Matthias went white. "The Rocaan knew about my feelings."
"I don't care about what he knew. He's dead. What you feel is between you and the Holy One. As far as the rest of us are concerned, you will be the model Rocaan. An entire nation relies on you. You will never speak this way again." Nicholas was shaking with the force of his words. "Do you understand me? Never!"
Matthias took a step backwards. He opened his mouth and then closed it. Finally he said, "Yes, Sire."
"And one final thing," Nicholas said. Somewhere along the way he had stopped clenching. He was now using his right index finger as a weapon, waving it in Matthias's face. "My wife will be beside me at the coronation. Should I die young, she will be regent, and should it be determined that Sebastian cannot reign, she will choose the person to govern in his stead. You may serve under a Fey Queen. Get used to the idea, Matthias."
Matthias's eyes were wide. His lower lip trembled. "Sire, I —"
"No more," Nicholas said. "I have heard quite enough from you. More than I ever want to hear. I had to suffer through your lectures when I was a boy, listen to your prattle as a teenager. I am king now. I don't have to listen to you ever again."
Matthias tilted his head. He no longer looked defeated. He looked angry. "Are you through?"
"For now." Nicholas gripped the back of the throne, hoping the solid wood would steady him. Matthias whirled, the skirts of his robe swirling around his sandaled feet. He couldn't seem to get to the door fast enough.
"And Matthias," Nicholas said.
Matthias stopped but did not turn around.
"The coronation will be held in the palace."
"It is tradition to hold the coronation in the Tabernacle."
"But you do not believe in tradition. Make the arrangements with Lord Enford. And do not question me again."
Matthias grabbed the door handle and let himself out. Nicholas buried his face in his hands. He was shaking so badly that he was afraid to move away from the chair.
He would have to debrief the guards himself. Then find a way to recover from Matthias's announcement. Nicholas had nothing left to believe in, nothing left to hold.
Except himself.
EIGHT
The fire was warm. Gift sat on a braided rug before the flame, watching the sparks fly up the chimney. The sparks looked like tiny Wisps floating to freedom. His parents were Wisps, but they were only tiny when they needed to be, when they used their magic to make themselves small points of light.
He remembered what it was like touching those lights. His pudgy fingers throbbed with the memory. He knew better than to touch fire.
The rest of the cabin was cool. His mother sang in the other room. She was making lunch. She wasn't as good a cook as the Domestics, but she believed that the family should eat together, without others around them. She believed many un-Fey-like things. She didn't let him out of the cabin very often, saying he was too young, but he had heard her tell his father that Gift shouldn't play with the other children. They would taunt him and give him bad ideas.
There weren't that many other children in Shadowlands. There was Coulter, who was two years older, and who scared Gift. Then there were a few other children Gift's age, and a handful of babies. That was all. Not enough, according to his mother, to form a good, healthy community for a special young boy.
He didn't mind. His parents kept him busy. They made him do exercises, sing songs and play games with his mind. Exercising his magic, they called it, but as far as he could tell, he didn't have magic. No one had magic until they grew tall and thin. Little boys had no magic at all.
He was supposed to be exercising his magic right now. He was supposed to be thinking about the braids on the rug, how they had been woven by Domestics to bring out the power in a room. Then he was supposed to think about his clothing, and maybe concentrate on the fire itself. Domestic magic day, his mother had called it, and his father had laughed.
"That boy will never have a Domestic's magic," his father had said as he left the cabin. "Not with his heritage."
They didn't think Gift understood "heritage," but he did. When they used that word, they were talking about the place they had taken him from. The place with the stone walls, and the bright fire, and the strange looking woman with the shadow on her face, the woman he had known as nurse. When they flew him over all the bright lights, wrapped in his warm soft blanket, they had taken him from a place of extremes — black and white, red and green, yellow and orange — to this place of grayness, where everyone looked like everyone else.
Something about Gift was different, and it had something to do with that place. The other children had been born into the gray. He had been born into the light.
His mother came into the room with two steaming bowls on a tray. She was slender and tall like the others who lived in Shadowlands, but she had blue wings that folded against her back, and made it uncomfortable for her to sit in chairs. She was light compared to Gift, and she had once told him that was because her bones were hollow.
"Wisps are fragile," she had told him. "Most don't survive their childhoods."
The idea had so frightened him that he had nightmares. Finally, she had to tell him that he would never be a Wisp. His body was too solid, his bones too strong.
"But you and Dad are Wisps," he had said. "How come I'm not?"
"Because," she had said with the same smile she always used when she explained such things to him. "You're our Gift."
