The Rival (50 page)

Adrian didn't like the sound of any of this.  He trusted Coulter, had watched the boy work his own odd magick for years, and knew that Coulter's senses were usually right.

"Can Gift reopen the Link himself?"

Coulter shook his head.  "Not with the kind of Lock I put on it."

"Can the Black King open it from the other side?"

"From Sebastian?"

Adrian nodded.

"No."  Coulter said.

"Then Gift is safe."

"Gift is not safe.  Links aren't the only way to conquer a person.  You know that," Coulter said.

Adrian did know that.  Jewel had conquered him by threatening his son.  It had been an easy acquiescence, because Luke's life was so much more important to Adrian than his own.

"You're afraid the Black King will be like Jewel, then," Adrian said.

"No."  Coulter turned around.  "The Black King isn't like Jewel.  She had his mind, all right, but she was young and lacked his experience.  She was like a baby compared with him.  There's a reason he rules over half the world.  He has the most incredible presence that I've encountered."

"And Gift didn't inherit it?"

"Gift is no match for him.  I'm no match for him.  I doubt anyone on the Isle is."

"But he can't kill Gift."

"No, he can't," Coulter said.  "But I'm afraid what he will do is worse."

The words hung between them.  Adrian swallowed.  He had seen what the Fey did to their own kind.  Scavenger had shown him how the Fey treated those they considered lesser.  And Adrian had seen the subtleties, the coercion, the ways the Fey had of keeping each other in line.

He couldn't imagine it being directed from the inside, from within the brain.

"He made a mistake, then, blocking his Link with you."

Coulter shook his head sadly.  "No, he was right.  Any Link to him is dangerous now.  I just didn't have the strength to block that one."

"He's all by himself, then," Adrian said.  "More so than he's ever been in his life."

Coulter glanced over the corn.  "I know."

"He'll need protection.  Leen's not up for it."

Coulter looked at Adrian.  The boy's eyes were dulled from sadness, his shoulders slumping from the energy he had used protecting Gift.  "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that we should go after him.  He needs you, Coulter, now more than ever."

Coulter sighed.  "He won't accept me."

"He won't have a choice."

Coulter brushed his hair off his face.  Adrian had not seen him look this indecisive in years.  He was still vulnerable, beneath all that power.  Rejection hurt him more than others, probably because he had faced so much of it in his short life.

"You don't have to come," Coulter said.

"Oh, but I do," Adrian said.  "Someone needs to look out for you."

"I'm an adult now, Adrian.  I can look after myself."

Adrian suppressed a fond smile.  Coulter was an adult, but that didn't mean he could do everything on his own.  Even if he didn't want to admit that, Adrian knew it.  And he knew how to get Coulter to allow him to go along.

"I know that," Adrian said.  "But the Fey are going to come here, looking for Gift.  And when they don't find him, they'll go after me and Luke and Scavenger.  I don't want to face that again.  I'd rather know you're safe."

Coulter smiled.  It was a small smile, slightly distracted, but a smile nonetheless.  "You're not very good at manipulation."

"I know," Adrian said.

"You know it means you'd have to go directly into the Fey."

"I know," Adrian said.

"You'll probably be in more danger there," Coulter said.

"So will you," Adrian said.

"You're not going to let me go alone, are you?" Coulter asked.

"No," Adrian said.

Coulter took a deep breath, as if with it, he could steel himself for the next few days.  "All right," he said. "Let's gather up supplies.  I suspect we don't have much time until the Fey find us."

Adrian suspected the same thing.  He took one more glance at his land, the farm he had tended since he was a boy, the corn rising high in the sun, the buildings his grandfather had built.  He hoped he would be able to see it again.

But he doubted that he would.

And that was a price he was willing to pay, to keep Coulter safe.

FIFTY-FIVE

Solanda paced the tent.  It felt smaller and more confining than any other tent she had been in.

Prisoner.

How humiliating.

How wrong.

But there was nothing she could do.  She was in Rugad's Shadowlands, being guarded by his people.  She was among Fey, and if she Shifted and ran through the camp, they would know what she was.

