The Black Prince: Part I (21 page)

But she was nothing like him. Where her traits had come from, she didn’t know. The church of her childhood taught that all men, and all women, were merely the sum total of their parents; like begat like, as rich begat rich and poor begat poor. The order of things was set by the Gods, and thus unchangeable. Isla didn’t believe that, any more than she believed anything else preached by men like Father Justin, but she did wonder what her mother had been like. Truly been like. If perhaps she’d inherited something of her inner core of strength from the mysterious woman she’d never gotten a chance to know.

“You are your own creation,” Tristan said. “As am I.”

Perhaps.

Isla signaled for one of the serving girls, spoke to her briefly, and then dismissed her. She returned to her seat on the same couch where she’d been with Tristan just a few moments earlier. A time that seemed hours past now. Years, even. A time when she’d been secure in her knowledge that she was finally free of her family. That Rowena wouldn’t come barging through the door, now or ever.

The refreshments arrived and with them, Asher. Tristan motioned him over, just the faintest raise of the hand. He didn’t want Asher to serve, then. Asher sat, as he was bidden, and the girl who’d brought the tray poured cups of mulled wine. There was also bread, and cheese.

Rowena sniffed. As though she were used to so much better. Isla restrained herself from pointing out that it was late and the kitchen was closed, the fires tamped down for the night as their young tenders slept before them, curled up in blankets. A job for the lowest of the low on the staff, but an important one. If Rowena wanted a real meal, she’d be better off waiting for breakfast. It couldn’t, at this point, be too far off.

Isla glanced at the window, but couldn’t see the moon.

“What’s that doing here?” Rowena gestured at Asher.

Asher accepted his mulled wine without comment, staring down the offending presence in an almost perfect imitation of his father beside him. He’d been served before Rowena, as was proper. Although no formal statement had yet been issued, the entire household knew the gossip.

The girl, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen or so, curtseyed slightly before turning to serve the guests.

“What are you doing here?” He sounded genuinely interested.

“The chivalrous response,” Tristan informed him without turning, “is not to draw attention to a lady’s failings.”

Rowena purpled.

Asher sipped his wine. Well watered, because for all his presumed status he was still a child. But behind the rim of his cup, he smiled.

“We…got turned around.”

“Because my husband couldn’t detect his own ass with both hands.” Throwing her head back, Apple finished her first portion in two swallows. She didn’t wait for a servant’s assistance, grabbing the pitcher with a surprisingly well-manicured hand and pouring herself a second that was far more generous. A little slopped over the side of the cup, wasting a portion of spices equivalent, Isla suspected, to the average Highlands husbandman’s yearly income.

The earl, for his part, said nothing. He continued to lean forward, one hand resting on the mantle, staring into the flames as though auguring his future. He, too, looked older. Old. Not like Rowena, or Apple, but frail. His skin looked paper thin, almost translucent in the reflected light. His eyes had lost some of their color, no longer vibrant like Hart’s but the subdued hue of a well-washed rag.

Or the dishwater in which it sat.

He
was
old, she realized with a pang. Well and truly old, and no man lived forever. Although why such a truth should bother her, when applied to her father, she couldn’t imagine. He wasn’t a good man, and hadn’t been a good father. He’d tried to offer one daughter into short-lived sexual servitude and have the other killed outright. Not because he was evil, but because he was weak. He was too weak to be evil.

He turned, his eyes meeting hers, and she couldn’t be certain but something of her thoughts might have passed between them. A troubled expression came over him then, like clouds passing over a clearing. Did he regret what he’d done?

Did it matter to her if he did?

His eyes still on hers, he opened his mouth to speak. Or at least she thought that was what he’d meant to do; the first word turned into a cough, one that only seemed to get worse. Coughing became great, racking spasms as he doubled over, his hands on his stomach.

Apple only watched him, her expression unreadable. Rowena made to stand up, as if to help him, and then sat back down again. “Are…you well?” she asked. A rather backward nursemaid, Isla thought.

She, too, began to rise but her father waved her back.

“This happens all the time,” Apple said.

Ignoring Apple and her father both, she took a step forward.
Happens all the time?
Since when? She could tell, through the bond, that Tristan was interested. Merely interested. As for herself, she couldn’t quite categorize her own feelings. Which, regarding her family, was nothing new. She despised her father, hated him, even, but there was an inner core to her that couldn’t ignore a creature in pain.

She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Sit down. Rest.”

As he tried to speak again, coughing became wheezing, which in turn became a tortured fight for breath. The noise escaping him barely sounded human. His pale skin was darkening, turning a mottled purple that reminded Isla, in a sickening flash, of Father Justin.

Of the man’s corpse lying in state on a slab in the dairy.

“Father.” There was a hint of panic in her voice. No one was doing anything, why was no one doing anything? “Father I think—”

He took a step back, and then another and then, half-spinning, lost his balance and toppled to the floor.

L
issa lay underneath the merchant, her head turned to the side as he thrust himself into her. He was a large man, not with the build of muscle gone to fat but with the soft, pudding-like folds of a privileged life spent relaxing and eating sweets. A sheen of sweat coated his brow and underneath the too sweet perfume of attar of roses, he reeked.

She wondered when he’d last taken a bath. She couldn’t wonder too much, as it would become apparent that she wasn’t paying attention. Most clients paid for more than sex, if they were honest with themselves, but some made the challenge harder than others.

Illusion.

Of desirability. To women. To themselves. Sometimes Lissa laid with women, mostly the wives of merchants who lived in town but not always. Sometimes they were merchants themselves. Sometimes the wives of visiting dignitaries. Women whose husbands failed to please them, either because their husbands weren’t interested in their pleasure or because they weren’t the kind of women who could take pleasure from men.

