The Black Prince: Part I (39 page)

“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.”

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.

I
sla 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?

“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.