The Black Prince: Part II (35 page)

A
riadne arrived at the inn.

She stopped and looked up, surveying the place.

The Crooked Hare was one of the two score or so inns in Barghast. Larger, catering to a middling lot. Not one of the rougher places, where a woman alone would attract attention. But not a place, either, where she and anyone from the castle would be apt to cross paths. She’d heard enough gossip on her journey to know, encouraging those who seemed to base their opinions on genuine knowledge of Barghast and asking questions where appropriate. Which no one thought strange; the royal family was, and had ever been, a favorite topic of conversation.

She’d had to change carts several times, which had been an annoyance. Only once she came to the main road north, through Hardland, had she even found anyone traveling to Barghast. Most were casual journeyers, from neighboring village to neighboring village. Once, even, she’d ridden with pilgrims. Pilgrims! Headed to grovel at some shrine.

The farmer she’d been until two nights before had been decent enough, although he talked. But he, it turned out, had planned to stop the night in some horrible village
and visit
. He had actually suggested that she join in. And that, after he’d finished visiting—some aunt or something, whom he claimed she’d like—they could continue on together. It had been all she could do not to curse him.

Although, as fortune would have it, someone else had come along. Someone who appeared to be in a very great hurry, and who was grateful for her coin. He’d only stopped long enough to rest his horses in the backwater where she’d been abandoned.

A deal had been struck, then, and she left with him in the middle of the night.

Now she was here.

She was looking forward to a hot bath and a good meal. Or as close to either as could be had. Her back ached and her seat felt as worn out as those she’d ridden on. All that jouncing up and down.

“Ma’am?”

She turned, startled out of her reverie. It bothered her a bit that no one had so far thought it prudent to address her as a lady. But she was only a middle-aged woman in homespun, with no horse. “Yes?”

It was a groom of some sort. Young. Probably belonging to whatever family owned this dump. His smile slipped a little, but he remained determinedly cheerful. “Welcome to the Crooked Hare! Do you have a horse? Can I take your things?”

“I do not have a horse. Only the contents of this bag. Which I shall keep with me, if you please.”

“I…yes, of course. Will you need a room?”

She only fixed him with a cold, hard stare. For what purpose did he think she’d come? To service the customers? Insufferable child. She was quite pleased, again, that she’d never had one. Children themselves were alright, she supposed. But they grew up to be…people. She could see what this one was thinking, that she was disagreeable but it was probably because she was ugly and old, maybe widowed and maybe senile, so he had to be pleasant. And she hated him for it.

There was a time, another part of her whispered, when being pleasant wouldn’t have been so hard.

Ah, but that was before.

“Yes. And a meal.” She pressed a coin into his hand. “Whatever’s best.”

“That would be the pork and egg pie. We have crispels, too,” he added. “And caudell.”

Crispels were a type of round pastry, basted in honey. Caudell was a type of ale or sometimes wine-based drink, also sweetened with honey. Pork and egg pie was made with salt, pepper, and honey. Everyone in this inn was honey-happy. Ariadne silently wished them all a pox.

He led her into the inn.

The outside was stone, with green-painted shutters. The inside was whitewash with green-painted beams. There were two fireplaces, one on each end of what appeared to be an adequate enough common room. Long and narrow. A few patrons sat about, talking in low tones. A man, presumably the proprietor, was swabbing out mugs with a cloth and placing them on a rack.

The boy waved. The man waved back. “I’ll show you your room,” the boy said.

The general aura was one of quietude. Sunlight dappled well-scrubbed floorboards through the windows. There was no dust to be seen. The whitewash looked fresh, and was unmarred by smoke. Under other circumstances, Ariadne might have…liked the place, she supposed.

But in her present mood, all she wanted was to see it burn.

They climbed the wide stairs, which connected to a long hall. The boy led her almost to the end. She thought, almost continually, of hurling him over the bannister to the floor below. Not a long enough fall to kill him, probably, unless he landed on his head just right. But enough to paralyze.

These pleasant thoughts were interrupted by his insertion of a key into a door. “Here we are.”

