A man approached with a tray of little wooden bowls and laid it on the table. He placed one of the bowls by Razi, and gestured to Wynter to take the others. They were full of porridge, and the smell made her mouth water.

Embla had begun to work the warm, soapy cloth up the length of Razi's blood-stained arm. "I likes this soap," she murmured. "It is most pleasing, how it makes this bubbles... like foam in sea." As she lathered lazy, caressing circles from his wrist to the crook of his elbow, Embla ran her eyes all the way to Razi's face and back again, taking in every detail of his strong, brown body. The breeze lifted her hair and it drifted around them in the sunlight.

Razi's eyes grew heavy and Embla's smile took on a private depth that made the Merron standing at the wash table smirk at each other and raise their eyebrows. Wynter admired their restraint in not clucking like hens. Quietly, she took Christopher's and her own wash kits from the table and slung them across her arm.

Embla began to wash Razi's chest. Razi inhaled, as if testing her scent, and his eyes wandered to her body, then up again to her face. Embla squeezed the cloth against his collarbone and he sighed as a small tide of shining bubbles cascaded down the knotted half-moon of his scar.

Embla turned her attention to his blood-splattered face, pushing the cloth through his curls, cleaning the blood from his hair. Her movements were not so gentle now, her expression less than tender, and Razi watched her intently from beneath his lashes, his teeth showing white through parted lips.

Wynter, her cheeks pink, took one of the copper bowls of water from the table and placed it on the tray beside the bowls of porridge. She laid two of the squares of folded linen on top and hoisted the whole heavy burden up with a grunt. She turned to tell Razi that she was leaving, but Embla had pulled his head forward to rest against her shoulder, and her face was turned into the damp tangle of his hair. She was murmuring as she soaped the back of his neck, and Razi's hand slowly tightened around her waist as her lips moved against his ear. Wynter smiled knowingly, and without a word, she turned to the river.

Razi's big mare was hobbled on the green along with Ozkar, both of them contentedly munching grass, shoulder to shoulder with the Merron's painted horses. As Wynter passed between the lines of fluttering washing, she looked around for Christopher's chestnut mare. The sturdy little animal was standing apart from the herd, nodding its shaggy head and staring down towards the river. Wynter guessed that this was where she would find Christopher. Carefully, Wynter made her way across the cropped grass, trying not to upset the contents of her tray. To her right, far into the trees, the sounds of sawing and the continuous chopping of hatchets told her that the Merron were hard at work gathering more firewood, or more likely, from the sounds of it, cutting new lodge-poles. Perhaps they were expecting yet more company.

The ground dropped steeply and she watched her footing as she navigated a precipitous little track down to the water. The sounds of the camp died away, muffled by the steep bank of grass and pushed back by the river breeze. Wynter found herself on a pleasant, sandy little shore, sheltered and peaceful, cooled by the proximity of the water. It was a perfect little haven, away from the eyes of the camp.

Christopher sat with his back to her, halfway to the water, his elbows on his drawn-up knees, his arms wrapped loosely around his head. Wynter crunched her way towards him. He had removed his boots and his socks, and his feet were pushed deep into the warm sand. How delicious, thought Wynter, her feet itching jealously within the hot confines of her boots.

"Hello, love," she said as she came on level with him. He started slightly, his hands jerking against the nape of his neck, and she chuckled. "Were you asleep?"

Christopher didn't answer, but folded his arms across his knees and rested his head against his forearms, his face hidden from her. He still had his hair bound, and the long wounds on his back and shoulder were particularly angry looking in the bright sunlight. He had not yet washed and his pale body was smeared all over with Solmundr's blood. With a pang of sympathy, Wynter realised that he was just too tired to care.

Carefully she laid the tray on the ground and sat down to pull off her boots, wincing at the pain in her back. "Jesu," she sighed, digging her bare feet into the soft sand. "That feels good." She leaned back, propping herself on her arms and looked up into the blue sky. Exhaustion sang through her veins, a high unending whine, but the sun felt lovely on her bare torso and Wynter closed her eyes for a moment, soaking up its heat. The world instantly spun away in black and red, and Wynter felt herself falling into darkness. She gasped and sat forward, opening her eyes wide and breathing deep. "Oh!" she laughed, blinking spots from her vision. "Oh! It's dangerous to close your eyes!"

Christopher sat wordlessly beside her, a pale, blood-soaked stone in the sunlight. She went to put her hand on his curved back, but there were those awful scratches, so she rested her palm on the nape of his neck instead. He turned his face to her, his cheek resting on his arms. He was spent, the flesh under his eyes swollen into pouches, his narrow face chalky with fatigue. He regarded her without much expression, barely conscious.

