The Rival

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  And Matthias was too weak to stop them.

  He was near the side of the bridge. He pushed on the water, then grabbed the stone and worked his way around to the east side. They wouldn't be able to see him from there, but they could still hear him.

  The stone was slick and moss covered. He held it as best he could and pulled himself along it, keeping his feet pointed downward. The river was deep in the center, but it shallowed quickly, otherwise the bridge could never have been built in the water itself. The Fey voices faded, but he didn't trust that they were gone.

  The blood was drying on his face. It pulled against his skin. His upper arms were a mass of cuts. It was amazing that he had any strength in them at all.

  He continued pulling himself along until his feet brushed mud. He forced his toes down, uncertain, afraid he was touching more of the bridge. But his toes sank into it.

  Mud.

  He pulled harder now. The stone was dry and his fingers scraped against it. Soon his feet found purchase and he was able to walk up the north bank.

  The palace side.

  He made it to the grass before his legs collapsed from under him.

  All his strength was gone.

  His limbs trembled and he suddenly couldn't breathe. Black spots swam in front of his eyes. All the weakness he had expected in the water assaulted him here.

  Now.

  God was punishing him for leaving the Tabernacle, abandoning his post, giving the Secrets to the unworthy.

  God had brought him to the water's edge to give him hope, then yanked that hope from him.

  He would die.

  Now.

  Matthias tried to scrabble up the bank, but he couldn't. His body didn't work at all.

  He closed his eyes and let the exhaustion wash over him.

  The voice of Burden, the Fey he had killed, echoed in his brain, speaking to him as if Burden had never died. That Fey had haunted him for fifteen years, taunting him about magick.

  He did so now.

  Your magick saved you again, he said. But you choose not to believe it. You did not drown, but you will die. The great holy magician, killed by his own beliefs.

  What would you have me do? Matthias asked. He had never expected one of his victims to watch over him, to guard him, and keep him safe.

  I would have you die a longer, lingering, more painful death. This is too easy for one such as you.

  And then Burden faded away as if he had never been.

  Matthias stuck his hand in the mud and dragged himself forward. He wouldn't die. He would show that Fey that he could keep himself alive. The Fey hadn't been able to. Magick hadn't saved Burden.

  So he lied. Magick didn't save lives. It took lives.

  The Fey was trying to fool him.

  Matthias would not be fooled. He would not give up, nor would he trust in something he hated, something he never really had.

  He crawled to the road before he passed out.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Lord Stowe stood at the main doors of the Great Hall. Guards stood on all sides, hands clasped behind their back. No Fey sat at the tables. Only Islanders. Noble Islanders at that.

  The Hall was an ancient room, the first part of the palace ever built. Eventually the towers were added on both sides, so many nobles believed that the Hall was built to connect them. Instead the Hall came first.

  It showed its ancient roots in its design. It was long and wide and had ornate arched ceilings. The arched windows, with their precious glass, were added later.

  The Hall had an impressive majesty. It easily held the hundred people the King had invited to Sebastian's coming of age ceremony. The nobles, their wives, lovers, and children wandered around the tables, specially installed for the banquet. The head table stood on a specially built platform, below the arched windows. It extended from one part of the hall to the other. The remaining tables were on the floor, so that the diners had to look up at the King and his family. Benches ran along each side, linen covered the top, along with candles and dishes Stowe had never seen before.

  The King had chosen a banquet instead of the traditional ceremony because he couldn't have another religious service in the palace.

  Jewel had died in the last one.

  And she had been laid out here. Stowe would have thought that would have brought bad memories for the King, but apparently it didn't. The Coronation Hall was the one he avoided. That Hall hadn't been opened since the day Jewel died.

  The nobles carried on conversations with each other, speaking softly, and drinking the wine the King had provided. Some wore robes, as Stowe did, but others wore Fey-inspired clothing, pants and shirts, modified to be heavy on the lace and light on the practicality. The women all wore their finest gowns, some with skirts so wide that no one could stand close to them for fear of crushing the fabric.

