The Black King (Book 7)

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  He had asked for some time alone. Lyndred confused him: she saw him as someone who threatened the family, someone who might kill Bridge and Arianna, and yet as someone who might save them all. He wasn’t so sure.

  These Visions of the Blood that he had unnerved him. Were they being caused by Arianna’s strangeness or by his presence? Or a combination of both? And was Lyndred’s purpose to push Gift toward destroying his family or to prevent that?

  There was no way for him to tell. But he did know that her Visions were true when she mentioned seeing him holding the child. He’d had that Vision himself and it haunted him.

  Lyndred had disappeared down the cobblestone streets. The clouds had grown even darker, and a mist dampened the air. Beads of water had formed on his arms and face.

  He had advice from Skya and Xihu and his mother. He had Seen countless Visions, and heard even more from the Shaman. He knew the history, he knew the prophecies, he knew the warnings. And he still felt as if he didn’t know where to turn. He could slink to Leut, and stay out of the Fey Empire. Or he could try to convince his sister that he could stay out of her way.

  Or he could openly defy her.

  The clouds to the west looked as if they had been smeared against the horizon. Rain was coming down in sheets. He would have to go below. He remembered Blue Isle’s rainstorms. They were cold and nasty and usually chilled to the bone.

  The rain pelted the water downstream. He could see the wall of the storm coming. The wind had picked up and it carried a deep chill. He debated standing there, letting the water wash over him. He had felt numb since he had come back from the palace. Maybe the rain would prove to him that he was still alive.

  Then a few needle-sharp pellets of rain caught him in the face, and he hurried for the stairs that led below decks and to his cabin.

  Skya was inside. She sat on the edge of his bed, her legs crossed at the ankles and tucked against the wooden frame. She was staring at the storm through one of the portholes. He closed the door, and she didn’t turn at the sound.

  The rain pounded the deck above. The sky, through the porthole, was almost black. Skya had lit the lamps that hung from the walls—regular Nyeian oil lamps. Gift had insisted on Fey lamps during storms. They prevented accidental fires. This small act of defiance on Skya’s part rankled him more than anything else.

  “Skya,” he said. “I need to be by myself.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “The great Black Heir needs to think about the best route to Leut.”

  The numbness he had felt a moment earlier had fled; behind it was a dark anger. He took a deep breath, fighting to stay calm. “You like to travel.”

  “On my own terms.” She turned. Her face glistened, almost as if it had been washed with tears. He had never seen Skya cry. He would have thought that it would have endeared her to him. Instead it made the anger worse.

  But he had enough Shamanic training to know the power and destructiveness of anger. He also was wise enough to know that he wasn’t angry at Skya; he was angry at Arianna.

  If he listened, he might have a chance to calm down. If he listened, he could avoid the fight he was spoiling for.

  He grabbed one of the loose chairs and pulled it over. He sat, feet flat on the floor as he had been taught, body grounded. “Skya,” he said, his voice as gentle as he could make it, “why do you hate Visionaries so?”

  She blinked as if she hadn’t expected the conversation to go this way. And why would she? They rarely talked about her past or his. She was the one who had stopped that sort of discussion, the one who had insisted that they live in the present and not worry about the past or, by implication, the future.

  “It’s not important,” she said.

  “It is. You haven’t trusted me from the start, and you claim it’s because of my Vision. Is it?”

  Her eyes were black and bottomless and very sad. “I do not want to go to Leut.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Then do something about it.”

  “I’m trying.” He swallowed, willing himself to remain calm.

  “You’re hiding in this ship.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t expect Arianna to behave the way she did today. I didn’t expect Lyndred. I’m not sure—”

  “And yet you believe your Visions. You believe that all will be revealed to you and you don’t realize that with all your ability to See the future, you missed the most important thing.”

  He felt the attack as if it had been physical. It took him a moment to catch his breath, to keep himself from yelling at her like he sensed she wanted. “What is the most important thing?”

  “This isn’t about your appearance here or you being some sort of center or even the Blood itself. Those are all pieces to a puzzle you don’t understand. You’re guessing and second-guessing yourself. You’re making this worse, Gift.” She was gripping the side of the bed, the blanket wrapped in her hands.

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Confront your sister. Overthrow her if you have to. She won’t kill you any more than you will kill her. She’s as worried about the Blood as you are.”

  He shook his head. “Once I might have agreed with you. But I don’t know this woman—”

  “Of course you know this woman. She’s Black Blood. She acts like all Black Blood.”

  “Like me?”

  Skya’s eyes narrowed. “You’re learning. I’ve been watching you learn how to use your heritage. I watched you use someone to save yourself on the Cardidas because you deemed your own life more important.”

  He flushed. “Rudolfo understood.”

  “I understood too. I also know that the older you get, the more you will become like her.”

  “And that’s why you don’t want to talk of the future?”

  She raised her chin slightly. “I don’t want to be the Black King’s wife.”

  He felt cold. Colder than he had on deck, maybe colder than he had ever been before. “I’m not the Black King.”

