The White Queen: The Black Prince Trilogy, Book 2

by P. J. Fox

  The demon stared at its hands, heart sinking. How could it ever hope to adapt? To fit in?

  It had to figure out how to present itself at the doors to its ostensible home, to explain what had happened. It sighed, and curled up into a ball again. Tristan had been ill as a child, and his parents had thought he’d die. And while the pains that had wracked his body then were the worst he could remember, they were nothing in comparison to what the demon felt now. The demon, who now shared its host’s memories.

  Some part of Tristan was still present inside it, too, vital and alive; hovering somewhere in the night-black recesses of its mind. It thought, and Tristan thought, and the demon supposed that what happened next could be described as a communion of sorts. While morning passed outside the cave, and then afternoon, the demon drowsed and thought and absorbed Tristan’s memories into its own consciousness until the two were nigh on indistinguishable.

  The rodent—of a species he didn’t recognize—had been an act of desperation and had done little to sate its hunger. It needed to feed on human flesh, to absorb a human man’s energy into its own weakening form. But still, as conscious as it was of hunger, the rodent had given it a little respite. And eventually, drowsing turned into something deeper. Almost a coma, as the transformation—the melding—progressed. Anyone coming upon the demon then would have thought that they’d discovered a corpse. Its skin was waxy-pale, and its chest barely moved.

  Much of Tristan’s thoughts weren’t so different from its own. Host and possessor wanted the same things, in the end. The same thing. But where the former denied its craving for power, the latter did not. The latter was not human, and never would be human, but still the line between them continued to blur. In Tristan’s arms and hands were stored muscle memories: of how to draw a bow, and how to wield a sword, and how to grasp a pair of reins. Slowly, the demon absorbed this along with Tristan’s memories. As Tristan himself, the man, was slowly leeched empty.

  Tristan had read of men who invited possession, when he first began his study of the so-called left hand path. They did so, seeking a higher level of consciousness through sharing that consciousness with another being. Two entities, existing simultaneously in one form. Tristan had often wondered if that was what it felt like to be bonded with one’s lover: to share all thoughts and feelings. To harbor no secrets. To never be alone again. It sounded both terrifying and glorious. He’d wanted it, with Brenna. But now, he didn’t want much. Only to rest. He’d carried so many burdens for so long, and he was so tired….

  Outside, the sky purpled as twilight stretched out its fingers over the land.

  NINE

  He’d killed a cottager out scavenging for peat, by one of the bogs that dotted the lowland section near the edge of the forest. He’d awoken, beyond ravenous, to discover that it was full night. He’d moved cautiously, and then quickly as he regained his balance. The pain of transformation had been replaced by the pain of hunger, a pain that threatened to blast apart his conscious thoughts and leave him gasping face first in the snow.

  But he forced himself on and soon he heard the tramping of feet.

  The cottager worked his way slowly onward, rags wrapped around his hands to keep away the worst of the cold. A crust of frost had formed on the snow and it was this sound the demon heard: snowshoes, oft-repaired, punching through. The cottager had a stick with him that he’d use for foraging, and to break the ice. He held it out in front of him now for balance.

  He looked to have about sixty winters, which meant he probably had about thirty. Stumbling, he bit off an oath. His two front teeth were the brown of oak bark and little more than stumps. The peasantry lived hard, in the foothills; they married young, and most died before their fortieth winter. The outbreak of a bloody, drawn-out war of attrition hadn’t helped matters. Life for everyone in Morven was harder than it had ever been.

  The demon knew all this, and he didn’t care.

  He was disgusted by the cottager, whom he could smell from ten paces distant, and he didn’t care about that either. All he cared about, at that moment, was that the cottager represented food. A starving man, he’d once read, would eat anything. He was, he realized, about to prove the truth of that assertion. He could only thank the Gods, if they existed, that the first living person he’d come across hadn’t been someone he knew—because he didn’t think he could have restrained himself.

