The Black King (Book 7)

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Gift said, “I also need to ask you how to get into the Vault.”

  She froze. “Tis na wise for ye ta do that, Highness.”

  “It’s important,” Gift said.

  “Me son, Alex, he dinna like Fey. He is na gonna take kindly—” She shook her head as if she didn’t know exactly what to do.

  “I’m not just any Fey, ma’am. You know that.”

  “I do. But Alex, he be his da’s son. Tis dangerous for ye.”

  “Does he have the same powers as Matt?”

  She shook her head. “He sees things.”

  “He has Vision?”

  “He dinna like ta talk about it.” She grabbed more supplies. “Where’s Matty?”

  “The school,” Gift said. “I understand you have reservations about going there, but I don’t think taking him from there—”

  “No. I been ta the school afore. Twas me husband that dinna like it.” She laid a cloth over the basket then turned. “Ye won’t be going with me, then.”

  “No,” Gift said. “I have to go to the Vault.”

  She put her hand on the door. “Ye must think me a disgrace. Mayhap I am.”

  She looked at Gift sideways and in that subtle gesture, he saw Matt. He had thought Matt favored his father, but apparently he took after both parents.

  “I lost meself when Matthias died. Alex, he took care a me like I done Matthias. And Matty, he got lost in it all. Alex and him split about the school, about magick, about the Fey. I dinna have the strength ta fight it.” She straightened. “I do love me son. I jus thought, when he went ta Coulter, he went somewhere safe.”

  Then she let herself out, leaving Gift to contemplate her rebuke in silence.

  FORTY-THREE

  ARIANNA WANTED A FLEET of ships and a squadron of troops, so Dipalmet was down by the docks, investigating the ships that had not been converted to trade ships. Most of the military vessels had, and if they were still sea-worthy, most of them were on the Infrin, getting supplies from Galinas or Etanien or some other exotic place. Even Bridge’s ships were gone on a trade mission with Nye.

  The ships DiPalmet had left were mostly rotted sculls from Islander voyages and two from Rugad’s invasion force. Those were bad shape as well, untouched mostly because of their military configuration. Having such a ship approach Nye would make some worry that an attack was beginning again.

  DiPalmet sat on the edge of the dock and tucked his legs against his chest. The Cardidas flowed beneath the dock like wet rust, and the sun, even though it was out, cast no heat. He was damp and cold and unwilling to go back to the palace.

  There would be no fleet. There were a few ships at best.

  And then there was the problem of the troops.

  He had enough trained Infantry to form the basis of a solid fighting force. And there were some Beast Riders, a few Bird Riders, and some Foot Soldiers. But certainly not enough to make the kind of force that could lay waste to an entire region.

  He had checked and double-checked his figures. He had sent notices to outlying areas, asking for more troops—although that would do no good. The notices went out the day before, and no one would be able to get to Jahn on time, except maybe a few Bird Riders.

  It would be his thankless task to tell Arianna that if she wanted troops, she might have to add an Islander force to the mix. After all, until her change of heart six months ago, she did have a fairly strong Islander fighting force.

  DiPalmet might even know where to find the man who had served as her captain of the guard. A man named Luke. He now had a farm just south of Jahn. DiPalmet wondered if Luke would help Arianna. She had demanded Luke leave the palace shortly after her illness. He had seemed relieved to go.

  But he was a good military man and a good tactician. DiPalmet had seen Luke’s plans for an Island defense when Arianna had asked for one, years ago, and it had been sound.

  The question was would an Islander be willing to torch part of his homeland in retaliation for an attack on the palace? DiPalmet didn’t know. But he felt as if getting help from outside would be the only way to carry out Arianna’s plans.

  FORTY-FOUR

  EVEN THOUGH MATT’S MOTHER had not told Gift where the Vault was, he had little trouble finding it. Dash knew that the access to the Vault was in the Meeting Hall, and where the Meeting Hall was. After a stop at the boat for the bags, they went to the Hall.

