Fey 02 - Changeling (11 page)

She was too slender and had deep circles under her eyes — Domestics were overworked and slept little — but her dark hair was glossy, and he found himself at the oddest moments thinking about the upswept angle of her eyebrows and the thin line of her mouth.

Prisoner bonding.
 
Someone had told him about it.
 
Prisoners would eventually identify and idolize their captors.
 
He had once thought it impossible, but now he wasn't so sure.

At least he wasn't idolizing Rugar.

Voices sounded close outside.
 
Adrian stood guiltily — he didn't want to be caught relaxing in Rugar's home — and wiped his hands on his pants.
 
Then he crouched in front of the fire, straightening the wood pile, doing makework to look busy.
 
He had heard voices like this in the days previous and nothing had come of it, but he decided then that it was better to act as if Rugar had come home rather than to be surprised.

The voices sounded angry, confused.
 
He couldn't make out the words, but he thought he recognized a few of the Domestics, speaking in urgent tones.
 
The Domestics had been on edge for days because the Shaman was unhappy.
 
She had seen a Vision that had so deeply disturbed her that she came out of her cabin to talk with Rugar who was, of course, gone.

It seemed odd to Adrian that the Fey's Shaman hadn't known that the military leader was gone.
 
But then the more he watched the Fey, the less he understood them.

His back was getting stiff.
 
He switched positions.
 
The fire was hot this close.
 
He would have to leave soon, but he didn't want to while there was a crowd outside.
 
Most of the Fey remaining in Shadowlands knew that Adrian acted now as Rugar's private servant, but not all of them liked the fact that Rugar had a servant.
 
Only Rugar, being the Black King's son and the nominal leader of the group, never heard the complaints.

Adrian did.

He put his hand on the wood floor and braced himself to stand when he heard a voice that made him freeze.
 

Rugar's voice.

It sounded harsh and biting.
 
Then, before Adrian could stand, the door swung open and banged against the outside wall.
 
The gray mist that swirled inside the Shadowlands drifted in, its chill accompanying it.
 
Rugar stood in the door, his long, thin frame encased in a black cloak that kept the moisture off his body.

A group of Domestics stood outside.
 
From his position on the floor, Adrian could barely see them.
 
They were talking among themselves, like a group about to break up.

"What are you doing here?"
 
Rugar snapped.

Adrian knew better than to provoke Rugar farther.
 
Slow movement, reasonable tones of voice often worked best.
 
"You had asked me to start tending your fire this week in anticipation of your return."

"The fire seems fine."
 
Rugar pulled the door closed.
 
He took off his cloak, shook the water off the outside fibers, and tossed it on one of the wooden chairs.
 
"Is there any food?"

"No, sir."
 
Adrian pushed himself up.
 
He had remained in good shape during his stay in Shadowlands, but he was no match for any Fey — especially one like Rugar, trained in all forms of combat.
 
"I could get some from the Domestics."

"I could have done that myself," Rugar said.
 
He pushed another chair back with his foot, then sat.
 
He was drawn and too thin, his normally sharp features almost bony in their prominence.
 
His almond shaped eyes seemed even more slanted, his high cheekbones more pronounced.
 
Most Fey faces had a whimsical beauty,
 
but Rugar's did not.
 
It had a proud strength, like that of a bird of prey.
 
Not beautiful but striking nonetheless.

And even more so now, on this afternoon, although Adrian would be hard-pressed to say why.

"Your larder is poorly stocked, sir, since we did not know when you would be back —"

Rugar waved a hand for silence.
 
"I understand the Shaman came out."

"Yes, sir."
 
Adrian knew better than to offer more information than was requested.

"The Domestics say her Vision was bleak, so bleak she wanted to find me."

"I don't know, sir.
 
They never tell me Fey matters."

Rugar looked up as if seeing him for the first time.
 
"No," Rugar said.
 
"Of course they don't."

Rugar grabbed the heel of his right boot and pulled it off.
 
His foot was wrapped in thick stockings stained with mud.
 
He tossed the boot at Adrian's feet, then removed the other boot and tossed it as well.
 

Adrian picked them up without being told.
 
He would take them to Mend — as he had ever since the day she found him trying to clean them himself — and then bring them back in spotless condition.

"Tell me, oh great and wise Islander," Rugar said, massaging his toes, "what happens on the Isle when a king dies?"

Adrian's grip tightened on the still warm boots.
 
"Excuse me?"

"When you lose your king, what happens?"

Custom.
 
Custom and tradition.
 
That was what Adrian was there for, to teach the Fey custom and tradition.
 
Rugar was simply playing with him, taunting him while trying to gain information.
 
And Adrian couldn't lie because the Fey had assured him that if they discovered any untruths, they would murder Luke.

