The Rival Read online

  Getting inside had been amazingly easy. He had imitated Sebastian's halting gait and kept his eyes averted. His body, even though it looked like Sebastian's, wanted to move quickly, and he knew he had the gait wrong. But no one noticed. In fact, the few servants who saw him had bowed or courtesied. Gift ignored them, as he knew Sebastian would have.

  To do something out of the ordinary took additional energy for Sebastian.

  But now Gift was at the tricky part. He had to be careful to avoid the servants, and even more careful to avoid seeing Sebastian in the hallway. No one outside of Shadowlands (except Solanda) knew that Gift was really the child of Nicholas and Jewel. They all thought Sebastian was a living being instead of a golem. He was a special golem, but a golem all the same.

  The corridor was empty. It smelled stuffy, as if it wasn't used much. The columns were placed in the center of the corridor, one past each major doorway. Eventually the corridor widened into a gallery. Portraits of the royal children hung along the wall. Dozens of the portraits were artificially posed scenes: two or three children cuddling a dog, or holding extremely large flowers. None of the children looked happy.

  Gift and Sebastian had studied all of these portraits. The later ones had more life to them as the art of portraiture improved. Gift's father, an only child, had the best portrait. He sat at the edge of a brook, knees drawn to his chest, staring pensively into the water. Gift didn't know if the portrait caught the essence of his father — he had only seen the man a few times — but it did make him look the most relaxed, the most real, of all of them.

  The portrait of Arianna and Sebastian hung at the top of a flight of stairs. Sebastian sat on a stone stairway, so motionless he looked like stone himself. Arianna stood above him, her hair flying behind her as if she were caught, alone, in a breeze. The artist had captured the essence of both of them: Sebastian's innocence and uncanny ability to be still; Arianna's brilliance and constant motion. Gift loved the portrait as it was. Sebastian told him, in his slow stilted manner, that he wished Gift could be in the portrait as well.

  The gallery was empty. The windows at the far end stood open, letting sunlight fill the hall. Sebastian's door was also open, and Gift heard nothing from inside. Sebastian had to be dressed and ready then. Otherwise Gift would have heard a gaggle of servant voices, and the nurse who seemed to grow more commanding each year that her "precious boy" did not make significant improvements.

  Gift sprinted across the hall, past the railings over the stairwell, and slipped inside Sebastian's door.

  The suite felt as familiar as home. This was the only place Gift had ever been that was filled with light and color. It had prevented him from suffering the Overs as Coulter did when he left Shadowlands, a strange paralyzing fear that came from living his entire life without stimulation.

  The Fey weren't meant to live in Shadowlands. Visionaries created Shadowlands as places to sleep during battles, as places to store weapons or to protect leaders. Shadowlands was a box built with the mind of the Visionary, and linked to that Visionary like a body was linked to a mind. Gift's grandfather built the Shadowlands Gift had grown up in, and when his grandfather died, Gift had held the Shadowlands together. If Gift hadn't been there, Shadowlands would have been destroyed, killing all inside.

  Because Shadowlands wasn't a natural place, nothing could grow inside. The walls, floor, and ceiling of the box felt solid, but were invisible. The lack of light made Shadowlands a place of gray, a colorless domain. Air could seep through the walls of Shadowlands but nothing else. Gift grew up in an opaque mist that leached the color from even the most brilliant things. He wouldn't even have known what color was if it weren't for his Links with Sebastian.

  Gift loved this suite. The sitting room had become the nursery when Arianna was old enough to walk. The distance between the nursery and the stairs was longer here than it had been in the official nursery, giving the nurse a chance to catch her, something that hadn't been possible before.

  Gift slid inside the doorway and carefully, quietly pulled the door closed. He couldn't see Sebastian yet, but that didn't worry him. The servants had probably helped Sebastian dress and then had given him orders not to move until someone came to get him. That was the way these events worked in the past. No sense in believing they would change the pattern now.

