The Black Prince: Part I (15 page)

The church taught, and Tristan had learned as a child, that demons were cast-offs of the Gods, who’d at some point rejected their wise and moral teachings. They existed in the present dispensation only to thwart the will of the Mediator, that Prince of the Gods who ruled over mankind. Each demon had been assigned, at some point, both a name and a specific individual purpose: to rob women of their virtue, for example, or to suggest such evil practices as bathing.

Of course, even did such demons exist, or had they ever existed, they wouldn’t have concerned themselves with the doings of such a moribund institution as the church. Although ironically there were necromancers within the church, who studied the hidden arts. The true arts. Who rejected the church’s teachings on almost every subject for the doggerel it was. These men stayed in the church for power.

These men trafficked with true demons.

As Tristan’s former master once had.

But for every adherent to the craft who understood the true workings of the world around them there were ten, or ten thousand who were as this woman.

She’d managed to create some little spark of magic, because somewhere within the misunderstood words and added phrases she’d cobbled together were the remnants of a true spell. Tristan had felt that magic, and been intrigued. Ever since his fateful encounter with Father Aurelius, the long ago priest who’d tried to murder him with Brenna’s help, he’d maintained a special interest in those who sought…a certain path.

Which was, indeed, how the late and unlamented Father Justin had ended up living on Tristan’s desk.

Tristan was certain that, under the sun, this woman too decried him and those like him.

She did not know that, save for Tristan, she would have waited here all night. For a demon that didn’t exist to—presumably—carry out her will. A will that was still vague to Tristan, as the flare she’d produced was accidental and contained no true force of purpose.

He waited.

“I thought…I expected you to appear in a whirlwind of fire. Not simply to
walk
.” She managed, once again, to turn her confusion into a criticism. Covering her own ignorance.

“That…can be arranged.”

“No.” Again, that brusque tone. She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, for all the world as if he were a char girl. “We don’t have much time.” And then, a few minutes later, when Tristan hadn’t yet leapt to her command, “well?”

“What is it you require?” He was, he had to admit, somewhat curious to find this out. And sooner rather than later, as he was growing bored of her presumption.

“I require you to kill my children,” she said flatly.

Tristan arched an eyebrow. “And you can’t accomplish this, yourself?”

“If I do it, people will know.”

“I see.”

“My husband, the faithless wretch, left me for another woman. An older, fatter woman,” she added. Clearly mystified that anyone would desert such a charming specimen as herself. “I want to punish him. And, at the same time,” she added as an afterthought, “prove my devotion to the Dark Lord.” She paused. “Mine is a God who loves sacrifice.”

“Your motives are impure.”

“It’s not for you to lecture me.”

He studied her. “Your God,” he said finally, “is a God of lies. No good can come of trusting Him. He prowls the night like a wolf, seeking souls to devour.” Souls who came to Him of their own free will, lured by temptation. That was what had caused Tristan’s own downfall: the temptation to save his people. To save Brenna. He’d given himself to left hand path not because he wanted to embrace evil, but because he wanted to save his people. To do good. And now he was a walking corpse, unable to cherish the one thing he desired most. He would curse himself, were he able to summon the feeling.

“You know nothing,” she spat.

Tristan remained motionless.

“The Dark Lord rewards His faithful.” She sounded like she wanted to believe.

“You look to the breaker of worlds, to keep promises.”

“He understands vengeance.” She almost spat the last word.

He nodded, the slightest inclination of the head. “Indeed.”

“So?”

“Ah.” He paused. “Allow me to ensure that I understand.” Around them, the air temperature was dropping. A chill wind had kicked up, blowing with it swirling eddies of white powder. She was cold, and trying very hard to disguise that fact. He, of course, felt nothing.

“Your husband has abandoned your hearth for that of a kinder, gentler woman and in order to prove him wrong, to prove that yours is the warmer, you wish to take from him that which he cherishes most. In order to…what? Win him back?”

She gasped, her breath expelling in a white puff. “How dare you!”

“This is your plan.”

“I am the injured party!” Her voice took on a raw edge as she ranted. “He promised to love
me
, to cherish
me
. And instead he took up with—with—with some fat
baker
. She doesn’t have my looks, my education, my—anything!
I’m
beautiful.
I’m
thin. I’m the woman whom the whole town claims never ages.
My
skin is the softest,
my
curves the lushest,
my
furs the most expensive. He was lucky to catch me! He should be grateful I even looked at him twice! I could have had any man,
any
man but I chose him!”

“Ah, but she has the one thing that you do not.”

That brought her up short. “What?”

“A heart.”

Her face froze in a mask of hatred. “You are—you are
nothing
.”

“And you are an evil hag.” His tone was flat.

“Give me what I want!” She was shrieking now.

So many women believed themselves the victim, when in actual fact their so-called righteous retaliation was far worse in character than whatever had been done to them. Or what they imagined had been done to them. So many crowed over others’ misfortunes, extoling the law of the harvest. And yet when that same law came back to them, they wailed to the Gods and called themselves ill-used. He’d seen it before, a thousand times. Indeed he’d memorized a passage in the East:
truth is the harvest scythe. What is sown—love or anger or bitterness—that shall be your bread
.

But among mortals, he’d also learned, the law of the harvest applied only to others.

He took a step toward her. Even drawing from Isla, he still had to feed. And he was, too, aware of Isla’s limitations. She was young yet, an infant to this new world, needing her own reserves of strength. He’d been greedy, these past few weeks, out of necessity rather than indifference. He simply hadn’t had the time to hunt. But he’d seen the toll he’d taken on her, and vowed to do better.

