by P. J. Fox
“You don’t become…less yourself,” Tristan offered. “But more.”
Herself and another. A mind expanded beyond such petty things as boundaries, a self that existed without I. There was a time when Isla couldn’t have imagined such a thing, where she would have recoiled in horror. Now she just sighed and stared into the fire.
“Was that—last night…?” Had it been some sort of…training?
“For lack of a better term, yes.”
“Oh.”
“There are things that can…help sublimate your will to mine. Make the process easier.” And less painful. Tristan was aware of her pain, and it concerned him.
“I feel better now, though.”
“Precious girl. You’re so brave.”
She didn’t feel it. She finished her ale, deep in thought. She wasn’t tired, for a wonder, but she was in no rush to get up either. “What’s the message about?” she asked.
Tristan stood and, kneeling before the fire, fed the small scrap of paper into it before answering. Straightening, he turned. “It seems,” he said, “that we’ve finally located a traitor.”
Who?
But before she had a chance to find out more, footfalls sounded on the landing above them and Rowena appeared at the top of the stairs.
Tristan glanced up, his face expressionless. Isla knew that, later, they’d discuss the issue of Rowena’s continued presence in their home. Isla was hopeful that, now that Rowena was married, she’d leave. Tristan was equally or more hopeful of the chance to finally eat her. He thought, he’d told Isla once, that the chit might taste quite pleasant. Like deviled ham and cherries. Her screams would be the perfect aperitif.
He couldn’t understand at all why Isla lacked enthusiasm for this idea. Perhaps it felt incestuous, eating a relative? Or perhaps Isla was worried that Rowena’s disposition would affect her taste. Which, Tristan could assure her, was not the case.
Marriage to a demon had its downside.
Tristan left, intent about his own business, and Isla was left with Rowena.
Mercifully, just then, Greta appeared. Isla’s lady in waiting was in the habit of making herself scarce in the mornings, out of respect for the fact that this was time Isla and Tristan preferred to spend together. The realities of life as a duke, and as a duke’s lady, meant that private time—even simply to talk, and relax—was precious.
Greta stopped, her greeting dying on her lips. Isla could see the question in her eyes. It was a question Isla shared: why, the morning after her wedding, was Rowena here?
“I…ah, good morning.” Greta recovered herself quickly. “I should send for more food.”
Which she did.
Isla and Rowena studied each other. Isla still sat on the couch she’d shared with Tristan and Rowena, now, was ensconced in the adjoining chair. Greta returned and sat down next to Isla. Isla was grateful for her friend’s moral support. Greta wasn’t cowed by Rowena in the least.
“Congratulations,” she said finally. Lamely.
Another platter arrived and, for a few moments at least, they were spared from further conversation.
Rowena buttered an oat cake and ate it. Then she repeated the process, with another oat cake and more butter. Five more times. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”
Isla and Greta exchanged glances.
“It…wasn’t all you’d hoped?”
Rowena gave Greta a flat look.
“Was he…? Sometimes a man is nervous.”
“Like you’d know.”
Greta, of course, had had several lovers. Like most women her age in the North. But she decided, undoubtedly wisely, not to bring that fact up. Instead she busied herself with another pot of tea. Rowena, meanwhile, continued to eat.
“It hurt and honestly it was boring.”
Isla honestly wasn’t surprised. She wondered if Rowena made her husband use one of those nightgowns. Or maybe, since they were so far outside the writ of the church, they’d improvised and cut a hole in a sheet. She wondered how Rudolph felt. If he, mere hours later, regretted the union as much as Rowena appeared to.
“No one came.” She sounded more put out about this than her apparently lackluster introduction to the art of love. “Everyone came to your wedding, even though I’m prettier and smarter. It’s not fair.”
“It’s a much much longer journey for your friends, and Rudolph’s,” Isla pointed out. All of them being from the Highlands, which were weeks distant. She did wonder, though, if Rowena had gotten married at her own home as she’d originally intended, if anyone would have come then. Rowena had never been as popular with potential friends as potential suitors. The reasons behind which Isla, for a long time, hadn’t understood.
