The Black Prince: Part I Read online

  And where Hart’s father was a useless shell of a man, miming the habits of command without actually commanding anyone, Tristan commanded those around him simply by being in the room. Other men followed him, because doing so felt natural to them. Just as it felt natural to Hart. Tristan, who radiated an aura of power.

  Of something more.

  He could understand, he decided, why women found his lord attractive. Women, as much as they decried the idea in public spaces, wanted men who dominated them. Who pulled their passions from them, thus absolving them of responsibility. They were still “good” girls. And such men made them feel safe; they wouldn’t dither about in times of trouble, wringing their hands and clucking like a bunch of old hens when robbers came or the village burned. A man like Tristan might take a strap to his woman if she offended him, but woe to the man who offended her.

  Hart thought back to the night before, to Lissa’s eager warmth in his arms. She’d been afraid of him, or so she’d claimed. And he had sensed fear—at least at first. But whether of him, or merely of displeasing him, he hadn’t known. Still, for all her reticence, he’d taken her and she’d wanted to be taken.

  Perhaps because of her fear.

  The idea intrigued him.

  Tristan finished.

  Hart rose, dismissed. He bowed, thanked his lord, and left. He’d almost reached the door when Tristan spoke. “Isla is well, although this recent cold has proved a challenge. As is often the case, with those who come north. At least at first.” He paused. “The constitution…adjusts.” His voice sounded like the dry rustling of leaves across a courtyard. Or a tomb. It never failed to send a shiver up Hart’s spine.

  “Thank you, Your Grace. I’m pleased.”

  “She will be disappointed to miss you.” Tristan sounded certain. “But there will be time enough, when you return.”

  Of that, he also sounded certain. Hart appreciated the vote of confidence, that he would return. He bowed again, and was gone.

  FOUR

  Pledging one’s life to one’s lord was like a marriage, he decided. One gave one’s all, risking everything. Pain, disappointment, even death. All in exchange for a set of vague promises. For the trust—or the desire to trust, really—that he into whose hands power was given was worthy. That he wouldn’t abuse the privilege.

  Disconcertingly, Hart realized that he might have finally grasped what it felt like to be a woman.

  This line of thought was interrupted by a voice calling his name, attempting to sound seductive.

  He didn’t slow. He was on his way to the stables, his packs slung over one shoulder. His boots rang out on the tile. He hoped he sounded purposeful, rather than like the fleeing child he suddenly felt. Hart of Ewesdale, Terror of the North, running from a woman.

  “Hart, aren’t you going to stop?”

  “No.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “The stables.” And then away from you. But he didn’t add that part.

  “Oh. We used to have a lot of fun in the stables.”

  Did they? It didn’t seem so now. “Rose,” he said, “I’m busy.”

  “What?”

  She was attempting to sound all wide-eyed and sweet, the picture of fresh-faced innocence. But she didn’t. She sounded like an old hag. Hard around the edges and brittle, her façade cracking as she grew out of it. Girls couldn’t stay young forever—neither could boys—and pretending one was still young when one wasn’t only drew attention to the problem.

  Rose wasn’t precocious; she was an actress who’d missed her mark.

  He reached the stables and went to work saddling his horse.

  Cedric turned a baleful eye on him, communicating clearly that this was nap time and not work time. No doubt, he felt very much abused. Well so did Hart.

  Rose walked over to the gate, swinging her hips in what she imagined was a provocative fashion. She flashed Hart her best ingénue expression. “I miss you.”

  Hart tightened the girth, gave Cedric a good slap to surprise him and then tightened it again. Horses were canny creatures; they liked to hold their air in, so nothing would be too tight. “I don’t have time for this,” he said, without looking up.

  “You used to.”

  He grunted.

  “You used to love me.”

