"Go back to your work," Nicholas said. "I'm sure one small girl won't make the difference between a clean hall and a dirty one tomorrow."
"Aye, Sire." The Master shot Charissa one more angry glance and then walked into the hall.
The corridor was empty except for the two of them. Nicholas stayed close to her, so close she could feel the warmth of his body. "He's not treating you like the last Master did, is he?"
"Tis a good man, he is," she said.
"You'd tell me if he was treating you badly?"
"Aye," she said. She felt bold, leaving off his title, but she did so in her mind as well. He didn't seem to notice.
The silence stretched long between them. No one came into the corridor. It was as if the rest of the staff were hiding from him. Finally, he said, "Where were you off to before I came?"
"Tis supper for Group Five."
"Group Five?"
"They're feeding us and making us sleep on shifts. Beg pardon, Highness, but twas a lot of work in that hall."
"I imagine," he said, but that I-don't-care tone was back in his voice. "Well, let me join you."
She ran a hand through her hair. "Ah, Sire, ye wouldna like the food. Tis just bread and cheese."
"I've had bread and cheese before," he said.
"But twould be in the kitchen."
"I was eating in the kitchen on the day of the Invasion." His eyes had a faraway look. "Actually in the pantry, just after dawn."
"Why?"
"Because," he said, and then he looked at her, really looked at her. The faraway look left his eyes and she knew he wasn't going to say what he had originally planned to. "Because sometimes I liked to hear kitchen gossip."
"There'd be none a that tonight. Just whining. The work n all."
"Yes," he said. "The week has been hard for all of us."
Then she understood all he had been saying. He lost his da. His da. The man who raised him. And everywhere people were congratulating him, and making it easier for him to be King. When she lost her da, she had cried for days. She didn't have to have a ceremony or make decisions.
That Fey woman probably didn't understand. Twas said they had no heart, those Fey.
"Ye poor thing," she said, taking his hand. "Here I am prattlin on about silly things and yer havin a gloom night. Come ta the kitchen. Tis sure I am they'll make ye feel like one a us."
"And put me to work?" His smile seemed real for the first time since she saw him.
"A little good scrubbing never hurt no one." She dragged him with her, and he let her, catching up to her in two strides. Her fingers were entwined with his, and he didn't let go. His hands were soft except for a few calluses in the middle of his fingers. Certainly not the hands of a man who spent his days polishing silver.
Most days, only the household servants ate in the kitchens. The rest ate in the servants' wing or near their own quarters. For the past few nights, however, the cook had set up extra tables in the main section of the kitchen, near the stairs, and worked almost continuously to keep the staff fed.
The kitchen was Charissa's favorite room in the palace. It was large, with a vented ceiling, and always smelled of food. The hearth fire burned continuously and the stoves were often warm. The last few nights, the kitchen had been an oven itself, especially in comparison with the Coronation Hall.
As they walked through the pantry into the kitchen, Nicholas dropped her hand. They still entered side-by-side, a Queen and her consort, knight and maiden, King and wench.
She didn't like the last. She wished it weren't true. Maybe, on this night, it wouldn't be.
"Lor, tis his Highness," someone said, and everyone in the room bowed.
The cook on duty was one Charissa had not seen before, but the group of twenty people spread over the tables was her friends from Group Five. Lis was with them. She had her head bowed, but she was watching Charissa from the corner of her eyes. Lis probably remembered the question Charissa had asked about chamber maids and Kings.
"Please," Nicholas said. "Please go back to what you were doing. I don't want to be King tonight."
Heads came back up, but no one ate. They all seemed to be waiting, to see what Nicholas would do next.
"Tis hungry His Highness is," Charissa said.
"Let me just have what you're having." Nicholas slipped into a chair, then pulled one out for Charissa. He sat at a table with Lis, one of the window washers, and one of the scullery maids. Charissa sat beside him.
The cook brought him a plate heaping with cheese, sausages, and freshly baked bread. One of the chamberlains brought a glass of mead.
Nicholas grinned at the cook. "You've always done this to me," he said. "I said I wanted what everyone else was having. That didn't mean all of their food. Just the same portions."
For a moment, Charissa held her breath before she realized that he was joking. The cook seemed to know it. He smiled.
"I canna treat ye like that, Sire, and ye know it. Ye been tryin this since ye was wee, and it dunna work."
Nicholas moved the food off his plate onto the plates of those around him. "Maybe after tomorrow I'll order you to treat me like everyone else when I come into the kitchen to share a meal."
"Twould be hard ta do, Sire," the cook said. "Still and I'd have ta be talking to the chef and all. They'd be thinking I dinna respect ye."
"Well," Nicholas said. "At least someone respects me."
Charissa frowned. Everyone respected him. At least, everyone she knew. Although they did question his choice of a wife. And they all knew about his son. God's punishment for sleeping with a woman who was evil.