“Not everyone knows you.” This from Greta.
“No one knew Isla!”
“Isla is the duchess.”
“And I am the duchess’ sister. I am just as important, if not more. It’s not fair.”
“Your wedding was lovely, though.”
“It was terrible. That revolting pap the chef passed off as food, a dress that was even more revolting, it—”
Isla stood up. “You know,” she said, “I’ve had enough.”
And she had. Of Rowena’s endless complaining and of everyone around them simply tolerating it. Or, worse, trying to jolly her along. As though she were younger than Asher, a baby having a tantrum. But Rowena was a grown woman and now, a grown married woman. Let her husband deal with her. Let anybody deal with her but Isla, who’d just discovered in that moment that she’d finally grown sick of being a doormat. All the guilt and obligation in the world wouldn’t be enough, to tie her—anyone, with any sense of self-worth or, indeed, self-preservation—to this.
And so, turning on her heel, Isla left the ridiculous chit, along with her gape-mouthed lady in waiting, behind her.
FORTY-SEVEN
Hart strode down the hall. He acknowledged no one and no one, in turn, dared to bother him. He’d been called in to see Tristan, and he was in no mood for distraction.
The priestess from the wedding, whose true name was Lark, had indeed worshipped him. Had, in her mind at least, taken him to new and previously unimagined heights of ecstasy. She did things to him with her hands, her tongue, that were quite marvelous. And then, in turn, she’d invited him to explore her. However he wished. Which he had. And, which again, had been pleasant. More than pleasant. But he had no intention of ever seeing her again.
He’d meant what he’d told her: that he’d lend her the use of his body, but that was all. No promise had been made, although she wouldn’t be the first woman to ignore that fact. He suspected that Lark, under all her finery and high ideals, was more country girl than she chose to admit. Which was unfortunate. For her. Hart, like the God they worshipped, was a creature of honesty. Honesty, and consequence. If she expected warmth, and understanding, from a member of her own sect then she had a great deal to learn.
He lived for the raw, unvarnished need of the hunt. What came after was of no interest. He’d woken before her after a bare hour of restless sleep and called for his bath, which he’d taken alone. And then he’d dressed, also alone. The sun hadn’t yet fully risen. He assumed that Lark would remove herself from his chambers before he returned but, if she hadn’t, no matter. She’d wish she had.
The guard stationed at Tristan’s office door opened it for him and he strode through.
Tristan alone did he acknowledge. He gave a curt bow. “Your Grace.”
Tristan rose from behind his desk, gliding across the floor to the sideboard. “A drink?”
Hart straightened. “Thank you.”
Tristan poured him a small cup of brandy. Distilled from wine and then distilled again, it had a powerful aroma and an even more powerful effect on the system. “It is said,” Tristan remarked, “that brandy was the accidental invention of greedy merchants. Upset with the expense of transporting large casks of wine, they had the brilliant idea of boiling it down into a conce
ntrate which could then be reconstituted with water upon arrival.” He paused, staring out the window. Little more than a glorified archer’s perch, made for defense.
“Their plan, of course, proved impossible. As wine, much like metal, is changed in the tempering.” He turned. “Do you believe that things can change?”
Hart nodded slightly. “Yes.”
“Like you, for example.” It was impossible to tell what Tristan meant by that remark; whether he viewed Hart’s transformation as a good thing or no. Or whether he simply didn’t care, and was remarking on the fact of it having happened the way Hart had remarked on Lark’s nipples the night before. Sweet and plump. Delightfully sensitive to the touch. But, ultimately, irrelevant to his greater concerns.
He waited.
“Does the girl know?”
“Very little.”
“And where is she now?”
Hart knew that Tristan knew the answer. “With Master Hamel.”
“The head of the armorer’s guild.” And then, “do you intend to keep her?”