"I brought warm water," she said softly, "to wash away the blood." His eyes slid listlessly to the wash kits and basin, then back to her face. "I brought porridge, too." He continued to watch her without expression, his breathing deep and steady like a sleeper's. "Are you awake?" she whispered. He nodded, a barely perceptible movement. "Here," she said and she got to her knees and shuffled around to put the bowl of water and the wash kit between his feet. "You wash yourself; I'll look after your hair."

He lifted his head for a moment to look at the bowl of water, then dropped his forehead back against his arms as Wynter undid his scarf and unpinned his hair. "Oh, Chris!" she admonished softly. "You still haven't brushed it!"

His long hair fell down his back in a scruffy mess of knots and tangles. It was still peppered with the many twigs and leaves and bits of debris from the night the Wolves had attacked. Wynter spread it out against his shoulders like a tatty spider's web, and slowly began picking the rubbish from the worse of its dark snarls. Christopher kept his head down, but at her touch the muscles in his back tensed, and his scarred hands tightened against the tops of his arms, dimpling the bruised flesh.

"Do you think Solmundr will survive, Christopher?"

He answered in a slow, dull rasp, without lifting his head. "I don't think he wants to," he said.

Wynter nodded in agreement "I can't understand it. He seemed such a strong, vibrant kind of man. I cannot imagine that he would willingly give up on life. You know, I think he only accepted Razi's help because the pain was so intolerable. Otherwise he would gladly have let himself die." She frowned and shook her head. "I cannot fathom it, Christopher."

"In the end," said Christopher quietly, "there is only so much a man can stand to lose. When everything he loves, and everything he is, is broken and burnt like kindling, a man comes to understand that the only thing he has any control over is when and how he dies."

Wynter did not pause in her work. She kept on working her comb through the mess of his hair, but she stared down on his bowed head with wide eyes and she had to force her reply out past an inexplicable lump of fear. "I don't understand that, Christopher," she whispered. "No matter how bad the present, surely every new day is a fresh beginning? Surely every dawn brings the gift of hope?"

Christopher exhaled a little laugh. "I am glad that you do not understand, girly," he said softly. "That makes me glad."

"In any case," she continued. "What of Ashkr?" Christopher flinched, his fingers digging deep into the flesh of his arms, and Wynter hesitated, worried that she may have misread the love between the two men. "He ..." she said uncertainly. "Ashkr seems to love Solmundr very deeply. It seems a crime for Solmundr to have captured his heart like that and then purposely leave him all alone."

"Aye," whispered Christopher. "It is. It is a God-cursed crime. To squander someone's heart like that. He should never ..." he shook his head. "It is a God-cursed crime," he whispered. "Poor Solmundr."

Poor Solmundr? Wynter frowned. Christopher must be very tired, to have lost track of their conversation so quickly. She had managed to release most of the terrible tangles from his hair, and she ran the comb easily now from scalp to tip, moving in long, soothing strokes, lifting the heavy locks from his back so as not to touch his wounds with the comb.

"We must leave, girly." His voice was distant, muffled within the cradle of his arms. "We cannot stay with these people."

She stopped combing. "But Chris, we need them," she said. Unless... do you no longer think that they are headed for Alberon? Ashkr did say that this is as far as they go."

"I have no doubt that they are headed for Alberon," he said dully. "Once they're done here, Ulfnaor and Wari will leave most of the others behind and go on to meet the Prince. Solmundr would have too, had his health not failed him." Christopher opened his eyes and he stared down at the ground between his feet. "But we cannot stay. Razi. Razi... he ..."

Wynter smiled, thinking she understood. Tenderly, she put her hand on his hair and bent to look at his face. "Christopher," she whispered. "Do not underestimate the depths of Razi's tolerance. The nature of Solmundr and Ashkr's love is perhaps not so big an issue to him as you might believe. At the palace, it was his fear for you that led-"

Christopher squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Wynter was distressed to see real anguish in his face. "What is it, love?" she asked. "Do you think they will take vengeance for Wari?"

Christopher abruptly pushed the heels of his hands in under his eyes, pressing hard, his lips drawn back. "We just cannot stay, Wynter," he said. "It is not possible. Razi will never understand. They would be forced to... oh, please," he gasped. "Please, we must leave."

Abruptly he went silent, his body rigid, his blood-stained hands pressed to his eyes. Wynter stroked his arm and his shoulders, alarmed at the quivering strain in his body, the physical tension. When it became obvious that Christopher would say no more, she moved around behind him again and resumed combing. She combed and combed, and gradually Christopher's hair began to regain its lustre, shining black and violet in the glancing sun, flowing through Wynter's fingers like cool, dark water. Still he did not lose his iron rigidity.

