The Black Prince: Part I

by P. J. Fox

  The truth about Apple.

  The truth about her father.

  “Family, you know, is who you choose.” Greta seemed to be reading her mind. Then she continued, and Isla understood. “My mother died giving birth to me. I don’t remember her, although I’m grateful to her. The woman who raised me was, is, my father’s second wife. They married about a year after my mother died.

  “She came to our home, to care for me. She and my father fell in love and are in love still. I call her mother.”

  “Your parents…are still in love?”

  Greta’s half smile was almost sheepish. “Some marriages last. Can you picture falling out of love with Tristan?”

  “No, of course not. But….” But her parents hadn’t, either. Had they?

  “Not all matches are love matches, even from the beginning. Sometimes people think they’re in love, because they want the same things out of life or have really great sex. Or because they like the image that a possible union presents in their minds: of nice things and other things that don’t matter. You know?” She held out Isla’s dress, for her to step into.

  “This is why, on the balance, I think arranged marriages tend to fare better. More is involved in the selection than foolish notions about romance.”

  She began to lace up Isla’s kirtle. Isla sucked in her stomach to aid the procedure. Although most of her garments had already been taken in, including this. Never plump to begin with, she was now thin to the point of emaciation. At least, she reflected with some satisfaction, she’d kept something of her curves. Curves which were modestly hidden beneath the broad, square neckline of her dress.

  “You need to eat something.”

  “I did! This morning.”

  “All you ate was an egg.”

  “An egg is a nutritious breakfast!”

  Greta gave the weighted laces a final tug. “Every time I do that, I’m afraid I’ll snap you. Not like lacing up my sisters, they’re all built like she-boars and proud of it. Don’t think that enjoying your food makes you unattractive to men, either. Lorna and Agnete have ten children between them and it isn’t because their husbands sleep in separate bedrooms.”

  Isla laughed.

  “My cousin, Gitte, is twice as fat as both of them and can hardly move for all the suitors swarming around her father’s home.” Greta considered her own words. “Perhaps I need to gain weight, then I can find a husband.” She considered her work, appraising Isla as she would the aforementioned she-boar, were it up for sale at auction. “Men don’t seem to like me.”

  “Only because you haven’t met the right one.”

  “What made Tristan the right one?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, don’t be coy. Everyone knows that it was a love match.”

  Isla colored.

  Greta’s expression grew concerned. “What?”

  Her eyes searched Isla’s. Isla shrugged half-heartedly. How could she explain?

  “Isla,” Greta said seriously, “that’s a good thing.”

  “It wasn’t to Rose, who pretended she was my friend until I brought her here. Or to my own sister.”

  “Which is ridiculous.” Greta’s tone was firm. “Love is the subject of half the sagas, the reason the Gods do everything they do. Or almost. That,” she added, smiling, “or a well endowed mortal man.” She produced Isla’s slippers. “What self-respecting woman wouldn’t bed a man before she married him? One has to take the horse on a test ride, as it were.”

  She gave Isla her arm, to steady her, as Isla wedged first one foot and then another into the small, square-toed confections. “I personally would hate to find out that I’d agreed to spend the rest of my time on this earth with a man hung like a jackrabbit, or who had no interest in a woman’s pleasure. Who mistook me for the anvil and he the hammer, to borrow my sister’s phrase.”

  “In the South….” In the South it had been enough pretext for Father Justin to maim her and and her father to agree.

  “But we’re not in the South. Thank the Gods.”

  Greta produced the circlet. Isla sat down on the couch near the fire so Greta could fit it in her hair. “I’m worried about Rowena.”

  “That one can care for herself.” Greta’s tone was firm.

  Isla sighed.

  Greta stepped back, admiring her handiwork. After which Isla decided that she, too, should have a look at herself. Standing, she walked over to the mirror where Rowena had been preening earlier. And stared. She was a vision in gray, somber and subdued. She looked exactly like what she was: the partner to the most powerful peer in the realm. She’d…aged somehow. Except aged wasn’t really the right word; she hadn’t aged a day. If anything, looked somehow younger. And yet also…more settled. Stronger. She had, she had to admit even to herself, acquired something of what the bards called gravitas.

