The Rebel Prince

DAY SEVEN: BOTH SIDES

OF THE COIN



‘COME HERE and eat.’

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

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

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

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

‘Hello,’ answered Razi.

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

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

‘Fine,’ he said.

‘Your head, it not pain you?’

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

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

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

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

‘I’m thirsty,’ said Razi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes,’ whispered Christopher.

‘You took good care of her.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

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

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

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

‘All right,’ she whispered.

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

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

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

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



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

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

Useless? My God! When had she ever judged Razi by his uses to her? Yet she was incapable of weighing her joy at his apparent health over the damage that his condition might do to Alberon’s delicate negotiations. Even her hope that Razi would soon recover was overshadowed by fear that he may not recover soon enough.

They turned a corner – quite literally the path took a sharp branch left and down – and suddenly the wind was gone. It was as if someone had shut the door in a quiet room, blocking the storm outside, and for a moment the effect was almost stunning. Wynter straightened, blinking. Behind her, Sól’s saddle creaked as he turned to regard the path behind them. The wind could still be heard there, moaning past the narrow mouth of the ravine, rushing like water through the pass they had just left.

‘Frith an Domhain,’ murmured Sól, unwrapping his scarf.

It was much warmer without the breeze, and Wynter quickly divested herself of cloak and scarf. As they rode on, the men did the same, though it was not clement enough to do without jackets.

The further they ventured into the ravine, the quieter it grew. This sudden silence made Wynter feel vulnerable somehow, as if they were the only prey in a darkly shifting world of silent predators. Unease settled on the party and they rode with heads swivelling on tense necks, eyes searching the loose gravel slopes and precipitous bluffs overhead. The horses’ footsteps echoed from watchful cliffs, and Boro’s skittering expeditions onto the shale sounded horribly loud.

Christopher scanned the jumbled slope below them, his eyes hopping from rock to rock, while Razi’s attention seemed focused on the rough landscape that loomed to their left. Boro repeatedly tried to run up into those same boulders, his hackles raised, but Sólmundr kept him firmly to heel. Wynter, however, kept her eyes on Razi, and as soon as the path widened she kicked forward to ride side-by-side with him.

‘There is someone up there,’ he murmured, ‘my horse can sense them.’

‘It is a Loup-Garou,’ said Wynter, regarding him closely. ‘He is tracking us. I suspect there is another in the rocks below.’

Razi seemed more surprised than disturbed. ‘Loups-Garous?’ he said. ‘I have heard that they are vile creatures. Your friend is right to keep his crossbow strung.’

He went back to scanning the rocks. His calm acceptance of the situation was terrifying; his lack of questions bizarre.

‘Razi?’ asked Wynter.

He smiled, and glanced kindly at her. ‘You should really call me my Lord,’ he said. ‘My knights might take offence otherwise. Though in private you may call me Razi; I shall not mind.’

Who does he think I am? thought Wynter in despair. ‘Razi!’ she cried, drawing his full attention again. ‘Where do you think we are?’

Wynter saw confusion rise up in his face.

‘What do you think we’re doing here?’

Obviously neither question had occurred to him, and he looked about him as if for the first time. ‘I . . .’ he said. ‘We . . .’ Not finding an answer readily to hand, Razi’s confusion rapidly turned to panic. ‘I should know that,’ he said, the knowledge that something was wrong suddenly very clear in his face. ‘I should know that!’ he cried. ‘I do know that! It’s here!’ He clutched his forehead, as if to capture a black shadow there. ‘It’s right here! OH!

’ Razi slammed his fist into his temple, startling his mare and causing her to throw her head in fear. He hit his temple again, very hard, as if trying to dislodge something within his brain, and Wynter grabbed his arm, appalled.

‘Don’t!’ she cried.

‘But I should know!’ he shouted, his horse pawing and dancing beneath him. ‘I should know.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ called Christopher.

Razi reined his panicked horse to a standstill and stared at his friend with anxious hope.

‘It’s all right,’ said Christopher.

‘You are sure?’

‘Yes. You know your name, do you not?’

Razi nodded. Christopher did not ask, as Wynter would have done, Do you know what it means? Do you recall who your father is? Instead he waited patiently while Razi turned to look at Sólmundr. The warrior smiled sadly and raised his chin in greeting.

‘I . . . I am the Lord Razi Kingsson,’ murmured Razi, turning to scan Wynter’s face, ‘al-Sayyid Razi ibn-Jon Malik al-fadl.’

‘There you have it,’ said Christopher, and he turned his horse without meeting Wynter’s eye and set off up the trail again. ‘That is all that counts.’

Razi relaxed instantly. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Good.’ He laughed ruefully. ‘Good. That’s very good.’

But it’s not all that counts! thought Wynter. It’s not all that counts at all.

Up in the rocks, something snickered. Wynter and Christopher crouched in their saddles, reaching for their swords. The sly, dirty sound skittered from rock to rock around them and slithered its way in echoes from the cliffs above. Boro tried to bolt after it, but Sólmundr snapped at him, ‘Tar anseo,’ and the warhound came reluctantly to heel.

