If the Fey caught him, it would be worse than the instant death he would suffer from the holy water. If the Fey caught him, the Shaman would speak his punishment. Tel had seen a Doppelgänger punished for abandoning his duties just once. The Doppelgänger was forced to go through a dozen Nye prisoners, changing into one after another in rapid succession until his own being broke under the strain. Then he was whisked away by the Spell Warders to be used in their strange and secretive experiments.
No one ever heard from him again.
Tel would rather live out the rest of his life as a short, square, blond Islander groom with no prospects than ever be Fey again. He had had enough. Perhaps if he had stayed on Nye, was able to pick a body he liked, as some of the older Doppelgängers did, and remain in it for decades, he would have been content. But here, if Rugar knew he was alive, he would be changing bodies every few months, always ahead of the Islanders, always dodging their holy water poison.
As a groom, he had none of those concerns. He rarely saw the religious, and he could choose whether or not to go to the Sacraments. He had found his own way to live the life of a Doppelgänger in peacetime. Denying his Fey heritage wasn't as hard as he thought.
"Ejil." Tapio emerged from the stable. His short hair had a piece of hay in it, and a black streak marred his light skin. He was younger than most of the grooms by a considerable ways, but he had been Miruts', the King's, and the Prince's favorite. He was also the best man for the job. "Twill be soon before they come. We need ta change."
"Twould be nice if the others was here. Tis the Fey I dinna wanna see."
Tapio nodded. "Ye think any of us do? If I let ye go, I let all go. And I canna. Besides, if we can serve the Princess, we can serve her da."
"The Queen," Tel said, correcting him. The thought of Jewel being Fey among these people had always intrigued him. When she came to the stables, he watched her from a distance. She always seemed so sure of herself, even though things weren't going exactly as she had planned.
"Right." Tapio shook his head. "We get one of them as Queen now."
Tel almost grinned. Tapio would be surprised that his best friend and best grooms was "one of them." "Still, someone has ta be with the stallions."
"The stallions are alone each night. A day will na hurt em."
They had had this same argument earlier. No matter how many times Tel tried, Tapio always had an answer for him. "All right," Tel said. "You change. By then the others will be here, and I'll go."
"Be back on time," Tapio said. "I need me best man with strange horses." Then he walked toward the servants quarters. Orders had come from the House that all grooms were to wear their best clothes, and to polish their leather boots. Tel and Tapio had polished their boots the night before, trading stories and rubbing to get each scratch and nick off the material.
The other grooms had already returned from the palace, but they still had to get their clothing in order. Tel had never seen such fuss. The Fey did not have a ritual for transition of power. The Black King died, and his firstborn took over. It was that simple.
And that complex.
If the firstborn was nowhere near the Black King, the honor went to the secondborn. When the firstborn returned, the secondborn would stand aside. The Black family could not kill each other without causing huge ruptures in the magic. But what was good in theory rarely happened in practice. More than one Black King had ordered a member of his family killed. One Black Queen had ignored the edicts and slaughtered her entire family. That action had nearly destroyed the Fey.
Jewel's brother Bridge was probably already preparing himself to take the Black King's place. It would take a miracle for Jewel or Rugar to be at the Black King's side when he died. That left Jewel's brothers, boys who had been little more than babies when the ships sailed all those years ago.
Tel plucked a piece of straw and used it to pick at his teeth. There were disadvantages to these bodies. The teeth actually deteriorated, and aging was not a pleasant prospect. Most Doppelgängers aged by choice, picking a body and staying with it. Tel could find someone younger, but then he would have to learn a new job and find a new place in this strange world.
Guards shouted to each other across the courtyard. Tel glanced at the sun. It was closer to midday. In a few hours, the afternoon would be by, and he would be able to go about his business. All he had to do was be cautious now.
The gate came up on the palace's east wall, and in rode six Danites, followed by five of the ten Elders, and the Rocaan himself. Tel had been an Elder and had been at the meeting when the old Rocaan had announced the name of his replacement. Matthias had not been a popular choice.
But no one could tell it today. Matthias looked regal in his flowing red ceremonial robes. Tiny filigree swords hung from his black sash and another silver sword hung from his neck. His biretta rose from his curls, making his height seem even more unusual. His cheeks were flushed, his blue eyes sparkling. Tel had seen that expression before. Not when the Rocaan had chosen Matthias — Matthias had not wanted the position — but some other time, an older time, in a memory Tel stole, a memory not his own.
He would reflect on it later. He was the one who had to deal with the Rocaanists' horses.
His throat was dry.
Behind the Rocaan came several more Danites and two Officiates. Tel had never seen Officiates travel together before. They had probably come to make certain the Rocaan performed the ceremony correctly, that the exact holy pieces were in place.
Two of the other grooms appeared. One was still tying his white blouse. They glanced at Tel, obviously expecting him to approach the Rocaanists.
