They already had privacy. The Fey were hiding in their cabins. No one was outside. No one at all.
His grandfather shook his head. He was too impatient to go inside. He wanted Coulter now. Gift could feel that. He could feel and see it in the blackness surrounding his grandfather.
His grandfather reached for Gift, but Gift slid away.
"Find the boy, Gift," his grandfather said.
Gift shook his head. Coulter had saved his life. They all knew that. If Coulter thought it best to hide from his grandfather, Gift wasn't going to question it.
"Gift," his mother said, "it might not hurt."
"Look," his grandfather said. "The Islander servant stole Coulter from Shadowlands. It's not safe out there for us. He'll die."
"He's not Fey," Gift said. "He told me."
His grandfather sucked in a breath. He frowned for a moment, then the expression disappeared from his face. He crouched in front of Gift. "It's still not safe. He's never left this place. He doesn't know the world."
"He's strong," Gift said. "He can take care of himself."
"Gift," his mother said. "Your grandfather is only asking for help to find him."
With both of them against him, Gift couldn't fight. At least not directly. "I don't know how to find him," Gift whispered.
"Sure you do, boy," his grandfather said. "You're Linked."
"He may not, Rugar," his mother said. "He did come to his talent very young."
The frown was back, but so small his mother probably couldn't notice it.
"Maybe the Shaman could help," Gift said.
His grandfather slid out a hand so quickly that Gift couldn't get away. The touch sparked Gift's Vision, like it did before. Gift saw all the Links: the one between him and his mother, three others leading out of Shadowlands. Those Links were all white. But a fifth Link appeared, black and ugly, and faded. It had clearly been severed.
There was no Link between him and his grandfather. None at all.
That lack gave Gift courage.
"I think," he said quietly, "the Shaman should help."
His grandfather let go of him, apparently unaware that Gift's Sight had changed. The blackness was rolling around him, as if it were ready to explode.
"I won't see the Shaman," his grandfather said. "You will find him. Now."
"I can't," Gift said.
"Gift," his mother said. "Your grandfather has been very good to us."
Gift didn't agree with that. His grandfather only came by when he wanted something. He squinted at his grandfather. "You don't have the magic to make me," he said.
"Oh, but I do," his grandfather said. He grabbed Gift by the shoulders, and his touch sent waves through Gift's body. They were bound somehow. Not Linked, but connected through their magic. His grandfather's magic was gone, long gone, but enough remnants remained to trigger something within Gift.
For a moment, Gift clung to his grandfather. Then Gift's consciousness slid down one of the white Links leading out of Shadowlands. Gift could feel Coulter's terror along that Link, and he saw bits of light as he traveled, protective light.
"Good," his grandfather said. His eyes were wide. Gift pulled himself away, stumbling against the wall, but it felt too late. His mind was still traveling along the Link. If his grandfather touched him again, his grandfather would see Coulter's trail as clearly as Gift did.
Gift closed his eyes, touched the wall, and felt very far away from his body. He concentrated as hard as he could, and when the Links merged in the Circle Door, he jumped from Coulter's Link to another.
The Link Gift landed on felt old and familiar. He skidded down it fast, his mind traveling along the pathway as it had done a thousand times before.
But never consciously. He never remembered doing this journey. He only knew he had done it.
If he looked back along the Link, he could see the Circle Door closing, and farther beyond that, he saw his grandfather and mother crouching over his collapsed body. His grandfather was about to touch him as the Door closed.
Gift suddenly found himself in a room made of stone. Everything was bright here and warm. He was leaning against a woman who held him tightly, crooning to him. He felt as big as he did at home, too big to be held, but it felt good nonetheless. There were square holes in the walls, and someone had placed fabric on those holes. A crib stood in the middle of the room, and in it, a baby girl cooed.
His sister.
He remembered her.
He patted the woman's hand and walked to the crib. He was about to peer down when he felt another presence in his body. His grandfather's consciousness pushed him aside. Gift's head swiveled and he toppled over, landing with a thud on the floor.
The woman cried out something in a language he did not understand. A cat came over and sniffed him. His grandfather made the body recoil. The cat had a cool expression on its face as if it saw something it disliked. It made a whoofing noise through its nose, then backed away, hair rising on its neck.
His grandfather cursed. Then he grabbed the part of Gift that had traveled down the Link.
Take me to Coulter.
Gift shrugged. The body responded, shoulders scraping on the floor. I thought he was here.
You lie, boy. I'll find him. His grandfather slid along the Link, heading toward the Circle Door, toward the place where Gift had split away. Gift closed his eyes and stretched out on the floor. His grandfather would not find Coulter, not without Gift's help. And for the moment, Gift wasn't leaving.
