Fey 02 - Changeling (32 page)

The other grooms had already returned from the palace, but they still had to get their clothing in order.
 
Tel had never seen such fuss.
 
The Fey did not have a ritual for transition of power.
 
The Black King died, and his firstborn took over.
 
It was that simple.

And that complex.

If the firstborn was nowhere near the Black King, the honor went to the secondborn.
 
When the firstborn returned, the secondborn would stand aside.
 
The Black family could not kill each other without causing huge ruptures in the magic.
 
But what was good in theory rarely happened in practice.
 
More than one Black King had ordered a member of his family killed.
 
One Black Queen had ignored the edicts and slaughtered her entire family.
 
That action had nearly destroyed the Fey.

Jewel's brother Bridge was probably already preparing himself to take the Black King's place.
 
It would take a miracle for Jewel or Rugar to be at the Black King's side when he died.
 
That left Jewel's brothers, boys who had been little more than babies when the ships sailed all those years ago.

Tel plucked a piece of straw and used it to pick at his teeth.
 
There were disadvantages to these bodies.
 
The teeth actually deteriorated, and aging was not a pleasant prospect.
 
Most Doppelgängers aged by choice, picking a body and staying with it.
 
Tel could find someone younger, but then he would have to learn a new job and find a new place in this strange world.

Guards shouted to each other across the courtyard.
 
Tel glanced at the sun.
 
It was closer to midday.
 
In a few hours, the afternoon would be by, and he would be able to go about his business.
 
All he had to do was be cautious now.

The gate came up on the palace's east wall, and in rode six Danites, followed by five of the ten Elders, and the Rocaan himself.
 
Tel had been an Elder and had been at the meeting when the old Rocaan had announced the name of his replacement.
 
Matthias had not been a popular choice.

But no one could tell it today.
 
Matthias looked regal in his flowing red ceremonial robes.
 
Tiny filigree swords hung from his black sash and another silver sword hung from his neck.
 
His biretta rose from his curls, making his height seem even more unusual.
 
His cheeks were flushed, his blue eyes sparkling.
 
Tel had seen that expression before.
 
Not when the Rocaan had chosen Matthias — Matthias had not wanted the position — but some other time, an older time, in a memory Tel stole, a memory not his own.

He would reflect on it later.
 
He was the one who had to deal with the Rocaanists' horses.
 

His throat was dry.

Behind the Rocaan came several more Danites and two Officiates.
 
Tel had never seen Officiates travel together before.
 
They had probably come to make certain the Rocaan performed the ceremony correctly, that the exact holy pieces were in place.
 

Two of the other grooms appeared.
 
One was still tying his white blouse.
 
They glanced at Tel, obviously expecting him to approach the Rocaanists.

He had no other choice.

He licked his lips.
  
They were chapped.
 
He hadn't noticed that before.
 
It was as if the dryness from his throat had moved outward.
 
His heart was pounding, his breath coming in small gasps.
 
He had survived days in the Tabernacle, as an Elder, near that poison constantly.
 
He could survive moments near the new Rocaan.

The Rocaan dismounted, followed by the Elders, Officiates, and Danites.
 
Everything was rank and tradition with these people.
 
No room for innovation, no room for spontaneity.
 
Such things normally protected Tel.
 
This time, they trapped him.

His job was to approach the Rocaan first.

The Rocaan, the man who had discovered the evil properties of holy water.
 
The man who would be carrying some now because he was going to Bless a new King.

Tel approached the group, making his way toward the center, toward the most magnificent horse.
 
He bowed his head, hoping his fears didn't show.
 
If the Rocaan were paying attention, the Rocaan would Bless him.

And Tel would melt onto the courtyard, a bubbling mass of flesh, unable to see, to breathe, to survive.

He held out his hand.
 
To his surprise, it wasn't trembling.

The Rocaan slapped his reins in it.
 
Tel let out his breath.
 
Of course.
 
He was too lowly to warrant attention.
 
The fact that both the King and Prince had done so reflected their personalities, not local customs.
 

He had forgotten that.

"Is there a problem, Groom?" Elder Porciluna asked.

Tel had never liked him.
 
Pompous, overbearing, more concerned with the wealth the church could bring him than the status of anyone's soul.
 
Those prejudices had belonged to the Elder Tel had been, but Tel still shared them.
 
The more he knew about the Tabernacle, the more he understood how men like Porciluna defiled it.

"No problem," Tel said, keeping his gaze averted.
 
