The Black Queen (Book 6) (33 page)

Matt learned about Enchanters. Enchanters, like him, had all the powers of the Fey except Vision. Even then, Enchanters shared some of the powers of a Visionary. What the Enchanter lacked was the ability to See the future. An Enchanter could use any magick that had been altered, invented or designed, not as well as those who specialized only in that magick, but a bit nonetheless. Few Enchanters tried Shape-Shifting spells, for example, and even fewer tried to pick a permanent shape like the Fey Beast Riders. But Coulter had told Matt that anything he could imagine, he could do.

Scavenger said that made Matt more powerful than most people in the world. But it was a power that raised several questions in Matt’s mind: why did he get it, and what did he need it for? So far, all it had done was terrify his family and make his brother hate him. And Alex had never hated him before.

Matt had asked Coulter why Alex didn’t have the same powers. They were twins. They looked exactly alike, but their abilities differed. Coulter had looked uneasy about this, and when Matt pressed him, had finally mentioned what Matt’s mother had: that the entire Islander system was based on the idea of two brothers, one to lead the country and the other to lead the religion. Only in the past, Coulter said, it had been the Enchanter involved in the religion and the one with Vision who led the country. He didn’t know what it meant to have those roles reversed in Matt’s family.

It wasn’t until Matt got home that day that he found himself wondering why Coulter had accepted the importance of Matt’s family so easily.

He planned to ask Coulter about that later today. He also planned to ask his help with Alex, again. Coulter had said he wouldn’t help, but maybe if Matt explained how close they had once been, Coulter would relent.

He finished the last bit of cheese, and checked on his mother. She looked exhausted, sprawled across the bed, snoring softly. Not even sleep made those circles beneath her eyes disappear. He knew she had been staying up late, making herb baskets and poultices, ointments and other healing potions she could sell or trade for food. He also knew that, in the last week, she had twice gone searching for his father and both times, she had come home, locked herself in her room and sobbed.

What his father had become scared him so much he didn’t even want to think about it. Especially after Alex had told him of his Vision of Matt in the exact same condition.

Matt gently closed the door to his mother’s room, then went outside. No Alex on the road, no Alex resting by the front door. Matt gazed at the mountains, glowing red in the pre-dawn light. He and Alex used to say, when they were separated for even a short time, that the mountains could always see them both.

Well, Matt hoped the mountains could see Alex. He certainly couldn’t. And he missed him, more than he could say.

He sighed, and started up the road, deciding to avoid the usual paths. If he saw Alex in the mood he was in, he might say something he would later regret. He wanted to get closer to his brother, not farther from him. Speaking harsh words wouldn’t help.

The morning was crisp and colder than he had expected. He hadn’t worn a coat. The thought made him a bit sad. Usually his mother knew what the weather would be. Usually she kept track of him. But she hadn’t been keeping track of much this week. She felt the loss of Alex as much as he did.

Matt took a shortcut, a dirt path he and Alex had found a long time ago, when they had been fairly little. They had gotten strapped for walking on it by their father, who said the Fey used that road and it was dangerous. Matt hadn’t used it again, but since there was no one to monitor him, he would try it.

Walking along the narrow path made his heart pound. Twice he looked over his shoulder. When he had been little, he believed his father could see everything. Sometimes, he imagined, his father would approve of what he saw, and sometimes, he knew, his father would hate what Matt did.

These days, his father would hate what Matt did.

Just as Alex hated it.

Matt shivered. He wished he had the coat. The sunlight wouldn’t warm the day for hours yet.

The path wound down toward a branch of the Cardidas River. Most of the townspeople used this branch to bring extra water to their homes and, in the summer, some of them used it to bathe. The water here was as red as it was in the river proper, but it wasn’t wild. It was almost placid and it had no undertow. No one had ever drowned here—at least not to Matt’s knowledge—though people drowned all the time in the main part of the Cardidas. They slipped off rocks or overestimated the depth of the water. Here, the bottom was visible through the calm surface, and no one misjudged anything.

