Fey 02 - Changeling (14 page)

"We won't discuss my son."

"But we have to," Matthias said.
 
"If we suppose this was all a Fey trick, then we assume they would have known about Sebastian before he happened.
 
We have never had mixed marriages here.
 
They have all over the world.
 
Perhaps the Fey conquer because they cannot co-mingle.
 
Sebastian or the possibility of a child like him would make Jewel's job even easier.
 
She would become Queen, then you would die, and she would be Regent.
 
Only her regency would be permanent, because Sebastian could never rule.
 
All legal.
 
A take-over without worrying about the threat of holy water."

Nicholas gripped the arms of the throne even tighter.
 
The smooth wood pressed against his palms.
 
"It would take an incredibly cold heart to do all of that.
 
You haven't seen Jewel with Sebastian.
 
She sits with him each and every day."

"The Fey have a history of betraying their own families.
 
The current Black King stole his position from his brother.
 
There are other stories —"

"No," Nicholas said.
 
His heart was pounding.
 
He didn't want to hear any more.
 
"They had no guarantee that my father would ever be in a position to allow an assassin access.
 
They had no idea that Sebastian would be — as he is.
 
If they did, Jewel would not have allowed herself to carry another child.
 
She talks to it, Matthias, at night when she thinks I'm asleep.
 
She tells it to be smart and strong and the best of both of us.
 
I can't believe that she would betray me."

"That's the beauty of this," Matthias said.
 
"That you will refuse to believe.
 
We still don't understand all that the Fey can do."

"We know," Nicholas said.

"And who did we learn it from? Jewel?"
 
His words echoed in the empty room.

Nicholas sighed.
 
The argument had a curious logic, one that he didn't really want to hear, but one he couldn't ignore.
 
Matthias was twisted, that was all.
 
The death of the Rocaan had put Matthias in an impossible position, and he blamed that on the Fey.
 
He allowed that to fuel hatred instead of creating the best situation he could.

And now he was taking that hatred out on Jewel.

Nicholas wanted him out, but tossing him out would solve nothing.
 
The King and the Rocaan were the most powerful men in all of Blue Isle.
 
If they couldn't work together, then nothing would be accomplished.
 
That much of his lessons Nicholas did remember.

"What do you suggest?" he asked.

Matthias looked up, apparently surprised that Nicholas would even consider his suggestion.
 
"Set her aside.
 
Now, before the coronation.
 
She can't come into the Tabernacle.
 
The marriage isn't
 
one according the Isle tradition.
 
She was never touched by holy water, never Blessed.
 
No one would criticize you for setting her aside.
 
Everyone would understand."

"Except the Fey themselves."

"Even they might.
 
The settlement in Jahn isn't working.
 
They're being threatened daily, and some Fey are returning to Shadowlands.
 
The Fey are as opposed to this arrangement as the Islanders are.
 
It is a false truce.
 
Everyone knows that but you."

The words chilled Nicholas.
 
"Everyone?"

"Yes, Nicholas.
 
You have precedent.
 
Wives have been turned aside before —"

"Not with the Tabernacle's sanction.
 
In fact, the 40th Rocaan released an edict ordering marriage to be an eternal choice.
 
Your office, Matthias.
 
You, the scholar, are telling me to go against it?"

Matthias pursed his lips.
 
"The 40th Rocaan was merely a man.
 
The edict did not come from God or the Roca.
 
No still small voice spoke it.
 
A man simply placed his morality upon the country."

"The Rocaan is supposed to be the Roca's representative on the Isle, with a direct line to God.
 
You told me that I should always listen for the still small voice," Nicholas said.
 
"Has that voice told you to argue against Jewel?"

Matthias studied Nicholas for a moment.
 
Then Matthias licked his lips.
 
"I'm a scholar, Nicholas.
 
It is what I was before the Rocaan died, all I've ever wanted to be.
 
I looked at history, and words, and logic.
 
The still small voice has no place in that kind of world view."

Nicholas leaned back.
 
The wooden throne made his body ache.
 
"You taught it to me."

"Because it is part of tradition."

"But you're saying no Rocaan has ever heard a still small voice?"

Matthias shrugged.
 
"We're men, Nicholas.
 
As fallible as kings, just less willing to admit it."

Nicholas stood and turned his back on Matthias.
 
The loss of his father, the slander against Jewel, the burden of kingship all overwhelmed him, but this was more than he could take.
 
He needed something on the Isle to run well.
 
If it wasn't the palace then it had to be the Tabernacle.
 
And now the 51st Rocaan was confessing that he didn't believe in God.

Nicholas clenched and unclenched his fists until his hands were sore.
 
He was shaking.
 
Finally he turned.
 
Standing on the podium, he was almost as tall as Matthias.
 
Nicholas could look at him straight on without looking up.

