The Rival Read online

  The Fey melted.

  The Fey were so frightened of it that the mention of holy water deterred them. The Islanders made certain that the Fey kept their distance.

  He grabbed his boots, sat down on the upholstered chair, and pulled them on. They were calf leather, new and tight. His feet would ache by the end of the day. He hoped it would be worth it.

  He had designed the ceremony himself, something the Rocaanists were already protesting.

  The religion and the kingdom were tied. For centuries, holy water had been part of every ceremony held in Blue Isle. But it hadn't been used in Nicholas's marriage to Jewel, and he had thought it wasn't going to be used in his coronation either. But Matthias, the Fifty-First Rocaan, had other ideas.

  Jewel had died that day, hideously. If the Fey Shaman hadn't arrived, Arianna would have died too. After that, Nicholas forbade the use of holy water anywhere near the palace.

  And that still caused problems. He sighed and ran his hands through his curls. The Fifty-Second Rocaan, Titus, had already sent a letter of protest because the Prince wasn't going to be anointed as per ancient custom. Nicholas had been anointed on his eighteenth birthday, confirmed as the heir to the throne by custom and tradition. But holy water had never touched Sebastian, and Nicholas wouldn't trust his son's life to some theory that a half-Fey child could survive the touch of holy water.

  Hence the Coming of Age Ceremony. It was essentially the same thing as the Anointing, only it was done without Elders, Auds, or, most importantly, the Rocaan.

  A handful of the lesser lords had already refused his invitation to attend. He would deal with them later, after the ceremony, when he had a chance to think. Lord Egan had advised him, ages ago, to strip these upstart lords of their lands. Nicholas had refused, thinking that it would make tensions worse. But tensions had grown worse anyway — the lords still slurred him for his "unclean" marriage to a Fey, for his "illegitimate, half-breed" children, and for his non-traditional ways. They were, in Egan's words, fomenting dissent, and as lords, they had a platform. And maybe quite a bit of support. Nicholas wasn't certain how much support they had, and he wasn't sure he wanted to find out. He knew he would find out, though, the moment he took away their titular holdings, and their titles.

  A sharp knock made him start. He frowned at the door.

  "I told you not to disturb me, Sanders," he said. His chamberlain sometimes had a mind of his own. Nicholas hated to be nagged, and Sanders was a master at it.

  "Forgive me, Sire." Sanders' voice, through the door, had a supercilious tone. "But Lord Stowe has information that cannot wait."

  "I'll see him at the ceremony."

  "He claims it is important, Sire. He is in your outer chamber."

  Nicholas sighed. Stowe was one of the older lords. He had been Nicholas's father's trusted colleague, and was now one of Nicholas's. But Stowe had the unlucky fortune to always bring Nicholas the worst news.

  "Tell him I'll be right out," Nicholas said.

  It probably had something to do with the ceremony. So many people opposed Sebastian's position as heir. But Nicholas had no choice. The kingship always went to the oldest son, the direct male heir to the Roca. Sebastian was slow, but he was thorough. Arianna had already agreed to be his right hand, and Sebastian trusted her. She was brilliant and unbeatable at anything she tried.

  She would protect her brother, and the country, and keep them both safe.

  Although Nicholas hoped that wouldn't happen for a long time. Unlike his own father, Nicholas planned to live to a ripe old age. Maybe by then the succession could skip over Sebastian, and fall onto one of his children.

  He braced himself a final time, then stepped into the sitting room just off the bedroom. The room was cooler than the dressing room. Sanders had opened the window, and beams of sunlight filtered in like halos. There was enough of a breeze to make the entire suite smell like the garden below.

  Lord Stowe stood and bowed. He too was wearing his finery, a black long coat with matching pants and narrow shoes based on the Fey model. Nicholas thought it odd that they could steal the Fey's clothing ideas, but not accept any other part of their culture.

  "Stowe," Nicholas said, not caring for protocol. "We have a ceremony in two hours and I have to prepare my son."

