The Black Prince: Part I (6 page)

The child had Tristan’s coloring. Would have Tristan’s height. Tall for a Southron but average for a Northerner. Eyes like twin coals and an expression too serious to belong to a child. He was touched, some argued.

He’d been through a great deal, his friend pointed out.

Already the castle was abuzz with stories of Asher’s intelligence. His tutors were in awe of him. He could read without moving his lips or sounding out the words, and figure, and some claimed track as well as many a grown man. He didn’t get that from Brandon, whom all the world knew had been dumb as a post.

Asher had slipped out, and gone to be alone to think.

He’d understood, after, the looks he’d started to get. The speculation in them. And eventually he’d come to accept, as the rest of the castle already had, that he was Tristan’s.

They were right: Tristan did pay him special favor. Not the sort of favor that landed men in the dungeons, or on the headsman’s block, or dead at the hands of an angry mob. Simple interest in that cool, detached manner of his. He’d taught Asher to ride, and to hunt. As Tristan’s page, Asher had access to his person at all times. Which Tristan seemed to welcome.

Asher wasn’t treated as a political prisoner. At least, people said he wasn’t. But children came to live with families for political reasons all the time. What were they forced to do, sleep in the dungeon? Asher didn’t think so. But he was nevertheless unsure of his position. Unsure of what the future held for him.

Which was why the comment about George rankled.

Whatever the rumors—whatever the truth—Tristan had never acknowledged him.

A mere page didn’t own his own horse.

A political prisoner certainly didn’t.

Asher stood to replace the last brush.

“You think you’re so high and mighty.” John’s tone was casual. Now he was chewing a straw of hay. One leg was crossed over the other and he was assessing Asher the way Asher might an ant. With neither compassion nor care. Merely interest to see what the creature would do, before he stepped on it. “You act like you’re the lord of the manor.” His lip curled in a sneer. “But you’re not. That horse is a loan horse and you’re nothing.”

Asher’s hand flexed, the hard bristles of the brush digging into his palm. “How dare you,” he whispered.

“Oh, don’t touch my horse,” John mocked. “As though I’m incompetent to brush the nag.”

“You are.”

“You treat me like a servant. Like I’m less than you, and you’re condescending to be in the same room with me. Oh, you’re polite,” he continued. “Just like a good little lord.”

Asher said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He wanted to scream.

“But you’re not. You’re nothing. At worst you’re the son of a traitor and you’re going to get the axe. And at best you’re just some by-blow.” John’s chuckle was an ugly, gloating sound. “Men spread their seed about wherever. It means nothing to them.”

“Leave. Now.”

“Oh, ordering me from the presence, are we?” John sat up. His eyes bored into Asher’s, a look that Asher returned with equal heat. “If he really cared about you, he’d have acknowledged you. But he hasn’t, because he doesn’t.”

“You worthless piece of filth,” Asher grated.

“At least I know who my parents are.”

“How dare you—”

“The duke has a new wife now, and she’s young and beautiful.” John smiled, for all the world as though this were a picnic. “They’ll have a child of their own and forget about you.”

“They won’t—”

“You’re probably not even his son.”

Asher lunged.

A
sher sat in the hard chair, feeling abjectly sorry for himself.

He couldn’t even squirm. Everything hurt too much. After those last words it was like a veil had descended: of red. The bees buzzing in his ears noise had become a roar and he didn’t remember much until Brom pulled him off the other boy. He hadn’t even been conscious of his own injuries—which were numerous—until after Brom had tossed him in the horse trough. Breaking through the thin film of ice that had formed, he’d hit the bottom and realized that something was wrong with his shoulder.

He hadn’t seen what had happened to John. By the time he’d emerged, sputtering and coughing, John had been gone. Brom had marched him across the bailey, shivering as his clothes froze to his skin. Neither of them had spoken. He’d ended up in his room, and in a warmer tub, and had ample time then to realize that he was a mass of bruises.

And bite marks.

Brom had rubbed sulfur into them.

To counteract foul humors, he’d said. To prevent them from gaining a hold in Asher’s flesh. A man’s saliva could be dangerous, inflaming a wound to the point where it poisoned the blood. John, he’d eventually also said, had been sent to reckon with his own father. And that if Asher were Brom’s child, he’d thrash him to within an inch of his life. John’s arm would need attention from the bonesetter. And that tooth would never grow back, to be sure. A hard punishment, for such an inoffensive worm.

Asher blinked. He hadn’t realized. He’d felt his own teeth loosened, by one of John’s blows.

He remembered too how Brom had sat back on his heels, regarding his charge as he huddled in the tub.

“I’m proud of you,” he’d said. “Proud of the fact that you stood up for yourself.”

He stood. “But next time, go easier on the opponent.”

He’d then informed Asher that he’d wait outside while Asher dressed.

Because Asher had a meeting due with Tristan.

Who now sat across from him, silent and waiting.

“I’m sorry,” Asher mumbled.

He felt like dough that had been punched down, or a vat of grapes that had been trampled on. Like his skin was just a formless sack of pain-filled suet. The fire made the room warm, but warmth only made things worse. At least the cold was numbing.

“For?”

“For not killing him.”

Tristan steepled his long, thin fingers, his nails clicking. He held Asher’s gaze for a long moment. “Honesty,” he hissed, “is a virtue.”

