by P. J. Fox
Isla leaned her head against his shoulder. There had been no discussion of what had happened the night before. She still didn’t know what he meant about a choice, and was afraid to speculate. He’d walked her back to her room and when she’d seen him this morning at breakfast, it had been as though nothing had happened. He’d been polite and solicitous, amusing them all, Hart in particular, with stories of the capital. And now they were here, together, sharing a quiet afternoon like any other couple.
The mood last night had been electric, the energy between them palpable as she’d struggled to understand what he was telling her. As, after he’d told her that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t make love to her, he’d taken her in his arms again and forced her down onto the grass, his lips still on hers. She’d arched her back, pressing herself against him, on fire with need.
She jumped as a log split and collapsed into the coals, sparks shooting up the flue. The crack of exploding pine knots was like the crack of a longbow firing. Tristan leaned his head back, staring at nothing she could see. Sitting here together, enjoying these all too brief moments of silence, she almost felt like they were married already and sharing a rare calm afternoon together like any other couple. The manor’s soporific atmosphere was catching, and she was content.
“It’s one of the reasons I need to leave soon,” he said suddenly.
“What?” she asked. He’d said I, not we. She felt her heart sink. He’d promised her all this, and he wasn’t taking her with him?
Just then Alice came in with a jug of mulled wine. Seeing Tristan, she smiled one of her demure-seeming little smiles. She obviously found him attractive but, then again, Isla suspected that Alice would find any man with a fat purse and a strong sword arm attractive. She was hardly known around the manor for her chastity, regardless of what her brother Rand chose to believe.
“Your Grace,” she said, managing to imbue that single salutation with a world of meaning.
She bent to set the pitcher down on the table in front of them, exposing a very generous expanse of cleavage. Tristan watched her with an appraising eye that made Isla nervous. She wondered, briefly and bitterly, if Tristan would be so particular with her maid. Alice, of course, had no pretensions. She knew that Tristan was out of her league, just as she knew that Hart was out of her league. But that hadn’t stopped her from taking Hart up into the hay loft at every opportunity. Alice didn’t want marriage, or children; she wanted fun. And Isla, for some obscure reason that she couldn’t quite name, found her threatening.
Still grinning, Alice left. Her hips swayed from side to side, and but for her small, throaty giggle the movement might almost have been an accident. Alice was one of those girls who managed to exude sex appeal without even trying—or, rather, who knew how to give the impression of doing so without even trying.
Isla tried to abandon this train of thought as unworthy, and found it impossible to do so. Her would-be husband had, after all, just told her that he was leaving her for parts unknown and for, apparently, an unspecified length of time. Her good mood shattered, and she frowned.
“I have a matter of urgent business to attend to, for the king.” He spoke as though they hadn’t just been interrupted, continuing the same train of thought that he’d begun a moment before. “It’s not something I can include you in, and for your own safety.” He turned, meeting her gaze. “But I’m not leaving until a date has been firmly fixed and I’m not leaving you alone. Some of my own men will be staying, as well as my tailor when she arrives.”
Isla was growing more and more curious about this so-called tailor. “And when do you plan to leave?”
“I might be here as long as another week. I’m waiting for a message.”
“Oh,” she said in a small voice.
“Isla,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle, “it’s alright. You’ll be fine here and, regardless, it won’t be very long. I intend for us to be married before the Month of Elder begins.” The Month of Elder was a northern term; he was referring to what in the south was known as the Slaughter Month, the last month of the year save for Winter Month. At Winter Month’s end, the Solstice marked the shortest day of the year and then, with its symbolic death at the fall of night, the gradual lengthening of the days that marked the beginning of the new year. The church had appropriated the holiday as its own, but even the ill-educated knew that the celebration of the Solstice long predated even the earliest church fathers.
