The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1) (43 page)

Asher returned then, carrying the cloaks.

He had, Isla suspected, been waiting in the eaves for some time. Certainly more than ten minutes had passed, and with the wind picking up she realized for the first time that her fingers and toes were numb. Accepting his cloak from Asher, Tristan draped it around her shoulders. Her own cloak had been, up until recently, more than suitable to highland weather. But this summer, and now fall, were the coldest that anyone could remember. They might even see real snow again this winter, as opposed to the mix of rain and sleet that usually bathed the moors, the first real snow since the Highlands’ grandfathers were children.

Asher smiled up at her. She gave him a flat look. Tristan’s cloak was warm, and smelled of him.

“I intend to find you a more suitable wardrobe,” Tristan said, taking her hand and tucking it into the crook of his arm. “I’ve sent for my personal tailor and her assistants, who should arrive shortly. They can, at the very least, take your measurements and begin to draw up some designs. You are, of course, free to consult with them as reflects your own wishes. But,” he added, “I do think you should wear green.”

She smiled slightly.

T
he North sounded intimidating.

Every comment that Isla heard about life there, and every suggestion about how to survive it, made her new home sound more and more like a place she wasn’t sure she wanted to be. The bitter cold, wind, the snow, the ice-capped mountains, the lakes that froze as solid as rock; she’d heard that the sun never set in the summer and never rose in the winter, but surely that had to be an exaggeration. Or so she hoped. Hart said that the marked difference in climate between Enzie Moor and Darkling Reach was in part due to the higher elevations; Darkling Reach, with its myriad lakes, was high up in the mountains. Tristan had assured her, when she’d asked, that the North was beautiful and that the glory of their summers more than made up for their short duration.

And Tristan was right: she did need new clothes. But she was worried that she’d expire from the cold regardless. Neither Tristan nor Asher seemed to regard the current weather as more than inconvenient, although the temperature had dropped considerably and was still dropping; Isla found it almost unbearable. She shivered.

Tristan placed his hand over hers. “You will adapt.”

“I don’t see how,” she murmured.

“The body has its methods,” he replied inscrutably.

Enzie Moor’s modern burial ground looked very different than the secluded spot where Isla had spent so much time with Tristan. There were no curses here, and nothing of atmosphere either. Rather, the open field was broad and flat and charmless. Grass grew, but little else, and the headstones stood like lonely sentinels against the backdrop of the moor.

At some point in the past, Isla thought during her grandfather’s time, her family had stopped burying their dead in elaborate crypts and started burying them here. The church frowned on showing undue favor to the dead, equating the creation of memorials like the one in the glade with idol worship. So instead, the dead were merely wrapped in sheets and interred in the earth from which they came.

Isla, Tristan and Asher arrived to find the other mourners already present, or at least those who’d elected to come to the actual burial. The others would have gone directly from the chapel to the great hall, where refreshments were being served. While attendance at the funeral was more or less mandatory for all who could reasonably make the journey, in terms of politeness, attendance at the graveside was a true obligation for family only.

Or, in this case, for the people standing in as family. Isla would have just as soon stayed in bed, but at least Tristan was here. She
did
want to be with him, and found that she enjoyed his company even under these circumstances. They assumed their places and he put his arm around her protectively, sheltering her from the worst of the wind.

Their parish priest began this second, shorter service and as he droned on about the Gods and the light and the resurrection and rebirth of the soul, Isla studied this second and much smaller crowd. Hart caught her eye, and winked. He looked well. He’d spent almost every waking minute training and carousing with the duke’s men, and appeared to fit in well with them. Certainly, they’d welcomed him with open arms. He’d worn his typical attire of breeches, vest and tunic, not bothering to dress up for the funeral of a man he’d openly said he’d wanted dead. He did, however, looked to have dunked his head into the horse trough and raked his fingers through his hair once or twice before tying it back.

Beside him, his friend Rand looked bored. Rand had, Isla supposed, come along to provide moral support. Either that, or to ogle Rowena in her astonishingly low-cut gown. She must be freezing, Isla thought. Beside her, Rudolph appeared to be genuinely bereaved. Every time the priest extolled another one of Father Justin’s virtues, Rudolph nodded. He was, evidently, one of those who viewed the priesthood as exactly the higher forms of life that the church claimed. How fortunate for the church that such men as this one existed. Isla sniffed. What a dunce.

The earl looked somewhat bereaved as well, but about something a bit different. Beside him, Apple blinked with exhaustion. Another night of fun, entertaining Tristan’s master of horse?

“You’ll like it, in the North,” Tristan said quietly.

“You’ll be there.” The words had escaped her before she could stop herself. She blushed. Tristan smiled slightly, a mere flicker, before his face resumed its typical mask. He, too, was eyeing the other mourners. Standing with him, like this, Isla finally felt like she was part of a team. Like she belonged. Asher stood on Tristan’s other side. Once in awhile, he glared at Rowena. Rowena flushed, and studied the ground in front of her.

Isla wondered, again, when they’d actually leave for the North. Increasingly, that often dreamed of day couldn’t come soon enough. She hated it here, yes, but, she was also growing more and more curious about Darkling Reach, with its lakes and its magic, and particularly about Caer Addanc. Even the name sounded both romantic and treacherous.

And, if truth be told, she wanted to start her life with Tristan. She wanted to be his in truth, not simply in theory. The thought of his lips on hers, of his hands on her bare flesh, sent chills up her spine and made her flush with confused, ever more pressing need that she’d never before experienced. She didn’t care that he was a demon—or maybe she did, and that was part of his allure. She didn’t know. All she knew was that she loved him but, more than that, she wanted him. Badly. Even now.

The priest paused and waited, hands folded, as Tristan’s retainers lowered Father Justin into the ground.

