by P. J. Fox
“You,” Tristan told her, in a voice pitched for her alone, “are mine.”
“For which I’m grateful.”
“Had I married your sister, she would be dead right now. And then I would have returned for you regardless.” He stroked a single claw along her chin, his lips near hers and his dark gaze laden with promise, before straightening and leading her out into the sunlight.
Seeing Isla, Rowena forced a smile back onto her face.
“Felicitations,” came Tristan’s sibilant hiss.
“Where is Apple?”
“She chose to remain with father.” Who was too ill to attend.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Rudolph, at least, was not so rude as to ignore their host and patron. “We are grateful for your assistance in helping us wed.”
“If we are wed.”
“I, ah, yes well.” Rudolph subsided into silence.
“Oh,” Tristan’s voice held a dangerous tone. “You are.”
Rudolph cleared his throat. “Well. Excellent then.” He turned to Isla, as if for assistance. “How does the line go? The truest expression of man’s keenest desire.”
“Is stoking the flames of her womanly fire,” Hart finished. “A bit inappropriate, don’t you think? I’m not certain that now is the time to proposition my sister, given that her husband is beside her.”
Rudolph paled. Hart was teasing him, but Rudolph didn’t know that. And Hart’s teasing, besides, was never wholly innocent. He played with his companions like Mica played with mice. And both sessions often ended similarly.
“Isla is otherwise occupied.” Tristan stroked her arm as he studied the unfortunate bridegroom. “I, on the other hand, would be pleased to initiate you. Just know that I insist on being on top.”
Hart threw back his head and laughed. Isla thought Rudolph might dissolve into tears. Only Rowena, the true target, remained unaffected. She stood with her chin tilted, as though demonstrating just how she looked down on all of them. She and Rudolph were not touching. Hadn’t touched, throughout the ceremony, except when forced. What an auspicious start to a marriage. Although, giving them the benefit of the doubt, perhaps they were just nervous. Rowena, at least, had never so much as kissed a man, despite pretending to expert knowledge on the subject of relationships.
“Please.” Tristan’s gesture was elegant. “Lead us into the feast.”
Isla leaned against Tristan as they walked, grateful for his presence. Asher darted off the wide cobblestone path, newfound dignity temporarily forgotten as he tried to catch a cat. “He has his father’s instincts,” she remarked.
“I believe he…intends to keep it as a pet.”
And then the sun was gone as they were swallowed by the great shadows cast by the keep.
Isla shivered, but whether from the cold or a dark premonition, she did not know.
Inside, however, the atmosphere couldn’t have been more different: a thousand candles blazed, lighting up the great hall like Bragi’s own. Tables had been laid out, enough for all the guests and more, and already groaned under the weight of numerous dishes and tankards of ale. Minstrels played in the gallery, although no one paid attention. The focus was on food, and drink, and laughter. And, now, on the arrival of the duke.
All stood.
Tristan, Isla at his side, seemed to hover over the slate rather than truly walk upon it. Ascending to the principal dais, he helped Isla to sit and then took his place in the great throne. A throne he’d only vacate for his brother, the king. He waited until Asher was ensconced, and the other guests at his table, before raising his hand slightly and motioning that the other guests could sit.
Rowena looked right, and then left, as though surprised.
“Yes, my turtledove?” She and Rudolph were sharing a plate, although no food was yet on it.
She turned to him. “Shouldn’t that have been our job?”
“What do you mean?”
“We are the guests of honor.”
Rowena’s tablemates wisely let that remark pass. Quinn was telling some story about his betrothed, a woman he clearly adored if the look on his face when he spoke her name was any indicator, and Arvid was very thoroughly investigating the contents of his tankard.
“Where is the mead?”
“What?” Rudolph looked concerned. More concerned than he had a right to.
“Mead makes babies! Every newlywed couple should share a cup, at least one, at dinner for the first full moon after they’re wed. Although,” he added, wiping his lips with the back of his hand and turning his gaze to Isla, “the mead in this home seems not to work.”
Isla blushed furiously.
“When are you having babies?” As though the subject of his concern needed clarification.
“Soon.” This from Tristan.
Well, that was good to know.
“Is an announcement forthcoming?”
“Not at another man’s wedding.”
“Well I know they’re not having babies.” Arvid jabbed his thumb at the newlyweds.
Rowena looked scandalized. “Certainly not!”
“You have to have sex to make babies.” Arvid made a helpfully illustrative gesture.
“Yes,” Isla agreed. “Thank you, Arvid.”
“When Sigrid and I—”
“Perhaps,” Hart cut in, “you’d like to give a toast.”
Arvid waved his tankard about for more ale. “Here’s to the king!” He slurped a long draught. “What king? The king of fuc-king!” And then he burped, a serene look on his face.
Isla sighed. “Oh dear.”
“Where is the mulled wine?” Rowena asked.
“It’s a morning wedding.”
“And where is the capon in orange sauce? And where is the malardis?”
But everyone ignored her. Isla wasn’t as easily confused with a maid anymore, at least not to anyone save Rowena, and Asher was the duke’s heir. Hart was deep in conversation with the priestess. Rudolph alone seemed interested in Rowena’s concerns and he she ignored entirely. He served various bites onto their plate and urged her to try them, while she ceaselessly complained that every dish was offered to Tristan first.
