The Black Prince: Part II (20 page)

And he’d been content with that.

Hadn’t he?

That Brandon wasn’t his father had never even occurred to him. Why should it have? He’d called Asher son. He’d treated him as a son. He’d rescued him from that tree.

How could Asher allow another to steal his place? The man who’d killed him, at that? It all seemed so easy: accept the life offered to him. Live in luxury. Do whatever he wanted, because he had the freedom to. Or would, when he was older. Be happy. But Asher’s life so far had made him suspicious of easy. He expected pain. Trusted pain. Pain was what he knew and pain, in the end, was what he understood. What he, deep within his heart of hearts, felt that he deserved.

Rowena, sometimes, reminded him of his mother. His real mother. Maeve. Who, since that fateful afternoon when he’d watched his father’s head roll in the mud, had been among the missing.

She was beautiful, too. Beautiful and cold, like a snow-covered slope. And just as unpredictable. Calm one minute, an avalanche the next and with no warning in between. No means of turning back the tide, nor of escaping it. When Maeve decided she was angry, that was it. She was angry. And her anger, too, knew no bounds. Cared not what destruction it left in its wake. And Asher had often felt, after, like he’d been crushed. Crushed and left for dead.

But at the same time he admired her. Admired how others admired her. Maeve attracted a circle wherever she went, mostly of devoted male admirers but some female. Those who envied her, who hoped that her glory would rub off. They were careful, always, to speak only in flattery.

Things were different at Caer Addanc. Here, everyone told the truth. And loved each other just the same, for doing so. Maybe even loved each other more.

How strange, then, that he hadn’t known about Callas.

Then again, he told himself, there wasn’t much to know.

The church might hold to highly specific guidelines about when and how sex was appropriate, and between what parties—only ever married parties, and even then never for pleasure—but the North had no such strictures. Asher had heard of a man’s love for another man spoken of in divisive terms, but only to the extent of impugning the man on the bottom. He was a follower rather than a leader, or at least that was what was presumed. The fear being that if he subjected himself to another in affairs of the heart, or at least the loins, he’d do so in other matters. More important matters, such as those having to do with war.

A true Northman made his own decisions. Fought his own fights. Chose his own gods, as well as how to worship them.

The tribes were famous, all of them, for raping and then castrating the worst of their enemies. Those who had committed treason, or some grave moral offense such as the violation of children. Rival chiefs who, for whatever reason, were deemed to deserve no respect in defeat, were shamed and mutilated in this manner publicly.

Those who did deserve respect were allowed to die on their feet, as warriors. Or in rare cases they were sacrificed to the Gods. Asher wondered what happened to those other men, though, after they were castrated. Were they allowed to roam free?

Arvid called such men soft cats. Asher couldn’t imagine that Callas was the soft cat in his liaisons. But who knew?

Who knew about anything, anymore?

His thoughts subsided into sort of a grim swamp, all mixed together.

And it was thus that Callas found him.

He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. He was surprised when anyone noticed he was alive, much less wanted to talk to him. But if he thought this conversation would be like the ones with Snorri the groom, or Snorri the Stallion as his friends called him, he was surprised.

“Might I join you?”

Asher nodded.

Callas pushed himself up onto the wall one-handed, his cape settling gracefully around him in soft folds. He was back in his uniform. Black and green. He turned, his eyes meeting Asher’s. His expression was serious, but mild. There was no trace of anger, there.

He looked so much like Hart, in that moment.

Asher waited. Let Callas do the talking, if he was so inclined. Asher had begun to feel increasingly suspicious of all the adults in his life, as of late. Of their true character. Of their true intentions. And, if he was being completely honest with himself, of his feelings toward them.

Of his feelings toward himself.

Callas sat beside him, his black gloved hands in his lap. Asher was still watching the lake so Callas watched it, too. The tide was coming in. Asher had noticed one thing about Callas: that the man didn’t seem to wear an undergarment. He wondered if Callas’ breeches chafed.

“I apologize,” Callas said after awhile, “for what must have been a wretched experience.”

“Rowena was following me,” Asher explained. “I thought you’d distract her.”

Callas gave a short bark of laughter. “That I did.”

“I didn’t…mean to intrude.”

“Asher, did you understand…what you saw?”

Asher sighed. He didn’t know what the correct response was, so he didn’t give one. That approach seemed to be safest.

“A number of men who have no true interest in men experiment in their younger years. As squires or as, depending on their class, apprentices and journeymen. Because there are no women available and because it’s…safe. Or seems so to them. Pleasure without expectation.” He paused. “You’re too young for this conversation, but, truthfully, you’re too young for most of what you’ve thus far experienced. So please bear with me. As you know, I have no children of my own. And so am inexperienced in these things.”

It seemed impossible that Callas was inexperienced in anything. But Asher was becoming interested in what Callas was saying despite himself. Moreover, he liked being talked to like an equal. Like he was capable of understanding what was being said, as opposed to just some—oh, glorified vegetable.

“Alright,” he said, still cautious.

“Other men do have an interest in men. Some discover, as they grow older, that that interest is exclusive. Which is problematic, particularly in our culture, as most are expected to marry and bear children. Primarily, truthfully, I believe, because doing so allows for them to care for their parents in old age. Without that support system….” He made a dismissive gesture. “A bachelor makes for a poor nursemaid.

“Once a man has done his familial duty, however, he can—according to our culture, if not that of the South—do as he pleases.”

Asher nodded in understanding.

“But most men, in my experience, favor both men and women. If not to the same degree. As is the case with me. I enjoy the company of women, on occasion. But Elias and I are…we are close friends, Asher. We care for one another.”

