The White Queen: The Black Prince Trilogy, Book 2

by P. J. Fox

  There had simply been too much change, and too quickly.

  Tristan helped her get settled on the floor, on the pillows there. A habit he’d picked up from the East, where men lounged around like cats. The pillows here weren’t the silks of the harem but embroidered linen. Some had been cut from the remnants of rugs, the wool scratchy against her exposed skin. She turned her face to the flames, letting her mind wander. She hadn’t thought she’d been cold, but the heat felt good.

  Tristan ran his fingertips idly down her arm. Neither of them spoke for a long time, but it was a companionable silence. A log split apart, collapsing into the grate in a cloud of sparks. The pine knots continued to hiss. The wood was new, then, cut this fall and not yet seasoned.

  “Last night frightened me.”

  “It won’t be like that a second time.”

  She turned, meeting his gaze. His eyes were dark, his gaze inscrutable as he studied her. “What will it be like?” she asked.

  He’d been sitting next to her, almost as though he were guarding her while she rested. Now he bent down over her, his lips meeting hers. His kiss was gentle at first, an exploration. She opened her mouth to his, but still hesitantly. What had happened before—it hadn’t been what she’d hoped for, or wanted. Still, kissing him felt right, and so she fought the urge to close up, to close herself off, and instead let his hands find her bare skin.

  He cupped her breast, his thumb toying with her nipple as his lips sought the spot where he’d bitten her the night before. She tensed, but his lips were soft. And slowly, so slowly, achingly slowly, she felt the heat within begin to build.

  He divested himself of his clothing with a practiced hand as he continued to explore her, kissing every square inch of her fire-baked skin with a delicacy that proved his reverence.

  A different kind of hunger possessed her now as she responded to his touch, her back arching as he kissed the bone above her hip. The soft swell of her lower stomach. Her inner thigh. She twisted her fingers in his short hair, biting her lip against crying out. Molten warmth flooded through her, a thousand times hotter than the fire.

  And then his lips were on hers and she could taste herself on them, secret and sweet. He held her in his arms, somehow not crushing her under his far greater weight. Making her feel loved and wanted. Worshipped. This was what she’d dreamed of, this moment of perfect intimacy. Of bonding. He wanted her, and he wanted her to feel wanted. To know that he treasured her above all things. She didn’t know what it would be like, without the bond they shared, but she couldn’t imagine a joining more perfect than this.

  Of body and of mind, and of soul.

  Sliding his hand down along her side, and under her, he lifted her slightly. She slid her leg around him, her arms still clinging tightly to his back, her eyes closed, as he brought himself to her. “Just breathe,” he whispered in her ear. And then he was inside her, further and further, and she gasped. Because she was still raw on the inside, and everywhere else. But it wasn’t like the night before. This was a sweet pain.

  He kissed her ear, her neck, the corner of her mouth. She smiled. And then his lips were on hers again, and she knew no more for a long time.

  SIXTY-TWO

  After, she stared into the fire. That small, secret smile still flickered on the corners of her lips. A smile meant for herself alone. Beside her, Tristan smoked. He looked like a sultan, reclining on his pillows. He’d re-donned his breeches but was still naked from the chest up. She’d exchanged her sheet for a wolf pelt, and felt pleasantly warm and sated.

  This was what she’d wanted.

  “This must be where the rumors come from,” she said.

  He relit his pipe. “Which rumors?”

  “Of the lamiae…the succubae, as they’re sometimes known.”

  “Incubi,” he corrected, “if one is male.”

  The succubus was an evil spirit who, according to folklore, came to men in their dreams and seduced them. Repeated visits from the succubus resulted in a gradual weakening of the constitution, followed inevitably by death. The succubus—or incubus—was a creature of terror, at least to small children. But in these modern times, few truly believed in them.

  Except when they did: while traversing deserted roads at night, or hearing one of the many unexplained noises that seemed to occur in every dwelling. Also at night. The creak of a floorboard, the unexplained drop of a bowl to the floor. Crockery, shattering on the flagstones.

