The Rival

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

"I dinna need to, to see we gotta bond, ye and me."

  He let her give him another sip of tea. It allowed him a moment to think. She couldn't know who he was. Not with all of these facial wounds. Besides, she was too young to know him from his days as Rocaan.

  But she had called him "lordly." Perhaps she thought he was a lord, and by claiming a bond, she might claim him as well. As if that would do her any good. He had no land, and no holdings. Only a handful of followers, enough money put aside to finance his dreams, and one dream, a dream that would help the entire Isle, if he got a chance to pursue it.

  She pulled the cup away from his mouth. "What kind of bond?" he asked reluctantly.

  She smiled. "Yer from the Cliffs of Blood," she said.

  He started. It wasn't obvious, like it was with her. He didn't have the telltale reddish hair, nor did he have any of the local look. "What makes you think that?"

  "Ye mean aside from yer height?"

  He had forgotten that. It was his turn to smile. "There are tall people born in Jahn."

  "Nay," she said. "Cepting the King's bastards."

  He smiled at that. Maybe they did have a bond. He took one more sip of tea from her, then let her ease him back on the pillow. "Tell me, Marly," he said, "how bad is my face?"

  She gazed down at him, her green eyes filled with compassion. "Ye were a pretty man, then?"

  "Pretty?" he frowned. He had never thought of himself in that way. "You mean vain? I don't think so. I just want to know what they did to my face."

  "There's no hiding the truth," she said. "Forgive me bluntness, but if'n ye made yer money off yer face, ye need to be looking for new work."

  "How bad?" he asked.

  All hope of a smile was gone from hers. She touched his bandages lightly. "Seven cuts, and most are long. I had to sew the edges together for mending. Twas good ye were gone to the world then. I tried to keep me stitches tiny, but still ye'll have long gash scars and tiny holes beside. Wee ones won't like seeing ye in the dark."

  He closed his eyes then. He had never relied on his face much, but he knew what she meant. Facial scars somehow frightened people worse than all other wounds. He had seen it over and over again, how the gaze averted when someone heavily scarred approached.

  One more thing to deal with.

  One more thing he had lost to the Fey.

  "I dinna mean to hurt ye."

  "You weren't the one who did this."

  "Who did?"

  He opened his eyes again. She hadn't moved. The warmth of her body felt good in the coolness of the room. Her features were classically pretty, her mouth a small bow. If he had been a lord, and wanted to take her to wife, all he would have to do was teach her how to speak correctly. No one would ever have been able to guess her humble origins from her face.

  He decided to tell her the truth.

  "I startled some Fey on the bridge."

  "Fey? In Jahn?"

  He closed his eyes, unwilling to say more. He didn't know how she stood on anything. He wasn't even really certain where he was. All he knew as that he was exhausted and he hurt worse than he ever had.

  "Are there people who need ye tonight?"

  He thought of Yeon and the others. They were working on their own plan. They didn't need him. Not now. And he certainly didn't want them to see him like this, weak and badly injured.

  "Not tonight," he said.

  "Good, then. Ye'll rest."

  He could feel her get off the mattress. He opened his eyes enough to see. He caught her hand in his. "I don't want to kick you out of your bed."

  She smiled. "I canna sleep this night anyway. I've got a tapestry to finish. Tis due at Lord Miller's by week's end."

  And that was all Matthias needed to know. She was one of the legion of women who made a living with their needles, sewing chair coverings, making rugs, and embroidering tapestries for the gentry.

  Confiding in her would not be wise.

  He would have to leave as soon as he was able.

  THIRTY

  "First he doesn't want me in the palace, and now he needs me to come? The Rocaan should be equal to the King, not jump at the King's command." Titus stood by the open balcony doors in his private suite. The courtyard below was empty. Two Auds stood guard outside his door. Lord Stowe was the only other person inside.

  Candles were lit all over the room, illuminating the engraved walls and the ornate furniture. The heat from the day remained inside, and the breeze, which Titus could feel on the balcony, did not seem to penetrate the interior.