Razi did not crouch. Instead he straightened indignantly and glared into the rocks with absolute disdain. ‘Loup-Garou vermin,’ he hissed. ‘Surely there’s something that can be done about the damned things?’ And with a tut of disapproval, he swung his horse around and nodded for Christopher to lead the way.



They journeyed until late into the evening, when the waning light made the uneven ground too treacherous and the danger of Wolves too dire to continue on. Still deep in the heart of that silent, echoing valley, they set up camp in a sheltering alcove of rock.

The horses tended to, the equipment checked, Wynter once more took Alberon’s folder and sat with it across her knee. She ran her hands across its plain cover and contemplated the impact it would have upon the kingdom. Glancing at Razi, she wondered how he would have tackled presenting this to his father. Certainly he did not believe in Alberon’s plans. In fact, they seemed to go against his very nature. But, despite his very great difficulty in seeing Alberon’s point of view, Wynter was certain Razi would have done his best to represent his brother’s argument. She could not fathom how he would go about defending a plan so contrary to his own personal beliefs, but if anyone could have managed the task, it would have been Razi.

Now, as her friend placidly watched the sun withdraw its dismal light from the valley, Wynter hugged the folder to her chest and fretted over what was going to happen. Razi had not recognised these documents when she had shown them to him, and he had simply gazed curiously at her when she had tried to explain his mission. The urge to grab him and shake him and scream What are we going to do? had been almost too much to handle. But, despite her frustration, Wynter did not want to cause another of Razi’s horrible panics, and so, faced with even this mildest of confusion, she had risen to her feet and walked away from him. Razi had been sitting, ever since, with his back to the cliff wall, completely still and passive. Wynter thought he had never looked so serene, and to her shame, that infuriated her.

Sólmundr hummed as he cooked the supper. Boro lay at his side, his chin on his paws. Now and again, the giant hound’s ears would swivel upwards and he would growl at something unseen in the rocks above. But he was used, by now, to Sólmundr calling him back, and he made no attempt to run off to what Sól was convinced would be a fatal encounter with not one but two Loups-Garous.

Christopher was fussing with the mule-packs. He too was driving Wynter mad, though it was hard for her to understand why. It was not really that she blamed him for the terrible encounter with the Wolves. It was more, oh God forgive her, that she wanted him to blame himself. At least a little. At least to the extent that she could then hug him and tell him, This is not your fault. But Christopher’s reaction to Razi’s condition was so calm, so hard-faced and practical, that it left Wynter with no room for anything – not anger, not forgiveness, not even affection. Christopher had become remote and as brittle as ice. He cursed quietly to himself, tugging at the luggage, and Wynter was just about to ask him to stop fiddling and to sit down when he strode past her, something in his hand.

‘Here,’ he said, crouching by the fire and plopping the doctor’s bag at Razi’s feet.

Sólmundr tensed. Razi frowned uncertainly, and Wynter sat straighter, clutching the folder to her chest. She waited for Christopher to demand, Do you know what this is? Do you recognise it? But instead, he snapped the catches on the bag and opened it.

Razi jerked forward, as if tempted to stop him.

‘It fell off the mule,’ said Christopher, peering inside. ‘Some of the vials are broken.’

‘Be careful!’ Razi shot out a hand and grabbed Christopher’s wrist, stopping him from reaching into the bag. Gently he pushed the young man’s hand aside. ‘If you cannot tell the contents of the broken vial, a cut could prove disastrous.’ He smiled reassuringly at his friend. ‘I should like to check it for myself.’

Christopher watched as Razi took the bag and began an expert survey of its contents. As their friend sorted through the tools of his trade, Wynter saw Christopher working himself up to speak. As he struggled to articulate his question, Christopher’s emotions seemed to worm their way to the surface of his composure, so that when he finally spoke his expression was achingly raw and vulnerable. It stabbed Wynter to see all the hurt and all the guilt that he had been hiding from her. She almost cried at the knowledge that Christopher had chosen not to share with her his pain and grief.

‘Is anything important broken?’ he finally managed.

How would he recall? thought Wynter bleakly. He barely knows who he is.

But Razi answered without hesitation. ‘There is not much damage. Just a few tonic vials and a crushed pillbox.’ He glanced up, smiling, and it almost broke Wynter’s heart when he said, ‘Everything is just as it is meant to be. Nothing of any importance is lost. What happened to it?’

‘It fall when Wolves attack,’ said Sólmundr.

Razi made no response to that, but his attention focused on Sólmundr’s bruised face as if noticing the wounds for the first time. ‘That cut on your cheek is quite inflamed,’ he said. ‘I can treat it for you, if I may?’ He must have mistaken Sól’s silence for reluctance, because he smiled again. ‘I’m a doctor,’ he said. ‘Did you not realise that? Here, come over and I shall see what I can do.’

As Sól submitted to Razi’s care, Christopher gazed at Wynter. The knowledge of what had been retrieved was written large in his glittering eyes. Wynter tilted her head and smiled sadly, the knowledge of what remained lost written in her own.