Early that morning, Tel had awakened with the knowledge that he had to speak out about Jewel's death. He had gone to the head groom, Tapio, who had urged him not to get involved. When Tel insisted upon being involved, Tapio had pointed him to the Master of the House, who had sent him to the Second Assistant to the Lords, who had sent him to another assistant who had finally led him to Enford. Enford had listened silently, left Tel alone in that tiny room, and now had come back with the news that the King would see him.
Guards stood in front of large double doors. Tel clenched his hands. He had heard that anyone who got close to the King got tested with holy water. If they tried that with him, he would run. He would run and then he would lose his comfortable home.
But the guards nodded to Enford and two of them pushed the door handles down, sliding the doors open to reveal one of the largest rooms Tel had ever seen. Ancient spears lined the walls, looking almost decayed. At the room's far end, a throne stood on a dais. Behind it was a coat of arms. Tel had never seen that before.
Two swords crossed over a heart.
Curious. If Rugar had known that somewhere in their past the Islanders had had a military tradition, would he have attacked this place?
Probably.
Rugar had believed that he was invincible. And, until he had arrived on Blue Isle, he had been.
A man moved in the corner, near the curtains hanging on either side of the dais. Tel hadn't seen him at first because the red of his robe matched the red curtains. He recognized the King — indeed, had spoken to him many times — but something was changed about him.
The King looked older. Decades older. His face was lined, his eyes weary. His hair, which he normally wore in a queue like Enford did, was hanging free. His movements had a quick, odd nervousness to them, as though he wasn't concentrating on anything, even walking.
"What now, Enford? We have the lords any moment."
Enford bowed. Tel did the same.
"Forgive me, Sire," Enford said. "But I believe this groom has something you need to hear."
The King peered at Tel, but remained on the dais. How odd to be in a room alone with the King. There should have been guards inside. Perhaps there were. Perhaps they had secret hiding places, like the guards in the throne rooms at L'Nacin.
"You're Tapio's assistant," the King said. "Ejil, is that correct?"
Tel was both astounded and flattered that the King remembered his Islander identity. Especially with all the trauma and turmoil of the last week. "Aye, Sire," he said. "Tis sorry I was ta hear of yer wife."
The King waved a hand, dismissing Tel's comment. "I trust you didn't ask for an audience to give me your condolences."
"No, Sire." Tel walked down the long runner in the center of the room. He stopped at the stairs below the throne. The King looked down on him. "I came because I saw something the day yer Queen died that I think ye need ta know."
Lord Enford stopped beside Tel. "I agree, Highness. I would not have brought him here at this moment, if I didn't believe you needed to hear this before you spoke to the lords."
The King's shoulders went up and down in a sigh he released quietly. If Tel hadn't been trained to watch the bodies of others, he would never have noticed the movement.
"Very well," the King said.
Tel bit his lower lip. He had learned all sorts of bad habits in this body. He licked the lip, then swallowed. "Sire, on that day, twas Rocaanists what arrived first. I was takin their horses. Twas what the Rocaan was doing what stopped me."
The King was watching him now, eyes hooded, expression guarded. He didn't move at all.
"Afore they went in," Tel said, "they took them holy water bottles from their pouches. Twas an Officiate what pulled a white cloth from his pouch and said, 'Here it is,' flashing it at the Rocaan. The Rocaan nodded."
"They were supposed to bring the cloth," the King said. "It was …."
He turned his head away, then brought his right hand to his face. With his thumb and forefinger, he rubbed his eyes.
"It was," Enford said, keeping his gaze on the King to see if he should speak or not, "it was to protect the Queen during the ceremony."
"I know," Tel said. "But that's the odd thing. Twas already kept in the pouch with the Officiate's holy water. When he put the cloth back, twas three vials he put on top of it."
The King brought his head up, but his hand remained in place, fingers open as if expressing the shock he would not allow his face to express. "What?"
"When he put the cloth in the pouch, he put three bottles on top. All holy water." Tel's throat had gone dry again. Didn't the King understand? Was Tel going to have to spell it all out for both of them?
"Those vials are stoppered," the King whispered. His gaze was on Enford's. "Sometimes water leaks."
Enford nodded.
Suddenly the King's movements were focused. He came down the stairs and stopped so that he was standing across from Tel. "You're saying the Rocaan watched this?"
"Aye, Sire," Tel said. "Twas he what started it. He got em all lookin for that cloth. He dinna say nothing when he saw the Officiate put it under the bottles a water."
"I need you to be very clear here," the King said. "You are telling me that the Rocaan sanctioned this."
"I dinna hear him give permission, Sire, but he watched it and he dinna say word one. If he dinna like it, he coulda got a new cloth or something."
"God's will." The King spat out the words. "God's will with the help of Matthias."
