by P. J. Fox
“Well, because he’s been dead for some days now and…it’s been a bit warm,” she finished lamely.
“I know that. But wasn’t he embalmed?”
Isla had no idea what embalming was. “No,” she said.
“At home, we burn our dead.” He was, of course, referring to Darkling Reach.
“Why?”
“So they won’t rot, and spread disease. Or come back.”
Come back? Isla swallowed. “My father, ah, was hesitant to accept His Grace’s offer to sponsor the burial. But Father Justin is now…quite dead.”
“That’s because your father’s afraid of what might happen.”
“What do you mean?”
Asher returned his knife to its sheath. “He’s afraid that Lord Tristan will resurrect him.”
“I, ah….” Isla felt faint. She couldn’t decide which horrified her more: the idea that Tristan was capable of doing such a thing or the fact that Asher, a child of not even eight winters, was discussing the possibility so calmly. What must he have seen, at his new home?
Another crow croaked, and Asher’s head turned sharply. He grew very still, then, and very watchful. Isla felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. This wasn’t a child, however much he looked like one. Something had…happened to Asher, something bad. Nearly all of the adults in his life had betrayed him, and far too young; was it any wonder that he felt a kinship with Tristan, the only person who’d taken him in and shown him any kindness?
Asher was afraid of something—even now—and it wasn’t Tristan. Of that she was now sure. Although neither of them had mentioned a thing, apart from Tristan’s oblique remark to her at the hunt, Isla got the distinct impression that Asher’s caution was in response, not to the vestiges of childhood trauma but to a current threat. As scarred as he must have been by his father’s harsh tutelage, this too-adult watchfulness was something else.
She let it pass. The boy had been interrogated enough. And, after a minute or so, he relaxed.
“Asher,” she asked hesitantly, “how do you feel about my…coming north?”
He smiled slightly. “I like you.”
“I like you, too.”
“Good. Otherwise this would be awkward.” He chuckled, and so did she.
“I’m sure it must be difficult, so much change…”
“Oh, you’re alright. You’re better than the last one, anyway.” Asher made a face. “She was a real bint.”
“Asher!” Isla exclaimed, half amused and half scandalized. “You’re not supposed to know that word.”
“Well she was. I hated her and so did he and I’m glad she’s dead.”
The question was out of Isla’s mouth before she could stop herself. “Why did he marry her, then?”
Her eyes widened in shock when she realized what she’d said. It was a totally inappropriate question to put to anyone, much less to a child. She had no right to ask and no right to know, and she didn’t want to know. Or so she told herself. But the picture that Asher had painted, in just a handful of words, was so unappetizing that she literally hadn’t been able to stop herself. She was simply dying of curiosity.
“I don’t know,” Asher replied, taking her question perfectly seriously as though it were a matter of course. And perhaps, for him, it was; his upbringing thus far certainly hadn’t been orthodox, so who knew what he thought was normal. He did, after all, live in an enchanted castle with a demon.
“I think it was some kind of business arrangement,” he concluded finally. “He didn’t love her and she didn’t love him, and when he found out that she was plotting against him he killed her. We were all having dinner in the private dining hall when she took a sip of wine and just keeled over. I was relieved, honestly; she really was a bint.
“She was beautiful though,” he added, almost wistfully, “but she was cold, like a glacier. She wanted power.”
Asher was describing someone who sounded a great deal like Tristan. She felt another stab of insecurity; this child was better educated than she was. The Highlands might be romantic, but a seat of learning they were not. Maybe that was what Tristan wanted: someone like him, someone urbane and educated in the ways of power, and able to move easily through the world. Isla had nothing to offer in that department: all she knew about was dyeing and carding and weaving and running a household. She was no ice queen or famous beauty; what could someone like Tristan possibly see in her?
“You’re very well educated,” Isla remarked.
“Thank you,” he said gravely. “I bedevil my tutors, according to my tutors.” He sounded like he was quoting something. “I speak two languages already, too, and I’m in the process of learning a third.” He flashed a smile. “I’m learning the principal tongue of the northern tribes, from Arms Master Brom. He’s the son of a chief who was slain in battle, and now he lives with us. He’s taught me a lot of words.” And, judging from the boy’s tone, Isla guessed that none of them were good.
“You shouldn’t be jealous,” he said.
“What?” she asked, surprised.
“All girls are jealous. Brom says so. But you shouldn’t be.”
Isla suppressed a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I hope so,” said a different voice. She looked up. It was Tristan.
FORTY
She hadn’t heard him approach and was shocked to see him.
He glanced at Asher. “Fetch my cloak,” he said, “the heavier one, please. And fetch your other cloak, as well. We’re attending the burial in ten minutes, and might be out there some time. It will reflect poorly on me if you freeze to death.”
Asher hopped down off the wall. “Yes, My Lord.” He bowed briefly, and left.
Tristan studied her. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said mildly. Asher had long since vanished into the chapel, leaving them alone in the windswept yard. Tristan did not sound pleased.
Isla swallowed. “I…haven’t felt well,” she said.
“Indeed,” he said. And then, “are you new to deceit, or has it always been a habit with you?”
“What?” she replied, shocked.