  It was in better shape than Matt’s home. The Hall was clean, with new furniture. Someone had left a lamp and flint near the door. Gift lit that, then went through the open door to the tunnel.

  The stairs were wood and smelled new. When the three men reached the tunnels, Gift shuddered. The tunnels reminded him of the ones under Jahn. They had the same feel: the damp stone, the rotted wood, the dripping water.

  Gift had to be calm and aware. He was taking a large risk. He didn’t even know how many Lights of Midday were here. If there were only a few, then he would be doing all this for nothing.

  Gift felt a powerful urge to hurry along the corridor. At some point, they had entered the mountain itself. He could feel the Place of Power, pulling him toward its center, farther up the mountainside.

  The walls were now one piece, carved from the mountain by hand—or by nature itself—just like the Black Palace in the Eccrasian Mountains. Only this place was a pulsating red.

  Gift had no idea how far he had gone when Bridge gasped behind him. Gift whirled, expecting a miniature Matthias waving his arms like an Enchanter and sending balls of fire down the corridor. Instead, the three of them were alone.

  “What?” Gift asked. He sounded testy. He was feeling testy.

  “The stone,” Bridge said. “It’s bleeding.”

  Gift brought the torch closer. The stone wasn’t bleeding. Water ran down its side from some fissure in the wall.

  “We’re inside the mountain now,” Gift said. “The stone is red. That’s why this part of the Eyes of Roca are called the Cliffs of Blood. That’s also why the Cardidas looks so dark.”

  And then he froze, remembering something he had forgotten in all his years away from the Isle.

  He and young Matt were related. Just like his father and Matthias had been related. His father speculated that their common ancestor had been the Roca. Matt had descended from the second son; Gift from the first. If Gift killed Matt’s brother, that too might bring the Blood against Blood.

  “What?” Dash asked.

  Gift handed Bridge the torch. “If Matt’s brother decides to attack, I can’t touch him. We’re related. Distantly, but it might be enough to bring on the Blood.”

  “Isn’t it a bit late to tell us that?” Bridge asked.

  “I just remembered it. But I’m related to him through my Islander side, so you and Dash can defend me all you want.”

  “But does this young man know he can’t kill you?”

  Gift shook his head.

  “Wonderful,” Bridge said. “We walk into the heart of a magick that murdered more Fey than anything else, and now you tell us that you can’t fight if you have to.”

  “I don’t expect to have to,” Gift said. “But you’d better lead, just in case.”

  Dash took the torch from Bridge. “I’ll lead,” Dash said. “I’m not related to anyone. I hope.”

  He walked down the corridor, and Gift followed, Bridge at his side. Bridge’s jaw was set, and in these shadows, he looked vaguely like his father, Rugar. Gift had never seen Bridge angry before. He hadn’t realized how deep the resemblance went until now.

  “We’re in the Place of Power,” Bridge said softly, not loud enough for Dash to hear. He sounded surprised.

  “Yes,” Gift said.

  “But the main section is above us,” Bridge said.

  Gift looked at him, startled. He had thought that Bridge’s Vision was minimal. “You can feel it that strongly?”

  Bridge nodded. “This is like the Eccrasian Mountains.”

  “You were there?”

  “Before y
our mother was born,” Bridge said.

  Ahead of them, Dash stopped. He held the torch out and in the small circle of light that it created, Gift could see a large door. It had been carved out of a single block of stone, but it was gray.

  “I think this must be it,” Dash said.

  A wooden bar, stout enough to lock anything inside, sat beside the door. It was so thick that no sound could have seeped through it. But Matt’s brother might have been listening as they came through the corridor.

  Bridge reached around Dash and pulled the door open. It screeched as it went back.

  So much for a silent arrival.

  Gift felt the hairs on the back of his neck lift. He turned around.

  His mother, Jewel, was standing behind him. She looked as young as Lyndred, and Gift could see that there were indeed differences. His mother’s features were sharper, her eyes darker. She slipped her arm through his.

