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

by P. J. Fox

  Isla wondered, again, when they’d actually leave for the North. Increasingly, that often dreamed of day couldn’t come soon enough. She hated it here, yes, but, she was also growing more and more curious about Darkling Reach, with its lakes and its magic, and particularly about Caer Addanc. Even the name sounded both romantic and treacherous.

  And, if truth be told, she wanted to start her life with Tristan. She wanted to be his in truth, not simply in theory. The thought of his lips on hers, of his hands on her bare flesh, sent chills up her spine and made her flush with confused, ever more pressing need that she’d never before experienced. She didn’t care that he was a demon—or maybe she did, and that was part of his allure. She didn’t know. All she knew was that she loved him but, more than that, she wanted him. Badly. Even now.

  The priest paused and waited, hands folded, as Tristan’s retainers lowered Father Justin into the ground.

  They’d dug the hole the night before. It was just a hole, nothing interesting about it, but to Isla it looked sinister. Like a yawning maw into Hell. Which was where she hoped Father Justin was going. She shivered again. Even now, with his sunken eyeballs visible even beneath the sheet and the smell of him attesting powerfully to the fact that he was no threat, he terrified her. She’d woken, the past several nights, with dreams of him rising from his grave and coming after her. She knew that she’d be plagued by the same dream again tonight.

  They shoveled the dirt over his body as the priest said the final benediction, and the mourners began to turn away. Isla stayed where she was, rooted to the spot, unable to turn her back on the man who’d almost succeeded in ruining her life.

  “He will never hurt you again,” Tristan murmured into her ear. And somehow, Isla knew that he wasn’t just talking about the fact that Father Justin was dead. A chill ran through her at what the necromancer beside her was implying, but she found that she was too emotionally exhausted to care.

  “I think…I think I need to sit down,” she said.

  “Come. I’ll bring you back to your room.”

  She nodded, leaning her head against his shoulder.

  But before they could leave, Rowena detached herself from Rudolph and came over. She stopped, her hands clasped at her waist. Isla straightened, and waited. Let Rowena begin this dialogue. Tristan, characteristically, said nothing. Asher, beside him, did the same. He even looked like Tristan in that moment: calm and austere, but with something moving just beneath the surface.

  “I, ah….” Rowena cleared her throat. The wind whipped around them, picking up now and heavy with the promise of a storm. Isla tasted the decay and mineral water tang of the moor, and knew that rain was coming. She hoped they’d make it back inside before the skies opened. Rowena began again. “Sometimes, I can be, ah…difficult. I’m not perfect. And the other afternoon I was…I was wrong. I apologize.”

  Isla was stunned. Stunned, and pleased. She hadn’t expected this, and from her sister of all people. Rowena did care! Isla smiled, and was just about to tell her not to worry, that everyone forgave her, when her sister continued. “But the people around me love me and accept me and, after these things happen, they accept me again.” She smiled briefly. “You,” she continued, addressing them all, “might also reflect on circumstances where you might have…overstated your case, shall we say? Or been uncivil.”

  “Ah,” Isla said, her expression hardening. “I see. This isn’t an apology after all.”

  “Of course it is. I’ve admitted that I might have been slightly inappropriate and now you, too, might perhaps have the maturity to admit that you”—she looked pointedly at Tristan—“got a bit overwrought. And then people can forgive you, too, because they care about you.”

  “I,” Tristan said acidly, “was defending my child.”

  “Your child? He’s not—”

  “Rowena,” Isla cut in, her fury boiling over, “for a few precious seconds I thought that you were being kind-hearted and mature. I thought that I’d been wrong about you! But no! This wasn’t an apology, it was an invitation for us to decide that something’s wrong with us when in fact, nothing is! What, is Asher supposed to apologize, too? For offending your sensibilities?

  “I did nothing wrong, here, Rowena.” Isla felt absolutely light-headed with rage. “Asher did nothing wrong; and Tristan most certainly did nothing wrong. You are the one who attacked a child. Tristan could have you arrested and we both know it, so quit acting like the damsel in distress. You’ve been nothing but hateful to me—to all of us, even to Rudolph—for over a fortnight and I for one have had it!”

