The Rival (32 page)

Solanda didn't like it.  If the Shaman was gone, and Gift was gone, who would give the order to evacuate Shadowlands?  She could.  She was ranked high enough in the magick order, but no one would listen to her.  She was a Shifter, and a Shifter who had lived among the Islanders at that.  The Fey might think it a trap to get them out of hiding.

She was sitting on a rug near the Domicile's main fireplace.  The fire was burning low, emitting light and heat, a trick that non-magicked fires could do only rarely.  There were some things to say for Shadowlands: the constant temperature, the gathering of Fey all in one place  —  but they certainly weren't enough to convince her to live there ever again. 

And that was the other reason she couldn't give the evacuation order.  Too many Fey knew how she felt.

She sighed, finished the last of her meal, and got to her feet.  She wanted to go back to cat form, but felt she didn't dare, not until she was out of Shadowlands.  She wanted to be taken seriously, and that was hard for folks to do when she was feline. 

Feline or not, though, she couldn't order the evacuation.  The only others who could would be the Warders.  And even though they had abdicated much of their power over the years, they still had Warder mystique. 

The Spell Warders were the only Fey who had all the powers of the Fey.  Their powers were limited, however.  The magick behind them was weak, and unable to be of real use.  The Warders' major skill was that they were the ones who designed the Spells for those who relied on Spells.  The new Domestic spells, the ones tailored to Blue Isle, had come from the Warders.  The Warders should have been the one to counteract other magick as well, but that hadn't proved too successful here.  The Warders hadn't been able to counteract the Islanders' poison.  In all the years on Blue Isle, the Warders never found a spell that would act as an antidote.

Their incompetence kept the Fey trapped.

But they were Warders, and they had more talents than the others.  The Fey in Shadowlands would listen to them.

Solanda wiped her mouth with one hand, then licked the grease off her palm.  Some cat habits never died.  She resisted the urge to then wipe her face with that palm, and instead found a pitcher of water.  She splashed her face, cleaning it, and stretched. 

Time to move again.

She pulled open the door to this section of the Domicile and frowned.  Through the buildings, the gray walls of Shadowlands looked darker than usual.  She blinked, wondering if she had stared into the fire too long, but her vision didn't clear.  It was odd; she hadn't remembered the walls being that dark.  But she hadn't looked at them in years.

The Domicile's long porch extended to this end of the wing.  She crossed it, then hopped the steps, landing on the firm Shadowlands' ground.  The ground wasn't any darker than usual.  She glanced up again, squinted, but she saw no magick crackling off the walls.  They were as they should have been.  Magickal creations, not magick themselves.

Then she walked across Shadowlands, passing through the buildings, heading toward the Warders' cabin.  Several Fey passed her.  She nodded at them, and they nodded in return.  She rubbed her eyes once.  Perhaps she needed the sleep more than she thought.  Her vision was blurry, and everything looked indistinct.

The cabins surrounding her had hedges and flowers painted on their sides.  One cabin had an image of the Battle for Nye.  She saw the faces of most of this troop in angry assault.  They had all looked younger then.  They had all been younger.  Some of the Foot Soldiers were too old now for a real battle.  Had they succeeded in this attack on Blue Isle, they might have retired here, living in the luxury a victory provided.

How angry they must have been to find themselves in this place, in this position.

The Warders' cabin was still toward the back.  It too had expanded, with a wing added onto the side for pouches and other spoils of war.  Most of the pouches taken from the Second Battle for Jahn had never been touched: the Warders had almost given up in their search for an antidote to holy water.  They had, instead, focused on spells to make life in Shadowlands more comfortable.

They had, in a word, become cowards.

She started up the stairs when she froze.  A shiver ran down her spine.  She glanced back over her shoulder, at space between buildings which the Fey loosely termed a street.  It was empty.

All those Fey she had seen before were gone.

She peered through the buildings at Shadowlands' walls.

They were as gray as they had always been.

And the faces had been indistinct.

Dream Riders on the walls.  Spies in the streets.

She flung open the door to the Warders' cabin and shouted, "The Black King is here!"