"Christopher," said Wynter carefully. "You have seen the maps of the Indirie Valley. You know how wide it is, how long. You know how deeply forested it is. Alberon could have an entire army hidden there and we still would never find him. We need these people. We need their knowledge. Without them, Alberon may move on before we can make contact, or Jonathon could find him before we do and then all will be lost." Wynter looked out across the wide swell of the water, her thoughts running ahead, trying to predict what could not be predicted. "Or Alberon's men may find us," she said quietly, talking to herself now. "They may kill us before we can let them know we mean no harm, or the cavalry may come upon us... or the Wolves ..."

At the mention of the Wolves, Christopher moaned and lifted his arms to cover his head. Wynter shut her eyes to quell the mindless rush of fear that the thought of them brought to her. She did not want to think about those little girls at the Wherry Tavern, she did not want to think about their fate. The fate she would have shared with them, had Christopher not saved her.

"Christopher," she whispered, slipping her arms around his shoulders and leaning into him. "Christopher." He jerked beneath her touch, his muscles as taut as quivering iron. He smelled of blood, and of ashes and of sharp, new sweat. "We're safe here, aren't we?" she whispered "Your people will protect us, won't they? They won't let... they'll keep the Wolves away."

Wynter hated the weakness in her voice; hated this sudden wave of helplessness that had risen up and undone her. She had not known, until this moment, how terrified she was of heading out again. Slowly, she bent her head into the crook of Christopher's neck and squeezed her arms tight around his rigid shoulders, ashamed and frightened and overwhelmed.

At first, Christopher remained frozen, as if desperately resisting her embrace. Then, gradually, he uncurled from his defensive crouch and shifted his neck to accommodate Wynter's head on his shoulder. She felt his hand move across to the back of her head. Wynter began to rock gently. Christopher slid his other hand along the top of her arm and let it come to rest in the crook of her elbow. The two of them closed their eyes.

Sunshine warmed them and the peaceful sounds of the river emptied their minds. Gradually, their breathing calmed, their hearts slowed and they relaxed against each other, each of them finding comfort in the other's embrace and in gentle, innocent motion as Wynter rocked them to and fro.

Frith.

They made their way up the steep little path, silent and numb, bumping into each other as fatigue made them miss their footing. Wynter's back ached and Christopher limped clumsily along, carrying the copper bowl and towels, his eyes drifting shut even as he walked.

At the top of the path, they staggered blindly onto the grass, heading for the tents. Suddenly, two huge warhounds butted into their space, slobbering and grinning, panting up into their startled faces.

"Gread leat," snapped Christopher, jerking to life and pulling Wynter back. "Leave her be!" He pushed testily at the dog's blunt heads. They happily ignored him, eager to explore the depths of the porridge bowls. One of them butted Wynter in the stomach. She staggered backwards, upsetting the tray, and that was it for Christopher-he lost his temper.

"Croch leat!" he snarled, recklessly punching the dog's huge head with his fist. "Croch leat, a bhoid clamhach."

The dogs growled, and to Wynter's alarm, Christopher lashed out at them with the copper bowl. Any fool could have sensed the huge creatures' rising antagonism, but Christopher seemed to have lost all common sense, and he raised the bowl again, yelling.

"Christopher," she warned, eyeing the flashing teeth and stiffly raised hackles. "Stop it!"

Christopher pushed her roughly behind him. "Ulfnaor!" he shouted, glaring up towards the camp. "Curb your damned hounds!" It was only then that Wynter noticed the big man walking towards them, his black hair lifting in the breeze, his bracelets flashing as he strode across the grass. "Curb your hounds, Aoire!" demanded Christopher in Hadrish. "They are trying my patience!"

Ulfnaor seemed to take no offence at Christopher's tone, his face and posture those of a man with other things on his mind. He whistled as he strode towards them and his hounds broke away immediately, galloping towards him with loose limbed, slavering worship, and falling into place at his heel.

"Coinin," he said, "I was looking for you." He nodded politely to Wynter and she bobbed her head, her eyes sliding to the hounds. Ulfnaor glanced down at them, "Suigi sios," he murmured.

The great dogs sat immediately, and Ulfnaor fondled their ears, his many rings gleaming in the sun. Wynter thought there was an air of heavy sadness to the man, a sense of invisible weight pressing him down. He sighed and turned his attention to Christopher once more, a question on his lips, but then faltered and stared, noticing the young man's ragged state. His dark eyes flicked to take in Wynter's equally frayed condition.

