynter crept to the edge of the shadows and peered out. She was at the outer fringes of the camp, the army tents standing with their backs in a row, the open space of the Wolves’ cooking area separating their quarters from the soldiers’. Behind that, the ground sloped down to horse-lines, the river, the brooding barricades and trees.

Sólmundr was wandering around the Wolves’ camp, his sword in his hand, Boro at his side. Christopher was standing by the almost dead camp fire, a slim black shape in the moonlight. He was looking down at the sprawled body of a Loups-Garous’ slave. The young man was crumpled and motionless, a bowl of spilt food on the ground by his out-flung hand. Wynter stepped from the shadows, stunned. At the door of the Wolves’ tent Sól hissed something, and both Wynter and Christopher looked up as the warrior stepped across the slumped body of the second slave and disappeared inside.

Christopher stooped, grabbed the nearest slave by the ankles and dragged him into the shadows of the awning. He left him there, bundled against the motionless form of his companion, and followed Sól into the tent. Wynter quietly made her way to the door. Slipping into the shadows beneath the awning, she crouched and laid her hand on the chest of the nearest slave. He was breathing gently, his companion the same. Wynter rose to her feet, peering into the tent.

There was darkness within. Then the quiet striking of a flint. A fire-basin flared to life, illuminating Sól, who was crouched intently over it. He glanced up at Christopher and moved aside as if presenting a gift. The light from the basin filled the gloom and the interior of the tent was revealed.

The Loups-Garous were scattered in various attitudes of collapse, their large bodies slumped or sprawled, depending on how they had fallen. David Le Garou lay on a tangle of furs, his head back, his eyes closed as if in gentle sleep. Jean was stretched facedown at his feet, an arm flung outwards as if he had been reaching for his leader when he fell. Gérard was slumped as he had obviously been sitting, his back against a pile of saddlery, a deck of cards scattered all about him. Pierre had tumbled onto his side, the guitar still in his hand. His glossy blond curls covered his face, gleaming in the guttering light.

Sól grinned at Christopher, his eyes bright with bitter satisfaction. He went to speak; then he saw Wynter step into the moonlight by the door and his face fell. He rose slowly to his feet. Christopher turned to her, and Wynter saw it in his eyes: he was just as stunned as she. He had not been party to this plan.

Sól’s expression hardened. He dipped his chin. ‘You not rob this from him,’ he warned.

Wynter stepped across the slaves and dropped the tent-flap behind her, cutting out the clear moonlight. Sól regarded her anxiously as she drew her sword. The fire-basin flared, sending orange light and dark shadows leaping across the Wolves’ unconscious faces.

‘What do you intend to do after they are dead?’ she asked quietly.

Sólmundr grinned, slow and dark, taking her question as approval of his plans. ‘Good woman,’ he whispered.

Christopher turned from her and moved slowly around the tent. He nudged Pierre with his toe, rolling him onto his back. The guitar slipped from the Wolf ’s limp fingers, hitting the ground with a faint melodic resonance. Christopher stepped over it and stood gazing down at Gérard.

‘You dosed their water?’ he asked softly.

‘Hally, she gives to me the slow poison. She say to me, it maybe not kill the Loups-Garous because of what they is. It maybe to just put them under. She worry over this, but I glad it not kill them. I glad they alive for you, though I sad they not be awake to know it when you at last take your vengeance.’

Christopher crossed the tent and sank to a crouch by David Le Garou’s sleeping body. The Wolf ’s long brown hair was fanned untidily across his face. Instinctively, Christopher reached to push it back, but at the last moment he hesitated and withdrew his hand.

‘I will to leave after,’ said Sólmundr. ‘And all can be my fault.’

‘Oh no, Sól,’ said Wynter. ‘No. You can’t leave. We can find another way to deal with this.’

Sól smiled at her. ‘There not be another way,’ he said. ‘But it good. I proud to do this. After everything that Coinín has risk for me and for Ash, to avenge him and his first father is my honour.’

‘We’ll find another way,’ said Wynter firmly.

