The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1)

by P. J. Fox

  His hand found her breast, cupping the warm flesh. His touch was like lightening running through her veins, heating her and making her heart beat faster.

  Night held the land fast and a wind had come up, buffeting the walls enough to force air whistling through the chinks in the stone, but Tristan’s room was an oasis. Wrought iron stands ringed the couch on which they sat, each holding a fat pillar candle. The vast, near-empty space was alive with warm, flickering light and the fire cast dancing shadows on the floor. Whoever had laid it had strewn fragrant herbs in among the great pine logs: silver king, lavender and yarrow. The smell was heavenly and Tristan’s warm, drugging touch made her feel as though she were disappearing into the mix of sensations that even now threatened to overwhelm her. She stroked her fingers through his hair.

  He was warm now. His skin, as cold as marble when she’d touched him earlier, was as full of life as any other man’s. She’d wondered at the change, before, and at what could even cause such a change. And now, after tonight, she knew. He felt alive, because he’d fed. He’d taken another’s life, filling his veins with its essence. When that life faded, when that animating force had all but been used up, he’d feed again. Sometimes, she was sure, he fed for pleasure; as did any man. Or beast.

  She pulled back slightly, resting her forehead on his, her fingers tracing the hard planes of his face. She smiled slightly. She was about to speak and, much later, she’d wonder what would have happened if she had. How things might have been different. For both of them. Because at exactly that moment, the door opened.

  Isla gasped, as much at the sudden rush of cold air as at the unexpected intrusion. The herald stood in the open door, poleaxed. Taking in the scene before him, he turned the deep purple of an eggplant. Isla pulled back quickly as she reached for what was left of her dress. Tristan stopped her with a restraining hand. She stared at him. He wanted this strange man to see her half-naked? Her own blush deepened, until her face flamed.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said calmly. “You have nothing to hide.”

  And then, helping her stand, he took his time in pulling her dress back up over her shoulders and lacing up the front. She stood mute, submitting to his ministrations. She was both mortified and flattered. She shot a quick glance at the herald. More mortified, she decided. What must he think of her? Undoubtedly, he thought that she was nothing more than a common whore. Who else would be in a man’s bedroom, and at this time of night, and not his wife? She was no petted and overindulged mistress, to be sure; she was hardly glamorous enough, or sophisticated.

  Tristan turned to the messenger. Isla, focusing her thoughts, saw that he wore the uniform of a royal herald. She’d never seen one in person before, but she guessed that the badge on his shoulder marked him as the king’s personal representative.

  Speaking as calmly as though he’d been interrupted while reading a book, Tristan addressed the man. His tone was as courtly as ever, the vaguely hissing undercurrent making him sound as cold and sibilant as a snake. “See that the lady returns to her room safely, and then come back to me.”

  After a beat, the herald nodded. Well, Isla decided, he’d probably seen stranger at the palace.

  Tristan turned back to her. His hand still rested on the small of her back, where it had been the whole time he’d talked to the herald. He seemed to feel no embarrassment at being found with her there, in such a compromising position. Which made her feel, if no less mortified, then at least somewhat happier. She was beginning, for the first time in her life, to feel legitimate. Wanted. Visible. He hadn’t tried to hide her; she was going to be his wife; there was nothing to hide.

  He held her gaze for a long moment and then, leaning down, kissed her lightly on the forehead. “We shall see each other soon,” he told her, the words sounding oddly formal. “I promise. But in the meantime,” he added, quoting a children’s rhyme even older than he, “sleep well, and heed no nightly noises.”

  She nodded.

  And then she was walking down the hall with the messenger, and Tristan was gone.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Isla woke up tired and sore. She didn’t remember falling asleep and to the best of her knowledge hadn’t dreamed. She felt, yawning and stretching as she stared up at the canopy, like she was coming out of a deep hibernation. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought she’d been drugged. But no, the only drug in her system was exhaustion. That, and the hangover-like effect of recovering from a deep shock.

