The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1)

by P. J. Fox

  This was what there was, and everyone had better make the best of it.

  Isla, on the other hand, couldn’t stop asking why and she was never satisfied with the answers. Pray harder or it’s a mystery didn’t seem like answers, and neither did that’s no subject for a woman. Because they weren’t answers.

  She wanted to ask if poor Asher was being well treated, if he missed his home, and a thousand other questions but lacked the courage to do so.

  As if reading her mind—which he very well might have been—Tristan spoke. “I took him in this spring. So far, he and I understand each other.” He gave no explanation of what that might mean. “His father,” Tristan continued, “is dead. He was slain by an arrow at the Battle of Ullswater Ford. His uncle, the Earl of Derwent, took the boy in and tried to pass him off as someone he wasn’t.”

  Isla found herself absorbed by the story, in spite of herself. Even she’d heard of Derwent, one of the king’s bitterest enemies and a man to be—if the rumors about his treatment of women were true—avoided at all costs. The unwashed thugs that Hart called friends were masters of restraint in comparison. Or so she’d heard. But she had to keep in mind, at the same time, that all her information had come from local contacts and everyone in Ewesdale, at least in public, swore fealty to the king.

  “Derwent,” the duke continued, “thought it expedient to present Asher as the long lost son of Roger Terrowin.” Roger had been younger brother to the old king, and a fool besides. A bigger fool, if anything, than that addle-brained idiot.

  “Asher, of course, knew nothing of the plan and at six winters was hardly capable of meaningful participation. So Piers, after ambushing the earl at Windermere, took him prisoner and sent the boy to me.”

  Which made a certain sense. Darkling Reach was near nothing, except Tristan—and the northern border. But the mountain tribes hated House Terrowin and its ilk even more than they hated Piers Mountbatten. They didn’t appear to hate Tristan at all, strangely; Darkling Reach had developed a thriving trade partnership with its neighbors that benefitted both sides.

  “Is he…well?” she ventured, referring to Asher.

  “I suppose,” Tristan replied, clearly uninterested in either the boy or the topic of his welfare. “His tutors report that he does well enough, although he prefers history to astronomy. This summer, after much begging, he was entrusted with the care of his own horse and so far he’s managed not to kill the beast. He’ll make a fine bowman, when he’s older, if he doesn’t put his eye out first.” The duke sounded both bored and amused by this recitation. So far, he’d shown a great deal less interest in the care and feeding of Asher than he had in the care and feeding of his own destrier, but at least the boy didn’t appear to suffer from too much overt neglect. And he’d seemed happy enough earlier, at the practice yard.

  At least he had tutors. For the first time, Isla found herself seriously considering what life would be like in the North. When she thought about Asher, she almost wanted to be there. Then, at least, someone under a hundred could keep an eye on him. She was curious, she had to admit. Curious, entirely in spite of herself. Until now, she’d been too frightened to worry about the particulars of the situation overmuch. And, besides, it still hadn’t seemed real.

  Just like she’d been too worried to think about what the duke really was. That he wasn’t human should have been obvious from the beginning. Had been obvious, except for the fact that she’d ignored her gut instincts in favor of what her rational brain told her should be true. Should be, but wasn’t. A pervasive sense of unreality had wrapped her like cotton wool, protecting her from the sharp edges of this can’t be. Even now, walking arm in arm at his side, she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around the idea that he was other than a difficult and self-absorbed man. A man. Not a murderer, and certainly not some kind of demon.

  She trusted Cariad, and knew Cariad to be both learned and wise. But everything that the witch had told her seemed unbelievable in the extreme. Despite the evidence of her own eyes: the duke’s unusual appearance, his pallid skin and clawed hands, the fact that she herself had on several occasions referred to him as corpse-like in her own mind. He was preternaturally still, preternaturally observant. There was, and had always been, something unusual about his eyes—something she couldn’t quite put her finger on but had nonetheless noticed right away, at their first meeting.

  Everyone must see these things, she realized, to one degree or another. The only reason they hadn’t called the duke out on them was because—what were they going to say? And what would be the point? Demon or no demon, he was the king’s brother and had the king’s ear. People saw what they wanted to see, and heard what they wanted to hear. And what they had to see, to keep from going insane. The truth was too frightening—and too unbelievable—to contemplate. So as long as people had even the thinnest shred to cling to, they would.

  They’d ignore the evidence that Tristan was a demon if he transmogrified at the dinner table.

  And as for Isla, she’d been too distracted by how off balance he kept her to think through what he really was—and what that meant for her. Glancing at him now, she was once again struck by how both human and utterly nonhuman he seemed. What would life be like with him?

  What had happened, that she was contemplating a life with him?

  As horrifying as the question was, the answer—when she stopped to consider it—was disappointing. Isla was, at heart, a pragmatist. Her father had signed her over to the duke like a cow and she was stuck with him, whether she willed it or no. Survival lay in learning to accept the inevitable. Fighting tooth and nail would do nothing but waste her strength.