  Gift peered around the corner into the dressing room. No Sebastian. He hurried through the dressing room into the bedroom. This too felt familiar. The bed was a large soft four poster with several thick blankets. Sebastian was constantly cold, and piled the blankets on, even in the summer. When Gift was visiting along the Link, he often had to pull the covers off.

  The room was built on a turret that extended over the garden. Two windows, one on either side, looked down on the blooms. Their tapestries were up, letting strong breeze flow through. Sebastian stood beside the window to Gift's left. He stared straight ahead, at the blue sky, and the circling birds as if he wanted to be part of them. His arms hung at his sides, looking useless even though they weren't.

  Gift had never seen this changeling, this golem, this creature he loved like a brother, in the flesh. The Link was like a string that attached them, a string Gift's consciousness could ride across, but Sebastian could not. They had learned, as children, that Sebastian owed his own consciousness to Gift. Every time Gift visited Sebastian's body, Gift left a tiny part of himself. Those parts gained a life of their own. Sebastian thought for himself, and saw himself as a separate being from the moment Gift's mother held him. He used to hide that conscious self from Gift, thinking Gift would take over his body permanently. When Gift discovered that, the boys were five, and Gift corrected that idea. From that moment on, they were fast friends, and close confidants.

  Brothers.

  Or perhaps more. Two parts of the same whole.

  But they had never seen each other face to face.

  Gift had warned Sebastian that he was coming, but that hadn't really impressed Sebastian. Sometimes actions were the only things that were clear to Sebastian.

  Sebastian hadn't heard him come in. Gift took a moment to orient himself. Sebastian was as tall as he was, more solid than Gift was, and seemed steadier.

  He was also wearing a long, embroidered white robe, which would make the afternoon very difficult

  "Sebastian?" Gift said.

  Sebastian tottered, then turned awkwardly, moving his feet in tiny intervals. It was Sebastian's equivalent of a whirl, and it often made his more mobile sister laugh. Finally he faced Gift, and his eyes widened.

  His mouth opened, and Gift knew what would come out.

  A scream.

  Gift was across the room in a heartbeat, and placed his hand over Sebastian's mouth. The scream started a second after, a raspy grinding sound that sent shivers through Gift. His hand muffled most of it.

  "It's me," he said. "Gift."

  Sebastian shook his head slowly, but with such strength it threatened to dislodge Gift's fingers.

  "Gift," he said again. "I'm Gift."

  Sebastian kept shaking his head, his eyes rolling with fear. Sebastian had never thought of Gift as anything but a second self, not as a separate being. Because Gift could travel along their Link, but Sebastian couldn't. Sebastian was rooted to his own body. Gift knew that, but he thought he had explained all of this to Sebastian.

  Apparently he hadn't explained well enough.

  Gift glanced at the open doors, hoped no one had heard the raspy muffled scream, and closed his eyes. He reached for the Link, a pattern that was as old as Gift himself. Then he slid along it, startled at the shortness of the trip. One moment he had been in his own body, the next he was in Sebastian's.

  From the inside, Sebastian's body seemed huge. They always met behind the eyes. Sebastian's inner self was a partially formed child with a ghostly pale body and haunted eyes. Gift crouched beside him, this more familiar form of his friend and companion.

  It's me, he said, gesturing at the view through Sebastian's eyes
. The man there. That's me.

  Sebastian shook his head — he could move rapidly outside of his stone body — and buried his eyes in his hands. Gift touched the ghostly, childlike chin and raised Sebastian's face to his own.

  Remember what I told you, about the danger?

  Yes. Sebastian's voice had grown deeper with the years. It sounded like a man's voice coming from a child.

  I had to come to you in my body. I have to take you out of here.

  The city?

  Gift could feel the child-like excitement rising around them. Sebastian had only made a few trips into the city, and he had loved all of them. His family hadn't loved it though, and the taunts that Sebastian had received had broken Gift's heart.

  My home. You want to come to my home? It's where you were born.

  And you were born here.

  Gift smiled. That's right. Then they switched us.

  Sebastian smiled back. They were on familiar territory now. They had told this story to each other many times. Can Arianna come?