"Highness," Enford said. "There's no proof. It could have been a simple mistake."
The King whirled. His eyes, dead a moment before, had a spark within them. "If you believed it was a mistake, you would have not brought this man to me."
Enford said nothing. He continued to meet the King's gaze levelly.
"Sire," Tel said, "yer wife was a good woman. She dinna deserve this. But I wouldna a said a thing if I thought twas an accident. But with that check, with the way they was talking, t'all seemed on purpose ta me. Even then. I thought what they done was strange, but I dinna know how twould end up."
The King nodded. "Thank you," he said. Then he took Tel's hand. Tel suppressed a wince. "I cannot thank you enough."
Tel dipped his head, trying to be courteous. He had one more thing to say, and he had thought all morning about the way to phrase it. "Forgive me, Sire, but tis one more thing I gotta say. I know twas the Old Rocaan what picked this one. And I know he done because he thought twas right. But Tapio — the head groom, sire — he says a man shows himself when he talks ta his horse, and well, that new Rocaan, he dinna talk ta his horse. T'all. Tis as if I could give him a brown mare taday and a black stallion tamorrow, and he wouldna know the difference. Tis not ta say he's cruel ta the animal. He just doesna seem ta know anything outside himself, Sire."
The King was frowning slightly. A blush was building in Tel's cheeks. So many small incidents he could relate, incidents he had seen in the Tabernacle. Incidents that didn't seem important then, but did now.
But he couldn't say anything about them. He had seen them when he wore a different body, the body of an Elder. A groom would never have seen these things. It was a situation he had not been in before. The Fey had always known what he did, how he changed himself. The Islanders never would.
"Are you saying I should forgive him for what he's done?" the King said.
"Nay, Sire!" Tel actually took a step backwards. "I think tis a betrayal of the worst kind. Ye and yer lady ye trusted him. Ta attack her in yer celebration, and at a time a peace is a crime that canna be outdone. I guess what I'm saying, Sire, tis that this might be something ta thinka. I dinna believe that he thinks beyond himself. If the time comes agin where he sees a need ta act according ta his lights, he will. Sire."
The King nodded. "You're a good man, Ejil. I understand you spent a lot of time getting to me. I appreciate your candor."
Tel knew a dismissal when he heard one. He bowed. "Tis glad I am ye took the time fer
me, Sire."
"No," the King said with a firmness Tel hadn't heard before. "I'm the one who is pleased. Come to me whenever you need something. I will see to it personally."
"Sire," Enford said.
The King waved his hand to silence Enford. "I mean that, Ejil."
"Thank ye, Sire." Tel bowed again, then backed away. The King returned to his throne. Tel turned and walked out of the room, his heart pounding with relief.
He had survived this. He had been able to avenge the Black King's granddaughter, and he had been able to strike a blow against the Tabernacle.
It was time to become Ejil the groom fully and completely.
Tel would never be Fey again.
THIRTY
Nicholas sat on the steps and buried his face in his arms. The darkness did not soothe him. Nothing soothed him, except his infant daughter.
Arianna looked so much like Jewel. She had Fey qualities, qualities that would make her more than an Islander, more than a Fey, if Solanda were to be believed.
Arianna was the thing that kept him moving. If he didn't resolve all of these crises, her parents' people would forever be at war.
"Highness," Enford said in a shocked voice. "The Lords will be here shortly."
Even Nicholas's stomach was trembling. His eyelid twitched, something it had never done before Jewel's death. He sat up, pressed his right forefinger against the offending lid, and looked at the near-empty audience room.
He had no answers.
The Lords would want him to make decisions.
The simple gut reaction was easy. He would go to the Tabernacle himself and slit Matthias's arrogant throat. Murder his wife, would he?
Murder.
Nicholas stood and walked to the throne. He ran his hands along the carved back.
Two murders.
Some Fey — some male Fey — had killed his father.
Matthias had known.
Jewel had known.
Only Nicholas had not wanted to believe.
But if Matthias had just given it some time, he would have learned that Jewel was on his side. Jewel had wanted to find the killer as much as Matthias had.
Jewel had gone to her old friend Burden.
She had suspected someone.
Her father?
What had she said to him that last afternoon?
She had said that he hid.
He hid.
Like an assassin.
Nicholas pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead.
And Matthias had murdered Jewel with trust. He had taken the scheme they had made to save Jewel's life, to allow her to participate in Islander ceremonies, and he had turned it against her.
He too had hidden behind the rituals of his religion.
Behind his God.
"Sire?" Enford said. "Are you all right?"
Was the man a fool? How did he expect Nicholas to be all right after this week? The fact that Nicholas was still on his feet made him stronger than most people he had ever met.
"Sire, we need to discuss what we will do with this news."
