The Black Prince: Part II (36 page)

But Isla, now. Isla was weak. Tractable. Easily taken in by promises of love.

It didn’t matter, though.

A storm had been brewing for months. A storm that grew and grew, even as those in its path remained blissfully unaware. Even, too, as they began to feel its effects. A storm that would sunder everything. End everything.

A storm that would break soon.

Ariadne’s lips curved into a smile.

“I
sla….” Asher trailed off.

Isla looked up from her sewing. “Yes?”

They were sitting in the larger of the two main galleries, Isla because it had good light and Asher because after finishing his lessons for the morning he’d come to join her. His lessons had been okay and he was in a good enough mood, he supposed, but still a little melancholy. Memories of what had happened…before, clung to everything like a residue. And colored how he saw everything, too. Not in the same warped, frightening way as before, when he’d been ensorcelled. But more like everything was a reminder. Of what he’d done wrong. Of what might go wrong.

He was acutely aware, too, of how much he must have hurt the only woman who’d ever been a true mother to him. He loved Isla. He wanted her to know that.

Seeing his expression, hers changed. She put down her embroidery, which was held in a hoop. She was working on some sort of elaborate intertwining knot in crimson that, she’d told him earlier, would eventually be outlined in thread of gold. “Asher,” she said, “I understand.”

“You do?”

“I wanted to believe in my family, too. In my sister, but especially in my father. Because he was my father.”

She took a sip of water from the cup she’d left perched on the sill, and thought. And then, “we can only understand the world as we see it. Good people, well-adjusted people, tend to believe that when another person acts hurtfully that’s because that person is, themselves, hurt. As this is what makes sense for them. For us. Does that make sense?”

He nodded.

“We love. We can’t imagine, therefore, that others don’t. And so we make excuses.”

He nodded again. More slowly this time. Thoughtfully. “And you…felt like this?”

“Oh, yes. I convinced myself of all kinds of things, so I could go on believing that my father—not that he loved me. That he was capable of love. As much as I hated him, you see, for what he’d done to me, I also loved him. I felt like, if he didn’t love me back, if he’d never loved me back, then my life would have no meaning.

“It was only right before he died, I think, that I finally understood: I wasn’t what happened to me. I was what I chose—and still choose—to become. That my father never had loved me and, now, never would, didn’t cheapen my love for him. It didn’t make me less; I hadn’t been hoodwinked and, even if I had, that wasn’t my fault. I’d chosen to love because that was who
I
was. That was my gift to the world. And that was something which, while he didn’t accept it, he could also never take.”

“She says I’m not allowed to be upset, because there’s nothing to be upset about.”

Maeve. He meant Maeve. Which Isla, of course, understood.

“But,” she replied, “that’s not her decision to make.”

“It isn’t?”

“I would that we could all be children a little longer. My childhood was short, too; and I still miss it. Sometimes. But part of being an adult—maybe the whole part—is taking ownership of one’s life. Which necessitates, in turn, having the strength to make decisions that are in one’s own best interest.” She put her cup down. Her eyes held his. They were such pretty eyes, the color of emeralds. And they sparkled in the sunlight, just the same.

“Anyone who wants you to live in misery for their happiness doesn’t deserve to be in your life to begin with.”

This…was a revelation.

“So it’s….” He trailed off. A few minutes later, he started again. “So it’s okay for me to be happy?”

Isla nodded.

Maeve had always told him that the fault was his; the problem was his. That if she hit him, or screamed obscenities at him, it was because he’d said the wrong thing. Or given her the wrong look. His father—his other father, Brandon—had told him to just be a little nicer. A little sweeter. And so had their various supporters and hangers-on.

If someone caught Maeve in a lie, they were the liar; if they said something that, according to her, caused her to lose her temper, they were attacking her. Asher was constantly accused of attacking her—and worse. Of wishing her ill. Of being, in her words, purposefully cruel and even purposefully evil. All without any explanation of what it was he’d done wrong. That time, or any other. Which he’d begged for, so that he could apologize and never do the terrible thing again.

Whatever it was.

No one else, as Maeve liked to point out, had these problems with her. And indeed they didn’t. They worshipped her. What was wrong with Asher, that he worshipped so poorly?

He didn’t realize he’d voiced the last question aloud until Isla responded. “I know that the scriptures tell us to honor our parents. But some parents ask, not for honor, which finds its root in truth, but for idolatry. For us to make them like gods, even to place them above the Gods. But the Gods—the true Gods—do not honor evil. And neither are you expected to.”

The clash of swords rang out from down below, where a few of the guardsmen were practicing.

Asher forced himself to ask his next question. “Am…am I evil?”

He’d grown up believing that he was. And believing, too, that he could somehow prove he wasn’t—or, at least, prove that he’d overcome his baser nature—by winning Maeve’s love. She didn’t love him, because he was so unlovable. Because he wanted nothing more than to make her life miserable. At least, according to her. So if she
could
be convinced to love him, that would mean that those things were no longer true. That she finally saw the good in him and saw, more, how desperately he
wanted
to be good. He’d only ever wanted to be good.

So when she’d come to see him….

“You are,” Isla said, firmly and with great conviction, “one of the best people in the world.”

He couldn’t help his sudden smile.

