"Shadowlands," Scavenger said.
"It's breaking," Coulter said.
The light expanded and with it, Adrian thought he could hear screaming. They were far enough away that none of the pieces fell near them. It was some kind of trick that even made them feel close.
"We've got to go back," Coulter said. "Gift's in there."
Scavenger put a hand on his arm. "We can't do anything. It's dangerous to even get close."
A black cloud formed overhead and suddenly the three of them were being pelted with tiny gray pieces, as hard and sharp as ice. Adrian pulled his hat over his face. The pieces hitting the skin hurt. They tinkled as they fell on the ground.
"Let's get out of here," Adrian yelled.
They ran off the road under some trees. The branches prevented the worst of the gray matter from hitting them. Through the holes in the leaves, Adrian could see the light emanating from Shadowlands grow brighter.
"We gotta get Gift," Coulter said.
"We can't," Scavenger said. "I'm sorry, son. We can't."
The gray pellets fell like hard rain. They looked eerie in the growing light.
"What's happening?" Adrian asked.
"It's shattering," Scavenger said.
"Clearly," Adrian said. "But why?"
Scavenger shook his head. "Usually Visionaries just dismantle Shadowlands. They don't explode it." He frowned. "Except —"
His voice trailed off as if the thought were too horrible to contemplate.
"Except?" Adrian asked.
"Except when they die."
"Someone built Shadowlands?" Adrian asked.
"Rugar did," Scavenger said. "He built two of them."
"What happens to the people inside?" Coulter asked. Tears were running down his face. He was clutching a branch to his chest as if it were a life raft.
Scavenger shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I just don't know."
SIXTY-NINE
The Elders sent him away from the Audience Chamber. They wanted to have a private conference.
Titus left the Tabernacle altogether and found his favorite spot beside the Cardidas. He used to come here in the days after he had seen the Old Rocaan die. The water comforted him. It always made him think the Words Written and Unwritten embodied in the Midnight Sacrament:
Without water, a man dies. A man's body makes water. His blood is water. A child is born in a rush of water. Water keeps us clean. It keeps us healthy. It keeps us alive. It is when we are in water that we are closest to God.
Those words had comforted him after the Old Rocaan died. They had seemed right especially when it was holy water that killed Fey. But now water brought him no comfort. He watched the river rush away from him, and it felt like the moments of his life.
He had seen one Rocaan die and another denounce his faith in God.
Now the Elders were deciding whom the newest Rocaan would be. And either he would have to approve that choice or oppose it by not giving the new candidate the Secrets, thereby becoming Rocaan himself.
Even the vote might not be legal. The Council of Elders should have ten men. This one only had eight.
He felt as if he were hiding. There were more people on the river than usual. A group of men were fishing across the water, and some boys were playing along the banks. Some women were washing clothes at the bend west of him.
He was sitting among the weeds and mud near the edge of the bank. He was wearing an old robe, one he often used to sit beside the river. His feet were in the water; it was cool against his toes — a perfect counterpoint to the warm sun. Summer was just around the corner. He welcomed it and its calming heat. This spring had been too difficult for him.
The Rocaan's leaving had been even more difficult.
Titus was terrified of what the Elders would do. He was afraid they would elect Porciluna, and if they did, he would refuse to hand over the Secrets. The man wasn't right to be Rocaan. Titus knew it deep. Titus wasn't the right choice either, but at least he believed. At least he cared.
Something snapped above him. He started and looked into the sky. A gray square had appeared where there had been none before. He had expected thunderclouds, not a long box that extended as far as the eye could see.
Another snap and then a crack. Light extended through holes in the box.
He scrambled up the bank. This was something Fey. Something horrible. The men and boys across the river were yelling and pointing. Cracks spiderwebbed up the box's sides until the gray matter splintered and fell away. Then the bottom came out and boats dropped from the sky.
Not boats.
Ships.
A wall of water smashed into Titus, knocking him flat. Suddenly he had water in his mouth, his nose, his eyes. He clawed for the surface, and found it as suddenly as it had disappeared. The water receded, only to form another wave. He scrambled even farther up the bank and noticed the women scrambling as well, sliding in the mud and water.
Some of the men were in the churning river screaming for help. Bits of wood surrounded them. The ships were sinking and gray matter fell like rain from the skies.
He ran all the way to the road, coughing and sputtering, his entire body covered with mud. Other people were reaching into the water when the next wave hit and it swept them in. He started screaming himself — for help. They needed tons of help — but he wouldn't get near the water again. Those precious moments under the river were too long.