We? What, was he planning to join her? She stepped inside and was gratified to see, at least, that her coin had purchased her a private room. Which she’d assumed it would. Or should. But some liked to take advantage. Particularly of a woman traveling alone, and who wasn’t young or pretty. As in, who most likely wouldn’t have people looking for her should anything befall her, from losing her purse to losing her life.

“This is acceptable,” she said.

“I’m glad to hear it. You might hear my baby sister crying in the middle of the night. Our apartments are just after the turn in the hall.” He grinned. “She’s only just four moons, but I think she’s breaking her first tooth. My mum thinks so, too. Says Amelie has grown a bit sharp!” He laughed at his own joke. Because a child biting its mother’s teat was the funniest thing in the world.

Ariadne stood, hands clasped, and patiently waited for him to die.

“Is there anything else, ma’am?”

“Is the coin enough for a bath also, or must I provide more?”

“The communal baths behind the bakehouse are—”

“Private. A private bath.”

“Ah, of course. Yes. I’ll have one brought up directly. The water,” he seemed compelled to add, “won’t be as warm though. The communal baths are best, because the chimney wall keeps the water piping hot. Nice, too, on a brisk day like today. I know it’s supposed to be spring but hardly feels like it. I even hear it’s still snowing in the mountains! Why….”

Absorbing the full force of her glare, he trailed off. “Ah…yes. Would you also like some refreshment? Water, perhaps? Or wine? Some bread and cheese?”

“All three. And thank you.”

She turned, then, and the boy thankfully understood that he was dismissed.

She studied what would be, she suspected, her home for the next week or so. Perhaps even longer. Although so much depended on factors outside her control. She sat down and began to ease off her boots. It had been a long time since she’d kitted up in proper traveling gear and her feet felt like they’d been encased in iron. She missed her soft slippers; she missed walking barefoot through the moss. She wondered if, after all this was over, she’d go back to her forest.

The room was pleasant enough, she supposed. Low-ceilinged but not too much so. More of the same whitewash, also fresh. A fireplace. A single window to let in sunlight and a single candle on a stand. She wouldn’t get more unless she paid for them; this wasn’t one of the brothels, catering to princes. The bed on which she sat had a mattress which, judging from the give, sat on a rope frame. The faintest crinkle when she moved gave hint to its filling: horsehair, that favorite of the middle class for being cheap and available. A step up from hay, to be sure, but not a good deal more comfortable to lie on. There was a pillow, too, likely stuffed with more of the same. A linen case, a linen sheet, and a coverlet woven from some sort of wool.

A washstand completed the room’s components. There was a basin, and a bowl, both of which looked to have been thrown on a wheel from some sort of local clay. Everything was tidy and well-maintained, if uninspired. The sort of home where a woman with multiple children might be happy, whether married to an innkeeper or no.

This was, in short, the precise sort of place that Ariadne had worked her whole life to avoid being.

She supposed the matriarch of this establishment was also its brewer. Brewing was a woman’s craft and most households, whether they were connected to inns or no, made their own ale and sometimes also cider. In the South, brewing was one of the very few occupations that women were allowed. At least by the church.

Which would lose prominence under Piers, and in the years to come. Along with Ariadne and those like her. For when knowledge was not forbidden, what use was there for a witch? Pathetic creatures like the one who’d whelped the boy, and apparently this over-loud baby and who knew how many others, would seek out doctors. Would compare her cures against theirs.

Would find out.

All of which Maeve had pointed out to her, when she’d visited.

Ariadne’s stomach rumbled. She wondered where that bread and cheese was. She and the robber queen did need each other. To an extent. This was true, however grating. But she could wish, and did, that her co-conspirator wasn’t so stupid.

Asher should have been theirs by now.

She knew what had happened. She’d created the spell, of course. And all Maeve had had to do was activate it. Correctly. By giving the child the stone as she said the words:
to remember me by
.

