Fey 02 - Changeling (15 page)

Something about Gift was different, and it had something to do with that place.
 
The other children had been born into the gray.
 
He had been born into the light.

His mother came into the room with two steaming bowls on a tray.
 
She was slender and tall like the others who lived in Shadowlands, but she had blue wings that folded against her back, and made it uncomfortable for her to sit in chairs.
 
She was light compared to Gift, and she had once told him that was because her bones were hollow.
 

"Wisps are fragile," she had told him.
 
"Most don't survive their childhoods."

The idea had so frightened him that he had nightmares.
 
Finally, she had to tell him that he would never be a Wisp.
 
His body was too solid, his bones too strong.

"But you and Dad are Wisps," he had said.
 
"How come I'm not?"

"Because," she had said with the same smile she always used when she explained such things to him.
 
"You're our Gift."

The answer made no sense to him.
 

She had that smile now as she stood over him, looking down at him fondly.
 
"You weren't exercising, were you?"

He shook his head.
 
"The fire's too pretty," he said.
 
"You see the little lights?
 
They look like you and Dad."

She set the tray on the kneeling table, then sat on the cushion beside the rug.
 
Her wings unfolded just a little, their thin blue edges rustling.
 
She peered into the fire, looking with interest at the sparks rising through the chimney.
 

"I would hope your father and I are bigger."

"You are," Gift said.
 
He moved closer to the table. It was their smallest table, made of wood and spelled to keep food hot.
 
The soup was in black ceramic bowls.
 
The broth was clear, but the meat was white and finely cut.
 
The steam smelled of sage.

"You have no interest in the rug?" his mother asked.

Gift looked at it.
 
He knew it had been given them just recently by a Domestic, but he didn't know why.
 
Now he was beginning to understand.
 
"The strands are just strands," he said.

His mother nodded.
 
She had long ago given up asking him where he learned his words.
 
She and his father had decided part of his magic was the ability to know language, and to speak it well.
 
"Beyond his years," they would whisper to anyone who asked.
 
"Gift is beyond his years."

"You have no interest in Domestic things, then?" his mother asked.

Gift shrugged.
 
He picked up the bowl.
 
The ceramic was cool to his touch, although the soup's steam wet his face.

"I like the way spells work," he said.
 
"I like that the table keeps food hot and the bowls don't burn hands.
 
I like my bed and the way it makes dreams come."

"But you have no interest in creating such spells?"

Gift slurped some soup.
 
It was warm and delicious.
 
The broth had a chicken taste, accented by the spices.
 
He set the bowl down and wiped his mouth with his hand.

"Gift," she said in her "mother" tone, although he didn't know if she was referring to his manners, or to the fact he had yet to answer her question.

"Anybody can make rugs," he said, knowing she wouldn't like that answer.
 
So he added to it:
 
"I want wings."

Her smile was indulgent.
 
He liked that smile too, although he never told her that.
 
That smile was just for him.
 
She never used it for anyone else, and when she used it for him, he knew that he had done something right or cute or important.

"You know you can't have wings.
 
You would have to be born with them."

"If Domestics can make rugs, how come they can't make wings?"

"Gift," she said, picking up her own bowl.
 
"All the magicks are different.
 
Everyone is born with a special talent.
 
Sometimes it just takes a while for the talent to become obvious.
 
Sometimes the talent is clear from the beginning, like wings."

"How come you and Dad have wings and I don't?"

"Because each person is different, Gift.
 
We didn't choose to have wings any more than you chose not to."

"Who chose to bring me here, then?"

His mother set her bowl down.
 
Soup sloshed on the table, but she didn't seem to notice.
 
"What do you mean?"

"You said I'm different.
 
Is it because I was born somewhere different?
 
Not here in the Shadowlands?"

She licked her lips.
 
He had not seen this glazed expression on her face before.
 
"I wasn't born in Shadowlands, either," she said finally.

He had never heard that before.
 
"Really?"

"Really," she said.
 
"Your father wasn't either.
 
Shadowlands is a place, like the place you were born is a place.
 
I was born in Nye, which is far away across a great sea.
 
Where you were born doesn't make you special, Gift.
 
Who you are, and what your talents are, make you special."

"But you always say stuff about my heritage."

"Your heritage."
 
The steam had stopped rising from her bowl.
 
She didn't seem to notice.
 
She leaned back on her hands, her wings closing tightly against her back.
 
"Your heritage means your talents, Gift."