  At least when she did move north, she could content herself about the quality of Asher’s care. She could make sure he wasn’t beaten, or starved, or outright killed—as she herself might be—or possessed, or used as some hideous sacrificial lamb in an unspeakable rite. She’d seen no evidence, yet, of the duke worshipping the Dark One, but he hadn’t exactly denied the practice either. She wondered if she’d get a chance to ask, and if she’d have the courage to do so when she did. She was about to ask him who’d been following her, one question she did have the courage for simply because she was so curious that her need to know overrode her fear, when she heard the unmistakable sound of shouting.

  Brought up short, she stifled an exclamation when she realized both where it was coming from and what it was about.

  Without a word, Tristan led Isla into her father’s study. The door had been left open, which greatly facilitated their viewing of the rather spectacular drama playing out before their eyes. Isla raised a hand to her mouth. Tristan’s gaze was inscrutable. Her father, the so-called earl, had taken cover behind his desk. He’d been reduced to a state of considerable dishabille, his doublet half off and his shirt hanging open to expose his chest. Rudolph had turned as red as a beet. Both of the men were menacing each other with swords. Rowena was flapping her hands back and forth like a couple of caged birds and wailing loudly, but even her shrill tones were no match for the insults flying between the two men.

  “What are you doing?” Isla demanded.

  “They’re not playing baccarat!” Rowena shouted.

  “Tell me,” Tristan demanded coldly, “what this is about.” His quiet words were like a bucket of ice water on both men. They straightened up from where they’d been crouched, facing each other, remembering themselves. Rudolph smoothed down the front of his shirt; the earl reached for his wine.

  Rowena started to sob. She did so very prettily, although the emotion appeared to be in earnest. After a minute, Rudolph persuaded her to sit. Tristan called for chairs to be brought in, sending a frightened servant running, and the earl made no comment on his future son in law usurping his position. He seemed too tired to care. He sprawled out in his own favorite chair, his eyes rheumy as he glanced back and forth between Rudolph, Tristan, and the girls. He said nothing. What was there to say? The embarrassment was so acute as to render words futile.
Indeed, words could only make things worse.

  Instead, he gestured dismissively. He’d been caught by one son in law waving a sword at another son in law. And all three men were, in each other’s minds, ridiculous.

  The same servant reappeared with refreshments and, right after, Asher brought his master a drink. Isla wondered, abstractedly, if the duke had someone taste his food. She knew very little about the goings-on in the kitchens. She ordered the supplies that the cook said they needed and performed inspections now and then but left the minutiae of daily operations in his far more capable hands. Running a manorial kitchen was a huge undertaking, requiring the marshalling of more troops than the average battle, and not for the faint of heart.

  She glanced at her sister, who was sniffing and daubing politely at her eyes.

  Isla’s seat felt uncomfortable under her, hard and too short and with the back at just the wrong angle. She squirmed, realized that the duke was watching her, and stilled. She folded her hands in her lap, and waited to see what would happen.

  “Would anyone care to enlighten me as to what, precisely, has occurred here?” Tristan’s tone was deceptively calm; nevertheless, his request held the distinct weight of command.

  “He”—the earl jabbed a finger at Rudolph—“wants to abscond with my daughter and I won’t let him!”

  “I,” Rudolph responded firmly, “am going to marry her whether you, Sir, will the deed or no. As I should have a long time ago, if I weren’t such a cod-less sack of—”

  “Congratulations,” the duke interposed smoothly. He turned to the earl. “I agree with Rudolph that the match should go forward.”

  “What?” The earl stared at him, aghast. “You can’t possibly think that—”

  “But I do.” Tristan’s tone was cold. He never raised his voice; he had no need.

  “He has nothing to recommend him!” the earl bellowed, either forgetting that the man in question was in the room or forgetting to care. “He has no title in his own right and stands to inherit only a minor one! And just—just look how he’s dressed!”

  Rudolph reared back, insulted at this attack on modern fashion.

  Rowena pouted. “At least he is dressed,” she said, a none too subtle reference to the earl’s state. Hurriedly, he tugged at his doublet. Rowena didn’t seem to realize that this attitude wasn’t helping her cause. Increasing her father’s embarrassment would, in fact, accomplish exactly the opposite of what she intended. He’d just dig his heels in further; no man was as proud as the man who knew he had nothing, especially when confronted with those who made him feel like less of a man.

  Tristan, unmoved as always, steepled his long fingers. The effect, Isla noticed, was surprisingly elegant. His claws clicked together, the delicate blue tinge surrounding the cuticles pronounced in the last of the evening light. Soon, twilight would sweep the land. “Enzie,” he queried in that same curiously rasping tone of his, “has, as its main production, cloth. Am I correct?”

  The earl nodded hesitantly.

  “Indeed, I believe your manor produces a very fine rose-colored dye.”

  Again, the earl nodded.

  He turned to Rudolph. “And your manor has, as its main production, wool.”

  Now it was Rudolph’s turn to nod. He, too, seemed confused about where this line of questioning might be headed. Isla wasn’t; she understood exactly what the duke was after.