  He burst from the stand of junipers where he’d been crouching, hip-deep in snow. The boughs, bent almost to the ground, exploded outward in a shower of white. Hearing the noise the cottager, mistaking the demon for a wolf, turned and tried to run. The winter had been a hard one and there had been several reports of wolf attacks. Everyone was desperate for food, in times like these.

  The cottager couldn’t have outmatched his pursuer in any case, but his snowshoes made him clumsy and he pitched forward as the demon landed on his back and drove him down deep into the snow.

  The demon feasted beneath the moon, blood running black down his chin in the pale light as he scooped up handfuls of entrails. He lost all sense of time, and of place, as he luxuriated in the feeling of life. The cottager reeked, and tasted gristly and tough, but none of that mattered. The demon would come to learn, later, that different people tasted like different things depending on the lives they’d led, the food they’d eaten and more. Some people had an innate magical ability gone untapped all their lives; they tasted the best.

  Afterward, in the gray light of the false dawn, the demon made his way back to his cave. He wasn’t cold; he didn’t feel the cold. His body was a real thing, and living in the sense that it would never decay, but the processes that had kept it going this long had all stopped while he’d been in his almost coma-like state.

  He was, essentially, dead.

  His hair would no longer grow; his heart had ceased to beat, his bowels to move. His waist would not strain at his belt, however much he overate. He would never hunger, never thirst, except for blood. For flesh. For life. He wondered, abstractedly, what he’d do about eating. There was so much he didn’t know, so much he had to learn. He cursed the misfortune that had forced his hand. Could he stomach wine and meat? How would he explain himself if he couldn’t? As it was, he’d have a devil of a time explaining his disappearance—and the dead body he’d left behind.

  His own body felt strong. The hot new blood sang in his veins and for the first time he knew what it was to be replete. He’d killed, and he’d feasted, and this body was his.

  He’d lie down, he decided, and sleep again, and when he woke he’d figure out what to do next.

  He was almost at the cave when he saw the bobbing light. It danced in the fading night like an overgrown firefly, or a marsh light. And seeing it, he felt the same sense of magic steal over him that a man must feel before he let himself be led astray into the dark of a bog. The same sense of unreality. Some claimed that the marsh lights were merely a natural phenomenon, the weak-minded lured to their own deaths by stumbling around on treacherous ground. But some, particularly the followers of the old religion, blamed the gnomes.

  This, he saw, was no gnome; although with her slender form, she easily could have passed for one. He took a step forward, deliberately alerting her to his presence with a noise he no longer had to make. His boot came down on a fallen branch, one that had broken off under the weight of the snow. The branch snapped, and she startled. Her eyes met his, and something inside him leapt. She held the lantern aloft, the light bathing her in a warm glow. She was wearing her warmest cloak, a beautiful ermine affair that he’d given her for the last Solstice. Her feet were clad in small boots that looked ill-suited to the weather. She smiled tremulously, an expression that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “Brenna,” he whispered, disbelieving.

  “Tristan.” She bit her lip.

  “It’s too cold for you to be out.”

  “What about you?”

  He, of course, was wearing no cloak. “Come inside,” he said, moving to
ward her and gesturing at the cave entrance. “I’ve collected some wood. I’ll build a fire,” he said unnecessarily. He flashed her a small smile of his own. “You know the way.”

  Again, that half-nervous look. She nodded. “Yes.”

  He followed her inside. She curled up, tucking her feet under her, while he built a fire. He still had his flint, which was fortunate, and he lit the tinder he’d tucked in around the bottom.

  Within minutes, the fire was crackling merrily. He leaned back against the cave wall, one leg bent and one outstretched, and thought of happier times. “Do you remember the first time we came here?” he asked, feeling calm and content for the first time in weeks.

  She laughed. The warmth of the fire was beginning to bring roses to her cheeks. “Oh, yes. My mother was so upset! She thought—”

  “That I’d abducted you.”

  “Well you had!” Brenna’s smile was more genuine this time. “You awful, awful man.”