Nicholas's plate was nearly empty. He had left one slice of bread, three slices of cheese and one piece of sausage. The rest had gone to the others. Charissa hadn't had sausage since she left home. She placed hers on the bread and bit into it eagerly.
"Sides," the cook said. "If I dinna feed you right, no one else'd get extra. And the girl, she needs it."
Nicholas gazed at her fondly. Charissa suddenly wished she hadn't taken such a big bite from her sandwich. "No," he said. "She looks good just as she is."
She set the sandwich down and resisted the urge to wipe her mouth. Her hands were shaking. She clasped them and held them in her lap. It was her time now. That Fey woman had treated him wrong, had not shown him enough sympathy, had not helped him with the death of his father. He had come looking for Charissa. He needed her.
Lis kicked her under the table, and Charissa started. She glanced at Lis who mouthed, "Thank him."
A heat built in Charissa's face. "Thank ye, Highness," she said, although she wasn't certain if she felt grateful, honored or blessed.
The pastry chef came up from the pantry carrying empty trays. He stopped when he saw Nicholas. "Again, Sire?"
Nicholas shrugged. "I have had a lot to think about."
Charissa watched them, not understanding.
"When me wife died," the pastry chef said, "I dinna sleep for half a year."
"The same happened to me mum," the cook said. "She dinna sleep either and when she did, the dreams made her wake."
"Tis said Fey can grab a man by the face and make evil dreams," said one of the washer women. Then she went ashen. "Beg pardon, Sire. I dinna mean harm."
Charissa felt her shoulders tense. Now he would yell at her. He would yell at them all.
"No harm taken," Nicholas said. "My wife says that's true. She says the Fey who can do that are called Dream Riders. Sometimes the dreams they give are good, sometimes bad."
"Canna she help ye dream?" the cook asked.
"Of course she can," Nicholas said. His grin had broadened to a leer. "Just like your wife can."
The men in the room laughed. Charissa didn't like the warmth in his voice when he spoke of that Fey woman.
"Sire," the pastry chef said. "There's women present."
"Fortunately for us," Nicholas said. He piled the cheese on his bread, and ate quickly. Then he took his cup of mead and cradled i
t. "Someone want the rest? I can't eat any more."
After a moment, Lis took the sausage. Charissa finished her own sandwich, listening to the banter continue around her. The kitchen staff knew Nicholas, and knew him well. When she had met him all those years ago, he had been in the kitchen with the remains of a meal before him. He must have been coming to the kitchens for comfort and sustenance long before she ever had a conversation with him.
Charissa had just finished her sandwich when the chef glanced at the hourglass. The sand had almost worked to the bottom.
"Ye'd all best be finishing. Group Six is coming."
He didn't have to speak twice. Chairs slid back, dishes got stacked, and the last of the mead finished. Nicholas was the first to stand.
"I'd best be getting back myself," he said. He thanked the kitchen staff, then he turned to Charissa and took her hand. He bowed over it. "Thank you for the dinner invitation. I suspect this night will be the highlight of my week."
Her cheeks grew warmer. Everyone was staring at her. She almost pulled her hand away, but couldn't. Nor after this public good-bye could she find time alone with him outside the kitchen.
"Yer too kind, Sire. Tis me who should be thanking ye."
He let go of her hand, stood, and waved. Then he disappeared through the pantry. She couldn't follow him. She didn't dare. Besides, he had made it clear that he wanted to go alone.
"Wouldna wanna be him now," said the cook.
"Tis thankless. And him always hopin ta be like the resta us." The pastry chef set his tray down on the counter near the ovens. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
Charissa cradled the hand he touched with her other hand. Her skin tingled. "Why na?" she asked. "He's King now."
"Tis na something he wanted."
"The boy liked fightin," someone else said.
"We'd be dead if'n na for him," said one of the women who tended the hearth. "He helped Cook and the others fight in here."
"In the kitchen?" Charissa had heard that Nicholas fought. She always imagined it something glamorous, in the streets, perhaps, but not here.
"That woman, his wife, she near ta killed him right where ye are now," the cook said to Charissa.
"She near ta killed him?"
"Aye," the cook said. "They met sword ta sword. Even match, even then."
Charissa shuddered. "Tis no great wonder then why he canna be with her."
"Be with her? Girl, dinna be so sure a yerself. The boy loves her, he does." The cook said. "Methinks tis his curse."
"Loves her? But tis said twas done ta stop a war." Charissa had always believed him reluctant.
"Her idea. An his. Both das said twas wrong. But they dunnit anyway. And ta see the looks they have for the other. Tis love. Always was something." The pastry chef opened one of the brick oven doors. The heat in the room rose.
"Group Six," someone said.
"Aye, and tis trouble we'll be in if'n we're not back soon," said Lis. "Let's go, Charissa."
She nodded. She wasn't sure she wanted to hear more of this conversation, not after feeling his soft touch on her hand. She wanted to dream about him. Maybe, now that he was King, he would come to her more often.
Lis paced her as they left the kitchen. They dropped back from the others and Lis took her arm. "He dinna see more than a pretty wench when he looks at ye."
