"How would we know these creatures?" another man asked. He too was scrubbed, but his clothing was worn through on the elbows and knees.
"They look different," Stowe said, not quite wanting to give away how different.
"Like you?" one of the women asked.
He looked down on himself in startlement. His breeches and shirt were clean. His hair was pulled back and his skin was good. He had never thought how exotic he would look to these people.
"He's just trying to get us to say we done it," the first man said. "Then they'll slaughter us like they done when we tried to get our share before."
"Before?" Stowe asked under his breath.
"The Peasant Uprising," the Danite said. "It started here."
Stowe had forgotten that. To him, the Peasant Uprising was ancient history, the subject of tapestries and wall murals, and nothing more. He hadn't even known anyone who had fought in it — the veterans had all died before he was born. Yet here, it was a living, breathing thing.
"The King was coming here to find out how you were doing," Stowe said. "Whether you had had problems with the Fey, what we could do to solve any other problems you might have. That isn't going to change. Whatever grievances you have, you may tell me. But I do need your help in return now. The most important man in the nation has been murdered, and we need to bring his murderer to justice."
"We don't need ta do nothing," said the first man.
"He weren't important ta us," the woman with the child said.
"Our grievances should be obvious," said the man with the clean face.
Stowe focused on him. The man didn't speak the local dialect. He had a different look, as if the grime had not seeped through his skin. And, although he was of an age with the others, he looked younger.
"Tell me anyway," Stowe said, speaking to him.
"The Marshes have always been poor," the man said, "but at least we could keep fed by selling what we made. Reed rugs, herbs, dyes. It all went and was traded for food. But now you shut off the trade with Nye and with Fillé, and no one in Jahn is buying what we make. We got folks who're trying to live off the Marshes, killing the birds, burning the peat, eating the reed grass. It's not any way to live."
That it wasn't. "Things should have eased once we made the treaty with the Fey," Stowe said.
The man shook his head. "We made most of our money from outside trade, not from the sales in the Isle. Those came back, sort of, for the folks who still had money to spend, but most were trying to recover their own livings. Your precious King never paid attention to what was happening in the Marshes. He figured if Jahn were safe, the whole country was."
Others were nodding their heads. Stowe had to clench his fists together to keep from showing his shock. The evidence before him was different from all he had heard. The King had been saying throughout the Invasion and beyond that the Isle was self-sufficient, that it could survive without outside trade. Perhaps the Isle as a unit was, but areas were not. Stowe had not thought of that before.
"You were planning to tell the King this?" Stowe asked.
"We was planning to show him," the first man said. "Lena, she will lose her boy soon. That goiter'll cut off his air."
Stowe glanced at the boy. He had thought the bulge a boil, but it was not. It was something more serious.
"And Kel, his children got running sores that he can't do nothing about." The man was looking at the man beside him. "And Odeta, she lost her baby when the food run through him like water. None of that was before. We could at least live before."
Stowe suppressed a shudder. The King would have been appalled. And Stowe didn't know what he could do.
The Danite was watching him.
"How come no one reported this to the Tabernacle or the palace?" Stowe asked.
The Danite shook his head. "No one talks to the Tabernacle now. The Rocaan is dead. That Elder he left don't believe and has no leadership."
Stowe had heard this before about Matthias. Matthias was the new Rocaan. He had been chosen by the old Rocaan, according to religious law, and custom. No one could challenge him.
"But the palace —"
"Ain't never helped the Marshes before. Wouldn't do so now."
Stowe frowned. He didn't like the shifting perspective that this meeting was forcing on him. "If the King had come here, would you have told him this?"
"This is the group what would have done it," the first man said.
"And did you believe that he would help you?"
The clean man smiled. The look had no humor in it. "Talking to him would have at least got us hope. We lack even that now."
Stowe nodded. He had no more questions. He felt as if he had stumbled into a world he did not know existed, and he would have to understand it before he could determine whether or not the people before him had the capacity for murder.
"If I promise you that I will make changes here in the Marshes, will you help me find the King's killer?" Stowe asked.
"That's a tall order," the clean man said. "You expect us to trust that your changes will be for the good."
"I will do what I can," Stowe said.
"But you're not King. The King is dead," a woman said.
"Yes," Stowe said, "but his son, the new King, trusts me, and will listen."
"It's not a guarantee," the clean man said.
"It's the best I can do."
"The best I can do is tell you that we didn't kill your king," the clean man said.
Stowe stared at them. They stared back. "Someone did," he said. "It would help us all if we could find him."
FIVE
Matthias flew down the corridors of the palace, his red robes billowing behind him. He had left the Auds with the horses, and none of the Elders had accompanied him. He had never received a message of such urgency from the palace, not at all in his five years as Rocaan. Perhaps something had happened to Jewel's new child, or perhaps something had happened to Jewel herself.