  She glared at her sister. Rowena glared back. Isla could barely see straight, she was so angry. She doubted very much that Tristan wanted her to fight his battles for him and, indeed, he looked distinctly displeased at her outburst, but this was her sister. She had to say something.

  Which perhaps Tristan understood, as he made no move to criticize her for her outburst. Instead, he rested his cold gaze on Rowena. “Madam,” he said, his voice like ice, “I would suggest that you learn to restrain yourself.”

  He spoke calmly, as always, but the threat in his voice could not be mistaken.

  Rudolph, sensing danger, tried to put his arm around Rowena and pull her to him, but whether in an effort to comfort or control Isla didn’t know. “Darling,” he pleaded in that silly, drawling manner of his, “please don’t upset His Grace.”

  Rowena shot Rudolph a glare and, twisting out of his embrace, turned on her heel and stalked off. Isla watched her march in the direction of the manor, her tension-filled form getting smaller and smaller. Rudolph hesitated for a moment, and then hurried after her.

  Watching them, Isla felt strangely empty. She wasn’t as sad as she’d expected to be but, at the same time, she was far more depressed. This was it, then. Her relationship with Rowena, even if it could be repaired, would never be the same.

  “Isla,” Tristan said, “while I appreciate the sentiment, I assure you that I am well able to defend myself—and you.”

  “But she’s…she’s my sister.” Isla’s protest sounded weak in her own ears. Her eyes were still fixed on the two retreating dots. Rudolph had finally caught up to Rowena and if body language was any indication, was trying to reason with his betrothed. Rowena waved her hands, gesturing wildly, as Rudolph pleaded. Isla wondered if this was the domestic bliss that Rowena had envisioned.

  “Indeed.” Tristan’s tone was dry, but not unkind. “And I understand that there is a certain period of…adjustment, in any new situation. But your life is part of mine now and, as such, I will direct it.” He turned, his eyes meeting hers. He’d been watching the ill-starred lovers, too.

  “Please trust me,” he said, his voice changing.

  “I do.”

  She spared a glance for Tristan’s men, who’d almost finished filling in the grave. The other mourners had all departed for warmer environments. Asher, huddled in his cloak, looked distinctly miserable. Despite Tristan’s claim that Father Justin would never bother her again, she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe that she’d heard the last of the man. Some brief flicker of premonition, like what she’d felt at Cariad’s, washed over her and was gone. And then Tristan folded her in his arms, holding her fast against the wind, and for a little while she was content.

  FORTY-TWO

  Dinner was a subdued affair, with everyone lost in their own thoughts. Some wit made a comment about how Father Justin had been buried on Mabon, and Isla’s end of the table fell silent. Her father, in particular, looked distinctly uneasy. Apple made the ward against evil. Isla suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. She was getting a little sick of this superstitious drivel, and of the hypocrisy behind it. If Tristan was such an odious man, then why did they continue to serve him at table? Or host him in the hall’s finest set of apartments?

  Beside her, Tristan smiled blandly and sipped his wine. He’d seen, of course, and was amused. One of the things Isla loved about him was his confidence.

 
; Hart was seated on Tristan’s other side. He, too, was confident but in an entirely different manner. Where Tristan was reserved, Hart was outspoken. Be it with women or pigs, Hart enjoyed causing trouble and he did so now.

  Affecting a casual air, he turned to Tristan. “Mabon, is it? We highlanders are quite ignorant, you know, living out in the back of beyond with our sheep. Perhaps you’d care to explain?”

  Isla smiled slightly, into her cup. This should be rich.

  Tristan, too, had a sense of humor; if one that tended to be a bit more macabre. He gave every evidence of taking the question perfectly seriously, although Isla could well imagine what he was thinking. He and Hart got along well, and this wasn’t the first time that they’d engaged in such banter for the benefit of the table. Watching them now, Isla thought she almost got a glimmer of what Tristan must have been like—before. She wondered how much, if anything, was left of the man he’d once been. Sometimes, she felt like she knew Tristan as well as she knew herself and others she was reminded of how very little time she’d known him and he felt like a stranger to her. Sometimes, she wondered if she knew him at all.