She glanced at Christopher, who, seemingly oblivious to the conversation, continued to crouch by David Le Garou, staring into his face. She was amazed at how calm he was. After everything that he had suffered at the hands of this man and his pack, she had expected more than this peculiar stillness. She went to speak again, but Christopher drew the long black dagger from his boot, and Wynter and Sól became very still and quiet.

With no discernible emotion, Christopher used his knife to flick the hair from David Le Garou’s face; then slowly, almost caressingly, he ran the tip of the dark blade along the Wolf ’s brow and down his temple. David Le Garou’s eyelid twitched, and Christopher paused. His knife slid across to press lightly against the corner of Le Garou’s eye. Wynter readied herself to look away, but instead of pressing harder, Christopher simply sighed and ran the tip of the knife down the Wolf ’s cheek.

The blade scraped audibly against the light stubble on Le Garou’s jaw, traced the vulnerable swell of his Adam’s apple and came to rest against the lightly beating pulse at Le Garou’s throat.

‘I could,’ whispered Christopher.

He pressed down, dimpling the flesh beneath his blade. The smallest bead of red welled up at the sharp tip of his knife, and Christopher’s lips parted. He tilted his head, watching intently as David’s blood trickled a thin red path to the Wolf ’s collar. Christopher lifted his eyes to David’s face. Whatever he saw there seemed to break his strange detachment, and he snarled in sudden anger. Snatching the Wolf by his hair, Christopher dragged David’s head up until their faces were within inches of each other. With a hiss that might have been a word, he once again pressed his knife against the pale arch of David’s neck.

‘I could!’ he said.

He snapped the knife away from David’s throat and plunged it between David’s legs, jerking the blade up into his groin. ‘I could,’ he said again, staring into the Wolf ’s slack face. ‘I could take you apart, little by little.’

The Wolf remained impassive, his eyes lightly shut, his mouth open. He was completely at peace, blissfully unaware of Christopher’s rage. With a desperate noise, Christopher dragged him closer still and, once again, pressed the knife to his eye. The sharp tip trembled against the Wolf ’s dark eyelashes and Christopher desperately scanned his face for a reaction – but there was none.

‘Curse you,’ he whispered. ‘Curse you. You goddamned pox.’

Then, to Wynter’s amazement, he flung the Wolf back onto the furs and, with a shaking hand, slipped his knife back into his boot.

‘Coinín,’ said Sólmundr. ‘It not matter he not feel it. You need do it now! You might not ever again get the chance.’

Christopher shook his head and stood up.

‘We can burn the tent afterwards,’ murmured Wynter. The two men turned to look at her in shock, and she hefted her sword uncertainly. ‘If you must kill them,’ she said, ‘we could burn the tent with the Wolves’ bodies inside. You can finally take your revenge, Christopher. They would be out of your life forever. Sól would not have to leave. It would be very neat.’ She waited, thrown by their silence and the way they were staring at her in the crawling firelight. ‘I’m not sure I could stay to watch, though,’ she admitted softly. ‘I thought I could . . . but I don’t think I could bear it.’

‘God help me, Iseult,’ whispered Christopher. ‘I love you more every day.’

Wynter’s eyes filled with tears and Christopher’s dark outline was suddenly haloed in orange stars as the firelight split itself into pinpoints of brilliance around him. ‘I love you too,’ she said. Then she wiped her eyes, sheathed her sword, and turned for the door. ‘I shall wait outside.’

‘Stay,’ said Christopher.

‘I can’t, Chris. I’m sorry. I understand what you need to do. But I can’t stay.’

‘No. Stay. It’s all right. I ain’t about to do aught.’

Both Sólmundr and Wynter frowned in disbelief.

‘But you might never get other chance!’ cried Sól.

Christopher tilted his head fondly. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘Razi has promised me. He always keeps his promises. I ain’t going to let him down.’

‘But . . .’ Sól gazed around at the unconscious Wolves, unable to comprehend Christopher’s decision to spare them.