  Most of the lords did not know the extent of Sebastian's mental disabilities, but Stowe did, just as he knew how very powerful Arianna was. Stowe had been near both children since the beginnings of their lives, and had advised Nicholas about them more than once.

  "I know, Sire, but you need to hear this now." He waved a hand at Sanders, who hovered near the door. Sanders bowed and backed out, pulling the door closed behind him.

  Stowe waited until he was gone, then said, "Is this room safe?"

  Nicholas glanced at the door. Sanders could — and probably was — listening in. Nicholas crooked a finger at Stowe and led him through the dressing room into the royal bedchamber. The room was neat, even though Nicholas had not left it that way in the morning. The windows were closed. The room was dark and stuffy. It had an unused feel which, Nicholas supposed, was appropriate.

  He hadn't brought any one into his bedchamber since Jewel died.

  "All right," he said to cover his own discomfort. "What's so hush-hush? Has Titus done something to disrupt the ceremony?"

  Stowe pulled the dressing room door closed. "Not that I know of, Sire, but I could check for you."

  Nicholas shook his head. He already had twelve people keeping an eye on the Rocaan, and another group watching all the Elders. He wouldn't let the Tabernacle get close to his son.

  "There's no need," Nicholas said. "Just get on with this."

  Despite his fine clothes, Stowe looked a bit haggard. In the last few years he had lost most of his hair, and his scalp shone in the dim light. He also hunched. Long lines were carved into the skin by his mouth, frown lines, showing his difficult and serious life.

  "A man's come up from the Kenniland Marshes. He says the Fey have invaded down there."

  "The Fey?" Whatever Nicholas had expected, it wasn't this. The Kenniland Marshes were on the far southern end of the Isle. The Fey armies had never gone that far, not even in their first assault on the Isle. "How did they get there? We would have had reports of an army moving south."

  "I don't know, Sire," Stowe said, "but the man said they came over the mountains."

  "Over the mountains?" The sea was on the other side of those mountains. They were impossible to scale from the valley side. And the only reports of their far side had come from ships which had circled the Isle trying to get in.

  Large mountains with sheer cliff faces, disappearing into a treacherous sea.

  A chill ran down Nicholas's back despite the heat in the room. He had seen the impossible ever since the Fey arrived on Blue Isle. Before they arrived, he thought that holy water was benign, that the body was a stable mass of tissue, and that Blue Isle was impenetrable.

  Stowe was watching him. The lines on Stowe's face seemed deeper than they had even moments before.

  "This is not an internal attack then," Nicholas said.

  Stowe shook his head. "Our people watching the Shadowlands have seen no real changes there. An occasional Fey leaves, but always returns."

  "And what about the enclave south of Jahn?"

  "The Outdoor Fey?" Stowe said, using the nickname those Fey got from their own people. These Fey weren't able to suffer through life in the Shadowlands any longer. They had to live outside of it. "The enclave split up nearly five years ago. They've spread out all over the Killeny Bridge area."

  "And they haven't gone south separately, then attacked?"

  "Sire," Stowe said, his voice lowering. "The man says every village in the Kenniland Marshes is overrun. He says he's seen hundreds of Fey on the mountains."

  Nicholas clenched his fists. His children's people. His wife's people. Invading. "How do we know he's sane, Stowe? Is there any proof that he's telling the truth? We've heard thes
e tales before only to discover they were warped visions from a fevered mind."

  "I know, Sire," Stowe said. "I believe him."

  "Based on what?"

  "The logic of his tale," Stowe said. "He says that the Fey started pouring out of the mountains two weeks ago. He went into hiding in the Marshes. I've been there. I've seen that area. The natives could hide there for weeks."

  Nicholas didn't need to know how well people could hide in the marshes. His father had died there, murdered by a hidden assassin. Stowe had been beside his father at the time. "The insane can be logical," Nicholas said.

  "Sire — "

  "If the Fey were invading again, why didn't they come down the river, like they did the first time? It's impossible to scale those mountains, Stowe. And even if the Fey found a way to scale them, it's impossible to bring a ship close to them."

