The Rival (28 page)

Adrian frowned.  Once Coulter had told him the Link was his lifeline.  "Why?"

"I didn't want him here."

"Why not?"

"He's not safe anymore."

"Not safe?" Adrian said.  "I just let him into my house."

"Oh, he won't harm us."  Coulter let his hands slid to his side, and he uncrossed his legs.  "But with all the changes on the Isle, Gift is the last thing we need."

"But you wanted him here," Adrian said. "You said you'd be able to protect him."

"I said I'd be able to protect him," Coulter said.  "I never said I wanted him here."

Adrian didn't understand.  He had a two Fey in his kitchen, and his foster son, the boy with all the Fey powers, the boy who was not Fey, didn't want them there.  "Why not?"

"Because it'll distract me.  I can either protect Gift, or I can monitor the Other."

"The Other?  The new Enchanter?"

Coulter nodded.  "He is powerful, Adrian.  More powerful than I am.  And more in control than the one I felt before."

"Does he know you're here?" Adrian asked.

"Yes," Coulter said.  "He sensed me a little while ago.  He doesn't know where I am yet, and he may not look.  He may not care."

"He's that much more powerful than you?"

"He's that much older, and in control.  He's probably had training.  I've had none."

"Then how do you know you must choose between him or Gift?"

Coulter pushed himself to his feet.  He looked taller in the moonlight.  "I can't choose now," he said.  "I made the choice fifteen years ago, when I saved Gift's life.  I have to defend him."

"I thought you already did.  He owes you his life."

"And I owe him mine," Coulter said.  "I bound us.  I tied us together.  If one of us dies, both of us die, unless someone with my skills can break the Link."

"Why don't you?"

Coulter put a hand over his face.  For the first time in a long time, he looked like the little boy he had been when Adrian first befriended him.  "Because I did it wrong."

"I don't understand."

He moved his hand.  His face held an anguish that Adrian had never seen.  "I had never done anything like it before.  I just did it by instinct. But I was wrong.  There are two ways to Bind.  One is subtle and delicate and can be easily asundered.  The other Binds the parties heart to heart, making their life energies one.  It cannot be broken.  I was afraid he was dying.  I only had two friends, him and you.  I couldn't live without him.  So I made that true.  Literally."

"Then I don't understand," Adrian said.  "If that's true, why don't you want to protect him?"

"Because Gift is good at protecting himself.  And I need to be working on this new threat.  I can't concentrate on two things at once.  Not two important things."

"Then tell Gift that.  Have him go on his own."

Coulter stepped out of the light.  He looked like himself again.  "It won't be that easy, Adrian.  Gift is here because of his Vision.  And I suspect that's just as important as everything else."

Adrian glanced at the sky, half expecting to see the lines he had seen before.  The stars were out, visible even against the brightness of the moon.  "I don't understand," he said at last.  "All these important events at once.  Why?"

Coulter didn't respond.  Adrian looked down.  Coulter was staring at him.

Adrian's heart lurched.  "I meant that as a rhetorical question, but you know, don't you?  You know why all of this is happening now."

"It was inevitable," Coulter said.

"And?"

Coulter sighed as if he didn't want to say any more.  He came up beside Adrian.  They stood side by side.  Adrian could feel Coulter's warmth.  "And the Islanders have put it off for fifty generations.  When you put something off that long, it is cataclysmic when it happens."

"Cataclysmic."  Adrian felt as if someone had thrown cold water on his face.  He didn't know what Coulter was talking about.  He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Coulter nodded.  He put his hand on Adrian's back.  "Take me to Gift," he said.

"But you said  — "

"I might be wrong."  Coulter took a deep breath, glanced south, and added, "He's a Visionary, and I'm an Enchanter.  If we had an army behind us, we'd be equally matched."

"To each other?"

"To the threat.  We'd face it together."

And then he took off across the grass before Adrian could ask any more questions.