Or perhaps she had finally taken advantage of her position — and the King's absence — to do away with Nicholas.
Matthias had not trusted her from the moment he saw her. She had too much intelligence in her eyes. She was the granddaughter of the man who led the Fey, the daughter of the man who had led the invasion force. She had probably ordered the death of the 50th Rocaan. That betrayal and murder that ultimately led to Matthias's becoming Rocaan — a position he never wanted. A position he was not qualified for. A position he regretted holding, even now.
The messenger had said that they all would meet in the Great Chamber, another deviation from standard. Matthias didn't like these changes. They made him even more uneasy.
That and the fact that none of the servants would answer his questions.
His sandals echoed on the marble floor of the Great Hall. He hated the weapons hanging on the wall. The swords made a mockery of the Roca's Sword. They were still stained with blood from past uprisings. Some were rusted, others nicked. The Sword used for warfare, a reminder that death surrounded them all.
Something Matthias wanted to forget.
He touched the tiny flask of holy water in the pocket of his robe. He was the one, in the middle of the Invasion, who had accidentally discovered the powers of holy water. The Fey had invaded the Tabernacle. They had murdered dozens of Danites, dozens of Auds. He had seen more death than he ever wanted to in his life, death he could not prevent.
Then the Fey had come after him. He had run into the servant's chapel, in search of refuge, in search of a weapon, in search of a way to defend himself. He had just reached the altar when the Fey charged him.
He had thought they were going to kill him — rip his skin off while he was still alive, as they had done to an Aud just outside the Tabernacle. He had searched in vain for a weapon, but found nothing.
Then he saw the glittering vials of holy water the Rocaan had blessed the night before for Midnight Sacrament. The vials were made of heavy thick glass. Perhaps they would stop the Fey while Ma
tthias thought of something else.
Matthias grabbed vial after vial and flung them at the Fey, at the group before him, then at the group to his right. The first glass hit the stone and shattered, and the Fey screamed in pain. Then the next glass shattered. Matthias kept throwing until he realized that the Fey were no longer advancing.
The stench in the room had grown. It smelled as if something were burning. It took a moment for him to realize that all of the Fey were clutching their legs and screaming. They had fallen to the ground and were rolling in the blood. He glanced behind him. He had thrown maybe ten bottles, certainly not enough glass to cut that many men.
Then he realized that they weren't bleeding, but their clothes were peeling from them as if trying to get away. He stood for a moment, his hand over his mouth. They were lying in the water, and every time it touched part of their bodies they screamed.
Matthias's hands were shaking — the entire thing had left him terrified — but he had to know. He had to know. The glass couldn't have killed them, so the water must have.
The holy water.
Matthias took a vial and walked down the steps, his heart pounding so fiercely he felt as if he couldn't breathe. He uncorked the bottle and waited until he saw the Fey who had looked at him first. The creature was still alive, his legs and hands a mass of burns, his clothing ripped and tattered.
His gaze met Matthias's, his skin pale and his dark almond-shaped eyes wide with shock. "What have you done?" the Fey asked in accented Nye.
The words startled Matthias, made him wonder if they were faking, if that was how they had caught all the others. He tossed the water forward, and it landed on the Fey's perfect features. The creature screamed until his lips melted over his mouth. Matthias stood, riveted, tears in his own eyes, watching the creature — the man — flail as the flesh melted over his nostrils and his body could no longer get air.
The other Fey were still moaning, oblivious to their leader's death. But Matthias watched for what seemed like forever as the leader clawed at his featureless face with his misshapen hands. At long last, the body stopped moving.
It was that death he couldn't get out of his mind. He could justify the others: they had attacked him. He had been defending himself. But when he poured water on their leader, Matthias had been experimenting. He had taken a life to satisfy his own curiosity.
Sometimes he thought it made him just like them. Just like the Fey.
Demon-spawn.
He shook his head, as if that would rid him of the thoughts. He couldn't keep punishing himself. What was done, was done. In discovering the hidden power of holy water, he had saved hundreds of Islander lives. Perhaps that was what Roca had intended all along.
A guard, no older than fifteen, stood outside the entrance to the Great Chamber. He bowed and said, "They're waiting for you, Holy Sir."
Of course they were. The lords lived near the palace and could arrive quickly. A messenger had to leave the stables and disturb Matthias. Then Matthias had to saddle up and hurry over. Of course he would arrive last.
"Then open the door, child," Matthias said, feeling odd still at using the diminutive. He was old enough to be the boy's father, but the previous Rocaan had been a bent, wizened old man — certainly more the type to call a vigorous boy "child."
The guard stood. He came up to Matthias's shoulder, as did most of the Islanders. Matthias was taller and thinner than any other Islander. Until the Fey arrived, he hadn't met anyone taller. Only his entrance into Rocaanism at the age of 12 kept him from being called demon-spawn. The guard pulled the door open for him, and Matthias entered.