  “Don’t worry,” she said softly as if Bridge and Dash could hear her. “I’ll protect you.”

  Gift let out a small breath. He hadn’t realized how nervous he had been. His mother’s presence reassured him. She wouldn’t let any harm come to him—at least, if the Powers let her prevent it.

  He slipped his hand over hers and patted it. He had missed her. Even though he had seen her in the Place of Power on the Eccrasian Mountains six months ago, he had still missed her.

  Dash and Bridge had gone inside. Gift was only a moment behind them, although it felt like a year.

  The room was large and warm, as if there were a fire burning inside it, but there was no fireplace. The room had a lot of furniture—couches, a bed, tables, chairs, and even a small area for preparing food. On the far wall was a small wooden door that Gift would have to crouch to get through. But he knew, without a doubt, that the things he wanted were through there.

  He saw a movement through the corner of his eye. His mother stiffened. He wondered, suddenly, if her appearance was as altruistic as she made it sound. As a Mystery, she was able to appear to three people: the one she loved the most—that had been his father; anyone she chose—that had been Gift; and the one she hated the most—that had been Matthias, Matt’s father. Matthias was dead, but did that mean she could now go after his children?

  Gift wished he had asked her.

  The scraping of a chair against a stone floor brought him back. He turned toward the movement and saw—Matt. Only Matt was healthy and angry, blue eyes flashing.

  No one had told Gift that Matt’s brother Alex was his twin.

  “Fey are not welcome here.” Alex sounded different from Matt. His words were sharp, pointed.

  Gift slipped his arm from his mother’s grasp and walked toward Alex. They were almost of a height. But Alex looked as if he hadn’t reached his full growth yet. He wore the black robes of the Rocaanist religion. He had tied a bright red sash around his waist, and a silver filigree sword around his neck.

  Gift hadn’t seen the trappings of the religion in years. He had been raised to fear them, even though it was the religion of his father. He felt that fear now and shoved it aside. This time, the religion would help him.

  “My name is Gift,” he said in his warmest voice. “I’m Nicholas’s son.”

  “The Betrayer King,” Alex said.

  Behind him, Gift heard his mother gasp. Bridge had moved to his side and Dash stood close enough to reach him if he had to.

  “My father and yours saved the Isle.”

  “And then put your half-breed sister on the throne, turning us all into a Fey wasteland.”

  Gift hadn’t expected the surge of fury that ran through him. Alex’s blue eyes glittered. Gift had a sense that Alex wasn’t entirely sane. But how could that be? Matt was the Enchanter. The mother had said that this boy, Alex, had Vision. Visionaries didn’t go insane. Enchanters did, when they were very old. But Matthias had not been a young man when Gift saw him. Had he gone crazy then, and passed along his insanity to this son?

  “You’re not welcome here,” Alex said again.

  “I have as much right to be here as you do,” Gift said. “Maybe even more of a right. I’m a direct descendant of the Roca.”

  “So am I,” Alex said. “My father said so.”

  “My lineage says so,” Gift said. “There has been an unbroken line from the Roca to me. It’s documented. I am a child of the firstborn son.”

  “The firstborn has no place in the religion,” Alex said.

  “Except as the secular head of it.” Gift straightened and put his hands behind his back.

  Gift’s mother stepped beside him, brushing against his right side. “He’s just like his father.”

  But Alex did not look at her, and Gift took that to mean he did not see her. So, she could not target Alex after all.

  “I need to see the Vault,” Gift said.

  “This is it,” Alex said. “You’ve seen it. Now go.”

  “I need to see the interior.”

  “No. It’s part of the religion. You are not.”

  “Tell Bridge to strangle him, and let’s be done with this,” Gift’s mother said. “There’s no way you can explain to this fool what you need.”

  She was right. Gift turned and walked for the wooden door. Alex ran after him. He saw Dash put out a hand and hold Alex back.

  “No!” Alex yelled. “You can’t go in there.”

  “Don’t listen,” Gift’s mother said.

