The Black Prince: Part II (41 page)

Everything here was the work of an expert, but Hart doubted that Solene cared. If she even noticed. Nothing in all of Caer Addanc was to her taste, she who’d grown up with the bright colors of the South.

Dinner had been an adventure indeed. For the first time, he’d thought of his own wife as almost a joy. Solene might be a cunt, and arguably crazy, but at least she wasn’t stupid. And she, unlike what he’d gathered from tales about Rowena, was at least possible to bed. Indeed quite enjoyable, when she gave into her own pleasure and forgot how much she hated him. Or pretended to herself that she’d forgotten. If someone had spoken to him as Rowena had spoken to Rudolph, however, Hart would regrettably have to kill them.

After Rudolph had left, things had limped on through dessert. He hadn’t let Solene out of his sight since their arrival, so he knew she hadn’t had a chance to bribe anyone in the kitchens. To, for example, poison Aveline. Who had eaten until long past the point where she should have gotten sick and then been escorted to her new room by Isla.

Isla came to the role of mother naturally. Hart wondered when she’d have children of her own. When, for that matter, he’d have children of
his
own.

And now they were here. Solene had come with him meekly enough, when he took his leave. Earlier than he was normally wont to do. But he had other errands still this night. Tomorrow, hopefully, Solene would see to the unpacking of their luggage. A task that would have already been completed, had Solene let any of the servants touch so much as a single possession.

“I want to go home,” she said. “But there is no home.”

Hart stopped, his back to her. He turned. “Solene,” he said, making rare use of her given name, “I have to go out.”

Part of him, strangely enough, wanted to stay with her. To experience her in this vulnerable state and even, maybe, to reach her. Somehow. But he could not. There was something far, far more important that he had to do. An errand, a conversation he’d ached for, and dreaded, now, for weeks.

She was still staring at nothing. “To see your whore?”

She meant Emma, his bedmate from the journey. To whom, that morning, he’d given a fat purse. To thank her for her efforts, and for her discretion. He had no idea where she was now, hadn’t so much as laid eyes on her since his arrival. Had, indeed, entirely forgotten about her until that moment.

“No,” he said.

“And if I asked you to stay?” There was—something—in her tone. Almost pleading.

“No,” he said, his own tone uncharacteristically gentle. “Not tonight.”

She seemed to accept this. Or, at least, didn’t respond. Just sat there.

He took a step toward the door and then stopped. “Will you be alright?”

“No. But I’ll still be here tomorrow, if that’s what you mean.”

Which it was.

Satisfied, he left.

He couldn’t help but admit that his wife was a burden. Even in those rare moments when she let herself be human. Being on his own again, finally, was liberating; especially since he knew full well that, short of through suicide, Solene wasn’t leaving Caer Addanc. Tristan’s guards, his old compatriots, would see to that. Of course, if Solene wanted to do something useful, like spend time with Isla and her women doing whatever it was they did, she was more than welcome to do so. But somehow, Hart doubted that she would. She’d sit on her trunk and sulk until she grew so bored that she fell asleep.

Because why make the best of a bad situation when one could be utterly miserable?

He was almost at the midpoint of the main staircase when the shadows below resolved into Tristan.

He was, as always, preternaturally still. His robes draped about him like a shroud. Hart had known from the beginning that his lord was not like other men. Although that was at no time more apparent than after night fell. When his face, always pale, took on the waxy pallor of death. The sunlight, Hart thought, helped to disguise certain things. Whereas dark revealed truth.

Hart reached the bottom of the steps, and stopped. The two men faced each other. They were alone in the hall.

Hart acknowledged him with a nod. “My Lord.”

And he was. A man might swear fealty to many other men, but could only swear homage to one. Could only belong, legally and morally, to one. Hart was Tristan’s man, and would fight on his behalf if called to do so. On his behalf and no one else’s. Not the Duke of Beaufort’s; not the king’s.

Although he would aid those men in times of need, as fealty required. They were fellow king’s men, his brothers in arms. He would honor the Duke of Beaufort, in particular, as a liege lord. But only so far as that man’s wishes coincided with Tristan’s.

