He put his hand on the wood floor and braced himself to stand when he heard a voice that made him freeze.
Rugar's voice.
It sounded harsh and biting. Then, before Adrian could stand, the door swung open and banged against the outside wall. The gray mist that swirled inside the Shadowlands drifted in, its chill accompanying it. Rugar stood in the door, his long, thin frame encased in a black cloak that kept the moisture off his body.
A group of Domestics stood outside. From his position on the floor, Adrian could barely see them. They were talking among themselves, like a group about to break up.
"What are you doing here?" Rugar snapped.
Adrian knew better than to provoke Rugar farther. Slow movement, reasonable tones of voice often worked best. "You had asked me to start tending your fire this week in anticipation of your return."
"The fire seems fine." Rugar pulled the door closed. He took off his cloak, shook the water off the outside fibers, and tossed it on one of the wooden chairs. "Is there any food?"
"No, sir." Adrian pushed himself up. He had remained in good shape during his stay in Shadowlands, but he was no match for any Fey — especially one like Rugar, trained in all forms of combat. "I could get some from the Domestics."
"I could have done that myself," Rugar said. He pushed another chair back with his foot, then sat. He was drawn and too thin, his normally sharp features almost bony in their prominence. His almond shaped eyes seemed even more slanted, his high cheekbones more pronounced. Most Fey faces had a whimsical beauty, but Rugar's did not. It had a proud strength, like that of a bird of prey. Not beautiful but striking nonetheless.
And even more so now, on this afternoon, although Adrian would be hard-pressed to say why.
"Your larder is poorly stocked, sir, since we did not know when you would be back —"
Rugar waved a hand for silence. "I understand the Shaman came out."
"Yes, sir." Adrian knew better than to offer more information than was requested.
"The Domestics say her Vision was bleak, so bleak she wanted to find me."
"I don't know, sir. They never tell me Fey matters."
Rugar looked up as if seeing him for the first time. "No," Rugar said. "Of course they don't."
Rugar grabbed the heel of his right boot and pulled it off. His foot was wrapped in thick stockings stained with mud. He tossed the boot at Adrian's feet, then removed the other boot and tossed it as well.
Adrian picked them up without being told. He would take them to Mend — as he had ever since the day she found him trying to clean them himself — and then bring them back in spotless condition.
"Tell me, oh great and wise Islander," Rugar said, massaging his toes, "what happens on the Isle when a king dies?"
Adrian's grip tightened on the still warm boots. "Excuse me?"
"When you lose your king, what happens?"
Custom. Custom and tradition. That was what Adrian was there for, to teach the Fey custom and tradition. Rugar was simply playing with him, taunting him while trying to gain information. And Adrian couldn't lie because the Fey had assured him that if they discovered any untruths, they would murder Luke.
"The kingship is hereditary, is that what you're asking, sir?"
"No." Rugar put his feet on the floor and stretched. His clothes were wrinkled and stained. Some of the stains were mud, and others looked like grass stains. That too was odd. Rugar was in a position to have Domestic made clothing, clothing resilient to stains and wear and water. "I'm asking how the country responds when a king dies."
Adrian let out his breath. He suddenly wanted to sit very badly. He had been in his early twenties when the last king died, and it had affected him not at all.
"They'll send criers from the palace all over the country and announce the death. The new king will be crowned, and life will continue."
Rugar placed his hands behind his head. "No one will mourn?"
Adrian shrugged. "I think that's personal. There is an official period of mourning, but I suspect very few will mourn Good King Alexander."
Rugar tilted his head toward Adrian, still looking relaxed, but tension filled his body. "And why is that?"
"Because —" Adrian took a deep breath. It was at moments like these he most resented the order to tell the truth. "Because he allowed the Fey on Blue Isle. Because so many died under his reign."
"But I have been told by many Islanders that he was a good king."
"He was," Adrian said, "until he was tested."
A slow smile crossed Rugar's face. "Is this common opinion or your opinion?"
"Mine, obviously," Adrian snapped. "I haven't exactly had a chance to canvas the countryside."
Rugar didn't seem to notice the sarcasm. He, like Jewel before him, seemed to believe that it was acceptable, even necessary for Adrian to express himself that way. "Your opinion is based on what?"
"My situation," Adrian said. "If Good King Alexander had defended us as was his duty, I would still be at home with my family."
"Or dead," Rugar said.
"Sir?"
Rugar stood so quickly Adrian took a step back. "I think Alexander did his job. The Fey have always taken countries. Your king prevented us from conquering you. If he hadn't stood in our way, you would probably be dead."