Christopher left David Le Garou and crossed the tent. Crouching at Sól’s feet, he gently lifted the fallen guitar. The polished wood glowed like honey in the warm light, the silver frets and the silver snake-head pegs gleaming. He turned it to show the back. Inlaid in dark wood, a representation of two snakes twined around themselves, each biting the other’s tail. Wynter hunkered down by Christopher and gazed at it. It was very fine work.

‘This is beautiful,’ she whispered.

‘Aye. Hawk-worked. Da had it made at the Hollis aonach, the year I was adopted. The same man made it as made the trunk.’ Christopher smiled and ran his fingers along the segmented back of the snake emblem. He went to speak; then the sight of his mutilated hand seemed to halt him in his tracks. His breath caught in his throat and he frowned, staring at his fingers. He clenched his hand and stood abruptly, looping the guitar-strap across his shoulder. ‘Come on,’ he snapped. ‘Let’s go.’ And he strode to the door, dragging it aside and darting out as if afraid to stay any longer.

Wynter got slowly to her feet. Sól was glaring at the prostrate bodies stretched all around him, his face twitching with rage. Wynter knew exactly how he felt. Well, she thought, eyeing the vicious rings of scar tissue on his neck and wrists. Perhaps not quite exactly.

‘This is not your vengeance to take, Sól,’ she said softly.

‘How can he to walk away?’ he ground out. ‘How can . . . ?’

‘He’s not walking away forever.’

Sólmundr huffed and shook his head, his anger and disappointment palpable.

‘You think he is foolish to trust Razi?’

He did not answer, and Wynter wondered if he was as much hurt by Christopher’s rejection of his gift as he was angered by the Wolves’ close escape.

Christopher called for them to come on. He was crouched in the shadow of the awning, dragging his father’s bracelets from the slave’s limp arms. ‘Get out of there,’ he hissed, glancing in at them. ‘We need to get back before Razi returns from his brother.’

Wynter picked her way out to him. Behind her, Sól snuffed the fire-basin, plunging the tent into pitch darkness.

He came to her side, watching in silence as Christopher took his own bracelets from the second slave.

‘Will they die, Sól?’ asked Wynter, gazing down at the unconscious young men at her feet.

‘I hope,’ he said coldly.

‘Much as they aspire to be, they ain’t Wolves,’ said Christopher, standing and kicking the slave’s hand away from his foot. ‘So it’s likely the poison will do them in.’

‘Will it be bad?’ she whispered. ‘Sólmundr called it slow poison. That sounds bad.’

‘It just mean it sneak up slow,’ said Sólmundr. ‘It not . . .’ He made a spasming motion, reminding Wynter of Razi when Christopher had drugged him in Embla’s tent. ‘This one, it just pull you gently under. You almost not notice it until it too late, and then you die.’

Christopher huffed dryly. ‘It’s still too bloody good for them,’ he said.

Sól nodded in understanding. Wynter found their lack of compassion very strange. After all, did her friends feel no kinship to these two young men? As slaves, had they not all suffered the same things? Glancing at her, Christopher must have caught some of this in her face, and he looked away, uncomfortably shifting the bracelets in his hand.

‘You don’t understand what they’re like,’ he whispered. ‘You couldn’t imagine. These are two of the Wolves’ Boys. The Wolves have raised them from little children and . . . they ain’t normal,’ he said. ‘They’re savage. They’re horribly cruel.’

‘Some people,’ said Sólmundr, his eyes wide with unwanted memory, ‘they end up with not just bodies in slavery. Some people, their souls be slaves also.’

Christopher shuddered, then shook himself free of his memories. ‘Come on!’ he hissed, slapping Sólmundr on his strong arm. ‘Let’s go.’

Grimly, the warrior stepped over the slaves, heading for the gap in the army tents. Wynter moved to follow him, but hesitated as Christopher came to an abrupt halt in front of her.

‘Sól!’ he cried.

Sólmundr glanced back over his shoulder, frowning. ‘What?’

Christopher just shook his head, his eyes bright. He wordlessly lifted the fistful of bracelets, shaking them as if to say, I can never repay you for these.