They would know who she was.

Besides, the door was spelled, and she didn't have time finesse her way under the tent.

The air was stuffy in here, and still smelled of Rugad's leathers.  That meeting had gone poorly.  He had believed her about Arianna, but he hadn't seen Solanda's point about her own usefulness.  Rugad's problem  —  and he did have a problem  —  was that he assumed his great-grandchildren would think like Fey.

Neither of them did.

Gift was too soft and Arianna, although she had her great-grandfather's fierceness and intelligence, considered herself an Islander.  Nothing Solanda had done could change that.  The only way to make Arianna part of the Fey Empire was through loyalty, and Solanda was the Black King's only hope for that.

But she had slipped. She had let him see the rupture between her and Arianna.

If she wasn't careful, that rupture would cost her her life.

She stopped pacing and swallowed.  Rugad wouldn't be back.  She had sent him away, taunting him to kill her, and he would.  She couldn't escape the tent.

But he had forgotten one thing  —  or perhaps he had never known.  Doppelgängers could not use magick that wasn't theirs.  They could overtake a Spy or an Enchanter, but they couldn't use Spy or Enchanter magick.

They could take over a Shifter in her natural Fey form, but they couldn't Shift once they'd done so.  And they couldn't use a Shifter's magick.

Which meant they couldn't use a Shifter's magick form.

Solanda blinked, gripped her fists, and took a deep breath.  Shifting was her last and only hope.  When the Doppelgänger came in the tent, she would have to flee.  She would have to run with all her feline swiftness for the Circle door.  When she reached it, she would have to leap through it, and head for the river.  They would never think of following her into the river.  They probably didn't even know she could swim.

Then she would go to Arianna and convince the girl to bargain with her great-grandfather.  It was Arianna's only hope.  Rugad was focused on Gift.  He wouldn't think a second powerful Fey great-grandchild necessary.

Solanda closed her eyes and Shifted.  Her body compacted downward, her nose and mouth extended, and her limbs became paws.  The hair absorbed into her skull and fur grew on her body.  Her clothing piled on her, and she stepped out of it, one dainty foot at a time.

She had Shifted.

Now the secret was to surprise the Doppelgänger before he surprised her.  An attack on the face might do it.  The natural reaction to an animal attack on the eyes was to fling the animal away.  Or she could run through his legs  —

Voices reverberated outside the tent.  Her mouth was dry. She ran her rough tongue over her lips, a nervous habit that she kept from her full Fey form.  She slipped to the back of the tent, and waited, poised, in the shadows.

The tent flap opened.  She launched herself forward, leaping at the Doppelgänger's face.  Midway through the air, she realized she had made a mistake. 

Several people had come into the tent, not one, and they weren't Doppelgängers.  They were Foot Soldiers.  Instead of leaping her way out of danger, she had flung herself into the hands of the enemy.

Literally.

Her limbs pinwheeled in an attempt to stop her leap, but Gelô caught her.  She could feel his extra set of fingernails, extended into her stomach.

"A pity you Shifted," he said.  "Such a small mass of skin.  It won't take as much time as we'd hope."

She hissed and spat and clawed at his face, and knew it was too late.  Rugad had won.  Despite all she was, all she had done for him, he was treating her like a common murderer.

He was executing her.

And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

FIFTY-SIX

Rugad's tent was large.  It was actually three tents, with openings built between them.  They were pushed together into a triangle, which allowed him two meeting areas and a place to sleep.  This was the configuration he preferred in Shadowlands, rather than the single tent he had had down south.

Ghost waited for him in one tent.  As Rugad approached, Wisdom stopped him. 

"Winglet is in your secondary meeting room," Wisdom said.  "She has word of the palace."

"Make certain the flaps are closed between tents," Rugad said.

Wisdom  nodded and went into the first tent.  Rugad gave him a moment before going into the second.

