The White Queen: The Black Prince Trilogy, Book 2

by P. J. Fox

  Still, that sense of…of waiting hadn’t dissipated.

  Had only intensified.

  She tried to picture the image he was painting with his words: a man, trapped in a cage, much like Mica had been during the journey north. Only knowing, as he was led down into the sunken basin, that he was about to meet his gods in flame. She couldn’t decide which would be more horrifying: the fear of death itself or the simple fear of pain. Fire was a source of terror to all animals, great and small. Watching the empty ring in silence, she could almost taste its victims’ terror. She knew what it meant, to be powerless.

  “Will there be a…sacrifice, tomorrow?”

  She’d hoped for, more than expected, an immediate denial. Her flesh crawled when, instead, he lapsed back into silence. He couldn’t mean—what did he mean?

  “No,” he said finally. “There will be…another kind of sacrifice.” Abruptly, he turned. “Isla,” he said, “I brought you here for a reason.” His eyes bored into hers, two black pits in the night. She felt the weight of his gaze, pinning her, and she was afraid.

  She nodded, slightly.

  “There is…something I want from you. Something beyond a mere joining of the flesh.”

  “Will it…hurt me?”

  “It will….” He paused, considering the term. Almost tasting it. “It will hurt, yes. But not hurt you. I would never hurt you.” And then, “Isla, do you trust me?”

  She did. She had to. “Yes.”

  He took her hand and led her down into the circle. He was sure-footed on the hill and she, drawing courage from his confidence, kept her eyes forward and didn’t look down. Strange to think of this place as being the place of his birth—what he considered to be such. Another reminder that he wasn’t human. Wasn’t, and never had been.

  They stopped before the sunken basin. All around her, the columns reached toward the sky. She could make them out clearly, black against black. Like her lover’s eyes.

  He took her hands in his, careful not to score her flesh. He could be so gentle when he chose. Almost delicate. “There is a ritual among my people.” His true people, he meant. “We have no…marriage, as such. Not as you would understand the term. But we do have a”—that pause again—”a bonding. By which a pair, when they are joined, are joined forever.” When he removed his hands, there was a ring there. A plain band, resting in her upturned palm. It bore no visible markings, and had been cast from a metal she didn’t recognize. An ugly thing, really, but compelling; the metal, like pewter but darker, seemed almost to glow from within. Like a black pearl.

  She saw that he wore an identical ring on his own hand, the band encasing his little finger.

  “One ring is slaved to the other,” he said. “Once you put it on, you can never take it off save with my permission.” He waited for her to absorb this. “Because these are no mere rings but, rather, conduits for a greater power that create a greater bond. Far greater than any among your people know. The master subjugates the will of the slave. But,” he added, “there are compensations. Joined as they are, the wearers experience no secrets.”

  She studied his eyes, searching for some clue as to his thoughts. “But you’d be able to control me, if you chose.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would I know your thoughts?”

  “Some of them. If I wished you to.”

  “But you’d know all of mine.”

  Again that simple answer. “Yes.”

  “Whether I wished you to or no.”

  “Yes.”

  She stared down at the ring in her hand. Such a little thing. So inoffensive. Was it possible, what Tristan said? That it held so much power, and that merely slipping it onto her finger would effectuate such a drastic change? She wasn’t even certain if it would fit on her finger; she couldn’t get a clear sense of its exact size. But she thought that, even for her own little finger, it might be too small.

  What would it be like, to never experience another moment of privacy?

  She glanced up at him again. “Why?” she asked. Why was he telling her this, when he didn’t have to? And why did he want this? What did he want from this?

  “I want you to understand what I’m asking,” he said, his eyes on hers.

  The ring felt warm in her palm, almost like a living thing. He had no emotions, not as any human being would understand the term. He was an alien to her, and always would be. This…offering, this bond, would be the closest thing they’d ever experience to true intimacy.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “But this is what you want.”

  “Yes. This is what I want.

  Without thinking, without giving herself time to think, Isla picked up the ring and jammed it down on her little finger. Surprisingly, the little circle of metal fit perfectly; not too tightly, as she’d expected, but as though it had been crafted specifically to fit her hand.

  At first she felt nothing.

  And then, collapsing, she cried out.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Tristan caught her, cradling her limp form.

  The ring had felt like nothing at first, like a sun-warmed piece of metal. But then sun-warmed turned to scorching as a powerful wave of nausea assaulted her. Doubling over, she felt like she’d been kicked in the gut. She tried to pull the ring off but it wouldn’t even budge. The metal felt like it had been fused to her, and even seemed to pulse in tune with her own racing heart. Another wave of nausea, another powerful mule kick, and she’d fallen.

  She couldn’t have sat on her own, much less stood. Her skull felt like it was simultaneously shrinking and swelling; every part of her body felt like it was at once too big and too small. She gasped, trembling, and Tristan brushed an errant strand of hair from her face. His touch was gentle, but that didn’t matter. Isla could barely feel his fingers; could barely feel anything at all. The pain was agonizing, the nausea so overwhelming that all she could do was concentrate on holding herself together until it passed.