  The scents of roast pheasant mixed with roast beef. Stowe's stomach growled. The last of the guests had arrived before dark. It wasn't like the King to keep them waiting. But they knew better than to leave. Stowe had heard snatches of the conversation. They were all blaming the wait on the King's unnatural children. Even though the nobles were here to celebrate Sebastian's right to the throne, when the day came for him to rise to that post, he would have a fight on his hands.

  And the poor boy wasn't up to a fight.

  Stowe suppressed a sigh. Most of the nobles stood near the inner wall, studying the swords. None of the swords were ceremonial. They dated from all periods of Blue Isle's history. Most had nicks and cuts from prolonged use. Some were almost as short as dirks, and had been for dueling over four hundred years before. Others were long and thin and deadly. No one had put up the styles that had developed since the Fey's arrival. Apparently the King didn't want to glorify the war forced on them by his wife's people.

  Lord Miller had wound his way to Stowe. Miller's second wife was on his arm. She was Lord Enford's youngest daughter, a stout homely creature who resembled her father. But the servants swore the union was a love match. Stowe didn't see it.

  "I thought we were to have a banquet," Miller said. He was a slender lord, with the long fingers of an artist. He had never wanted to run his family's lands, but he had no choice after his father died in the Fey war. Instead, he decided to make himself a work of art. His clothing was among the finest in Blue Isle. He consumed almost as much as he made. His second wife seemed to have some of it under control, but not enough. Stowe wondered if Miller's lands earned any money at all.

  "We will have a banquet," Stowe said, trying to keep his voice calm. The King had been acting oddly all day. Then with the Fey in the King's audience chamber, the rumors to the south, and the tension in the air, Stowe wasn't certain this banquet would happen at all.

  "Well, His Highness is running behind schedule," Miller said. "Is he having second thoughts about having us live under the rule of his idiot son?"

  Miller's wife squeezed his arm and whispered his name in shock. Stowe straightened. "The Prince will be a good King."

  "The Prince would have been a fine King for the old Blue Isle, I'll grant you that," Miller said. "Except for the odd peasant revolt every few hundred years, the King did damn near nothing. But we need a brain behind the throne now."

  "You're ahead of yourself, Miller," Stowe said. "The King is still a young man. He might live long enough to transfer rule directly to his grandson."

  "The King is nearly the same age his father was when he died."

  "His father was murdered."

  Miller bowed his head, then rose, smiling. "My point exactly, Stowe."

  "The Fey won't harm the King or his family. That was the point in marrying Jewel. It made them honorary Fey."

  Miller snorted. "It simply screwed up our lineage. We'd never had imbeciles head the country before."

  "That you know of," Stowe said.

  Miller's wife raised an eyebrow. There was intelligence in those frosty blue eyes. She might not have looks, but she did have a personality buried withi
n. Maybe the love match wasn't as far fetched as he thought.

  Then, behind Stowe, the heralds pounded their staffs on the stone floor. "His Majesty, King Nicholas the Fifth."

  Miller stepped back from Stowe and bowed. His wife courtesied deeply and remained down. The Hall was suddenly a sea of backs and bowed heads. Stowe went down slowly, keeping an eye on the King as he entered.

  He had changed into a robe. This one was a deep green, the Fey color for celebration. It had some Fey decoration on the sides. He usually wore such a thing on the anniversary of his marriage with Jewel. Stowe found it odd that he had chosen to wear it now.

  "And his Royal Highness, Prince Sebastian."

  The King's features tightened. Stowe knew the look. It was a nervous, frightened look that Stowe hadn't seen in years. He had seen it on the day that he brought the news of The King's father's death. And not since.

  Then the look vanished. Sebastian skittered in, still fidgeting with his own green robe. He smoothed his hair with one hand, then glanced at the fingers as if he didn't recognize them.

