by P. J. Fox
“Yes,” he said.
Tristan stood up, the movement fluid and graceful, and glided to the sideboard. There was mulled wine in an earthenware warmer, and he poured them both a cup. Then he placed one before Asher, before returning to his chair and resuming his seat. They stared at each other. Asher had never before been served undiluted wine.
“Child,” he said, in that strange, rustling voice, “I haven’t acknowledged you thus far for your own wellbeing. I apologize if this has caused you pain.”
“Oh.” But inside, Asher’s heart skipped a beat. Tentatively, he took a sip of his wine.
“I am not…ah…anyone’s ideal parent.” He raised a finger slightly to forestall Asher’s objection. “This house is a cruel and unpleasant place, and ever has been beneath the surface. Although Isla has brought warmth.” He paused. “You care for her, yes?”
Asher nodded. He was grateful for a question that didn’t require a response. He wasn’t certain that, if he’d been called upon to respond with more, he’d have been capable of speech.
“She is a lodestar.”
Asher took another sip from his cup.
“As long as your parentage was in doubt, you were offered some measure of protection. And, too—and perhaps more importantly—freedom. To choose your own life. A freedom that was not granted me. That is not granted most men. Had you chosen, you could have served out your term with me here and gone on to be Asher Moss: a hedge knight or a headman, ruling his own freehold. Whatever you had chosen to do, I would have helped you.
“Brandon was a fool. And your mother…sought to use you for her own ends. I, meanwhile, would rather observe as you choose what sort of man to become. Because,” he added, his eyes boring into Asher’s, “instruction aside, it is a choice. No man comes to his destiny but by his own hand, whatever his inheritance. In wealth, title, or in wisdom.”
Asher thought he understood what Tristan meant: that all the tutors in the world, and all the advantages in the world and, indeed, all the thrashings in the world couldn’t compensate for a lack of interest on his part in being a good person.
“I am familiar with John’s argument.”
Asher started.
Tristan arched an eyebrow.
Of course he did.
Tristan—his father—knew everything.
“And I would have you know, speaking as a parent, that one does not discard each child as the next arrives. As John should indeed be aware, given that he has siblings. Not all, thank the Gods, as useless as he.” Tristan’s lips curved in a small, bloodless smile.
Another log popped and fizzled.
“That Isla is beautiful has escaped the knowledge of no man and I, indeed, have a man’s needs. Which should again come as no surprise. To John, or any child above five winters.”
Tristan paused. Asher knew that his father had, as he put it, needs, but to hear him mention such a thing still unsettled him. Although he had to admit that he was proud of his father’s reputation. What son wouldn’t be? Asher himself could only hope to be so fortunate—in his conquests and in his eventual mate.
“Unless, perhaps,” Tristan continued, “John is ignorant about how children are brought into the world. In which case, his woes are far greater than any you could inflict.”
Asher’s lips quirked in a small answering smile.
“You might indeed have a sibling, at some point. Or several. The Gods’ will in this area is clouded, for all men, as is proper. But I can assure you that their arrival would in no means diminish your importance.” He took a sip of his own wine. In the fireplace, a log exploded.
“The time has come, I believe, for a formal acknowledgment. And adoption of you as my heir. That is,” he added, “if you consent.”
Asher took a deep breath. “I do.”
The silence returned.
And then, “how?”
EIGHT
Tristan knew what Asher was asking.
And what he wasn’t.
The time for discussing more…refined punishments for irritants such as John would come later. As would Asher’s understanding that certain men, the kind of man that John would grow up to be, had their uses. Bullies weren’t true leaders but, rather, rudderless men looking for leaders. Tristan suspected that John would soon become one of Asher’s most devoted followers. Would leap at the chance to be his footstool, should Asher need one.
He’d have to learn not to abuse that power, as intoxicating as it was. And how, too, to play with his toys without breaking them. These things, if not others, Tristan could teach. And there were numerous fathers, he knew, perfectly human fathers, who knew as little of love as Tristan. Still, Tristan knew how to treat a woman. He had that much to teach.