TWENTY-NINE

Matthias swam back into consciousness.  It wasn't quite like waking up.  To wake up, one had to be asleep.  It felt more like his brain returned.  The pain beneath it all had been constant.  He had been aware of it, and the closer he came to opening his eyes, the more aware he was:

The cuts on his face sent shooting pains throughout his system.  The cuts on his shoulders and arms ached.  His legs were heavy with exhaustion, and his arms were nearly useless.  His lungs burned.

He had never felt so spent in his entire life.

Matthias opened his eyes.   The room was unfamiliar.  A single candle burned on the nightstand, dripping wax onto the wooden table.  The mattress he lay on smelled dirty, and the floor needed to be swept. The room didn't have a window, but through the open door, he saw a kitchen with a cold hearth fire, several more candles, and a woman seated beside an open window.

She was young, in her twenties, and she leaned over a tapestry frame.  Her needle worked through the top and then the bottom with the ease of practice.  Her face was serene.  Her long hair had a reddish tint that suggested her family came from the Cliffs of Blood. 

He coughed, to alert her that he was awake, and then he tried to sit up.

A mistake.  He was dizzy.  The movement caused a buzzing in his ears.

She was beside him in an instant.

"Tis not yers to be up," she said.  "Yer body's had quite a shock, it has.  Ye need yer rest."

The accent was a bit narrow for the Cliffs.  He frowned.  She spoke more like she came from the Kenniland Marshes.  "I can't stay here," he said.

"Ye must.  Someone tried to kill ye.  Ye canna go back out tonight."

"You saw it?"

She shook her head.  "Me brother found ye, and brought ye here.  Tis thought I've healin skills, though tis not always true."

"You need someone to shake out your mattress," Matthias said, and winced at the ingratitude in his tone.

She smiled.  "A lordly man like ye'd be expecting more.  I dinna have the strength, and me brother, well, he disappears when tis time to work."

"And your husband?"

She gently put a hand on Matthias's chest and pushed him back.  "Ye must rest."

"I can't stay," he said again.

"Ye canna leave.  Ye canna walk to that door.  Ye've lost so much blood ye look like a fish too long in the sun.  Tis lucky ye dinna die there.  By morning, ye'd've been a corpse."

Matthias shivered.  She was probably right.  The way he felt, and the things he suffered that evening, should have killed him.

But he lived on.

It takes magick to survive.

She let her hand slide along his chest.  The movement was almost a caress.  "I'll be getting ye some tea.  It'll restore yer spirits."

She walked into the other room, and he found himself staring after her.  She wore a long red dress, embroidered with gold along the bottoms and sides.  It seemed heavy for summer and warm, but she didn't seem to notice.  In fact, the room, although windowless, had a coolness that spoke of fall.

His chest tingled where she had touched him.  He leaned back on his pillows, letting the softness envelope him.   His wounds still pained him.  He had to look horrible.  With his right hand, he touched the bandages on his face.  They covered his cheeks and his jaw, and one went all the way above his left eye.  He didn't remember getting stabbed that close to his eyes, but he barely remembered the details of the attack.  It had been moments of mind-numbing terror.  He had been more afraid that the Fey would drown him than he had been of being stabbed.

The woman came back and put a cup of tea on the nightstand. Then she put her arm behind his head and brought him forward.

"I can do that," he said.

"Tis my job 'til yer well," she said.  She took the cup and held it to his lips.

The tea was warm and smelled of flowers.  It had a slightly bitter taste, but soothed the back of his throat.  She took the cup away, allowing him a moment to breathe.

"I don't even know you," he said.  "Why are you being so nice?"

She smiled.  "Me name is Marly, and I think we're kin of a sort."

"Kin?" Matthias said.  "You don't even know who I am."

"I dinna need to, to see we gotta bond, ye and me."

He let her give him another sip of tea.  It allowed him a moment to think.  She couldn't know who he was.  Not with all of these facial wounds.  Besides, she was too young to know him from his days as Rocaan.

But she had called him "lordly."  Perhaps she thought he was a lord, and by claiming a bond, she might claim him as well.  As if that would do her any good.  He had no land, and no holdings.  Only a handful of followers, enough money put aside to finance his dreams, and one dream, a dream that would help the entire Isle, if he got a chance to pursue it.