“I don’t want to be here alone,” she protested softly, willing him to change his mind. She didn’t want to be here at all, with the sister who hated her and the father who’d almost let her die. That she’d find him and then he’d leave her here, for who knew how long…the thought made her feel empty inside. She squashed a growing feeling of desperation. Not now, not after all this, to have him leave and life return to normal and for it to be as though he’d never been. As though they’d never been. She didn’t think she could stand it. And what—what if he forgot about her? Or changed his mind?
“I know. But I promise, it won’t be for long.”
She let the subject drop. She knew that there was no sense in pushing him, on this or any other issue. Tristan Mountbatten was a man who made up his own mind, without the help of others. He might listen to their counsel, and was confident enough to admit if someone else had wiser, but he was no Rudolph to be poked and prodded and led around by the nose.
At least they had this week; the last few halcyon days of what had begun to seem like a dream. Human beings weren’t meant to be so happy, and Isla knew in her heart of hearts that, as hard as she tried to deny the truth, this newfound sense of bliss couldn’t last.
FORTY-FIVE
She met him in the grotto, as he’d asked her to during dinner. He’d referenced the place obliquely, while engrossed in conversation with someone else on a different subject entirely, but still she’d understood the message. They knew each other well enough, even after such a short period of time, that his coded phrases posed no challenge to her. And he, in turn, knew her well enough that he was well able to phrase himself in a manner that she understood. Thus, even at the dinner table, they were able to communicate privately. Of course, there were limits to what he could say and limits to how she could respond. It frustrated her, and she found herself counting the minutes until they could be alone.
Some caution was required; there had already been too much comment about how much time they spent together. It was a sad comment on Morvish society, Isla thought, that a betrothed couple appearing too interested in each other was cause for concern. Of course, no one was concerned about Tristan. As well as being a man, and thus immune to the greater part of society’s rules, he was a duke in his own right as well as brother to the king. He could do as he pleased. Isla, on the other hand, had encountered the wrath of both her sister and childhood nurse. Rowena had accused Isla of throwing herself at him, while Moira had muttered darkly in the background.
So Tristan and Isla ignored each other for the most part during dinner, sharing a plate but confining their conversation to others of their companions. Tristan got involved in a long conversation about horses, and Isla listened to Apple talk about the latest fashions from the capital. She’d heard all about them from the shop in town where she bought her fabric and was thrilled that the horned headdress was making a comeback. Isla forced herself to smile. The image of Apple in taffeta-crowned horns was more than she could stomach. She’d look like the Dark One on a bad day.
And so after dinner, he’d excused himself to converse further with a few of the other men and she’d disappeared to her room, where she’d sat in front of the small fire and brooded. Mabon was near the end of Autumn Month; soon it would be Wine Month, and then Slaughter Month. Each of the months in the Morvish calendar was named after the activity that principally occurred within it: Wine Month, the first month of fall, was when the grapes, blackberries, and other wine-making fruits were harvested and wine production began. Slaughter Month was when the animals w
ere slaughtered and their meat cured. Feeding an animal through the winter was expensive; all but the richest of householders dispensed with their stock, saving only what they needed to reproduce the herd the next spring.
Winter Month brought the Solstice and then, with the turning of the year and the birthday of the entire kingdom came Fore Month. The Month of Sales was when seeds, farm equipment and other spring necessities changed hands, in anticipation of the coming thaw. The oldsters joked that Spring Month was in like a lion and out like a lamb, but in truth Spring Month was wet and raw from beginning to end. By Grass Month, the first of the heather began dotting the Highlands and by Flowers Month, the grass itself had finally arrived. Summer Month brought the warm weather, Border Month the incursions from the north, and Month of Harvest the rabid dogs and humidity thick enough to cut with a knife.
Which brought them back to Autumn Month. Isla sighed. Her marriage, and the freedom it promised, seemed very far off. She waited another half an hour or so, stirring the fire in a desultory fashion with the slim poker she kept for such purposes, before she got up to leave.
