The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1) (59 page)

Isla wondered if she’d ever learn the truth, and if the truth was anything more than the sordid scheming she’d guessed at. Rarely, in life, were there great mysteries. Tristan was a great mystery; with his arrival, he’d brought magic back into the world. And she wanted him back.

The general consensus, according to Hart, was that Alice had run off. She’d been having an affair with the miller, apparently, and the miller’s wife had found out. Isla wondered, again, what the allure was with millers. Alice had gotten herself in trouble by sleeping with married men before, but the miller’s wife was out for blood. Just last week, she’d publicly threatened Alice. Shouted at her, in fact, on the steps of the massive stone church in town. That someone like Alice, hot-headed and full of herself, should run off to seek her fortune was no great shock.

Isla had asked if Hart thought something might have happened to her, which Hart had brushed off with another laugh. He’d told her not to be ridiculous; the only things that happened to girls like Alice were unwanted pregnancies and speedy marriages to old and unsuspicious men. Isla had let the subject drop.

She walked and walked, remembering. Loneliness pierced her heart like a knife. She wasn’t surprised when, some time later, she found herself in the windswept gallery that overlooked the manor’s grounds.
Their
gallery, as she’d come to think of it. She’d come here, without planning to, because she’d wanted to be close to Tristan.

And there he was.

At first, she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. He’d left
hours
ago, and virtually the entire household had seen him leave. She must be hallucinating, wanting to see him so badly that she was creating his image out of whole cloth. She took a hesitant step forward, and then another, expecting him at any moment to disappear. But there he was, his back to her, his broad-shouldered frame outlined against the night. He looked much as he had on that first night, when she’d steeled herself to confront him.

She was almost upon him when he turned. His eyes pierced hers, cold and dark in the moonlight. “Tristan,” she breathed, “what—”

“We don’t have much time,” he said softly, interrupting her. He reached out and, gently, pulled her to him. His hands were cold, and his claws were sharp against the flesh of her arms but he held her carefully. As though she were a delicate vase and he afraid of breaking her. How he’d known she’d come, know where to find him, she didn’t know. Unless the tug she felt at her heart was a thread between them, that he felt as much as she. Whenever she thought of him she felt it, so acutely it hurt. Being parted from him was agony.

She nodded.

“Before I left,” he said, in that same quiet tone, “I had words with your father. He has been…reticent, which is unfortunate. For him.” Something flashed in Tristan’s eyes and was gone. “But I meant what I said: I wasn’t going to leave here without finalizing the contract. The date has been set,” he continued. “And the marriage will occur in one month’s time.”

“So long?” she protested. A month seemed like forever.

“It’s not so long.” He stroked her cheek. “You’ll leave here within the fortnight, and spend a full half the month in travel. You’ll see something of the world, at least, and more later.”

“I don’t want you to leave without me. I can’t stay here I—”

“You’re not alone. Several of my retainers have remained, and my tailor arrived this afternoon.” How he knew that, Isla had no idea. She hadn’t known; she’d spent most of the afternoon with Hart, and the hour before dinner attempting to read in the library. Her mind kept wandering, and she’d read the same paragraph over again five times before giving the exercise up for a farce. “She is responsible for designing your trousseau,” he said, bringing her back to the present moment. “You may speak freely to her about your needs in that regard and in any…other regard. She is trustworthy.”

“Oh,” Isla said. She’d never heard of putting so much faith in tailors.

His claws flashed before her face as, lifting his hand, he removed the strange ring he always wore. The ouroboros, the mark of his order. He took her hand and slipped it onto her finger. His hands were much larger than hers but, strangely, it fit. She looked down at her hand, stunned. The creature seemed to wink malevolently back at her, its tiny ruby eyes glittering. She glanced up at Tristan. He enfolded her hand in his. “Keep this on at all times, even to bathe. And remember me.”

And then his lips were on hers and she was kissing him. He pressed her to him, his touch hard and almost bruising. There was all the fevered passion of a lifetime in that kiss, and all the desperation of lovers about to be parted—perhaps forever. Isla didn’t know why she was so scared, or why she was so desperate for him not to leave her. But she was terrified of being left behind, of being alone in this crumbling viper pit and she communicated that fear through her fevered touch. Her parted lips, her hands in his hair, her body pressed to his, all communicated a silent plea that he take her with him.

Isla froze as she heard footsteps behind her.

She pulled back slightly and her eyes met Tristan’s.
Remember
, he mouthed, and then he was gone. Black motes hung in the air, shimmering dully like coal, where he’d stood a moment before. Isla stared, unable to comprehend what had just happened. She thought she could almost see a whirling cloud of motes, like an afterimage against the backs of her eyes.

She almost jumped out of her slippers as a hand came down on her shoulder. She whirled around, and there was Rowena.