He knew this place. He had been here before. It had been safe here. He used to come here in dreams. It was his secret place.
Now his grandfather knew about it.
But at least he hadn't led his grandfather to Coulter. At least he hadn't done that.
His friend was safe.
Gift was safe.
For the moment.
FIFTY-FOUR
Matthias's hand throbbed. Titus had cleaned it and wrapped it, but the pain in the palm was excruciating. He wasn't certain if he would be able to use it again.
He was sitting in the big Sanctuary, directly beneath the Roca's sword, the large sword that hung point down from the ceiling. In this room five years ago, he had discovered the blood that made him believe a Fey had infiltrated the Tabernacle. In this room, he had conducted hundreds of Sacraments.
Hundreds.
As a representative of the Roca.
And now he was the Roca's representative in Blue Isle. The Roca's representative to the world. Beloved of God.
They had called him a murderer.
But they had been trying to kill him. The Fey had attacked him in his sleep, not once, but twice.
The Auds were cleaning his rooms now, getting rid of the spilled holy water and the blood. All the blood. Someone had told him there was a body of an Aud on the balcony.
The young boy who had guarded him.
He hadn't even heard the boy die.
And that, apparently, had been before their dreammaker invaded his mind.
He sighed and rested his head against the wooden edge of the pew. The air smelled faintly of holy water and candles. He had lit a few candles after he had come in, then asked not to be disturbed. He couldn't go to the old Rocaan's worship room, not after what Burden had said.
A magical being. Impossible. Burden had to be trying to invade his mind, trying to drive him crazy as a punishment for Jewel's death. Matthias had never been magical, had no idea, really, what Burden meant.
But ever since he had discovered holy water's properties, he had helped make it. His hand had been on the weapon from the beginning.
At first he had thought that beginning was going to be the last moment in his life. He had been terrified, certain he was going to die, and unwilling to. The Fey had trapped him in the servant's chapel. He was the only Islander left alive in that room. And when he had seen the holy water, he thought it would save him. As a distraction maybe, but just enough to get him free.
He had flung them at the Fey, all t
he while hoping, perhaps even praying, that the vials would save his life.
They had, in a most hideous fashion. But they had.
All his life he had been accused of being demon-spawn. He had been too tall. In the Snow Mountains, they took children that were born too long and thin, and left them in the snow to die. His mother had refused, and the villagers wouldn't to talk to him, all the while saying he was cursed.
He had to prove to them he wasn't. He went to Sacrament every night, and when the time came, he got his family to sponsor him into the Tabernacle. He spent years as an Aud, studying, wishing he could move up. He had been such a good scholar he had even studied with King Alexander when they had both been boys.
There were only two wishes Matthias never received.
He did not want to be Rocaan.
And he wanted to believe. He had never been able to believe. All his life he served the Roca and believed only that the Roca was a myth, a story, or — at best — an historical figure whose importance was exaggerated over the centuries.
Demon-spawn.
You have no compassion.
At least, not for demons.
He shook the voices out of his head. He was Rocaan. Wasn't that good enough?
Apparently not. And he couldn't forget Burden's face. The Fey kept saying he had no reason to lie. And he was right. He had no reason to lie. None at all.
Except to play with Matthias's mind.
They couldn't kill him. Perhaps that was because he was God's Beloved instead because of magic. The Fey tried to explain everything in terms of magic.
Maybe if he were alone with Burden, Burden would admit that to Matthias. He would admit he lied.
He had to admit that. If he didn't, Matthias would never have any peace.
He couldn't be as bad as those people. He couldn't be. It wouldn't be right. No just God would do that to him.
No just God.
The God he wasn't sure he believed in.
Matthias sighed. His back still ached from Nicholas's knife. They all hated him. Nicholas, Porciluna, the Auds. Everyone, not just the Fey. They all would love him to be something that would interfere with his duties as Rocaan.
Interfere more than his disbelief did.
He shook his head. All his life he had wanted the purity that Titus had shown that afternoon. Titus held the vials of holy water as if they held the spit of the Roca himself. Titus had spoken in awe of each Secret as if he were given a sacred trust.
And apparently he was.
Matthias had been awed by the trust. He had just not seen it as sacred.
He stood and slid into the aisle. The vials of holy water he had taken from his room were in his pocket, weighing down his robe. He wasn't used to walking on bare floor anymore. When he came into this Sanctuary as Rocaan, he walked down a red carpet. Everything was given to him. It was the best position in the kingdom, after the king's itself.
