Fey 02 - Changeling Read online

  "He's too far away." The Shaman opened her eyes, and brushed the damaged skin on Jewel's forehead. "I doubt I can save anyone now."

  TWENTY-ONE

  Gift was crying. Niche flew out of the second room to find him on the carpet before the fire, clutching his forehead with one hand and convulsing, his eyes rolled into the back of his head. The other hand was dangerously close to the low-burning flames.

  "Gift!" she said. "Gift!"

  She held his shoulders, but she lacked the strength to hold him down. She had seen this before. She had seen it during the First Battle for Jahn when the Black Robes had poured poison on her friends.

  But there was no smell. The room smelled of a wood fire, not burning flesh. Beneath his hand, his skin looked fine.

  "Wind!" She screamed for her mate. He flew into the room, half changed, mostly wings and small male body. As he landed he grew to his proper size.

  "What happened?" he asked as he knelt beside Gift.

  "I don't know," she said. "I heard him crying and I came in here. Please, go for the Shaman. We need help. We need it now."

  He didn't need to be told twice. With a snap of his fingers, he became no bigger than a spark. But no spark ever flew that fast or with such direction. He disappeared under the crack in the door, gone before Niche could say another sentence.

  Gift was moaning. Her beautiful, brilliant boy had drool running down his chin. His hands were opening and closing, his heels pounding the floor.

  "Hurry," Niche whispered. "Someone please hurry."

  He was supposed to be their salvation, their blessing, their gift. Their reward for serving Rugar so well. The child they could never have. Wisp women were too fragile to have children. Their hollow bones could not handle the weight of a child. Wisps usually accepted this, but Niche wanted a child. She wanted to raise a child with another Wisp. Rugar gave her Gift. He came with a price, but it was a price she had been willing to pay.

  Until now.

  He had been alone in the room. She had been cooking their lunch and hadn't heard the door. But something had happened. Perhaps he had gotten into some poison, or someone had hurt him somehow. But the room looked no different. No spilled bottles, no water on the floor. The fire crackled and spit as it always did.

  Only her son was different.

  "Maaaaaaaaaaa!" he cried, and the word broke her heart.

  "I'm here, Gift."

  He shook his head and thrashed against her hands, almost rising off the ground. She couldn't hold him. "Maaaa!"

  Beside her the door opened. She looked up, expecting the Shaman. Instead, the horrible little boy that Gift sometimes played with stood at the door.

  His name was Coulter, and Solanda had stolen him from the Islanders before Jewel left Shadowlands. She claimed he had magic, but he looked like an Island child, with big blue eyes, brownish-blond hair, and square features. He was small and solid. Even though he was at least five years old, he looked like a child of three.

  "Move," he said with a voice that had no childhood in it.

  "What did you do to him?" Niche asked.

  "Nothing," Coulter said. "Now move."

  Gift's thrashing had gotten worse. Niche pushed down on his shoulders, trying to keep him stable, but she didn't have the strength or the weight. "Go get the Shaman," Niche said.

  "The Shaman's gone. You only have me."

  "Maaaaaaa!" Gift's face was turning purple.

  "Move!" Coulter said. "Can't you see? He's dying!"

  "But you —"

  Coulter came all the way into the cabin and, in one sudden movement, shoved her aside. She fell back on her wings, the delicate bones in the tips snapping. The pain brought tears to her eyes. Coulter was leaning over the convulsing body of her son.

  He stretched out his arms, then fell on Gift. A bright light wrapped itself around both of them — and for a moment, Niche saw through it. Two grown men, one slender and beautiful and dark, the other short and blonde and pale, standing near the Jahn Bridge on the Cardidas river. Then the image faded.

  Wind landed beside her. He grew from a spark into a full grown man. "The Shaman's gone."

  Niche swallowed, unable to take her gaze off the boy holding her son. "I know."

  "So are the other healers. We're alone here."

  Niche nodded toward the boys. "He came."

  The light faded around Coulter, but remained around Gift. He had stopped struggling. Sweat glued his hair to his head, but he had stopped drooling. His hands were at his sides, his feet relaxed, his eyes closed. He looked as if he were sleeping. Bands of light flowed around him like string, binding him together and protecting him from the air.

  Young Coulter's hands were shaking as he brushed bangs off his flat forehead. "Who is the dying woman?" he asked Niche.

  She frowned and shook her head. "There's no woman here."

  "The woman the Shaman is tending. The woman who wears strange clothing, but has the look of a Fey."

  "Jewel," Wind breathed. He glanced at Niche as if he didn't understand. But she did.

  The dying woman. Jewel was too young to die on her own. "She's his real mother."

  "Ah," Coulter said. He brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. If it weren't for the ancient wisdom in his eyes, he would have looked like any small, inquisitive boy. "You realize no one severed the ties between Gift and his mother."

  Niche's wings throbbed. "Severed the —?"