Toward the west as far as he could see, ships were sinking. Fey ships. Parts of the gray box remained in the sky, but it looked like pieces of a child's puzzle, jagged and incomplete.
The waves were smaller now, small enough that he could get close to the edge and see if he could help. More people were arriving all the time. Dozens of Auds and Danites from the Tabernacle were already at the waters' edge. He climbed back down the bank, his sodden robe hampering his progress.
When he reached the bottom, he extended a hand to a woman trapped in the mud. She grabbed and he pulled. After a moment she broke free.
"Respected Sir," she said. "What have we done?"
He looked at the ruined ships. The Fey would never get off Blue Isle now.
"I don't know," he said. "Maybe our prayers finally reached God's Ear."
SEVENTY
Gift sat on the steps outside the Domicile. Ever since his mother had been injured, he felt as if he had spent his entire life here. He had gone inside with his father each day, but only for a few moments. His presence seemed to disturb his mother. Whenever she saw him, she started to cry, and the Domestics would make him leave. Her hand was bandaged, and she had to lay on her stomach so that her shattered wings would heal.
They weren't sure if she would ever fly again.
His father was inside now. Gift no longer minded. His grandfather had left the Shadowlands a few days ago, and Gift felt a little safer. Every few hours, though, Gift would walk to the Circle Door and then past his grandfather's cabin. He wanted to know when his grandfather returned.
Gift would protect himself and his family.
He didn't know how, but he would.
Suddenly the world spun. He recognized the feeling. This was his Vision. But in the Vision, he saw the Circle Door and his grandfather's house, and no one helped his mother.
He had to stay here.
Large thunderous cracks resounded through Shadowlands. Fey came out of their houses and looked up. A Domestic came onto the porch.
"By the Powers," she said. She put her hands on Gift's back and pushed him forward. "Get out. Get out while you still can."
She turned and shouted the same message inside, then ran past him down the stairs. The ground was shaking. Bits of the sky were falling, revealing a startling blueness above. Fey were screaming.
Screaming.
The Warders cabin collapsed as the Warders ran outside. The porch that Gift was standing on was coming apart. Domestics poured out the door, running toward the Circle Door.
Gift already knew what wa
s happening there. Fey were trampling each other trying to escape. As the Domestics ran, their feet punched holes in the ground. Mend fell through one of the holes, screaming.
Another Fey started screaming near the side of the Domicile. Pieces of the sky were landing on people. They couldn't move or they would fall through the ground to the green below.
His father scooped Gift in his arms and tried to lift him. But Gift wasn't a baby any more. He was too heavy.
"We have to get out, Gift," his father said. "Shadowlands is coming apart."
Gift shook his head. "Mom —"
"She told me to get you out of here."
The creaks and groans, cracks and screams, thuds and cries were overwhelming. Bits of the sky were flying around him, hitting people and cutting their faces.
"No one will help her," Gift said. "She'll die."
"I can't lift her," his father said. "She's too heavy."
"Make her grow small."
"She can't. She's hurt too bad. Let's go, Gift, before we all die."
Gift pulled free. He tried to go in the door, but more Domestics were coming out — Weavers and Menders and Builders. There was no way he could go in.
The buildings were collapsing. The Domicile was one of the few that remained upright, but it wouldn't last long. His father had grown small and was hovering around Gift's head, shouting in a tiny voice. Gift ignored him. They wouldn't get out that way. Already Fey were dying near the Circle Door. Fey were dying under falling pieces of sky. Fey were dying as they fell through the ground.
Shadowlands had to stay together.
Gift reached out with his mind and grabbed the corners of his world. He held them up with all the strength he could find. His father was still shouting, people were still screaming, but the smacking thuds had stopped.
He closed his eyes and imagined Shadowlands as it was. He rebuilt the holes in the walls, replaced pieces in the sky, and patched the chasms in the ground. In his mind, he walked around and tested each part of the Shadowlands, making it stronger than it have ever been.
The screaming stopped.
He opened his eyes.
There was carnage all around him. People lying under slabs of gray matter, or large boards. Bodies flattened. Wounded moaning. But the ground had stopped trembling. The blue holes were gone from the sky, and a mist was rising.
The buildings were ruined.
Except for the Domicile.
The Fey in the doorway had stopped running. Gift pushed his way past them. His mother was on her bed, propped up on one arm. She cried out when she saw him. He ran to her and put both of his arms around her. She held him so tight he thought he would never breathe.
"I thought we were going to die," she said.
"We would have." A voice came from above. Gift looked up. The Shaman was nodding at him. "He repaired his grandfather's work."
"Gift?" his mother's voice trembled. "Gift rebuilt the Shadowlands?"
