Fey 02 - Changeling

by Rusch, Kristine Kathryn

  "Do you think that's symbolic of us?" he asked Jewel in Nye.

  She knew better than to answer in front of Enford. "What happened?" she said softly in Islander. She had learned the language well in her years at the palace, although Nye remained her language with Nicholas. It provided them no privacy: most of the Islanders spoke Nye. It had just become custom between them.

  Enford started to speak but Nicholas held up his hand. "My father's dead," he said in Nye.

  The ache over Jewel's heart dissipated as if it never were and suddenly, she missed it. She felt hollow. Alexander, dead. In an instant, everything had changed. "How?" she asked in Islander.

  Nicholas turned, faced Enford. "Wait until the others come."

  "Under the Mysteries," Jewel said. "I am your wife. This will affect all of us. I deserve to hear before 'the others'."

  Enford's gaze held a wariness it had not held before. "An arrow, Highness. Just one. Through the heart."

  Jewel suddenly wished for a chair. Three days before. She had felt it. She had to have. It took a long time to get to Jahn from the Kenniland Marshes. She had known — but how? "You caught the assassin, then?"

  Enford shook his head. "Lord Stowe and Captain Monte remain in the area with some of the guards. I came back right away."

  She didn't like this. She wasn't that close to Alexander. She shouldn't have known about his death. It should have been as much of a surprise to her as it was to Nicholas. So far he had said nothing about her sudden heart pain. She only hoped that he would not put it together with his father's death.

  She went to Nicholas and took his hand, turning him around. Despite the battles four years before, he was not accustomed to death. She was.

  "You're King now," she said in Nye.

  His eyes were empty. She suddenly saw how Sebastian resembled him.

  Enford had moved discreetly away, standing closer to the door.

  "They will rely on you, expect you to make decisions."

  Finally, Nicholas focused. His blue eyes were wide, red-lined, but dry. "How? He was my father."

  "And their King. It is time to be strong. Later, when they are gone, you can mourn him."

  He blinked, and straightened his shoulders. Enford was still standing by the door.

  "What will happen next?" she asked, her voice soft. She would lead him through this. She owed him that much. Him and the new child. The hope.

  "I don't know," he said.

  "You have to know," she whispered, "or someone else will fill the gap."

  He nodded once, then pulled his hand from her grasp. He took a deep breath, as if he were steeling himself, then he walked to Enford. "This is the wrong room for this meeting," he said in Islander. "We need to assemble in a place with a table and chairs. I don't want my wife on her feet for the hours it will take to resolve this."

  Jewel mentally applauded him. The decision would also keep him from sitting in his father's chair immediately, so that he would look like a reluctant King.

  "Would you please help the servants prepare the Great Chamber? Her Highness and I will follow."

  Enford nodded. "Certainly, Highness."

  He opened the door, and was about to step out when Jewel said, "Take a moment for yourself, Lord Enford, and stop in the kitchen for a bite to eat and a bit of mead. I'm sure you're hungry as well as exhausted after your journey."

  Enford turned so that he could stare at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he allowed himself a tight smile and a nod. She understood his acknowledgment. He recognized the courtesy. She had never used his title before, and probably would not again. But they were putting aside small differences at the moment, differences that would cause rather than ease the crisis.

  "Thank you, milady," he said, returning the courtesy as best he could without insulting his new King. "I will do so after the meeting room is arranged."

  Then he left and closed the oak doors carefully behind him.

  "I can't do this," Nicholas said in Nye.

  She had heard this before, in battle, with Fey who had been trained for years to expect such changes. "You can. You must."

  "Jewel, it may lead to war."

  She didn't nod, even though she agreed. She wanted him to take this one step at a time. "He was killed with an arrow, Nick, in the Marshes. Arrows are not weapons of choice for my people. We have much more devious ways of killing. Have there been assassination attempts on your monarchs before?"

  "None successful." Nicholas's face was paler than she had ever seen it. A slash of red marred one cheek, as if he had been rubbing it.

  "But there have been, right?"

  He nodded.

  "Against your father?"

  "Of course not. Against one of my great-grandfathers. During the Peasant Uprising. A few before that too, I think."

  "So there is precedent."

  Nicholas frowned. "I suppose there is. But why would anyone want to kill my father?"

  She almost started listing reasons: the Islanders blamed Alexander for the Fey's arrival, and for his lack of strength in dealing with the Fey, not realizing that keeping the Fey from overtaking the Isle was a victory. Alexander had made some unpopular rulings in the last few years, from closing trade to outlawing cats. The Islanders had many reasons to hate him. But she said nothing.

  "I don't know," she said. "But, Nicky, we have to examine that as an option."

  He tilted his head and looked at her sideways. "So no one will blame the Fey?" The look was almost sly. She had never seen it before.