“I hate him.”

“He’ll regain the use of his arm, if not the full effect of a smile he no doubt intended on using to woo the ladies.”

The silence returned. Asher couldn’t tell what Tristan was thinking: if he was upset or pleased or if, as John had suggested, he simply didn’t care. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Tristan truly angry. Or, at least, display those traits that in another man would signal anger. Tristan…wasn’t like other men.

He was dark. Mysterious. Something flickered in his eyes that wasn’t entirely human. Asher knew that his lord was a necromancer, although he didn’t know what that meant. At least, not much beyond the rumors. That Tristan could control the dead. Control the living. That he ruled through his brother, who wasn’t his brother at all but a revenant made flesh. That he’d ensorcelled his young bride, forcing her into the marriage.

Asher knew that last wasn’t true. Isla loved Tristan. And Asher loved Isla. She was kind, and warm. She listened to him.

As to the rest….

“I’m curious to know,” Tristan said blandly, “what John did to earn your wrath.”

Asher swallowed. This was the moment. There had been times, especially during their visit south to court Isla, when he’d felt legitimate. When Rowena had attacked him, Tristan had stepped in.
I was defending my child.
He remembered those words. Cherished them.

But still there had been no acknowledgment.

Not overtly, at least.

And Tristan had never addressed his comment with Asher. It was as though he’d never spoken the words. Things simply continued on as usual, and eventually the rosy haze of that morning had faded into doubt. The same nagging doubt that had plagued him now for as long as he could remember. The doubt that
maybe John was right
.

He firmed his lip, and forced himself to speak the words. “He said I wasn’t your son.”

“I see.”

There was silence.

And then, “does the idea of being my son please you?”

Tristan sounded genuinely interested in his response.
This
response certainly wasn’t what Asher had been expecting. Then again, he wasn’t quite certain what he had been expecting. He loved Tristan but sometimes his lord—his hero—his father—felt so distant.

“Yes,” he said.

Tristan stood up, the movement fluid and graceful, and glided to the sideboard. There was mulled wine in an earthenware warmer, and he poured them both a cup. Then he placed one before Asher, before returning to his chair and resuming his seat. They stared at each other. Asher had never before been served undiluted wine.

“Child,” he said, in that strange, rustling voice, “I haven’t acknowledged you thus far for your own wellbeing. I apologize if this has caused you pain.”

“Oh.” But inside, Asher’s heart skipped a beat. Tentatively, he took a sip of his wine.

“I am not…ah…anyone’s ideal parent.” He raised a finger slightly to forestall Asher’s objection. “This house is a cruel and unpleasant place, and ever has been beneath the surface. Although Isla has brought warmth.” He paused. “You care for her, yes?”

Asher nodded. He was grateful for a question that didn’t require a response. He wasn’t certain that, if he’d been called upon to respond with more, he’d have been capable of speech.

“She is a lodestar.”

Asher took another sip from his cup.

“As long as your parentage was in doubt, you were offered some measure of protection. And, too—and perhaps more importantly—freedom. To choose your own life. A freedom that was not granted me. That is not granted most men. Had you chosen, you could have served out your term with me here and gone on to be Asher Moss: a hedge knight or a headman, ruling his own freehold. Whatever you had chosen to do, I would have helped you.

“Brandon was a fool. And your mother…sought to use you for her own ends. I, meanwhile, would rather observe as you choose what sort of man to become. Because,” he added, his eyes boring into Asher’s, “instruction aside, it
is
a choice. No man comes to his destiny but by his own hand, whatever his inheritance. In wealth, title, or in wisdom.”

Asher thought he understood what Tristan meant: that all the tutors in the world, and all the advantages in the world and, indeed, all the thrashings in the world couldn’t compensate for a lack of interest on his part in being a good person.

“I am familiar with John’s argument.”

Asher started.

Tristan arched an eyebrow.

Of course he did.

Tristan—his father—knew everything.

“And I would have you know, speaking as a parent, that one does not discard each child as the next arrives. As John should indeed be aware, given that he has siblings. Not all, thank the Gods, as useless as he.” Tristan’s lips curved in a small, bloodless smile.

Another log popped and fizzled.

“That Isla is beautiful has escaped the knowledge of no man and I, indeed, have a man’s needs. Which should again come as no surprise. To John, or any child above five winters.”

Tristan paused. Asher knew that his father had, as he put it, needs, but to hear him mention such a thing still unsettled him. Although he had to admit that he was proud of his father’s reputation. What son wouldn’t be? Asher himself could only hope to be so fortunate—in his conquests and in his eventual mate.

“Unless, perhaps,” Tristan continued, “John is ignorant about how children are brought into the world. In which case, his woes are far greater than any you could inflict.”

Asher’s lips quirked in a small answering smile.

“You might indeed have a sibling, at some point. Or several. The Gods’ will in this area is clouded, for all men, as is proper. But I can assure you that their arrival would in no means diminish your importance.” He took a sip of his own wine. In the fireplace, a log exploded.

“The time has come, I believe, for a formal acknowledgment. And adoption of you as my heir. That is,” he added, “if you consent.”

Asher took a deep breath. “I do.”

The silence returned.

And then, “how?”

T
ristan knew what Asher was asking.

And what he wasn’t.