The Black Prince: Part II (4 page)

Loved each other.

The queen had never been forced to watch her husband eat her friend. To choose him over her morals. Gods be damned,
it wasn’t fair
.

She fought back tears.

And it was then that she realized she wasn’t alone.

For a split second she thought Tristan had come to find her. But of course he wouldn’t; he was needed at the feast. The king’s brother, feting the king’s success. She and her foolish, pointless problems could wait. No, those black robes and that slow, measured gait belonged to someone else.

She remembered, now, that she hadn’t seen Callas in some time. Callas, or her sister. Both had, at some point while she was hearing about the challenges currently faced by the furriers’ guild, disappeared. She’d assumed that Rowena had gone to sulk in her room and that Callas was doing whatever it was that Callas did. The wizard’s comings and goings were hardly advertised, to her or anyone. Because he was a wizard, and wizards as a general rule didn’t much welcome intrusion into their private business.

It had never occurred to her that Callas and Rowena might be with each other. Callas had shown no interest in reciprocating Rowena’s sudden affections. So why was it, Isla wondered, that they were walking through the gardens side by side?

Disappearing into the shadows, she watched.

This new mystery was, at least, enough to take her mind from her own problems.

The garden beds were shaped by an intricate system of paths which, when viewed from the battlements, formed a large quatrefoil. Carefully tended trees grew in among the rose bushes and ground cover, the varying heights adding a feeling of both privacy and space. Isla stood behind one of those trees now. Hardly invisible, but not advertising her presence. Especially not to two people who weren’t expecting her to be there. Her, or anyone.

“I rather think,” Rowena was telling Callas, “that all of the problems I’ve had in my life can be traced back to the fact that I’m too beautiful.”

“I see.”

“And, really, everything terrible that could happen to a person has happened to me.” She glanced up at Callas, gauging his reaction. He, for his part, remained silent. “I’ve had to accept,” she continued, “that I must be beautiful. Because of how people react to me. And always have, since I was a little girl. But at the same time, I think they’re threatened by my intelligence. I really see the them, the people around me. Better than they do.”

“I see.

She sighed. “Men, in particular. I was practically forced into marrying my husband. He wanted me, and would not be denied. And who helped me? No one. I was originally supposed to marry Tristan, you know. But he felt too threatened by my beauty. My…presence. He wanted an uglier, lesser wife whom he could control. And Isla, of course, she’s always been so jealous. I’m certain that she took great pleasure in seeing me forced into the clutches of someone so far beneath me.”

“Beneath you?”

They were rounding one of the lobes of the quatrefoil, now. And then Rowena stopped. So close that Isla could have spit on her. She gazed out at nothing, as though mourning all her losses. The air had begun to shift but night still wasn’t warm enough for a dalliance. Rowena, though, didn’t seem cold. She might be a better actress than Isla had previously thought.

Callas watched his companion, his eyes bright in the moonlight.

“How a man—or woman—treats you is a reflection of their character, not yours.”

“That,” Rowena replied, with a touch of asperity, “would be easier to accept if we were merely discussing a handful of isolated incidents. But my whole life, I’ve been punished for standing out.”

“It’s a dangerous thing,” Callas said, “to adopt the belief that one must just be so beautiful that misfortune simply naturally befalls them. We are all architects of our own fate, free to choose with whom we associate. And,” he added, “those worth knowing, of either sex, aren’t going to judge you—or others, including themselves—by their appearance. Or be terribly interested in it.”

“I’ve tried making myself ugly,” Rowena replied. She sighed. “It didn’t help.”

“Inside or out?”

“What?” And then, “so I might as well accept that I’m beautiful.”

“Outward appearance isn’t important.”

“I disagree. I think you can tell everything about a person, by how they look.”

“My accomplishments,” Callas said, “lie in my studies. My friendships. Not in an accident of birth, decades ago, over which I had no control.”

“But you’re beautiful,” Rowena replied. “How can you not take pride in such a thing?”

“And isn’t that what you were saying, that you objected to being treated like a piece of meat?”

“But you’re beautiful, too.” Rowena took a step toward him. “So you understand.”

Callas, once again, said nothing. Nor did he react, when Rowena placed a hand on his chest. They stood like that for a long moment. It was only when she leaned forward, as if to kiss him, that he took a step back. “Rowena, please.”

“I just want beauty in my life. Love. To feel wanted.” She took another step forward, heedless of his rejection, and threw her arms around him. She kissed him, or attempted to. “I know you want me.” Her words had an almost pleading tone. “All men do. And you can have me. However…however you want.”

Callas disengaged her, planting her firmly on the ground before him. “No.”

“Is it because I’m married? Because Rudolph isn’t—”

“It’s because,” Callas said, “you’re not my type.”

Rowena blinked, stunned. “Why not?”

His eyes, on hers, were hard. “Because I avoid shallow people. Especially those whose hearts are all but consumed by the same jealousy they attribute to others. To substitute judgment for a commitment to learning. A commitment that, I might add, has shaped my adult life.”

“But you’re…not like these other people. Not like my husband.”

“Yes. He is the son of a baron. Whereas I, my lady, am the child of yeoman farmers. I possess no title, and no wealth.”

“But that doesn’t matter now, you’re—”

“It matters to me.” His tone was impossibly cold.

“But you can’t—”

“And now,” he said, “I bid you good evening. Before you embarrass yourself further.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and left.

Rowena called after him, but to no avail.

And then she turned, and came face to face with Isla.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

And then, “how much did you hear?”

“How did you trick him into coming out here with you?” At first, Isla hadn’t been sure. Had wondered, briefly, if she’d misjudged Callas. If they all had. But then, as she’d studied their—not even words, but body language—she’d understood. Rowena had gotten Callas alone on some pretext, with the intent of seducing him.

