The Black Prince: Part II (37 page)

But Hart…had developed a quiet confidence that permeated his every expression, his every movement, that before had only shown itself in flashes. Along with the aura of danger that she’d always sensed, but that too had ripened during their time in the North into something observable to even the least observant. He was no longer the boy he’d been, but he was no longer the man he’d been, either. For a long time Isla had worried that his change, and hers, would erode their bond.

Seeing him now, she knew that wasn’t so. And never would be. He, unlike so much else, was still hers.

A woman stepped forward, breaking the moment. The sense of intrusion was strong, and Isla felt a flash of resentment. Her smile slipped, but she forced it back onto her face. Hart’s smile, she saw from the corner of her eye, had disappeared entirely. His mouth was set and his eyes had darkened into storm clouds. Heavy with the promise of—something.

But the woman didn’t seem to care. Rather, she looked down her nose at Isla as though she’d just discovered an especially fat maggot in her bread. “And who might you be?” Her lips compressed into a thin line. “One of his whores, I suppose.”

It was all Isla could do not to slap her. “I am his sister.”

“Oh.” The woman’s tone was flat. Dry. “The demon’s whore.”

This time someone did slap her. But not Isla. Hart.

Flesh on flesh rang out like a bow crack and the woman’s head whipped to the side. She raised her fingers to her cheek, hesitantly, as if she couldn’t believe what had just happened. Hart had moved, like the viper for which he was called, almost too quickly to follow. And now his hands were back at his sides, his posture relaxed, as though nothing had happened.

“You will apologize.” There was no hint of anger in his tone.

The woman was beautiful. A year or two older than Isla. But lush where Isla was austere. Like a golden harvest. The kind of woman men went to war for. Everywhere except her eyes. Which belonged to a much older woman, and one who cared about little. They were as hard as marbles and, other than that momentary flash of fear, had shown no emotion at all.

“I…apologize.” Her accent matched her traveling robes: expensive. Painfully appropriate. Stiff. “I am…fatigued from our travels.”

“I understand.” But Isla held her gaze, letting the woman see her own steel. “I welcome you to rest. But I will not be addressed so, under my own roof, regardless of the circumstances. Do so again, and you will be flogged.”

“But I’m—”

“Of lesser rank,” Hart supplied. “And here at the duchess’ sufferance. As a guest.” Those last words carried the kind of weight that told Isla they’d been uttered before. And more than once. He turned to her. “This,” he said, “is Solene. Solene d’Ecouis, lately of House Salm and now of House Draca.” The silence stretched. “My wife.”

Isla couldn’t disguise her shock. His
wife?
Her brother was
married?

And to
this?

“She is, as you can see, a bit of a savage.” His tone was still mild. “But I hope to train that out of her. In the meantime, I hope that you’ll consent to house her. In the stables,” he added, “if you so choose. I’m certain that, given her natural proclivities, she’d understand.”

Isla was still working out his previous remark.

Around them, the merriment continued.

Isla was saved from further comment by her husband’s arrival. Asher, too, had found them and was laughing delightedly. He had the right of things, she thought; this wasn’t supposed to be a formal occasion but a celebration. Of homecoming. Of victory over the forces of darkness that plagued their land. Hart’s standing here meant more than that simply her brother was home; it meant that Maeve, and those who supported her, had suffered a major defeat.

Hart greeted his lord with a short bow. His wife, forgotten for the moment, stood off to the side. Nothing else had subdued her, at least not fully, but seeing Tristan had.

Tristan accepted his obeisance without comment.

“Chilperic is ours, My Lord.”

“I am pleased. Lord Cavendish.” Something passed between the two men, then, before Tristan spoke again. “And pleased to grant you the lands and titles of Chilperic, and of House Salm.”

Hart bowed again.

Formal fealty would be made later. To the king through Tristan, his representative. While it might seem strange to the tribesmen, who earned everything through battle, but within Morven the complex system of duties and obligations that ordered political life was also seen as the best title to land.

Isla watched the exchange in silence. Her brother was Lord Cavendish now, an earl in his own right and without claim to their father, or his dubious achievements. Chilperic was the far greater holding than Enzie, richer and more important. And ten times the size. Even had Hart inherited from their father, he would have taken this title as his first.

He was his own man. Just as he’d always wanted. That he’d paid the price by marrying Solene was becoming more apparent.

He presented her to Tristan. This time, she kept a civil tongue in her head. Whatever she might imply about Tristan to Isla, another woman, she lacked the courage to say to his face.

“And there is someone else,” Hart said, “whom I must present.”

An urchin appeared. In truth, Isla realized, she’d been there all along. Half hidden by Solene’s skirts, and so quiet and so still that no one had noticed her. Isla hadn’t, because she’d been so taken in first with reuniting with her brother and then processing the alarming fact that he was married.

Where Solene was well-fed, this person looked like she hadn’t eaten a proper meal in a moon or more. That she was so short leant to the overall impression that she’d float away in a stiff breeze. Like a leaf. Her clothes were clean, and dry, but simple. The kind of homespun a peasant girl might wear. Even so, Isla saw, the resemblance was unmistakable. This was Solene’s sister.

“This,” Hart said, “is Aveline.”

Tristan had seen it too. Of course he had. “We should speak inside.”

There were still so many questions Isla had, about everything, and things were moving too quickly. She needed time to just
stop
. But then it happened.

A man strode forward. He was tall, though not as tall as Hart, broad of shoulder and trim of waist. His hair was shorn nearly down to his scalp and he wore the mud-encrusted leathers of a true soldier. Black, from head to foot. Like Hart. And, like Hart, he was handsome. Although in a fine-boned, patrician sense. A look the scars on his face, and his missing eye, did nothing to diminish. Rather, they seemed to enhance him somehow. Draw attention to his high cheekbones, the aquiline line of his nose. His square jaw. His confident demeanor. This was a man who’d set the hearts of Barghast fluttering.