Within a week, he should have been completely theirs. But even from the first, he should have felt its effects. One of which should have been an extremely powerful binding against his speaking his mother’s name. He should never have been able to tell Tristan what had happened, or even to hint at it. And yet he had, of course. Ariadne could have deduced as much, from the eventual outcome, but as it happened she’d watched the scene unfold through her scrying mirror.

Which had gone dark, and then shattered. Tristan, of course. He’d blocked her out. Which he, among very few who walked the earth, had the power to do. After that, Ariadne hadn’t been able to see inside the castle at all. Or see Asher at all. Her tie to him, which was what had let her breach the walls in the first place, might as well never have existed.

One task.
One task
and that self-satisfied fool had bungled it. They’d have words when they reunited, which would likely be following evening. Maeve would undoubtedly claim that she’d done everything right; and expect Ariadne to believe what, that a boy of a dozen winters was more strong-minded than all but the most powerful of practitioners? Men and women who’d trained for years to hone their intentions and guard their minds?

Without Asher’s help, intentional or otherwise, they’d have a difficult time completing their task. But, Ariadne reflected, her mood lightening somewhat, there were other means of gaining entrance to the castle. And other means of…using Asher. For a start, he didn’t know what Ariadne did: that Tristan wasn’t his father,
couldn’t be
his father.

And if Asher proved too intractable, well…he could be disposed of.

A knock came at the door and then it opened, revealing several girls struggling under the weight of a tub and led by the boy. Who had finally brought refreshment. Ariadne watched in silence as the tub was placed near the fire. One of the girls wrapped the handle of a poker with a piece of cloth and placed the tip in the coals to heat. Ariadne could use that to re-warm the water in her bath should it have gone too cold. The boy placed her food on the edge of the bed. Arranged on a tray. A neat and uninspired meal, for a neat and uninspired place.

“Is there anything else?”

She shook her head. He waited a beat longer, before turning and departing. She watched the door shut.

She knew what he wanted. Knew what they all wanted. But she had no intention of giving him extra coin. No one had ever helped her, in her long life. Her parents had been grasping trolls, seeking to advantage themselves by her marriage. Tristan, along with the men who’d come both before and after him, had been worse. Everyone wanted something; no one wanted to give something in return. Even those who accounted themselves generous, like precious little Isla.

Ariadne stood up and began to strip.

Isla, whom everybody loved. Revered, really. Like some sort of saint. Like instead of blood, like normal women, she dripped holy water from her cunt each moon. If she even had a cunt.
Isla
was so generous to the poor,
Isla
had made peace with the furrier’s guild,
Isla
was the people’s queen. The Queen of the North. The White Queen, some called her. For her skin, Ariadne supposed. Her perfect, pale skin. Some bard had written a song about her, comparing her to snowflakes.

Pretentious, judgmental little bitch, Ariadne was sure she lapped it up. All the while pretending embarrassment, of course. Women like her were like that: hiding their true natures behind veils of selflessness. But Ariadne wasn’t fooled. She’d known enough women like that; they were all the same. All women were the same. All
people
were.

She stepped into the tub. She didn’t need the poker, to warm the water, instead hovering her hand over it. She stopped when it was almost too hot and then, skin smarting, began the slow process of relaxing into it. Becoming one with it. She closed her eyes and sighed as she felt the tension of her travels begin to ease from her. Soon she’d eat her food, and then rest.

But first she had to think.

Isla, who’d stumbled into what Ariadne had always wanted. Isla, whose dreams began and ended with
babies
.
Love
. She was too small-minded to even conceive of what else there was in the world.

She wondered if Tristan had told her. That she had magic. That, with proper training, she could be far more powerful than all but Tristan. Certainly more than that hedge wizard, Callas. Perhaps even as powerful as Ariadne, herself. But of course, she reasoned with herself, Tristan hadn’t. Because then Isla would know the truth.

That she’d succeeded where Ariadne had failed, not because Tristan loved her more. He was incapable of true love, such as one like Isla understood the term. But because he wanted her more. All this time he’d been searching for a vessel. A familiar. A repository for his force, his power. Ariadne could never have been that for him; she was too strong-minded.