Four Warders at around the square spell table, but her warning was wasted on them.  Dream Riders covered their faces in shadow, their bodies twitching as the Riders held their consciousness in thrall.  Such a risk the Black King took.  Any magickal Fey could pull out of a Rider spell  —  if they discerned that it was a spell.  One of the Riders lifted its head off the Warder near the door.  The Rider's head was flat, like a shadow, only it had substance.  It was black as night, its features completely absorbed by the magick.

But it was peering at her.  She could tell from its posture.

She pulled the door closed, and turned.  Wind stood behind her, his hand extended.  "Come back to the house," he said.  "You'll be safe there."

His eyes were flecked with gold.  It wasn't Wind at all.  Wind was no more.  This was a Doppelgänger, come to lure her to her death.

She slapped his hand away and jumped off the porch, taking off at full run.  Several Spies sat near doorways.  They didn't bother to wear faces: that was why they had looked so indistinct.  They pointed to her as she ran.  Their cries blended into a single shout, all with the same texture and indescribably quality.

When she reached the Circle Door, she found an entire squad of Foot Soldiers diving their way in.  Some she recognized: they had served in the Battle of Feire, a decisive victory in the Nye campaign.  Rugad's victory.

"You can't kill a Shape-Shifter," she said, holding up her hands to show she had no weapons.  "We're too precious to waste."

"You're not a Shifter," Gelô said.  He was as slender and dark as he had always been.  His eyebrows were a thick bush that met in the middle of his face.  "You're a Failure."

"I'm not a Failure," Solanda said, trying to keep the panic from her voice. "Rugar was and he's dead."

"You cannot blame living in
this
for twenty years on Rugar," Gelô said.  "He has been dead fifteen."

"By my hand," Solanda said.  "And I did not live here."

Gelô extended a hand.  His fingers were as long as knives.  The extra set of nails at the tips of his fingers were extended.  "You expect me to believe that, Failure?"

She tilted her head.  "I'm a
Shifter
, Soldier.  I do not stay in one place long."

"Gelô," one of the other Foot Soldiers said, "you might want to consider  — "

"Sparing a life?  A Failure?  Are you soft, Vare?"

Vare, a slender woman with a scar running down one cheek, lowered her gaze.

"No, she's just cautious," Solanda said.  She couldn't fight an entire troop of Foot Soldiers herself.  "She knows that she shouldn't murder her betters."

"It's not murder when it's ordered by the Black King."

Solanda shrugged.  "Then he will not learn of his great-grandchildren, will he?"

"What of his grandchildren?"

Vare brought her gaze up.  "Gelô."  Her word was a caution.

"There are things he doesn't know, things he needs to know."

"Jewel is dead," Gelô said.  "Her brother Bridge is in Nye.  None of the others will inherit.  This is what I know.  This is all I need to know."

"His great-grandchildren," Solanda said.  Her heart was pounding.  This was her only chance.  Behind her, muffled footsteps grew.  Voices shouted, their sounds dimmed by the dimensions of Shadowlands itself.  But there were no sounds of war.  Who knew better how to destroy the Fey than the leader of them?

"Rugad knows enough," Gelô said.

"Gelô," Vare said.   "You need to listen to her."

"She is trying to save her life," he said.

"Of course I am."  Solanda had had enough of him.  "But I spent my years outside of Shadowlands raising one of Rugad's great-grandchildren.  The least he can do is order my death himself."

"He has," Gelô said.

"Gelô."  Vare took his arm.  He shook her off. 

"Who rules this troop?" he snarled.

She straightened.  "I will if you do not listen.  She said children.  Great-grandchildren.  Rugad is looking for one child."

Solanda resisted the temptation to tilt her head back and smile.  Rugad's Vision only went so far.  The great Visionary of the Fey only saw one child, and came for that child.  The question was, which one?

"He needs me," she said, "and you must tell me where he is."

"I've watched you through a dozen battles, Solanda," Gelô said.  "It would have been my pleasure to kill you myself.  You think you are the only Fey, that the rest of us are mere pawns to your abilities.  You are wrong, and I would have loved to prove it, to flay that skin off you inch by pretty inch."

"But?" she asked sweetly.

"But you are right.  The Black King needs to speak with you.  And I will take you to him myself when I am finished here."

"I will go on my own," she said.

