The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1) (44 page)

D
inner was a subdued affair, with everyone lost in their own thoughts. Some wit made a comment about how Father Justin had been buried on Mabon, and Isla’s end of the table fell silent. Her father, in particular, looked distinctly uneasy. Apple made the ward against evil. Isla suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. She was getting a little sick of this superstitious drivel, and of the hypocrisy behind it. If Tristan was such an odious man, then why did they continue to serve him at table? Or host him in the hall’s finest set of apartments?

Beside her, Tristan smiled blandly and sipped his wine. He’d seen, of course, and was amused. One of the things Isla loved about him was his confidence.

Hart was seated on Tristan’s other side. He, too, was confident but in an entirely different manner. Where Tristan was reserved, Hart was outspoken. Be it with women or pigs, Hart enjoyed causing trouble and he did so now.

Affecting a casual air, he turned to Tristan. “Mabon, is it? We highlanders are quite ignorant, you know, living out in the back of beyond with our sheep. Perhaps you’d care to explain?”

Isla smiled slightly, into her cup. This should be rich.

Tristan, too, had a sense of humor; if one that tended to be a bit more macabre. He gave every evidence of taking the question perfectly seriously, although Isla could well imagine what he was thinking. He and Hart got along well, and this wasn’t the first time that they’d engaged in such banter for the benefit of the table. Watching them now, Isla thought she almost got a glimmer of what Tristan must have been like—before. She wondered how much, if anything, was left of the man he’d once been. Sometimes, she felt like she knew Tristan as well as she knew herself and others she was reminded of how very little time she’d known him and he felt like a stranger to her. Sometimes, she wondered if she knew him at all.

“Mabon,” Tristan began, “is the Second Harvest Sabbat.” He was speaking, Isla knew, of the religion of the North.

The church had done its best to suppress its practice, and the church had failed. The witch hunt that had spread like wildfire through the rest of Morven had been stopped at the northern passes, and while suspicion and secrecy still ruled in most of Morven, where the church laid a heavy hand, Northerners cherished the old ways. Ways that long predated the church and, some argued, long predated written records.

Not all of the northern religion’s practitioners paid homage to the dark one, as Tristan supposedly did, nor were they involved in the dark arts. In fact, most weren’t. But the North’s viewpoint on right and wrong was different enough from the church’s that, to many, pagan worship and devil worship were one in the same. Isla, having benefitted from Cariad’s tutelage, knew that this was far from the case and she listened with interest as Tristan spoke. These would be her people, too.

While Mabon was often hailed as a celebration of life, in truth it was a celebration of death. In the North, where fall came on quickly, Mabon was celebrated as the chiefest of the harvest festivals. The fruits of one’s labor abounded as one celebrated the bounty from one’s garden, and one’s fields; crops were transformed into all manner of exotic and time-consuming dishes to be shared with family and friends. But, as Tristan pointed out, the harvest was the ultimate celebration of death: the death of the summer season, the death of the crops that have been harvested as a sacrifice to feed their masters.

“That’s macabre,” Rowena protested.

“Death is a natural part of life,” Tristan replied, his tone mild, “one that comes to us all. And Mabon honors death, and the dead. What is there to fear?”

“Well that’s alright, then,” Rudolph said, “I’m as keen on a food-based holiday as the next man. But I never did think to anthropomorphize my vegetables. How can I look at a potato on my plate and think, that chap sacrificed himself for me?” He shuddered. “I prefer my food just how it is, thank you.” He smiled at Rowena. “I always was glad that I wasn’t cursed with an imagination. Just so, don’t you think?”

Rowena smiled back, if wanly.

“What do you do in the North,” Hart asked, “to celebrate?”

“Remember the dead,” Tristan replied, “and honor them.” He sipped his wine.

Isla wondered
how
they honored the dead, and if she wanted to know.

“We give thanks for the end of the harvest season,” Tristan continued, “and thanks to Nature for sheltering and caring for us.” Isla heard the capital in the word, but didn’t understand what he meant. “And, of course, host feasts. The peasants make wine and preserves, and share them around with each other as gifts. Mabon is also a popular time to marry, as the groom will have had the summer to construct a house. In which the bride will be forced to know him quite well, once the snows come.” He arched an eyebrow. Hart laughed, and so did Rudolph. Rowena pursed her lips in a moue of distaste, unimpressed.

“It’s a wonderful time of year,” Tristan said, turning to Isla. His gaze was once again inscrutable, his black eyes reflecting the firelight. “I look forward to sharing it with you.”

She smiled. “That sounds lovely.” And frightening, too.

Isla glanced down at her cup and then up at Tristan, meeting his gaze. Was this how Brenna had felt, a hundred years ago? A woman who, however her life had turned out and however happy it might have been, would have long been in her grave. Isla was seized, suddenly, by the transiency and utter pointlessness of life. It was
so short
. What did any of their accomplishments matter? What was it like for Tristan, knowing that he’d outlive everyone he knew? Would he have another brother, serve another king, a decade from now? Or five? Or even ten? How lonely that must be.

Rowena stood up, shattering the moment. She sniffed and then, abruptly and with no explanation, excused herself. Rudolph watched her go and then, shrugging as if to apologize for her conduct, poured himself another drink. This time, at least, he wouldn’t go running after her. Rowena was making herself unpopular. Isla wondered if she knew that, or cared.