Sólmundr’s face softened. ‘Oh,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, aye.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Ná bac, lucha. Let’s . . . let’s go, before Tabiyb, he find you gone and we all in trouble.’ Glancing briefly at Wynter, the warrior turned and led the way back between the tents.



‘Ah, shit,’ whispered Christopher. ‘Could he not have bloody waited, the awkward bollocks?’

Razi was standing by the supply tent, his shadow and those of the soldiers accompanying him stretched long and black in the lowering moonlight. He was quietly dismissing the men.

‘You may go,’ he said. ‘I shall be fine from here.’

‘His Highness’s orders were to bring you to your tent, my Lord.’

‘Thank you, lieutenant, but there’s nothing except shadows between me and my bed. Your presence should only serve to disturb the dogs, and they would wreak their vengeance by ruining everyone’s sleep.’

Wynter heard the lieutenant chuckle, and Razi sent him on his way with a nod of his head. The soldiers walked off and Razi made his way into the black canyon between the tents. Wynter sighed in frustration. There was no hope of sneaking back before him now. They may as well come clean.

Sólmundr popped his head out, glanced at the retreating soldiers, then gestured that the way was clear. They slunk furtively across the road and reached the other side without anyone raising an alarm.

Razi was just ducking back out from their empty tent as they exited the alley, and he regarded them with alarm. ‘Where were you?’ he whispered, but almost immediately he saw the bracelets in Christopher’s hands, and he groaned and closed his eyes in despair. ‘Oh, Chris,’ he said. ‘No.’

Wynter went to explain, but Christopher spoke before her. ‘Your brother’s plans will be unhinged, I suppose.’

Sól glanced curiously at Wynter and they shut their mouths.

Razi groaned again and tiredly ran his hand across his face. ‘God, he will be apoplectic,’ he said. Then to Wynter’s utter astonishment he threw his hands out in resignation and sighed. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Do not worry. Certainly I can find a way around it, though it would have been so much better if – oh, never mind. Do not worry, friend.’ He glanced at Christopher, genuine apology in his face. ‘It was unbearably cruel to stretch your tolerance any further. I am glad for you, Christopher. I only wish—’ He shook his head. ‘No! I am glad for you,’ he said firmly. ‘I am glad it is over for you.’

‘You only wish what?’

Razi grimaced ruefully. ‘It matters not, friend. In the end, that was my plan and had nothing to do with your wishes or desires. In the end it is better that, having for so long deferred to my needs, you got to do things as you wanted.’

‘You only wish what?’ insisted Christopher. ‘Tell me what you wanted, you damned fool, and stop always holding things back!’

Razi stepped abruptly into the moonlight and the weary acceptance on his face gave way to something harder. He held his fists before him, his eyes bright with desperate zeal. ‘I had wanted more, Christopher,’ he hissed. ‘I had wanted it to mean something.’

Christopher gazed at him, waiting, and Razi, seeing that he did not understand, spread his hands, trying to find the right words.

‘I had wanted that this should be more than a private, personal revenge. Something more powerful than a throat slit quietly in the dark. I had hoped that, when it came, your vengeance would symbolise something. I had wanted it to sing out, Behold. Here is the wages of evil. See what befalls those who live at the expense of those weaker than themselves. I had wanted the Loups-Garous’ deaths to say, We shall not be tolerated. Our kind shall not prevail.’ Razi stared ahead of him for a moment as if witnessing his plan blossom before him. Then he dropped his hands and sighed.

Christopher smiled. He glanced at Wynter and she took his arm. Wryly he jangled his father’s bracelets in his hand and grinned at Razi.

‘Lucky for you the Wolves ain’t dead, then, ain’t it?’ he said.

Razi gaped at him.

‘Nah,’ said Christopher with studied negligence. ‘Didn’t feel right. Thought I might leave it for another day.’

‘Chris,’ said Razi quietly, ‘I have a plan.’

‘Thought you might.’ Christopher grinned across at Sól, a loving, affectionate grin at which the older man had to smile. Wynter’s heart filled with pride. Christopher had been right. Thank God.

