Fey 02 - Changeling (51 page)

"This is serious, Highness," Lord Stowe said.

"I know it is," Nicholas said.
 
"Someone murdered my father, and then the Rocaan killed Jewel.
 
She thought he was right.
 
She thought someone was trying to get her closer to the throne."

"Would she have gone along with it?"

Nicholas shook his head.
 
"She wanted us together.
 
She thought it best for the Isle and for the Fey.
 
And she had such high hopes for this little one."

Stowe looked down on the baby.
 
"Below, they're saying she's a monster."

"Jewel?" Nicholas said.

Stowe shook his head.
 
"The baby.
 
You'd better let the public see her, and soon.
 
Let them know that she is different from her brother."

Sebastian was asleep, his hand tucked against his mouth.
 
The nurse was rocking him just a little.
 
She was staring out the window, pretending that she didn't hear the conversation.
 
Stowe hoped she was trustworthy.
 
If she wasn't, Nicholas would be in even more trouble.

"A monster."
 
Nicholas made a sound that was half a laugh and half a sob.
 
"That's my fault.
 
I ordered the kitchen staff out at the wrong time.
 
Her birth was difficult.
 
She wouldn't even be here if the Fey hadn't acted fast.
 
Jewel was dying.
 
They got the baby out while they could.
 
They saved her, even though they could do nothing for Jewel.
 
Now what do I do?
 
Get revenge on them?
 
The loss of Jewel was their loss as well."

"Do you plan revenge against the Rocaan?" Stowe asked.

"He killed my wife."
 
Nicholas's voice was hard.
 
Suddenly Stowe recognized the look in Nicholas's eyes.
 
They weren't empty.
 
They were full of rage.
 

And hatred.

The ice in Stowe's stomach grew.
 
"Nicholas," he said.
 
"The Fey were planning to fight us before Jewel died.
 
They killed your father.
 
Her death was an escalation in a war they already started.
 
We need the Rocaan.
 
He's the one who provides holy water."

"I should remain close to a man who murdered my wife?
 
A man who makes a weapon that can kill my children?"
 
Nicholas shook his head.
 
"You're being unrealistic, Lord Stowe."

"Your responsibility is to the Isle, Highness."

Nicholas whirled.
 
"Yes, it is.
 
Jewel had a Vision for this Isle.
 
She believed that if the Black King came, he would be able to conquer the holy water.
 
She thought that the only way to maintain Isle traditions was to bind the Fey and the Islanders together."

"I remember," Stowe said.
 
"I was there when she proposed the marriage."

"We are bound.
 
My children show that.
 
And yes, maybe Sebastian isn't what we had hoped, but Arianna will be more than we can hope for.
 
I think Jewel's Vision was an accurate one, and I will fight for it, no matter how the Rocaan tries to ruin it."

"And what if the Fey try to kill you?"

Nicholas looked at the cat.
 
It had its head on its front paws.
 
Its eyes were half open.
 
"They wouldn't dare."

"They killed your father."

"Jewel is no longer here to take my place."

"Do you seriously believe the lords would let Sebastian rule?" Stowe asked.
 
"The baby is too young, and even if she were old enough, she's female.
 
She can't."

"I know the problems," Nicholas said.

"This is something we'll have to resolve, and quickly.
 
If something happens to you —"

"I know the problems," Nicholas said again.
 
His voice was firm.
 
"I will have a solution for you tomorrow.
 
Gather the lords after lunch in the audience room.
 
Tell them to come with open minds."

"What are you going to suggest, Highness?" Stowe asked.

"I don't know yet," Nicholas said, "but I can guarantee you that it will be something which will not jeopardize Jewel's Vision.
 
We are going to make Blue Isle safe if I have to fight every lord, Rocaan, Elder, and Fey to do so."

TWENTY-EIGHT

Shadowlands was as bleak as ever.
 
The Circle Door closed behind Burden, shutting out the greens of the forest, the fresh pine smell of the air, and the chirping of the birds, leaving him shrouded in gray.
 
Gray ground, gray walls, a gray box around him and everything inside.
 
Sometimes he wondered if that gray reflected the gray in Rugar's mind.
 
But he knew better.
 
He had been in different Shadowlands before.
 
They all looked like this.
 
The Fey simply weren't supposed to live in them for so long.

No one sat on the Meeting Block, and the doors to the cabins were closed.
 
Smoke came from the roof of the Domicile and from the Spell Warders cabin.
 