  In the stories, the incubus came to the woman with motives of his own. Sometimes merely to feed, discarding her when he’d stolen all he could. Sometimes his motives were more inscrutable: to father a child on her, or to assuage his own loneliness. And sometimes, rather than letting her die, he turned her. The frail victim, turned shriveled and old before her time, would suddenly regain her health. And, in the bloom of youth, would disappear. Her family, first rejoicing at her sudden—seeming—recovery, would turn then to despair. And their local priest, if they were wise.

  Depending on the teller, and his motivations, sometimes the incubus and his bride would escape; other times, they’d be burned at the stake. Or she would. Ironic, seeing as how the woman was almost always portrayed as an innocent victim. Seduced against her will by a creature far stronger, against whom she’d never had any true hope.

  Burning her was described as an act of charity; her saviors, oftentimes led by the man who’d truly loved her, did so to free her soul. Which, Isla supposed, sounded better coming from a jilted lover than a rage of jealousy. If he couldn’t have her, no one could; not least of which the man, or rather creature, who’d satisfied her so much better.

  Her heart, as well as her body.

  Might she not have wanted such a visitation? Courted it, after her own fashion, by leaving herself vulnerable? As the women of Arvid’s tribe apparently did?

  What sin had the woman committed, other than to love? Or perhaps only to allow herself to be loved? What made suffering the embraces of a churchgoing man so much more pure than suffering those of a demon? Literal or figurative? Weren’t all men, wasn’t all powerlessness, the same? What made her a wife, and what made her deserving of torment?

  She started, then, realizing that she knew almost nothing about incubi—or hadn’t, at least. These thoughts weren’t all her own. She turned, looking up at Tristan. Was this what he’d meant, about their bond deepening? About them coming to share, eventually, one mind?

  “You’re correct,” he said, “on both counts. As to the first, one cannot truly turn; the legends, to the extent that they’re based on truth at all, are based on a misunderstanding of the familiar bond.” He meant a bond like theirs. “You are somewhat more than human, as I am somewhat less. But you can no more forsake the bounds of your nature than I can make this heart beat.” He exhaled, blowing a smoke ring. “And as to the second, we must go slowly. Practice is required…a great deal of practice.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  He responded to her question, for that was what it had been, by telling her a story of another man and another woman. A man and a woman who’d lived long before even he had been born. At least in his current form. A man and a woman who had in fact lived here, in this castle, before it became the seat of House Mountbatten. A man who’d left a written record, which Tristan had studied.

  This man, Barda, had been in love with a woman named Katrina. And he’d been a necromancer, as Tristan was. Katrina had been an innocent, but had loved Barda after her own fashion. She didn’t understand him, nor fully understand the depth of his various depravities. For even then, Barda hadn’t been a well man. He’d had, in addition to an overwhelming compulsion toward the dark arts, what would in later years be termed certain…fetishes. Desires of the mind, and heart, that were neither easily explained nor understood.

  He’d wanted Katrina to understand him as, given her innocence, she could not. She loved him, and continued to live with him, but despite her best efforts he felt as though there was a void betwee
n them. A void that, with every missed communication, every sidelong glance, was growing. How, he thought, he’d be able to show his love for her if only he had the words. If only she could see inside his mind, and know that she was what he valued above all else. That in his increasing degeneracy, her light shone ever brighter.

  And so he’d summoned a demon, and paid in blood for a demon’s magic.

  He’d given her the ring, explaining what he wanted. And she’d given him what he wanted, as she always had. Since the first moments of their courtship, and since he’d taken her maidenhead in the very circle of standing stones where Tristan had brought Isla.

  “But what happened to her?” For surely something must have, for this man’s line to die out.

  “She threw herself from the cliff, to escape him.”

  “What?”

