by P. J. Fox
His—Tristan wanted to lecture him about technique. Brom wanted to lecture him about safety. Neither of them would actually let him do anything. Why did it matter if he learned how bows were made? He didn’t see how sitting through one more droning lecture was going to help him actually use one. And lately Tristan had been acting so odd. Refusing to let him go out alone. Like anyone cared what happened to him.
Well, Tristan did. And Isla did. But Tristan kept acting like—like what? An errant tribe of gnomes would magic him into the trees? He shook his head. And now he was supposed to be grooming his horse.
He stopped, staring out at the white-gray expanse of his world.
He’d spent the morning hitting another boy with a practice sword while both of them rode pick-a-back. This was supposed to help them build balance. Or something. Prepare them for fighting on horseback. So why couldn’t they just fight on horseback, then?
Brom said it was dangerous. Well he was still alive. And Asher was excellent on a horse, especially for his age. Everyone said so.
He was going to grow up and become a knight, and join the Order of the Dragon just like his—
“Hey, you.”
Asher turned. “Who?”
Staring at him was the boy he’d jousted with earlier: John, the son of the castellan. A castellan wasn’t noble, but he was important, and his sons could expect the same in respect to opportunities as the children of their lord. John trained with Asher, the son of the constable, and a few others. He was a large, florid-faced boy with a shock of blond hair that stood straight up. Asher hated him.
He should’ve thought of a comeback. But of course he hadn’t. He never did.
“Well I don’t see any other plug-ugly knobs around here. I must be talking to you.”
Asher knew he looked different. He was fine-boned and dark, although not short. He’d be tall, or so Isla claimed. As tall as Tristan, he hoped. But everyone around him were great, hulking ogres, with forearms like ham hocks and fingers like sausages. They called Asher a little girl and worse. That he had a southern name didn’t help. A noble name his—Tristan—emphasized. A Chadian name, brought from when Gideon the Conqueror swept in from across the channel.
Gideon the Conqueror, who’d also been dark.
So Asher worked ten times harder in the yard, and at his lessons. He practiced the sets of exercises Brom gave him until full dark forced him indoors, and then he ran up and down the stairs. The servants stared at him. Let them stare. Who cared what they thought, anyway. He didn’t. Not really. Brom might not let him do anything, nobody might let him do anything, but he’d show them. Show them by becoming so good at what they did let him do that they’d feel stupid.
And also so he could defend himself.
He faced John. “Well?”
“Brom sent me to help you with that nag. Probably because, without a proper man to supervise you, you’d put its hair in plaits.”
“I don’t see any men here.” Proper or otherwise. And George was not a nag.
John shook his head. “You’re not batting on a full wicket and no mistake.”
Asher turned and vanished into the stable.
John followed him into the long, low building, which was warm and smelled of horse. Or warm enough; compared to the frigid Hel outside a rat hole would seem like an oasis. The residents watched them with disinterest as they tramped down the center aisle, secure in their blankets. Most had feed bags. The grooms did good work.
Asher stopped at George’s stall. George nuzzled him, curious to see if there was a treat. Asher returned the greeting for a moment, before pushing George away. “I need to groom you now,” he said, as though George could understand him. “Even though your actual caretakers do a much better job. A knight,” he quoted, “should know how to care for his mount.”
Grooming, or so Brom liked to lecture him, was vital for horses because it cleaned their coats, added beauty to the appearance of said coats, and also promoted healthy emotional bonding between horse and master. Developing trust and blah blah blah. Asher led George out of the stall and toward the grooming area. All the tack hung from pegs on the wall, each piece to its appropriate peg and woe to the man—or boy—who put a single brush back incorrectly. Or, even worse, forgot to put it back at all. The brushes had to go in a certain order. Even though Asher was fairly certain that he could still tell which brush was used first. And certain too that George didn’t care one bit.
He tied George to one of the posts, using a quick release knot. He heard Brom’s voice in his head, reminding him that should something spook George and he decide to bolt—for example, if he saw a mouse—a regular knot might break his neck. George hated mice.
Asher knelt down to pick George’s hooves. Start at the heel and pick toward the toe, came the unbidden reminder. If he did this every afternoon, soon each individual step of the process would cease to be a conscious step and be, rather, intuitive.
Squinting in concentration, he flicked a small pebble out from under George’s heel. He knew he also had to clean the grooves on either side of the frog. And then—
“Why are you doing his feet first?”
“Because,” Asher recited, “you’re more likely to notice lameness.”
“Yeah, but fuck Brom.” John leaned back against the wall. He was sitting on a hay bale.
Straightening, Asher went to the wall and picked up the curry comb: a wide-toothed thing that was used to loosen up mud, flecks of bark, and other detritus from a horse’s coat before the brushing in earnest. Using small circular motions, he began to work from George’s neck to his rump. He avoided George’s spine and legs.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
Asher didn’t look up. “No I’m not. You’re supposed to brush against the direction of the hair growth. That’s what pulls up loose hairs, along with everything else.” Otherwise, they’d just sit there and get matted in. Gods, but John was an idiot.
“You should let me help.”