  “I merely wanted to speak with you without that odious woman hovering in the background, demanding to know if I had a venereal disease. Which, I’ll have you know, I do not!”

  Brenna’s face fell, and for a minute he wondered what he’d said. The memory of that afternoon was a happy one, at least for him. He hadn’t abducted her, merely coaxed her out for a walk with him and they’d ended up here, in the cave where he’d played as a child. Where Tristan had played as a child, he corrected himself. He passed a hand over his eyes, hoping to disguise the momentary feeling of shock. Like the earth had dropped out from under him. His memories were Tristan’s memories, now—and he wasn’t sure, but he thought some part of his host might still be alive inside him still. Or maybe it was a ghost he heard, now and then, like an echo of an echo….

  She fed a stray twig into the flames. “They’re looking for you.”

  Outside the cave, the wind howled. It had picked up again, which meant that another storm was coming. He studied Brenna in the low light. He was worried about her; he didn’t want her caught out in this. And how had she gotten here in the first place? He’d never, evidently, given her enough credit for woodcraft. When she’d left, it must have been full dark. And yet she’d managed to travel some distance on her own, and with no weapon to protect her from whatever lurked in the woods.

  She glanced up. Answering his unasked question she said, “the whole castle is in an uproar. Nobody can spare enough energy to care for the comings and goings of one unimportant girl.”

  “Hardly unimportant,” he said quietly. “And besides,” he continued, hoping with the jest to bring some levity back into the conversation, “I’m certain that your mother will notice. And blame me, as usual.” Brenna’s mother’s suspicions had ever been a source of amusement between them.

  “You shouldn’t…”

  “I shouldn’t what?”

  Brenna sighed, and stared into the fire. And then, apparently, she came to some sort of internal decision; because when she spoke, she sounded much more sure. There was a hardness, too, to her tone that hadn’t been there before. As she spoke, he could think of nothing except how amazing it was that, given her feelings, she was sitting here like this. So calmly. So collectedly. Truly, he hadn’t given her credit for much.

  The woman he’d fallen in love with would never have been capable of sharing a fire with him as though nothing was wrong. He’d thought, when he’d seen her, that she’d come to him because she loved him. Because she was worried. How—how could the world change in just a few short sentences? No, the woman he’d fallen in love with would have told him first thing. She couldn’t have helped herself. But this….

  “I called you Tristan, earlier,” she said, “but you’re not Tristan.” Her eyes met his. “Are you.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I am.”

  “You’re not. You’re some kind of—of creature.” There was disgust in her tone.

  “I’m still the man you fell in love with,” he insisted. “And I love you.”

  “You’re not,” she repeated. “And you haven’t been, either, not for a long time. If you ever were.” She sniffed.

  “If I ever was? Brenna, what does this mean?”

  “Look at yourself!” She gestured at his ragged clothes, the blood that covered them. He’d forgotten all about what he looked like in his joy at seeing her, but he knew that he must present a frightening aspect indeed. Still, she hadn’t seemed frightened and she looked the same to him. He could have found her the same, blood-soaked and caked in her own filth, and it wouldn’t have mattered. She’d always be beautiful, no matter what.

  “Brenna—”

  “You’re covered in blood!”

  “Brenna, listen to me.” He reached out his hand and she drew back. He dropped his hand.

  “I talked to Father Aurelius.” Not their kind-hearted parish priest, Father Alan, a somewhat stupid man who saw the good in all, but the intruder from the South. Father Aurelius had been installed in the town, at the cathedral there. He was a hardliner, and a known friend of the Inquisition. “I told him what I’d seen. And he explained—explained that you’d been possessed. Maybe months ago.”

  She carried on, and he listened with half an ear.

