Fey 02 - Changeling (68 page)

"No."
 
Luke's voice held a plaintive note.
 
"It would be my hands.
 
My doing.
 
If I stayed with my father, none of this would have happened."

"We don't know that," Nicholas said.
 
"We don't know how things would be right now."

Maybe things would have gone so different that Jewel would still be alive.
 
A longing rose in Nicholas's chest, a longing so deep it hurt.
 
He turned away from them, went to his table, and picked up his mug.
 
The tea was cold.

"I will see the Fey Shaman," Nicholas said.
 
"I will see if she can help you."

"Jewel said no one could.
 
The spells were too deep."

"Maybe," Nicholas said.
 
"I'm beginning to learn that there were some things Jewel didn't know."

Like Arianna.
 
He had no idea what would have happened to that child if Jewel had birthed her normally, without Fey present.
 
The Islander healers wouldn't have known what to do.

"If we're done, Highness," Stowe said, "I'll take Luke to my place."

Nicholas nodded.
 
He made himself turn, the mug cupped to his chest.
 
"I will do what I can for you," he said.

"I was so afraid you'd want me killed," Luke said.
 
"I was afraid that I made things worse."

"I don't know how you could have made things worse," Nicholas said.
 

Both Stowe and Luke bowed, then they left the room.
 
The chamberlain followed them, closing the door behind them.

Nicholas stood alone before the crackling fire, his hands wrapped around a cool mug of lukewarm tea.
 
He didn't know how to tell the boy that his action hadn't bothered Nicholas at all.
 
Someone had to avenge Jewel.
 
It would have been so much easier if Luke had been successful.

So much easier.

No Matthias to worry about.
 
The Rocaanists would choose a new Rocaan, and Island life would go on as usual.

But it couldn't be that way.

Unless Nicholas did nothing.
 
Then the Fey would avenge Jewel's death.

And in doing so, would ruin an innocent life.

Nicholas was sworn to protect those lives.
 
And even though Matthias administered the oath, the oath was still valid.
 
Nicholas's father would have been so disappointed if Nicholas had done anything but follow the life he was born into.
 

Jewel would have been disappointed too. All her life, she had done her best for her people.
 
Even in marrying him.

Especially in marrying him.

Nicholas went to the window and pulled back the tapestry.
 
The irony bit into him.
 
Jewel was the only one who would have understood why he couldn't avenge her himself.

THIRTY-SIX

Adrian's small cabin had become home.
 
Mend had helped him fix it up.
 
He had a thin cot, two chairs, and a tiny fireplace, barely big enough for three logs.
 
When he arrived, the Fey had tried to give him Fey lamps to hang overhead, but he had refused.
 
Somewhere along the way, he had learned that those lamps were lit with the souls of the enemy dead.
 
He didn't want to see by the remains of his own people.

He used candles instead.

The result was a tiny room that was always smoky.
 
The cabin had no windows, of course, because all they would look on was grayness, but sometimes he wished for a window so that he could open it.
 
The smell of candlewax and woodsmoke was sometimes too much to bear.

But it was better than being in the Shadowlands proper where the Fey could watch him.

He had no real duties any more.
 
He was more of a prisoner than he had ever been.
 
And his teachings had led to the murder of King Alexander and, possibly, the death of Jewel.

Not that he cared about her.
 
She was the one who had made the bargain that sealed him in this gray place forever.

At least Luke was all right.
 
Even now, years after Adrian had made the agreement, the fact that Luke had survived and done well was a comfort.
 
The third prisoner, Ort, had died rather horribly a short time into their captivity.

Adrian stretched out on his cot.
 
He was sleeping more and more, finding less time to do the handful of things they assigned him.
 
There were no books in Shadowlands, and the Fey believed he was unteachable, so they didn't try to work with him.
 
Instead, they gave him menial tasks and didn't care if he completed them.
 
An occasional Fey would ask him for lessons in Islander, but even those had become rare.
 
Most of the Fey who wanted to know the language did.

He heard a thump outside his cabin, then the door swung open.
 
Coulter ran in as if something were on his tail.
 
He launched himself at Adrian, wrapped his arms around him, and held on.
 
Coulter hit with such force that it knocked the wind from Adrian's body.
 

The door slowly swung closed behind him.

Adrian put his arms around the boy and stroked his hair, as he used to do for Luke, when Luke was young and frightened.
 