The answer made no sense to him.
She had that smile now as she stood over him, looking down at him fondly. "You weren't exercising, were you?"
He shook his head. "The fire's too pretty," he said. "You see the little lights? They look like you and Dad."
She set the tray on the kneeling table, then sat on the cushion beside the rug. Her wings unfolded just a little, their thin blue edges rustling. She peered into the fire, looking with interest at the sparks rising through the chimney.
"I would hope your father and I are bigger."
"You are," Gift said. He moved closer to the table. It was their smallest table, made of wood and spelled to keep food hot. The soup was in black ceramic bowls. The broth was clear, but the meat was white and finely cut. The steam smelled of sage.
"You have no interest in the rug?" his mother asked.
Gift looked at it. He knew it had been given them just recently by a Domestic, but he didn't know why. Now he was beginning to understand. "The strands are just strands," he said.
His mother nodded. She had long ago given up asking him where he learned his words. She and his father had decided part of his magic was the ability to know language, and to speak it well. "Beyond his years," they would whisper to anyone who asked. "Gift is beyond his years."
"You have no interest in Domestic things, then?" his mother asked.
Gift shrugged. He picked up the bowl. The ceramic was cool to his touch, although the soup's steam wet his face.
"I like the way spells work," he said. "I like that the table keeps food hot and the bowls don't burn hands. I like my bed and the way it makes dreams come."
"But you have no interest in creating such spells?"
Gift slurped some soup. It was warm and delicious. The broth had a chicken taste, accented by the spices. He set the bowl down and wiped his mouth with his hand.
"Gift," she said in her "mother" tone, although he didn't know if she was referring to his manners, or to the fact he had yet to answer her question.
"Anybody can make rugs," he said, knowing she wouldn't like that answer. So he added to it: "I want wings."
Her smile was indulgent. He liked that smile too, although he never told her that. That smile was just for him. She never used it for anyone else, and when she used it for him, he knew that he had done something right or cute or important.
"You know you can't have wings. You would have to be born with them."
"If Domestics can make rugs, how come they can't make wings?"
&nbs
p; "Gift," she said, picking up her own bowl. "All the magicks are different. Everyone is born with a special talent. Sometimes it just takes a while for the talent to become obvious. Sometimes the talent is clear from the beginning, like wings."
"How come you and Dad have wings and I don't?"
"Because each person is different, Gift. We didn't choose to have wings any more than you chose not to."
"Who chose to bring me here, then?"
His mother set her bowl down. Soup sloshed on the table, but she didn't seem to notice. "What do you mean?"
"You said I'm different. Is it because I was born somewhere different? Not here in the Shadowlands?"
She licked her lips. He had not seen this glazed expression on her face before. "I wasn't born in Shadowlands, either," she said finally.
He had never heard that before. "Really?"
"Really," she said. "Your father wasn't either. Shadowlands is a place, like the place you were born is a place. I was born in Nye, which is far away across a great sea. Where you were born doesn't make you special, Gift. Who you are, and what your talents are, make you special."
"But you always say stuff about my heritage."
"Your heritage." The steam had stopped rising from her bowl. She didn't seem to notice. She leaned back on her hands, her wings closing tightly against her back. "Your heritage means your talents, Gift."
He frowned. That wasn't right. She always meant something else when she said heritage. But he wasn't going to argue. Not yet. When his talents came, then he would ask how he got them. Sometimes people treated bigger kids with more seriousness, not because the kids were smarter, but because they were larger.
His mother stared at him for a moment, then she picked up her soup and drank too. He finished first, set down his bowl, and burped. Then he pushed up from the rug. He needed to run, to move a little. He had been sitting all morning.
"Gift." His mother set her bowl down. "I want you to sit for a little longer. Your grandfather will be over this afternoon."
Gift let himself fall back onto the rug. He put one arm over his eyes. "Does he have to?"
"He hasn't seen you for a long time."
That was good as far as Gift was concerned. He knew that Grandpa Rugar was the reason they had this cabin and all the wonderful things, but Gift didn't understand why that meant Gift had to be nice to him. "So?"
"He likes to check on you."
Gift shrugged. "He can check when I'm sleeping."
"Gift!"
Gift glanced at the door as if Grandpa Rugar would come in any moment. The door was closed, as it always was. "He isn't nice."
His mother set her bowl down. Then she put her hands on her thighs in her listening mode. "What do you mean?"
"He talks mean to you."
This time, her smile was faint, the smile she often had for his father when he said something she didn't like. "He runs the Shadowlands."
"That doesn't mean he can talk bad to you."