  Stowe had never seen Sebastian move so quickly. Nor had he ever seen Sebastian so animated. The boy had a quirky beauty that hadn't been apparent before, and an intelligence in his eyes that had somehow remained hidden for years.

  "All rise," the herald said.

  The group in the hall rose slowly. The King had his hand on his son's arm and was leading him in. Sebastian studied the room as if he had never seen it before. The sad cracks and lines on his face were gone, except for a cleft in his chin.

  Stowe started to wind his way around to the King, but stopped when the King clapped his hands for attention.

  "Thank you all for coming," he said. His voice was firm and sure, and he looked regal. Perhaps Stowe had imagined the nerves from earlier.

  The King mounted the platform the high table rested on and stood behind his chair. He put both hands on its tall back. Sebastian lingered near his side, finally looking like the child that Stowe knew. The dull, slow-moving boy who had always been a part of their lives. The sharp child seemed to have vanished when the nobles stood.

  Had Sebastian always done that?

  "We are in the dawn of a new era," The King said. "I married Jewel to create peace, and we did so. There has been no war on Blue Isle in over fifteen years. When I married, I tried to maintain the royal traditions, but found — through a sad and hard lesson — that I could no longer include the Tabernacle in my plans as I would have liked. The traditional coming of age ritual is held in the Tabernacle, in the main Sanctuary. But my son is part Fey."

  The King put his hand on Sebastian's shoulder. The boy started, then glanced at his father. That quick movement again. The hairs rose on the back of Stowe's neck.

  "I cannot risk his life like I risked his mother's. I have decreed that all royal events involving the Tabernacle and its holy water are null. I had tried to work this out with the Rocaan, but he believes, like his predecessor did, that the Fey have no place in our world. I believe that we cannot expect our Isle to protect us forever. The Fey are with us, and part of us. We must accept them. Part of that acceptance means accepting my children. They are the future of the Isle. Part Fey and part Islander, they are both and neither at the same time. If we learn to live together, we shall have a future."

  The Hall was completely silent. The nobles watched, as if they had never heard the King speak before.

  "The ritual I have chosen is the one that the Roca used to anoint his own son as leader of this land. There was no holy water then; holy water did not exist until the Roca's Absorption. Instead, he blessed the boy with the symbol of the future." The King looked at the wall across from him. "Lord Stowe, please bring me my great-great-grandfather's sword, the one he used in the Peasant Uprising."

  Stowe started. The King hadn't said that this would be part of the ritual. It made sense, though, as a protection. That way no one could anoint the sword with holy water and hurt the heir.

  Stowe made his way toward the long inner wall. He hoped he remembered which sword had belonged to the King's great-great-grandfather.

  He knew the right section of the wall. It was toward the main door, with a series of swords used in the Peasant Uprising. He suspected the center sword, with its rotting tassel, was the one that belonged to the King's great-great grandfather. It was said that the old man used the sword to kill the man who had crippled him. The story was recounted throughout Stowe's childhood as an example of great courage.

  "Lord Stowe," the King said gently. "It's the big black one in front of you."

  Stowe felt the warmth grow in his face. He would have grabbed the wrong sword. The one the King meant was tarnished, nicked, and stained. Stowe had forgotten that this sword had never been cleaned.

  He took it gingerly in his hands. The blood flaked onto his fingers. No wonder the King wanted this one. It was obviously untouched.

  The King was a smart man. Stowe, who had known the King since he was born, sometimes forgot that.

  The sword was also heavy. Stowe staggered a moment under its weight, then carried it to the head table. Sebastian watched him, blue eyes shining with life. Stowe frowned. He had thought Sebastian's eyes stone-gray and dull. Stowe had only seen flickers of light in them before, never this constant beam.

  The King bent over and took the sword from Stowe, then held it in one hand as if it weighed nothing.

  "Turn to me, child," he said softly.

  Sebastian turned slowly, in traditional Sebastian fashion.