“No.” Asher swapped the curry comb for the next tool, a dandy brush. That was to actually remove the junk brought out by the curry comb. “I don’t need your help.” Or his incompetence. John was a useless git who hated animals and treated them even worse than people. Asher wouldn’t let him near a broken down nag that was about to be slaughtered for glue, let alone his own George. George, whom he’d been given for the previous Solstice.
“I’ll get in trouble if I don’t.”
“I thought you didn’t care about Brom.” Asher made a point of concentrating on his work.
“I care about not getting thrashed.”
Asher looked up. His eyes narrowed. “He’s my horse.”
“No he’s not.”
Asher felt a hot spike of—something surge through him. Anger? Humiliation? He swallowed. He’d learned self-control early on and he wouldn’t unlearn it now. But things around here could be hard. So hard. The insinuations. The sidelong glances. The outright comments. The fact that vermin like John looked down on him, and rightly, because they had a name and he didn’t.
Because they had a father who acknowledged them.
He went back to work.
Oh, Asher knew who he was supposed to be. And for a long time, he hadn’t questioned. Why should he have? How many children looked at their married parents and did? But then the chaos had come and people whose motives he didn’t understand wanted things of him and he was thrust into their hands and their schemes and eventually he’d found himself on the banks of Ullswater Ford.
He remembered thinking that he should feel something, watching that man die. He’d still believed Brandon to be his father then, but Brandon hadn’t been a good father. Or a good man. He’d hit Asher and belittled him, the kind of casual cruelty bestowed by people who don’t believe that other people truly exist.
He couldn’t even remember being scared. Only…empty. And then he’d gone to live with Tristan.
He ran his hand over George’s coat, concentrating. Dandy brush, then
soft brush, then clean the horse’s face with a soft rag. Brush out the mane and tail. He could lose himself in his work, and then he wouldn’t feel the scalding prick of tears at the backs of his eyes. Wouldn’t unman himself before this most hated of enemies. Who even now watched him with a low, piggish fascination.
Asher wanted to kill him, but lacked the courage.
It was at times like this, especially, that he desperately wished he were older.
Asher had come to live at Caer Addanc and for awhile there had been no rumors. No conversations that stilled when he entered the room. And then, one morning, he’d just come into the stables when he overheard two of the grooms talking. He’d pressed himself against the wall, holding in his breath, terrified of being discovered. Not because he thought he’d get in trouble but because he might not hear the end of the conversation.
Which consisted of the two men debating Asher’s parentage. Tristan, one pointed out, was no celibate. Who wanted a lord that was? And if one—or more—of his near legendary conquests had produced a by-blow then what of it? Tristan was unmarried at the time and so far had produced no heir. A dangerous thing for a man in his position, to leave his inheritance open. The other groom, in response, questioned whether a necromancer was capable of producing a child. Tristan’s devotion to the art of death had…changed him. To which the first groom had responded, as though stating the most obvious thing in the world to the stupidest person in it, look at Asher.
The child had Tristan’s coloring. Would have Tristan’s height. Tall for a Southron but average for a Northerner. Eyes like twin coals and an expression too serious to belong to a child. He was touched, some argued.
He’d been through a great deal, his friend pointed out.
Already the castle was abuzz with stories of Asher’s intelligence. His tutors were in awe of him. He could read without moving his lips or sounding out the words, and figure, and some claimed track as well as many a grown man. He didn’t get that from Brandon, whom all the world knew had been dumb as a post.
Asher had slipped out, and gone to be alone to think.
He’d understood, after, the looks he’d started to get. The speculation in them. And eventually he’d come to accept, as the rest of the castle already had, that he was Tristan’s.
They were right: Tristan did pay him special favor. Not the sort of favor that landed men in the dungeons, or on the headsman’s block, or dead at the hands of an angry mob. Simple interest in that cool, detached manner of his. He’d taught Asher to ride, and to hunt. As Tristan’s page, Asher had access to his person at all times. Which Tristan seemed to welcome.
Asher wasn’t treated as a political prisoner. At least, people said he wasn’t. But children came to live with families for political reasons all the time. What were they forced to do, sleep in the dungeon? Asher didn’t think so. But he was nevertheless unsure of his position. Unsure of what the future held for him.
Which was why the comment about George rankled.
Whatever the rumors—whatever the truth—Tristan had never acknowledged him.
A mere page didn’t own his own horse.
A political prisoner certainly didn’t.
Asher stood to replace the last brush.
“You think you’re so high and mighty.” John’s tone was casual. Now he was chewing a straw of hay. One leg was crossed over the other and he was assessing Asher the way Asher might an ant. With neither compassion nor care. Merely interest to see what the creature would do, before he stepped on it. “You act like you’re the lord of the manor.” His lip curled in a sneer. “But you’re not. That horse is a loan horse and you’re nothing.”
Asher’s hand flexed, the hard bristles of the brush digging into his palm. “How dare you,” he whispered.
“Oh, don’t touch my horse,” John mocked. “As though I’m incompetent to brush the nag.”
“You are.”