  Tristan smiled unpleasantly, causing both men to blanch. “Then, gentlemen, this is what’s going to happen. Rudolph is going to marry the fair Rowena and, in exchange, his manor is going to agree to sell Enzie Moor as much wool as it needs at seventy-five percent of market value for at least the next five seasons, terms to be renegotiated at the natural termination of the current contract. And, in return, Rudolph’s estate will have first bid on all cloth produced, provided that said bid meets or exceeds current market value.”

  “No!”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “What a ridiculous idea!”

  “Then,” Tristan told Rudolph, “I bid you good evening.”

  “You can’t just bid him good evening,” the earl cried, “this is my house!”

  “If he’s not going to marry her after all I hardly see that he needs to impinge on your hospitality for dinner.”

  “That’s for me to decide and—”

  “Yes?”

  The earl withered under the duke’s piercing gaze. Isla, as much as she wanted to disagree, knew that the duke was right. On all counts, but especially when it came to his proposed agreement. Neither Rudolph nor the earl saw that this would save Enzie Moor. Isla, who’d handled the estate’s finances for some time now, knew that while they did produce some of the finest cloth in the kingdom their costs had been ungovernable and that, more than any other single factor, was what had prevented them from getting back on their feet. They were never sure if there’d be an adequate supply of wool available or, if there was, it’d fall within their price range.

  Tristan’s proposal solved this problem, as well as provided an assured source of demand for Rudolph’s estate—a godsend to even a successful, high-producing estate and ten times more to a middling backwater like his.

  When everyone had calmed down, Tristan explained as much. And, although the promise of increased funds helped the earl to perk up considerably, he was still put out in the extreme that he had, in his words, been dishonored in his own home. Tristan favored the earl with a flat look. “I’m your son in law in all but name, Lord Enzie. Which, as I understand the law, and the terms of our contract, gives me the right to negotiate on your behalf.”

  “You’re not married yet!”

  “I can take her on the floor right now and make it official,” Tristan said blandly. “Otherwise, I suggest that you listen to me and listen well.”

  Then Isla watched as her future husband took his first step toward fixing the estate’s financial situation. Rudolph, as Tristan had rightly guessed, was willing to agree to almost anything—not to secure the fair Rowena but to prove his own manhood. He’d shown himself particularly willing to sign Tristan’s proposed contract when Tristan had suggested that perhaps his reticence was due to his not having power of attorney. Rudolph had informed them all, in no uncertain terms, that he did in fact have full signatory power on his estate’s behalf and was ready, willing and able to sign whatever he was given.

  Which, shortly thereafter, he did.

  Rudolph’s father would, Isla thought dryly, be thrilled to hear the good news.

  “I’m not entirely sure about this,” Rudolph said, gazing down at the hastily drawn contract where his signature still shone wetly. Rowena, who’d retreated to the window and was gazing out at nothing, pretended to ignore him. Isla glanced at her uneasily, but said kept her peace. She wasn’t sure if she should go to her sister and attempt to comfort her or if Rowena would be happier to preserve the illusion that no one else was in the room.

  “This contract is beneficial to all parties,” Tristan repeated, “including yourself. And including your future father in law, who is now my vassal and whose lands are under my control—and thus the king’s. I suggest,” he added, “that the time has come to prove your devotion. To your beloved…and to your king.” There could be no mistaking the import of those last words. If Rudolph tried to back out, or his father did, Tristan was prepared to consider his indecision an act of treason.

  The duke hadn’t, Isla supposed, become one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom or built his duchy into an economic force to be reckoned with by being kind. Or, indeed, by being decent. The whole idea made her tired. Were demons capable of being decent? Was decent a concept that the average demon even understood?

  And…was he really a demon?

  Rudolph, having proved his devotion to his king, now attempted to ameliorate his earlier mistakes and press his suit to Rowena. Who, a bit late, was giving him something of a suspicious glance. Forgetting, perhaps, that at long last she’d finally gotten exactly what she wante
d—and that there was no backing out. He whispered something to her, his expression pleading, and she turned her head. Isla sighed.

  TWENTY

  Isla had hoped to avoid another repetition of the dinnertime ordeal by pleading a headache, but such was not to be. Tristan told her in no uncertain terms that he expected her to sit with him at table. He considered her refusal to do so thus far quite rude and, if she did refuse, did she wish him to discuss her unauthorized wanderings with her father? Surely, if she proved so recalcitrant as to deny even the simplest of requests, then she proved herself in need of discipline? What lacked within must come from without, was that not so?

  “If you’re intent on showing me how unwilling you are to listen to me, and how uninterested you are in my concerns,” the duke said, “then believe me when I assure you that better supervision can be arranged.”

  Isla glared at him, furious and hurt. His words brought, not so much a feeling of hopelessness but one of impotent rage. She hated, hated these constant reminders that she was his property—as he knew very well. She hated, too, the constant reminder that her own father had sold her off in exchange for relief from his debts. Isla’s comparative powerlessness, as a woman, wasn’t something that had handicapped her all that much growing up as the earl’s will was no match for her own and Apple simply didn’t bother to concern herself with Isla’s comings and goings. But the duke, with his emphasis on rules, seemed absolutely determined to drive home the point that her will was no longer her own.