He bowed deeply to Tristan, a perfect bend at the waist. A courtier’s bow. And then she heard his voice.

“Your Grace. I am honored once more to be in your presence.”

Rudolph. This person was
Rudolph
. Isla’s sense of unreality was complete.

Rudolph was
handsome
. Rudolph had been in battle. Rudolph was being described, now, by Hart as a war hero. A man deserving of the highest honors and whom Hart had accepted into his household.
Hart had a household
. Hart was
married
. And there was—another child here, who appeared to have been raised like Cindra the Ash Girl, and whom no one had explained at all. What was happening?

Another shout and Greta appeared, breathless and smiling. Twin spots of color bloomed in her cheeks, but whether from the exertion or the brisk wind Isla couldn’t tell. Separated from Isla in the milling crowd, she’d somehow managed to find Rowena and tug her through the groups of men both reuniting and getting to know each other. “Look,” she said. “They’re back!”

Rudolph’s eye widened. “Rowena.”

It was little more than a whisper. Isla heard the love there. The longing.

She stopped dead in her tracks. Gods, she hadn’t recognized him either. She, being Rowena, was dressed for a ball although no hint had been given that anything might happen that morning other than the sun rising and tracking its usual course. Certainly not that her husband would be returning from battle. A battle in which he’d clearly very nearly lost his life.

She must have been a sight, though, to him. Resplendent in rose, her favorite color, her hair twisted into a mass of braids atop her head. The cut of her gown emphasized her curves, which put Solene’s to shame. Isla’s sister was a beautiful woman. There was no denying that. Too bad that beauty didn’t extend to her heart.

“You’re—you’re ugly!”

Isla couldn’t hide her shock. Neither could Hart. Even Solene seemed genuinely shocked that Rudolph would be greeted so. Aveline, the urchin, looked to be on the point of tears. Only Tristan seemed impassive. Isla would have given much, then, to know what he was thinking. But the bond was closed to her. He might just as easily have been a statue.

“Rowena!” This from Greta.

Rowena turned. “Well look at him!” She gestured. As though Rudolph, too, were a statue. Incapable of hearing her words, or seeing the look of loathing on her face. “He’s dirty and he smells and he’s—he’s
maimed
. Looking like this, I’m amazed he had the nerve to come home at all.”

Greta’s was a full armed slap that knocked Rowena completely off balance.

They couldn’t keep up like this, or none of them would leave the courtyard alive.

“You disgust me.” Greta’s eyes were cold. “You twat.”

And that was their homecoming.

A
n hour later found them in the same private sitting room where so much had transpired: Tristan, Isla, Hart and his two female charges, Rudolph, and Greta. And Asher, of course. Who was still sneaking covert glances at his new crush. Glances that were full of something that fell between adolescent lust and hero worship. Greta had vanquished Rowena. Laid her low for the world to laugh at. She would have Asher’s unquestioned loyalty, long after he’d transferred his affections to other—and more suitable—women.

Rowena was somewhere. Presumably. No one cared where. After failing to gain support for her point of view, she’d stalked off in a huff. Isla could only imagine how horrible it all must have been for Rudolph. She knew their relationship was strained but knew too that, however conflicted he must be, he
had
married her. Part of him still loved her. And must have dreamed of coming home to her. As she’d explained to Asher, what felt like years ago now, that someone was incapable of loving you back didn’t mean you stopped loving them. Even if you wanted to.

And Apple…Apple hadn’t made an appearance in weeks. Not at any family gatherings, not even for meals. All of which were sent up to her and, according to the castellan, eaten. Or, at least, the plates were returned outside the door empty. She wasn’t letting anyone inside her room, not even to air it out.

Isla sometimes saw her shadowed form, wandering through the garden in the middle of the night. She left her alone. She understood that Apple waited until the castle was asleep and understood, too, that if she wanted company she’d ask. She was avoiding them all for a reason.

What that reason was, who knew. But it was her reason. And all she had.

The mood was tense.

Isla couldn’t stand it anymore. She stood up and crossed the room to the sideboard, where there was food. She wasn’t hungry, couldn’t bring herself to
be
hungry, but anything was better than sitting there on a hard and uncomfortable couch and staring at Solene. Who stared back at her as dolorously as the carvings, without moving or saying a word. That some one of Tristan’s ancestors had stolen the couch, or bought the couch, or carved with his own bare hands didn’t make it any more delightful. And the cushions didn’t help much.

Hart joined her. “You should eat,” he said, his voice pitched low.

She favored him with a flat look.

“You’ve lost weight. Again.”

“Thank you for pointing that out.”

“I’m just worried that, before the next time I see you, you’ll disappear.”

He’d referenced, just then, what she hadn’t wanted to consider. “How long are you staying?”

He shook his head. A slight movement. “Not long.”

Isla found herself studying the tapestry that hung above the sideboard. A smallish thing, ideally sized to fit under the angle of the rising stairs. It was, possibly, one of the few tapestries in the castle that didn’t depict death in some one of its more gruesome forms. Rather, it seemed to be a description of wine making. Some were harvesting grapes while others, bare-footed, stomped them flat in troughs. Isla didn’t like to think about the fact that, every time she drank wine, she was in essence licking between some stranger’s toes.

She turned. Tristan had risen also, and was standing before the fire. Solene still sat on the couch where she’d been left. The twin to the one Isla had shared with Tristan. Isla had begun to consider that Solene might be more than fatigued from her journey. She might be mentally unwell. Her stillness, her silence, save for when she said something awful, was eerie.