  He straightened. This was getting ridiculous. “Rose,” he said, turning and facing her for the first time, “I never loved you. If I’d loved you, I would have married you. Or at least asked you to come north with me.” He paused, letting the words sink in. He’d learned the art of silence, at Tristan’s court. “I passed time with you. A time that is now in the past.”

  “Passed time, then.” She pouted. How could he have ever found her put-on airs attractive? She was like a spoiled child in a grown woman’s body, fussing because she couldn’t have the toy she wanted. There was no real want there, no real affection, only a determination that she not be thwarted.

  He checked his saddle bags.

  He felt her hand on his shoulder, her warm breath on his neck. “It’s been so cold, these past few nights. You should have come to me last night, to warm me.”

  “I was with another woman.”

  But even that didn’t deter her. “We Southrons should stick together,” she said, somewhat fixedly. He noticed that she used the Northern slight, tossing it off casually. “Keep each other warm…help each other. Forgive each other, and be loyal to each other.”

  Turning again, he pushed her off him. She stumbled back, surprised. Plainly, she couldn’t understand why she wasn’t succeeding.

  “I’m no Southron,” he said. Not now. And this was a woman he’d bedded. Considered a friend. Gods, how had he ever been so young?

  “But—”

  “You should avoid me.”

  Thinking she understood, she once again adopted that false-sweet tone. “Oh, I’m not frightened of you. I’m sure other people are.” She smiled. “But I don’t care about your…being one of those people. I don’t need you to be tender, or to be something you’re not.”

  “I was tender enough to Lissa,” he said, somewhat cruelly. He didn’t tell her that Lissa was only a whore. “But the reason I tell you to avoid me isn’t that. It’s because you’re a lying, betraying daughter of the marshes who turned her back on her mistress and I’d no more touch you than I’d give my cock into the hands of a leper.”

  “Isla?” Rose gaped.

  “Yes. Isla.” His sister.

  “But—you’re supposed to be with me!”

  “I was never with you,” he corrected her. “And I’d never touch you now.”

  “You’re hateful!” Rose shook—with anger. Her eyes had turned small, and cold. This was the face Isla had seen, all those months ago. “I hope this—I hope this Lissa, whoever she is, I hope you give her a disease!”

  “The same disease you’re begging for?” His tone was casual.

  Rose’s mouth worked.

  He knew why Rose wanted him. The same man she never would have seriously pursued before, because he was only a bastard, was now important. She didn’t seem to realize, though, that while she might treat him differently he was still the same man. His loyalty was for those who cared about the man. Not the position, or the reputation. And for those who dealt kindly with his sister, his best friend and, now, the only true family he had.

  “You’re lucky I don’t kill you where you stand.”

  Rose took a step back.

  They’d grown apart so far since they’d come to Caer Addanc. Hart had come, of course, to take service with Tristan; and Rose had come to take service with Isla. A promotion far beyond what her accomplishments allowed. Any woman in Rose’s place should have jumped at this chance to transform her fortunes. A chance at a different life, truly. And an opportunity that should have bound her all the more firmly to Isla. For what did men—and women—earn each others’ loyalty, if not the gift of chances such as this?

  Instead, Rose had no sooner arrived than she�
�d turned on her mistress. Supposing, apparently, that there’d be a place for her here independent of Isla’s intervention. Or, even more troubling, she might have supposed that Isla would be too cowed by Rose’s defection to object, letting Rose stay on and continue to torment her. That Rose envisioned herself the better mistress was obvious. If the reasons supporting such a conclusion were not. Perhaps she’d planned, indeed, on becoming the mistress; reducing Isla to such a state of self-hatred that she became nonfunctional while Rose herself pursued Tristan.

  Had Hart been in Isla’s place, he’d have thrown Rose out into the snow in her smallclothes. But Isla had ever been the gentler spirit, and instead insisted that Rose be found some placement within the castle walls. And so she had been: as a scullery maid.

  That she ever saw her former mistress was doubtful, except perhaps in passing. Had she stayed the course, she’d have eaten at table with Isla instead of in the kitchens with the other peasants. The salt of the earth, who had no patience for Rose and her airs and told her so.

