"We would know," Arianna said.
"Ari," Nicholas said without looking at her, "You are here on my good graces. Please allow the meeting to go forward without your comments."
She sighed and said nothing else. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sebastian take her hand.
"That is a possibility," Nicholas said, "but it would gain them nothing."
"On the contrary," Miller said, "it would give them an advantage."
Nicholas frowned. "I see no advantage in this."
"If, as the messenger said, the Fey found a way around holy water, then this gives the Fey their might back. They know we're afraid of the Black King. They know that we're no longer afraid of them. If the Black King supposedly arrived, the Fey would be formidable again."
"Nice hypothesis," Nicholas said, "but we cannot afford to believe it, any more than we can afford to believe that the mountains to the south are impenetrable. We have seen a thousand impossible things since the Fey arrived. One more should not strain our credulity."
A knock sounded on the door. Then, in a muffled voice, a guard announced Lord Stowe's arrival.
"Send him in," Nicholas said. He stood as Stowe entered. Stowe looked windblown from his ride to the Tabernacle and back. "The Rocaan?" Nicholas asked.
"He will not come," Stowe said. "Nor will he help in any way. He believes this a ploy from the palace to discredit him."
"What?" Zela asked. "How did he come to that?"
"It seems there were some attacks on the kirks in the Marshes," Stowe said. "The Danites used holy water but it had no effect. The Rocaan believes it was switched for real water. He uses as his proof a murder that occurred on the Jahn bridge tonight."
"A murder?" Egan breathed the word as if it were obscene.
"A Fey was killed with holy water on the Jahn Bridge. It appears to have happened during the banquet, maybe even during the time we were listening to that Wisp. The Rocaan believes that shows holy water still works."
"He will not even make more holy water?" Enford asked.
"He didn't say," Stowe said. "But I doubt it. This is something you need to resolve with him personally, Your Highness."
Nicholas ran a hand over his face. One more thing. He really hadn't needed one more thing on this night. "Round up all the holy water you can. Distribute it throughout the city and to the countryside. I will not allow any in the palace or near my children. I will make an appointment with the Rocaan tomorrow. In the Tabernacle. This has gone on long enough."
"Perhaps, Sire, if you had held the proper ceremonies — " Canter started.
Nicholas removed his hand from his face and glared at Canter. Canter stopped.
"I understand the desire to blame me for all the changes on Blue Isle," Nicholas said tightly. "Not everything I have done has been popular. But nothing changes the fact that I rule this Isle and will continue to do so. The Rocaan doesn't. I do. I will meet with him, but I doubt we will need him."
"You believe that messenger, don't you?" Enford asked.
Nicholas nodded. "And I believe that unless we find a way to stand our ground, we will be a part of the Fey Empire, whether we like it or not."
THIRTY-THREE
The kitchen was warm. Gift rummaged through drawers until he found several candles and a tinderbox. He lit them. The room seemed small and confining, not at all how it had seemed when Gift first saw it, through Coulter's eyes.
Leen stood in the doorway, arms crossed. The sky was growing lighter on the eastern horizon. "I don't like it here," she said.
"You don't have to," Gift said.
"We need Cover."
He didn't answer that. He couldn't bring Cover back, even if he wanted to. And the last thing he wanted to think about was her death.
He did need a moment to get his bearings, though. He hadn't been able to reach Coulter through their Link all day. The end of the Link was blocked — Coulter's end — and that had never happened before. It was almost as if Coulter hadn't wanted to hear from him.
"Is that him?" Leen asked. She held the open door in one hand was leaning into the gray dawn. Gift stood and peered over her shoulder. He stifled a gasp.
He hadn't seen Coulter in person in a long, long time, not since they were little boys. That was the Coulter he remembered: the boy who was too small for his age, the boy who was round in a world of angles, the boy whose hair was an unnatural yellow. This Coulter was the Coulter of Gift's childhood Vision, the Coulter who rode with him down the Cardidas, the Coulter whose eyes sparkled when they contemplated the future.