The second tent was smaller than the main tent.  It had canvas chairs made by Domestics on Nye, and soothing blankets covering the floor and the ceiling.  They were slightly Spelled so that their colors seeped into Shadowlands.  His personal servants had a series of possessions they set up in all of his Shadowlands to make him feel more comfortable.  Being surrounded by the familiar made him feel powerful, gave him a sense of community he otherwise would forget during a campaign.

Winglet sat on one of the canvas chairs, her feet curled beneath her.  She leaned forward in the manner of most Beast Riders, protecting both the small creature in her belly and assuming the comfortable posture that she usually had after her transformation.  Winglet was a Sparrow Rider.  Her beakish nose and brownish feathered hair reflected that.  She was tall, like most Fey, but so petite that Rugad could circle her waist with one hand.

"What news?" he asked.

"The Riders are in place," she said, "the Infantry is on its way, and the Islanders have tried nothing."

"They haven't even tried to see if they can get out?"

She shook her head.  "I believe their King is waiting for his meeting with you."

"Then he will continue to wait.  What else?"

"The Tabernacle is burning.  Most of the inhabitants are dead.  I suspect the rest will be dead by nightfall.  Some of the city is on fire as well."  She said this last as if she expected him to yell at her.

He shrugged.  Cities did not interest him unless they were commercial centers.  Jahn hadn't been a commercial center for twenty years.

"All right," he said.  "Go back, and tell Flock not to do anything until I arrive.  I should be there by morning."

Winglet nodded.  She pushed herself out of the chair.  "This should be an easy one, shouldn't it?"

Rugad shook his head.  "Don't underestimate these people," he said.  "That was my son's mistake.  You can tell Flock that too.  Warn him to remain alert."

"I will," Winglet said.  Then she let herself out of the tent.  As she pulled back the tent flap, a cat's yowl of pain and terror resounded through Shadowlands.  A shudder ran down Rugad's back.  Smart one, that Solanda.  She had known that a Doppelgänger couldn't become an animal. She had protected herself from her assassin, not knowing that Rugad had been ahead of her.

The yowl sounded again, followed by loud hissing and screeching.  He pulled the tent flap closed.  It blocked much of the sound. Even though she had chosen a smaller form, her death would still take a while.  The Foot Soldiers would see to that.  He had promised them a death execution style, and they would take advantage of that.

He swallowed.  His throat was dry.  He crossed the room, and took a pouch of water, sipped from it.  The pouch was Domestic-Spelled, making the water within cool and fresh.  He tied the pouch to his hip, trying twice before finishing the move.

His hands were shaking.

He wiped them on his breeches.  Killing did not always come easily to him.  Sometimes it took more out of him than he showed.  He took a deep breath.  No one needed to know that detail.  No one needed to see it.

He took a moment to let the calm flow through him like the cool water.  Then he pushed back the inside flap and went into the first tent.

Its decor was the same as the second tent except for a large wooden table in the center  He had brought three of them, battle scarred and ancient, to place in all of his important Shadowlands.  He had used those tables since he became Black King, planning his strategy on them, writing orders, and learning his statecraft.  The tables had served him well.

This one was the oldest.  Its wood came from L'Nacin, its scars from many of the battles in Nye.  Rugar and Jewel had both carved their names in the surface, as had his other children and grandchildren.  He stared at those signatures sometimes, wondering at the price he paid for ruling the Fey.

As if on cue, another screaming howl echoed through the camp.  The tent muted it, but the sound was still loud. 

The other Fey in the tent flinched.  He was wearing clothing too small for his frame.  He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, but his eyes were much older.  And they were stained with gold.

"Ghost?" Rugad asked, more to confirm the Doppelgänger's presence than his identity.

He nodded and licked his lips.  Then he stood.  "I took a Spell Warder," he said, his voice trembling.  He kept his eyes downcast, and Rugad could feel the shame coming from him.  The death of Fey, even Failure Fey, fell hard on those who heard it, saw it, or caused it.

"So I understand," Rugad said.  "You should be out of Shadowlands by now.  I'm sure there are other places that can use your services."

"I needed to speak to you first," Ghost said.  He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet.  He obviously wasn't used to the new body yet.  "This Warder had found the holy water antidote."