‘You must put the bracelets back,’ said Razi.

Sólmundr’s rueful good humour fell away, and Wynter cried out, ‘Oh no, Razi! That is unfair!’

Christopher froze for a moment, clutching the bracelets, his eyes wide with shock.

‘But . . . why?’ he managed eventually.

‘Because they are evidence of a crime. Come on, friend. Show me what you have done, and I shall explain my plan as we walk.’



There was no slinking through the shadows this time. Razi simply strode through the camp as if it was perfectly natural to be wandering about at night, and the others trailed along behind him like uncertain ducklings. They met a patrol on the road and Razi sighed with lordly impatience as the sergeant eyed the strange little entourage and explained that he would need to report them to the Prince.

‘You do just that, sergeant, and I commend you for your diligence. Now I bid you go about your duty and leave me go about mine.’

The sergeant hesitated, and Razi leaned in. ‘I should like you to give his Highness a message,’ he said. ‘You must repeat it exactly as I say, understand?’ The sergeant nodded. ‘Tell him that I am simply taking advance payment for damages due, and his immediate business will not be disrupted. Please repeat that for me . . . Good. Now go ahead. I am certain the Prince will be most content with your attention to duty.’

The soldiers left them.

Amazed, Sólmundr watched them go. Then he turned to look Razi up and down. ‘I think I take you home with me, Tabiyb,’ he mused. ‘You very impressive man.’

There was not a trace of humour in the warrior’s expression, and Wynter had to grin at the discomfort this brought to Razi’s dark face. ‘Um,’ he said. ‘Um . . . right.’ With a nervous cough, he led the way into the shadows again.

Sólmundr winked at her. ‘Sometimes it too easy,’ he said, and led the way after their retreating friend.



The Wolves slept on. Razi ignored them, but he helped Sólmundr and Christopher drag the slaves out into the moonlight and propped them up against furs taken from the Wolves’ tent. Wynter crouched by his side, gazing anxiously at them. It was difficult to tell in this strange light, but their colour seemed odd, their breathing fast and shallow.

‘Will they die, Razi?’

‘These are sevenths?’ he asked, glancing up at Christopher, his fingers pressed to a slave’s neck. Christopher nodded grimly. ‘So,’ murmured Razi, reaching to feel the other slave’s pulse. ‘They are the sons of Wolves? Sired by them on one of their slaving raids and then kept as their own?’

‘They ain’t Wolves, though,’ said Christopher. Razi met his eye. ‘I’m certain of it,’ said Christopher. ‘For all that André has them convinced they could change if they want it badly enough, that just ain’t the way it goes. It’s like having red hair or blue eyes. You’re either born a Wolf or you ain’t. There’s naught you can do about it.’

He made this last statement very quietly, glancing at Wynter. She smiled reassuringly at him. It made no difference to her. Christopher was a good person, that was all; a good person who happened to be a Wolf.

‘Still,’ said Razi, ‘they have Loup-Garou blood in them. They might be slightly different, perhaps, to normal men? There might be some physical differences that would make them more tolerant to the poison?’

Christopher shrugged, his eyes cold. He genuinely did not care.

Razi sighed. ‘In any case, there is nothing I can do for them; I have never heard of the plants Sólmundr has detailed, and I shall not risk a treatment when I do not know the tincture involved. They will live or die as the fates would have it.’ He stood and wiped his hands. ‘Would you like me to place the bracelets back on their arms?’ he asked gently.

Christopher shook his head. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘You are certain of this plan?’ rasped Sólmundr.

Razi nodded. ‘Even if I cannot secure the testimony of the landlord’s older daughter, Christopher and Wynter can testify that it was the Loups-Garous who killed that poor child at the Wherry Tavern. I shall see these cur tried in court, Sólmundr, using my father’s new rule of law. I shall make an example of them that none will forget. My brother will build them up and their fall will be all the harder for it, and all the more public.’ He looked at Christopher. ‘But you must return your bracelets, friend, that we may prove they stole them from you on the night.’