  And then—cold.

  She went from burning up to freezing as a torrent of—something—poured into her. Into and through. Some still-functioning corner of her mind tried to express the feeling in words and was unable to. The closest she could come was that this, whatever was happening to her, was like standing on a riverbank that suddenly collapsed beneath her, the strength of the passing rapids pulling her away and underneath. Except this was happening inside.

  She opened her mouth, and this time no sound came out.

  Tristan, still cradling her, lowered her to the ground. As early in the year as it was, the ground was already frozen. Even so, it felt warm in comparison to the rushing, sucking cold within. Like the world’s worst blizzard, in her heart and soul and mind.

  “Wait,” he said. “Breathe.”

  She tried, and failed, and tried again. And then, slowly, her lungs aching painfully as the muscles in her chest seized, she managed a shallow breath. And then another. And with each breath, and each exhalation, the tightness in her chest eased. As though she were breathing away the pain. Awareness of her limbs returned, gradually, followed by a renewed tingling in her fingers and toes. As though she were rousing her muscles from some long hibernation.

  Encouraged, she tried to shift her weight and sit up. A fresh spike of pain twisted her guts like a washcloth. “Wait,” Tristan said again. “Give yourself time to recover.”

  She turned her head slightly, resting her cheek against his knee as she gazed out at the circle.

  She didn’t know how long they sat like that; time had ceased to have any real meaning for her, and she couldn’t see the moon. Only its light, on the discolored stone of the basin. Discolored, she supposed, from years—centuries, even—of sacrifice. Maybe even longer. Caer Addanc itself predated Morven’s written records and was widely believed, at least by superstitious crones the kingdom over, to be the oldest structure in existence.

  For this place to be even older….

  She didn�
�t complete the thought, because as her pain lessened she’d gradually become aware that something was…different. And now, in that moment, she knew. She was no longer alone in her own head. Tristan was there, too, an ice-cold presence that seemed to dominate her thoughts. Even as she struggled to recognize this fact, separate from his presence, she could feel his will pressing against her. Beating down her defenses.

  “Don’t fight me,” Tristan said. “Relax.”

  She started, surprised for a split second that he’d seemed to read her mind. But of course he had read her mind. He knew her thoughts even as she thought them. He was inside of her.

  Gripped with a cold, unreasoning terror, she fought free of him and ended up face down with her mouth full of grass. He’d let her go, of course, allowing her to reach her own conclusions in her own time. He was so strong; she could never have overpowered him unless he’d let her. Indeed he remained where he was, a few feet away now; as still as a statue, just watching. No; as still as death. And as empty.

  Breathing hard, she remained where she was. She tried to think through her situation, which was difficult as every few minutes her barely repressed panic began to rise like a lump in her gorge. She had to fight it down, her fingers spasmodically gripping and releasing the grass and her tear-filled eyes pressed shut. What had invaded her mind was nothing she could comprehend, or wanted to comprehend. Cold. A horrible, sucking cold. This was what he felt like, all the time? This was what she’d feel like, now? She made another move toward her ring, but another series of spasms wracked her and she was once again inert.

  The spasms were smaller this time, if only a little. She breathed in the scent of the earth, fall mixed with the faintest breath of lingering summer, and tried to think. When she was distracted, for example by pain, she felt almost normal—as paradoxical as that statement was. It was when she focused on the alien presence in her head and tried to fight it off that she felt as though something were choking her from the inside out.

  Because, she realized with something like horror, when she was distracted she wasn’t fighting him. At those times, she was thinking with two minds. It was when she recognized this, and tried to distance herself, that trouble began.

  The idea that she was allowing someone else to know her thoughts, to control her, without her even being aware that it was happening was…there weren’t words for the black, unreasoning pall of terror that enveloped her. She’d never had cause to value her autonomy before, because she’d always been her own mistress. Never had she questioned that she should be. The reason that Father Justin’s assault still caused her so much trauma was because he’d crossed an inviolate boundary. He’d tried to subjugate her will, to force her into a situation that she did not want. And now, without thinking, she’d given that most sacred of rights away. Tossed it away, like refuse.

  What had she done?

  She began to sob.

  “Yes,” Tristan said mildly. “I could force you to hurt yourself.”

  “I want it off,” she said into the dirt.

  “I know.” And he did, of course.

  “It’s going to kill me.”

  “No it isn’t.”

  At long length, she turned her head. He was still reclining in the grass, looking as elegant as ever. As though he’d merely decided that this cheerless, evil-imbued spot was a nice place for a rest. His eyes belied his casual posture, though, as did the lines of tension in his seemingly relaxed limbs. He was watching her very carefully indeed.

  “How do you stand it?” she asked.

  “It’s all I’ve ever known.”

  “You’re so cold.”

  “You’re warm.”

  “Now I know,” she said.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Now you know.”

  And she did. The knowledge came, not in words but in series after series of strange, fragmented images: of his abortive love affair with Brenna, of his time spent in the East. Of his wondering, that first time, if love might be possible for a creature that could not feel.