She furrowed her eyebrows. "What do you mean by 'bad,' Gift?"
"He thinks I can't hear him, and then he says that you should know what I can do by now. He says you don't train me hard enough, that I should have more magic than everyone else combined. He makes it sound like me not doing what he wants is your fault." Tears filled Gift's eyes. He rubbed them with his fists. He wouldn't cry like a little baby.
"He just has high hopes for you, honey."
"He wants to use me."
His mother's lips parted slightly, then she closed them and bit the lower one. Finally she asked, "What makes you say that?"
"Because he said so."
"When?" Her eyes looked unnaturally bright.
"The first time he saw me." Gift's fists were wet. He wiped them on his legs and watched the moisture bead on his pants.
"Gift, you were just a baby. You can't remember that."
"Can too," he said.
She reached over and took his hand, not seeming to care that it was damp. "You can remember what happened to you when you were very little? Is that how come you can remember words and sentences so well?"
Gift shook his head. "I always knew words from the time you flew me here. Words are like breathing. I just know them."
"And how do you know what your grandfather said?"
"I remember. Like I remember that we had cake for breakfast. I remember." The fact that she didn't believe him bothered him. His mother had to believe him. She knew everything about him.
"You remember." She said the phrase as if she were trying to convince herself. "Do you remember what happened the first time you came here?"
"You had a Domestic give me warm milk and then you held me in my blanket until I fell asleep."
She nodded, squeezed his hand, and then let it go. "Why haven't you told me this before?"
"I have," he said. "You just explained it away. You would think I was being cute or something."
"Gift," she said slowly, "I've never heard of this." Suddenly she pulled him close. Her arms were tight around him. His face was pressed against her soft breasts, the faintly sulfur smell of her, familiar and safe.
He struggled to pull free. She had never done this before. Finally, he pulled back far enough to see her face.
"Have I done something wrong?" he asked, his voice small.
She shook her head. She studied him for a moment. "I just don't think we should tell Rugar. I mean, what could he do? It's not like you have a power. It's not like you could be tested for this."
He frowned. He shouldn't have told her. Somehow his knowledge of his past made everything different.
Then she nodded, as if something had been confirmed. "We won't mention this," she said. "You won't tell your grandfather."
"I never tell him anything anyway," Gift said. He didn't quite understand. If he had planned on telling Grandpa Rugar, he would have done so already.
She grabbed his hand and squeezed. "I'm sure you don't," she said.
Then she let go, got up, and picked up the tray. "Your grandfather will be here real soon now, Gift. Do you need a nap first?"
"No." Gift picked at the rug even though he wasn't supposed to. She hadn't said anything about Grandpa Rugar's statement that he wanted to use Gift. She hadn't said anything at all. "Will Daddy be home soon?"
"No, honey. He has river duty today."
River duty, country duty, sky duty. They were all words that Gift didn't completely understand but that had something to do with his parents' long disappearances. All the grown-ups in Shadowlands had jobs to do. Some of those jobs just kept them away from their homes for a longer period of time.
His mother said he was lucky because at least one of his parents remained with him at all times.
Dishes rattled in the back room. The cabin was small compared to the Domicile and his grandfather's cabin. His parents slept in the back room with the dishes and cookware, while Gift had a tiny room all to himself. The cabin was square. The main room, the fireplace room, was the largest in the place. Gift's was the smallest. His parents couldn't stand up inside it unless they turned to light and reappeared very small.
Maybe he should go to his room. Grandpa Rugar wasn't a Wisp. He didn't have wings. He wouldn't be able to become small.
Gift got up. His eyes felt crusty from the tears. He rubbed at them again. The conversation with his mother made him sad, and he didn't know why.
"Mommy?" he said. "I'm going to have a nap anyway."
"All right," she called from the back.
But before he could cross the rug, the front door opened. Grandpa Rugar let himself in, and hung his long black cape on one of the pegs hanging beside the door. The cape itself scared Gift. The cape always moved. When he was really little, he thought it was alive. But he had never seen it breathe, so it just had to have extra magic.
"Little Gift," Grandpa Rugar said. He didn't smile or crouch like other adults did. He stood by the door, looking down on Gift.
There was a bang in the back room. Gift's
mother came inside the main room.
"Rugar," she said, sounding breathless. "You're early."
"And not unwelcome, I hope," Grandpa Rugar said.
Gift pushed his lips together. He wouldn't answer that one. He wished he had had the extra moment to go to his room. If he did so now, his mother would yell at him.
"Say hello to your grandfather, Gift."
Fey 02 - Changeling Page 9