"The kingship is hereditary, is that what you're asking, sir?"

"No."
 
Rugar put his feet on the floor and stretched.
 
His clothes were wrinkled and stained.
 
Some of the stains were mud, and others looked like grass stains.
 
That too was odd.
 
Rugar was in a position to have Domestic made clothing, clothing resilient to stains and wear and water.
 
"I'm asking how the country responds when a king dies."

Adrian let out his breath.
 
He suddenly wanted to sit very badly.
 
He had been in his early twenties when the last king died, and it had affected him not at all.

"They'll send criers from the palace all over the country and announce the death.
 
The new king will be crowned, and life will continue."

Rugar placed his hands behind his head.
 
"No one will mourn?"

Adrian shrugged.
 
"I think that's personal.
 
There is an official period of mourning, but I suspect very few will mourn Good King Alexander."

Rugar tilted his head toward Adrian, still looking relaxed, but tension filled his body.
 
"And why is that?"

"Because —" Adrian took a deep breath.
 
It was at moments like these he most resented the order to tell the truth.
 
"Because he allowed the Fey on Blue Isle.
 
Because so many died under his reign."

"But I have been told by many Islanders that he was a good king."

"He was," Adrian said, "until he was tested."

A slow smile crossed Rugar's face.
 
"Is this common opinion or your opinion?"

"Mine, obviously," Adrian snapped.
 
"I haven't exactly had a chance to canvas the countryside."

Rugar didn't seem to notice the sarcasm.
 
He, like Jewel before him, seemed to believe that it was acceptable, even necessary for Adrian to express himself that way.
 
"Your opinion is based on what?"

"My situation," Adrian said.
 
"If Good King Alexander had defended us as was his duty, I would still be at home with my family."

"Or dead," Rugar said.

"Sir?"

Rugar stood so quickly Adrian took a step back.
 
"I think Alexander did his job.
 
The Fey have always taken countries.
 
Your king prevented us from conquering you.
 
If he hadn't stood in our way, you would probably be dead."

"He didn't stand in your way.
 
That was the Rocaan and his magic holy water."

"So the people will think that the religion saved them and their government failed them."

"Yes, sir."

"And they will not mourn."

"No, sir."

Rugar nodded.
 
He clasped his hands behind his back and paced in front of the door.
 
"What of his son?"

"What of him?"

"How will the populace accept him?"

"They have no choice, sir.
 
He is the next king."

"Are you saying they'll be reluctant?"

"Yes, sir."

"Because he is Alexander's son?"

"Because he married a Fey."
 
Adrian bit his lower lip.
 
Married Rugar's daughter.
 
"Sir."

Rugar stopped pacing and looked over his shoulder at Adrian.
 
"So the government will be unstable."

A log popped in the fire.
 
Adrian jumped.
 
He made himself take a deep breath before answering Rugar.
 
"Not unstable.
 
Unpopular.
 
There is a difference."

"Unpopular governments lead to overthrows," Rugar said.

Adrian shook his head.
 
"Not here.
 
The King is a direct descendent of the Roca.
 
The line has been unbroken for hundreds upon hundreds of years."

"And what of your Peasant Uprising?
 
It was an attempt at an overthrow, was it not?"

Adrian licked his lips.
 
He never completely understood the Uprising.
 
"It was, as I understand, a group of peasants from the Marshes who tried to get the government's help, couldn't, and took matters into their own hands."

"An Uprising, you call it."

"It was not an overthrow."

"It didn't succeed."
 
Rugar leaned on the door, all grace and easy movement.
 
Adrian always felt stiff and awkward compared to the Fey.
 
"And what if there were a new Uprising?
 
What if it succeeded?"

Adrian felt cold despite the heat of the fire.
 
A heavy ball lodged at the pit of his stomach.
 
"What did you do?" he whispered.

Rugar smiled slowly.
 
The smile did not soften his face; instead it made him look fierce.
 
"What do you care?
 
You live in Shadowlands."

"My son lives outside them.
 
What did you do?"

"Such a rude way for a servant to speak to his master."

Adrian took a deep breath.
 
That was a warning from Rugar.
 
And warnings were all Adrian could take.
 
He never knew when the Fey would turn on him, when they would renege on the agreement he made with Jewel, when they would slaughter his son.
 
Still, Adrian couldn't bring himself to apologize.
 
All he could do was keep quiet.

Rugar pushed off the door.
 
"Get me some food.
 
I'll take whatever the Domestics have."

Adrian swallowed.
 
"Yes, sir."

He crossed the room, passing closely to Rugar, able to smell the other man's faintly musky sweat.
 
Adrian kept his eyes downcast, not because he was trying to be a good servant, but because he didn't want Rugar to see the hatred in them.