  Of the people he’d murdered, some in the extremis of hunger and others in cold blood. And those he hadn’t merely killed, but had toyed with like Mica sometimes toyed with mice. Because he’d wanted to, and because he could. The women he’d wooed, and bedded, simply for the diversion of stealing their hearts. Sometimes he’d eaten them, after; sometimes he’d merely discarded them, still living but broken beyond repair.

  She eased herself into a sitting position.

  They regarded each other in silence.

  Eventually he spoke. “In time, we will grow to think as one. You will remain yourself but, at the same time, become more than yourself. However,” he added, “too much, too soon can have…consequences.” He’d chosen the word carefully, but it still made her blood run cold. “Were I to expose you, fully, to the power of this bond without proper preparation…it would destroy your mind.”

  But then again, he’d always had the power to kill her. Or worse. “We won’t need to speak?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “That seems strange.”

  “The world is strange.”

  She conceded the point in silence. Her skin still felt like a too-tight kirtle, but at least the pain had subsided to a dull throb. It was hard to believe, sitting here, that she’d been on the road only that morning. That, mere hours ago, she’d never even conceived of such a sacrificial circle—or of such a bonding. Only now, too, was she fully considering the fact that a spur of the moment decision had led to a circumstance beyond her comprehension. And promised changes that she didn’t want. She didn’t want to be more than herself; she wanted to remain Isla, the only person she’d ever been and the person she’d worked so hard to learn to love. What…would being…different mean?

  Tristan stood in a single, fluid motion. He was so beautiful, so achingly graceful. Bending, his carriage perfect, he extended his hand. He was careful always not to hurt her with his demon’s claws. Except when he chose to, like earlier. The lacerations to her scalp had been shallow enough, but had stung all through dinner. A dinner she now half wished herself back at.

  Suddenly, strangely, her father’s drinking and her stepmother’s griping seemed so innocent.

  Remnants of a time when the worst problem she’d had to consider was whether her father was embarrassing himself. Or whether Apple was. Or whether Rowena was making eyes at Tristan or, even worse, quoting again from that damned book. When she’d felt safe inside her own skin, safe enough to view the world around her with something of derision. Except now, everything outside paled in comparison with what had happened inside: with the knowledge that, if Tristan so chose, he could force her to put out her own eye with a hot poker. That she’d given away her own autonomy, on a whim.

  At least, with Father Justin, she’d been able to fight back.

  His eyes were still on her. She glanced down at the ground, confused. Reaching up, he caressed her cheek.

  “I’m still the same man,” he said.

  Her eyes met his. “Yes,” she agreed. “But am I the same?”

  “I want this to be a partnership. If I’d wanted you to be my slave…Isla, there are ways.”

  “You wouldn’t have to enslave me,” she said, feeling wretched. “I’d do whatever you asked, willingly.” Except the admission wasn’t romantic; right now, it felt like one of weakness. Of hopelessness. Knowing, as she did, that if given the same choice over again she’d have done the same thing. Put the ring on, not because she wanted this but because she was afraid of losing him. Of never truly having him.

  “Isla,” he asked, “do you still want me?”

  She remembered what he’d said before: that she might not be ready for what was to come. That she might grow to hate him, realizing—too late—that she truly had given herself to a monster. That she’d want to escape and that he wouldn’t let her. He wanted her to want to be with him, he’d told her; but, at the same time, however unwilling she might prove, he wasn’t about to let her go. Not now
, and not ever.

  She’d had her chance to turn back: the night that Alice had died.

  “This isn’t the end, is it?”

  “No.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  After the wedding. She considered this news. Whatever the ultimate effect of their bond, at the moment it was one-sided. He could choose to share things with her, and had, but he hadn’t become an open book to her as she had to him. Whatever it was he’d planned, was still mysterious. And she was afraid. Of dying. Of losing herself. Of pain.

  “Yes,” she said. “I still want you. I love you.”

  He caressed her again and that caress turned into a kiss, his lips gentle on hers. They were still warm, if not as warm as before. Whatever magic he’d worked had taken something out of him. Underneath the warmth, now, she could taste the faint chalkiness of marble.

  She slid her hands up his chest and around his neck, their kiss deepening as she pressed herself against him. Their joining, like this, had never felt so right; so natural, like two halves of a whole. He was cold, and his coldness still raged in her mind, but sinking into the kiss brought a respite. As though some barely sensed tension had eased, somewhere inside. The overwhelming feeling was one of release.

  She’d surprised herself, responding to him as she had. She hadn’t expected to, after what had happened. Hadn’t thought that she’d even wanted him to kiss her, let alone craved his touch as she now did. But she couldn’t get close enough to him, as though she were drinking in some elixir of life from his lips. As though his skin itself, and hers, were the cause of an unwelcome separation. An unnatural separation, between two souls.

  She bit his lip, hard, overwhelmed by impulse. Part of her had been overcome by simple lust and part of her wanted to punish him. The flesh was firm and barely yielded to her; making a small noise in her throat, she bit him again. She didn’t know where the impulse had come from, only that she couldn’t understand why she’d never experienced it before.