  Stowe stood at the edge of the balcony as well. The years had not been kind to him. He was balding, and although he hadn't gained weight as so many did, he had an agonizing thinness, the kind caused by too much worry and too little personal care. He was twisting the bottom of his hastily donned tunic with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.

  Nervous habits always annoyed Titus. They made him feel as if the person exhiting them had lost control of his life.

  Which, he supposed, Lord Stowe had.

  "Besides," Titus said, "How do we know that this Fey was simply not one of the locals playing a little game."

  "We've had other indications. We had a messenger from the South earlier today — "

  "As did we. How convenient. And, I suppose, the rumor that holy water is no longer effective?"

  Stowe opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. "The Fey did say that."

  "To which the King replied?"

  "That he did not believe it."

  Titus smiled. "Oh, how fortuitous. Then when it becomes clear that all of this was a ploy to discredit the Tabernacle, the King can claim ignorance because all of his important subjects heard him get the news." Titus narrowed his eyes. "I'm not playing this game, Stowe."

  "It's not a game, Holy Sir." Stowe had wrapped the edge of the tunic around his forefinger. "The Black King is here. The King would like you to come to the war room."

  "So he can humiliate me."

  "So he can ask your help." Stowe's voice rose. "The King is not supposed to rule without the Rocaan. He needs you, Holy Sir."

  "Now." Titus smoothed his robe. He hadn't yet changed into his nightclothes and he was pleased he hadn't. He needed every ounce of authority from his office for this moment. "When his children were young, he didn't need me. When he believed this country was at peace, he didn't need me. He even, in his arrogance, offered to become King and Rocaan rolled into one. I believe his words were something along the lines of the fact that he was the only one who had the Roca's blood running through his veins, and that the Rocaan originally had been the Roca's second son. So therefore, shouldn't a descendent of the Roca be Rocaan? And wouldn't it be more natural for it to be him?"

  Stowe frowned. "He said that to you?"

  "Actually he said it to my predecessor. But — "

  "No buts," Stowe said. "Matthias was a murderer who tried to ruin this country. He had no place in the Rocaan's seat, and we all knew it. He also, we thought, had no chance of finding a worthy successor. The King told him that to get him to step down. And it worked. The threat of combining the kingship and the Rocaan into one person forced Matthias to choose you."

  Titus gripped the edge of the door. The heat seemed to be growing worse. He stepped onto the balcony.

  He had been a young boy when all of this was thrust on him. Too young, in his own opinion. Too young to understand all the nuances. What Stowe said made sense. Only Titus couldn't recast his memory well enough. Just because it made sense didn't mean it was true.

  The courtyard below him was lit by torches. The flames reflected off the inlay, showing shadowy hints of the scenes from the Roca's life and from that of the Tabernacle. He saw no guards below, although he knew they were there. The Tabernacle had been well guarded ever since the Fey breached it over a decade before.

  Stowe came out onto the balcony. He stood near the doorway, staring at the river. It was loud tonight. The gurgle of the water echoed over the silence of th
e city. The moon was full, and shone its bright light over the water.

  "They found a body on the bridge tonight," Titus said. He had received the report shortly before Stowe arrived. "I'm surprised you didn't see the mess when you rode over."

  "It was dark." Stowe sounded wary. "And I was in a hurry."

  "Mmmm." Titus walked forward and put his hands on the rail. A voice cried out down the street, as if in surprise. The city was still awake. "The body was Fey. Murdered."

  He turned. He had Stowe's attention. The man hadn't moved. "How?"

  "Holy water. All that was recognizable was an ear, a hand, and an arm. The rest was a round lump. I am amazed the stench cleared up as quickly as it did."

  "There is a breeze tonight."

  "Yes," Titus said.

  The silence stretched between them. Stowe clasped his hands behind his back. But he couldn't outwait Titus. His mission from his King was too strong.

  "Forgive me, Holy Sir," Stowe said. "I don't see the connection."