Isla, always thin, had become gaunt. Dark circles haunted her eyes. He’d noticed them that morning, and been disturbed. Her usual cheerful self, she’d eaten six eggs and then complained of a headache and returned to their room to rest.

He took another step forward, and another.

Although she hadn’t yet accepted this fact, not fully, Isla had thrown her lot in with a monster.

The woman’s cloak was, indeed, expensive. She took a quick step backward, the flash of ermine lining showing silver in the moonlight. She took another step back, and another, stumbling in the snow. He held her gaze as he advanced and saw the fear bloom in them.

He could smell her fear. Almost taste it. His own eyes widened until the whites around the irises were gone, twin pools of night. He smiled then, baring his perfect and very white teeth. Her eyes were twin pools, absorbing and reflecting the light.

“You—you must serve me,” she gasped.

This wasn’t her script.

“The Dark Lord takes.” Tristan paused. “He doesn’t give. And He doesn’t let others decide His sacrifices.” The Gods, like Tristan, chose those for Themselves.

His fingers fastened on her throat, digging in to the soft flesh. She made an odd sound, and then she made no sound as he cut off her air. To murder a child was the most heinous of all crimes. Unnatural for all species. Even his. He might have no soul, as those around him understood the term, but a demon would die to protect its young.

A shudder ran through her. The final embrace, the final transfer of essences, was almost sexual. From a distance, he might indeed be mistaken for her lover as he held her close, her ribs cracking against him. Worm-riddled driftwood against steel.

Yes, the Dark Lord took. And there was no better sacrifice than one who richly deserved death. He bent down, lapping at the blood that pooled beneath his fingers. Hot, copper and salt. Like tears. Her skin was alabaster in the moonlight. Her blood black.

A cold, unforgiving goddess that stared down at them.

Seeing all, judging nothing.

“W
elcome back.”

Well that’s banal.
But Hart couldn’t open his mouth to form the words. All he could do was stare.

He wanted to tell Callas that Callas should have thought of something more grandiose, for a man who’d escaped death. Should have recited a poem, or something. That Callas had a reputation to uphold, as the Scourge of the North, and right now he wasn’t doing much of a job. He was, indeed, entirely too cheerful.

All that came out, after what felt like a millennium of effort, was a small croak.

Callas didn’t respond. Not for a long while. He was sitting next to Hart, on a small stool that had seen better seasons. Hart was on some sort of pallet. He could feel the straw beneath him. A good sign, he supposed. Although he couldn’t move himself to itch. The straw beneath him, digging into his skin…and behind his neck, the trickle of a louse. He grimaced. He’d gotten used to his feather mattress. Even in such a short time his previous life, in Enzie, seemed like truly that. He couldn’t relate, now, to the man who’d bedded down with lice every night.

All he wanted—and he could scarcely credit the thought, as commonplace as it had become—was a bath.

They were in a dimly lit hut. Hart no doubt occupied the sleeping quarters of its former master. A fire burned in the hearth, smelling of dung.

Callas dipped a washcloth into the bucket beside him, and resumed bathing Hart’s wounds. “You took over a hundred cuts.” He re-wetted the washcloth and wrung it out again, creating a tinkling sound. “Or rather, I reached one hundred and stopped counting.”

Callas had stitched Hart up himself, then. Hart wasn’t surprised. So much of the magic for which they were feared was simple skill and Callas, like many in the Duke’s guard, knew the art of mending flesh. Hart was thankful he’d been unconscious.

He wished he were still.

Callas uncorked a skin, and held it to Hart’s lips. Well-watered wine. He drank thirstily, little runnels tracking down his chin. Like a babe, heedless of his place in the world. He’d be shitting himself soon. If he hadn’t already.

He realized, with a jolt, that he didn’t know how long he’d slept. Every inch of him ached, and his lips were as dry and cracked as old parchment. Gods.

Callas seemed to read his mind. “A day and a night. Not long.” A brief smile twisted his lips. “Your service to your Lord isn’t done.” And by
Lord
, he didn’t mean Tristan.

“You ranted and raved.” He peeled back the bandages on Hart’s side and peered at the flesh in the gloom. Infection could kill where wounds couldn’t; and while a man might survive a sword thrust through sheer force of will, there was no will strong enough to overcome the creeping red rash.

Reaching behind him, Callas picked up a bottle. Brass, with a wide bottom and a tall, narrow neck. He pulled the cork with a loud, sucking
pop
and a foul odor filled the room. Hart winced. A minute later, as the brown fluid hit his skin, he gasped. Garlic, leeks, red wine, grain alcohol and cow bile, brewed in a brass cauldron for nine days and then let sit for another nine days. Nine, the number of the Goddess.

“Copper and bile salts halt the poison.” Callas’ tone was conversational. “The garlic prevents the poison from rooting.”

“And what…does the alcohol do?” Hart gasped.

Callas splashed more on him. This time, Hart was sure, just to be cruel. Everywhere the liquid landed was fire.

“Toughens you up.”

Wasn’t he tough enough already? Hadn’t he survived? Hart grimaced as another louse investigated his hairline. He’d have to shave his head again, and bathe in wormwood.

Then again, perhaps not. He knew full well that none from Barghast could ever see him like this, prone while Callas played nursemaid, or he’d never be frightening again. The dreaded Viper, stinking of sickness and barely able to lift his own head. Not frightening, he’d be a laughing stock.

He wished, briefly, that it were Lissa instead of Callas here with him. And then wondered at the thought. Who was she? A farm girl. A prostitute. Undoubtedly spreading her legs for some man at that exact moment. An idea that Hart found strangely unsettling. Images flickered in his mind, unbidden. And unwanted.

Did those men give her pleasure?

Had he?

“What are you thinking of?”

“Nothing.”

“Hm.” And then, “does nothing have a name?”