"Frith an Domhain," he said. "You are used up, you both. Why you not rest?"

Christopher clutched the basin and towels to his naked chest, swaying and glaring belligerently from swollen, red-rimmed eyes.

"Thank you for your consideration, Lord Ulfnaor," said Wynter, tearing her eyes from Christopher's grim face. "We are on our way now to lay down for a while in the shade."

"Good," said Ulfnaor, eyeing them both with concern. "Good. Coinin," he said, "the Caoirigh would like you and your family to join them at evening. We dine in Ashkr's tent and-"

"No," snapped Christopher. "We cannot stay."

To Wynter's alarm, Ulfnaor's dark eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened in disapproval. She went to apologise for Christopher's abrupt rejection of the Lord's hospitality, but Christopher cut her off, his voice hard.

"Ashkr has told us that he will go no further than here, Aoire," he said.

Ulfnaor's face cleared in understanding. "Ah," he said.

"It is not possible," continued Christopher, "that we would impose on your time."

"Ah," said Ulfnaor again. "I see." He glanced at Wynter. "There is not understanding for our ways, here, I take it?" he said.

"None," said Christopher, "from any quarter."

Ulfnaor's eyes hardened at that, and he lifted his chin to look Christopher in the face. "Well, Coinin Garron. You are indeed your father's son, nach ea?"

Christopher just glared.

Ulfnaor shook his head, as one would to a small, belligerent child. "It just an invitation to dinner, Coinin. Nothing more. In respect for Solmundr, we do nothing today but declare Frith. At least take tonight to recover your health, eh? Give your family time to rest?" The dark eyes slid to Wynter again. "Your croi-eile is much worn, Coinin, nach bhfuil? You not want to bring her back into the wilderness so soon."

Christopher glanced at Wynter, standing bruised and exhausted by his side, and all the hard certainty left his eyes. Ulfnaor regarded him carefully.

"Coinin," he said softly, "Wari tell me that Tabiyb, he not wanted to come treat Sol. He tell me that it you who make him agree. I want thank you for this."

Christopher stayed silent, his hair blowing over his face in the breeze.

"I admit, I not wanted Tabiyb come," said Ulfnaor. "I thinked it wrong, not respecting to Sol's choice. But I am glad that Tabiyb take Sol's pain, and now I praise An Domhan for his arrival. An Domhan has made good choice to bring you here." Ulfnaor looked into Christopher's eyes. "Maybe for both The People and for you?"

Christopher's face creased in weary confusion at that and Wynter felt a little prickle of unease.

"Life away from The People has not been kind to you, Coinin," murmured Ulfnaor. He glanced at Christopher's ruined hands, at the claw-marks where his bracelets should be, at his worn face. "Just like it not kind for your father." Christopher raised his chin, his eyes over-bright, his mouth unsteady, and Ulfnaor smiled sympathetically. "We Merron not do well away from our kind," he said.

Wynter frowned, angry at the tension she felt returning to Christopher's body. She slipped her arm around his waist and glared at Ulfnaor. She could not figure out his intentions. He seemed genuinely compassionate, but Christopher was clearly unhappy and Wynter couldn't help wishing that the Aoire would just go away.

"It bad you stolen away, Coinin," continued Ulfnaor gently. "But now, you come home, just like Sol come home. After much years, after much distances, An Domhan has bring you back. This is good, that you come to us from nowhere and give us what we needs, when we needs it. This is auspicious." At Christopher's continued silence, Ulfnaor sighed. "The Caoirigh think this is auspicious," he said softly, as if that might mean more to Christopher than just his opinion alone. "And your Tabiyb? The Caoirigh think he good luck, a good omen."

"He's not," rasped Christopher suddenly, his bloodshot eyes glittering. "He's not good luck. Don't say that."

Ulfnaor spread his hands. "But the Caoirigh say it. You and me, we never know the things they know." He shrugged as if to say what can you do? Then he waved the whole thing off with a sigh. "You should to lie down, Coinin. Make your mind clear. I will to see you in Ashkr's tent for dinner." He smiled at Wynter, ignoring her glare. "You rest well, a luichin," he said with genuine tenderness. His eyes flicked to her bound hair. "But," he tapped his head to show what he meant, "you unbind your hair now, yes? And show respect." Then he turned away, his hounds following him, and made his way back across the grass.

Wynter squeezed Christopher's waist and they stood watching as the big man passed amongst the horses and back into the camp. It seemed very quiet in his absence, the sounds of the horses soothing, the breeze from the river sweet.

"I am tired, girly," said Christopher suddenly. "I... I'm confused." He blinked around him in bewilderment, finally at the end of his tether.