  She was given all the worst jobs, not because she’d fallen from grace but because she thought herself better than others. Meanwhile Hart’s star had only risen. That he’d earned his reputation—for good and for ill—was beyond dispute.

  “That I don’t is merely as a favor to Isla.”

  Rose stared.

  “She’d be upset.” Hart used his most patient tone, as if tutoring a particularly stupid child.

  “She’s…a devil.” That last word was a hiss.

  “And so am I.”

  And then Hart was on the road.

  FIVE

  He and Callas made good time that first day, stopping just short of the first passes to make camp.

  They’d brought a small group of men with them, hand-picked for their endurance and skill with a sword. Men whom both Callas and Hart trusted. He thought again about what Tristan had told them: that a group of townspeople were harboring those loyal to Maeve. Molag would be a sensible spot from which to launch an incursion down into Barghast. High up in the foothills, it was difficult to reach. While any advancing soldiers could be picked off easily. A handful of competent archers, really, that was all that was needed.

  He hoped devoutly that the rebels—and he was certain that there were rebels—hadn’t been apprised of their coming.

  Callas added more wood to the fire. Around them, snow drifted down in lazy swirls. Dusk was just now lengthening the shadows, long finger-like things that stretched across the small clearing. Only a fool waited to make camp until he had to. They’d found this spot, and so they’d stopped. If they’d waited another hour, they’d have had no choice in the matter and might have ended up somewhere completely exposed to the wind or, even worse, indefensible. Both man and beast were a danger in these woods, as they were everywhere. He who wanted to survive, planned ahead.

  Dinner was rabbit. He’d learned the art from Callas of skinning a rabbit without a knife, something that most Northerners apparently learned in infancy. At the rabbit’s knee, one pushed the joint out until it separated from the meat. Which took a bit of practice, and the first few times had left Hart swearing. But eventually he’d mastered the trick, which punctured the hide. He’d learned, too, to follow that up by working his fingers around the leg until the hide separated from the entire knee and slowly freeing the meat from the hide like he was pulling off a woman’s stocking.

  Because, as Callas had pointed out, a knife was optimal but sometimes a knife was lost. After battle, or elsewise. A man still had to eat.

  And Hart knew from firsthand experience that a man who relied on weapons to survive, wouldn’t.

  He turned the stick that held the rabbits. The rest of the men were either pitching tents or gathering firewood. He had trouble crediting the idea that he’d only been lying with Lissa that morning. His departure from the inn seemed like it had taken place a thousand years ago. He was bone tired, but he’d volunteered to take the first watch because it was easier to remain alert than to find the state again after a taste of sleep.

  Callas, beside him, seemed content.

  Hart breathed deeply, savoring the taste and scent of the air. Fir trees and cold. And with them, that sense of peace that could only be experienced in the forest. He’d dreamed of such a place, growing up. But he’d never expected to actually be there.

  Callas turned. “What’s on your mind, brother?”

  “That someone wants to destroy this.”

  “Wants to, yes.” His friend’s implication was clear.

  But to Hart, who’d grown up in the South, the rugged beauty of the North was infinitely more precious. He knew, as Callas never could, what it was like to slog through inches-deep troughs of human waste to reach the butcher shop, or any other shop in the center of town. To feel that same waste trickle down the inside of his collar, because some housewife hadn’t bothered to call out before dumping her night soil. To know that these and other indignities were the result of local leadership too weak to enforce the law and too disinterested in all but their own enrichment to remedy that situation.

  Men like his father controlled the South, if controlled was the word to use. They inherited their positions, while men like Hart were left to rot. What mattered one’s intelligence, or work ethic? Such things paled in comparison to knowledge of one’s forebears.

  He was safer here, on the eve of battle, than he’d ever been riding into town in Ewesdale.