Lissa didn’t mind. The women were gentle. Usually.

Some of the men weren’t so bad. Even this man. He’d paid for her before. He was married; he wore a ring. She knew nothing about his wife, though. Unlike some others, he didn’t talk much. But he didn’t need to hit her to get hard, or to see her cry. He didn’t twist her nipples or leave angry, inflamed bite marks in her breasts.

His pendulous stomach slid up and down over hers, lubricated with more of his foul sweat.

She hated it the most when the noblemen came. Their sons, more properly. Titled in their own right but with nothing to justify their privilege. No deeds of heroism in their own names; no lands, as of yet, at least not under their direct management. But with something to prove. They could dominate her. They
paid
to dominate her. The same boy-men who she knew, as true boys, had delighted in tormenting insects.

She thought briefly of Hart. He almost hadn’t wanted her to touch him. It had been strange.

He’d been strange.

And terrifying.

She knew who he was, of course. Everyone did. He had the coloring of a Northman but wasn’t one. He was rumored to be the bastard of someone important. But not recognized; they distained a man’s accomplishments in the South in favor of his lineage. His
proven
lineage. A woman’s claims about the origins of her children mattered little.

Lissa didn’t know if she could have children. There had been an…incident, shortly after she came to the inn. The inn’s owner, Marcus, the man who’d purchased her indenture from the sheriff after her parents lost their farm, had found her curled up in a ball on the floor, in a pool of her own blood.

He’d paid for her care. He hadn’t needed to; the law allowed him to divest himself of responsibility if she was no longer good to work. But Marcus…wasn’t a bad man. He hadn’t asked if she’d wanted to service men for a living but why would he have?

And what other options were there?

She told people she’d wanted adventure.

And, in truth, she had.

But Hart…. He’d given her pleasure. True pleasure. And he’d smelled nice, of fir trees and leather.

She tried not to think about him, because the chances were good that she’d never see him again. And that she’d be better for that. A man who drank the blood of his enemies after torturing them to death. A man who calmly referred to himself as having no soul.

He was one of the Forsaken. She knew that. She might be from the middle of nowhere but she wasn’t an idiot. Their expressions told the truth. What was in them or, rather, what wasn’t. A certain…blankness in the eyes. And there was the worshipful attitude of others, those who played at giving their souls to darkness.

Woe to them if the vows they swore for games, while half in their cups, were ever called to proof.

Lissa kept two small figures, one of the God and one of the Goddess, in the bottom of the modest six-sided chest where she stored the sum total of her earthly possessions. In her room, the garret space she shared with the other girls, above. Where freezing rain dripped through the ceiling boards and wind roared down the chimney and through the fireplace. There was never enough wood, and there were never enough blankets.

She didn’t own the gowns she wore, to entertain strangers. Nor the combs she used to put up her hair. A fact she hadn’t minded until—

But no.

She should try harder to please her client. But he didn’t care and neither did she. Judging from the expression on his face, she would have been surprised if he’d been conscious of her at all. He was off in his own world, his eyes rolled back in his head, fantasizing about whatever men like him fantasized about.

His counting house, perhaps.

One of his children.

She was young, and she looked young. And she knew that. And knew, too, that that was part of her appeal. If not all of it. A lifetime of not enough had left her with scant curves. Thin, elongated bones added to her elfin appearance.

How like the rich, to romanticize need.

No, she scarcely looked old enough but she’d been a woman since before she was sold. And although she didn’t know if she could have children she drank the awful tea at night regardless. She’d never…she’d never met a man she wanted to have a child with.

The merchant’s thrusts intensified. The expression on his face was almost pained, as though he were attempting to pass a difficult stool. She looked forward to taking a bath after he left and hoped he’d be the last of the night. Marcus rarely made her take more than two or three a night. It wasn’t so bad. Some girls, at some of the cheaper inns, had to see twenty or more.

“Oh.”

She pressed her lips into a thin smile.

“Oh. Gods, your cunt is so tight.”

His breathing was labored. Rasping. He was quite fat; maybe he’d die.

“Oh.” And then, in an entirely different tone, “oh!”

The door flew open, banging against the wood paneling on the wall behind.

Silhouetted against the lights in the hall was Hart.

The merchant half turned, propped up on his hands. His cock was still inside her but she might have been the bed itself for all the attention he paid. “She’s taken,” he said, his voice full of irritation. “Come back later.”

Hart crossed the room so quickly that Lissa didn’t even see it happen.

He lifted the man off her, hurling him halfway across the room in a single motion.

He turned. His knife was out. The blade gleamed dully in the light from the ceiling lamp. Hand blown glass, suspended from one of the beams on brass chain. A warm, almost blood red. From the East.

Lissa sat up. Ignored by both men, she pulled the throw around herself. She didn’t want to be naked right now, and covered in another man’s sweat. Wide-eyed, she watched. She said nothing. Her fingers tightened reflexively on the balled up wool.

“Rephrase yourself.” Hart’s tone was calm. Cold.

“I….” The man lumbered backward across the floor, his flesh jiggling. “I…I’m very sorry. There seems to have been a mistake. A…terrible mistake.”

“Indeed.”

The merchant flipped himself over and, glancing every few seconds at Hart, began to gather his clothes. They were strewn all about the room. He started to put them on, almost losing his balance as he strained to pull up a pant leg, when Hart shook his head slightly. That was enough to get his attention. He stared at Hart, slack-jawed. His squinting, piggish eyes had grown as large as twin apples.