Page 17 of Bitter Burn
Tristan shakes his head. His hair—dark and thick and longer than I’ve ever seen it—catches against the collar of his hoodie. It would be cool to the touch at the ends, only warm at the nape of his neck and where your nails could scratch gently at his scalp. My fingers twitch. In proximity to him, focus is occasionally a runaway thing, something I first noticed at Blanche’s wedding.
“There are two reasons, the first of which is that a destabilized Carpathia is much easier to move weapons and everything else through—a corridor from west to east and then back again.” We are completely alone right now, but I still pitch my voice lower, softer, in the lee of the dome. “The second is maybe less obvious but maybe even more pernicious. Carpathia has struggled to get to its feet for years, and in the meantime, the Church has stepped in. Food, medical aid, housing, foster care, public education—all the infrastructure that should belong to Carpathia’s government is in fact the Church’s. The Church would say that it’s holding these services in trust, that it’s there only as a helping hand to Carpathia and nothing more. But of course, the Church isn’t doing this at a deficit. Since Carpathia is outsourcing all this assistance, delegating, they are delegating all the funds to the Church as well. International aid money, UN-pledged money, their fledgling taxes. The Church is now an essential part of Carpathian governance and is getting paid handsomely to exist as such.”
Understanding flickers over Tristan’s face. “The prime minister,” he says. “She was a threat to that.”
“She is a threat to that. Because of you, Tristan. You saved her life and, in the process, created a huge challenge for the Church in Carpathia.”
“But what does that have to do with Ys?” he asks, a notch dipping between his brows. “Is Ys exploiting Carpathia’s reliance on the Church somehow? Using gaps between the Church and the government to move things around?”
I find his desire to keep good things good and bad things bad rather sweet. I’ve always been too willing to mix the two together, to search for one inside the other, to stain innocence and exonerate guilt, and look at where it’s gotten me.
“You mentioned my letter to Isolde—you must have read it too. You must remember what I said: Mortimer Cashel is the head of Ys. All this happens at a lift of his fingers.”
He gives me a look. “Yes, I read your letter, but I don’t believe it. It can’t be right.”
“It can’t be? Why not?”
“That’s like—it’s like some kind of nineteenth-century Protestant conspiracy or something. ‘The papists are evil and want to take over the world.’ The pope isn’t trying to influence events through…I don’t know, political puppets or something.”
“I’m not talking about the pope,” I make clear. “Ys has nothing to do with him. Or had nothing to do with him, rather. I’m sure you’ve heard the sad news about his passing.”
Tristan’s eyebrow lifts the tiniest amount. A drill sergeant would miss it, but a lover wouldn’t. He’s not in the mood for my irreverence today.
So I get back to the point. “A year of declining health, setbacks after surgeries and so on. A year for a cardinal to shore up support ahead of a conclave.” I nod at the dome across the valley, lit against the dimming sky. “So no, it’s not a papal conspiracy. Yet. Not until Cashel is elected pontiff.”
Tristan is already shaking his head. “No. Isolde told her uncle what she overheard you saying to your sister at the engagement party, and after she told him, he asked her to find out what you knew about Ys. He wouldn’t have done that if he already knew about it.”
“Do you think he was asking her to learn what Ys was? Or do you think he was trying to figure out how much I knew? There’s a difference.” The first real surge of worry takes me, that I won’t be able to convince Tristan of this in enough time to keep Isolde safe from her uncle. “And things have changed since then anyway. Cashel seems to think killing Isolde is the most expedient move right now.”
An instinctive protectiveness ripples through him quickly, handsomely, straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin. Only the grocery bag hanging from his hand disrupts the portrait of the hero at work.
“No one is hurting Isolde,” he says firmly.
“Isolde would slit the throat of anyone who tried,” I reply. “Anyone she was ready for, that is.”
Tristan’s jaw works subtly to the side as he considers this. The implication of whom she wouldn’t be ready for. And then: “I’m not saying I believe you.”
“If I’m right, then it’s the two of you here in Rome or maybe back at Morois, alone against a group that has evaded detection for centuries. If I’m right, then she’s safer at Lyonesse than she would be anywhere else.”
Tristan’s gaze is piercing, righteous. “And why should Isolde believe you? Why should she trust you? After years of lying to her, why should she believe that you’re telling her the truth now?”
“You stole three boxes of reasons for her not to trust me. She has four years of my lies stored up at her feet. I won’t pretend otherwise. Nevertheless, it’s still the truth.”
“Why not tell her yourself? Why a letter and then showing up in Rome four days later?”
It’s my turn to look away. I don’t like the idea of Tristan seeing what I can’t hide. “I knew you were at Morois from the moment you stepped under the magnolia trees. I imagined you two happy there, and I thought—” I corral my thoughts and start over. “It was a moment of weakness, coming there, but the moment I saw you both, I knew I’d leave you as I found you. I didn’t have the appetite to play the tyrant husband just then. But Isolde still needed to know about her uncle. I hoped she’d have time to consider the facts and come to the truth on her own, but I’ve since learned of Cashel’s plans for her. I learned the pope is dead. I’m here because she no longer has the luxury of time.”
“Why not tell her that yourself?”
I step forward and find Tristan’s free hand. His lips part as I take his fingers and press them to the raised scar on my neck. “She and I did not part well when we were together last. I’m sure you remember.”
His hand is warm and strong, the fingertips on my neck gentle and careful as they explore the line of the wound Isolde left.
“You think I can convince her,” he says.
“Have I convinced you?”
“Not yet.” His eyes are on my neck too. I wish I could stand here forever and have him touch me. “But there is something about it all…” He shakes his head and looks at me. “I don’t know. How can I say that I understand the secret agenda of Ys when I don’t even know what Ys is? When I barely understand what it is that Isolde and her uncle do for the Church?”