"I had to," Gift said. They were acting as if he had done something wrong. "No one wanted to save you. It would have fallen on you."
His mother pulled out of the embrace. "Oh, honey," she said. She cupped his face with her good hand. She looked sad. "Oh, baby, you don't know what you did."
"I saved you," he said.
"No," the Shaman said. "You saved us all."
THE CHANGELING
(One Week Later)
SEVENTY-ONE
The farm looked tended. Adrian stood to the side of the road and stared at it. The fields had been turned and the dirt, rich and brown, had long furrows in it. The fence was in good repair and his favorite grove of trees remained, although they were taller than they had been since he left.
"Are we here?" Coulter asked.
Adrian nodded. He couldn't bring himself to go any farther. The air smelled of manure and seedlings. If he followed the road, and rounded to the back of the farm, he would get the scents of last season's hay, chickens, and the pigs that his brother always insisted they keep.
Home.
It hadn't changed at all.
He swallowed the lump in his throat. It was mid-day. Everyone would be inside for a short rest before working the remainder of the afternoon.
"Well, then," Scavenger said. "I guess this is it."
He hiked his pack over his shoulder and turned around.
"No!" Adrian said. "Wait!"
Scavenger stopped. They hadn't discussed what would happen now. Adrian just assumed Scavenger would stay with them. Adrian couldn't imagine wanting to return to the woods. Not now, not after the explosion of Shadowlands.
When they had realized what was happening to Shadowlands, the three of them took off at a run. The Fey were pouring out of their hiding place, and would soon overtake them. For two nights, the three traveled off the road, because of all the injured and frightened Fey. Then, as quickly as it all happened, it ended.
Scavenger spoke to one of the Fey who was turning back. She said she had heard that Shadowlands was repaired. Scavenger couldn't believe she would return after it shattered from under her, but she had smiled at him, and told him that she felt safer in Shadowlands than she did around the Islander poison.
Scavenger was still looking at Adrian expectantly.
"I thought you were going to come with us," Adrian said.
Scavenger smiled, but it was a sad smile. "Around Islanders? You think they'd want me?" His tone said he didn't.
"I think they will if I tell them what you did," Adrian said. "You can't go back. There's nothing in the woods for you."
"Except my house."
"I want you to stay," Coulter said.
Scavenger looked at the boy. Adrian watched them. The two were more alike than they thought. Scavenger didn't fit in the Fey because he lacked magic, and Coulter didn't fit with the Islanders because he had it.
"All right," Scavenger said. "I'll stay. Until it becomes clear that I can't any more."
Adrian nodded. He understood that. He also knew that he could make his family accept Scavenger if he had to.
He took a deep breath and then started across the road. Scavenger and Coulter kept a few paces behind. A tapestry moved on the south window, and then it moved again. A door slammed, and suddenly Luke was running across the road.
He was yelling his father's name.
Adrian couldn't wait any longer. His son was alive and coming for him. He ran to Luke and they embraced, his son squeezing him, lifting him off the ground, and whirling him around.
When Luke finally set him down, Adrian stood back and looked for the years he had missed. Luke was taller and broader, resembling Adrian at the same age. A sadness had built around his eyes and a fear around the corner of his lips. Adrian brushed those with his thumb, wishing he could wipe them away.
"They said you tried to murder the Rocaan, that the Fey put some kind of spell on you. I was afraid maybe the King would kill you."
Luke shook his head. "The King was good to me. He understood."
"The Fey Charmed you," Adrian said. "When I found that out, I felt I could leave. They weren't keeping their agreement."
"They never did," Luke said softly. "If you put holy water on me, you could see the green of the spell. But it's gone now."
"Gone?" Adrian frowned. "After you attacked the Rocaan?"
"No," Luke said. "Last week. It just disappeared."
"The Shadowlands," Scavenger said. "Whoever Spelled him must have died."
Luke gasped and took a step backwards. Adrian caught his son's wrist. "It's all right," he said.
"I thought you left them," Luke said.
"I did," Adrian said. "Scavenger helped us."
"Us?"
Adrian swept his free hand back. Coulter was waiting on the far side of the road, looking lost. "Coulter and I, we left together. Scavenger found us. He kept us away from the search teams. He escaped Shadowlands a long time ago."
Luke still pulled against Adrian's arm. "We really don't want any Fey here."
"You'll have him here," Adrian said. "As long as you have me."
Luke stared at his father, then looked at Scavenger, then back at his father as if actually considering it. Finally, he shook his forefinger at Scavenger. "If you touch any of us, or spell any of us, I'll see to you personally."
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