"Can you make it back to the tent?" she whispered.

Christopher frowned as if not sure, and pushed his hair behind his ear, scanning the horses with unfocused anxiety. Wynter squeezed him tight. "Come on," she said gently. "Let us go lie down."

Embla's hounds were lolling at the door to the tent, and Wynter found herself slowing to a crawl, embarrassed at the thought of what might still be in progress within the painted walls. She had no desire to interrupt Razi and Embla if they were concluding the business they'd started at the wash table.

"Um ..." she said, eyeing the sprawling dogs. "Christopher. I wonder if ..."

Thankfully, the tall blonde woman chose that moment to duck from the tent, and Wynter breathed a sigh of relief. Embla noticed them and waved her hand in greeting.

"How do, lady?" said Wynter, "How does the noon find you?" She released her grip on Christopher's waist and bent to set the tray by the door of the tent. Embla's hounds leapt to their feet, and Wynter skipped warily back as the enormous creatures buffeted each other, vying to snuffle at the empty porridge bowls. Wynter tore her eyes from them just in time to grab for Christopher who was shuffling for the door, completely oblivious to Embla's presence.

"Chris!" cried Wynter, snagging the waist of his britches. "Wait!" He turned a blank face to her, and then looked up at the smiling woman who was blocking his way.

"Well," he breathed, his grey eyes questioning. "What...?" A frown grew between Christopher's eyebrows. He looked Embla up and down and flicked a glance into the tent. "What...?" he said, narrowing his eyes.

Wynter glanced away, her cheeks burning. Embla was perfectly dressed, her jewellery and hair in place. But her mouth was rubbed and swollen looking, her skin dewy, and there was a richness to her, a languid air of completion, that was hard to misinterpret.

"Coinin is going to lie down for a while, lady," said Wynter, her eyes averted. "And Ulfnaor has invited us for an evening dinner in Ashkr's tent. Perhaps we shall meet you there?"

Embla touched her gently on her shoulder and Wynter looked up into kind eyes. "Tabiyb sleeps," said the lady, and somehow that simple phrase took all the awkwardness from the situation. Wynter nodded gratefully To her surprise, Embla reached and pressed her fingers to Wynter's forehead. You have been hurt, Iseult," she said. Her hand was very cool and soothing against Wynter's bruised skin.

Wynter closed her eyes at the lady's gentle touch and then shook herself. "It's nothing," she said, covering her forehead with her hand. "Chris... Coinin saved me before they could do any real harm."

Embla turned to Christopher, who was supporting himself against the side of the tent, watching her with frowning resentment. "Coinin," she said, reaching as if to touch him. He glared, and the pale hand dropped. "You should to sleep now, yes?" she said softly. "You and your croi-eile. You should both to sleep." She looked him up and down, her face tender. "You are safe here, Coinin. You not to have worry; the People will to watch over you now."

At her unrelenting kindness, Christopher's resentment crumbled and he just looked at her in unhappy confusion. After a moment, Embla sighed and nodded in understanding. "I see you this evening, yes? For meal? And Tabiyb, he has agreed to declare Frith with us." Christopher closed his eyes in distress at this news, but Embla smiled, looking out over the camp, her face serene. "This make me very glad. You too, Iseult," she said, nodding to Wynter. "You too declare Frith. All of Tabiyb's family. It be very good. Good omen, yes?"

Wynter swallowed nervously and nodded, deeply uncertain. Embla left with a little bow, and Wynter and Christopher ducked out of the sunshine into the tent.

Inside was stifling. It felt steamy and too close; just stepping inside the door was enough to inspire a headache. Christopher stumbled to one of the rear poles. He unhooked something from a keep, and Wynter saw that it was a long, narrow dowel that stretched up into the dim shadows of the roof. Christopher spun the dowel between his hands. Something tightened in the upper reaches of the tent, and, high above them, three little flaps opened outwards, letting in some filtered sunlight and a surprising amount of fresh air.

"Oh, Christopher!" sighed Wynter, turning her face to the gentle draught. "That's lovely!"

Christopher smiled, her delight warming his unhappy face. He hooked the dowel back into position and staggered to their bed. Crawling across the furs, he lay down with a hiss.

Wynter glanced at Embla's bed. Razi was fast asleep, lost amongst the tumbled furs, his face turned to the wall. He was nothing but a long expanse of brown back, gently breathing in the dim shadows.

"Girly?" Christopher asked, suddenly panicked. "Where is Razi?" Wynter smiled at him, not really surprised. He was thoroughly addled with fatigue.

"He is right here, Christopher," she said, gesturing to Embla's bed. "He is asleep."