“Congratulations.” This from the chief of the mason’s guild, who was perhaps attempting to make up for Arvid’s…unusual offering. “You’re joining a fine family.”
Rowena preened, until she realized that the compliment was directed at Rudolph.
“It’s not every man, who can claim kinship with the king.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Rowena looked at Hart, at Isla. “That’s all anyone said outside, congratulations on being related to the king. Blah, blah, blah. Not a single person congratulated me on being married to Rudolph.”
“He is….” The older man was struggling. “I’m sure a fine specimen.”
“He’s very important!”
Quinn cut in, addressing Rudolph. “You are related to someone?”
“I, ah…no, not especially.”
“He’s the son of the Right Honorable the Lord Addams, Baron of Keith.”
Everyone heard the capitals.
“Ah. And where is Keith?”
“Keith,” Isla offered, “is in the Highlands. Keith pays homage to Strathearn.”
“But doesn’t Strathearn,” Quinn asked, “pay homage to Enzie?”
“I think it’s wonderful how, in these modern times, youngsters aren’t so hidebound by convention.” The guild master smiled. “In my time, rare was the woman who felt comfortable marrying her servant. Fear of talk, you know. That she’d forced him into it.”
“No,” Rowena grated, “it does not.”
The company might have left something to be desired but the food itself, despite missing a number of dishes found only within the upper echelons of the Chadian court and rarely even then, was delicious. Isla even managed to eat some. Beside her, Tristan was cool and serene. What were Rowena’s antics to him? That she existed on his sufferance and yet seemed so blissf
ully unaware of that fact seemed only to amuse him.
“Fear not, darling,” he whispered in her ear. “Nothing lasts forever.”
FORTY-FIVE
Isla stood alone, again, in the darkness.
She was watching Hart.
She’d melted into the shadows of the garden and he didn’t see her, standing on the gravel path mere paces distant. His attention was elsewhere. On a woman. The priestess.
They’d enjoyed each other’s company at dinner; that he’d wanted her had been obvious and seeing such blatant desire in her own brother’s eyes had made Isla feel uncomfortable. Although why, she couldn’t have said. She knew perfectly well that he was no virgin.
“I want to worship you, dark one.” Her words were breathless, and sincere.
Hart’s response, in turn, was measured. “We worship the same God, and I would not have you blaspheme Him for my cause.” There was silence. And then, “lady, my heart belongs to another, wholly and completely. She will never share ownership. I would not ask that of her, even had I more to give. But my body, tonight, is free to your usage.”
“That proposition, I accept.”
Isla felt a cold hand on the back of her neck and jumped.
Tristan.
He, too, was watching the couple.
Isla had known that there must be a woman, but still it was strange to hear him speak of her. She wondered who the woman was. The daughter of a merchant, maybe; someone whose father wouldn’t smile on the match. Or a woman already married. If so, she wouldn’t be the first. Still, Isla hoped for Hart’s sake that that wasn’t the case.
She watched them disappear into the night together.
“Your brother has chosen his path.” Tristan’s voice was the rustling of leaves across stone. Dry and dead. A sound to make one think of tombs and other empty places. Empty, and yet not. “Just as I chose mine.”
But was he happy? Happy meant nothing to Tristan. Nor, Isla suspected, to Hart. Had it ever? How well had she ever known her brother?
“You are not,” came her husband’s sibilant hiss, “his keeper. Nor your sister’s.”
No, but a lifetime of being told that she was responsible for others’ happiness was hard to just ignore. She started to explain this, but he stopped her with a kiss. His lips were cool. Firm. His touch assured. She felt the old fire stir within her, along with a continual amazement that this creature should be hers. Should want her, above all others.
“Come with me.”
And she did.
The tension built within her as he led her deeper into the woods. She hadn’t been down this path before, and knew only that eventually they’d reach the cliffs. The island on which the castle was built was larger, substantially larger, than it appeared and there were hidden pockets all over. The mouths of Caer Addanc’s escape tunnels, too. Or so the rumor went.
No words passed between them.
Eventually, they stood in what Isla at first mistook for a circle of small hills. And then realized, with a shiver, were barrows. Stone fronted the entrances to a dozen caves. Some were in better repair than others; some had their doors missing while others were collapsing back into the earth. There was a presence about the place, as though even the trees were holding their collective breath.
“This is where I should have been buried.”
Isla swallowed.
“My brother is here. And my father, and my mother.”
Their surroundings lit only by the light of the moon, Isla couldn’t make out any names. If there ever had been any. She wasn’t certain that naming graves had ever been a custom in the North. The body was regarded as refuse, and barrows as hiding places for evil sprites.
“I used to come here, as a child. To be alone.”
Isla had a hard time imagining any child being comforted by this place.
He held out his hand. “Come.”
She hesitated.
“No harm will come to you.”
He led her, now, toward one of the doors. Half the height of a man, perhaps; just enough room for the pallbearers to climb inside, and decorate the grave. Her heart skipped a beat as she understood what he intended. She froze. He waited. She—she just couldn’t. No. This wasn’t a place for the living.