  She sat up. She’d been in her cups before, once, and hadn’t understood why any sane person would want to do such a thing. She hadn’t had fun; she’d been nauseous and bored and later been plagued with strange, unsettling dreams. She’d woken up the next morning feeling like someone had packed cotton wool between her ears but even so, that had been nothing compared to this.

  She levered one leg out of bed, and then the other, wincing at the sudden rush of cold as she parted the curtains and wondering if there was tea to be had. Strong tea. She couldn’t bear the thought of small ale, which was what the average person had with breakfast; it would put her back to sleep.

  The door to her room flew open, the heavy oak hitting the wall behind it with a bang. Isla jumped.

  “Good morning!” Rose called, oblivious to Isla’s startlement. “It’s a beautiful day out, although you wouldn’t know.” She twitched the curtains aside and, peering in, grinned at the still-sitting Isla. “You’ve been asleep for hours, lazybones.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly noon.”

  “What?” Isla jumped to her feet, astonished.

  “Of course,” Rose continued, busying herself with straightening up the room, “at Caer Addanc you’ll be able to sleep all day.” She looked over her shoulder, from where she stood near the window. She was polishing the lip of an ewer with the corner of her apron. “I don’t suppose the lady of that house is called on to do much, is she?”

  “Well,” Isla stammered, “I don’t know.”

  “You can flit around, wearing furs.” Rose held the ewer up to the light. “Dance and repose on couches and nap to your heart’s content. When His Grace doesn’t have you locked in the bedroom, of course.”

  “Rose!”

  “What?” Rose laughed good-naturedly. “You’re not that innocent.”

  “I,” Isla replied, blushing furiously, “have no idea what you mean.” Although she did. Apparently Rose, too, had heard the rumors. Had anyone in all of Enzie Moore not heard them at this point?

  Or was Isla doomed to be a terminal slut until she finally left for Darkling Reach? She dropped into her chair, and stared into the fire. Or what—the horrifying thought occurred to her—if the rumors followed her? She was suddenly and quite painfully aware that she had only nineteen winters and was terribly out of her depth. Nothing she’d ever done had mattered before.

  “Uh huh.” Rose walked over to Isla’s clothing chest and threw up the lid. “What do we have here?” She pulled out a gray-brown dress that Isla had made the previous year. “You haven’t worn this one in awhile. With the red kirtle—you know, the crimson one, that you dyed with those mashed berries?—I think it’ll look nice. The colors work well together, no?”

  Isla nodded vaguely, only half listening. She remembered now that she’d agreed to let Rose come north. She wondered now if she should keep that promise or if by doing so she’d only be damning Rose to the same fate that Alice had suffered. Rose hadn’t mentioned Alice. Had she noticed that Alice was missing?

  “Well?”

  Isla started. “What?”

  Rose put down the clothes she’d picked up. “You’re out of sorts. You stay where you are and I’m going to get you something to eat.” Which, according to Rose, would be most efficacious. For what, she didn’t say; only nattered something about grandmothers and wisdom. She was still nattering as the door closed; Isla wondered just who Rose was talking to.

  Isla had always thought of herself as so mature; she’d been o
ld before her time in so many ways that life, often, was more tiring than wonder-filled. When, exactly, had that changed? When had she started feeling like a child again? She’d never needed, or wanted, someone to protect her before. There had been no one, even if she had. But now, now that there was…she’d discovered that she wasn’t nearly as indestructible as she’d imagined. With Tristan had come intrigue—and danger. He was brother to the king; he fostered a child whom others wanted dead. By placing herself in his orbit, Isla had exposed herself to the same dangers. A truth she’d learned at the hands of Father Justin. She might have mastered Enzie Moor, a failing estate in the middle of nowhere, but she was ill-prepared for the challenges of a wider world.