He had no other choice.
He licked his lips. They were chapped. He hadn't noticed that before. It was as if the dryness from his throat had moved outward. His heart was pounding, his breath coming in small gasps. He had survived days in the Tabernacle, as an Elder, near that poison constantly. He could survive moments near the new Rocaan.
The Rocaan dismounted, followed by the Elders, Officiates, and Danites. Everything was rank and tradition with these people. No room for innovation, no room for spontaneity. Such things normally protected Tel. This time, they trapped him.
His job was to approach the Rocaan first.
The Rocaan, the man who had discovered the evil properties of holy water. The man who would be carrying some now because he was going to Bless a new King.
Tel approached the group, making his way toward the center, toward the most magnificent horse. He bowed his head, hoping his fears didn't show. If the Rocaan were paying attention, the Rocaan would Bless him.
And Tel would melt onto the courtyard, a bubbling mass of flesh, unable to see, to breathe, to survive.
He held out his hand. To his surprise, it wasn't trembling.
The Rocaan slapped his reins in it. Tel let out his breath. Of course. He was too lowly to warrant attention. The fact that both the King and Prince had done so reflected their personalities, not local customs.
He had forgotten that.
"Is there a problem, Groom?" Elder Porciluna asked.
Tel had never liked him. Pompous, overbearing, more concerned with the wealth the church could bring him than the status of anyone's soul. Those prejudices had belonged to the Elder Tel had been, but Tel still shared them. The more he knew about the Tabernacle, the more he understood how men like Porciluna defiled it.
"No problem," Tel said, keeping his gaze averted. It was wrong to call attention to himself. He pulled the stallion forward. He pranced beside Tel, a powerful, delicate piece of horseflesh.
"You'll have a care with that horse," one of the Danites said. "It is the sire of the King's."
Tel knew that. He knew the pedigree of every horse in Jahn. He led it to the stables as the other groomsmen came forward to take the Elders' and Officiates' horses. There was even a ritual order for horses to be stalled.
He focused on his duties; they kept him from concentrating on the religious Islanders behin
d him, and their danger to him. One quick movement while he had his back turned, a sprinkle of seemingly harmless water, and he would be dead.
Dead.
He reached the stable, and tried not to sigh with relief. Tapio had come from his quarters, his blouse brilliantly white, his fawn breeches creased and tucked into his shiny brown boots. He looked important. He winked at Tel as he passed, then went and gathered the lead Danite horses.
Tel used that moment to take the Rocaan's mount into the stable. He led the horse to the big stall in the back, the one normally used for Ebony, the King's stallion. The Rocaan's stallion went inside without a problem. Tel closed the door before the stallion and leaned on it.
He should have realized that the Rocaan would be first to arrive. He was conducting the ceremony after all. In some ways, he was the most important man there.
Tel had made it through. He would survive the afternoon.
And he would be careful to be gone when the Rocaan left.
Tel passed the groom leading the Elders' horses as he slid out of the stable. Another groom had appeared, and was leading the rest of the horses inside. The Rocaan and his people hadn't left the courtyard. They appeared to be checking their pouches. Several vials of holy water glinted in the sun. Tel stopped near the stable door.
Something was odd. They were checking to make certain they had enough holy water. That was something they should have dealt with before they left the Tabernacle.
"There it is," one of the Officiates said. He pulled a small white cloth from his pouch. "Exactly where you asked me to put it, Holy Sir."
"Good," the Rocaan said.
The Officiate put the cloth back into the pouch, and the Danites placed three vials of holy water on top of it. Then the Officiate sealed the pouch and tied it to his waist with his sash. All the others replaced their own pouches as well.
Tel was glad that he was staying in the stable with the horses. He had had too many close calls with the holy poison to ever want to get near it again.
Tapio boarded the other horses, then came and stood beside Tel. "Tis quite the troop, eh?"
"I dinna realize they needed half the church ta make a King."
"Tis na ta make a King. Tis ta get the Roca's approval."
And what would they do for the King's son, had anyone thought of that? The day Nicholas died, who would think that the Roca could not approve a half-Fey child?
It wasn't Tel's problem. Except for moments like this one, he was no longer Fey. He was Islander and determined to stay that way.
"We dinna have room for many other horses," Tel said.
"Tis na a concern," Tapio said. "The Lords have a processional, and the Fey dinna have em."
The Fey didn't need them. But Tel didn't say that either. Instead he watched the Rocaanists follow the path that led to the far side of the palace. No going through the kitchen for them.
"Come on," Tapio said. "Tis time ta tend horses."
Tel sighed. The ordeal was over.
For now.
SIXTEEN
Nicholas's robes were on. His hair was combed and awaiting the crown. The filigree sword around his neck seemed foreign to him. He hadn't worn one since he met Jewel. She had looked at it as if it were an anathema, then smiled faintly at him.