"He didn't stand in your way. That was the Rocaan and his magic holy water."
"So the people will think that the religion saved them and their government failed them."
"Yes, sir."
"And they will not mourn."
"No, sir."
Rugar nodded. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced in front of the door. "What of his son?"
"What of him?"
"How will the populace accept him?"
"They have no choice, sir. He is the next king."
"Are you saying they'll be reluctant?"
"Yes, sir."
"Because he is Alexander's son?"
"Because he married a Fey." Adrian bit his lower lip. Married Rugar's daughter. "Sir."
Rugar stopped pacing and looked over his shoulder at Adrian. "So the government will be unstable."
A log popped in the fire. Adrian jumped. He made himself take a deep breath before answering Rugar. "Not unstable. Unpopular. There is a difference."
"Unpopular governments lead to overthrows," Rugar said.
Adrian shook his head. "Not here. The King is a direct descendent of the Roca. The line has been unbroken for hundreds upon hundreds of years."
"And what of your Peasant Uprising? It was an attempt at an overthrow, was it not?"
Adrian licked his lips. He never completely understood the Uprising. "It was, as I understand, a group of peasants from the Marshes who tried to get the government's help, couldn't, and took matters into their own hands."
"An Uprising, you call it."
"It was not an overthrow."
"It didn't succeed." Rugar leaned on the door, all grace and easy movement. Adrian always felt stiff and awkward compared to the Fey. "And what if there were a new Uprising? What if it succeeded?"
Adrian felt cold despite the heat of the fire. A heavy ball lodged at the pit of his stomach. "What did you do?" he whispered.
Rugar smiled slowly. The smile did not soften his face; instead it made him look fierce. "What do you care? You live in Shadowlands."
"My son lives outside them. What did you do?"
"Such a rude way for a servant to speak to his master."
Adrian took a deep breath. That was a warning from Rugar. And warnings were all Adrian could take. He never knew when the Fey would turn on him, when they would renege on the agreement he made with Jewel, when they would slaughter his son. Still, Adrian couldn't bring himself to apologize. All he could do was keep quiet.
Rugar pushed off the door. "Get me some food. I'll take whatever the Domestics have."
Adrian swallowed. "Yes, sir."
He crossed the room, passing closely to Rugar, able to smell the
other man's faintly musky sweat. Adrian kept his eyes downcast, not because he was trying to be a good servant, but because he didn't want Rugar to see the hatred in them.
If Rugar saw hatred, he would know he had won.
Adrian shifted the boots to one hand so that he could open the door and escape the stifling confines of Rugar's cabin.
"You wanted to know what I did," Rugar said.
Adrian stopped, his hand on the knob, his back to Rugar.
"I opened the door to chaos."
The chill Adrian felt grew deeper.
"I murdered your good King Alexander." Rugar sounded pleased with himself. "In the Marshes."
The Marshes. Where the Peasant Uprising had begun all those years ago. Adrian pulled open the door and stepped into the grayness, his heart pounding.
He had done that. Somehow, in all his teaching, he had shown Rugar the best way to hurt the Islanders.
The best way to destroy them.
"Don't you have a response?" Rugar called through the door.
Adrian turned, clutching the boots to his chest as if they were a shield. "I think," he said, using his slow, measured tone, "that you did the Isle a favor."
But for the first time since he had come to Shadowlands, Adrian was lying.
SEVEN
Nicholas stood by the glass window in the Great Hall, his back to the weapons, his hands clenched at his sides. The glass was old, warped, and bubbled. It let in light and little else. He felt as if its view matched the view from his eyes. His thoughts moved slowly, and each physical movement he made felt as if he were under water. He could stare at something for hours and not see it.
He was King now.
And he couldn't even think.
Yet they expected him to. All of them. They wanted him to make decision after decision as if his world hadn't changed. Jewel had tried to talk with him, reason with him, but she was speaking from a Fey perspective. Fey, it seemed, shut off their hearts and kept walking.
No wonder they could kill with such impunity.
It was amazing she had not slaughtered him in his bed.
He blinked and leaned his head on the cold glass. That thought was not his. Of all the people who had met Jewel, he was the only one who trusted her, and she had returned that trust. He could have as easily killed her in the beginning, but he had never wanted to. She had never wanted to hurt him either.
She was only trying to help now.
But no one could help him. He was alone, more alone than he had ever been. His father had told him after the Fey invasion that Nicholas had learned what he needed, that he was ready to rule. But there was a difference between understanding a kingdom and running it.
Once they had made the agreement with the Fey, the idea of his father's death seemed laughable. His father was only eighteen years older than Nicholas — a man in his prime, a man with years ahead, a man who should not have died.