He frowned.
 
That wasn't right.
 
She always meant something else when she said heritage.
 
But he wasn't going to argue.
 
Not yet.
 
When his talents came, then he would ask how he got them.
 
Sometimes people treated bigger kids with more seriousness, not because the kids were smarter, but because they were larger.

His mother stared at him for a moment, then she picked up her soup and drank too.
 
He finished first, set down his bowl, and burped.
 
Then he pushed up from the rug.
 
He needed to run, to move a little.
 
He had been sitting all morning.

"Gift."
 
His mother set her bowl down.
 
"I want you to sit for a little longer.
 
Your grandfather will be over this afternoon."

Gift let himself fall back onto the rug.
 
He put one arm over his eyes.
 
"Does he have to?"

"He hasn't seen you for a long time."

That was good as far as Gift was concerned.
 
He knew that Grandpa Rugar was the reason they had this cabin and all the wonderful things, but Gift didn't understand why that meant Gift had to be nice to him.
  
"So?"

"He likes to check on you."

Gift shrugged.
 
"He can check when I'm sleeping."

"Gift!"

Gift glanced at the door as if Grandpa Rugar would come in any moment.
 
The door was closed, as it always was.
 
"He isn't nice."

His mother set her bowl down.
 
Then she put her hands on her thighs in her listening mode.
 
"What do you mean?"

"He talks mean to you."

This time, her smile was faint, the smile she often had for his father when he said something she didn't like.
 
"He runs the Shadowlands."

"That doesn't mean he can talk bad to you."

She furrowed her eyebrows.
 
"What do you mean by 'bad,' Gift?"

"He thinks I can't hear him, and then he says that you should know what I can do by now.
 
He says you don't train me hard enough, that I should have more magic than everyone else combined.
 
He makes it sound like me not doing what he wants is your fault."
 
Tears filled Gift's eyes.
 
He rubbed them with his fists.
 
He wouldn't cry like a little baby.

"He just has high hopes for you, honey."

"He wants to use me."

His mother's lips parted slightly, then she closed them and bit the lower one.
 
Finally she asked, "What makes you say that?"

"Because he said so."

"When?" Her eyes looked unnaturally bright.

"The first time he saw me."
 
Gift's fists were wet.
 
He wiped them on his legs and watched the moisture bead on his pants.

"Gift, you were just a baby.
 
You can't remember that."

"Can too," he said.

She reached over and took his hand, not seeming to care that it was damp.
 
"You can remember what happened to you when you were very little?
 
Is that how come you can remember words and sentences so well?"

Gift shook his head.
 
"I always knew words from the time you flew me here.
 
Words are like breathing.
 
I just know them."

"And how do you know what your grandfather said?"

"I
remember
.
 
Like I remember that we had cake for breakfast.
 
I
remember.
"
 
The fact that she didn't believe him bothered him.
 
His mother had to believe him.
 
She knew everything about him.

"You remember."
 
She said the phrase as if she were trying to convince herself.
 
"Do you remember what happened the first time you came here?"

"You had a Domestic give me warm milk and then you held me in my blanket until I fell asleep."

She nodded, squeezed his hand, and then let it go.
 
"Why haven't you told me this before?"

"I have," he said.
 
"You just explained it away.
 
You would think I was being cute or something."

"Gift," she said slowly, "I've never heard of this."
 
Suddenly she pulled him close.
 
Her arms were tight around him.
 
His face was pressed against her soft breasts, the faintly sulfur smell of her, familiar and safe.

He struggled to pull free.
 
She had never done this before.
 
Finally, he pulled back far enough to see her face.

"Have I done something wrong?" he asked, his voice small.

She shook her head.
 
She studied him for a moment.
 
"I just don't think we should tell Rugar.
 
I mean, what could he do?
 
It's not like you have a power.
 
It's not like you could be tested for this."

He frowned.
 
He shouldn't have told her.
 
Somehow his knowledge of his past made everything different.

Then she nodded, as if something had been confirmed.
 
"We won't mention this," she said.
 
"You won't tell your grandfather."

"I never tell him anything anyway," Gift said.
 
He didn't quite understand.
 
If he had planned on telling Grandpa Rugar, he would have done so already.

She grabbed his hand and squeezed.
 
"I'm sure you don't," she said.
  

Then she let go, got up, and picked up the tray.
 
"Your grandfather will be here real soon now, Gift.
 
Do you need a nap first?"