The Black Prince: Part II (48 page)

“If not willingly,” she said, “then unwillingly.” Her eyes hadn’t left Hart’s. “Your consent makes things easier, but is not necessary.” Then, to Hart, “now, if you’ll excuse us, I think we’ll go.”

“No.”

“And who will stop us? You? Where are your men?”

“I need no men. With Asher or without Asher, you will not leave this island alive.”

A thought seemed to occur to her then. He saw it pass behind her eyes, like a storm cloud. And then she struck.

Hart realized, too late, what she intended.

The knife swept down in another blinding flash of light, burying itself to the hilt just below Asher’s collar bone. He gasped, his eyes rolling up in his head, as she pushed him away from her. He toppled, bonelessly, into the undergrowth and lay there, face down. Not moving.

Behind him, Aveline shrieked.

“Fine then,” Maeve said. “You can tend to him or catch me. Now choose.”

Hart rushed forward. Even in the time it would take him to check Asher’s pulse, she’d be gone. He didn’t care. He threw himself down on the ground beside his nephew, who still hadn’t moved and whose skin felt cold to the touch. Ignoring the urge to scream, and scream until the world ended, he rolled him over. He was careful, in so doing, not to disturb the knife. He knew enough about battlefield injuries to know that if a man clung to even the smallest shred of life, removing a weapon embedded within him might let it ebb away.

“Asher,” he whispered.

Nothing.

T
hey stood outside the room where Asher lay: his parents, Aveline, and Hart. Even Apple was there, gray and wan. There might have been a time when Hart would have rejoiced in seeing her so, but he’d gone past such things. He found that, now, when he gazed upon her, he felt only pity.

Rudolph was in the city on a recruiting trip and had been, or so Hart had gathered, since that morning.

Greta was visiting an aunt.

Rowena was nowhere to be found.

So there was just the group of them. A small-seeming group indeed. Waiting.

Hart had rushed Asher back, meeting a contingent of guards along the way. He’d been surprised to learn that Solene had alerted them first, that something was amiss. Although others had, after, as well. By the time Hart had reached the barrows, the whole castle had been in an uproar.

Guardsmen were combing the island now. Hart knew they’d find nothing. He, and they, had been outwitted by a woman no more intelligent nor educated than a carrot. A woman who’d treated their supposedly unbreachable sanctum like her own personal playground. A woman who might have just killed the kingdom’s only heir.

Eleanor was with child but that was no proof that the child would be a boy or that, if he was, he would live.

Had that been Maeve’s plan all along? To lure Asher in with false promises and then, once she had him in her orbit, kill him? He didn’t know.

He didn’t know
anything
.

Turning, he punched the wall.

His fist left an indentation in the plaster, pieces of the horsehair that had been used to strengthen it bursting free. A large chunk fell free, crashing to the floor. A few fingers under the plaster was stone. If he’d punched directly into that, he would have broken all the bones in his hand.

He wished he had.

Instead he flexed his hand, which was now a bit stiff, and stared at the mess he’d created. He didn’t feel pain like other men. Sometimes, he wished he did.

Tristan, as silent and immobile as always, glared at nothing.

Isla’s eyes were red from weeping. She looked like she’d been weeping for days. Which made perfect sense, to Hart. Her child was on the verge of death.

But not, thank the Gods, there yet.

Hart had been sure that he was dead, when he lifted him up. Sure that he was dead as he sprinted back toward the castle. Sure that he was dead as he cried out for help. But determined to believe that he wasn’t. Or that, if he was, the sheer force of Hart’s will could bring him back to life.

Hart had no magic, and no magic could move the hand of the Dark One besides. Death came to all men and it was their duty, only, to accept that fact. But while Hart could accept his own death, he could not accept Asher’s. Would not.

So when he heard, as if from a very great distance, that Asher indeed still lived he fell down to his knees and thanked his God. The God to whom he’d sacrificed his soul. Asher was taken from him, Quentin’s voice somewhere in the background. Calm and competent. Directing with intensity, but no fear. As though he were ordering the setup for a banquet.

And now they were all here. In this room. Waiting.

The far door opened and Solene appeared. She looked around, as if confused. About why they were here and, indeed, why she was. Although she must have known. Aveline looked up, saw her, and said nothing. Neither did Hart. Let Solene come and go as she pleased, wherever she pleased. He didn’t care. She loved Maeve; she should have thrown herself on the dagger.

Solene stopped before Isla. “What…is the matter?”

“My child is hurt, you cunt. That’s what’s the matter.” Isla sniffed.

“Oh.” Solene patted her sister in law on the shoulder. A light touch. Hesitant. As though she were unsure of how she’d be received. “Then I’m sorry.” She let her hand fall. But didn’t move.

Isla sniffed again. “I don’t know why you would be,” she snapped. “It was your vaunted queen who did this. Stabbed an innocent child with her own hand and…and….” She dissolved into tears again.

“I have…somewhat changed my thoughts on Maeve,” Solene allowed.

That was news.

“You see,” she added, after a moment, “I am…unbalanced.”

“Wait,” Aveline cut in, “Asher’s mother is Maeve?”

Solene turned to her sister. “Isla is Asher’s mother. Your mother is the person who raises you.”

“Then that makes you my mother,” Aveline shot back, “and you’re terrible at it.”

“I know.”

“You’re no different than Maeve, except you use poison. And scripture.”