  "Kneel," the King said. Again, his words were so soft that only Stowe and Sebastian could hear.

  Sebastian sank to his knees. He was so tall that he still came up to his father's chest.

  "Bow your head."

  Sebastian lowered his head. The King gently brought the sword to rest on Sebastian's skull.

  "I quote the words the Roca used with his own son," the King said. "'By the power of God, and for the future of Blue Isle, I name you my successor. Should death take me from this land, you shall stand in my place. Should anyone question you, remind them that the Roca's blood — my blood — flows through your veins. May God grant you the wisdom, the courage, and the opportunity to create peace.'"

  Stowe remembered those words from the King's coming of age. Only the King's father, Alexander, had spoken them after nearly an hour of religious ceremony capped by a Blessing done with holy water.

  The King removed the sword. "You may stand."

  Sebastian used a hand to brace himself, then pulled himself up. He still moved slowly, but his movements had an awkwardness Stowe had never seen in the boy. He had always had a sureness that came with his slowness. Now his hesitations seemed nervous.

  The King put a hand on his son's back. "Face them," he said softly.

  Sebastian turned and bowed to the nobles. As he rose, the King said, "I present to you the future ruler of Blue Isle. Anyone who refuses to accept this child as the heir apparent answers to me."

  Sebastian's lower lip trembled, and his dark skin had gone gray. The King slipped an arm around his son's waist and pulled him close.

  Then Stowe glanced over his shoulder. The nobles were still watching, waiting for someone to do something. Stowe raised his hands and brought them together with an audible clap. Miller followed his lead, as did the others. The applause grew, not a heart-felt sound, but an obligatory one.

  If only there were another way. If only the King's son had the brilliance of his daughter.

  If only Nicholas hadn't wed a Fey in the first place.

  Stowe shook the thought from his head. It was treasonous. He had always been loyal to the royal family. He would continue, even if Sebastian ruled.

  Two spots of color formed on Sebastian's cheeks. His eyes shone. He nodded quickly, acknowledging the applause.

  As it died down, the King said, "I promised you a banquet, and a banquet we shall have. Take your seats."

  Several servants scattered throughout the Hall hurried thro
ugh the far doors, the doors that led into the kitchen. The King pulled his son's chair back and bade Sebastian to sit. Sebastian did, with a quick questioning glance to his father.

  Then the King sat beside him. Stowe skipped a place and was about to take his seat near the King's left when the King leaned over. "The disturbances today leave me one child short," he said. "Sit beside me so that no one notices the absence."

  Stowe slid over. He frowned. He had noticed, but hadn't really considered the fact that Arianna was missing. He wondered at the decision. Was it to prevent comparisons? She was so brilliant that her brother looked duller at her side. Or was it because she so favored her mother? The King didn't need any more reminders of the Fey presence within this palace.

  The remaining members of the council sat at the head table. The rest of the guests sat at the long banquet tables that ran the length of the hall. All of the people present were large land-owners, but not all of them were nobility. Some of the nobility had refused to come, so the King had invited the land-owners. The King felt that the large land-owners, even if they had no chance of sitting on his council, needed to approve his son. The more clout Sebastian had going into his rule, the better off he would be.

  The King had invited the village chiefs from the Kenniland Marshes, but none of them had come. He had also invited Wise Leaders from the Cliffs of Blood, but none of them attended either. This disturbed Stowe. He remembered the dissent in the Marshes when he had gone down there years ago, during the visit where the King's father had died. They hated Jahn there. They might hate a half-Fey ruler even more.

  The Cliffs of Blood had their own traditions. They never disturbed the cities as long as the cities never disturbed them. Still, Stowe thought it an opportunity missed.

  It took a moment for the guests to sit. The conversation rose as the chairs were pushed in, and as the benches slid forward. Beside him, the King let out a long sigh. Sebastian looked at him, and smiled wanly. The King smiled back.

  "It's done," he said. "Are you going to be all right?"

  Sebastian nodded.