In any event, the conversation soon relaxed back into other channels and Isla was able to finish her dinner—another mostly unappetizing presentation of trout, along with some bacon—in peace.

At the Morvish table, the rules of etiquette dictated that each couple share a plate and, in turn, that the more senior member of the couple select food and serve. This was, Isla supposed, because at most noble tables there wasn’t enough pewter to go around. But whatever the source of the custom—a custom that, she observed with some chagrin, her less aristocratic counterparts need not follow—it had endured. Naturally, there were awkward moments: as two complete strangers were paired together, or two people who hated each other. But mostly husbands shared plates with wives, betrotheds with each other. Which could still present a real problem, if the parties had drastically differing tastes.

Just as Tristan’s page served him, and Apple’s eunuch served both her and Isla’s father, Tristan served Isla. Hart, sharing a plate with Rand, served him. And Rand, who could care less about manners, also served himself. Beneath the table, the pair’s hounds wagged happily.

Tristan served Isla carefully, with every apparent attention to her comfort. He cut her pieces of bread and cubes of cheese. His hand moved deftly, the blade of his almost too-sharp knife glinting in the firelight. Isla was reminded of watching Hart gut a deer. The deer’s death hadn’t upset her nearly as much as the total disinterest with which Hart set to work dismembering it. Isla knew, without being told, that Tristan would twist the knife in an enemy’s bowels with much the same expression on his face.

How could she be in love with such a man? She had to admit, she’d felt a certain guilty satisfaction at the growing look of horror on her sister’s face, as Tristan described how Northerners honored the dead. And a certain curiosity, too: she wanted to see these festivals, for herself, to know if they were really as awe-inspiring as they sounded. And as macabre. Death was such a fact of life in the north that its presence was treated almost like that of a friend. Certainly it held no terror to these hard-hearted people with their strange gods—or, if it did, they embraced that terror and made it part of them.

Tristan, too, fascinated her. She wanted to know what it meant, to be a demon, to understand his nature. The feeling of mixed revulsion and attraction that she’d first felt in the orchard, when he’d ensorcelled her, remained. And had grown stronger with each passing moment.

She was, in truth, torn: she loathed the concept of black magic, hated the idea of tormenting any creature, but at the same time coming to know Tristan had forced her to reevaluate certain long-held preconceptions. Tristan was reputedly evil; she’d heard the stories about cannibalism, sacrifice and worse, stories that he’d made no move to deny. But, around her, he seemed so…different.

She didn’t know what to believe.

T
hey walked alone, under the stars. The moon was almost gone, and if it wasn’t for Tristan Isla would surely have put her foot wrong and broken her ankle. The ground was studded with gopher holes and other hazards, which Tristan seemed to avoid as if by magic. Or, as she suspected was more likely, very good night vision. He glanced down at her, his eyes glittering in the dark. They had a silver cast, like a wolf’s.

One day, a day that even now seemed too far off to be imagined, they’d have their own private space: their own apartments, their own bedroom, their own galleries and libraries and sitting rooms and great hall and gardens. Isla didn’t know much about Caer Addanc, but she doubted that it was small. She and Tristan could be alone together, whenever and however they wished—or at least, however he wished. He seemed to be a man whose business interests kept him occupied. Still, even a few snatched moments in the privacy of their own apartments would be better than this…this limbo.

Isla was yet young and unmarried, a maiden of not even twenty winters; she could hardly invite the duke to her private chamber. And he, in turn, could hardly host her in his. For whatever happened, and however innocent it might be, tongues would wag. She didn’t care and she doubted he did, either, but that didn’t matter. Tristan was here, first and foremost, as a representative of the king. Isla knew, too, that even if they
did
marry, and even if they failed to produce children until
years
after that event occurred, a certain segment of the population would always proclaim that he’d only married her, because he’d gotten her with child. As if a woman’s virginity were the only thing about her that mattered. Isla grimaced inwardly.

Tristan said nothing, although she sensed that he’d guessed at least some of her thoughts. They were outside again, following a circuitous route toward the orchard, her hand on his arm. As sick as she was of this routine and as bitterly as she resented the strictures posed upon her, Isla’s malaise vanished when she was actually
with
him. She reveled in his presence, in just sharing the air she breathed with someone who wanted her and understood her.

They ended up back at the abandoned apple cart, still a sinister sight despite Isla’s changed feelings. Her memories of that night had remained strong. The power he’d had over her had been…oddly thrilling, even as she’d never felt more used, more violated, in her entire life. The implications of that admission disturbed her, and she pushed it away. He smiled slightly, the barest quirk of his lips in the moonlight.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her, echoing her own thoughts, “inside and out. Now tell me, how many men can make such a claim, and speak from true knowledge?”

Isla blushed. “I’m not beautiful.”

“You were running up the stairs to escape your mother, who’d flown into another one of her rages. You prayed that she wouldn’t catch you but she did; you fell down on the flagstones and split open the skin on your knee. You still have a scar.”

“How did you…?” She’d been six.

“You were thinking about it, about how much you hate being powerless.”

Isla stared at him.

“The soul gaze is the most powerful tool of a true practitioner.”