In this, he regarded his lack of emotion as an asset. He’d schooled himself in the arts of love through observation, both of other men and the responses they provoked and of women, themselves. He knew what pleased Isla, now, because he knew her thoughts but even before he’d been able to watch her with a cool detachment and thus understand her more profoundly than the most ardent lover.
And his need for her had been—was still—real.
That she’d cared for him even a little was expedient, as he’d known shortly after meeting her that he’d have had to possess her regardless. That she’d grown to love him, he regarded as nothing short of a miracle. He knew he wasn’t capable of giving her what a true man could, but he’d promised himself that she’d never notice the lack.
Himself, and her.
“This is not a conversation for a child,” he said.
Asher waited.
“If you are to enter this world, you can no longer be a child. No longer have the luxury of ignorance, that is due to all children.” He paused. “Do you understand?”
After a minute, Asher nodded.
Some children enjoyed being children. Asher did not. He was eager to grow up, as eager as Tristan had been. He’d have to learn, for himself, that the fruit he sought was filled with poison.
He studied his son.
The child wasn’t his, of course. Not in the simple sense that feeble-minded fools like his in-laws would understand. Tristan couldn’t reproduce as other men could. There was no true life within this form, and thus no life to pass on. But Asher was his in the only sense that counted. And he’d fight for him as fiercely as any creature fought for its offspring.
When he spoke of siblings, he did so in the abstract sense. Perhaps he and Isla might adopt another. Or another might come to them, as Asher had. Tristan found the reticence that some men felt toward adoption illogical. Provenance was no guarantee of acceptance, and one had only to see Hart interact with his supposed father to understand that.
Hart, or indeed Isla.
Sometimes, around Asher, he caught himself experiencing a glimmer of…perhaps the correct term was a stirring. Not an awakening but not a memory, either. Not quite that removed. He felt, somewhere deep within, the lost mind of his host. And he knew that the original Tristan, the man he’d become, had imagined himself having a son like Asher. Had dreamed of such, in his fondest dreams.
And Tristan, the man he was now, agreed.
Asher was quiet. Not timid but reserved. He’d grow into himself in time, those traits suiting ill a child but well a man.
“A formal acknowledgment, should you wish it, can be made soon enough. But,” he continued, framing his words carefully and with some deliberation, allowing them time to sink in, “would necessarily involve Isla.”
Morvish law was strange. To formally adopt Asher as his heir meant acknowledging his current wife as the boy’s mother. A fiction, of course. But the kind of fiction important to Southrons: that he have a mother and a father, and that the two be married at the time of the acknowledgment.
To Northerners, the whole thing was foolish. Clearly the boy had a mother. He hadn’t fallen to the earth from some tree. And since no woman ever looked at the child she’d just given birth to and wondered if it was hers, the
father’s acknowledgment was all that was required. Surely that man knew whether he’d been present at the crucial moment and, more importantly, whether a bond was felt.
Asher nodded. He was hunched over the first real adult beverage he’d ever been served, having the first truly adult conversation of his life. After Brandon had died, they’d talked. And honestly. But not as equals.
“She thinks of you as her own.”
Something flashed in Asher’s eyes and was gone. Hope. He’d never had much of a mother.
Isla, being scarce older, was more of an older sister than a mother. Or should have been. But her warmth had helped Asher come alive. It was all the things Asher needed: steady, predictable. Something on which he could rely.
But still, she wasn’t his mother. And Tristan suspected that Asher himself wasn’t entirely sure of how he felt about Maeve. The glamorous, captivating woman who’d first sold and then abandoned him. Who even now was working to reclaim the throne.
This time, for herself.
And he hadn’t yet answered Asher’s question.
“Maeve was married to Brandon.”