  “No,” she said. “But you will be.”

  “How do you know? I didn’t think Warders had much Vision.”

  “We have enough to design spells for you. Who do you think invented Shadowlands?”

  He stared at her, realizing that she hadn’t answered him. “How do you know?” he asked again. “Have you Seen it?”

  “I’ve been listening,” she said. “You touched the Black Throne. You are the center. You’ve had three Open Visions. You are the eldest. Your sister is Blind. Do you want me to go on?”

  “No.” He was more relieved than he wanted to admit. He didn’t want Skya to have Seen him as the Black King. He didn’t want that destiny. He never had. “Even if I were to become Black King, I haven’t asked you to marry me.”

  Her lower lip trembled. “No, but you would have if I had allowed you to talk of the future.”

  He leaned back, no longer pretending calmness. “You’re right. I would have asked. I do love you, Skya, and I want to marry you no matter what happens here, whether I become Black King or some renegade always hiding from my own people. I want you beside me. I have from the moment I met you. And I think you feel the same about me.”

  “No,” she whispered. “I don’t.”

  Her hand was clutching the blanket so hard that he could see the strain in her fingers.

  “Why are you lying?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “You at least owe me an explanation. I’ve been following your rules. I’ve been living in the present like you asked, and now I have to make choices, not just for my future but for ours. I’d like you beside me and you refuse. At least tell me why.”

  “You’re a Visionary.”

  “You knew that when you met me.”

  “And I should have left you in Tashco.”

  “Yes, but you chose to come here.”

  She closed her eyes. Her skin was taunt with strain. Above them, the rain still pelted the deck, the steady drum so loud Gift could
barely hear himself breathe.

  “My father,” she said so softly he had to strain to hear her, “was the military governor of Co.”

  “He was a Visionary.”

  She opened her eyes and studied him for a moment. “A minor one compared to your family.”

  “Not that minor. A governorship is usually given to someone who shows strong ability in the field.” Gift knew that much from his time with the Shaman. Yes, his family were strong Visionaries, but other families had similar powers. The Shaman kept those families under close watch, in case the Black Family destroyed itself as it once did in the past. Then the Shaman would take a leader from one of those families to the Black Throne, to see if they could become the new Black Ruler.

  “My mother was an Enchanter,” Skya said, “and I was their only child.”

  “A Visionary and an Enchanter. What a powerful combination to have in a small country.”

  “Co is the most rebellious of all the Fey conquests.”

  “You told me that on the day we met.”

  She nodded, looking distracted. It was as if she had to concentrate to tell this story, as if he only had one chance to hear it.

  “All his life,” she said, “my father Saw a rebellion in Co. He said it would destroy the Fey. He was convinced it would. So whenever a rebel force sprung up—and they did often—he destroyed them. He had anyone who spoke badly of the Fey imprisoned or killed. He destroyed young men, old men, women, children, anyone who seemed like they would hurt the Fey.”

  Gift’s mouth went dry. Even his grandfather, Rugar, hadn’t been that ruthless.

  “My mother would use her powers to help him. If he couldn’t get Foot Soldiers or Infantry to a rebel cell, she would create a fire spell and burn them out. She was as terrified as he was, afraid that the Co might destroy the entire Empire.”

  Her eyes were flat, her tone so dispassionate that it hurt. She wasn’t looking at him. Instead, she was staring at a spot on the wall.

  “I was a precocious child and a bit rebellious myself. My parents wanted me indoors and watched all the time. I hated being inside. I escaped as often as I could.”

  The rain beat against the deck. It sounded as if the world were being pounded into submission.

  Gift’s anger at her was gone. He wanted to hold her, to tell her it was no longer necessary, she didn’t have to finish the story, she didn’t have to remember. But he needed to hear it, so he said nothing.

  “By the time I was ten, I could see what his ‘Vision’ was doing. It was making things worse. The rebellion he had tried to quash was growing stronger with each life he took. Even our servants were talking about my father as a horrible man, and sometimes, it seemed they dared me to tell him.” Her voice shook slightly. “I did tell him. Not names or anything, but what I saw, how I believed he was the one making the Vision come true. The Shaman—our family Shaman—told him not to listen to me, that I was just a child with no understanding of magick, and that he was following the only path. He believed her. Her Visions confirmed his. I was just an untrained Warder with no real Vision, just the edges of it so that I could create spells. And I was a child. A child who didn’t understand the world.”

  Her voice had gotten hoarse. She cleared her throat, then glanced at Gift. He kept his gaze on her, making it steady. He still wasn’t sure she really saw him.

  “I wouldn’t be quiet,” she said. “Finally, the Shaman convinced them that my problem was the untrained magick, so they sent me, years early, to apprentice with the Warders in Nye. They hoped I might someday serve the Black Family. My father had had a Vision there too. That I would be invaluable to the Black Family when I grew up.”

  This time she did focus on him. He held out a hand, hoping she would take it. She stared at it as if it would hurt her. Finally, he curled his fingers into a fist and pulled back.