The river had an odor that carried to this part, the odor of freshness mixed with marshy grass and mud. He loved that smell. It meant home to him. He walked past it, breathing deep, when he noticed a movement in some reeds.

He hadn’t expected to see anyone. People stayed away from this part of the river in the spring—mostly because the water was still icy cold from the winter thaw. If people did come here, it was to get drinking or cooking water, and they usually waited until midday so that their hands wouldn’t freeze when they dipped their buckets.

His breath was coming quicker than he wanted, and he stepped off the path onto the grass so that his feet wouldn’t make any noise as he walked. The reeds rustled again, and he frowned at the movement. It didn’t seem like someone who was trying to hide. The closer Matt got, the more he realized that the person in the reeds hadn’t even heard him come.

It was a tall man, obviously Fey, who faced the water. In his hands, he held a pole. He wore boots that went to the tops of his thighs. His hair was braided in a fashion Matt had never seen before—thin braids, and a lot of them, that fell across his face and back. He had the sleeves of an old and dirty shirt pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms covered with scars. The scars appeared to have a pattern to them.

Matt was going to walk past, but the Fey man looked so unusual that Matt slowed. In that moment, the man backed up, knocking the reeds again, nearly falling backwards, his pole bent and the line taut.

The strain was evident, both in the line and on the man’s face. He was too thin—he obviously didn’t eat well and hadn’t for a long time—and the concentration with which he fought the fish seemed out of place to the result. Matt had seen the fish that had come out of this part of the river; they were small at best, meager most of the time, and they tasted oily and foul. No one should have to eat those.

Still, the man probably would eat anything he could. Matt had seen Fey like that before, former warriors who didn’t know how to live off the land, and who no longer had a purpose within the Empire. They certainly didn’t have a purpose on Blue Isle. Most of them didn’t even have homes here, and they had been fighting so long, they had no homes to go back to.

What had Coulter said? Use power to help those with none?

Matt flicked a wrist, raised it, and strengthened the line with his finger. As the man pulled the pole, a fish emerged from the water, as scrawny as Matt expected. He made the fish larger, and placed on it a wish for better taste.

The fish, now the size of a man’s foot, rose dripping and fighting, splashing as it did. The man made not a sound as he fought it, and slowly worked it toward shore. Eventually, he grabbed the line, and brought the fish home.

Matt smiled and walked on. He almost whistled, but he didn’t want to call attention to himself. He had reached a bend in the path when he felt a hand on his arm.

He looked down, saw the long dark brown fingers of the man he had helped. Up close, the scarring was white and red and clearly deliberate. Little choppy lines decorated the skin, and looked as if some were fresh. It seemed as if they failed to heal in the manner someone wanted them to, so they were cut open to heal again.

Matt had no idea Fey did such a thing.

The smell of fresh fish was strong now, and so was the odor of the river, musty and overpowering. Beneath it was the scent of dirt and of clothes that were cleaned haphazardly.

Matt looked up from the hand to the face of the man who had stopped him. The man had delicate features, a few lines on his skin, and silver near his temples. He was at least as old as Matt’s mother, maybe older.

When Matt met his gaze, the man looked at him with soft brown eyes, and smiled. Matt smiled back. The man bowed slightly as an acknowledgment, then pointed at the reeds. Behind the reeds, in a secluded area that Matt hadn’t been able to see when he walked up the other direction, was a clear spot covered with brush and sticks for a fire. A canvas sack leaned against a rock, and on the ground beside it was an iron skillet and a shiny metal mug.

Matt smiled, a bit uncertainly. Then the man pinched his forefinger and thumb together and brought them to his lips, miming eating. He swept his free hand open again as if inviting Matt to join him.