Asher waited, his large eyes solemn. For this transition into adulthood. For Tristan had only spoken the truth: there could be no going back. Recognition as Tristan’s son would mean new responsibilities. New difficulties. Difficulties that Asher couldn’t even yet imagine.
Asher had long possessed a gravitas beyond his years. The result of too much pain. Tristan understood. There were those in the castle who mistook this gravitas for a sharing of Tristan’s nature. Which Asher did not. But their twin expressions, solemn and still, made them look even more alike than their snow-pale skin and raven’s wing hair.
Tristan supposed that Asher got his looks from Maeve. She had ever been a beauty. And intelligent, too. Unlike her husband.
“She came to me, at court. I was there to petition for increased funds, to guard the Northern borders. Funds that were not granted, as our then-king disagreed that there was a threat. He’d long adopted a policy that reality never extended past the limit of his vision. If he couldn’t see it, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t see the devastation wreaked in the North; ergo, I was a fool and a liar.
“After an unsatisfying interview followed by an equally unsatisfying dinner, I’d taken to the cloisters. To walk in the night air, and to be alone. Maeve came to me there.”
He remembered the night well. She’d been a vision in gray, a color that lent her the illusion of innocence. He’d turned, hearing her footstep. Moonlight spilled through the arches. There was nothing but the sound of crickets, chirping in the warm and fragrance-laden air. Honeysuckle, hanging heavy on the vine. Roses. A beautiful woman, as yet young.
Her hand, resting on his chest as her lips curved into a smile.
“She thought herself seducing me. I was not married at that time and, I suspect, even at that time Maeve had her doubts. About Brandon. About the world. I would have been a conquest.” He paused. “I tell you this not to brag but to teach. There are women—and men—who love for pure and selfless reasons. And then there are those who do not.”
Asher nodded.
Asher, himself, would encounter such women. Perhaps even men. Who sought to beguile him with false promises. To ensnare him. Whose interest extended no further than his title. Tristan was wiser now, but there had been a time when he too had fallen victim to such a ploy. He never spoke of her now, but he remembered Brenna.
For Asher to survive, he would have to guard his heart.
Tristan had a man’s form, and a man’s needs. He’d taken Maeve and made her scream in an ecstasy that wasn’t feigned. No doubt surprising her, as there had certainly been nothing of chance in her chance arrival. He was certain that, had he been the world’s biggest boor and impotent to boot, she’d have writhed in his arms and praised him for being a superlative lover. That she’d married Brandon proved that Maeve was the sort who could put up with anything.
He, himself, had felt nothing. He’d banished her from his room after the act, astonishing her. And he’d never spoken to her again. But he could tell Asher in total truth that yes, he had lain with Asher’s mother. And thus the parentage was possible.
The silence returned.
“Envy,” he said, after a long moment, “is a strange thing.”
“But John….”
“Has no reason to be envious of you?” Tristan arched an eyebrow. “But he does. That you might think of yourself as less is no guarantor of John’s agreement.” Or anyone else’s. “John is afraid. What his treatment of you is intended to accomplish is to make you afraid, too. So afraid that you crumble inward and cease to be a threat.”
“A threat?” Asher’s eyes widened slightly. “To what?”
Ah, so young. Still so young. “Child,” he said patiently, “you have all that he does not. Title or no title. You have intelligence. Skill. A handsome face. Opportunities that John, for all that he is a castellan’s son, could never dream to have. John,” he continued, “was not asked to serve as a page.” And castellans’ sons often were. John’s older brothers had both served, although in minor houses. One was now a knight.
“You, even with a cloud over your parentage, are more.”
“Oh.” The sound was a small one.
“Gideon the Conqueror was his father’s natural child.”
Something flickered in Asher’s eyes, again, and was gone.
“But,” Tristan said, adopting a more sinister tone, “if you’re going to be the son of a duke, then you must learn to control yourself. And on that score, before I send you out to apologize to John for robbing him of his teeth, we have much to discuss.”