  “Six months after I left, the entire country of Co revolted against the Fey. My father and mother were slaughtered while they slept. Entire Infantry units were destroyed—burned—but most of the Fey survived. Rugad came, put down the rebellion, and destroyed most of the country. The people were too devastated to fight again. They’ve only now finished rebuilding. And they’ve started to rebel again, but the local governor learned from my father’s mistakes. He is having his people co-mingle with the Co, making their blood ours, and conquering them slowly, a generation at a time. It is still a rebellious place, but not a hothouse like it was under my father.”

  “And the Shaman?” Gift asked, knowing that was an important thread.

  “I saw her years later, when I was guiding some people through the Eccrasian Mountains. I asked her if she had ever compared Visions with my father, and she had. He had Seen his Infantry units die. He had Seen Co in his bedroom. He had assumed a worldwide rebellion based on those incidents, incidents he had caused himself.”

  Her hand shook. She clasped it with her other hand. Gift watched her, uncertain what to do.

  “The Shaman believed he had been right. She had said he had had no other choice, and sometimes Visions went that way. At least, she had said, he had enough foresight to get me out of there.”

  “Sometimes,” Gift said softly, “Visions do go that way.”

  “No!” The power behind her voice startled him. She was finally looking at him directly. She blinked, as if she had startled herself, then repeated, “No. That’s a lie they tell you, Gift. A lie you’re raised with. So that you will go in the directions of the Vision. The future is not pre-ordained. If it were there would be no purpose to life. My father created that rebellion. It was like he needed it to reaffirm his Vision.”

  “Skya, I had my first Vision as a boy of three. I had nothing to prove. Visions aren’t voluntary things. They aren’t something I make up at will.”

  “I know. I’ve seen your Open Vision. I’ve seen you have Visions. And my father too. I know all that.” Her face had closed as if his words had somehow shut her down. He had no idea why. “But, Gift, Vision comes from somewhere, like every other spell. Yes, it’s a natural ability like all magick, but the way we interpret it is taught.”

  He felt his shoulders stiffen. “So?”

  “So what if we’re taught wrong?”

  “We’re taught that Visions are possible futures.”

  “And usually the Visions are bad, right?”

  He blinked, then frowned. He had had very few good Visions. He had had some that were neutral, some that he didn’t really care if they had happened or not. “Yes.”

  “And we always try to avoid bad things. It’s part of our nature as living creatures. We try to avoid the bad and embrace the good. But most Visions, no matter how hard you try to avoid them, come true. Isn’t that right?”

  Her entire face was flushed, her eyes were sparkling. She looked more alive than he had ever seen her.

  “That’s how you can tell a good Visionary,” he said, “from the power of his Visions, and from how many of them come to pass.”

  “If you can’t change them, why have them?”

  “You can change some and not change others.”

  “Like the death Vision, the one every Visionary has and never realizes until it’s too late.”

  He nodded, feeling confused.

  “What if,” she said, “the good Visionaries, as you call them, are the ones who follow the paths laid out for them, creating the very bad things that they try to avoid?”

  “What purpose would that serve?”

  “Your family has taken us closer to the Blood than any other family in my memory. Your family has captured the second Place of Power.” Her eyes were bright, almost too bright. “What does the Triangle of Might do?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “But what’s the prophecy?”

  He took a deep breath and recited, “There are three Points of Power. Link through them, and the Triangle of Might will reform the world.”

  “Reform the world,” she said. “What does that mean?”

  H
e shook his head.

  “What did your grandfather think? Or your great-grandfather?”

  He stared at her, not really wanting to answer, knowing that she knew and was using him to make a point he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to hear. “They believed it would give them dominion over everything.”

  “Complete power.”

  “Yes.”

  She stared at him. “What if it doesn’t do that? What if it frees the Mysteries from their positions as spirits? What if it allows the Powers to take physical form? What if it does create more power, but only for those it deems worthy like Shaman or even, horror upon horror, Red Caps?”

  Gift shook his head. “That can’t be possible.”

  “Why not? Because you can’t imagine it? I can.”

  “How?” he asked softly.

  “That’s what Warders do. We think of everything in new ways. That’s how we create new magicks.”

  He never considered how Warders thought or what gave them their powers. He never realized it was their perspective and their imagination as much as their magick.

  He hated the logic of this. He hated to believe that Skya might have a point. “All right, let’s assume that I believe you, that I believe the Powers are using Visionaries to manipulate a future we don’t want. We started this conversation talking about my Visions and my choices. What do you believe?”

  Her face softened as if he’d asked her something that she’d been waiting all her life to hear. And perhaps she had. “Here’s my guess. If you go to Leut, you will drown at sea, probably with Lyndred’s father. The Visions of the Blood might simply be a way to keep you from taking the Throne from your sister, a way to keep you away from the Places of Power. Maybe even a way to get you to go to Leut.”

  “Why?” Gift asked. “The Throne wanted me.”

  “The Throne did,” she said, “but we don’t know what the Powers want. Maybe they want someone to use the Places of Power to find the Triangle. From what I saw of your sister, she will.”