A shiver ran through Gift.
"Gift?" Leen asked.
"That's him," Gift said.
Then Adrian came out of the fields as well. Adrian had been a shock when Gift saw him earlier. Gift remembered a taller man, an older man, and one who spoke oddly. Either Adrian's mastery of Fey had improved or, through Coulter, Gift had gotten used to him.
"Let me talk to him," Gift said.
Leen moved away from the door. She went to the wooden counters, and leaned on them, arms loose and near her sword. She would defend him to the last, he knew that, and he relied on it. The welcome he had expected was colder than he ever imagined it would be.
Yet when Coulter saw Gift at the door, he grinned, then ran forward, arms extended. He grabbed Gift, and hugged him, as he would a long-lost brother.
"You should have told me you were venturing into the real world," Coulter said. Even his voice was deeper, a man's voice, not a boy's.
"I tried," Gift said.
"You told me about the Vision, not that you'd be here."
"Things changed." Gift pulled out of the hug. "You blocked the Link."
Coulter's expression grew momentarily flat. Then he glanced at Adrian. Adrian stood a few feet back. He shrugged one shoulder, as if he had no part of this discussion.
"Something's happening to the south," Coulter said. "I've been trying to concentrate on it. I shut out all distractions."
That obviously had an element of truth, but that wasn't all. Gift could feel the nuances through their bond. "So I'm a distraction now?"
"No," Coulter said bluntly. "Now you're a diversion. Let's hope that the paths lead to the same place."
Now the bond felt clear, the Link felt open. Coulter put his arm around Gift and led him outside. Leen pulled her sword. "Wait!" she said.
"It's all right," Gift said.
"Not if something happens," Leen said.
"Nothing can happen," Coulter said. "We're Bound."
She glanced at Gift for confirmation. He nodded. Then he went with Coulter into the fields, leaving Leen and Adrian behind.
The sun was rising, touching the corn with gold. The morning air had a damp coolness that felt good against Gift's skin. That kitchen had been stifling.
Flocks of black birds of a type he had never seen flew overhead. Their caws resounded in the stillness. The dew on the grass glossed over the footprints left earlier by Adrian, Leen and Gift.
"Why am I a diversion?" Gift asked.
Coulter looked at him. Coulter's face was still the same. His eyes were blue and clear, his features square and solid. He was the same boy, only in a larger body. He was, oddly, as tall as Gift.
"Let me show you," he said, and took Gift's hand. Then Coulter slid along their Link.
The impressions that came to Gift were fast and furious, too fast for him to process. Most weren't visual; he only saw the trails in the night sky. Most were feelings, changes, oddities in the way the earth felt, and a strange sense of surprise coming from the ground in the south.
Then, as quickly as they began, they ended. It would take Gift some time to process them.
Now, let me, Gift said through the Link, and he showed Coulter what happened at the palace. As he reviewed the images from Arianna's attack, Coulter winced and ducked.
When it was over, Coulter slid back down the Link and let go of Gift's hand. "Why is the stone boy so important?"
"We're Linked," Gi
ft said. "Like you and me."
"You can't Link to a bit of stone."
"I didn't," Gift said. "He has a personality. It has just taken him longer to develop it. You and he are the only brothers I have, Coulter. And he can't defend himself."
Coulter sighed. "And either you'll die or he'll die if we don't do something."
Gift nodded. "We need to get him out of the palace."
"But obviously you can't bring him out. What about your sister? Could she?"
"She hates me."
"But she loves him, and will do whatever she can for him."
"I don't know," Gift said. "I don't think we have much time. If we have another failure, we could be in trouble."
Coulter stepped away from him. The sun was higher, slanting across the corn, the light hitting the center of Coulter's clothes. "Time," he said. "This is all about time."
Gift shook his head. "I don't understand."