  "She was tended by Islanders during his birth, remember?" Wind said.

  "She came to him through their Link," Coulter said. Niche wondered how he knew this, but he spoke as if it were all natural. "She tried to save him as she died. But she thought him the wrong child, and by the time she knew he was her son, she was gone."

  Niche looked at Gift. His body shone in the bands of light. "So he's dead?" she whispered.

  Coulter smiled. "I severed the ties. He's safe now."

  "He was dying because she was dying?" Niche asked.

  Coulter nodded. "But he'll live." Coulter stood and brushed off the seat of his pants. "As long as I do."

  TWENTY-TWO

  More Fey hurried into the kitchen. Jewel's grip on Nicholas's hand was loosening. Her hand was turning cold, and he wasn't sure if she was breathing. The Shaman had ceased touching Jewel's face and instead had a hand on her stomach. A small light glowed around the Shaman's fingers.

  The kitchen staff kept a respectable distance. Rugar had sunk to his knees beside Jewel, but the Shaman wouldn't let him touch her. Nicholas said nothing, but tried to send his love through his fingers into Jewel's hand.

  She had to live.

  She had to.

  He couldn't survive without her.

  The wound on her forehead had spread across her eyebrows. She was still melting, like the Fey did when touched with holy water, but the process was slower than usual.

  He wasn't sure how Matthias had done it. He must have touched her with a tainted finger, or splashed her as he placed the crown on her head. But it didn't matter. Nicholas had insisted that she be beside him in a religious ceremony. The responsibility was his.

  "Come back to me, Jewel," he said.

  All the Fey surrounding Jewel were huddled over her stomach. A golden cat sat near the fire, licking its front paws and wiping them over its face. The room was too hot, and smelled of pheasant.

  Sebastian had stopped crying.

  No one spoke. The only sounds in the large room were the crackle of wood in the hearth fire, and the small rustles that people made when they were trying to be quiet.

  The silence was eerie. Nicholas wanted to look at his son, but he didn't dare. If he had to choose a life, he would choose Jewel's. He begged the Roca for forgiveness, but his son was a shell, an empty thing instead of a child, and his wife —

  His wife was everything.

  Her stomach was no longer high and firm. It was rolling like waves on a sea. The small glow from the Shaman's hand extended over the entire womb,
showing layers beneath the skin: the blood flowing, the water around the baby, and the baby itself.

  Its body was flat. Flat. And its eyes were square, and appeared, even to him, frightened.

  "My God," he said. "The baby's melting too."

  "No," the Shaman said. She looked at the Fey around her. Women all, with hair braided and wrapped around their skulls like coronets. Most of them had black hair, but in some braids, silver shone. "She won't be able to help us. We'll have to do it on our own."

  The cat stood up and walked beside the Shaman. Then it sat, front paws neatly placed before it, and stared at Jewel's womb as if it held a mouse.

  "What are you going to do?" Nicholas asked.

  "If we don't get the child now, it will die," the Shaman said.

  "What about my grandson?" Rugar asked in Fey.

  The Shaman brought her head up. Her dark eyes were fathomless, but there was such fury in her expression that even Nicholas recoiled. "Your grandson is beyond my help. Now shut up and get out of my way. I will not tell you again."

  "Jewel's face is still melting," Nicholas said in Nye. His Fey wasn't fluent enough for this kind of emergency. "Can't you help Jewel?"

  "The best way to help the Black King's granddaughter is to remove the child she's carrying," the Shaman said in the same language.

  Nicholas squeezed Jewel's hand. She did not respond. The baby inside her womb had reverted to baby shape, its tiny fists clenched and pushing against the sides.

  "We'll have to remove the child ourselves," the Shaman said in Fey. One of the Fey women got between Jewel's legs, pushed her skirt up, and pulled her knees apart. Another joined her. The third stood and grabbed Jewel's stomach, blocking Nicholas's view.

  A spasm rocked Jewel's body, and her hand almost slipped from his. Her eyes were still closed, but her mouth fell partly open. Another spasm jolted through her, and Nicholas understood. They were inducing the spasms in her, trying to make her body act as if it were in labor.

  "Will this work?" he asked Rugar in Islander.

  Jewel's father looked twice as old as he had that morning. All the power he had carried in his body was gone now. "I don't know," he said. "The midwives do it sometimes when the mother —" his voice broke. He stopped speaking and shook his head.

  Nicholas straightened Jewel's head and held it in place for the next spasm. The faint odor of burning flesh wafted around him, but it wasn't as strong as it had been. The Fey woman closest to him was pushing on the womb. A woman below nodded.

  "I see the head," the woman said in Fey

  "Are you sure we have a head?" someone asked. Nicholas didn't see the source of the voice. "It could be shifting."

  "There's hair, and a skull. Definitely. The form's holding for the moment."

  Sweat was pouring down Nicholas's back. Another spasm shuddered through Jewel. The fire blazed beside them. Even the cat was watching with deep interest.