She got up and, throwing her cloak over one arm, walked across to the door. She opened it, and there was Rowena. Her sister brushed in past her, ignoring her startled exclamation. “And just where do you think you’re going?” she asked, without bothering to turn. Instead, she stopped in front of the window and stared out into the night.
“I…out,” Isla stumbled, “for some fresh air.”
“Hah.” Rowena turned. “You’re going to meet him.”
“And what if I am?” Isla challenged.
“I suppose,” Rowena said, changing tack, “that you should do whatever you must to keep his interest. Rudolph is interested in me for more than my…physical charms.”
Isla sincerely doubted that, at this point, but kept a straight face. Instead, she tried to reason with her sister. “Rowena, there’s nothing wrong with men and women showing affection for one another. After all, I mean, what do you think happens after people get married?”
Rowena’s laugh was like tinkling bells, and full of a condescension that she made no effort to hide. “A lady never engages in such things, unless absolutely required to for the purposes of procreation.” Here, Rowena was all but quoting verbatim the teachings of the church. Teachings that, in Isla’s opinion, well-adjusted women ignored. She was shocked to hear Rowena, of all people, express such sentiments—Rowena, who’d always been such fun. “No true gentleman would want a woman who disported herself like a tavern slut.” She sniffed. “Then again, His Grace seems to prefer tavern sluts.”
“Do you not find Rudolph…attractive?” Isla ventured.
“Of course I do. What woman wouldn’t? I merely wish to preserve my virtue in his eyes. And,” she added primly, “my own.”
“So I have no virtue,” Isla said flatly.
“Only you know that.” Rowena’s lips curled in a small, smug smile. She’d made her mind up about Isla’s virtue, alright.
Isla was getting sick of this conversation. “Thank you, Rowena,” she said tightly, “for your support. But if it’s all the same to you, I do need fresh air.”
She needed it now more than ever; these days, even a few minutes with her once-sweet natured sister made her feel sick. Ignoring Rowena’s protests that she couldn’t leave, Rowena wasn’t done yet, she turned on her heel and stalked out. She was sick of Rowena and, more, she was angry with her. Isla had done this for her, had sacrificed herself so Rowena could marry the man of her dreams. Rowena had looked up to her, depended on her for the past sixteen years—so why now did it feel like Rowena begrudged her even the littlest bit of happiness that might come of it all? Did Rowena genuinely want her to be miserable?
Isla, afraid of what the answer might be, tried desperately to think of something else.
Her slippered feet moved silently on the tiles as she crossed the broad main hall and, passing the entrance to the women’s gallery, descended the main staircase. The hall below was empty as well, everyone having retired, if not to bed and sleep, then at least to their rooms to relax. She glanced into the great hall, where a few people were already passed out on the benches that ringed the fireplaces. Wrapped up in their own cloaks, some snoring softly, they looked comfortable. Content. When winter came on in earnest, much of the manor’s livestock would join them in the great hall and the stench would be even worse than usual. Isla wondered if she’d still be here. She hoped not.
Bypassing the main door, she instead eased open the smaller side door at the end of the hall. The wind had died down, with the passing of the rain, and the air wasn’t too cold. Isla’s heart thudded in her chest; she wondered what would happen and wondered, again, what Tristan had meant by a choice. Did he mean—to be like him? Was that even possible? And if it was, did she want to change?
She’d said she wanted to be with him forever and she did, but she knew too that he was different; that he felt nothing of what she did and that what emotions he had were so alien to her that they might as well not exist. He didn’t love; he craved. He didn’t want; he needed. And as much as Isla feared her own mortality, she wasn’t sure that she wanted to live without the very things that made her human.
She hesitated on the last step, her thoughts racing. She must have stood there for a long time. Later, she’d never be sure. And then she drew a deep, shuddering breath, let it out, and jumped down onto the dew-damp grass. Her slippers soaked through almost immediately, but she barely noticed. She took one step, and then another, and then she disappeared into the night and was gone.