“The statement speaks for itself.” His tone was cold. “Now answer me.”
Isla had avoided him, because she’d been afraid that he didn’t care for her. Now, it seemed as though her fears had been justified. The look in his eyes was not friendly as he stood there, waiting.
That they’d gone from…where they’d been, when they’d first met, to where they’d been the night before the hunt hadn’t seemed possible. That a man like Tristan would see her for dust hadn’t seemed possible. She’d convinced herself, as time wore on, that he had been using her, amusing himself with her—even as she’d wanted desperately for that not to be so. But hearing about his last wife…she felt more wretched than ever. Had she made a complete fool of herself, throwing herself at him? Surely he must know how she felt about him. She’d been forward enough. The feeling of his lips on her still lingered and, blushing with shame and rage, she turned away.
“I was under the impression that we had an agreement,” he said softly.
She chewed her lip, and said nothing.
He was so upset with her, and she was so upset that he was upset, and she felt her world crashing down around her ears. She’d had no intention of telling him how she felt, but suddenly the words were coming. She heard herself speak, amazed at herself for being so bold and just as equally unable to close her mouth and stop the tide. It had all been too much; she wasn’t even sure that she cared, anymore, about anything. A vital part of her felt numb.
“I’m no one!” she cried. “I’m plain and mousy and boring and too thin and ill-educated and—I can’t compete! Not with the women at court. Even your page knows more about the world than I do, and as for you…I can’t imagine how you’re able to stomach our conversations!” She shook her head. “You’re too good for me. Too intelligent. Too handsome. Too perfect. And I’m just…me. I have nothing to offer.”
&nbs
p; There. It was out.
“Except yourself.”
“And what’s that?” The small sound that escaped her was half sob, half sigh. “I know full well that you came here with…certain intentions. You were never besotted with my sister and neither of us expected this to be more than a marriage of convenience. Except….” Except that she loved him.
“I don’t, truthfully, know why you agreed to marry me.”
“Because I wanted to marry you.”
“Why?” She turned. “So you could murder me? Or worse?”
He tensed, as if struck, waiting. “I see.”
“No you don’t,” she insisted. “If you’re toying with me, then you might as well kill me because I don’t think I could bear to live knowing that—that I—and you didn’t—that you didn’t love me, too.” And then, surprising herself even further, she started to sob.
She felt his arms around her, pulling her to him, and she pressed her face into his chest. She didn’t care that he was cold, as cold as the air around them. “I’ve given up everything for you,” she whispered, her throat still choked with sobs, “my own sister hates me. I want to leave here, with you, but I’m worried that I have no place at your side.”
She couldn’t believe that she’d told him all this, and wondered what he must think of her. But he said nothing, only stroked her hair. The gesture was almost tender; would have been, from anyone else.
“Oh,” he said finally, the ice gone from his voice, “is that all.” He sounded amused, and almost…relieved.
She pulled back slightly, lifting her eyes to meet his. “All?” she demanded.
A smile flickered across his lips. “I’d debated the possibility that you were more like your sister than I’d anticipated, leading me on for your own purposes. Or, perhaps, that you’d revisited your earlier promises because I hit her. That you might have come to your senses and realized that you were allowing yourself to be romanced by a demon.” There was the faintest hint of dryness in his tone and, she saw, something very like warmth in his eyes. Very like…but not quite. She didn’t know what it was.
“Oh.” She bit her lip. “Well, I do think that I should probably learn more about your…species,” she faltered, “but it doesn’t matter. I don’t care, truly I don’t. And as for my sister, I don’t care about that either. Or, rather, I do. She deserved that bruise and more,” Isla continued. “You should have broken her jaw. Maybe a little less beauty might force her to develop some character.” She was surprised by her own vehemence.
Tristan laughed. “That’s my girl.”
“I didn’t want to avoid you,” she said in a small voice. “I worried that I’d made a fool of myself.”
“You could never make a fool of yourself, to me.”
“But I’m so…different.”
“I want you because you’re different,” he said gently.
“Do you, truly?”
“Yes. But no more of this foolishness. We don’t have the time.”
She wondered what he meant by that, but then he was kissing her. Despite the coldness of his hands, his lips, his embrace was passionate and she lost herself in it. He wanted her, he did. That such a thing was true didn’t seem possible, but it was. It was. Here was the proof, right now. He’d been upset with her for avoiding him, was reclaiming her now with a force that almost frightened her but was, at the same time, thrilling. He’d taken her promise to him seriously—as seriously as she had. Her heart raced. He—if he didn’t love her, then at least he wanted her. And, gods, she wanted him.
He explored her mouth with his tongue and then, pulling back just the merest fraction, took her bottom lip between his teeth and tugged on it. The gesture was both strange and erotic. And then he bit her. She gasped, pulling back involuntarily. Exploring her lip with her tongue, she encountered the unmistakable copper and salt tang of blood.
“That,” he said seriously, still holding her to him, “is for avoiding me.” But his tone was amused. “And to remind you,” he added coolly, “that you’re mine.”
He kissed her again.