Tristan’s eyes were black, blacker than any man’s had a right to be. And they bored into Hart’s. “I am pleased,” he hissed, “that you have returned to us.”

“I, too, am pleased.”

“My beloved, in particular, has wished you home.”

Hart had missed his sister, too. He knew that Tristan treated her well, after his fashion, and that—arguably more importantly—Isla was content. She loved her demon among men. Although Hart couldn’t imagine, truthfully, how she stood it. To have his hands on her…his mouth. It must feel like bedding a corpse. Or, with him atop her, being buried alive under one.

Still, Tristan had a certain allure. Not even Hart was fully immune, and he had no interest in men. He was dominant, to be sure. No one could escape that pull. But there was more. In his supposed amorality, Tristan was actually a much more ethical human being—if that was what he truly was—than the vast majority of those around him. He stood alone, in a time when most were not brave enough to do so. When, as he’d once observed, what now seemed like long ago, bores had succeeded dragons. Hart had seen this at their first meeting, and knew then who his mentor was.

Under Tristan, he also knew, he’d be free.

In a manner of speaking.

“I did not know,” came the sibilant, snake-like words. And Tristan truly was like a snake: poised and ready to strike. The calm, the detachment, was an act. A fact that had also never eluded Hart.

“Would it have made a difference?”

“No. But I would have warned you.”

“It makes no difference now, as we are married.”

“Does she know of your…companion?”

“She knows what she needs to know.”

Tristan turned, and began to walk down the hall. His feet seemed not to touch the ground. Hart followed him. “You treat her,” Tristan said, after a minute or so, “quite well. There are many who, when a loved one…or not so loved one…is ill of mind, lock them away.” As Tristan himself was rumored to have done, with at least one of his wives. Hart would be lying if he claimed that he’d never wondered whether his own sister, love or no love, would meet a similar fate.

“Her life has been difficult.”

“Perhaps.”

“I intend to treat her as well as she allows me.” That he would do so while forcing her to, at least to some extent, act in harmony with the conventions of their culture was implicit in his response. She had to be controlled. For her own safety and theirs. They both understood that.

“She is fortunate in her husband.”

As fortunate, Hart supposed, as she could be with a man who’d left her alone in a strange place so he could visit another woman.

Tristan stopped. They were near the door. And fresh air, and escape. “I presume that you still intend to take Lissa back with you, to your new home.”

Hart nodded. He supposed he half expected Tristan to tell him he couldn’t. Although that had not been their arrangement. But Tristan, seeing something in his expression, shook his head. The barest movement from a man who, when he held still, seemed incapable of any. “I know how precious love is.” The hissing of snakes, the rustling of leaves. The empty sounds of winter.

“I would never…presume to take that from a man. But,” and here his tone changed ever so slightly, “I would advise caution. Solene is…not, perhaps, wholly in control of herself.”

Hart nodded. “Her sister.”

“Is being watched.” Tristan revealed this news as though it were the most normal in the world. “And now,” he said, “I must attend to Isla.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Hart, alone, pushed outside and into greater darkness.

He saddled Cedric by himself, ignoring the groom who pushed himself awake from a pile of hay just long enough to see that Hart didn’t need help before passing out again. Cedric, being a horse, took the fact of Hart showing up to visit with him in the middle of the night as a matter of course. All horses were humorists and, Hart decided, all horses were also narcissists.

That must be the basis of their connection.

Giving Cedric a swift thump and then pulling the girth tight, he led a vexed looking Cedric outside. He compensated the stallion for his refusal to let himself be the victim of a horrible accident by giving him a piece of pastry he’d cadged from the dinner table. Cedric had a sweet tooth.

He rubbed Cedric’s velvet nose. He liked animals. He understood them.

Cedric, apparently forgiving him his earlier transgression, nuzzled him affectionately. He seemed to understand what most of his human compatriots did not: that Hart would never hurt an animal. He was many things, but he wasn’t in the business of killing innocents. Cedric was like him. He had needs, which needed to be met. He was open about them; all animals were. It was only men who hid their true natures. Behind protestations of chivalry, and duty, and other veils.