But unlike Porciluna, he hadn't craved the luxuries. He had just accepted them as part of the job. Like the Words. Like the pretense at belief.
Demon-spawn.
Lord Stowe had left a group of guards at the Tabernacle. Matthias had been too tired to argue about it, and uncertain whether he wanted to. It would be foolish to remain vulnerable to the Fey.
Although foolish was how he felt.
He had always felt unworthy of his position. Now people were trying to get him to protect it at the same time as they accused him of misusing it.
Accused him of having magic.
Of being like the Fey.
The idea made him shudder. He glanced up at the sword. He was standing directly beneath its point. The written history of the Tabernacle stated that the Elders had argued about hanging the sword, worried that it would fall on a worshiper. One of the Elders had said that if the worshipper deserved the wrath of God, the sword would fall.
In two hundred years, the sword had remained in place.
Matthias half wished it would fall now. It would save everyone the trouble of dealing with him. It would save him the trouble of thinking about his own future.
You have no compassion.
Not for demons.
He sighed and headed up the aisle. His sandals whispered against the polished wood. When he reached the double doors, he stopped. Carved into the wood were hundreds of tiny images of the Roca's life. One was of the people greeting him with joy.
Joy.
No one had ever greeted Matthias with joy. Not even the old Rocaan who had chosen him.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway. The guards silently flanked him as he walked through the corridor. Never again would he be able to go anywhere alone. Nicholas had thought of a good trick, a great way to keep Matthias in line. Protect him. He wouldn't refuse protection.
Except now.
"I have some private worshipping to do," he said to the guard beside him.
"We will stay outside the room as we did before," the guard said.
Matthias shook his head. "I walk."
"We'll follow," the guard said. "As far behind as we can not to disturb you."
Matthias shook his head. He didn't need to try too hard. It didn't matter if they followed him or not. The loss of privacy would be the price he paid for protection.
At the moment, his hand throbbing at his side, he was willing to pay that price.
He left the Tabernacle without telling the guards where he was going. The morning air was fresh and clean, blowing in from the west, from the Stone Guardians.
As the Fey had done.
The sun was out. Its light was bright. The birds were chirping overhead and the river gurgled playfully. Except for a few blood spatters on the tiles, there was no evidence of violence here from the night before.
Matthias clasped his hands behind his back and went through the gate. He walked quickly as if he were surveying his domain. People who recognized him bowed to him and backed away as was appropriate, but they did not show joy.
And why would they? He had never given joy in return.
But neither, to his knowledge, had the Roca. The life of the Roca himself was only revealed to them in small incidents, small stories. Perhaps the stories of joy had been left out.
Matthias walked past the reeds beside the river, and saw places where they had been crushed. Perhaps the Fey had hidden there as they planned to attack him. Or perhaps a fisherman had taken a nap beside the water. He was looking for enemies everywhere.
The enemy is with us always, within ourselves.
He cringed as that portion of the Words Written and Unwritten rose unbidden in his mind. That was what Burden had said in a different way — that Matthias was just like the thing he hated.
The foot traffic on the bridge was heavy this morning; women crossing with children at their sides and baskets on their backs, men carrying tools and pouches. Auds passed him on horseback, not even noticing him, and King's guards rode in the opposite direction, greeting the guards that followed him.
Except for the occasional greeting, Matthias felt as if he were invisible to all who passed him, as if he didn't matter at all.
He wasn't certain he liked that feeling.
The bridge seemed longer than it used to, and the walk took more effort. He hadn't walked across it since the Fey came. He had ridden, of course, but never walked. He used to enjoy the bridge — its masterful engineering, the wide wooden surface that the bridgeworkers kept clean and in good repair. He had forgotten the view, how the waters of the Cardidas sparkled below him, how the sun felt warm against his head and shoulders. Since the Fey had come, his life had been the Tabernacle, being Rocaan, and defeating them.
Sometimes he felt as if he were the only person who concentrated on defeating them instead of accepting them. No one else seemed to realize that the Fey wouldn't stop with acceptance. They wouldn't stop until the entire Isle was theirs.
Demons. Evil, evil demons.
Just like he was.
If Burden was right, if M
atthias's desire had somehow changed the purpose of holy water, then he would be responsible for all the deaths.
Every single Fey death since the Invasion.
He shook his head as if he could dislodge the thought. A woman leading a little girl carefully across the boards frowned at him. He probably seemed crazy. He felt crazy.
He was terrified. Now that the old Rocaan was dead, he had no one to talk with, no one to confide in, no one who believed in him. He didn't even believe in himself.
Fey 02 - Changeling Page 55