When at last she found her breath, flushed with heat despite the cold, Isla asked, “do you make a habit of marking all your prey?” She was only half joking. She couldn’t have said why she felt comfortable enough with Tristan to address him in such a fashion, only that she did.
“No,” he said, still smiling slightly. “Usually I simply eat them.”
Asher returned then, carrying the cloaks.
He had, Isla suspected, been waiting in the eaves for some time. Certainly more than ten minutes had passed, and with the wind picking up she realized for the first time that her fingers and toes were numb. Accepting his cloak from Asher, Tristan draped it around her shoulders. Her own cloak had been, up until recently, more than suitable to highland weather. But this summer, and now fall, were the coldest that anyone could remember. They might even see real snow again this winter, as opposed to the mix of rain and sleet that usually bathed the moors, the first real snow since the Highlands’ grandfathers were children.
Asher smiled up at her. She gave him a flat look. Tristan’s cloak was warm, and smelled of him.
“I intend to find you a more suitable wardrobe,” Tristan said, taking her hand and tucking it into the crook of his arm. “I’ve sent for my personal tailor and her assistants, who should arrive shortly. They can, at the very least, take your measurements and begin to draw up some designs. You are, of course, free to consult with them as reflects your own wishes. But,” he added, “I do think you should wear green.”
She smiled slightly.
FORTY-ONE
The North sounded intimidating.
Every comment that Isla heard about life there, and every suggestion about how to survive it, made her new home sound more and more like a place she wasn’t sure she wanted to be. The bitter cold, wind, the snow, the ice-capped mountains, the lakes that froze as solid as rock; she’d heard that the sun never set in the summer and never rose in the winter, but surely that had to be an exaggeration. Or so she hoped. Hart said that the marked difference in climate between Enzie Moor and Darkling Reach was in part due to the higher elevations; Darkling Reach, with its myriad lakes, was high up in the mountains. Tristan had assured her, when she’d asked, that the North was beautiful and that the glory of their summers more than made up for their short duration.
And Tristan was right: she did need new clothes. But she was worried that she’d expire from the cold regardless. Neither Tristan nor Asher seemed to regard the current weather as more than inconvenient, although the temperature had dropped considerably and was still dropping; Isla found it almost unbearable. She shivered.
Tristan placed his hand over hers. “You will adapt.”
“I don’t see how,” she murmured.
“The body has its methods,” he replied inscrutably.
Enzie Moor’s modern burial ground looked very different than the secluded spot where Isla had spent so much time with Tristan. There were no curses here, and nothing of atmosphere either. Rather, the open field was broad and flat and charmless. Grass grew, but little else, and the headstones stood like lonely sentinels against the backdrop of the moor.
At some point in the past, Isla thought during her grandfather’s time, her family had stopped burying their dead in elaborate crypts and started burying them here. The church frowned on showing undue favor to the dead, equating the creation of memorials like the one in the glade with idol worship. So instead, the dead were merely wrapped in sheets and interred in the earth from which they came.
Isla, Tristan and Asher arrived to find the other mourners already present, or at least those who’d elected to come to the actual burial. The others would have gone directly from the chapel to the great hall, where refreshments were being served. While attendance at the funeral was more or less mandatory for all who could reasonably make the journey, in terms of politeness, attendance at the graveside was a true obligation for family only.
; Or, in this case, for the people standing in as family. Isla would have just as soon stayed in bed, but at least Tristan was here. She did want to be with him, and found that she enjoyed his company even under these circumstances. They assumed their places and he put his arm around her protectively, sheltering her from the worst of the wind.
Their parish priest began this second, shorter service and as he droned on about the Gods and the light and the resurrection and rebirth of the soul, Isla studied this second and much smaller crowd. Hart caught her eye, and winked. He looked well. He’d spent almost every waking minute training and carousing with the duke’s men, and appeared to fit in well with them. Certainly, they’d welcomed him with open arms. He’d worn his typical attire of breeches, vest and tunic, not bothering to dress up for the funeral of a man he’d openly said he’d wanted dead. He did, however, looked to have dunked his head into the horse trough and raked his fingers through his hair once or twice before tying it back.
Beside him, his friend Rand looked bored. Rand had, Isla supposed, come along to provide moral support. Either that, or to ogle Rowena in her astonishingly low-cut gown. She must be freezing, Isla thought. Beside her, Rudolph appeared to be genuinely bereaved. Every time the priest extolled another one of Father Justin’s virtues, Rudolph nodded. He was, evidently, one of those who viewed the priesthood as exactly the higher forms of life that the church claimed. How fortunate for the church that such men as this one existed. Isla sniffed. What a dunce.
The earl looked somewhat bereaved as well, but about something a bit different. Beside him, Apple blinked with exhaustion. Another night of fun, entertaining Tristan’s master of horse?
“You’ll like it, in the North,” Tristan said quietly.
“You’ll be there.” The words had escaped her before she could stop herself. She blushed. Tristan smiled slightly, a mere flicker, before his face resumed its typical mask. He, too, was eyeing the other mourners. Standing with him, like this, Isla finally felt like she was part of a team. Like she belonged. Asher stood on Tristan’s other side. Once in awhile, he glared at Rowena. Rowena flushed, and studied the ground in front of her.