  "Some Fey fly," Stowe said.

  "Yes, but not all of them. Some have no magick at all. You know that. And your man says they've been coming down the mountains for two weeks. Do you know how big a force that would be? Do you have any idea?"

  "Thousands," Stowe said, softly.

  "Tens of thousands," Nicholas corrected. "The first invading force didn't have that many people in it. Why would a second? And why would a second come so many years after the first?"

  But he already knew the answer to that. He had known it for nearly two decades. Jewel had warned him that the Black King would come. But she hadn't known who the Black King would be, or when he would arrive.

  Nicholas had asked her during the marriage negotiations when the Black King would arrive.

  Three years, five, ten, she had said. I don't know. If my grandfather has died, it will take a bit longer because my brother has to get used to the reins of power. Once he is used to being Black King, he will come here.

  But it was the memory of what Jewel's father had said next that chilled Nicholas.

  Eventually, Jewel's father had said, the Fey will come to Blue Isle in such numbers that we will rule this place.

  Tens of thousands. More than enough to rule this place.

  More than enough.

  "Jewel always said they would come," Stowe said. "She said your children would protect us."

  Nicholas shook his head. "Only if she were alive to designate the Isle as part of the Fey. As already conquered. But she's dead, and so's her father."

  Stowe looked at his hands. "But your children, they're part of the Black King's family. He can't touch them, right?"

  The True Black King — or Black Queen — has to be ruthless, Jewel had said just before she died. It is the only way to survive. No one wants to kill a Black King more than his closest siblings or his child. But the Black King's family cannot kill within its ranks. That causes untold turmoil. So we have to do it subtly, by hiring assassins and not giving direct orders, or by finding other methods.

  Like invading.

  Death by ignorance.

  It might work.

  "Can he touch them?" Stowe asked again.

  "I don't know," Nicholas said. He swallowed. His children were younger than he had been when the Fey first came to Blue Isle. His son didn't have the capability to fight the most ruthless of all Fey. His son would never be much more than a baby himself.

  The Black Throne is held together by Blood Magic, the Fey's Shaman had told him after Arianna was born. That Blood flowed through Jewel. It flows through your children now. If the Blood turns on itself, insanity reigns. And when insanity reigns, whole cultures die. If you cause the Blood to turn on itself, you will unleash a fury.

  Nicholas shook himself. There had been other false alarms in the last twenty years. One actually had them sending an army to the mouth of the Cardidas river to find only mist and the figment of an elderly man's overactive imagination. This might be another.

  Nicholas couldn't panic.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  "Get someone to corroborate this story. Find out who has been to the Marshes lately. See if you can find the Auds who travel through there or a bartering merchant who buys from the south. A force of thousands can't stay hidden forever."

  "Unless it's in Shadowlands," Stowe said.

  Nicholas shook his head. "The Shadowlands are a bivouac for a regular army, not a hiding place like it's been used here. If the Fey came over the mountains and conquered villages, they're still in those villages. If this has been going on for two weeks, we should have heard before now."

  "Unless no one could get out."

  "You said the Marshlanders were good at hiding. If they saw a force of ten thousand coming, they would have taken to the marshes, and escaped. We would have heard within days."

  "The Fey are cunning," Stowe said, sounding skeptical.

  Nicholas nodded, remembering all the twists and turns of Jewel's planning. The last thing he had asked her before she died had been if she would someday betray him.

  She had promised she wouldn't.

  But he had wondered for fifteen years if she had been telling the truth.

  "We defeated them once," Nicholas said. "We can do so again."

  "Do you think that was a true defeat?" Lord Stowe asked.

  "They negotiated out of weakness, Stowe," Nicholas said. "Jewel would never have sacrificed herself and her unborn children to life in Jahn if she had thought there was another way. The Fey are warriors, remember?"

  "I'm having trouble forgetting," Stowe said.