"Your Vision happened two weeks ago. The change in energy did too. You think there will be some sort of attack against you soon, and I think they've come for you. Something else has happened. Something we don't understand."
"They finally decided to make the trip."
"After twenty years?" Coulter shook his head.
"I'm an adult now."
"Yes, but wouldn't it be better to raise a child in the manner you want instead of letting someone else do it?"
"You think that old man I saw was my great-grandfather."
"I do," Coulter said. He turned. "And if it is, will you join him?"
"In what?" Gift asked.
"In conquering the world. That's what Fey do, isn't it?"
Gift started. He had never thought of that. All his life, he had struggled to keep Shadowlands going. Traveling through the Isle itself had been an adventure. But to conquer the world —
He shook his head. "I'm not a warrior," he said.
"Only because you haven't been raised as one," Coulter said. "That's my point. If you want someone to take your place, you train him."
"You think the Black King's come to train me? Why?"
"Because I think he needs a successor," Coulter said. "And I think he needs one now."
THIRTY-FOUR
The Shaman was not in Shadowlands. No one had seen her leave, but no one knew where she was.
Solanda stopped in the Domicile for a meal. It had been so long since she had magicked food that she had almost forgotten how light it was. Wind was doing one more check through all the buildings. Niche waited for them at her place.
Solanda didn't like it. If the Shaman was gone, and Gift was gone, who would give the order to evacuate Shadowlands? She could. She was ranked high enough in the magick order, but no one would listen to her. She was a Shifter, and a Shifter who had lived among the Islanders at that. The Fey might think it a trap to get them out of hiding.
She was sitting on a rug near the Domicile's main fireplace. The fire was burning low, emitting light and heat, a trick that non-magicked fires could do only rarely. There were some things to say for Shadowlands: the constant temperature, the gathering of Fey all in one place — but they certainly weren't enough to convince her to live there ever again.
And that was the other reason she couldn't give the evacuation order. Too many Fey knew how she felt.
She sighed, finished the last of her meal, and got to her feet. She wanted to go back to cat form, but felt she didn't dare, not until she was out of Shadowlands. She wanted to be taken seriously, and that was hard for folks to do when she was feline.
Feline or not, though, she couldn't order the evacuation. The only others who could would be the Warders. And even though they had abdicated much of their power over the years, they still had Warder mystique.
The Spell Warders were the only Fey who had all the powers of the Fey. Their powers were limited, however. The magick behind them was weak, and unable to be of real use. The Warders' major skill was that they were the ones who designed the Spells for those who relied on Spells. The new Domestic spells, the ones tailored to Blue Isle, had come from the Warders. The Warders should have been the one to counteract other magick as well, but that hadn't proved too successful here. The Warders hadn't been able to counteract the Islanders' poison. In all the years on Blue Isle, the Warders never found a spell that would act as an antidote.
Their incompetence kept the Fey trapped.
But they were Warders, and they had more talents than the others. The Fey in Shadowlands would listen to them.
Solanda wiped her mouth with one hand, then licked the grease off her palm. Some cat habits never died. She resisted the urge to then wipe her face with that palm, and instead found a pitcher of water. She splashed her face, cleaning it, and stretched.
Time to move again.
She pulled open the door to this section of the Domicile and frowned. Through the buildings, the gray walls of Shadowlands looked darker than usual. She blinked, wondering if she had stared into the fire too long, but her vision didn't clear. It was odd; she hadn't remembered the walls being that dark. But she hadn't looked at them in years.
The Domicile's long porch extended to this end of the wing. She crossed it, then hopped the steps, landing on the firm Shadowlands' ground. The ground wasn't any darker than usual. She glanced up again, squinted, but she saw no magick crackling off the walls. They were as they should have been. Magickal creations, not magick themselves.
Then she walked across Shadowlands, passing through the buildings, heading toward the Warders' cabin. Several Fey passed her. She nodded at them, and they nodded in return. She rubbed her eyes once. Perhaps she needed the sleep more than she thought. Her vision was blurry, and everything looked indistinct.