Christopher sighed. ‘It would be so much simpler to cut their throats,’ he groused, but he crouched nonetheless and slipped the silver spirals up the arms of the slaves. Then he turned and went back into the tent, taking the guitar from his shoulder as he did.

Wynter followed him. ‘Don’t give that back,’ she whispered, watching as he bent to place it by Pierre’s side. ‘Please, love. I cannot bear the thought of him playing it again.’

Sólmundr came up behind her, his long shadow blotting much of the light from the tent. ‘We can to keep it and hide it,’ he said.

Christopher shook his head. ‘They would look. They would find it, and then we would have to admit that we had been the ones who poisoned them. It’s all right. I can . . .’ He laid the guitar on the ground and stood. ‘I’ve already . . .’ Suddenly he took a sharp breath. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t either.’ And to Wynter’s horror he lifted his foot, ready to stamp down onto the fragile wood of his father’s guitar.

‘Don’t!’ she cried, already hearing the splintering of the beloved instrument beneath his boot.

But Christopher could not bring himself to do it, and he slammed his foot into the ground instead, crying out as he did so. Wynter put her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes in relief. Around them, the Wolves slept on. Outside, Razi crouched by the slaves, watching from the cold moonlight.

‘Wait, Coinín’ said Sólmundr. ‘Fan nóiméad . . .’ And he turned abruptly, heading to the remains of the Wolves’ camp fire.

Wynter watched in silence as Sólmundr stirred the ashes, found an ember and carefully blew it to flame. He fed the fire from the Wolves’ woodpile until a hearty blaze spread its warm light on him and Razi and the unconscious slaves. Christopher edged past Wynter, his father’s guitar in his hand, and went and stood on the opposite side of the fire from Sól, his face grave.

‘You not ever get the chance to give your father proper ritual?’ asked Sól.

Christopher shook his head. He sank slowly to his knees, his eyes on the fire, and Wynter moved from the shadows and came to his side. Sólmundr nodded in approval as she put her hand on her man’s shoulder.

‘You want I should fetch Aoire?’ he asked Christopher gently.

Christopher shook his head.

‘You want me do it?’

Christopher nodded. He offered the guitar, and Sólmundr took it from him with formal solemnity. The warrior kissed the smooth wood then held it out across the flames. The light flickered warmly on his strong arms and his bracelets; it glowed in the depths of the polished wood. Sól began to speak in Merron, but Christopher murmured, ‘In Hadrish, Sólmundr, my family are here,’ and Sólmundr switched languages in mid-sentence, saying:

‘. . . and peace with you, Aidan an Filid, Mac Oisín an Filid, as Tír na Garron. A million thanks to you, for granting to me the son of your heart and now mine, Coinín Mac Aidan ’gus Mac Sólmundr. See he walk in freedom now, as one of the tribes. We have faith this make you happy as you walk in peace at the Heart of the World, and we ask you reclaim your property which your son and mine has liberate for you and now returns as is right.’

He kissed the guitar again and once more held it over the flames until Christopher took it. For a moment, the young man held the instrument poised across the hungry fire, his face determined. But then his strength seemed to desert him, and he snatched it back, curling himself around it as if incapable of letting go. His shoulder quaked beneath Wynter’s hand, and she squeezed gently, her vision blurred with tears. Sólmundr tilted his head in sympathy as Christopher silently keened, his body rocking, his forehead pressed to the snake emblem on the back of the guitar. Then Christopher abruptly raised his head and, without further hesitation, placed his father’s guitar into the heart of the flames.

‘Bye, Da,’ he said.

It caught immediately, the fire roaring to life around it, the strings snapping with sudden, sharp pops. Wynter sank to her knees by Christopher’s side. He slid his arm around her waist. Razi came to stand behind them, and the three of them watched as the flames turned blue and green around the varnished wood.

They watched until there was nothing but ash and ember, until the silver fittings were nothing but meaningless blobs of metal. Then they rose together, as the sun began to cast its first faint light across the treetops, and walked in weary silence back to their tents.