  Not right now, Gift said. Maybe later.

  And my father?

  He has to stay here. He's in charge here.

  He won't like it if I leave.

  He won't like it if you die.

  Sebastian's gaze flickered and before them appeared the slender form of Gift's mother, supine, her head melting from the holy water. Sebastian had cried for her for months. Gift's father stood beside her, looking lost.

  Then the image disappeared.

  Will I die like that? Sebastian asked, a shiver running through his real body and shaking them like the wind would shake a leaf.

  Gift shook his head and thought of the Vision. The image of Sebastian on the floor, a knife in his back, filled the space between them.

  That's me? Sebastian asked, his voice small.

  If you don't come with me.

  Who are those people?

  I don't know, Gift said. They look like Fey, but they aren't any Fey I know.

  I don't know any Fey.

  Except Solanda.

  She calls me lump. Fey are mean people.

  We're part Fey, Gift said. Your mother was Fey.

  Gift's mother's face rose between them. She was peering at them, her narrow features beautiful in the half light. He's smiling, she said. I love it when he smiles.

  You look funny, Sebastian said softly. I didn't think you were real like everybody else. I thought you were like me.

  I am like you, Gift said. He was still staring at his mother's image, floating behind him. She looked young, but ferocious somehow. Her Fey features were pronounced. Her entire face was upswept — her eyes, her cheekbones, even the edges of her mouth. She had been a mother to Sebastian. She hadn't even known Gift was alive.

  You have your own body, Sebastian said. He leaned against his mother's image, as if needing her support. If you have your own, how come you need mine?

  I don't need yours, Sebastian, Gift said, feeling desperate. He wanted to go to Sebastian's eyes and see the room. Any moment now someone would come looking for Sebastian. The ceremony had to start soon. I visit yours because we're Linked.

  Then how come I can't visit yours? Sebastian had his tiny ghostly arms crossed. Gift had seen this stubbornness before. If he didn't answer it, they would never leave.

  It's a Link, Gift said. You should be able to visit my body. You just didn't know I had one until now.

  So why can't I stay here and Link to you? They'd hurt my body but not me.

  Gift shook his head. That might shatter the Link and kill both of us, he said. It's better that you come with me.

  Can I tell my Dad? Sebastian asked.

  After we leave, Gift said. I'm afraid if we don't go soon, something will happen to both of us.

  I don't want to go, Sebastian said.

  I know, Gift said, but I think we have no choice. I love you, Sebastian. I don't want anything to happen to you.

  Sebastian got up and put his arms around Gift. The ghostly arms felt light and not quite solid. I love you too, Gift.

  Then come with me.

  Sebastian nodded against Gift's chest. Bring me home quick, though.

  As quickly as I can, Gift said. He took Sebastian's tiny shoulders and moved away from him. I'm going to break the Link now. Then I'll take your hand, and we'll leave together. We're going to go out the window. You have to climb like I taught you, all right?

  Sebastian nodded. He was biting his lower lip. Those climbs out the window had been precarious, and Sebastian had never done one on his own.

  All right, Gift said. The next time you see me, I'll be in my own body.

  Sebastian nodded again. Gift slid along the Link and arrived in his own body with a jolt. His hand was still over Sebastian's mouth, and his head was still turned toward the door. He brought his hand down. Sebastian closed his mouth.

  "It's me," Gift said. "Just like I told you."

  Sebastian's eyes were wide, but he brought his head up and down once. He looked terrified and lost.

  "All right," Gift said. He took Sebastian's hand. "We'll go now."

  "I … can't … get … the … robe … dir-ty." Sebastian spoke as fast as he could, which was still slow by most standards. His mouth didn't form the words well, and he had trouble creating sound in his throat. The problem got worse as he had gotten older, not better. Gift suspected it had something to do with Sebastian's size, and the fact that a golem wasn't supposed to live this long, or grow this big. The strain on the magick was simply too much.

  "Tell them it's my fault," Gift said. He tugged on Sebastian's arm. Sebastian took one step toward Gift and then stopped.

