Fey 02 - Changeling (12 page)

If Rugar saw hatred, he would know he had won.

Adrian shifted the boots to one hand so that he could open the door and escape the stifling confines of Rugar's cabin.

"You wanted to know what I did," Rugar said.

Adrian stopped, his hand on the knob, his back to Rugar.

"I opened the door to chaos."

The chill Adrian felt grew deeper.

"I murdered your good King Alexander."
 
Rugar sounded pleased with himself.
 
"In the Marshes."

The Marshes.
 
Where the Peasant Uprising had begun all those years ago.
 
Adrian pulled open the door and stepped into the grayness, his heart pounding.
 

He had done that.
 
Somehow, in all his teaching, he had shown Rugar the best way to hurt the Islanders.

The best way to destroy them.

"Don't you have a response?" Rugar called through the door.

Adrian turned, clutching the boots to his chest as if they were a shield.
 
"I think," he said, using his slow, measured tone, "that you did the Isle a favor."

But for the first time since he had come to Shadowlands, Adrian was lying.

SEVEN

Nicholas stood by the glass window in the Great Hall, his back to the weapons, his hands clenched at his sides.
 
The glass was old, warped, and bubbled.
 
It let in light and little else.
 
He felt as if its view matched the view from his eyes.
 
His thoughts moved slowly, and each physical movement he made felt as if he were under water.
 
He could stare at something for hours and not see it.

He was King now.

And he couldn't even think.

Yet they expected him to.
 
All of them.
 
They wanted him to make decision after decision as if his world hadn't changed.
 
Jewel had tried to talk with him, reason with him, but she was speaking from a Fey perspective.
 
Fey, it seemed, shut off their hearts and kept walking.

No wonder they could kill with such impunity.

It was amazing she had not slaughtered him in his bed.

He blinked and leaned his head on the cold glass.
 
That thought was not his.
 
Of all the people who had met Jewel, he was the only one who trusted her, and she had returned that trust.
 
He could have as easily killed her in the beginning, but he had never wanted to.
 
She had never wanted to hurt him either.

She was only trying to help now.

But no one could help him.
 
He was alone, more alone than he had ever been.
 
His father had told him after the Fey invasion that Nicholas had learned what he needed, that he was ready to rule.
   
But there was a difference between understanding a kingdom and running it.

Once they had made the agreement with the Fey, the idea of his father's death seemed laughable.
 
His father was only eighteen years older than Nicholas — a man in his prime, a man with years ahead, a man who should not have died.

Nicholas's breath fogged the glass.
 
The hall had a chill, even though the spring had been warm.
 
Nicholas hadn't been outside since his father's death.
 
He didn't know if it was raining or if the sun was out, if it was hot or cold or if frost had visited during the night.

Since he got the news, he hadn't been able to sleep, either.
 
He tried, but as he dropped off, he would hear his father's voice or his father's laugh.

Or see the pain in his father's face as he watched Sebastian stare at the walls and do nothing.

Sebastian was a whole other problem.
 
The boy was mentally deficient.
 
Nicholas's father had suggested — politely — that Fey and Islanders weren't meant to mix, and Sebastian bore that idea out.
 
The next child would prove the statement, and if it proved the statement correct, then Nicholas wasn't sure what he would do.

He needed an heir, but he couldn't set aside Jewel.
 
That would guarantee war with the Fey.
 
The Islanders would win as long as they had holy water, but that would not prevent the constant loss of lives, the gradual erosion of morale.
 
Another battle with the Fey would be bad for the Isle.

It would be bad for Nicholas, and he would have to preside over it.

"Sire."

The voice made him start.
 
It had a tone of someone who had spoken several times.

Nicholas turned.
 
A page stood behind him, looking small and fragile against the backdrop of the swords.

The boy bowed.
 
"Forgive me, Sire," he said, "but Lord Holbrook said the criers are assembled."

Sire
.
 
That meant Nicholas now.
 
"Thank you," he said.
 
"Tell them I will be in the Great Chamber shortly."

The boy nodded in his crouch.
 
Then he backed away, running once he felt he had left Nicholas's gaze.

Nicholas was perhaps ten years older, but that decade felt like an eternity.

He followed the boy, moving slowly, the robes he had put on that morning in deference to his new status tangling in his legs.
 
He preferred his breeches.
 
But he was a king now.
 
He had to at least look the part.

The door to the Chamber was open.
 
Someone had removed the table and placed a smaller version of his father's throne inside.
 
Nicholas had told one of the lords in a moment of exasperation that he did not want to use the audience chamber again.
 