Coulter had never allowed Adrian to hold him.
 
They had a tentative relationship, formed more out of defense than anything, the only two Islanders in Shadowlands, both prisoners.
 
Adrian at least knew what he had lost; Coulter hadn't been outside the grayness since he was a year old.

It took a moment for Adrian to catch his breath.
 
The boy was clinging to him so tightly he would have finger-sized bruises later.
 
Coulter was shaking and if Adrian hadn't known better, he would have thought that Coulter was suppressing a sob.

Adrian had learned through all the years of raising Luke alone that the best way to handle a boy this upset was to give him time.
 
And since Adrian had time — and a lot of it — he would wait.

Gradually, the boy's shuddering eased.
 
Then his grip loosened.
 
For a moment, Adrian thought Coulter had fallen asleep, but the boy didn't take his characteristic deep breath and shuddering sigh.
 
Adrian had gotten used to the boy's breathing on the long nights.
 
Coulter could still sleep and sleep hard.
 
Adrian, no matter how much he tried, had trouble sleeping longer than an hour or two.

Which was one reason that he napped as much as he did.

Coulter usually slept on a mattress that they rolled up during the daytime — or what the Fey declared to be daytime, since the inside of Shadowlands never changed.
 
Adrian had taken Coulter in when he found the toddler sleeping on a pile of garbage near the Circle Doors.
 
Apparently the Domestics who were supposed to tend him didn't pay much attention to him.
 
He didn't belong to anyone, so no one took care of him.

Until Adrian.

Even then, though, Coulter had refused to let him close.
 
And not once, in all those years of sleeping in the same cabin, and talking about the history of the Isle, did Coulter ever demand to be held.

"You ready to talk now?" Adrian asked.

His shirt was damp.
 
Coulter had been crying.
 

Coulter's breath hitched the first time he tried to speak.
 
Then he pushed himself up on one elbow, careful to keep his arm on Adrian's cot instead of his chest, and wiped his face with his sleeve.

"They said I can't see Gift no more."
 
His voice sounded young and pouty.
 
Coulter never sounded young.
 
That was one of the things that Adrian marveled over.

"Who said?"

"Rugar."

Adrian stiffened.
 
If Rugar were involved, something serious had happened.
 
"Why did he say that?"

"Because Touched told him that I was too powerful."

They were speaking in Islander, as they usually did when they were alone.
 
Adrian believed that Coulter should learn the language of his own people.
 
But sometimes Islander didn't cover the nuances of Fey magic.

"Tell me in Fey," Adrian said.
 
"What did they mean by powerful?"

"Rugar brought Touched to me," he said, switching languages, and lying back on Adrian's chest as if he didn't want to look at him, "and he tried to get me —"

"'Get you?'"

"It was strange.
 
He shot fire at me and light and words and I had to block them."

Adrian's hands froze on Coulter's soft hair.
 
"Block them?"

Coulter nodded, his head moving against Adrian's chest.
 

"Were you able to?" Adrian asked.

"It was hard, and once I couldn't."

"What they say about your being able to block?"

"Touched kept saying it was impossible."

That was what Adrian would have thought too. The Fey used the word "block" very specifically to mean prevent an attack by the use of magic.

Adrian swallowed.
 
He wanted to ask the next question as carefully as he could.
 
"Did you block using your hands or your mind?"

"My mind," Coulter said.
 
"How do you block?"

Adrian stroked Coulter's hair again.
 
He didn't want this conversation too seem any odder than it was.
 
"With my hands," he said.

"That doesn't work," Coulter said.

"I know."

"What about thinking?
 
Can't you block by thinking?"

"No," Adrian said.
 
Obviously Coulter could.
 
Coulter.
 
Blond, round-faced, blue-eyed.
 
So clearly Islander that the Fey treated him little better than a dog.

Except Solanda.
 
She had brought him here, spoken of magic, and left, never to care for him again.
 
Mend thought Coulter had magic too, but Adrian had thought that woman-talk for a child's specialness.
 
He had never thought she was serious.

"How do you keep them from hurting you then?" Coulter asked.

Adrian buried his face in Coulter's hair.
 
It smelled of Domestic soap and child-sweat.
 
"Sometimes I don't," Adrian said.

Coulter was silent for a long time.
 
The fire was burning low and a chill was building in the cabin.
 
But it didn't matter.
 
The heat of Coulter's body was more than keeping Adrian warm.