Hart thought about prevaricating. About couching his response in some reference to his oath of loyalty. In the end he simply said, “yes.”
“I see.” Tristan’s eyes were bright. Cold. The eyes of a man who understood hunger, but not passion. Need, but not love. “Then what I am about to tell you might prove…difficult.” He paused. The silence stretched into the eternities. “You may keep the girl, if not precisely in the manner that you might wish. Although that remains to be seen. And so long as she does not interfere with my plans.”
“Which is what we’re here to discuss.”
“Which is what,” Tristan agreed, “we’re here to discuss.”
Tristan resumed his seat, behind his desk, and gestured to the seat opposite him.
Hart sat.
He sipped his brandy.
“Allow her to divide your loyalties, and I’ll kill her myself.”
Hart expected no less.
Tristan steepled his long, thin fingers. His claws had always fascinated Hart; they were like the talons of a hawk. He’d watched hawks kill before, using their first and second talons, which were longest, to restrain struggling prey. They tended to consume their victims while still alive, provided said victims didn’t struggle too vigorously.
They usually died, though, before the hawk had finished eating them. Of blood loss, from ruptured organs. Or simply of shock. Sometimes the hawk pulled off flesh in long strips, swallowing each whole, and sometimes it used its talons to disembowel and then dismember. Each seemed to have their preferred method, much like human killers.
How did Tristan use his, Hart wondered.
“Owen Silverbeard.”
The man they all wanted dead, by whatever means.
They’d learned, to their sorrow, that he’d betrayed them. But until recently, they’d lacked intelligence on the specific mechanics: how he’d done it. His reasons. And on where he was now. Not that his reasons, which were easy enough to guess at, truly mattered. Greed. Loss of hope. For these things did a coward forsake his oath.
Those mechanics were what Tristan was explaining now.
It seemed that the disgraced chief was in hiding. In the northern reaches of Beaufort, a Morvish province with a Chadian name. The Duke of Beaufort lay under the mud at Ullswater Ford and his son, too young yet to inherit, was helped in his duties by a regent. A good man, and reliable. Appointed by Piers, from among his closest confidants. And who’d recently written to his nearest neighbor, Tristan, pleading for help.
Beaufort was one of two provinces that bordered Darkling Reach. And Beaufort was in turmoil. One of its own vassals, Chilperic, had turned traitor and was rising up against the duke’s son in the name of Maeve. Aided mightily, the regent believed, by the tactical genius of Owen Silverbeard. Who, he had on good intelligence, had been a guest—if a rarely seen one—of the Earl of Chilperic’s for some time now.
The Earl of Chilperic, whose son was Balzac. Balzac the Fair, noted for his skill with the longsword. The man whose servant Hart had dueled in the longhouse, in Molag. Who’d urged him to turn traitor. Apparently, on Balzac’s behalf. Balzac, who’d ordered the assault on Molag and then retreated into the woods for his own safety.
Beaufort, for all its proximity to Darkling Reach, was no Northern province. The church was a strong presence and Beaufort took its cues—in food, fashion, and elsewise—from the capital rather than Barghast. It hadn’t been too hard, Hart imagined, given this, for the earl and his son to convince themselves that their neighbors were no true countrymen. No wonder the toady, who’d clearly spoken with Balzac’s voice, had called Hart oath breaker.
“Your task,” Tristan explained, “is twofold. First, I intend for you to seize Chilperic’s stronghold. House Salm is old, but well maintained, and overlooks the valley of the River Bruche.
“Beaufort must not be allowed to fall to Maeve. I believe, and the king believes, that Chilperic lies at the center of the unrest and that, therefore, stabilizing Chilperic is vital to stabilizing Beaufort. The duke’s son has scarce more winters than Asher; people are frightened. They need strong leadership more than they need Piers or Maeve, which is why they’ll choose whoever gives it to them.”
Tristan’s eyes bored into Hart’s. “Which is your second task.”