But they were all the same, underneath.

Needs brought all men low.

He swung into the saddle.

He was grateful for the ride, as little as he wanted to be back in the saddle after so short a respite. He needed time to think. About what he’d tell Lissa. And what he’d do next. He couldn’t lose her. But he recognized, at the same time, that he might. Even if he kept her with him, in body, he could not force her mind. She’d suffered so much, in her life; he had no idea what this revelation might do to her. And it horrified him.

He was not a man who knew how to be helpless. Had fought the legacy of a childhood that had made him feel so, turning himself into a someone—something—that could never be controlled again. Not without his consent. He had chosen to give his life to the Dark One; chosen to give his homage to Tristan. Chosen. He
was
Chosen. But this…this was different. Lissa’s heart was her own.

Which he wanted. He wanted her to have what he didn’t. Which was true freedom.

Her life was her own. He’d given her her papers, making her a full subject of this kingdom with rights appurtenant. She could read and write. She had friends. She had the backing of a powerful and important craftsman, a leader in Barghast. She had money. She could go wherever she wanted.

He wanted her to go with him.

But what, truly, could he offer? He’d sold, and by some lights cheaply, the one thing a man truly had to offer a woman. Marriage was more than a promise. It was security. For her and her children. It was inheritance, undisputed, and a whole host of claims upon the law.

A man’s mistress never had that proof of his assurances, in life, that he loved her the most. And after his death, she was left to the mercy of his—under the law—true family. She sacrificed everything. She cursed her children, potentially, to the same half life. And for what? His comfort?

If she wanted to leave, would he let her?

He couldn’t imagine life without her. Couldn’t imagine himself without her. That spark of humanity that allowed him to, on occasion, sympathize with Solene came from Lissa. Without her, he was all the rumors claimed and more. And he didn’t…want to be.

He wanted to give Lissa everything. To see her grow round with their children. To raise those children as he wasn’t.

The things he could give her, though, another man could as well. A man who put her first. Who asked her to compromise nothing. With whom she could walk in the sunlight, proudly. A wife, whose position commanded respect even from those who hated her. Whose position insulated her from them, as well. Not a glorified whore, stranded in church-blighted Beaufort.

He turned onto the street where the Hamels lived.

And was surprised to see that it wasn’t deserted. Indeed, it resembled the outskirts of a carnival. A particularly alcohol-saturated one, with patrons stumbling off to piss against walls or pass out in the bushes. What on earth?

A man stumbled past him, sparing him no more than the jaundiced squint one might for a drunkard’s delusion. He muttered something under his breath about wishing the ale had sent him visions of beautiful women, and was gone. That, Hart decided, would be powerful ale.

And then there was another one, laughing at nothing. And two men arm in arm, singing. What, had Thomasina opened a school for jesters in his absence?

He stopped before the gate, which was open. They were all coming from this house, where minstrels were packing up. Seeing him, one straightened. “Party’s over.”

There were three of them. The one to his left jabbed him in the ribs and whispered something. His eyes widened. So, at least someone recognized the man in black.

Hart swung down from the saddle. They were certain, he gathered, from their expressions, that they were all going to die now. “This is my family,” he said politely, holding Cedric’s reins. The statement was true enough, after its fashion. And took less time, and less energy to understand, than a more factual recounting. “And I’ve just returned, this night, from the war, to see them.”

“So you…don’t think we were making too much noise?”

“He doesn’t handle noise complaints, you fool,” the third one hissed.

“He just said this was his house.”

They debated the matter as though Hart wasn’t there.

“This isn’t his house, he lives at the castle.”

“Well his parents don’t, you retarded son of a mule!”

“I heard he was from the South.”

“Yes,” the most intelligent-seeming of the three snapped, “and you also heard that he’d sprung fully formed from the loins of Bragi after a dozen traitors were sacrificed in the woods. Which, might I remind you, you reported to the rest of us as fact. While sober.” He gestured to the house behind him. “Which of these theories seems more likely: that he came from bog sprites in the South, Bragi in the woods, or that the blonde-haired, green-eyed woman in there gave birth to a blonde-haired, green-eyed son?”