The cabins surrounding her had hedges and flowers painted on their sides. One cabin had an image of the Battle for Nye. She saw the faces of most of this troop in angry assault. They had all looked younger then. They had all been younger. Some of the Foot Soldiers were too old now for a real battle. Had they succeeded in this attack on Blue Isle, they might have retired here, living in the luxury a victory provided.
How angry they must have been to find themselves in this place, in this position.
The Warders' cabin was still toward the back. It too had expanded, with a wing added onto the side for pouches and other spoils of war. Most of the pouches taken from the Second Battle for Jahn had never been touched: the Warders had almost given up in their search for an antidote to holy water. They had, instead, focused on spells to make life in Shadowlands more comfortable.
They had, in a word, become cowards.
She started up the stairs when she froze. A shiver ran down her spine. She glanced back over her shoulder, at space between buildings which the Fey loosely termed a street. It was empty.
All those Fey she had seen before were gone.
She peered through the buildings at Shadowlands' walls.
They were as gray as they had always been.
And the faces had been indistinct.
Dream Riders on the walls. Spies in the streets.
She flung open the door to the Warders' cabin and shouted, "The Black King is here!"
Four Warders at around the square spell table, but her warning was wasted on them. Dream Riders covered their faces in shadow, their bodies twitching as the Riders held their consciousness in thrall. Such a risk the Black King took. Any magickal Fey could pull out of a Rider spell — if they discerned that it was a spell. One of the Riders lifted its head off the Warder near the door. The Rider's head was flat, like a shadow, only it had substance. It was black as night, its features completely absorbed by the magick.
But it was peering at her. She could tell from its posture.
She pulled the door closed, and turned. Wind stood behind her, his hand extended. "Come back to the house," he said. "You'll be safe there."
His eyes were flecked with gold. It wasn't Wind at all. Wind was no more. This was a Doppelgänger, come to lure her to her death.
Sh
e slapped his hand away and jumped off the porch, taking off at full run. Several Spies sat near doorways. They didn't bother to wear faces: that was why they had looked so indistinct. They pointed to her as she ran. Their cries blended into a single shout, all with the same texture and indescribably quality.
When she reached the Circle Door, she found an entire squad of Foot Soldiers diving their way in. Some she recognized: they had served in the Battle of Feire, a decisive victory in the Nye campaign. Rugad's victory.
"You can't kill a Shape-Shifter," she said, holding up her hands to show she had no weapons. "We're too precious to waste."
"You're not a Shifter," Gelô said. He was as slender and dark as he had always been. His eyebrows were a thick bush that met in the middle of his face. "You're a Failure."
"I'm not a Failure," Solanda said, trying to keep the panic from her voice. "Rugar was and he's dead."
"You cannot blame living in this for twenty years on Rugar," Gelô said. "He has been dead fifteen."
"By my hand," Solanda said. "And I did not live here."
Gelô extended a hand. His fingers were as long as knives. The extra set of nails at the tips of his fingers were extended. "You expect me to believe that, Failure?"
She tilted her head. "I'm a Shifter, Soldier. I do not stay in one place long."
"Gelô," one of the other Foot Soldiers said, "you might want to consider — "
"Sparing a life? A Failure? Are you soft, Vare?"
Vare, a slender woman with a scar running down one cheek, lowered her gaze.
"No, she's just cautious," Solanda said. She couldn't fight an entire troop of Foot Soldiers herself. "She knows that she shouldn't murder her betters."
"It's not murder when it's ordered by the Black King."
Solanda shrugged. "Then he will not learn of his great-grandchildren, will he?"
"What of his grandchildren?"
Vare brought her gaze up. "Gelô." Her word was a caution.
"There are things he doesn't know, things he needs to know."
"Jewel is dead," Gelô said. "Her brother Bridge is in Nye. None of the others will inherit. This is what I know. This is all I need to know."
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