FORTY-SIX
She crept up to the grotto. Briefly, she’d felt free. Exultant with the joy of being outside on her own and one with the night. Now, though, she felt her hesitancy return. What was she doing? A small voice inside her warned her to go back, before it was too late. To heed Rowena’s counsel; to question whether this thing, whatever it was, was truly what she wanted. And yet, as compelling as these thoughts were, and as afraid as she was that this was all folly, and a terrible mistake, Isla couldn’t help herself. She felt herself drawn on, no, compelled. She wanted Tristan. Needed him. And the truth was, whatever hold he had over her, she’d given it to him willingly.
The honeysuckle and roses tugged at her cloak and, once or twice, scratched her skin. She winced, hissing in pain as a particularly large thorn scored her cheek. A second later, she felt the wetness of blood. She touched her fingertips to her skin and they came away black in the moonlight, a pale glow cast by a waning crescent.
She felt like she was alone. She couldn’t sense any other presence, not even that of the small animals that crept around at night. No owls hooted; no wind rustled through the leaves on the trees, or made the ones on the ground dance. She felt like she’d crept into a crypt.
And then she was inside the grotto. The air smelled of stone and lichen and had a damp, mineral quality that even more forcefully reminded her of venturing down into a crypt. She had once, as a child, and been scolded for her folly. The door could have closed behind her; she could have been trapped there forever, with no one knowing where she’d gone, until she perished from thirst. That had been like this…and just as exciting. Isla hadn’t given up her explorations, only learned to be more careful.
She straightened up, brushing an errant rose petal out of her hair. Tristan was on the far side, as motionless as the stone arch that framed him. He stood with his back to her, the outline of his tall, broad-shouldered form almost lost in the darkness. Something pulled her eyes to him; otherwise, she would never have seen him.
She waited. He turned. Neither of them said a word. He’d wanted her and now she was here. Her heart thudded against her ribcage, half in exhilaration and half in fear of what might happen next. She struggled to remain calm, breathing in and out in slow, measured beats.
“Hello,” she said, sounding inane in her own ears.
Standing there, waiting, she felt a bit like a sacrifice. Waiting to be laid on the alta
r. Except what altar this was, she didn’t know.
“There’s an old folk tale in the North, about the moon.” He spoke softly, almost hypnotically. “About how she fell in love with a mortal man, a traveler, and came to earth to be with him. Their time together was sweet but, as the nights passed, other travelers were lured from their paths by bog sprites and perished; they had no moon to guide them. So ultimately,” he continued, approaching her, “she made a devil’s bargain: giving up her soul that she might spend one single night of each month on earth, with him. She waxes and wanes as she grows closer to the earth and, then, after that one night, farther away.”
“What happened?” Isla asked.
“He left her for a mortal woman.”
“That’s terrible!” Isla protested.
“It’s just a story.” Tristan made a dismissive gesture.
“It’s a terrible story.” She shivered.
“You’re cold?” he inquired.
“Yes,” she admitted. He, apparently, never got cold. She wondered sometimes if he wore his cloak for show.
He watched her now, head cocked slightly to the side, as if her all too human problems fascinated him. Which perhaps they did. For all that he was a man of the world, he was also, after his own fashion, new to it. Things that most men took for granted, like the weather, fascinated him. She’d caught him watching the rain, watching the fire dance in the grate, with an intense concentration, an almost, she might have called it a sense of wonder. For all that he viewed the world with a jaundiced eye, he was also truly in it. And that was part of what she loved about him.
Tristan raised his hand slightly and, in a graceful and somehow delicate gesture, turned his wrist and closed his long, thin fingers in on his palm. He looked as though he were grasping something. A second later, his hand began to glow a reddish color as soft light spilled out from the chinks around his knuckles. Isla narrowed her eyes against the sudden brightness, as small as it was; the moon was almost gone and she’d barely been able to pick out her surroundings as she’d slipped through the garden. Even now, Tristan was nothing but shades of black against the night.