  “You look dignified.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now please drink this ale.” Greta handed her a cup. “Or you’ll keel over halfway through the service.”

  Feeling resigned, Isla accepted.

  “Isla,” Greta said, “you can’t keep holding the door open for half the world and then beating yourself up when no one walks through. And that includes your sister, and your father. They have free will, just like you; you aren’t responsible for their choices, any more than you are for theirs.” She paused. “You aren’t responsible, either, for the fact that their choices are wrong.”

  “I failed Rowena.”

  Greta shook her head. “You didn’t fail her, by allowing her to become her own person. Which she would have, regardless. Rowena isn’t like you. Most aren’t.”

  And then it was time to go downstairs.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  They stood, once again, in the chapel where she and Tristan had been married.

  Outside, what all agreed would be the last storm of the season still raged. It was hard to credit the idea that this snow would ever melt, much less within a fortnight, leaving in its wake a carpet of blooms. Then again, Isla could scarcely credit the last six months and she’d lived them.

  Tristan was resplendent in the formal garb of his station. She felt small standing beside him. On the other side of the altar stood Asher and, beside him, Hart. It was the first time Isla had seen Hart since that terrible conversation. If one could even apply that term to such a festival of misery. Hart had been Asher’s choice. Asher had not yet reached the age of decision and so could not legally enter into a binding contract. Even one such as this. He needed an adult to stand for him and with him, to protect his interests and to ensure that he was acting of his own free will. Even as a formality.

  And, of course, he had no one.

  Traditionally this role was filled by a male relative. Although sometimes a mother, or a sister. Thus it was decided that, in a nod to his advancing age and responsibilities, Asher should be allowed to choose his own guardian.

  With no hesitation, he’d chosen Hart.

  They spent time in the practice yard, Hart teaching him to fight with the quarterstaff. Hart agreed with Tristan that a fighter whose success relied on a certain weapon was no fighter at all. Isla was certain that Hart was teaching the boy other things, too: like how to take shots of apple brandy and flirt with women. Asher was already the apple of every serving girl’s eye; Isla dreaded the day he finally grew old enough to capitalize on this.

  Hart, now, was as formal and silent as Isla. A frightening presence, garbed all in black. His charge stood up very straight. His robes matched Tristan’s, black and green. And with his pale skin, dark hair, and serious expression, he looked like a miniature of his father.

  Callas officiated, and in the pews sat all of Darkling Reach that would fit.

  This wasn’t a wedding, to preceded by days of feasting and merriment, but an occasion of celebration nonetheless. An occasion of relief, Isla supposed, more properly. A land without an heir was a land vulnerable to instability. Upon this day, Tristan’s line and, thus, his people�
�s futures, became secure. Asher was young, but already well regarded as having seemingly inherited many of those best traits of his father. That Tristan was, indeed, his father no one doubted for a moment.

  Adoption was common in the North. Common enough that there were all manner of different ceremonies, for different situations. In a culture created in and dominated by war, fractured families were common. If the concept of fatherhood had been tied purely to bloodlines, then a great many children would have grown up without a father. But unlike in the South, where to be an orphan held less stigma, here a boy’s father was the one who raised him. Who taught him the art of the bow, and of the hunt. Who stood for him as an example of what it meant to be a man.

  The Northern definition of manhood was also…different. Arvid of the frightening teeth and the talismans and the multiple wives, none of whom were present, sat in the front row. Presumably, unlike him, they had something better to do. Like manage the great collection of holdings he claimed. He beamed, his hands clasped over his round stomach. Arvid loved a good time and loved, even better, a good family celebration. But only a fool would mistake his joviality, or his fat, for weakness. Accounted the strongest and bravest of his tribe, he’d led them since he killed his own father in a dispute.