“The difference is that Maeve is fully in control of herself. Whereas I, sometimes…am not.” The admission must have been a difficult one for her. Although Hart was interested to find out that she knew. Accepted what, until this point, he’d only suspected.

And then, “I should go.”

“No,” Isla said. “You can stay.”

Solene, without further comment, sat down.

The silence, which had reigned before Solene’s arrival, returned.

And then, after what seemed like a thousand years, the other door opened.

Quentin stepped out. He had his canvas apron on, like a butcher’s. And he looked like he’d just stepped out of an abbatoir, not a small private dining room that had been pressed into service as an operating theater. He stopped, wiping his hands on a rag. He looked perfectly calm. But, then again, he always did. There were rumors left over from Ullswater Ford, rumors that had never entirely died, that he’d assisted in the amputation of his own leg.

“He’ll live,” he said.

Isla collapsed, into Tristan’s arms. Hart swallowed, but said nothing. Aveline burst into a fresh round of tears.

Now he addressed Tristan and Isla specifically. “The wound looks bad, but it could have been much worse.” He demonstrated, pointing to his own shoulder. “She stabbed him here. Hart was right to leave the blade in. That’s likely what saved his life, else he might have bled out before I was able to operate.”

“Will he have the use of his arm?”

“Yes.” Straightening his finger to resemble a miniature blade, Quentin thrust it at himself. “It entered here. At an angle, you see. Toward his back, rather than straight down. Had it been a larger weapon, or the angle slightly different, she would have punctured a lung. As it is,” he finished, “it’s only muscle. Which, knit together properly, almost always heals without a trace. He’ll have quite the scar to show the ladies, though.”

He dropped his gaze down to Isla. “Your son is a very lucky boy.”

“Can we see him?”

“You can. His father can go next.” To Tristan, “one at a time.”

Isla exchanged a glance with Tristan, who nodded.

“He’s resting. He won’t know you’re there, except in spirit. He’s been given an extremely powerful sedative.”

Isla nodded her understanding, and he led her back.

“I blame myself,” Hart said.

Tristan turned. “You saved my son’s life.”

“I should have been quicker.”

“But for you, he should have received the same wound. Only where no one could hear him cry out, or come to help.”

Hart thought so, too.

“With your permission, My Lord, I’d like to lead a search party down into the barrows.” He explained his theory. “I want to find this access point, and close it. Or, alternatively, guard it and see who comes through.” Which might be more interesting. “I apologize for the insult to your ancestors, in suggesting such a thing. But I believe that it’s the only way. To be sure.”

“No insult is taken. By me or, I’m certain, by them. They would welcome Maeve here no more than I. Take your men, however many you choose, and do what you see fit.”

“Wait.”

A small voice. Hart turned. Apple.

“Someone has been walking to the barrows. At night.”

“What? And you just thought to mention this now?”

Apple shrugged. “I assumed it to be some scullery maid, gone for an assignation.”

“When?”

“While I was in the gardens. At night. But,” she continued, dashing Hart’s hopes, “I only ever saw this person in profile. Although I saw them several times. I assumed that I was seeing a woman, because of the skirts. But now I wonder if it might not have been a man, dressing up. To throw off any witnesses, in case he was spotted.”

Which would only have mattered if said witnesses had
done something
.

Maybe it was a man. Someone from the castle. In which case, they’d been betrayed from within. Or maybe Apple had seen Maeve, herself. In which case, Maeve might have been on the island the whole time. Plotting her next move, and with access to them all.

Just look how easily she’d gotten to Asher.

Turning on his heel, he left.

B
y the time Aveline got in to see him, he was back in his own room. Which was good for him, she thought; lying on that table must have been very uncomfortable. Regardless of how much he’d been dosed.

He looked pale. There were bags under his eyes. He looked bad, although not as bad as Rudolph.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello.”

“Can I come in?”

He nodded, and then winced. “Yes.”

“Stop moving around so much.”

“I’m not!”

“I brought food, but I won’t give it to you if you’re difficult.”

His eyes brightened. Aveline favored him with a shy smile. She knew that they only ever gave invalids broth. And Asher certainly qualified as an invalid. His chest was bare, because of the bandages. He wasn’t, she noted, quite as emaciated as she thought he’d be. Thin, certainly, but not with the caved in chest that she’d come to associate with people of his general shape and pallor. He was, rather, quite muscular. Only after the manner of acrobats and some swordsmen. Not like her brother, Balzac, had been. Balzac, who’d trained constantly. Not to perfect his skills in anything useful but to grow larger. More frightening.

“Do you train with a bow?” she asked.

“Yes.” He seemed surprised by her question.

His attention was on the plate she held, as if he were willing himself to see through the cloth covering it. Both plate and cloth had been provided by the cook, who was a giant. But, like the other giants she’d met recently, seemed quite pleasant once a person got past the fact of their existing after all.

“What’s under there?” he asked.

“Cheese, some sort of dried pea thing that’s been resuscitated in broth, and a meat pie.”

“Oh!” He sounded genuinely pleased. For the first time in maybe ever. “I could kiss you.”

She looked away, blushing. He didn’t mean it, of course. Although he did seem to like what she’d brought him. Or at least was eating it. So that was something.

So as not to have to make eye contact, at least not while her face was still the color of an eggplant, she looked around the room. She’d never been inside Asher’s room before and she was impressed. It was spacious and airy, and well decorated. He hadn’t been kidding; he really did everything. A desk and a chair and books! Books scattered about like they cost nothing, on every surface. A bow, and several different daggers, hanging on the wall.