She felt the weight of his gaze as the silence grew, deepened. “I am not,” he said.
So easy to forget, when she wanted to. Because she wanted to. Because in so many ways, Tristan was like a man. Was a man. But in truth she knew that, whatever animated him, he should have long ago fallen to dust beneath this hill. A memory of a memory, surrounded by the tokens of his station. A chalice. A plate. His sword, placed over a ribcage that no longer was. Memories out of time, for a time forgotten.
Realizing that whoever lived in here had been like Tristan, just a man with loves and dreams of his own, helped to ease her fears. She took a step forward, and then another, and then bent to enter the barrow. And then she was inside.
At first she could see nothing, only smell the surrounding earth. But with a small turn of the wrist, Tristan created a ball of yellowish light. Isla looked around, fascinated in spite of herself. It was a roundish, domed space, not as cramped as she’d expected. She was startled, too, to see that more than one man had been laid to rest within.
Although their bodies were gone, the stone slabs on which they’d been laid gave clue to their number. Along with the swords left behind, and the treasure piled at their heads. “That,” Tristan said, pointing, “is my father. My mother was laid here, first, on the same slab. When he died, he joined her. May they feast together long in Bragi’s hall.”
That last had the feel of a blessing.
“And beside him, to the right, lies Morin. I should have been to my father’s left.”
Where, Isla saw, the remains of—someone—had fallen into nothing.
“He was no one.” Tristan answered her unasked question. “Just a man suited to the purpose in size and affect, who had the misfortune to die at the hands of bandits. His body was presented, somewhat decomposed, for a burial that was never recorded. For, as you see, we were at war again by then. No one had the time or inclination for such mundane matters. It was enough for those who feared me, simply to know that I was gone.”
“Where is Brenna buried?”
“Far from here.”
“You didn’t…want her here?”
Tristan stroked her hair. Idly. Possessively. “Brenna was nothing to me. A fantasy, strong in the night, that melted away with the trailing mists of morning. The woman I thought existed was no more substantial. I would no more have her here than she would wish to lie with me. For one night, let alone the eternities.”
Isla considered his words.
“And, regardless, it wouldn’t have mattered.” His clawed hand slid down, along the curve of her neck, over her shoulder. “I was meant for you.”
“How?”
“Lovers never meet,” he replied. “They’re in each other all along.” And, leaning forward, he kissed her again.
The touch of his lips was wonderful, drugging, but she pulled back. “Here?”
“Here.”
“But—why?”
“Because I wish it.”
And because this was his place of power. Of his ancestors. Of death. This was the world that he controlled, the shadow world between two worlds that most men dared not admit existed. The world that he would have her understand, and accept, to truly be his.
He guided her down onto the ground, his hand supporting her head. Gently, so gently. As though she were made of the most fragile porcelain from the East. She allowed herself to be guided and, then, undressed. It was warm inside the barrow, warmer than even a cave should have been. As though she were making love to the earth, itself. Pulled further and further into its embrace until she vanished into it, like those around her.
“Close your eyes,” he instructed her, his lips brushing her ear. “Don’t concern yourself with pleasing me. Don’t respond.”
&nb
sp; Which was difficult, as the sensation of him inside her, here, like this, was almost overwhelming. She felt alive. In her passion, and in her terror. Like she had when he’d first invaded her mind, in the orchard. Like she had when she finally admitted, to herself, that she loved him. That she was his, beyond her power to extricate herself. He had this power over her.
“Experience how it feels, to have me inside of you. Does it hurt?”
She moaned softly, barely making a sound.
“Listen to your own breathing.” A single finger trailed down over her slightly parted lips, and paused. “How do I taste?”
She slid her tongue up, over the flesh that he’d presented to her. He wasn’t decaying, he’d never decay, but he still tasted vaguely of the grave: of the moss that carpeted the woods around them in soft green pillows, like velvet. Of peat, secret and close, but with a metallic note somewhere at the back. This barrow was where part of him belonged, and where part of him remained.
“Now wrap your legs around me, and notice how that changes the sensation. Feel yourself opening to me, accepting me further. Being one with me.”
He filled her completely, in body and mind. And in spirit. He was at the core of her being and, all around him, she ached. With fullness, with the pain of the uneven ground at her back. With an unspent desire that radiated out to her very fingertips.
“Give your release to me.”
And she trembled, and gasped.
And for awhile, there was nothing.
FORTY-SIX
Isla shared a small breakfast with Tristan in his private living room. She sat with him on the couch, her head resting against his arm and her feet tucked up under her as she enjoyed the warmth of the fire. He didn’t eat, of course. Only studied a message he’d received that morning by raven. Isla drank elderflower tea and nibbled on an oatcake.
He turned, regarding her. “You are well?”
“Yes.” Very. After returning home in Tristan’s arms, she’d fallen into a deep and untroubled sleep. When she awoke, she felt better than she had in some time. She wondered, now, if this meant that she was finally beginning the adjustment—the true adjustment—of which Tristan had spoken. The relinquishing of self. She didn’t feel less like an individual person, but wouldn’t she not?