“I didn’t trick him.”

“You’ve been married to Rudolph for less than a moon.”

Rowena threw her hands up. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.
You
have everything: a husband everyone wants. Everything.”

And thus it came full circle.

“I don’t have everything, Rowena.” Isla was calm. “No one does.”

“Rudolph…looks so stupid here, next to all these Northmen. And they
think
he’s stupid. You can tell by how they talk to him. Indulgently, like they’re talking to a child.” Rowena had worked herself up into a state and was on the verge of tears. “No one’s impressed with him. Not with him and not with his family. He’s just—he’s ridiculous! That’s all he is. A ridiculous, stupid no one from the middle of nowhere and I hate him! I hate him!”

Rowena ran off, hands pressed to her face.

Isla stood there, well and truly alone this time, for a long time.

W
hen she came back inside, the feast was over.

She walked across the great hall, filled now only with the music of snores, toward the door to their private rooms. Snores, punctuated by the occasional snort. She’d been outside longer than she’d thought. Although these things tended to end rather quickly, as a man could only drink so much before his body rebelled. Some had managed to stumble off, to rooms if they had them or to the stables, to bed down with the horses. But just as many had passed out on benches, or slept now with their cheeks pressed to their trenchers.

Isla passed through the family’s private living room, past the candelabra that had been extinguished and the fire that had been damped down for the night, and ascended the stairs. The hall above was brightened only by the occasional torch; not all that rested in brackets were lit. Fuel was dear, and they—the family and the guards who protected them—needed only enough light to direct their footsteps. Anyone who needed the full illumination of daylight to find his path, Isla reflected, didn’t belong there anyway.

She reached the top of the stairs but, instead of turning left toward the solar she shared with Tristan, she turned right. Toward the library. It was at times like these that she craved the comfort of books. The escape they offered, into a thousand different worlds where none of her concerns were relevant, and simply their smell. Books were constant and true friends, always ready for an adventure.

Ready to accept her, without judgment.

She closed the door behind her and, shutting her eyes, breathed in that rare perfume that no one had thought of bottling. Parchment and vellum and leather and magic. And, underneath that, just the faintest hints of wood and stone and…time. There was simply no other way to describe it. Libraries were different.

Opening her eyes, she took a step forward. And then another. A lone lamp was burning. She lit a candle from it, a small taper set into a simple cup with a holding loop. She then held it aloft before her, as she moved forward. Into the belly of the beast, shelves looming above her on both sides.

“So here is my beloved.”

Isla jumped, almost dropping the candle. Tristan took it from her, his fingers gentle. They were warm against her skin. He’d fed. She hadn’t turned; he was still behind her. She didn’t know what to say. Or, indeed, to do. So she waited.

While his free hand grazed her shoulder, her arm.

“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t be upset with me.”

Was she still terrified of him, her own husband? The man who made her heart beat faster simply by entering the room? She swallowed.

“You think that I am?” The words were soft.

“Yes.” Her response was barely audible. Of course he was. She’d seen how he’d looked at her at dinner, heard the cold fury in his words. She’d only managed not to care before because she’d been so upset, herself. But with the ending of the night had come the realization that she’d acted like a child. And a spoiled one, at that. And yes, she was frightened. Of what he thought, of how he’d respond. She doubted even that a normal man could have understood a fraction of what she’d felt, and still felt. And Tristan felt nothing at all.

The candle cast a yellow glow on his corpse flesh. He put it down on a section of shelf where no books rested. “What upsets me,” he said, “is that I’ve failed.”

She turned. “What?”

The hard gaze she remembered from earlier was gone. “In showing you just how important you are.”

She bit her lip. He hadn’t. It wasn’t that.

“I can’t help what I am.” He sounded almost…regretful?

“I know.”

“I remember what love is.”

She felt the tears threaten again.

He caressed her cheek. So gently. “What I felt for Brenna, back when I could feel, wasn’t a tenth of what…I never needed her, as I need you. Never needed anything, as I need you.” Leaning forward, he kissed her on the forehead. She rested her head against his. “You’re part of me, Isla.”

“I get…so scared that you’ll leave.”

“I could never leave.”

She looked up. “But I’m not….” She was just a normal girl. A girl who’d been elevated beyond her wildest dreams but still, just a normal girl. Nothing special. Nothing to enchant a man like Tristan.

“I’m not—”

But he stopped her with a kiss. This wasn’t the slow, measured touch that she’d grown so used to, his lips cool and firm as he commanded her with his touch. This was the hot, frenzied coupling of need. Where each kiss, each caress was a silent plea.

She gave herself up to him, sinking against him as he slid his fingers into the elaborate knot of her hair. The pins that Greta had placed earlier falling free, it tumbled down her back in waterfall of purest jet. She wrapped her arms around his neck. She couldn’t feel his heart beat; there was no heart to beat. But he was warm and he was vital and he held her as securely as any man.

“There is so much I cannot give you,” he whispered. “But I would if I could.”

“I know.”

He kissed her again. And when he withdrew, his lips still brushing hers, it was only to tell her, “I might be half a man, or no man at all. But I would give up this life, such as it is, just to see you smile.”

“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t go.”

“I would never. But Isla—”

This time, it was her turn. All her pent up rage, her frustration, even her shame found its outlet in the passion she unleashed upon him. Pulling him down to her, demanding satisfaction as her hands sought his laces. Never breaking their kiss as she pushed his surcoat, and then his shirt up over his shoulders. His chest was hard, smooth, built from a lifetime of testing his own strength. There was a small scar above his left nipple, from an accident he’d had as a child. She kissed it before, moving down, taking his nipple into her mouth. She suckled, and then bit.