  Father Aurelius was right, but for the wrong reasons. Tristan’s refusal to attend church signified nothing. Certainly not some satanic curse, as the priest claimed. Most men, in Tristan’s experience, had something better to do with an hour each Dies Scrol than spend it on his knees. Praying wouldn’t feed his family, but hard work would. It seemed that Brenna, frightened by her experience, had sought out the priest on her own. And he, in turn, had been most interested to hear what she had to tell him: about Tristan’s peculiar behavior, his late night meetings with Simon. She’d brought Father Aurelius one of the black candles she’d saved from the wreckage. He’d been right; the north wing, while still standing, had been all but gutted.

  The demon—Tristan—fought back the urge to rouse himself and rush home.

  He didn’t know if home was safe. He tried to tell himself that Brenna had done what she’d done out of fear; that she was a girl, alone, who desperately needed someone to trust. The church had ever been presented as a refuge in times of trouble. He tried to tell himself, too, that she was too innocent of the world to fully understand what she’d done. Because surely she had to be.

  “You’re covered in blood,” she repeated, whispering. “Why are you covered in blood?”

  “Brenna, I’m not—”

  Not what? Not evil? He wasn’t Tristan. Not the Tristan she’d known. But then again, the Tristan she’d known hadn’t been real either. He’d been as real to her as Brenna, the demon was beginning to understand, had been to him—to him and his host. She’d wanted him to be a knight errant from a ballad and he, in turn, had wanted her to be the damsel in distress. He looked down at himself, seeing himself as she saw him, and up into her eyes. Her beautiful cornflower-blue eyes, that had always looked at him with such love.

  “Your eyes,” she hissed, her words an echo of his own thoughts.

  He hadn’t seen his eyes. He didn’t know what she meant.

  “Brenna,” he tried to reason with her, “I know I seem different but…what I did, I did to survive. Not because I’m so important, because I’m not, but to help our people. To help you. I love you, Brenna, please understand. That hasn’t changed. Please…don’t tell them where I am.”

  He could leave for awhile, and come back; he had friends, he could go to one of their manors and regroup. He’d be safe, while he figured out how to retake his home—if, indeed, it needed retaking. The portrait Brenna painted was one of confusion. Half the castle waited for his return, while the other half called for his blood. The discovery of Simon’s body had been a shock; and while many were glad to see the old man dead, others questioned what had happened and whether Simon hadn’t made off with Tristan’s body somehow. Wearing it, like Brenna wore her cloak.

  “You’re not a man, you’re not—not even a thing!”


  “If you ever loved me,” he pleaded, “help me now.” His eyes searched hers for some sign—of something. “You don’t have to do anything, even. Just don’t tell them where I am. I’m not well right now, Brenna. But I will be. I just need some time to recuperate, is all. To rest. I know I must look terrible now, but I’ll come home and things will be fine. You’ll see.”

  Brenna looked doubtful.

  “If the Inquisition finds me, they’ll kill me.”

  After a long moment, she nodded. “Alright. What are you going to do?”

  “Go east, to Jansen’s manor.” Jansen had lately, with his father’s death, become Earl of Donne. He and Tristan had played as children and, later, sparred together. He’d been in the South, fighting, but had returned home with an injured leg and had stayed on after receiving the news of his promotion. He was one of the few who, in the last year, had cast no suspicious eye on Tristan’s activities. A man’s honor, Jansen was fond of saying, and his choices, were his own. He’d judge a man on how that man treated him, not on what that man did behind closed doors. At Jansen’s manor, he’d be safe.

  “No,” Brenna said, “stay here.”

  “What?”

  “Wait—for a day or two, no more. You can, can’t you?”

  He could. He nodded, hesitant, unsure of what she was getting at. She meant, he presumed, that he could survive in the cold—for a day or two or indefinitely—because he no longer felt it. He had no need for warm blankets, or firewood. Although he did, he was painfully aware, have a very great need for a bath. No wonder Brenna was acting so peculiar. She must never, in all her life, have seen a sight so disgusting as the one he presented now. Or so he told himself.

  “I’ll bring back help,” she told him. “Brom is still loyal, and others of your men. I can speak with Brom and he—can tell me which ones.”

  “You’d do that?” he asked.

  She flashed him a small smile. “Yes, of course.”