“What?” Her sister seemed surprised that she was.

“I just…you startled me.”

“Who were you talking to?”

“No one.”

“I heard you talking,” Rowena insisted. She peered into the gloom, and frowned. There was, of course, nobody there. “Probably talking to yourself,” she murmured. “We shouldn’t call you Isla, we should call you the absent-minded librarian. Because that’s what you are. Father should have shipped you off to an abbey when he had the chance.” She smiled at her unkind joke. Isla wondered why she was here—she’d obviously sought her out—when Rowena’s next comment made the question moot. Rowena, more than anything, loved to be the bearer of gossip. “But it really is too late now,” she continued. “Your wedding date has been set—it’s in a month!” She clapped her hands delightedly. “In the North, which I think is a little inappropriate. A girl should get married from her own home, don’t you think?” She nattered on, without waiting for Isla to reply. “In
The Chivalrous Heart
it says….”

One month. Isla brushed past Rowena, ignoring her entirely. Rowena, oblivious to her dismissal, followed her down the hall while holding forth on how excited she was to leave Ewesdale. She, like Isla, had never been outside its borders. And
she
, unlike Isla, was bound to make good use of the experience. Rowena was a cultured woman and needed to see something of the world. The paradoxical nature of that statement evidently lost on her, she continued on about her own brilliance until Isla reached the door of her room.

She pushed it open and, bidding Rowena a firm goodnight, shut the door equally firmly in her sister’s face.

She turned, and almost died from shock.

There, standing near the bed, was a pale and slender woman. She was too slender; so slender, even, as to be almost impossible as a human being. She looked as though, if she turned sidewise, she’d disappear. Her eyes were fixed on Isla’s. They were large eyes, and very pale. Her lips were completely bloodless. Isla stared back. She couldn’t put her finger on what, exactly, but something about the woman was…off.

“I am Eir,” she said in a musical voice. “It means
mercy
in the old tongue.”

And then she laughed.

Her laugh was the most chilling sound that Isla had ever heard: like the sound of ice breaking. Isla thought uncomfortably of the old campfire legend about a village full of demon-possessed children who lured unsuspecting adults out into the corn. A sudden and uncomfortable knowledge possessed her. “You’re—”

“Your tailor. And companion, until such time as our lord should wish it otherwise.”

“But can you—I mean, do you actually sew?”

“Yes, of course.” Eir made a faintly dismissive gesture with her long and spidery fingers. They were impossibly thin, like the rest of her. “I can do a great many things. And one of them will, naturally, be to design your wedding gown. As well as your other gowns, of course.”

The door banged again and Rowena demanded entrance. Isla walked back over to the banded oak and shouted that Rowena had better go away or she’d find Cariad and pay her to perform a hex. Isla had no intention of doing any such thing, but Rowena didn’t know that and she heard her sister beat a hasty retreat down the hall.

When she turned to resume her conversation, Eir had vanished. She put a hand to her fast-beating heart; there was entirely too much of this happening lately. And then she caught movement from the corner of her eye, and looked up. Eir was crouched, spider-like, in the corner of the room. In the
upper
corner of the room. Her arms were turned so that her hands were pressed, palms up, against the ceiling.

Seeing that the coast was clear, she dropped back down to the floor. Calmly, as though nothing untoward had happened, she walked over to the small sideboard and poured herself a cup of wine. Isla hadn’t even remembered wine being in the room;
she
certainly hadn’t called for any. Eir regarded her calmly over the rim of the cup.

Isla swallowed once and then, very deliberately, walked over to her chair and sat down. She stared into the fire. Her back crawled, and she wished very much that it were not turned on Eir, but she would not show fear. She wondered if Eir, and those like her, were…common at Caer Addanc. She wondered, yet again, what she’d gotten herself into.

At her feet, Mica stretched out and began to purr. Cats were wonderful creatures, because cats had no crises. It didn’t matter what was happening, or to whom; they wanted their dinner when they wanted it. The only crisis, to a cat, was having a chair moved.

Isla, passing a hand before her eyes, settled in for a very long wait.

THE END OF BOOK ONE

The story continues in BOOK TWO of
The Black Prince Trilogy
, THE WHITE QUEEN. Look for
The White Queen
, available now from Evil Toad Press. In the meantime, P.J. Fox welcomes visitors to her website,
pjfoxwrites.com
, where they can learn the latest updates on her characters as well as on what she herself is doing (and writing). She encourages fans to contact her, and welcomes questions and comments of all kinds.

P.J. Fox published her first story when she was ten. Between then and the present moment, she detoured to, in no particular order, earn several degrees (including a law degree), bore everyone she knew with lectures about medieval history, get married, and start a family. She realized, ultimately, that she had to make a go of this writing thing because nothing else would ever make her happy.