The lords could think what they wanted about that decision; the truth was Nicholas felt that the audience chamber belonged to his father.
 
What Nicholas was learning was that his reasons no longer mattered.
 
Only his statements and his actions.
 
The throne itself symbolized that his every wish would come true if it were in the power of his lords to make it happen.

The criers lined up before the throne.
 
There were forty of them, all of them younger than the page.
 
They would cover the countryside, and systematically spread the news of his father's death.
 
Because the coronation was being held so soon after the death, the criers would have to be delicate.
 
Minor lords and land barons from farther climes would be angry at not being invited to the ceremony.

Lord Enford had offered to handle the briefing of the criers himself, but Nicholas was afraid that Enford would impart too much information.
 
This task was delicate, and it was the first he would take for himself as king.

Lord Holbrook stood just inside the door, his solid frame and time-weary face a comfort.
 
When he saw Nicholas, he smiled, and the smile was warm.

Nicholas smiled back.

Lord Holbrook announced him, and the criers knelt on their left knee, their right legs bent.
 
They hid their faces on their right knee.
 
Nicholas stared at them for a moment, a sea of red-covered backs, all of them thin and frail.

This task was too important to trust to small boys.

He almost said something, then changed his mind.
 
Small boys had been criers as long as Nicholas's family had ruled.
 
People found comfort in tradition.
 
Now was not the time for change.

The boys had left a path for him that led to the throne.
 
He swept past them, his robe flowing behind him.
 
The chamber was warm and smelled faintly of little boy sweat.
 
He reached the throne and paused for just a moment in front of it.

This throne was made of wood.
 
It had small swords carved in it — the Roca's sword by the size and placement with the point tip downward.
 
The arms were carved as well, and at their edges were grooves for his fingers.
 
The seat was depressed slightly as was the back, ostensibly for his comfort.
 
He would have preferred a cushion or two.

He would have preferred to kneel with the boys.

But he turned and took the throne as he would every day for the rest of his life, sinking into place, and understanding for the first time why these things were set on daises.
 
The tiny platform this throne was on was barely high enough to make him tower over the children.

When he was settled, he nodded at Lord Holbrook.
 

"All rise," the lord said.

The boys got to their feet.
 
They all studied him, their pale blue eyes holding identical expressions of fear and curiosity.

"I know it is unusual for you to speak directly to the King," Nicholas said.
 
The cloud seemed to lift from his brain and he felt clear for the first time since the meeting.
 
"But I felt this important enough to give you your announcements directly.
 
Lord Holbrook has already told you about the King my father's death.
  
We will be sending you to the far reaches of Blue Isle to make certain all the people hear the news officially."

The boys watched him, but they were well trained.
 
Their thin chests rose and fell as they took shallow, nervous breaths, but they did not move.
 
No shuffling, giggling or lack of attention which he would have expected.
 
These boys had ceased being children long ago.

"You will announce only what I tell you.
 
You will report any gossip, rumor mongering or unrest to Lord Holbrook upon your return.
 
Should there be more serious problems, you will dispatch a person of your choice to the palace to inform us.
 
Is that clear?"
 

Forty blond heads nodded in unison.

"Good."
 
Nicholas's throat was dry.
 
He had been dreading this moment.
 
"You will announce that King Alexander the Sixteenth died on the way to Kenniland Marshes.
 
He is succeeded by his son, King Nicholas the Fifth.
 
Repeat that."

Forty young, powerful voices recited Nicholas's words verbatim.
 
The sound was deafening.
 
As they spoke, Nicholas looked over their heads at Holbrook, who smiled proudly.
 
He and his men had trained them well.
 
Nicholas would not have been able to repeat so much accurately so quickly.

When they finished, he said, "Nicely done.
 
Now for the rest of the announcement."

The boys turned their attentive faces toward him.
 
It seemed odd that they all looked alike:
 
they were all small and fine boned, with a tendency toward squareness.
 
He was getting too used to looking at the faces of Fey.

"Because of the suddenness of the King's death, the advisors have decreed that the coronation of Nicholas the Fifth had to proceed with haste.
  
Nicholas the Fifth received the Roca's blessing on the tenth day of the fifteenth month when the sun reached its zenith.
 
Repeat that."

They did with equal accuracy.
 
The crush of voices made him shiver, and he hoped it didn't show.
 
That, and his coronation, only two days away.
 
He still hadn't chosen the venue.

"There will be a formal ceremony celebrating the coronation in the second month, after mourning is complete.
 
The ceremony will take place on the sixth day at sundown in Jahn.
 
Repeat that."