  She’d been so desperate to leave, and she still was, but…what about Rose? What about Hart? What about herself? How much could she trust this man, that she’d thrown her lot in with? She loved him, but she still knew so little about him. And yet, even now, even facing the truth of her situation in the cold light of day, she was desperate to be with him. Her mornings and afternoons had become a long counting of the minutes until she could see him again. To say that her day wasn’t complete until she saw him…everything was about seeing him. Being with him. Wondering what he was doing when she wasn’t around. She craved his touch and, more so, merely his presence. To be next to him; to be part of his life. To be acknowledged as his.

  But if Rose died…Isla didn’t think she could live with herself.

  She loved Rose; Rose was her friend. And Rose, for all her faults, was a good person. Isla was sure that Alice had been a good person, after her own fashion, but…she realized what she was doing and stopped herself. When had human life become this cold calculus? Of which lives mattered, and which didn’t? She wondered if this was how men felt on the eve of battle, as they planned out their strategies, and was suddenly very glad that she wasn’t a man and didn’t have to fight. She didn’t think she could do it; let a friend, or even an enemy, die for the greater good. What greater good? Who defined good?

  Isla might love Tristan, but she was under no illusions about who held the power in their relationship. And besides, what was she going to tell him: husband mine, could you see it in your heart to only eat certain of my friends? And what—what if they had children?

  She’d never considered the issue before, but supposed that such a thing had to be possible. He inhabited a human body that, in all other respects, appeared to work as any other. Would their children be like her…or like him? Would they love her? Would they, too, be cannibals? She rested her forehead against her upturned palm, wishing that she could escape these questions. They were too overwhelming and there were just…too many of them. Tristan might decide all these things for her, and how would she feel about that? She didn’t know. The depressing, discouraging truth was that she simply didn’t know. Part of her wanted him to; wanted the escape of knowing that these choices were no longer in her hands. Wanted to finally lay down the terrible burden that she’d been carrying and relax. And part of her was horrified at herself….

  “No nodding off, now.”

  Turning, Isla looked up. She’d managed to fall asleep with her nose buried in the crook of her arm, which had slid down to the armrest of the chair. Her back ached from the unnatural position. Rose had put on a mock-stern expression, but her eyes twinkled. She held a tray. “I was about to apologize for taking so long, but I can see it’s made no never mind to you.”

  Isla smiled weakly.

  Rose put the tray down on the hearth bench: bread, honey, a withered apple and a mug of small ale. Isla tried to summon up some enthusiasm, and couldn’t. Instead, she tried to make herself sound as casual as possible as she framed the question that had been on her mind since she first woke. “Rose,” she asked, “did you happen to see Alice, in the kitchen?”

  “No,” Rose said, helping herself to a piece of Isla’s bread. “Why?”

  “Oh, I’m just—just wondering. She hasn’t seemed to be around much lately and I suppose I just—”

  “Noticed her making eyes at your intended?” Rose laughed, but not cruelly. She wasn’t that sort. Isla reddened. Misinterpreting the expression, Rose’s grin widened. “I wouldn’t let that upset you. As like as I’ve seen, he hasn’t been making eyes back. And in any case, a man like His Grace doesn’t need to dip his wick where every man’s done before him.”

  Isla laughed in spite of herself at the gruesome image. “So you’re saying that I should be comforted,” she said incredulously, “that my husband-to-be is only frequenting ill-used whores?”

  Rose turned to her, surprised. “Of course,” she said matter of factly. “You don’t want disease, do you?”

  Once again, the realities of Morvish life struck Isla as inexplicably depressing.

  It was a well known hazard of marriage that the husband might give his wife, including on her wedding night, some disgusting condition. Some could be cured; some couldn’t. Some were merely disfiguring, causing warts and rashes and who knew what else; some caused terrible pain and, in the worst cases, infertility. which was, in and of itself, grounds for an annulment. So a girl who’d never done anything wrong in her life might still find herself living out the end of her days in an abbey cell with nothing but prayer to entertain her because she’d married a man who couldn’t keep it in his breeches.