  “Gift,” Bridge said. “Maybe I should go first.”

  Gift reached the small door. He glanced over his shoulder. Alex had slipped beyond Dash and was running toward Gift. Gift turned and grabbed Alex. He was surprisingly strong.

  “You can’t go in,” Alex said. “You can’t.”

  “I will,” Gift said. “If you try to stop me, you’ll hurt us both.”

  He handed Alex to Bridge, who held him tightly. Jewel stood beside them as if she were guarding them.

  Gift wiped his hands on his breeches, took a deep breath, and pressed down on the door handle.

  The little door swung open, and a wave of heat hit him. Wetness trickled down his face, and he had a brief flash of memory—the way that Islander holy water killed, by melting. He brushed at the wetness, and realized it was sweat. His own sweat.

  Gift had seen the world from a Fey perspective too long. It was time to acknowledge his other half. His Islander half.

  “Please,” Alex said again. “It’s a sacred place for my religion. You can’t go in there.”

  “I lived in the Roca’s Cave,” Gift said. “It too is a sacred place.”

  “But you don’t believe.”

  “I believe in the magick that exists in these mountains.” Gift used the same gentle tone he had used with this boy’s mother. “I have need of this magick now, to save the Isle.”

  “For the Fey.” Alex spat.

  Gift shook his head. “For all of us.”

  “You lie,” Alex said. “You’re just trying to destroy what’s left of our religion.”

  “I need the Lights of Midday. Read your Words. It’ll tell you that the Lights destroy some kinds of magick. That’s what I’m going to use them for, just like the Roca intended.”

  “You can’t take things from here.” Alex was struggling hard now. “No one has taken things from here since the Roca lived here a thousand years ago.”

  Gift’s mother had been right; there was no reasoning with this boy. Gift bent and stepped through the door.

  He looked up into a world of light.

  The room was white, even though it too had been carved out of the mountain. It was the exact opposite of the room with the Black Throne in it half a world away. The ceiling and walls were white, and the floor was white as well.

  The Throne Room in the Eccrasian Mountains had been empty. This room was cluttered with so many things that Gift couldn’t take them all in at once.

  The air was warmer than it had been in the room behind him, but not stale. He could feel a pull ahead of him and he loo
ked in that direction. Corridors branched off this room leading into the mountain. One of them lead directly to the Roca’s Cave.

  It would be so simple to walk through that corridor, to go into the Cave itself, and contact the Shaman in the Eccrasian Mountain. If he told them about Rugad, would they help him form the Triangle?

  He glanced over his shoulder. His mother was not with him. She wasn’t in the room outside either. It was as if she were afraid of this place.

  Perhaps she had good reason to be. There were things in here that were also in the Roca’s Cave: tapestries covering the white walls, drums that seemed to be made of skin, Soul Repositories like the one that had held her once. There were also vials of holy water and vials of the Roca’s blood. A table was set up, just like the one in the Cave, for a ceremony that Gift knew nothing about.

  But he didn’t see the Lights of Midday.

  Ahead of him was a stone altar and on it a loose pile of papers that could only be the famous Words, the basis of the Rocaanist’s religion. He would go nowhere near that.

  He looked at the free-standing shelves, at the vials of holy water, and between them, the swords, and he felt a deep disappointment. Had he wasted half a day? Did he have to go to the cave after all and take the few remaining Lights? Or should he get Matt to instruct people at the school on how to make more?

  That would take time, time he didn’t have. Rugad would have figured out a way to get revenge by now. If Gift gave Rugad too much time, they would all lose. Rugad had years of experience. The only thing he lacked at this point was his Vision and his vast armies.

  With time, the second part could be changed.

  Then Gift looked up. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of globes hung from the ceiling. For a moment, he thought they were the source of light in the room. Then he realized that they were simply reflecting light back.

  The Lights of Midday. He had found them. But he had no idea how to get them down. He couldn’t touch them. They might hurt him. He leaned back through the door. “Dash, bring the bags. I’ll need your help.”