They’d dug the hole the night before. It was just a hole, nothing interesting about it, but to Isla it looked sinister. Like a yawning maw into Hell. Which was where she hoped Father Justin was going. She shivered again. Even now, with his sunken eyeballs visible even beneath the sheet and the smell of him attesting powerfully to the fact that he was no threat, he terrified her. She’d woken, the past several nights, with dreams of him rising from his grave and coming after her. She knew that she’d be plagued by the same dream again tonight.

They shoveled the dirt over his body as the priest said the final benediction, and the mourners began to turn away. Isla stayed where she was, rooted to the spot, unable to turn her back on the man who’d almost succeeded in ruining her life.

“He will never hurt you again,” Tristan murmured into her ear. And somehow, Isla knew that he wasn’t just talking about the fact that Father Justin was dead. A chill ran through her at what the necromancer beside her was implying, but she found that she was too emotionally exhausted to care.

“I think…I think I need to sit down,” she said.

“Come. I’ll bring you back to your room.”

She nodded, leaning her head against his shoulder.

But before they could leave, Rowena detached herself from Rudolph and came over. She stopped, her hands clasped at her waist. Isla straightened, and waited. Let Rowena begin this dialogue. Tristan, characteristically, said nothing. Asher, beside him, did the same. He even looked like Tristan in that moment: calm and austere, but with something moving just beneath the surface.

“I, ah….” Rowena cleared her throat. The wind whipped around them, picking up now and heavy with the promise of a storm. Isla tasted the decay and mineral water tang of the moor, and knew that rain was coming. She hoped they’d make it back inside before the skies opened. Rowena began again. “Sometimes, I can be, ah…difficult. I’m not perfect. And the other afternoon I was…I was wrong. I apologize.”

Isla was stunned. Stunned, and pleased. She hadn’t expected this, and from her sister of all people. Rowena
did
care! Isla smiled, and was just about to tell her not to worry, that everyone forgave her, when her sister continued. “But the people around me love me and accept me and, after these things happen, they accept me again.” She smiled briefly. “You,” she continued, addressing them all, “might also reflect on circumstances where you might have…overstated your case, shall we say? Or been uncivil.”

“Ah,” Isla said, her expression hardening. “I see. This isn’t an apology after all.”

“Of course it is. I’ve admitted that I might have been slightly inappropriate and now you, too, might perhaps have the maturity to admit that
you
”—she looked pointedly at Tristan—“got a bit overwrought. And then people can forgive you, too, because they care about you.”

“I,” Tristan said acidly, “was defending my child.”

“Your child? He’s not—”

“Rowena,” Isla cut in, her fury boiling over, “for a few precious seconds I thought that you were being kind-hearted and mature. I thought that I’d been
wrong
about you! But no! This wasn’t an apology, it was an invitation for
us
to decide that something’s wrong with us when in fact, nothing is! What, is
Asher
supposed to apologize, too? For offending your sensibilities?

“I did nothing wrong, here, Rowena.” Isla felt absolutely light-headed with rage. “Asher did nothing wrong; and Tristan most
certainly
did nothing wrong.
You
are the one who attacked a child. Tristan could have you arrested and we both know it, so quit acting like the damsel in distress. You’ve been nothing but hateful to me—to all of us, even to Rudolph—for over a fortnight and I for one have had it!”

She glared at her sister. Rowena glared back. Isla could barely see straight, she was so angry. She doubted very much that Tristan wanted her to fight his battles for him and, indeed, he looked distinctly displeased at her outburst, but this was her
sister
. She had to say something.

Which perhaps Tristan understood, as he made no move to criticize her for her outburst. Instead, he rested his cold gaze on Rowena. “Madam,” he said, his voice like ice, “I would suggest that you learn to restrain yourself.”

He spoke calmly, as always, but the threat in his voice could not be mistaken.

Rudolph, sensing danger, tried to put his arm around Rowena and pull her to him, but whether in an effort to comfort or control Isla didn’t know. “Darling,” he pleaded in that silly, drawling manner of his, “please don’t upset His Grace.”

Rowena shot Rudolph a glare and, twisting out of his embrace, turned on her heel and stalked off. Isla watched her march in the direction of the manor, her tension-filled form getting smaller and smaller. Rudolph hesitated for a moment, and then hurried after her.

Watching them, Isla felt strangely empty. She wasn’t as sad as she’d expected to be but, at the same time, she was far more depressed. This was it, then. Her relationship with Rowena, even if it could be repaired, would never be the same.

“Isla,” Tristan said, “while I appreciate the sentiment, I assure you that I am well able to defend myself—and you.”

“But she’s…she’s my sister.” Isla’s protest sounded weak in her own ears. Her eyes were still fixed on the two retreating dots. Rudolph had finally caught up to Rowena and if body language was any indication, was trying to reason with his betrothed. Rowena waved her hands, gesturing wildly, as Rudolph pleaded. Isla wondered if this was the domestic bliss that Rowena had envisioned.

“Indeed.” Tristan’s tone was dry, but not unkind. “And I understand that there is a certain period of…adjustment, in any new situation. But your life is part of mine now and, as such, I will direct it.” He turned, his eyes meeting hers. He’d been watching the ill-starred lovers, too.

“Please trust me,” he said, his voice changing.

“I do.”

She spared a glance for Tristan’s men, who’d almost finished filling in the grave. The other mourners had all departed for warmer environments. Asher, huddled in his cloak, looked distinctly miserable. Despite Tristan’s claim that Father Justin would never bother her again, she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe that she’d heard the last of the man. Some brief flicker of premonition, like what she’d felt at Cariad’s, washed over her and was gone. And then Tristan folded her in his arms, holding her fast against the wind, and for a little while she was content.