  No. The North couldn’t become as the South. Hart would protect his new home.

  “I am also,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “concerned for Isla.”

  “The cold is no great thing.”

  “She must have lost the child.”

  His friend’s eyes widened fractionally. “She was with child?”

  “Not that she admitted.” He turned the rabbits again. They were becoming nice and crispy. “But it was well known at the time that her husband hadn’t waited until their wedding night to take her virtue. She came to him often in those first few weeks of their courtship, a fact that Rowena advertised to all who’d listen.”

  “A woman bedding her betrothed is hardly news.”

  “In the South it is.”

  Callas made a noncommittal sound.

  “One minute they were thick as thieves and the next they were circling each other like cats.” He shook his head. “Then things were fine again. She must have found out, and worried about telling him, and—”

  “But the arrival of a child is a joyous occasion.”

  “Not in the South.”

  They shared this acknowledgment in silence. Callas knew of Hart’s past. Was so far the only person Hart had ever met, with whom he felt comfortable admitting the hard truths of his childhood. Isla knew, because she’d been there. But they’d never discussed it.

  “There is no reason for upset, unless one doubts that the child is one’s own.”

  “There is, if the woman is unmarried.”

  “Marriage is no magic charm, forcing a woman to lust only for her husband.”

  “In the South it is.”

  Callas removed the rabbits from the fire and handed Hart his portion. The flesh was scalding hot and delicious. Hart sucked the juices from his fingers, feeling himself warmed from the inside out. He’d acquired a taste for rabbit. And those in the North were fatter and sweeter besides. A tastier morsel than their scrawny, sinewy cousins in the moors.

  “Perhaps the child never quickened.”

  Callas referred to the fact that, whatever Isla’s state when she’d set out for Darkling Reach, she certainly wasn’t with child now. She’d been sick for a time after arriving, and spent the better part of a fortnight holed up in her room. Hart had heard the rumors, of course: that the duke had ensorcelled her somehow. That she was now, as Rose had claimed, a demon just like him. But Hart had come to visit his sister often enough and found her, while drawn, to be much herself. Whatever spell the duke might have laid on her—one of protection, perhaps—she
was still fundamentally the same person. And she was certainly no necromancer.

  “His Grace needs an heir.”

  “What about Asher?”

  Callas drank some wine, and thought. “He has yet to acknowledge the child, but this could be for political reasons.” Whatever Tristan’s reasoning—for anything—he didn’t discuss it with the likes of his guard. They were left to speculate. “Because,” Callas continued, “Maeve still claims that the child is Brandon’s and so long as the world believes this to be the case, Tristan still has a hostage.”

  “It isn’t the fact of his being illegitimate?”

  “He clearly favors the boy. As,” Callas added, “does your sister.”

  “But could Asher inherit?”

  “If he were formally recognized, then yes. The child of a man’s loins is still the child of his loins. And if Isla….” Callas trailed off, his gaze on the fire.

  “If Isla what?”

  But it was a long time before Callas spoke.

  Because there was greater import, here, than simply the sorrows of one woman.

  “It happens, sometimes, that after a woman loses a child she cannot have another.” He finished the last of his rabbit. “It was so with my sister, after her third. She and her husband took their other children in, after the woman who was supposed to be their mother abandoned them.” He stopped. The silence stretched again. He was right: Tristan needed an heir. Tristan’s brother needed an heir. The king, for all his reputed attachment to his wife, had yet to produce one—or even the rumor of one.

  And the kingdom was on the brink of war.

  SIX

  Asher tramped around the stableyard, feeling used.

  He’d just finished his eleventh year at Solstice and here he was, still mucking around just like he had when he was a child! They wouldn’t let him use any real weapons, not yet. Practice swords and practice maces and other things that were stupid. He wasn’t even allowed to use his longbow without supervision. Supervision that mainly consisted of Tristan lecturing him. Or Brom. He couldn’t decide which of them was worse.