Asher digested this. Truthfully, what seemed the most strange was the idea that his tutor was a real person. One who didn’t cease to exist when their lessons ended and Asher left the room. That he had thoughts, and feelings, of his own. Favorite foods.

“Like my parents,” he said. The only other people he knew who seemed to like each other.

“Yes. Like your parents.”

“But you don’t…it’s a secret.”

“Not to your father.”

Far out on the lake, a trading vessel appeared.

“I wish, Asher, for a number of reasons, to protect certain aspects of my life from public consumption. Chief among them being that my life, by virtue of my station, is not private.”

Asher wasn’t sure if Callas meant as the captain of Tristan’s guard or as a priest of the cult to which he and Hart both belonged. Maybe both. But he thought he understood the general point. He didn’t have much of his own, either. That was just his. That he didn’t have to share.

“Do you have questions?”

Asher turned. Someone was asking him? Nobody ever asked him. “Well,” he said. “One. How do you—you know, do it, when Elias only has one arm?”

Callas threw back his head and laughed.

I
n the light, her eyes were amber.

An unusual color. He didn’t think he’d seen it before, at least not in a person. Only in the occasional necklace. He wondered, briefly, if she owned such a necklace or would like one. It would look well on her. As would earrings. He could see that hers were pierced; she was wearing a pair of pearl drops. They were her only ornament. Her hair was pulled back under a simple bonnet that was popular in the South, almost a cap. A pale blue, like her gown. Which seemed also to be in fashion at the moment, as Hart recalled seeing the color at Caer Addanc.

The queen, he’d heard, preferred blue.

Odd then, that Solene would emulate her. But, to some women at least, fashion seemed to transcend politics. And was certainly the more important consideration of the two.

Solene was nothing like the women in his life. He’d considered himself, until meeting her, to have a fairly good understanding of the fairer sex. But she was as alien to him as if she’d been a different species. Even Eir, whom Hart had bedded on occasion and whom he valued as a friend made more sense to him. And she a gnome who only ate her meat raw.

And preferably while it was still alive and she hanging upside down from a branch.

He would have rather married Eir, he thought. Or even one of the fabled monsters from the North. The jötnar, evil men who rose from the dead to pursue their own kind. Their eyes were frosted balls of white, their speech the exploding sap of the coldest winters.

But at least then there could have been some hope of a conversation.

At least then, there would be hope of a truce.

Reasoning with Solene seemed more pointless than reasoning with a jötun. Although she shared the same lust for blood. Many animals did, he reminded himself, from leeches to lampreys to bats and even certain birds. As well as any number of magical creatures, according to the church. So she wasn’t that unusual in one sense. What separated her from the beasts, though, was the fact that she didn’t attack to survive but simply to attack.

She was miserable, and so she wanted everyone else to be.

Still, he tried. Because, as he also reminded himself, at least once an hour, she was under a great deal of strain.

That she couldn’t muster the same calm acceptance of her fate as some others might not, in the end, be a discredit. Her life would be easier, though, if she could learn at least to endure it. For nothing would change: not for her, and not for him. That things could be so much easier, so much more pleasant, was not lost on him. And in time, should she let herself, she might even come to care for him. If not as a lover, then as a friend.

Did he want that? He certainly didn’t want to spend the rest of his life saddled with a wife who hated him. Who might, quite possibly, hate their children as well for having sprung in part from his loins. He knew that most matches were not love matches, even if true love later bloomed. As sometimes it did, and not just in the bards’ tales.

But Solene was acting like a stubborn and spoiled child denied her dessert.

He understood her need to mourn. On this day of all days. But she wasn’t mourning; she was sulking.

She stood by his side, because she was supposed to, but she didn’t look at him.

Wouldn’t.

And they were getting married on the morrow.

A typical engagement, within the church, lasted forty days. The couple declared their joint intent, before a priest. A deposit against the bride price might or might not be paid, depending on their particular situation. Traditionally, in the Highlands, it was one third. And then mothers began planning and fathers began moaning, if they hadn’t already.

Often, by the time of the actual wedding, at least among the lower classes, the bride was with child.

Such a wait was not practical in their case. Nor any of the frivolities attendant on more usual nuptials. Hart doubted even that the bride would show up of her own free will.

Especially after today.

It was a brisk day, the skies finally clear. The castle’s pennants, black and green for House Mountbatten and the king, snapped smartly. Hart stood in the center of the balcony, which overlooked the courtyard. Behind him was the gallery, which let out from what were now his personal apartments and which overlooked the great hall. All castles seemed to have a balcony such as this, from which its lord could address the masses.

To his left stood the castellan. To his right, Solene. Behind them, a line of those soldiers who had now been promoted to permanent members of the garrison.

Many, like Rudolph, had no homes to which they wished to return.

Or could.

Rudolph had wanted to be present and, under normal circumstances, should have been. But Hart had made him stay in bed. Citing Isla’s certain ire if the near-useless fop were to die on them now.

Arvid stood beneath them, on a long wooden platform that had been erected. It was he who would directly oversee the executions. While Hart remained above. Untouchable.

There had been no trial. There had been no need for one. The former earl and his son were guilty of the crimes. By their own proud admission. No torture had been required to extract their confessions. Even had Hart faith in confessions forced through pain, which he did not. Neither man could stop falling over himself to describe the seemingly endless ways in which Maeve was preferable to Piers. Statements which, alone, amounted to treason. But they hardly stopped there, informing Hart both together and separately that they’d proudly given aid to Owen Silverbeard, proudly sent their own men off to join Maeve.