"You are a Failure," Gelô said.  "You are no longer Fey.  You cannot go anywhere on your own, let alone to the Black King.  In staying here, you have forfeited all rights and privileges you ever enjoyed as a Shifter.  Even if you live, you will be no better than a Red Cap."

Heat rushed through her, coloring her face.  She didn't care.  "You will soon discover that you are wrong," she said.  "I killed Rugar, and I guarded the Black King's family.  I kept things safe for them until Rugad could arrive.  These others deserve to die, but I do not. And when the Black King realizes that you nearly killed me, he will flay you inch by inch."

Gelô's eyes narrowed.  His jaw worked but he said nothing.

"We need someone to watch her," Vare said.  She had tucked her hands under her armpits, the sign of a Foot Soldier's rising blood lust. 

Gelô nodded and one of the Foot Soldiers broke off from the troop.  Solanda watched.  Her heart was pounding hard. She could beat anyone, fight any race, except her own.  Death by a Foot Soldier's hands would be worse than anything, except perhaps the Islanders' poison.

The small noises had quieted behind her. The rusty stench of blood rose in the enclosed space.  She knew how the attack went.  It was simple really: Dream Riders to hold consciousness at bay; Spies to find the alert Fey and to hold them back; and Doppelgängers to take them over.  Once the Doppelgängers had done their work, the remaining Fey were doomed.  They would trust their friends, who would lead them into a troop like this one, blood-thirsty Foot Soldiers who lived for the slaughter.

A lot of good people would die this day.

The Circle Door opened again.  Gelô's troop moved aside.  Another troop of Foot Soldiers entered. They passed Solanda without a second glance.

"Rugad begins his invasion by warring on his own people?" Solanda asked.

"They are the only ones that threaten him," Vare said.

"What of the Islander poison?"

"A minor inconvenience," Gelô said.  "One easily defeated by competent Warders."

She couldn't argue that.  She knew it to be true.  A prepared troop and competent Warders would have avoided this debacle altogether.

"You worry for your friends, Solanda?" Gelô asked.

"I worry for us all," she said. 

THIRTY-FIVE

The Sanctuary was large and empty.  Titus had lit all the candles but that made the room seem even emptier.  The soft light bathed the pews in gold, flickered on the blade of the large sword hanging down from the ceiling, and caught the diamond edges of the vials containing holy water.

He used to think this place the embodiment of Rocaanism.  When he was a young Aud, he thought this room the most magnificent place he ever saw.  It smelled of lemons and polished wood.  The pews were always clean.  No footprints or smudges marred the floor.  The carvings on the door were made with such artistry, he knew that God's hand had been at work.

It had been years since he actually looked at this room, this center of the religion, the Great Sanctuary where all the important religious services were held, from Midnight Sacrament to the Absorption Day Service.  He had been here often, but had only seen what the Auds missed:  a fingerprint on the altar, a glass vial turned in the wrong direction, a candle not burning.  It had been decades since he saw the room as a holy place.

He had been sitting in the front pew, staring at the altar, most of the night.  Part of him hoped for God's still small voice to come to him on the wings of the Holy One, advising him how to proceed.  He had felt a disquiet ever since Stowe left, as if Titus had walked a path he should have abandoned.  If Stowe had been right and the Fey were here, with their Black King and an ability to defeat holy water, Titus needed to be at Nicholas's side.  They needed to put away their differences and fight together.

If they fought at all.

The Fiftieth Rocaan had thought the Fey the Soldiers of the Enemy and had tried to reenact the Roca's absorption, thinking that in doing so, the Fey would somehow vanish from this land.  The idea made a curious kind of sense.  The Roca had faced an unnamed enemy, an enemy that had taken over Blue Isle.  When it became clear that the Roca could not defeat that enemy in battle, he met them in a kirk, and sacrificed himself.  He did not die, but was Absorbed into the Hand of God where he brought the petitions of the Islanders to God's ear.  The Fiftieth Rocaan believed that he could reenact the Absorption and in so doing, drive out the Fey.

He failed.

The Fifty-First Rocaan, Matthias, had no such spiritual beliefs.  He thought that if the Fey were to leave, the Islanders had to drive them out.  He used holy water with impunity, and he even killed Fey with his own hands.