Nicholas stood at the other end of the Great Chamber, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes dull and sunken in his face. Jewel stood beside him. She placed a hand over her stomach when she saw Matthias. She had no love for him either, and no trust as well.
A table had been placed in the center of the room. At it sat Lords Canter, Egan, and Fesler. Lords Holbrook and Miller leaned against the wall. And Lord Enford sat alone next to the table's head.
Enford. Matthias stared at him for a moment. Enford was covered with dirt. Only his face and hands were clean. His clothing was ripped, and his hair was hastily tied in its queue. Enford was supposed to be with Alexander. A shiver ran down Matthias's back. He glared at Jewel. Now he knew what this meeting was for.
Something had happened to the King.
The door closed behind Matthias and he jumped. No one acknowledged him, an odd thing for this group, since they knew much of the power on the Isle rested with him. But they were silent and somber.
The table, which normally did not belong in the Great Chamber, was made of heavy wood, its legs knobbed and its surface covered with a deep lined pattern. The chairs matched — high, straight backs and arms with knobs at the end, made not for comfort, but for beauty.
The lords already seated didn't appear relaxed. Fesler never appeared relaxed though. He was not one of Alexander's trusted advisors, but had become more of a presence since the Fey arrived. Fesler was slender, with hollow cheeks and straight blond hair. His age was difficult to determine, since he never spoke of it, but he had been a lord longer than Matthias had been in Jahn.
Egan sat beside him, his hunched back brushing against the straight chair. Egan crouched to hide his bulk, which never worked. He seemed larger than he had when the Fey arrived, partly because he no longer smiled. Egan was once known as the most jovial of the King's men, but he hadn't laughed since he lost his son in the Invasion.
Canter was studying his well manicured hands, as if he could find no other way to avoid looking at Jewel and Nicholas. His hair was cut perfectly square, his blouse well tailored, his vest matching his leggings perfectly. He must have been riding when the news came, for Canter usually wore a robe more exquisite than any found in the Tabernacle.
Matthias took the chair closest to Canter and leaned against its sturdy back. Nicholas watched him as if waiting for Matthias to take control of the meeting. Jewel drifted toward Nicholas's side. She looked as if she were going to guide him.
The others didn't seem to care. Miller was tracing the grooves in the paneled wall, his long fingers dancing over the edges as if they were harpsichord keys. Miller was in his twenties, having acquired the lordship from his father a few years before, much to Miller's upset. He had planned on using his musical talents in the Tabernacle, but the Invasion, and then his father's death, had come in the way.
Only Holbrook stared at Matthias. Holbrook was a tin-lord, a man who had risen in the ranks and was given his lordship as a reward for good service. If the Invasion hadn't wiped out the ranks of the lordly as well as the ranks of the underclasses, Holbrook would not be in this room at all. Still, Matthias was glad to see him. Holbrook was twice as old as the rest of them. He had lived a long and full life, which he wore on his features like an etching, and his counsel was often based on experience, where the counsel of the others wasn't.
Since Nicholas was not taking over the meeting, Matthias leaned forward. He would begin things before the woman did. "Forgive me, Highness," he said. "I came as quickly as I could. The messenger said this was a matter of some urgency."
"Some," Nicholas said. He spoke slowly, something Nicholas had never done in his life. "My father is dead."
Matthias heard the words, but didn't feel their import right away. Alexander? But he had grown up with Alexander, had spent his formative years with Alexander, had just the week before taken a cup of late night mead with Alexander, talking about the fortunes of the Kingdom.
The others hadn't known either. Egan sat up straight and Canter stopped contemplating his nails. Fesler sucked in his breath, and Miller made a small moan. Only Holbrook didn't move. Holbrook, Enford and that woman.
"Sire," Enford said. "If I may."
Sire. The word focused Matthias more quickly than anything else. Just like that awful day when the Auds came back from the Rocaan's meeting with the Fey, the meeting in which the Rocaan had die
d. Holy Sir, they had said to Matthias. Not Respected Sir, the title for an Elder, but Holy Sir, the title for the Rocaan. They had called him Holy Sir even before telling him that the Rocaan was dead.
Nicholas nodded at Enford, then turned his back. Jewel stood in front of him as if protecting him from the others. Nicholas stared at the wall as if it had a window.
"The King was murdered on the road into the Kenniland Marshes," Enford said. Miller started to interrupt, but Enford held up his hand for silence. "He was shot through the heart with a single arrow. No one else was injured. The assassin had to wait through the advance guards and the lone Danite sent to protect the King. The assassin's shot was swift and sure. None of us knew that an arrow had been launched until the King toppled over."
Fey 02 - Changeling Page 5