NINE
Isla slid the sponge along the inside of her arm. Rivulets of warm water ran down over her skin. She dipped the sponge in the water again. The air smelled of chamomile and lavender, the herbs that had been steeped in it. Herbs used for relaxation, and the easing of pains. Pains Isla felt less frequently now, but that still plagued her at odd times.
She lifted the sponge again, moving on to her ribcage.
As a noblewoman, she had her own bath. She’d de facto had her own bath back at Enzie, but only because no one else there wanted to bathe. Here, however, the large wooden tub belonged exclusively to her. Her women brought it in and filled it, keeping the water warm with brands from the fire until she was ready to disrobe.
There were public bathhouses in Barghast, which were frequented by those high and low. Some were quite expensive to use, requiring an exclusive membership. Most were open to all. She’d heard from Hart, who’d been known to patronize one of the most expensive as well as that provided to Tristan’s personal guard within the castle, that they were an excellent place to form connections. Hart had gleaned a great deal of information from afternoons spent with various of the town’s burghers.
She’d also heard from Hart that there were as many as two score bathhouses now, the most recent having opened after Solstice.
There were none in Eamont.
Where Hart told stories of being served meals at the Baths of Gideon, lounging in the water as servants brought plates of bread and cheese and tarts, the church denounced bathing as wicked. And public baths as even more so. Isla couldn’t credit the claim, that bathing caused illicit sex. Or obesity. Or even death, if some commentators were to be believed. Most of the baths in Barghast were connected to bakeries, making use of the heat from the ovens. And most of the men who frequented them were hardly the stuff of female—or male—fantasies. They were old and fat or, as was the case with Hart, had all the charm of a cross-eyed mule.
The most common punishment that the church prescribed, for those who’d indulged in the sin of cleanliness was three days’ fasting on bread and water. Or, if one had been particularly licentious in one’s scrubbing efforts, on nothing at all. Scourging, or so she’d heard, was also becoming a popular cure for the depravity.
Isla was glad she’d never been to Eamont.
W
ith the church, her thoughts turned to Father Justin. She no longer had the same nightmares, but she couldn’t think of him without shuddering. Even though part of her wished that he were still alive, so she could face him down.
Now that she was stronger.
Now that she was different.
It wasn’t just…the change. She’d grown. Matured. Things that had once frightened her, didn’t. There was a time when Rose’s defection would have left her crushed. When she depended on those who weren’t dependable and so much of her life was spent placating them. So they wouldn’t vanish. So she wouldn’t be alone. But she’d stared into that gaping maw that was a life alone, that was sacrificing her very life, and survived.
And now, of course, she wasn’t alone.
Would never be, again.
Those first few days had been the most difficult. The aches and pains, the vomiting, all of it had been nothing in comparison to the feeling of invasion. Like there was something pressing in on her. Gently. Inexorably. Like being suffocated from the inside out. An invisible hand on her chest. before her body had felt safe, had felt like her, it had become a prison. Alien. She’d wanted to drink herself into oblivion, to leap from the tallest parapet, anything to escape.
But the more she fought the feeling, fought to keep breathing, the sicker she became. When Hart had come to her, that first morning, she’d been well enough although she’d felt like she’d been run over by a wagon. A fully laden one. But by the morning after that, she’d been unable to rouse herself from bed. She couldn’t keep anything down. She’d thought that this must be what it felt like to die of the plague. Although she was, by that point, too sick to care if she was dying or no. Death, indeed, sounded like a merciful release.
And all the time was that slow, relentless sense of pressing.
And all the time, Tristan was there. As much as he could be; there were vital matters of state that couldn’t be ignored. Yet, even so, he spent what spare minutes he could by her side. His presence was a comfort; with him in control, she could relax. He’d keep her safe, keep all the terrible things from happening that she worried might happen. Things so terrible she couldn’t translate them from her imagination into words.