"You will say nothing of this to anyone ever again, do you understand me?" Nicholas said.
 
He clenched his fists so tightly the nails bit into his palm.
 
"You will not disparage the Tabernacle's traditions, you will uphold your position as Rocaan and even when speaking to someone as an equal, you will admit to believing all that Rocaanism stands for, including the still small voice.
 
You are the voice of God on this Isle.
 
You defile the name of your predecessor by this kind of blasphemy."

Matthias went white.
 
"The Rocaan knew about my feelings."

"I don't care about what he knew.
 
He's dead.
 
What you feel is between you and the Holy One.
 
As far as the rest of us are concerned, you will be the model Rocaan.
 
An entire nation relies on you.
 
You will
never
speak this way again."
 
Nicholas was shaking with the force of his words.
 
"Do you understand me?
 
Never!"

Matthias took a step backwards.
 
He opened his mouth and then closed it.
 
Finally he said, "Yes, Sire."

"And one final thing," Nicholas said.
 
Somewhere along the way he had stopped clenching.
 
He was now using his right index finger as a weapon, waving it in Matthias's face.
 
"My wife will be beside me at the coronation.
 
Should I die young, she will be regent, and should it be determined that Sebastian cannot reign, she will choose the person to govern in his stead.
 
You may serve under a Fey Queen.
 
Get used to the idea, Matthias."

Matthias's eyes were wide.
 
His lower lip trembled.
 
"Sire, I —"

"No more," Nicholas said.
 
"I have heard quite enough from you.
 
More than I ever want to hear.
 
I had to suffer through your lectures when I was a boy, listen to your prattle as a teenager.
 
I am king now.
 
I don't have to listen to you ever again."

Matthias tilted his head.
 
He no longer looked defeated.
 
He looked angry.
 
"Are you through?"

"For now."
 
Nicholas gripped the back of the throne, hoping the solid wood would steady him.
 
Matthias whirled, the skirts of his robe swirling around his sandaled feet.
   
He couldn't seem to get to the door fast enough.

"And Matthias," Nicholas said.

Matthias stopped but did not turn around.

"The coronation will be held in the palace."

"It is tradition to hold the coronation in the Tabernacle."

"But you do not believe in tradition.
 
Make the arrangements with Lord Enford.
 
And do not question me again."

Matthias grabbed the door handle and let himself out.
 
Nicholas buried his face in his hands.
 
He was shaking so badly that he was afraid to move away from the chair.

He would have to debrief the guards himself.
 
Then find a way to recover from Matthias's announcement.
 
Nicholas had nothing left to believe in, nothing left to hold.

Except himself.
 

EIGHT

The fire was warm.
 
Gift sat on a braided rug before the flame, watching the sparks fly up the chimney.
 
The sparks looked like tiny Wisps floating to freedom.
 
His parents were Wisps, but they were only tiny when they needed to be, when they used their magic to make themselves small points of light.

He remembered what it was like touching those lights.
 
His pudgy fingers throbbed with the memory.
 
He knew better than to touch fire.

The rest of the cabin was cool.
 
His mother sang in the other room.
 
She was making lunch.
 
She wasn't as good a cook as the Domestics, but she believed that the family should eat together, without others around them.
 
She believed many un-Fey-like things.
 
She didn't let him out of the cabin very often, saying he was too young, but he had heard her tell his father that Gift shouldn't play with the other children.
 
They would taunt him and give him bad ideas.

There weren't that many other children in Shadowlands.
 
There was Coulter, who was two years older, and who scared Gift.
 
Then there were a few other children Gift's age, and a handful of babies.
 
That was all.
 
Not enough, according to his mother, to form a good, healthy community for a special young boy.

He didn't mind.
 
His parents kept him busy.
 
They made him do exercises, sing songs and play games with his mind.
 
Exercising his magic
, they called it, but as far as he could tell, he didn't have magic.
 
No one had magic until they grew tall and thin.
 
Little boys had no magic at all.

He was supposed to be exercising his magic right now.
 
He was supposed to be thinking about the braids on the rug, how they had been woven by Domestics to bring out the power in a room.
 
Then he was supposed to think about his clothing, and maybe concentrate on the fire itself.
 
Domestic magic day, his mother had called it, and his father had laughed.

"That boy will never have a Domestic's magic," his father had said as he left the cabin.
 
"Not with his heritage."

They didn't think Gift understood "heritage," but he did.
 
When they used that word, they were talking about the place they had taken him from.
 
The place with the stone walls, and the bright fire, and the strange looking woman with the shadow on her face, the woman he had known as nurse.
 
When they flew him over all the bright lights, wrapped in his warm soft blanket, they had taken him from a place of extremes — black and white, red and green, yellow and orange — to this place of grayness, where everyone looked like everyone else.