  Isla wondered, briefly, what Arvid would make of Rudolph and felt a twinge of regret that she’d never find out.

  One of Callas’ henchmen—she couldn’t stop thinking of them like that, as much as she tried—walked up the aisle toward them. His pace was slow, his steps measured. An acolyte of their religion, his participation in this ritual a great honor. Callas having propitiated the Gods, the ceremony in earnest would now begin.

  They’d already all been standing on this platform for an hour.

  The acolyte carried a yearling lamb, born the previous spring, in his arms. Too frightened to struggle, it merely shook. Its eye caught Isla’s and it bleated balefully. As if it knew what was to come. Which perhaps, Isla reflected, it did.

  He stopped before the altar, bowed, and then raised his head.

  Callas stepped forward.

  Isla could hardly turn her head and gawk at the congregation, but she wondered how they were taking this. Most of them, judging by the few glimpses she had managed to sneak, seemed to have seen the like before. Certainly none of them looked as surprised as she felt.

  There had been a great deal of prayers for the fallen, remembrance of warriors now feasting with Bragi, and assurance of vengeance on enemies. That, now that Asher was to be Tristan’s son, Asher’s enemies would be Tristan’s and Tristan’s enemies, Asher. That were Tristan slain unjustly, vengeance would fall to Asher. There had also been a line in there about Asher bringing pride to Tristan with many sexual conquests.

  Whatever Isla had been expecting, it wasn’t this.

  At Callas’ signal, Asher and Hart stepped forward. Reaching into his collar, Asher removed a medallion on a chain. His collar was high and stiff, the material heavily brocaded. He looked uncomfortable. The medallion, Isla saw now, bore the crest of his ostensible father. Brandon, of House Terrowin, who’d died in the mud at Ullswater Ford. Isla had heard mention of the medallion, lifted from his headless corpse by Tristan.

  And, evidently, given to Asher.

  Asher must have worn it next to his skin all this time, because Isla had never seen it before. He didn’t bathe with the women, he considered himself far too adult. In another few years, he’d be old enough to take on the duties of a squire. And begin training to join his father’s order, and take vows as a defender of the realm.

  Lifting it free, he placed the medallion around the lamb’s neck.

  Then, turning, he faced the altar. The acolyte placed the lamb, silent now in the extremis of its terror, on the marble. Stains marred its surface. Long ago stains from long ago sacrifices. As though the marble, having a will of its own, had actually welcomed the unwilling blood.

  Callas, in turn, placed a single hand on the lamb. He then, every movement a ritual, presented Asher with a knife. It was a huge thing, almost not a knife at all but a small sword. The edge, honed to perfection, glinted wickedly.

  Asher accepted the knife, before conferring with Hart. Their voices were pitched low, too low for Isla to hear. Hart, bent down to Asher’s level, made a small slicing motion with his hand as he demonstrated something. Asher furrowed his brow, and then nodded.

  Hart straightened.

  Asher stepped forward.

  The first arcing blow cut about a finger’s width into the lamb’s neck, spraying them all with blood. The lamb screamed. Isla felt it dripping down the side of her face, but was too transfixed to move. Asher glanced at Hart, who nodded, and then pulled the blade free. The lamb thrashed on the altar, blood still fountaining from its neck. Asher struck again.

  And then the blade was stuck, so he began to saw.

  It took forever. Removing a creature’s head, Tristan had once observed, was a great deal more difficult than most realized. And would certainly constitute a heroic feat of strength for a child of barely twelve winters. Asher had not been given time to prepare; the exact contents of the ritual had not been revealed beforehand. This was Northern tradition: the heart of the adoption ceremony, Tristan had also observed, was trust.

  If a man couldn’t place his faith, blindly, in another man’s goodwill, then he had no business calling him brother. Or father. Greater trials would come.

  Finally, the head fell free. The lamb had long ago since screaming but Isla could still hear the noise in her ears. Asher turned, knife in hand, and grinned at his parents.

  Isla’s lips folded in a quick answering smile.