“Speaking of which,” she said, “I believe the ring your father ordered is due to be picked up.”

Asher’s first signet ring. It had been his father’s suggestion, to have one made. And by the same shop that had produced his, and Hart’s. That run by the finest jeweler in all of Barghast and thus, in Asher’s opinion at least, probably in all of the world. Such a trophy was appropriate, his father had added, to commemorate his first true victory. Which, astonishingly, was how everyone seemed to view what had happened. Not as Asher being bad, as Asher having been a mistake to adopt, but as Asher…doing something good.

He’d picked, for his sigil, the raven. Or rather, he supposed, the raven had picked him. His father certainly thought so. And so the signet ring would bear a single raven, stylized, with wings outstretched, set into the outline of his family’s crest. A small ring, for a small hand.

He leaned back against the narrow wall of the oriel window in which they sat, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms about them. He found himself staring through the glass without really seeing anything. He was tired, but a good tired. A healthy tired.

“Your father is proud of you. And so am I.” Isla picked up her hoop again. “You’re quite like him, you know. In most respects but especially in that you both have a strong will.”

Asher, who wanted to be exactly like his father in every respect, thought that this must be the best compliment in the world. That anyone would look at him and see anything of his father seemed beyond too good to be true. His father was—his father was good at everything. Men wanted to follow him, women wanted to bed him. Whereas Asher was just…Asher.

A thought occurred to him. “Is Rowena staying with us for much longer? Because—”

But he never got a chance to finish his sentence, because just then a shout went up outside, followed by blasting trumpets. The gates burst open and horsemen flooded in. Several score at least, what looked like a small army to Asher. And they were all armed; he could see hilts and flashes of mail glinting in the strong afternoon sun as men shifted position, jockeyed for place. For a tense minute he froze, thinking they’d been invaded. But then saw the men begin to swing down and some of them clasp arms with the guardsmen.

“It’s Hart!” he shouted. “He’s home!”

I
sla’s head jerked up. Her eyes found Hart almost immediately in the milling crowd. Asher was right.

He was home.

He was
alive
.

Her heart skipped a beat.

He looked well, from what she could see. He’d returned with an enormous group of men, at least twice as many as he’d left with, all of whom looked equally well. Isla only recognized a very few, though. The others must, she reasoned, have come from the larger force he’d met up with in Hardland. She continued scanning faces, though, looking for certain features in particular. Arvid’s. Rudolph’s. But nowhere was Arvid’s beard or Rudolph’s festive colors.

She tried to tell herself that that didn’t mean anything.

“Well?” Asher’s tone was impatient. “What are we waiting for?”

She turned. “What?”

“Let’s go!”

He’d sprinted from the room before she’d even risen. She put down her embroidery and waited a long moment before following. She’d never much cared for embroidery, growing up, but she’d come to find that the combination of repetition and close attention was soothing to the mind. And the past few weeks had been difficult ones.

Greta reappeared from wherever she’d been. “Isla! Hart is home!”

“Where is Tristan?”

“Downstairs.” Greta seemed surprised that she’d asked. “Everyone is wondering where
you
are.”

“And Rowena?” Isla was thinking of Rudolph. And how she hadn’t seen him.

“Oh, who cares!”

Isla wondered if Rowena would.

She let herself be led from the gallery, through the dark pile that was her home. Men and beasts glared down at her from above. The irritation, resentment and, in some cases, outright wrath in their eyes seemed too real to be carved from wood. The tapestries, too, almost seemed to have a life of their own. She’d grown used to the oddities of Caer Addanc and, now, barely noticed them. This place had, at some point, ceased to be strange and become her home. But on days like this, she was reminded of how she’d first seen it when she arrived.

She shivered.

Greta glanced over at her. “Are you well?”

“Just cold.”

“You should eat more. You’ve lost weight again.”

That was Greta’s answer to everything. Eat more. Isla smiled to herself.

And then they were outside, the stale indoor air traded for a stiff breeze and shadows for sunshine. It was almost warm, but not quite. Isla had forgotten a cloak, but she didn’t care. She didn’t even feel the cold, so intent was she on the task before her. She had to find her brother, and talk to him. Find out what had happened.

She hadn’t let herself realize, until just that moment, how worried she’d truly been.

Seeing their lady among them, the guards began to step back. She, heedless of decorum, raced forward through the corridor they’d created. She should have maintained a calm aura of acceptance, letting whoever had arrived—brother or no—come to her. She should have waited for Tristan. But in that moment, she cared nothing for being a duchess and everything for being a sister.

“Hart!”

And then he was there. In front of her. “Isla!” Sweeping her up into his arms, he spun her around in a circle. Just like he’d done when they were children. She laughed, delighted.

He was really, really real. He was home. Her feet on solid ground again, they embraced. “Oh, Hart,” she said, her face buried in his chest, “I’ve missed you so.” But he was here and he was alive. He hadn’t marched off to his death after all, was all she could think. He was here.

She stepped back. “You look well!”

He did, too. Older, somehow. His features were still as regular as ever, and as glorious as ever. Growing up with a brother so famous for being handsome had been an embarrassment; Isla could have sworn that half the friends she had were girls who only wanted to visit, so they could make eyes at Hart. And ask Isla questions that were entirely inappropriate to ask a girl about her brother.