It was wrong to call attention to himself.
 
He pulled the stallion forward.
 
He pranced beside Tel, a powerful, delicate piece of horseflesh.

"You'll have a care with that horse," one of the Danites said.
 
"It is the sire of the King's."

Tel knew that.
 
He knew the pedigree of every horse in Jahn.
 
He led it to the stables as the other groomsmen came forward to take the Elders' and Officiates' horses.
 
There was even a ritual order for horses to be stalled.

He focused on his duties; they kept him from concentrating on the religious Islanders behind him, and their danger to him.
 
One quick movement while he had his back turned, a sprinkle of seemingly harmless water, and he would be dead.

Dead.

He reached the stable, and tried not to sigh with relief.
 
Tapio had come from his quarters, his blouse brilliantly white, his fawn breeches creased and tucked into his shiny brown boots.
 
He looked important.
 
He winked at Tel as he passed, then went and gathered the lead Danite horses.

Tel used that moment to take the Rocaan's mount into the stable.
 
He led the horse to the big stall in the back, the one normally used for Ebony, the King's stallion.
 
The Rocaan's stallion went inside without a problem.
 
Tel closed the door before the stallion and leaned on it.

He should have realized that the Rocaan would be first to arrive.
 
He was conducting the ceremony after all.
 
In some ways, he was the most important man there.
 

Tel had made it through.
 
He would survive the afternoon.

And he would be careful to be gone when the Rocaan left.

Tel passed the groom leading the Elders' horses as he slid out of the stable.
 
Another groom had appeared, and was leading the rest of the horses inside.
 
The Rocaan and his people hadn't left the courtyard.
 
They appeared to be checking their pouches.
 
Several vials of holy water glinted in the sun.
 
Tel stopped near the stable door.
 

Something was odd.
 
They were checking to make certain they had enough holy water.
 
That was something they should have dealt with before they left the Tabernacle.

"There it is," one of the Officiates said.
 
He pulled a small white cloth from his pouch.
 
"Exactly where you asked me to put it, Holy Sir."

"Good," the Rocaan said.
 

The Officiate put the cloth back into the pouch, and the Danites placed three vials of holy water on top of it.
 
Then the Officiate sealed the pouch and tied it to his waist with his sash.
 
All the others replaced their own pouches as well.

Tel was glad that he was staying in the stable with the horses. He had had too many close calls with the holy poison to ever want to get near it again.

Tapio boarded the other horses, then came and stood beside Tel.
 
"Tis quite the troop, eh?"

"I dinna realize they needed half the church ta make a King."

"Tis na ta make a King.
 
Tis ta get the Roca's approval."

And what would they do for the King's son, had anyone thought of that? The day Nicholas died, who would think that the Roca could not approve a half-Fey child?

It wasn't Tel's problem.
 
Except for moments like this one, he was no longer Fey.
 
He was Islander and determined to stay that way.

"We dinna have room for many other horses," Tel said.

"Tis na a concern," Tapio said.
 
"The Lords have a processional, and the Fey dinna have em."

The Fey didn't need them.
  
But Tel didn't say that either.
 
Instead he watched the Rocaanists follow the path that led to the far side of the palace.
 
No going through the kitchen for them.

"Come on," Tapio said.
 
"Tis time ta tend horses."

Tel sighed.
 
The ordeal was over.
 

For now.

SIXTEEN

Nicholas's robes were on.
 
His hair was combed and awaiting the crown.
 
The filigree sword around his neck seemed foreign to him.
 
He hadn't worn one since he met Jewel.
 
She had looked at it as if it were an anathema, then smiled faintly at him.
 

"It won't be for long," he had promised her, and then he had left the room.
 
Her maid was just going in, to put the finishing touches on Jewel's hair.

Finishing touches on most women could take hours.
 
With Jewel, it only took a few moments.

Still, he wanted to be alone.
 
He walked to the top of the stairs, then gazed down the gallery.
 
The chairs leaning against the wall were not comfortable — he had tried to sit in them as a boy, before he learned that they were merely there for decoration — and the portraits themselves were not inviting.
 
The men all had the same face, aged differently and buried in different clothing styles.
 
The women were round and blonde.

Except Jewel.

Matthias had hated her portrait, but Nicholas loved it.
 
He walked over to it and stopped beneath it.
 
The artist had captured her spirit, her fire, the fierceness that made her Jewel. If anything happened to Nicholas, she would be able to defend herself, and their children, and survive.