“You treat me like a servant. Like I’m less than you, and you’re condescending to be in the same room with me. Oh, you’re polite,” he continued. “Just like a good little lord.”
Asher said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He wanted to scream.
“But you’re not. You’re nothing. At worst you’re the son of a traitor and you’re going to get the axe. And at best you’re just some by-blow.” John’s chuckle was an ugly, gloating sound. “Men spread their seed about wherever. It means nothing to them.”
“Leave. Now.”
“Oh, ordering me from the presence, are we?” John sat up. His eyes bored into Asher’s, a look that Asher returned with equal heat. “If he really cared about you, he’d have acknowledged you. But he hasn’t, because he doesn’t.”
“You worthless piece of filth,” Asher grated.
“At least I know who my parents are.”
“How dare you—”
“The duke has a new wife now, and she’s young and beautiful.” John smiled, for all the world as though this were a picnic. “They’ll have a child of their own and forget about you.”
“They won’t—”
“You’re probably not even his son.”
Asher lunged.
SEVEN
Asher sat in the hard chair, feeling abjectly sorry for himself.
He couldn’t even squirm. Everything hurt too much. After those last words it was like a veil had descended: of red. The bees buzzing in his ears noise had become a roar and he didn’t remember much until Brom pulled him off the other boy. He hadn’t even been conscious of his own injuries—which were numerous—until after Brom had tossed him in the horse trough. Breaking through the thin film of ice that had formed, he’d hit the bottom and realized that something was wrong with his shoulder.
He hadn’t seen what had happened to John. By the time he’d emerged, sputtering and coughing, John had been gone. Brom had marched him across the bailey, shivering as his clothes froze to his skin. Neither of them had spoken. He’d ended up in his room, and in a warmer tub, and had ample time then to realize that he was a mass of bruises.
And bite marks.
Brom had rubbed sulfur into them.
To counteract foul humors, he’d said. To prevent them from gaining a hold in Asher’s flesh. A man’s saliva could be dangerous, inflaming a wound to the point where it poisoned the blood. John, he’d eventually also said, had been sent to reckon with his own father. And that if Asher were Brom’s child, he’d thrash him to within an inch of his life. John’s arm would need attention from the bonesetter. And that tooth would never grow back, to be sure. A hard punishment, for such an inoffensive worm.
Asher blinked. He hadn’t realized. He’d felt his own teeth loosened, by one of John’s blows.
He remembered too how Brom had sat back on his heels, regarding his charge as he huddled in the tub.
“I’m proud of you,” he’d said. “Proud of the fact that you stood up for yourself.”
He stood. “But next time, go easier on the opponent.”
He’d then informed Asher that he’d wait outside while Asher dressed.
Because Asher had a meeting due with Tristan.
Who now sat across from him, silent and waiting.
“I’m sorry,” Asher mumbled.
He felt like dough that had been punched down, or a vat of grapes that had been trampled on. Like his skin was just a formless sack of pain-filled suet. The fire made the room warm, but warmth only made things worse. At least the cold was numbing.
“For?”
“For not killing him.”
Tristan steepled his long, thin fingers, his nails clicking. He held Asher’s gaze for a long moment. “Honesty,” he hissed, “is a virtue.”
“I hate him.”
“He’ll regain the use of his arm, if not the full effect of a smile he no doubt intended on using to woo the ladies.”
The silence returned. Asher couldn’t tell what Tristan was thinking: if he was upset or pleased or if, as John had suggested, he simply didn’t care. He could c
ount on one hand the number of times he’d seen Tristan truly angry. Or, at least, display those traits that in another man would signal anger. Tristan…wasn’t like other men.
He was dark. Mysterious. Something flickered in his eyes that wasn’t entirely human. Asher knew that his lord was a necromancer, although he didn’t know what that meant. At least, not much beyond the rumors. That Tristan could control the dead. Control the living. That he ruled through his brother, who wasn’t his brother at all but a revenant made flesh. That he’d ensorcelled his young bride, forcing her into the marriage.
Asher knew that last wasn’t true. Isla loved Tristan. And Asher loved Isla. She was kind, and warm. She listened to him.
As to the rest….
“I’m curious to know,” Tristan said blandly, “what John did to earn your wrath.”
Asher swallowed. This was the moment. There had been times, especially during their visit south to court Isla, when he’d felt legitimate. When Rowena had attacked him, Tristan had stepped in. I was defending my child. He remembered those words. Cherished them.
But still there had been no acknowledgment.
Not overtly, at least.
And Tristan had never addressed his comment with Asher. It was as though he’d never spoken the words. Things simply continued on as usual, and eventually the rosy haze of that morning had faded into doubt. The same nagging doubt that had plagued him now for as long as he could remember. The doubt that maybe John was right.
He firmed his lip, and forced himself to speak the words. “He said I wasn’t your son.”
“I see.”
There was silence.
And then, “does the idea of being my son please you?”
Tristan sounded genuinely interested in his response. This response certainly wasn’t what Asher had been expecting. Then again, he wasn’t quite certain what he had been expecting. He loved Tristan but sometimes his lord—his hero—his father—felt so distant.