  "Find me proof," Nicholas said, "and set up a meeting of the lords after the Coming of Age Ceremony. We'll settle this thing as soon as we can."

  At least, he hoped they would. This invasion from the south sounded implausible.

  Which made it all that more likely that the Black King had arrived. The Fey never did things the expected way, and they had more abilities than Nicholas knew of.

  I know the Black King lives and I know he has not abandoned Blue Isle, the Shaman had said.

  He will come, Jewel had said.

  In such numbers that we will rule this place, her father had said.

  Nicholas had been dreading this for a generation. And if it were true, if the Black King had arrived with an army of thousands, Nicholas didn't know what to do.

  The Fey are sworn to protect anyone in the Black King's family, the Shaman had said.

  Anyone.

  Sebastian.

  Arianna.

  And the Black King himself.

  Instead of solving the war between Blue Isle and the Fey, Jewel and Nicholas had made it worse.

  Their marriage, and their children, had turned an invasion into a civil war.

  A fury, the Shaman had called it.

  Insanity.

  Nicholas closed his eyes.

  This was only the beginning.

  FIVE

  Titus, the Fifty-Second Rocaan, sat on his balcony in the heat of mid-day. His chair was a specially designed lounge, made for relaxation and afternoon naps. A red berry punch sat on the table beside him, untouched, even though he usually drank two glasses as part of his afternoon ritual. He was staring across the courtyard, over the Cardidas River, and into the main section of the city of Jahn.

  He was staring at the palace.

  This afternoon the half-Fey would be celebrated as the next head of state. The creature with the little brain, who carried the Roca's blood mixed with the blood of murderers, the creature who could not touch holy water for fear of death, would be designated the Prince.

  Someday he would rule Blue Isle.

  Titus was not certain that day should come.

  Although he didn't know how to prevent it. His predecessor, Matthias, would have gone to the ceremony and somehow — presumably accidentally — touched the heir with holy water. Matthias had done that once before, to the King's consort, Jewel, and her death had been hideous.

  But not as hideous as the slaughter of the Fey in Daisy Stream. That had been the worst Titus had ever seen. The bodies melting around them, the stench of de
caying flesh, and the cries of pain. That had been the only time he had touched one of them.

  He had crouched over a dying Fey. Its body had twitched as it had gone through its throes. Like a sand sculpture after someone had poured water on it, the Fey had lost definition, until it was unrecognizable as a living being. It was only flesh and bone, lumps of skin-colored debris, littering a wet floor.

  He had thought to Bless it, but instead he had found himself cursing it with the Words Written and Unwritten: When you touch water, he had told it, you touch the Essence of God.

  And he believed that. He believed that God's essence filled the holy water, and it let God's people live, while slaughtering others.

  In fifteen years of study, however, he had been unable to determine how — or why — God's people could mate with God's enemies and produce issue. The only answer he had come up with was that God had cursed the firstborn by removing his brain, and had abandoned the secondborn, allowing evil to flourish within her monstrous person. The fact that King Nicholas had mated with a Fey in the first place, and allowed her children to live, only showed that he was as Godless as Matthias had once claimed.

  Only now the King was condemning the entire country to live under tainted rule.

  Titus did not know what to do about that. He had prayed for weeks, hoping to hear the still small voice telling him how to resolve this problem. He could not kill — he believed that death was God's provenance — and he could not blaspheme the direct heir to Roca's throne on this earth. All he could do was withhold his approval, and hope that would be enough.

  So far, it had not been.

  So far, all the palace had done was ignore the Tabernacle as if the Tabernacle had no place in this society.

  Nicholas forgot what gave his kingship power.

  Titus picked up his juice and took a sip, wincing at the bitter taste. The afternoon's heat was fierce — he was sweating under his robes — and the shade didn't provide much cover. It was hotter in the Tabernacle itself. At least on the balcony, he could feel the breeze off the Cardidas, with its faintly marshy scent. If he were still an Aud, he would go to the riverbank, and wade into the water, allowing the water to cool his hot, tired feet.