The man couldn’t speak. Matt had never met anyone like that before, at least not anyone Fey. His father said the Fey didn’t like deformities, couldn’t accept anyone who wasn’t completely whole. But Coulter had told Matt that the Fey could heal most serious problems, and when they couldn’t, the Fey chose to die to serve their people either in Fey lamps or to allow their bodies to be used for magick.

“It looks like it’s been a long time since you’ve had a good meal,” Matt said. “Why don’t you bring your stuff and come with me? I know some people who’ll feed you.”

The man shook his head rather wildly. He pointed to the river.

“Bring your fish,” Matt said. “Then you’ll be sharing with them as they share with you.”

The man looked uncertain for a moment. Then he smiled and bowed again. He held up one finger, signaling that Matt should wait, then hurried to his camp.

He put the skillet and cup in his bag, and began picking up other things, things Matt couldn’t see. Matt came over to help him. The man nodded and pointed to a small pile of knives beside the makeshift fireplace.

They were knives of varying shapes and sizes—whittling knives, carving knives, hunting knives. One still had bits of wood on it, showing that it had been used to help this man find his fuel. Another had fish scales all along its scarred blade. A hand-carved wooden box sat beside the knives, and Matt opened it. More knives were inside. It was, apparently, how the man stored them.

The man had clearly been on the road for a very long time. Matt put the knives away, amazed that the man would trust him with them. Apparently the man didn’t want Matt to have any surprises.

Matt picked up the box, and walked toward the man. He was taking the string and hook off his fishing pole. He put it and the box in his canvas bag, then pulled the cord around the bag’s mouth closed. He hoisted the bag over his shoulder as if he had done so all his life. With an elaborate sweep of the hand, he indicated that Matt should lead the way.

Matt did. The walk to Coulter’s was long, but each time Matt offered to help with the sack, the man shook his head. Matt found it odd; because the man couldn’t talk, Matt felt no need to. They walked in silence until they reached the school itself.

The magick yard was empty. It was still too early for many people to be around. Usually Coulter didn’t allow use of the magick yard until afternoon anyway. Near the main door, Leen was feeding a small collection of cats and two dogs that had been strays but now somehow belonged to the school.

Cats were rare in all parts of Blue Isle but this one, or so Matt’s father had once said. King Alexander had ordered all the cats slaughtered when the Fey first came and he had learned that some Fey could shift into that form. Matt thought that a shame. If he had been one of the students who needed to live on-site, he would have offered to feed the cats himself.

“Hey, Leen!” Matt shouted.

She jumped as if she had been caught at doing something bad. The cats didn’t even look up, but one of the dogs barked deep in its throat. Leen petted it as if to calm it, and then looked at Matt.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

Matt turned to his companion. The man mimed writing on his hand. “I don’t know,” Matt said. “He can’t talk.”

Leen’s face eased into a small frown, so short that it almost seemed as if Matt imagined it.

“I think he hasn’t been eating well. But he caught a nice-sized fish this morning and is willing to share it. I told him he could share it with all of us, and we’d give him a proper meal.”

Leen nodded her head. She was studying the man as if she had never seen a Fey before. She wiped her hands on her pants and walked over to him.

She spoke to him in Fey.

He held a hand out as if in apology, then he touched his fingers to his mouth and shook his head.

She asked him another question.

He shrugged.

Matt looked from one to the other, wishing they would speak Islander so that he could follow them. Enough of learning how to control magick. Next he would ask Coulter to teach him Fey so that no one could have a conversation in front of him that he didn’t understand.

Then Leen took the man’s arm and led him toward the kitchen. The cats had finished their tidbits and obviously smelled fish. They circled the man, mewling piteously as if they had never been fed. The man smiled, and Matt laughed. The creatures were shameless.

“Let’s give the fish to Tink,” Leen said to Matt. “She’s cooking this morning. Then let’s get this man to the Domestics to get him cleaned up. Maybe later we’ll get a Healer to look at his mouth.”