The Black Prince: Part II (34 page)

Maeve had been behind the earlier plot. Of course. The shadow behind the shadow behind the shadow of the nameless courtier’s servant who’d brought her the gold. Not that Ariadne had cared. She hadn’t cared what Maeve was up to when she came back, either. Let her play at her games; let her prove to herself that she could fight a man-child for a pointless throne. Let her claim that throne and crow. She’d fall to dust eventually, as would Piers and all the rest.

No. Ariadne cared nothing for politics. She’d help Maeve, not because she cared who sat on the throne but because Maeve could offer her something else. A chance to revenge herself on her former lover. By taking from him the one thing he wanted.

Just as he’d taken from her the one thing she wanted.

Although, she’d begun to consider, there might turn out to be a means of achieving that as well.

“A
pples are the food of the dead.”

Rudolph turned. He looked surprised. And different, Hart thought. More different than could be explained by the simple fact of a few scars. Which Rudolph had in plentitude and which were all the more noticeable now that he was almost healed. The swelling had gone down and the bruises had faded, leaving his skin as pale and clear as it once was. Save for the scars that now crossed it. One slashed across his cheek, below his missing eye. The others were smaller, near his ear.

He wasn’t hideous, far from. His experiences had, if anything, improved him. He’d left Barghast as a fop. A child in a man’s body who’d made Hart feel like a perpetual nursemaid. But that man had died, somewhere in Beaufort. In his stead returned a man who was quiet, although he still laughed. Who had a weight about him, as he contemplated the world. A man whom women would throw themselves at, rather than giggle with. A lover. A protector. No longer a friend.

He still wore his hair cropped, like a Northman’s. The scarred pit where his eye had been was covered by a patch. Black, with two straps. Leather, like most else he wore. Simple. Some men favored elaborate patches, with eyes painted on or even picked out in thread. But Rudolph appeared to have lost his interest in fashion, along with so much else.

They’d stopped for lunch and he was resting with one arm propped against a tree as he surveyed the countryside. It was an apple tree, one among hundreds; they were in the middle of an orchard. Hence Hart’s comment. The apples themselves wouldn’t come for several more moons but they were presaged this day by blossoms. So many pink-tipped blossoms that the air was redolent with their fragrance. Hart felt like he was being half smothered under a blanket.

He came and sat down next to where Rudolph was standing. He reveled in the chance to stretch his legs, if only for a few minutes. He closed his eyes, too, absorbing the sun. It was still spring sun, weak and with more promise of heat than provision, but after so much rain it was magical.

Rudolph sat down and began surveying their provisions. “You can have oat cake, or you can have oat cake. Which do you prefer?”

“I’ll have duck in mustard sauce.”

“I wish you hadn’t mentioned apples.”

That was the curse of spring: its beauty was a lie. The world turned green, and verdant, transforming the brown-gray wasteland of winter into a veritable garden of paradise. But unlike in the true Garden of Paradise, there was still nothing to eat. It was the leanest time, and one when many died.

“But,” Rudolph continued, “now I’m curious.”

“At Samhain, apple wood is burned in honor of those who will return in the spring.”

Samhain was the solemn night, which marked the coming of the winter or, as it was known among the Tribesmen, the dark half of the year. It came at the end of the harvest. And, because the veil between the worlds was considered thinnest on that night, it was also a time when Northern families honored their ancestors.

Although the Chosen had a different ritual: they honored, not their own ancestors, but the forgotten dead.

Hart turned, cracking his eye open as he shaded his face with his hand. Rudolph was sitting, legs crossed, like a schoolboy. “You should know, too,” Hart told him, “that it’s tradition for a hunter to leave two apples in the wood, after his hunt. As an offering of thanks to the Horned God.”

“Ah, yes.” Rudolph nibbled his oat cake. Still as fastidious as ever. “But I am no pagan.”

“No one’s perfect.”

“When I decide to practice the dark arts, my friend, you will most assuredly be the first to know.”

“Thank you. But most practitioners of the Northern religion find me just as repulsive as you do.”

“That’s the wonderful thing about being a good son of the Mediator: I find you all equally repulsive!”

Hart made a noise and resumed pretending to sleep.

“So are you going to tell me now that apple cider summons spirits, or something?”

“No. But you can substitute it for blood, in those rituals requiring it.”

“Seems a waste of cider.”

“You drink the blood.”

“Oh.” And then, “that is disgusting. Really. What were you on about, to join this ridiculous cult?”

“You are only the second person with sufficient courage to ask me that question.”

“What happened to the first?”

“We left him behind.”

In Hart’s absence, Arvid would rule. Although Hart didn’t plan on this trip spanning more than a moon, a moon could be a long time indeed in times like these. He would have preferred not leaving at all, but that was impossible. For a number of reasons. First and foremost, because his heart was still in Barghast. Without Lissa, he felt like he was separated from himself. It was an unpleasant and disorienting problem to have.

And then there was the secondary issue of Aveline. She was a valuable hostage. Far too valuable to be left with strangers. As disturbing as his wife’s thoughts on the subject of sin were, he’d heard them before. To the average Southron, death was indeed preferable to sin. Dispatching a loved one to heaven before they became ineligible to go was, therefore, performing a great boon on their behalf. If they didn’t wish it, well, that was just a sign that the corruptive influences of the world were beginning to take hold and they should be dispatched all the sooner. For who would prefer to continue living within it, over a fine martyr’s death?

Aveline was with Emma, who had also elected to come. And, if Isla permitted, remain. Aveline seemed to like Emma, and had spent the morning laughing delightedly at her tales. Emma, for her part, seemed well suited to the role of surrogate older sister. Aveline’s actual older sister had avoided them both, riding as far back as she could manage.