Hart’s eyes widened fractionally.
“The earl’s lands are forfeit for treason. You will claim, and administer them, for the king. If you do so successfully, then they are yours. Along with his title.” Tristan sipped at his own brandy, although little seemed to pass his lips. “The king needs strong, capable men serving under him. Men whose ambitions, and loyalties, match his own. Match my own,” Tristan added meaningfully. “If Maeve loses access to Chilperic, then she loses her access to the sea. And, thus, her access to fresh supplies.”
Which, Hart knew, would be a devastating blow.
“Trapped inland, with no means of gaining either fresh supplies, or troops, and no means of escape, the king hopes she’ll see reason.”
And surrender, Tristan meant.
“There is one more thing. To further cement your relationship with the people of Chilperic, I intend that you should marry their favorite daughter.”
“I see.”
“Her name is Solene. I hear she’s very beautiful.”
Not that it mattered.
“You may, of course, in time, arrange your household as you see fit.” So long as he had his household under control, Tristan meant. Hart could install Lissa, or whomever else he wished, in the castle. So long as their presence posed no threat to the earldom’s tranquility.
Which they wouldn’t.
Tristan went on to explain which men Hart would be taking with him and which he’d join with on the road. The main body of fighters would come from the South. King’s men. Men who’d already lost to Maeve, homes and loved ones, and were eager for revenge.
Hart had every intention of giving it to them.
In spades.
“Callas is needed here,” Tristan said.
“I wish to take Arvid.”
“Done.” Tristan held his gaze for another long moment before continuing. “The preparations are already underway. I expect you to leave within the week.”
Tristan was giving him time to make his goodbyes.
“Should I fall—”
“She will be seen to.”
“Thank you.”
And then he was dismissed.
He stood, and, turning, he left.
FORTY-EIGHT
He went to see Lissa.
She was sitting on the floor, before the fire, with Tad. She chewed her lip as she carved letters into the wax surface of her tablet with a stylus. A thin metal rod crafted for the purpose, no doubt by Master Hamel. Tad rose and held his tablet over the fire until the wax melted and once again became smooth. Then he sat back down. Neither of them had noticed him yet, shadowed in the door.
“You make the ‘d’
like the ‘o,”’ he instructed, “but add a little left-facing curl on top. Yes, like that.”
Tad seemed to quite enjoy having a pupil and Lissa, in turn, seemed to enjoy his company. She’d mentioned, before, that they were studying together. Tad was far more advanced, having been attending the local guild school in the mornings now for several years, but Lissa was fast catching up to him. She seemed determined to learn everything, all at once. Hart wouldn’t be surprised if, by the time he came home, she was reciting the sonnets of Caedmon. Or writing her own.
He felt a twisting pain somewhere deep inside.
“Darling.”
She started, turning, and met his gaze. And, as she did so, her face came alight. All that for him. “Oh,” she said, “I’ve finally mastered the entire alphabet! Even the ‘d,’ which I think is the trickiest. Here.” She held out her tablet. “I have a whole row of them.”
“I can see.”
“Tad is a good teacher.”
Tad seemed torn between pleasure at the compliment and terror that his spending time with Lissa might somehow upset Hart. Hart remembered having much the same feelings about himself, at that age. Everyone else had seen a child, which he hadn’t realized. He’d looked in the mirror and seen a man grown. Did Tad worry that Hart might see him as a competitor for Lissa’s affections? The thought was almost enough to make him smile.
“Thank you,” he told Tad.
Tad stood. He seemed uncertain of whether to bow, or not. He glanced from Hart, to the fire, and back again. Hart wondered if Tad intended to follow in his father’s footsteps or seek his glory elsewhere. Perhaps as a soldier. He seemed fascinated with the life. Or perhaps only with the trappings of it. Like Lissa.
“I would speak to the lady alone,” Hart told him. “Perhaps you can instruct Cassie to, in an hour or so, bring up lunch.”