  "It's quite simple, actually." Titus leaned against the railing. It had been redone the year before, carved now from heavy wood to support his slight frame. "It's incontrovertible proof that holy water still works." He pushed away, rising to his full height. Time to remind Lord Stowe that Titus was a boy no longer. He had ruled the Tabernacle for fifteen years, as long as the Forty-Second Rocaan, longer than many others.

  "Tell your King that this game won't work. Killing Auds in Southern kirks was a bad way to break the faith with the Tabernacle. Replacing the holy water with normal water is a crime, Lord Stowe. Making up lies about the Black King to terrify our people into accepting our King's demented demon son as the next ruler of Blue Isle is also a bad thing to do. Don't think I haven't noticed the timing. All this occurs on the day of his son's Coming-of-Age, a ceremony, by the way, which the Tabernacle will not recognize."

  "This threat is real," Stowe said. "One of your own people brought you the information. All of Blue Isle's gentry saw the Fey messenger."

  Titus took one more step closer to Stowe. They were of a height, both short stocky men. But Titus held more power. He was younger, stronger, fit. Stowe was becoming an old man.

  "That messenger could have been any one of the King's Fey friends in a disguise. It proves nothing, except Nicholas's own delusions. If the Black King came to Blue Isle, do you think he would announce his presence and demand a surrender? If he could do the impossible and breach our southern defenses, then he could also invade the Isle in a blink. He wouldn't need some quick meeting with Good King Nicholas to complete the deal."

  "Holy Sir, please — "

  Titus held up his hand for silence. "I don't know what the last act of this play was supposed to be. Perhaps I was to be goaded into attacking the royal demon spawn, so that I too could be discredited as my predecessor was. That would be another strong blow to the Tabernacle, wouldn't it? Or perhaps I was supposed to charge in like a savior, only to discover that my 'holy' water no longer worked. Perhaps I would die, like my southern Auds, and become a martyr, clearing the way for his Highness, the Great King Nicholas the Fifth, to become Rocaan."

  "He doesn't want that."

  "He doesn't? Good King Nicholas, the only King to banish the Tabernacle from the palace? For all his pious words, he forgets that the Roca charged his sons with two jobs: The eldest was to lead Blue Isle in the physical plane. The second son was to lead Blue Isle in the spiritual plane. And they were to work together."

  "He knows that," Stowe said. "He feared for his children. Matthias murdered his wife."

  "The Fifty-First Rocaan," Titus corrected, "was conducting a religious ceremony, blessing the new king and his consort. God chose that moment to strike the demon down."

  "That was the very attitude the King feared."

  "What the King failed to recognize is that he erred in marrying a Soldier of the Enemy. What the King still fails to recognize is that those things he calls children are nothing more than blasphemies in the eyes of God."

  "So you will do nothing to save your country," Stowe said.

  "I will not participate in a charade that is designed as the final destruction of the Tabernacle," Titus said.

  "Then may God forgive you, Holy Sir," Stowe said and turned on one foot. He headed through the main room.

  "May God forgive me, Lord Stowe?"

  Stowe stopped. He kept his back to Titus. "You are wrong, Holy Sir. And in your arrogance, your failure to step beyond your own bruised feelings, you are dooming us all."

  THE ATTACK

  [Before Dawn, the Following Day]

  THIRTY-ONE

  Flurry had never flown so hard or so fast in his entire life. When he reached the Circle door, he stuck one tiny hand into the ring of lights, and then used the last of his strength to fall through.

  Rugad's Shadowlands had grown since Flurry last saw it. Most of the officers must have started sleeping inside. He didn't know if that meant discontent on the part of the nearby Islanders or if it meant that Rugad needed his officers beside him.

  Or both.

  He collapsed on the opaque floor, and willed himself to full size so that no one would step on him. He needed both sleep and food, not necessarily in that order. As his body stretched, his exhausted muscles twitched.

  "I don't believe sleeping in the doorway is conducive to health," said a voice above him. Flurry twisted his head. Boteen stood above him, long face dark with intent. Boteen had a way of moving that made him seem more powerful physically than he probably was. He was also the tallest, thinnest Fey Flurry had ever seen. Lines had formed around his wide mouth and his cheekbones were so high that they seemed, with his chin, to form a V. "Especially not before you report to Rugad."