Some of his own people were standing near a wood pile in the back, but he did not go to them.
 
He had not given any orders for people to come here.
 
They had, though, expecting trouble after Jewel's death.
 
The Shadowlands was, more than anything, safe.

Hanouk stood by herself, as if she had set a personal vigilance to see if he would come through the door.
 
He nodded at her, but he didn't want to talk with her.
 
If she wanted to return to the Settlement, that was her right.
 
She had always told him she preferred the world outside, that it was her domain.
 
Perhaps she should have dominated it more than she did.
 
Perhaps if she had, Jewel would still be alive.

Burden wiped his hands on his pants.
 
A Charmer, Solanda had said.
 
Someone who got other people to do his bidding with a minimum of effort.

He would need that ability now.

There were no familiar paths in Shadowlands, only buildings rising out of the grayness.
 
He already missed the mud and the rotten wood, the rain and the floods and the smell of cooking from the Islander houses outside the Settlement.
 

He wouldn't be able to stay in here very long.

He walked through the cabins to the second largest.
 
Jewel and Rugar had built their cabin to be a meeting house at first, then took it over once the Domicile was completed.
 
Burden had always thought that unfair, but Rugar was the one who made the Shadowlands.
 
It existed because he did.
 
He was the Black King's son, and subject to special privileges.
 
Those privileges, though, were a fact of Fey life.
 
Something Burden had hoped to change, with Jewel's help.
 
When she married the Islander prince, she had abandoned Burden.
 
She had abandoned them all.

Still, when he last saw her, she sounded like the Jewel of old.
 
She seemed wiser from her experiences, willing to make the changes needed to let a place like Shadowlands thrive.

When he had leaned over her body in that hideous kitchen, the place he had first seen as a young Infantry man,
 
he had made her one last promise:
 
No matter what it took, no matter how many years he worked, he would avenge her death.
 
He would do it alone if he had to.

He hoped he wouldn't have to.

The steps leading to Rugar's cabin were covered with dry mud.
 
It had dried in the form of boot prints down the middle, as if caked boots had climbed them some time in the past.
 
Burden stepped around the footprints, and stopped on the stoop.

Fey peacetime tradition allowed a mourner three days alone before he had to face the rest of the people.
 
It gave the mourner the chance to work through the grief, to let the emotion of the event overwhelm for a short time.
 
It also allowed the great warriors to cry in private, where the tears would not compromise the image of strength they presented the rest of the time.

Peacetime tradition.

Even though there were no battles raging, Burden did not consider this peace.
 
Rugar would not have the luxury of mourning the daughter he helped kill.

Burden pounded the wooden door with the side of his fist.
 
The knocks sounded heavy, furious, and strong.
 
They echoed throughout Shadowlands, a weak echo that damped after the first circle, as if a great hand had clamped down on the noise.

A door in the cabin behind Burden opened, but Burden didn't turn.
 
He knew the others wouldn't approve of his visit to Rugar.
 
He didn't care.

He knocked again, more insistently this time.

Finally the door opened.
 
Rugar stood before him, a changed man.

This Rugar had deep haunted eyes, long lines around his mouth, hair stringy and unkempt.
 
He wore a shirt stained with the morning's meal, and his pants were untied.
 
He blinked at Burden before it became clear that he recognized him.

"What?" he said.

"Let me in," Burden said.

Rugar shook his head.
 
"I got three days."

"Let me in now, or we'll have this discussion in front of everyone."

"In three days."

"No," Burden said.
 
"Right now."

He pushed past Rugar and let himself into the cabin.
 
It was cold and dark.
 
A single candle rested in its own wax on the table, the wick flickering in the darkness.
 
The room had the faint odor of urine.
 
A chamber pot stood beside the door.
 
Rugar hadn't even left the cabin to relieve himself in the community baths.

She had been dead less than a day.
 
It was amazing that a man could let himself go so quickly.
 
But, apparently, that was what this period of mourning was for.

Burden had no need of it.

"I have three days," Rugar said.
 
He still stood in front of the open door.

"You have no time at all.
 
Close the door."
 
Burden walked over to the fire place, crouched, and started building a fire.

Rugar stared at him for a moment, then pushed the door closed.
 
It shut with a snick.

Burden layered the wood on top of kindling.
 
When he had made a good base, he took the tinder box and lit the fire.
 
It took a moment for the kindling to catch but when it did, the fire spread through the wood.
 
Burden replaced the grate and stood.