  “He pushed her too far, and too fast; the fullness of what he was, and what she’d become by loving him, was more than she could bear. She couldn’t escape the intrusion of his mind into hers at all times, of never having a single moment alone—nor a thought that she could know, for certain, belonged entirely to her. And so,” Tristan finished, “he lost what he most wanted; what he’d sought to gain through unspeakable sacrifice.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He wandered the halls, alone, until he died of old age.”

  Isla felt a cold spike in her gut.

  “He was a fool,” Tristan said.

  “And yet the Gods spared him.”

  “Do you truly think so? To be alone, with nothing but regrets as companions, shunned by all who knew him, winter after winter? His desire for Katrina was perhaps his purest desire, the sole salvation of a black heart. And in the end, he had to live—and live, and live—with the fact that he’d destroyed her by wanting her.”

  Isla said nothing.

  Abruptly, Tristan changed tack. “I wasn’t here when you awoke, because I was receiving a message.” He put down his pipe. She knew, without knowing, that he’d watched over her all night. “There is…unrest in the capital. Which means that there’s a possibility of our having to travel. Or of the king coming here, depending on what the rebels do next.”

  “Rebels?” she echoed.

  “There are rumors of another rebellion. Only rumors, now, but worrisome even so.”

  Isla chewed her lip. She was suddenly exhausted. Exhausted, and overwhelmed. Too much, and too soon—and now more war? Would it never end? Would she never find time to regroup herself? To learn who—and now what—she was?

  She’d been so certain, before. When her place at Enzie Moor had been clear and her future, or so she’d thought, laid out. Isla, the old maid in training; Isla, the girl who’d do her father’s job forever. She’d been so certain…before she met Tristan. And since that night, she’d felt like she’d been playing catch-up. With him, with herself, with the world around her.

  And now war?

  Understanding, Tristan pulled her to him. “You should rest,” he said, echoing his earlier sentiments. Whether they seemed more romantic now, Isla couldn’t tell. All she knew was that she’d gone from thinking she wouldn’t need sleep again for at least a week to feeling like she hadn’t slept for at least a week. She leaned her head against Tristan’s chest. Her husband’s chest, now. The man she loved, the man she’d married, the man with whom she’d spend the rest of her life. The rest of his life.

  Her eyelids fluttered closed.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Isla sat on the window seat in her room, her hands wrapped around a mug of mulled cider, looking out at winter-white world. She shared Tristan’s room, now, but she’d kept her own as a sort of retreat. Everyone needed their own space; if not inside their own heads than at least where they could read, and contemplate, in quiet.

  She felt strange. Not as sick, now, but strange. She was having trouble adjusting to her new life. Which, she reminded herself, was still very new; her wedding had only been a few days before and she’d spent most of that time asleep. Or eating. Or sitting here, looking out the window while she pretended to read.

  The snow had begun to fall the night before. A few flakes, at first, that had turned into sweeping curtain after sweeping curtain. There were times when she couldn’t even see the battlements, the snow was so dense. She’d made love to Tristan again, then, and then slept. Again. And now it was morning, and here she was.

  Tristan was gone. He had duties; that he was a newly married man had spared him only for the duration of his actual wedding. Isla wondered if she’d end up getting to see the capital, and what that would be like. She wondered if she’d get to see Rowena’s wedding, and what that would be like. She supposed that, more than anything, she was anxious to see the size of Rudolph’s codpiece. She giggled.

  She was alone, but she wasn’t lonely. She hadn’t had time to herself since…well, she couldn’t remember. Since before she’d met Tristan. It felt good to finally have some privacy; to relax here, quietly, and know that Rowena wasn’t about to make an entrance. Or Apple. Or her father. She hadn’t seen much of Eir, either; Eir had, at least for the time being, apparently been released to other duties. Perhaps to visit with her family, if she had one. Isla had tried to extract that information but Eir had merely responded by changing the subject. Solstice was coming soon; Isla hoped that Eir did have family, and that she was spending the holiday with them.