  Flurry pushed himself up. He was dizzy with exhaustion, his entire body aching with every movement.

  "Food and water, I believe," Boteen said. He had a mocking air which grew more refined as his Enchanter's abilities improved.

  Flurry frowned.

  "That is what you would ask for if I had been anyone else. Food and water, and you would have snapped at me about exhaustion and overexertion. You know Rugad cares nothing for these things."

  Flurry smoothed his hair and pulled his wings close to his back. He made his way toward Rugad's tent.

  "But I do," Boteen said. "You performed a great service this night and, I believe, may have solved an energetic mystery. All lines converge, don't they, in a small farm near Killeny's Bridge."

  "I'm sorry," Flurry said. He tried not to be rude to Fey who were more powerful than he was, but sometimes the effort was beyond him. "But I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I know that," Boteen said, "but I am grateful. All I needed was a path, which you provided. So I shall provide food, water, and a bed in my tent. After you report to Rugad, you may sleep all you like."

  He turned and almost floated into a nearby tent. Flurry blinked once, trying to clear his eyes, but couldn't. That had been Boteen, and he actually had talked to Flurry as though they were equals. Flurry shook his head and walked across the gray floor.

  Rugad's tent was large and blue. Its shade seemed vivid in here, but outside it would have been a dull color. Rugad had lived in so many Shadowlands, he knew just which colors worked against the gray and which didn't.

  Learning the difference, he always said, was good for morale.

  "Rugad," Flurry said as he stood outside the flap. "A report."

  Wisdom was the one who pushed the flap back. His braids swung forward, hanging almost to the opaque floor. "It's about time," he hissed.

  "I got back as quickly as I could," Flurry said.

  "Not quickly enough." Rugad was seated on his cot. His hair was braided down his back and he wore his fighting boots. He stopped lacing them as Flurry came in. "Two Spies have already reported to me. The Islander King thinks he can negotiate with the leader of the Fey, does he?"

  Flurry didn't question how the Spies returned so quickly. Rugad often used u
nconventional methods — having the Spies report to Eagle Riders who could outfly Wisps, for example, or in one memorable occasion, having Horse Riders return with the Spies on their backs. That had caused no end of friction between the Spies and the Riders, friction that had finally ended in a fight which left two Spies and one Rider dead.

  "I told him you weren't amenable to that."

  "And how did you know?" Rugad said. "He is, after all, the father of my great-grandson."

  "He's not Fey."

  Rugad smiled and glanced at Wisdom. "See why I like this man? He has a grasp of the important."

  Wisdom nodded and said nothing.

  Rugad grabbed the laces of his boots. "As Flurry so accurately put it, I am not amenable to negotiation, especially with an upstart who believes that simply because he can father a child, he can be on par with the Black King. The attack has already begun. He will be quite surprised when the answer to his request for negotiation is mass slaughter, a slaughter he chose instead of surrendering like a reasonable man."

  A trickle ran up Flurry's spine. The attack had begun. The time for talk was over.

  "After you rest, Flurry, you may choose which theater you would like to fight in. Wisdom has some theories about the way the various groups of Islanders will respond to an all-out Fey assault. He believes each will be interesting, and some will be more suitable to your talents than others."

  Flurry bowed his head slightly. "Thank you, Rugad." He turned, and grabbed the tent flap.

  "Flurry," Rugad said, his voice suddenly firm. "You aren't dismissed yet."

  "I delivered your message, your Spies told you the Islander King's response, and the attack has begun. What else to you need from me?" He kept his hand on the flap.

  "I understand your great need for rest," Rugad said, "but this is probably going to be our last conversation until Blue Isle is completely secured. I need to know what you saw, and your assessment of it."

  Flurry turned. "You already know all the nobles were in the room. The shock was great, the palace is formidable, but we've seen worse, and there is an odd energy around the place they call the Tabernacle."