  "Another push," one of the women said.

  "Look," the second woman said.

  One of the cook's assistants screamed. The others, near Jewel's legs, had their hands over their mouths.

  Nicholas craned his neck to see around the Shaman, but he couldn't. Something was wrong with this child too.

  "Get them out of here," the Shaman said to him in Nye.

  "Please," Nicholas said to his people. He wasn't feeling commanding any more. Just drained and lost. "Please leave us."

  The chef gave him a look of alarm. Nicholas shook his head. Jewel's fingers were limp. She no longer seemed to feel the pain as another spasm rocked her. Two of the cook's assistants were sobbing, and so was the woman who tended the hearth fire. They weren't crying because of Jewel. They had been shocked by the baby.

  "Leave," Nicholas said. "Let them finish here. Please. I'll be all right."

  The chef nodded to the group. Then he spoke to Burden in a low voice, pointing at the ovens as he did.

  "I'll take care of it," Burden said in Islander.

  The chef thanked him, then led the others out. Another spasm shivered through Jewel.

  "Hurry," the Shaman said.

  Jewel's skin had turned an odd gray. The melting had ceased, the disfigurement stopping near her nose. He hoped the Fey had a way of dealing with that too. He had never seen an ugly Fey. Not even the ones the Fey considered deformed had ugly faces. Those Fey were just short and nonmagical.

  "There!" One of the women between Jewel's legs stood. She held a bloody thing with a human head. Its body was long and thin like an eel's. Blood dripped off the ends.

  That was his child. This one probably wouldn't live the night.

  "Quick," said the voice that Nicholas couldn't identify. The voice was female, but he couldn't see who was speaking. "Get it shaped."

  The other woman took the baby, and its form shivered, compacted, and flattened, like it had been in the womb. Suddenly it was square, with eyes and a mouth in the middle.

  "Quick!" the voice said.

  The Shaman stood and took the baby, cradling it. Nicholas watched, his mouth open, as the flat creature shifted again. In the Shaman's arms, it became a bloody, naked, squalling baby girl.

  "You have a daughter," she said to Nicholas in Fey.

  "But what just happened? She looked flat —"

  "She's fine," the Shaman said. "She Shifted. She'll be a difficult one."

  "Visionaries don't have Shifters," Rugar said. He hadn't taken any steps toward the Shaman. He huddled by himself, looking small and old. "Was it the poison?"

  The Shaman shook her head. "There is a wild magic on this Isle. This girl has it. Her Shifting is normal."

  "Actually," said the voice Nicholas couldn't identify. "It's too strong. Only one Shift at birth. Not several. That child was Shifting in the womb."

  He looked around for the source of the voice, but couldn't see it. The women were crowded around his daughter, cleaning her off. The nurse sat near the fire, Sebastian still cradled in her arms. He looked as if he had fallen asleep. The nurse was pale, with tiny beads of sweat on her forehead.

  "The power this young," the Shaman said, "is why we had to act quickly."

  Jewel hadn't moved since they let her go. Nicholas inched closer to her. He didn't like the way her mouth just hung open.

  "Now," he said, "let's help Jewel. Please."

  The Shaman turned to him. The wrinkles softened on her ancient face. She kissed the baby and handed it to one of the women. Then she came over and crouched beside Nicholas. She smelled faintly of mint.

  "I can't help Jewel," she said. "I thought you understood that."

  "But someone has to help her. She can't be like this forever." Nicholas took Jewel's hand and held it to his chest. "Please. If you don't help her, no one will."

  "Young man," the Shaman said. "There are limits, even to our powers."

  "But she's your future." Nicholas's voice broke. "She has a child now, a difficult one, you said. And she promised me that she'd be beside me. We need her. You know that. You can't let anything happen to her. We all need her."

  The Shaman gently took Jewel's hand from his grasp, and laid it across Jewel's chest. Then she took Jewel's other hand and placed it across the first. She closed Jewel's mouth, and straightened her hair.

  Jewel didn't move. She never would move again. With the Shaman's simple ritual, Nicholas finally understood what the others already knew.

  Jewel was dead.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The kitchen smelled of blood, burning flesh, and woodsmoke. Rugar knelt beside his daughter. Her forehead was puckered, her nose almost gone, her hair a flat mass against her scalp. He should have Seen this. Her Vision carried her to the poultice. Not even Gift Saw beyond that moment. But Rugar was here, now. He should have Seen this.

  "Did you know she was going to die?" he asked the Shaman.

  She was tidying Jewel's dress. She had pushed Jewel's legs down and pulled the skirts over Jewel's feet. The mattress was soaked in blood.

  "No one ca
n survive the poison," the Shaman said.

  "But you said you saw three outcomes. Three Visions of this day."

  The Shaman sighed and pushed her straw-like hair away from her face. She was older than his father, older than any Fey except the Shamans who guided the other divisions. Among them, she was considered young.