  The holiday when everyone in Morven grew a year older. Everyone, that was, except Isla. She’d be the same forever, now. And already, inside herself, she could tell. Things were…they’d slowed, somehow. Her skin felt firmer. Sometimes, like now, her joints ached.

  She’d fallen asleep in Tristan’s arms but at some point in the night, he’d gotten up and left, on an errand of his own. To feed. He’d eased out from under her gently, but she’d woken. Which he knew, of course. She hadn’t said anything and neither had he, and then he’d been gone. She hadn’t thought she’d sleep again, but she had.

  She sensed him now, a presence in the back of her mind. Like a train of thought one had, that one kept chewing over while one thought consciously of other things. Right now, she found it—him—comforting. She was doing her best not to think about the future, because the future scared her. It was too open. And with all this talk of war, in the spring…

  The door opened, and Luci came in. She bowed briefly, from the waist, and placed the tray she’d been carrying on the small table next to Isla. A table that Luci had also placed there, earlier. She’d been bringing Isla little tidbits and things all morning, without being asked. Much like, Isla imagined, a parent would.

  She was beginning to warm toward Luci.

  She smiled, a wan effort but genuine. “Thank you.”

  “May I sit?”

  Isla nodded. “Of course.”

  Luci perched herself on the edge of the window seat. It was a deep affair, with plenty of room for two to lie side by side if they chose. Isla had once again been propped up on pillows, a quilt tucked in around her. She waited. She and Luci had begun to develop a kind of kinship, over these past few days, but they’d never truly spoken. Not like this.

  “I’m…pleased,” Luci began, “that his grace has found a companion.”

  “I am, too,” Isla said quietly.

  “He deserves happiness.” Luci paused. “And so do you.”

  “He does,” Isla agreed. “But I don’t know about me.”

  “Your sister is…fortunate that she left, when she did.”

  “I’ve been wondering about her, about all of them.” Isla turned back to the window; a fresh gust of wind buffeted it, rattling the glass in its panes. “About where they are right now, and if they’re safe.” No one in that ill-equipped party had the supplies to brave such weather. The mercenaries might have been able to help them, but they’d parted company with the earl after leaving the capital. Something, Isla had heard later, about a pay dispute.

  “If the Crone is kind, then they’re dead.”

  “Kind?” />
  “There is a storm coming.”

  And Isla knew that Luci didn’t mean the weather.

  She wondered how it was that everyone in this castle seemed to know something she didn’t. Her changed nature was surely no surprise to the half-gnome. Luci had helped her dress and helped her to the garderobe, where she’d been sick repeatedly, without comment.

  As if reading her mind, Luci said, “His grace is not human.” Which, judging from Luci’s tone, was a source of pride among his people. At least some of them. “So it would follow that his chosen partner would also not…be as other women. How else would such a union work?” And then, in unconscious imitation of Tristan’s words, “a horse cannot mate with a dog. Moreover,” she added, her self-possession entirely at odds with what Isla thought of when she thought of a servant, “the Crone has blessed me with eyes. Two of them. I see that you’ve changed. And, moreover, that you’re in pain.”

  “And this doesn’t bother you?”

  “That you’re in pain? Pain is a woman’s lot.”

  “No. That I’ve changed.”

  Luci made a dismissive gesture. “If it doesn’t bother you, it doesn’t bother me; my role here is to be your servant, not your—what’s the Southron term? Father confessor.”

  She stood up. “Rest.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  The faintest shadow of a smile crossed Luci’s face, and then she was gone.

  Isla turned her gaze back to the window and had almost fallen asleep when the door opened again. The nausea came in bouts, now; she’d taken up more or less permanent residence at the window because the cold blowing in from around the minute chinks in the glazing felt good on her overheated skin. Like ice compresses sometimes felt good to those with an ague. Her pillows were comfortable, too, cradling her aching spine and allowing her to relax. Through the linen pillowcases, she could smell the faintest aroma of the feathers themselves. Goose down, the finest, mixed with wool for shape.