  “Mabon,” Tristan began, “is the Second Harvest Sabbat.” He was speaking, Isla knew, of the religion of the North.

  The church had done its best to suppress its practice, and the church had failed. The witch hunt that had spread like wildfire through the rest of Morven had been stopped at the northern passes, and while suspicion and secrecy still ruled in most of Morven, where the church laid a heavy hand, Northerners cherished the old ways. Ways that long predated the church and, some argued, long predated written records.

  Not all of the northern religion’s practitioners paid homage to the dark one, as Tristan supposedly did, nor were they involved in the dark arts. In fact, most weren’t. But the North’s viewpoint on right and wrong was different enough from the church’s that, to many, pagan worship and devil worship were one in the same. Isla, having benefitted from Cariad’s tutelage, knew that this was far from the case and she listened with interest as Tristan spoke. These would be her people, too.

  While Mabon was often hailed as a celebration of life, in truth it was a celebration of death. In the North, where fall came on quickly, Mabon was celebrated as the chiefest of the harvest festivals. The fruits of one’s labor abounded as one celebrated the bounty from one’s garden, and one’s fields; crops were transformed into all manner of exotic and time-consuming dishes to be shared with family and friends. But, as Tristan pointed out, the harvest was the ultimate celebration of death: the death of the summer season, the death of the crops that have been harvested as a sacrifice to feed their masters.

  “That’s macabre,” Rowena protested.

  “Death is a natural part of life,” Tristan replied, his tone mild, “one that comes to us all. And Mabon honors death, and the dead. What is there to fear?”

  “Well that’s alright, then,” Rudolph said, “I’m as keen on a food-based holiday as the next man. But I never did think to anthropomorphize my vegetables. How can I look at a potato on my plate and think, that chap sacrificed himself for me?” He shuddered. “I prefer my food just how it is, thank you.” He smiled at Rowena. “I always was glad that I wasn’t cursed with an imagination. Just so, don’t you think?”

  Rowena smiled back, if wanly.

  “What do you do in the North,” Hart asked, “to celebrate?”

  “Remember the dead,” Tristan replied, “and honor them.” He sipped his wine.

  Isla wondered how they honored the dead, and if she wanted to know.

  “We give thanks for the end of the harvest season,” Tristan continued, “and thanks to Nature for sheltering and caring for us.” Isla heard the capital in the word, but didn’t understand what he meant. “And, of course, host feasts. The peasants make wine and preserves, and share them around with each other as gifts. Mabon is also a popular time to marry, as the groom will have had the summer to construct a house. In which the bride will be forced to know him quite well, once the snows come.” He arched an eyebrow. Hart laughed, and so did Rudolph. Rowena pursed her lips in a moue of distaste, unimpressed.

  “It’s a wonderful time of year,” Tristan said, turning to Isla. His gaze was once again inscrutable, his black eyes reflecting the firelight. “I look forward to sharing it with you.”

  She smiled. “That sounds lovely.” And frightening, too.

  Isla glanced down at her cup and then up at Tristan, meeting his gaze. Was this how Brenna had felt, a hundred years ago? A woman who, however her life had turned out and however happy it might have been, would have long been in her grave. Isla was seized, suddenly, by the transiency and utter pointlessness of life. It was so short. What did any of their accomplishments matter? What was it like for Tristan, knowing that he’d outlive everyone he knew? Would he have another brother, serve another king, a decade from now? Or five? Or even ten? How lonely that must be.

  Rowena stood up, shattering the moment. She sniffed and then, abruptly and with no explanation, excused herself. Rudolph watched her go and then, shrugging as if to apologize for her conduct, poured himself another drink. This time, at least, he wouldn’t go running after her. Rowena was making herself unpopular. Isla wondered if she knew that, or cared.

  In any event, the conversation soon relaxed back into other channels and Isla was able to finish her dinner—another mostly unappetizing presentation of trout, along with some bacon—in peace.