  "Do you?" she asked. Her heart was pounding. The only Islander who had ever supported her, the only Islander who had ever believed that the Fey and the Islanders could work together was Nicholas. Without him, she would have to return to her father with her sparkless child and her newborn girl to live in Shadowlands and fight a war they had no chance of winning.

  "I don't think you had any part in this."

  "So you do blame my people."

  He shrugged, turned. "I don't understand why my father would die now. As you said, we have to look at all the options."

  She bit her lower lip. Since they were being as honest as they could with each other, she would try one more question. "There will be objections to me as your Queen."

  His expression softened and he moved beside her, tracing a finger along the fine bone of her cheek. The pull between them was as fine and strong as ever. His people believed their god guided them. Hers believed in Mysteries and Powers. But whatever had brought them together had made it so that the two of them could not resist each other.

  "There have always been objections," he said.

  "There will be more now."

  He put his hand on her stomach, and leaned his head against hers. The baby wasn't kicking now, and Jewel realized that she had forgotten to tell him about her Vision.

  "You are my Queen, and I am their King," he said. "They may not like my choice, but they'll have to live with it."

  "Like you do."

  He kissed her and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't live with my choice, Jewel." His voice was soft, warm. "I depend on it."

  FOUR

  He was the King's contact with the people, but Lord Stowe had never encountered people like this. Most of them lived in wood and thatch huts on the outskirts of the Marshes. Only a few lived in the village, and they looked even poorer than the Marsh dwellers.

  Stowe had taken over the kirk at the edge of the village. The building was made of stone, dug up, the villagers told him proudly, from the marsh muck and blessed by the Rocaan himself. The Rocaan, the religious leader of Blue Isle, rarely left the Tabernacle in Jahn, so it was clear the villagers meant the 50th Rocaan. He had been dead over four years now, tricked and murdered by the Fey leader Rugar when the Rocaan tried to make peace. The old Rocaan had spent his training in the Marshes. Stowe doubted the old Rocaan had much to do with the kirk — the building looked too old even for that — but his heritage probably had a lot to do with the
building's constant use and cleanliness.

  The building was larger than many kirks in outlying areas. It was serviced by a Danite who lived in the village — another rarity since most Danites in an area this small traveled from community to community. This kirk was still made up of a single room, however, about the size of Stowe's entrance hall in his own manor. A dozen pews provided seating for the locals who came to Morning and Midnight Sacraments.

  There were no windows. The walls were covered with a white wash that showed through to the brown stone behind it. The altar was a square table, roughly carved, with slots for holy water beneath. An oversized sword, the symbol of the religion, hung from the wall behind the altar, point downward. The silver reflected the light of a dozen candles. This sword was polished and well loved. When he had stepped close to it, he had noted that it was etched with the words from the Roca's Blessing, ostensibly given before he died.

  Stowe didn't count himself among the believers, although he attended Midnight Sacrament at least once a week. The Midnight Sacrament reenacted the Roca's Absorption. The Words Written and Unwritten recorded that the Roca was a man Beloved of God who, when asked to choose between leading his people into a battle they could not win or slaughtering the Soldiers of the Enemy, decided instead to offer himself as a sacrifice. He cleaned his sword with holy water, ran himself through, and was Absorbed into the Hand of God where he spoke on behalf of his people into the Ear of God.

  Stowe found the idea of the Roca's Absorption a bit preposterous, and the idea that an entire religion could be based on the good words of one man into the Ear of God absurd. But some part of him found the idea of conducting an investigation into the death of the King here, in the kirk, appalling. Obviously, some part of him had religious sensibilities.

  It was not a discovery he really wanted to make.

  Except for the Danite who was still lighting candles, Stowe currently had the kirk to himself. He had spent the last few days talking with the people who dwelt near the road where the King was assassinated. They had seen nothing. For his work here, he was relying on the Danite who knew of several villagers who had made disparaging comments before the King's arrival.

  Stowe was glad for the work, and for the help. He had sent Monte back to Jahn with the body and the news that Stowe would stay until he discovered who had assassinated the King. Finding the assassin kept him from focusing on that moment, that thud of arrow against skin, the soft sound of surprise the King made as he toppled over backwards. Stowe had come into his lordship the same year that Alexander had become King. They had been young men together, ruling a country without the vaguest notion of how to do so, learning together, growing together, making mistakes together.

  Stowe never believed he would be left to go on. Alexander had always had a golden aura. Even when his first wife died, leaving him Nicholas to raise alone, Alexander had done so, finding time for his son as well as managing a country. His second wife had given him no children, but much comfort. Her death had been a blow to him, one he had barely recovered from when the Fey arrived.

  But even the Fey's defeat seemed golden. And the obvious love between Nicholas and Jewel a godsend.

  Stowe had never been able to find a wife, let alone find time to father a child. He had spent his years at the King's side, making the King's wishes come true.