"It won't be for long," he had promised her, and then he had left the room. Her maid was just going in, to put the finishing touches on Jewel's hair.
Finishing touches on most women could take hours. With Jewel, it only took a few moments.
Still, he wanted to be alone. He walked to the top of the stairs, then gazed down the gallery. The chairs leaning against the wall were not comfortable — he had tried to sit in them as a boy, before he learned that they were merely there for decoration — and the portraits themselves were not inviting. The men all had the same face, aged differently and buried in different clothing styles. The women were round and blonde.
Except Jewel.
Matthias had hated her portrait, but Nicholas loved it. He walked over to it and stopped beneath it. The artist had captured her spirit, her fire, the fierceness that made her Jewel. If anything happened to Nicholas, she would be able to defend herself, and their children, and survive.
Pity the children weren't worth defending.
The thought made him freeze. If she had known he thought that, she would drag him into Sebastian's rooms even more often. Sebastian. He had seemed so bright-eyed and eager when he was born. Nicholas had never seen a new-born baby with such alert features. He watched everything, and everyone. The nurse said that new borns never tracked as if they could see. It took time for them to learn to control their vision.
Not Sebastian.
Then after the naming, the tracking ceased. He stopped fussing, stopped crying, didn't seem to recognize Jewel or the nurse when he had seemed to recognize them before. Nicholas hadn't let Matthias Bless the boy with holy water, but sometimes he wondered if Matthias hadn't snuck into the nursery during the night and done something.
The child seemed wholly different after he was named than he had when he was born.
Names have to have meaning, Nicholas. They are the secret to power.
He had insisted on naming the boy Sebastian. There was an order for naming in Nicholas's line, and Nicholas's first-born had to be a Sebastian. Nicholas had lied to Jewel, claiming that previous Sebastians had been great warriors. In truth, they had been nothing more than mediocre kings.
For all his knowing talk in the kitchen the night before, he still did not know or understand Fey. When Jewel had tried to explain her Vision to him, she had radiated a kind of joy. She believed that her Vision showed that they would have a daughter, and the daughter would be what she had promised about their children.
She had never had a Vision about Sebastian. After it had become clear that Sebastian would never be like other children, she had confessed she believed that to be the reason she hadn't Seen him. She should have ended the pregnancy there.
The thought of ending a pregnancy had shocked Nicholas then. He understood it now. He didn't want another child like Sebastian. What he hadn't admitted to anyone was that he saw this second baby as a test. If this child were also deformed, he and Jewel would stop having children altogether.
If the Fey had ways of ending a pregnancy, they probably had ways of preventing one.
Then he would deal with the dynastic concerns on his own. His father had had only one child. Nicholas would have two, but those two might not be the right two.
The portrait of Jewel looked fuzzy. He blinked, wiped his eyes, and the edges cleared. Perhaps Lord Stowe had been right that day so long ago, the day that Nicholas had agreed to Jewel's offer of marriage. Perhaps he had been agreed because he lusted after her. But lust didn't feel like this. He felt lust for that serving girl --just touching her aroused him. But he knew that if he slept with her, the lust would fade, and he would be disgusted with himself.
What he felt for Jewel had never faded. It had become richer, despite the troubles. He valued all of his time with her, not just the sexual time. And whenever anyone spoke against Jewel, Nicholas defended her.
She had been well named. He treasured her above all else.
She would be waiting for him. The entire Kingdom would be waiting for him.
He turned and walked back toward her suite. Outside the nursery, he paused. No sounds came from it at all. He had visited many nurseries of the peerage, and they were never quiet unless the child slept. Babies laughed and cried. Children yelled, screamed and talked constantly.
Sebastian rarely talked. He never cried. And he only smiled for Jewel.
Nicholas pushed the door open. Heat billowed out of the room. Jewel always kept it too hot. The nurse was sitting beside the fire, stitching a tapestry. Sebastian sat on his rug, surrounded by blocks. He held one in his hand and stared at it.
Nicholas slipped inside and closed the door behind him. Sebastian didn't turn at the sound, but the nurse did. She smiled at Nicho
las in acknowledgment of him, then went back to her stitching. The crackle of the fire, and whisper of thread pulling through canvas were the only sounds in the room.
Nicholas couldn't even hear his son breathing.
The boy looked normal. He had Jewel's dark hair and upswept eyebrows, but his face was all Nicholas's. The stamp of the Roca, his father had called it, passed from generation to generation. The boy's body was square and solid, hard as a rock, even when he was a baby. Nicholas had thought that if the boy's baby fat felt like muscle, he would be stronger than any man when he got older. But the boy would never get a chance to prove his strength. He rarely did anything without someone telling him to.
Fey 02 - Changeling Page 19