"We will discuss it when the others arrive," Nicholas said.
His voice sounded hollow in the large room. Empty, like he was empty. His dilemma was impossible.
And he had promised Lord Stowe answers today.
Answers.
The only answer Nicholas had was to make the Isle safe for Arianna. He had only one way to do that now. The threat to his daughter did not come from the Fey.
He walked around the throne and sat on its carved wooden seat. He put his hands on the chair's arms, fists gripping the ends. "Send pages for the Lords. If they're not here within the next few moments, we will start without them."
Enford looked up, the surprise clear on his too-thin face. "Sire?"
"I gave you an order, Lord Enford. I expect you to carry it out." Nicholas's tone was imperial. It was a tone he had never used, a tone his father had used only rarely, a tone he had learned from his grandfather — a cold harsh man who had never had time for anything but his Kingdom.
Nicholas would have time for Arianna.
But he had to be cold and harsh to get through this next few days.
Enford frowned, peered at Nicholas as if he didn't recognize him, then scuttled from the room. Nicholas kept his grip tight upon the chair arms. He held himself rigidly, holding his body in place, his emotions at bay. He would get through this afternoon. Then he would get through the next day and the next until Arianna was safe.
Until the Isle was safe.
And he would do it through the strength of his own will.
The doors opened and Lord Stowe entered. He bowed, revealing the bald spot on the top of his head. Since Nicholas's father had died, Stowe's brown hair had turned grayer — not the light silver of a distinguished man, but the gray of a man who worried too much. He stood, clasped his hands in front of his robe and walked to Nicholas's side.
"Enford says you wish to start early," he said.
"I have pressing matters," Nicholas said.
Stowe nodded, as if that were enough. He was cleaned up from his ride the day before, but his features were still haggard. He looked as if he had not slept much, if at all, since he had returned.
The doors opened again. Lord Fesler came through, leaning on a cane. In the last week, his hands had started to shake, and fine webbing lines appeared on his face. The age Nicholas had never been able to determine was becoming clear. Fesler had been a contemporary of Nicholas's grandfather, although most forgot that. His work as a lord had been relatively routine until the Fey arrived. Then the stress had seemed almost too much for him. This week had to be especially hard.
Lord Miller followed him. Miller was still wearing his riding clothes. His boots trailed mud onto the clean floor. Miller was the youngest lord and, until Nicholas's ascension, had not taken his duties very seriously. It still looked as if the perks of lordship interested Miller more than being lord itself.
He bowed to Nicholas, and Fesler did as well, barely bending at the waist, as if his back pained him.
"Forgive me, Sire," Miller said. "Enford said you wanted to meet now. I was planning to change."
"I don't ask formality of my lords," Nicholas said. At least not now. Protocol was the last thing on his mind.
Miller looked around for a moment, and, seeing no chairs, took his place beside Stowe. Stowe glanced at Fesler.
"Sire," Stowe said. "May we get a chair for Lord Fesler? His joints have grown swollen and sore in the last few days."
"By all means," Nicholas said. "There are chairs in the back room. Take one."
He stressed the word "one." He wanted his lords uncomfortable for this meeting. He wanted them to forget young Nicholas whom they had teased and Nicholas the tragic king whose wife was murdered at his coronation. He wanted them to think of him as King. So much King that they would forget that anyone had ever come before him.
Now that he was concentrating on his grandfather, his grandfather's words were coming back to him. When you become King, boy, everything will rest on you. If you do not remember this, you will lose all you have gained. You will harm Blue Isle more than you will help it.
Nicholas didn't know if his father had lived by these words. He doubted it. Although he wasn't certain. His father had become a different man after the Fey arrived. His response to the invasion had been confusion, and he had allowed Nicholas's wishes to supersede his at the marriage with Jewel, but Nicholas was no longer certain that was a mistake. If the marriage failed, it could have been blamed on Nicholas's youth, not on the King's bad decision making.
Stowe disappeared into the back. He spoke to the guards there, and then he and a guard emerged. The guard carried a chair and placed it near the stairs. Fesler sat in it, then sighed softly, as if just standing had been too much for him. He set his cane across his lap, and held it, flush against his stomach, as if he were going to use it as a weapon.
The doors opened again. This time Lord C
anter entered wearing a robe finer than the one Nicholas wore. Canter's hair was cut perfectly square, ending below his chin in a fashion that had just begun before the Fey arrived, and had been adopted by some of the fighting men. Canter's cut was always precise as if he had his man trim it every day. His robe rustled as he moved, the gold embroidery adding sound as well as weight, and his slippers shuffled across the floor. His hands were white and well manicured, unlike Stowe's, which still bore the stress of his trip, or Fesler's, which were cramped and swollen with pain.
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