  Now he was here, sleeping in someone else's mud hut, on the marshy ground of a village that smelled of standing water and sewage, hoping to figure out the secret behind his King's death. Stowe had sent Enford back to Nicholas because Stowe was unable to face the boy. Nicholas was older than Alexander had been when he became King, and wiser in many ways, but the boy and his father had been close.

  The news would destroy Nicholas.

  The Danite pinched out the candle he had been using to light the others. The kirk was ablaze in light. The white wash seemed cleaner in this kind of brightness.

  The room was cold, though. The dampness of marshes penetrated here. At least Stowe's borrowed cabin had a fireplace to dispel the worst of the chill.

  "I think we might bring them in," the Danite said.

  "If we're going to interview them, we should do it separately." Stowe rubbed his hands together. They were turning red with chill, even though it wasn't that cold outside. The dampness in the kirk had to be permanent, and probably quite a relief in the summer.

  "They ain't none of them to confess to you," the Danite said. He was a native of the region, and unlike the old Rocaan, had not yet unlearned the dialect. "Twont matter how you approach em."

  Stowe suppressed a sigh. He had set up this meeting on the Danite's suggestion. "Then what is the point?"

  "To listen. To hear what they ain't saying. Silences they can tell you all." The Danite smiled. His teeth were uneven, and one up front was missing. "And if you listen good, you will learn all you need."

  "I trust you will help me with this listening."

  The Danite nodded. "Twouldnta wasted yer time should I thought it would come to naught. Twould be best if some of the questioning I did."

  "Yes," Stowe said. "I think it would." He waved a hand and headed toward the front where two chairs had been placed in front of the altar. "Let them in, then."

  The Danite pushed open one of the double doors and gestured the people outside to come in. About a dozen people straggled inside, men covered with mud to their hips, and women whose skirts were patched and mended so many times that the original fabric was unclear. They looked older than Stowe, although he realized as he watched them move, that many were younger. One woman had a boy in tow, and he had a large boil on his neck. All of the people were so thin they looked skeletal, and only a few had bathed within the last week.

  The stench they brought with them was so great Stowe had to swallow twice to keep from losing his breakfast.

  They watched him as they came in, keeping their gaze on him even as they scattered into the pews. Now he understood why the pews had no cushions — the stench would remain.

  The Danite closed the door and walked up the aisle toward Stowe. The people sat toward the back in groups of two and three. The Danite stopped beside Stowe.

  "His lordship Mr. Stowe," the Danite said, looking at Stowe.

  Stowe nodded his head in greeting. The villagers did not bow or even nod as was the custom in Jahn. They continued to stare at him, eyes bright in their mud-covered faces.

  "I trust you all heard about the horrible murder," the Danite said. "His lordship Mr. Stowe he wants to talk about it."

  "Ain't none of us done it," said a man in the back. His hair stuck up on the sides, and his face was so mud-covered his skin looked dark as a Fey's.

  "He ain't sayin none of us did," the Danite said. "But we got to find out what happened."

  "Can't see why," the boy with the boil muttered, and his mother immediately pressed his head against her breast.

  "Why?" the Danite said. "You all know why. Twas our king that died."

  "Not our king," said the man who had spoken before.

  Stowe straightened. He had yet to take the chair that he had set for himself, and now decided he wouldn't. These people were astonishingly forthright. "Who is your king, then?"

  "Don't got one," said the man. He jutted his chin out as he spoke to Stowe as if that gave him extra strength.

  Stowe opened his mouth to argue, but the Danite brushed against him.

  "You follow the Roca. The King what died is a son of a son of a son of the Roca. Same family, you know."

  "The Roca does more for us than any king ever done," a woman said. She was sitting on the opposite side of the kirk. Her face was clean and her hair pulled back in a neat bun. Her skin was unlined, but Stowe could see where age would tug it. Exhaustion had already given her the look of a woman used up.

  "Yeah," said the man who had been speaking for the group. "We was going to tell the king that when he come. But he didn't."

  "He was assassinated on the way here," Stowe said.

  "A
nd I wager yer here ta blame us," the woman said. It was as if she and the man had been chosen to speak for the group.

  "No," Stowe said. "I'm here to see if you have any knowledge that can help me. Have you seen any strangers about? Any Fey in the vacinity?"

  "Fey?" The boy turned his head so that he could see his mother. Still, his whisper carried across the room.

  "Them creatures as to why we ain't seen no one from Jahn all these years," the woman said in a whisper just as loud.

  "They've never seen Fey," the Danite said. "The war is a myth down here."

  It took all of Stowe's diplomatic skills to keep from angrily responding to that. He took a deep breath, then said, "The Fey are not a myth. They nearly destroyed Jahn and the outlying areas. It is a tribute to your King that you have never seen Fey. In Nye, the Fey rule."