Which she’d been doing since the start of the trip. She’d also informed Hart, quite icily, that she had no interest in sharing his tent. Which was fine; for a week now, he’d been sharing Emma’s. Emma was an enthusiastic and competent lover, who enjoyed trying new things. Or being subjected to them, as was a rather more proper description.

Emma had no expectation of him, other than that he keep her warm and make her climax. She intended to seek her fortunes elsewhere. Hart both wished her the best and knew, being a man, that she’d have no shortage of suitors in Barghast should she want them. Any man intelligent enough to imagine what she looked like under her shift, who then saw her with Aveline, would immediately propose marriage.

Solene, predictably, had been scandalized. But as Hart had reminded her during one of their few private conversations, all she had to do was ask. He’d return to her tent. Act like the proper husband. He was even willing to, if she wanted, broker the terms of a sort of fidelity.

If
she did her part.

In the meantime, Solene could appreciate what it was like to, as Isla had liked to quip as a child, have a spoonful of her own medicine.

Hart had every confidence in Arvid. Arvid, like Rudolph, was incorruptible. And would not be swayed, as some men might, by various emotional appeals. He understood, as Hart did, that true leaders were hard. Had to be, in order to lead. Making one special exception after another was like disturbing the side of a snow-covered mountain until the silence erupted into avalanche. Each might seem like an isolated case, but it wasn’t. There were living, breathing individuals behind every problem. Every issue. Prioritizing their good as individuals, rather than their good as a group, was what led to disaster. The good of the group had to come first.

Which, of course, was how Hart had ended up saddled with Solene. Whom he would also have preferred to leave behind. But who had, for reasons that only she understood, insisted on coming along.

Since leaving home she had done literally nothing but complain. Directly and, when she got tired of that, indirectly. Either sniping or sulking. One or the other. For leagues. She didn’t like her breakfast, she didn’t like her tent. She didn’t like riding and she didn’t understand why Hart wouldn’t let her take the carriage. Hart hadn’t deigned to dignify that last with a response. Let her experience the roads, or what qualified for that term in this kingdom, and decide for herself.

“You should have left me behind.”

Hart turned. “Huh?”

“I’m slowing you down.” He sighed. “I’ve never been much of a rider—”

Which was bull. “You’re a fine rider.”

Rudolph shook his head. “You know what I mean.” He pulled a blade of new grass and examined it. “I have no depth perception. Strychnos is lucky I haven’t killed us both.” Strychnos was Rudolph’s new mount. A destrier. The two had bonded instantly. Hart had been surprised, though, at the name his friend had chosen. He’d half expected Rudolph to go for something like Pansy. Not to call the beast after one of the world’s most deadly poisons.

“Strychnos is a horse.”

“Very observant of you.”

“Your body is affected, not your mind.” And while he couldn’t regrow the missing part of his hand, or his eye, he could retrain his mind. Hart had seen men overcome tremendous obstacles in that fashion. Elias, Asher’s tutor and Callas’ bedmate, had lost an entire arm and managed just fine.

Although Hart did wonder, on occasion, how he and Callas managed.

“The dead are much like the living,” Hart said. “Death being only a perspective. We are all reborn into something new, each season.” And what was a season, to the soul? “Being reborn, like the apple tree in spring or the man whose body joined the earth at Samhain, doesn’t always mean coming back in the same form. The cycle of life, by its very nature, necessitates change.”

“Rowena won’t want me.”

This, to Hart, didn’t seem like much of a loss. “A man can’t help, at least on occasion, to whom he’s joined in marriage. Find someone else to share your bed. Or, if you’re too pure of heart for that, offer Rowena a release. As I understand it, the marriage was never properly consummated—and, believe me, that was the tale she’d started giving out before we left.”

Meaning that, in the eyes of the church, it hadn’t truly occurred.

“But her refusal isn’t grounds,” Rudolph said. “Under the law it’s my duty to…force her.” The idea was clearly distasteful to him. He who wooed women with codpieces and badly written verse. Or had.

“Rather, a church court would have to find me impotent.”

“So drink some milk of the poppy and submit to an exam.” That particular medication was well known to, in more than trace quantities, make a man as limp as a dead eel. Or he could drink himself into such a stupor that he couldn’t get hard, or any number of other things. Or, indeed, simply think about Rowena.

“And then later? If I marry again?” Rudolph’s eye widened. “Father children?”

“A man can be aroused by one woman and not another. Moreover,” Hart added, “no proper banns were posted. So there might be something you could make of that. Or you could simply do what everyone else does and throw yourself on Tristan’s mercy.” He lapsed into silence, considering the issue. “The church is hardly…popular in Darkling Reach, but there must be a bishopric of some sort.” There were, after all, churches. And priests, although most of them were the dregs of the dregs, too degenerate to find proper employment in the South.

And whatever poor fool ran that would be reliant for support on Tristan. And since, further, cases for annulment were heard in whatever church court oversaw the area where the marriage took place—meaning that same poor fool—Hart didn’t imagine that there would be much of a problem. A little coin, a little threat. Problem solved.

Save, of course for the one intractable obstacle : Rudolph’s own faith.

That anyone could believe this drivel seemed impossible, but Rudolph did. “I made a vow before the Gods,” he said. “And,” he added, in a quieter tone, “I meant it.” He turned. His eye met Hart’s. “She was my Lissa. Or at least…I thought she was. For the longest time, she was all I wanted. All I dreamed of wanting. I don’t know what changed. I know that I don’t love her now. Or, at least, not as I did. But I know that I want to love her. I want to build a life with her.”

“Then she’s a lucky woman.”

But Rudolph didn’t respond.