Charissa shook her arm free. "He talked ta me before. He says he will guard me. Tis a promise years old, and still he mentions it. Na me."
"A promise to a serving maid. He's King, Charissa."
Charissa straightened her shoulders. "He always liked me."
"And always will. Ye'll never be more than an afternoon's fancy."
"Ye do na know him. Ye work for Enford."
"I know enough," Lis said. "Ye asked me history. History built that ugly Hall we clean, and history rules him like he rules us. He canna do more than tumble with ye. Ta do more is ta deny history."
Charissa bit back her first response. Lis was trying to help. "We ha na tumbled. Tis a friendship, na more."
"Good," Lis said. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Cause all he'll give ye is a babe. And I dunna wanna be near his wife when she learns ye gave him a bastard. The woman has killed fer less."
"She'll na kill me," Charissa said. "He'll see to that."
"I hope yer right," Lis said.
FIFTEEN
The stables were clean, and smelled of horses and fresh hay. Tel took a deep breath. The stalls were empty, waiting. The King's — the former King's — prized stallions were in the other stable near the servants' quarters. Tel had done most of the work himself. Two of the other grooms had been taken indoors to help with the cleaning of the Coronation Hall. Tapio, who had become head groomsman after everyone learned of Miruts' death, had worked as hard as Tel to make the stables and the yard clean for the Coronation guests.
The day had dawned clear and beautiful. The sunlight sparkled on the raindrops scattered from the night before. The rain had been a light one, leaving the ground damp, but not muddy. Tel and Tapio had been able to move the stallions without worrying about grooming them again.
Tel had volunteered to stay with the stallions, but Tapio wouldn't hear of it. Tel had become Tapio's most valued assistant, a liability on a day like this.
Tel swept the last bit of hay away from the stable doors, then propped them open. Soon the sun would reach its midway mark, and the guests would start arriving for the ceremony. Tel wanted to be gone when they did.
He had thought of disappearing altogether, but he had come back to the stable because he loved it here. Here he could deal with horses and not think about his life. Most of the time, he even forgot he was Fey. He got up at dawn, tended the horses, and went to bed long after sunset. The job didn't leave time for thinking, and he liked that. He looked like an Islander, but he wasn't.
He was a Doppelgänger, a special tool in war. Doppelgängers used the blood of a kill to absorb the life force out of a victim and to, in essence, become that victim. They absorbed the victim's memories, the victim's culture, and the victim's appearance. Tel had been a groom before, but years ago had been ordered to learn the secrets of Rocaanism. He had become an Elder in the Tabernacle and had been present on that horrible day the old Rocaan died. His fellow Doppelgänger, the one who had overtaken the old Rocaan, had melted in a long drawn out way. Only Tel's appearance, and his luck, prevented him from dying that day.
That had been the last straw. He didn't want to return to Shadowlands where he would be ordered to go back to the Tabernacle. So he came back to the stable, where he had been happy, and absorbed another groom. He had lived here, as an Islander, ever since.
If the Fey discovered that he still lived, his punishment would be unspeakable.
Tel didn't want the Fey to catch him, nor did he want to change again. His last change had been particularly horrible. He had snuck onto the palace grounds, still looking like the Elder. Then he had killed a servant, bathed in his blood, and grabbed a young groomsman. The groom screamed as Tel leaped on him like a spider, wrapping his legs around the man's torso to hold his position, his elbows into the man's neck to brace his arms. Tel stuck his fingers in the groom's eyes and his thumbs in the groom's mouth, prying the teeth open and pushing hard against the back of the throat.
Then he pulled and pulled and pulled until the man's essence broke free and fluttered between them for a moment like a frightened child. Tel bit into the mist and sucked it inside, feeling rather than hearing the man's screams. Then he felt his body mold and twist and expand until it became the body of the groom, slender, square, and Islander.
The body between his legs and arms vanished, and he nearly lost his balance before remembering to put his own feet on the ground. The bones clattered to the ground. He sat on a bale of hay as his personality melded with the groom's.
Images mixed in his mind, memories not his own. In those last moments, Ejil — the groom — had thought Tel a dem
on, come to steal his soul. He had not been far off.
Tel had been weak when he took over Ejil, and he felt a bond with the boy he had never felt with any of his previous victims. Sometimes Tel woke at night, apologizing as if Ejil were there. Tel owed Ejil a lot. He had lived Ejil's life for nearly five years, and they had been the best five years Tel had ever had.
But now he had to be careful on two fronts. Last night, Tapio had told him that the Rocaanists would come early. Then Tapio had told him that Jewel's family would be coming. The Rocaanists could kill Tel by accidentally brushing him with their holy poison. The Fey could spot Tel — any Doppelgänger — by looking closely at his eyes. Transformed Doppelgängers look like their hosts, except for the gold flecks in the pupils. Those were the only distinctively Fey markings left, and all that was needed.
Fey 02 - Changeling Page 18