  Callas’ stern voice brought him back to the ritual. “Your old life is now dead, the sacrifice having gone in your stead. Give it honor, and remember it in your devotions.”

  Asher nodded.

  At Callas’ gesture, he removed the medallion.

  “You may approach your father.”

  Asher did so. Tristan watched, saying and doing nothing. Asher presented Tristan with the medallion.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Tristan, accepting the medallion, placed it around his own neck. And then, his movements as formal and deliberate as those of his priest, he removed his own signet ring. Gold, beautifully tooled. He held out his other hand for Asher’s, the unfurling of his fingers and claws an elegant gesture. Asher placed his smaller, plumper hand in Tristan’s. Asher’s skin was pale but Tristan’s was like the marble of the altar.

  And Isla couldn’t help thinking that both desired blood.

  He slid the ring onto Asher’s finger. From Tristan’s smallest to Asher’s largest, and still loose. He might have to wear the ring on a cord, for the time being. But he’d grow. The ring bore Tristan’s family crest and had been in his family for generations, a powerful talisman worn only by the rightful heir.

  His eyes held his son’s. “Wear it with honor.”

  Arvid’s booming voice filled the chapel. “And now we feast!”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Tristan sat in the great, carved throne of his forefathers while Asher served him one last time. And Isla, too. Which wasn’t strictly tradition, but Asher could do as he pleased now. After, he’d join them at Tristan’s right-hand side, in his own chair. Smaller, like Isla’s.

  There could be, still, only one lord.

  Tristan accepted his wine. Each dish was presented to him first, before being laid on the table. Other, lower tables received more of the same until they all but groaned under the weight of a luxurious, sweet and savory chaos. Jellies and custards dyed an array of vibrant hues, potato and onion pasties. Cheese. Apple strudels. Candied nuts and fish in broth.

  Pages ate separately. The lord’s son did not. After filling first Tristan’s plate and then Isla’s with far more than even Isla could hope to consume at her most famished, he grabbed his own and piled it twice as high. And then, with the same lack of ceremony he’d shown earlier, plopped down into his own chair with a
grin on his face.

  “This is fun,” he said.

  Apple eyed the platter that had just been placed before her. Isla’s stepmother and sister were both present, as though nothing were amiss. Rowena was all but falling out of her gown and Apple was little better. If either of them ate more than a few bites then their seams would explode. An event, Isla decided, she’d like to witness.

  “What…is this?”

  Blanc manger hailed from Chad, originally, but much beloved by the Morvish. As well as, or so Isla had been told, a particular favorite of the queen’s. Presented chilled, from a mold, it combined milk, rice, almonds, chopped meat—usually chicken—and sugar. It was, Isla supposed, a bit off putting in its appearance. White, and wobbly. But it was delicious.

  Arvid shook his head in mock sadness. “And they call me barbarian.”

  “My father doesn’t feed her well,” Hart commented. He, too, had served himself generously from everything on the table.

  Beside him, Callas seemed more interested in studying the other dinner guests. His expression, as always, was cool. At least none of them were still splattered with blood, Isla reflected. She didn’t think she could have kept down a single bite if Callas still appeared as he had during the ceremony.

  Isla wondered if her other dress was ruined. Greta claimed not. Isla was now garbed in a subdued forest green.

  “He seems to feed her well enough.” Arvid gestured. “She’s plump enough.”

  Apple recoiled. “Excuse me?”

  “Round, firm teats.” Arvid ripped meat from a bone with his dragon’s teeth.

  “I demand to be seated elsewhere.” Apple, Rowena, and Arvid were directly opposite them. So Tristan could keep a good eye on them, Isla thought. Hart was seated to Asher’s right and Callas on Hart’s. Greta sat on Isla’s left. The rest of the table consisted of those vassals who’d made the journey and dignitaries from Barghast. Including Greta’s uncle, who seemed a jovial man. The chief of the mason’s guild was there too, a man who wielded enough power within the city to have earned a title in his own right. Indeed, his position was far more significant than that of the average earl or baron.