  “In any case,” Rose continued, returning to the pile of clothing she’d left on the bed, “no one knows where Alice is—or cares. I must confess”—Rose handed Isla a pair of stockings—“I didn’t see her last night and as far as I know she never returned to her bed after dinner. There’s talk that she might have run off; she’s been talking about doing the like for weeks, now. Months, maybe, I’m not sure; she talks too much and most of it twaddle.” Which, coming from Rose, was rich. “Regardless,” Rose said firmly, “she’s a bint.”

  “Rose!” Isla almost said don’t speak ill of the dead, but fortunately caught herself as the words were forming on her tongue. She supposed that such subterfuge wouldn’t be necessary in the North. The thought made her uncomfortable, because of its implications. Just how much did Tristan’s subjects know about his proclivities?

  Even so, she didn’t know how much longer she could keep up this pretense of not knowing. Could she pretend to show concern, along with everyone else, when Alice was finally declared missing? She didn’t want to betray Tristan but she didn’t know if she was cut out for this.

  Except, after last night…she had to be.

  FIFTY-SIX

  The herald had, indeed, done as instructed and delivered Isla safely back to her room. Recovering from his embarrassment, he’d been the soul of courtesy. In retrospect, Isla thought that his revival had been motivated in no small part by his discovery that she was a lady. Why it should be less embarrassing for the herald to stumble upon his master’s brother with an earl’s daughter than with a blacksmith’s Isla had no idea but as Tristan clearly saw no wrong in the situation neither did he. And so, taking up his new duties with enthusiasm, he’d treated her not as a woman of her station but as one several stations higher.

  Which only proved, as Isla had long suspected, that people were sheep.

  Even so, she’d been grateful for his company on the short walk back to her room. What ill could possibly befall her in such a short span of steps, she couldn’t fathom. But, perhaps due to the power of suggestion, the world outside of Tristan’s room seemed cold and wreathed with shadows. They danced against the walls as the torches flickered in their brackets, torches kept burning even despite the cost because if, Gods forbid, the manor were attacked then those responsible for its protection would need to see where they were going. That the light gave Isla powers of navigation was merely a casual benefit.

  Their world wasn’t a kind one. The manor might be just that—a manor, built for pleasure in a time of peace—but peace hadn’t afflicted the kingdom for a very long time. From cottagers to merchants to earls, everyone burned torches at night and everyone posted a wa
tch. In the morning, they got up and checked the fences. Far too often for comfort, there were signs of attempted intrusion. Even the meanest crofter wasn’t immune from attack, and woe to the householder who made himself an easy target by letting his vigilance slacken. Women were raped and killed, or dragged off into the night as forest wives; food and tools were stolen.

  Enzie Hall’s defenses weren’t the best, but the walls were solidly built and made of stone and that gave its inhabitants a measure of protection. And no one who lived in Ewesdale cherished any illusions. If one of the tribes attacked the coast in their longships, or if the world exploded into war again, the manor would be the only place to shelter. So those responsible for its maintenance kept it safe. They might not scrub the floors or muck the stables like they were supposed to, or plow the furrows in the fields as deeply as they should be, but they kept the torches burning.

  Reaching the door to her room, Isla had bid the herald goodnight. He, taking his cue, had bowed deeply and departed. Standing alone just inside her door, Isla had found herself both charmed and bemused. She wasn’t often the target of such courtly conduct. What passed for courtly in Ewesdale was Rudolph spinning lines about removable teeth. Or sometimes men made free with flattery, in the hopes of making free with something else. But the simple gestures of a city-bred man, without expectation and most certainly without sexual interest, represented a new experience entirely. Was this, Isla wondered, what her life would be like from now on? People being so…polite?

  She’d undressed slowly, lost in thought and barely aware of the gooseflesh on her exposed skin. And then she’d crawled into bed and lain there awake for a very long time, her mind filled with visions of drowning and rending flesh and being buried alive. She’d fallen down a deep, dark hole and she was still falling.

  “I should take a bath,” Isla protested weakly, holding the stockings out in a half-gesture of supplication.