Nicholas's breath fogged the glass. The hall had a chill, even though the spring had been warm. Nicholas hadn't been outside since his father's death. He didn't know if it was raining or if the sun was out, if it was hot or cold or if frost had visited during the night.
Since he got the news, he hadn't been able to sleep, either. He tried, but as he dropped off, he would hear his father's voice or his father's laugh.
Or see the pain in his father's face as he watched Sebastian stare at the walls and do nothing.
Sebastian was a whole other problem. The boy was mentally deficient. Nicholas's father had suggested — politely — that Fey and Islanders weren't meant to mix, and Sebastian bore that idea out. The next child would prove the statement, and if it proved the statement correct, then Nicholas wasn't sure what he would do.
He needed an heir, but he couldn't set aside Jewel. That would guarantee war with the Fey. The Islanders would win as long as they had holy water, but that would not prevent the constant loss of lives, the gradual erosion of morale. Another battle with the Fey would be bad for the Isle.
It would be bad for Nicholas, and he would have to preside over it.
"Sire."
The voice made him start. It had a tone of someone who had spoken several times.
Nicholas turned. A page stood behind him, looking small and fragile against the backdrop of the swords.
The boy bowed. "Forgive me, Sire," he said, "but Lord Holbrook said the criers are assembled."
Sire. That meant Nicholas now. "Thank you," he said. "Tell them I will be in the Great Chamber shortly."
The boy nodded in his crouch. Then he backed away, running once he felt he had left Nicholas's gaze.
Nicholas was perhaps ten years older, but that decade felt like an eternity.
He followed the boy, moving slowly, the robes he had put on that morning in deference to his new status tangling in his legs. He preferred his breeches. But he was a king now. He had to at least look the part.
The door to the Chamber was open. Someone had removed the table and placed a smaller version of his father's throne inside. Nicholas had told one of the lords in a moment of exasperation that he did not want to use the audience chamber again. The lords could think what they wanted about that decision; the truth was Nicholas felt that the audience chamber belonged to his father. What Nicholas was learning was that his reasons no longer mattered. Only his statements and his actions. The throne itself symbolized that his every wish would come true if it were in the power of his lords to make it happen.
The criers lined up before the throne. There were forty of them, all of them younger than the page. They would cover the countryside, and systematically spread the news of his father's death. Because the coronation was being held so soon after the death, the criers would have to be delicate. Minor lords and land barons from farther climes would be angry at not being invited to the ceremony.
Lord Enford had offered to handle the briefing of the criers himself, but Nicholas was afraid that Enford would impart too much information. This task was delicate, and it was the first he would take for himself as king.
Lord Holbrook stood just inside the door, his solid frame and time-weary face a comfort. When he saw Nicholas, he smiled, and the smile was warm.
Nicholas smiled back.
Lord Holbrook announced him, and the criers knelt on their left knee, their right legs bent. They hid their faces on their right knee. Nicholas stared at them for a moment, a sea of red-covered backs, all of them thin and frail.
This task was too important to trust to small boys.
He almost said something, then changed his mind. Small boys had been criers as long as Nicholas's family had ruled. People found comfort in tradition. Now was not the time for change.
The boys had left a path for him that led to the throne. He swept past them, his robe flowing behind him. The chamber was warm and smelled faintly of little boy sweat. He reached the throne and paused for just a moment in front of it.
This throne was made of wood. It had small swords carved in it — the Roca's sword by the size and placement with the point tip downward. The arms were carved as well, and at their edges were grooves for his fingers. The seat was depressed slightly as was the back, ostensibly for his comfort. He would have preferred a cushion or two.
He would have preferred to kneel with the boys.
But he turned and took the throne as he would every day for the rest of his life, sinking into place, and understanding for the first time why these things were set on daises. The tiny platform this throne was on was barely high enough to make him tower over the children.
When he was settled, he nodded at Lord Holbrook.
"All rise," the lord said.
The boys got to their feet. They all studied him, their pale blue eyes holding identical expressions of fear and curiosity.
"I know it is unusual for you to speak directly to the King," Nicholas said. The cloud seemed to lift from his brain and he felt clear for the first time since the meeting. "But I felt this important enough to give you your annou
ncements directly. Lord Holbrook has already told you about the King my father's death. We will be sending you to the far reaches of Blue Isle to make certain all the people hear the news officially."
The boys watched him, but they were well trained. Their thin chests rose and fell as they took shallow, nervous breaths, but they did not move. No shuffling, giggling or lack of attention which he would have expected. These boys had ceased being children long ago.
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