  Gift turned.

  Arianna stood in the doorway, her dressing robe wrapped tightly around her, her hair messed and tangled.

  "Who are you?" she asked, a small tremble in her voice revealing her surprise. "And what are you doing to my brother?"

  SEVEN

  Matthias stood, shirtless, in the door of the smithy. The furnace roared behind him, making the open room unbearable in the afternoon heat. Sweat poured down his back. His breeches were damp, and his bare feet left prints on the straw-covered dirt.

  The moment of truth had arrived: Yeon had finished forging the sword. Now he was about to plunge it into the cool water bath. The last five times he had done this, the sword had shattered.

  Matthias stepped closer. Yeon's broad, muscular torso glinted with sweat, and was covered with black grime from the fire behind him. He used clippers to plunge the hot sword in water. Hissing started immediately, and steam rose, blinding both of them, and making the area even hotter.

  Yeon glanced at him, eyes nearly hidden in his filthy face. Matthias said nothing, just watched the steaming trough. If Yeon could stand the increased heat, Matthias could too. Yeon was doing this at Matthias's suggestion. It was long, hard, hot work, but they had made some progress.

  At first, Yeon had thought the strange metal from the Cliffs of Blood was unforgeable. It had taken them nearly a month to find the right combination of heat and tension to make the metal into a sword in the first place.

  But they had done it. They simply hadn't been able to finish the process.

  Matthias discovered the metal, called varin, during his long sojourn in the Cliffs of Blood. After he resigned from his position as the Fifty-First Rocaan, he ran home, to the Cliffs. He had no family left. He hadn't even been back in decades, but the villages looked the same, nestled near Blue Isle's northeastern most mountains. The Cliffs of Blood were tall and imposing; the jagged blood red stones lining the peaks gave the cliffs their name. They were actually part of the northern range, the Eyes of Roca, taller than the Snow Mountains to the south, and much more deadly.

  The people up there had a hard edge to them, a lack of belief in anything, including Rocaanism. It had been a perfect respite for him, after a life in the Tabernacle.

  But he had continued his scholarship. It had been more of a religion to him than the real religion any
way. And he had learned some things that would surprise the true believers. Things that had surprised him.

  The steam kept rising from the bath. Matthias leaned closer. The stench of Yeon's body rivaled his own. They had been at this too long. Fortunately the smithy stood at the edge of a dead-end street, in the farthest reaches of Jahn. Auds rarely came here, and lords never did. This was the poorest section, the kind of place forgotten now that the Fiftieth Rocaan — with his focus on the less fortunate — was long dead.

  Matthias had been here for two months, unnoticed and unrecognized. Fifteen years had changed more about him than his appearance. Then he had been a high-ranking Elder, and finally appointed (unwillingly) to Rocaan. His finery and the status of his office gave him his identity. Now he was like all the rest in the kingdom, with rough fingers from hard labor, and a face lined from too much time in harsh weather. His clothes were still fine — the followers near the Cliffs had some excellent seamstresses — but grimy with use.

  "Back!" Yeon shouted, and with a meaty arm, shoved Matthias toward a pile of straw.

  Matthias let himself tumble backward and covered his head with his arms. Yeon landed with a grunt behind him, and then the sword exploded.

  Boiling water fell on them like rain. Mixed with the droplets were hardened bits of varin. Matthias kept his face covered and protected the most vulnerable areas of his body. The varin pellets had hit him before and left welts the size of fists along his back. He would get welts again.

  Yeon was cursing, his words muffled by his position under the straw. Matthias knew what the smithy was saying; he was casting aspersions on the Roca's parentage, on the Tabernacle's holiness, and on the King's love of the Fey. A hissing echoed behind them as the bulk of the water fell toward the furnace. It would take some cleaning before the smithy was ready for use again.

  And then it was over. Matthias raised his head. He had small burns along his right arm, where the water hit, and a lump was already forming on the back of his left hand. Despite the pain from the welts, they pleased him. It meant that people had the same reaction to forged varin as some had to holy water.