  At the Morvish table, the rules of etiquette dictated that each couple share a plate and, in turn, that the more senior member of the couple select food and serve. This was, Isla supposed, because at most noble tables there wasn’t enough pewter to go around. But whatever the source of the custom—a custom that, she observed with some chagrin, her less aristocratic counterparts need not follow—it had endured. Naturally, there were awkward moments: as two complete strangers were paired together, or two people who hated each other. But mostly husbands shared plates with wives, betrotheds with each other. Which could still present a real problem, if the parties had drastically differing tastes.

  Just as Tristan’s page served him, and Apple’s eunuch served both her and Isla’s father, Tristan served Isla. Hart, sharing a plate with Rand, served him. And Rand, who could care less about manners, also served himself. Beneath the table, the pair’s hounds wagged happily.

  Tristan served Isla carefully, with every apparent attention to her comfort. He cut her pieces of bread and cubes of cheese. His hand moved deftly, the blade of his almost too-sharp knife glinting in the firelight. Isla was reminded of watching Hart gut a deer. The deer’s death hadn’t upset her nearly as much as the total disinterest with which Hart set to work dismembering it. Isla knew, without being told, that Tristan would twist the knife in an enemy’s bowels with much the same expression on his face.

  How could she be in love with such a man? She had to admit, she’d felt a certain guilty satisfaction at the growing look of horror on her sister’s face, as Tristan described how Northerners honored the dead. And a certain curiosity, too: she wanted to see these festivals, for herself, to know if they were really as awe-inspiring as they sounded. And as macabre. Death was such a fact of life in the north that its presence was treated almost like that of a friend. Certainly it held no terror to these hard-hearted people with their strange gods—or, if it did, they embraced that terror and made it part of them.

  Tristan, too, fascinated her. She wanted to know what it meant, to be a demon, to understand his nature. The feeling of mixed revulsion and attraction that she’d first felt in the orchard, when he’d ensorcelled her, remained. And had grown stronger with each passing moment.

  She was, in truth, torn: she loathed the concept of black magic, hated the idea of tormenting any creature, but at the same time coming to know Tristan had forced her to reevaluate certain long-held preconceptions. Tristan was reputedly evil; she’d heard the stories about cannibalism, sacrifice and worse, stories that he’d made no move to d
eny. But, around her, he seemed so…different.

  She didn’t know what to believe.

  FORTY-THREE

  They walked alone, under the stars. The moon was almost gone, and if it wasn’t for Tristan Isla would surely have put her foot wrong and broken her ankle. The ground was studded with gopher holes and other hazards, which Tristan seemed to avoid as if by magic. Or, as she suspected was more likely, very good night vision. He glanced down at her, his eyes glittering in the dark. They had a silver cast, like a wolf’s.

  One day, a day that even now seemed too far off to be imagined, they’d have their own private space: their own apartments, their own bedroom, their own galleries and libraries and sitting rooms and great hall and gardens. Isla didn’t know much about Caer Addanc, but she doubted that it was small. She and Tristan could be alone together, whenever and however they wished—or at least, however he wished. He seemed to be a man whose business interests kept him occupied. Still, even a few snatched moments in the privacy of their own apartments would be better than this…this limbo.

  Isla was yet young and unmarried, a maiden of not even twenty winters; she could hardly invite the duke to her private chamber. And he, in turn, could hardly host her in his. For whatever happened, and however innocent it might be, tongues would wag. She didn’t care and she doubted he did, either, but that didn’t matter. Tristan was here, first and foremost, as a representative of the king. Isla knew, too, that even if they did marry, and even if they failed to produce children until years after that event occurred, a certain segment of the population would always proclaim that he’d only married her, because he’d gotten her with child. As if a woman’s virginity were the only thing about her that mattered. Isla grimaced inwardly.

  Tristan said nothing, although she sensed that he’d guessed at least some of her thoughts. They were outside again, following a circuitous route toward the orchard, her hand on his arm. As sick as she was of this routine and as bitterly as she resented the strictures posed upon her, Isla’s malaise vanished when she was actually with him. She reveled in his presence, in just sharing the air she breathed with someone who wanted her and understood her.