She pulled the cup away from his mouth.  "What kind of bond?" he asked reluctantly.

She smiled.  "Yer from the Cliffs of Blood," she said.

He started.  It wasn't obvious, like it was with her.  He didn't have the telltale reddish hair, nor did he have any of the local look.  "What makes you think that?"

"Ye mean aside from yer height?"

He had forgotten that.  It was his turn to smile.  "There are tall people born in Jahn."

"Nay," she said.  "Cepting the King's bastards."

He smiled at that.  Maybe they did have a bond.  He took one more sip of tea from her, then let her ease him back on the pillow.  "Tell me, Marly," he said, "how bad is my face?"

She gazed down at him, her green eyes filled with compassion.  "Ye were a pretty man, then?"

"Pretty?" he frowned.  He had never thought of himself in that way.  "You mean vain?  I don't think so.  I just want to know what they did to my face."

"There's no hiding the truth," she said.  "Forgive me bluntness, but if'n ye made yer money off yer face, ye need to be looking for new work."

"How bad?" he asked.

All hope of a smile was gone from hers.  She touched his bandages lightly.  "Seven cuts, and most are long.  I had to sew the edges together for mending.  Twas good ye were gone to the world then.  I tried to keep me stitches tiny, but still ye'll have long gash scars and tiny holes beside.  Wee ones won't like seeing ye in the dark."

He closed his eyes then.  He had never relied on his face much, but he knew what she meant.  Facial scars somehow frightened people worse than all other wounds.  He had seen it over and over again, how the gaze averted when someone heavily scarred approached.

One more thing to deal with.

One more thing he had lost to the Fey.

"I dinna mean to hurt ye."

"You weren't the one who did this."

"Who did?"

He opened his eyes again.  She hadn't moved.  The warmth of her body felt good in the coolness of the room.  Her features were classically pretty, her mouth a small bow.  If he had been a lord, and wanted to take her to wife, all he would have to do was teach her how to speak correctly.  No one would ever have been able to guess her humble origins from her face.

He decided to tell her the truth.

"I startled some Fey on the bridge."

"Fey?  In Jahn?"

He closed his eyes, unwilling to say more.  He didn't know how she stood on anything.  He wasn't even really certain where he was.  All he knew as that he was exhausted and he hurt worse than he ever had.

"Are there people who need ye tonight?"

He thought of Yeon and the others.  They were working on their own plan.  They didn't need him.  Not now.  And he certainly didn't want them to see him like this, weak and badly injured.

"Not tonight," he said.

"Good, then.  Ye'll rest."

He could feel her get off the mattress.  He opened his eyes enough to see.  He caught her hand in his.  "I don't want to kick you out of your bed."

She smiled.  "I canna sleep this night anyway.  I've got a tapestry to finish.  Tis due at Lord Miller's by week's end."

And that was all Matthias needed to know. She was one of the legion of women who made a living with their needles, sewing chair coverings, making rugs, and embroidering tapestries for the gentry. 

Confiding in her would not be wise.

He would have to leave as soon as he was able.

THIRTY

"First he doesn't want me in the palace, and now he needs me to come?  The Rocaan should be equal to the King, not jump at the King's command." Titus stood by the open balcony doors in his private suite.  The courtyard below was empty.  Two Auds stood guard outside his door.  Lord Stowe was the only other person inside.

Candles were lit all over the room, illuminating the engraved walls and the ornate furniture.  The heat from the day remained inside, and the breeze, which Titus could feel on the balcony, did not seem to penetrate the interior.

Stowe stood at the edge of the balcony as well.  The years had not been kind to him.  He was balding, and although he hadn't gained weight as so many did, he had an agonizing thinness, the kind caused by too much worry and too little personal care.  He was twisting the bottom of his hastily donned tunic with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. 

Nervous habits always annoyed Titus.  They made him feel as if the person exhiting them had lost control of his life.

Which, he supposed, Lord Stowe had.

"Besides," Titus said, "How do we know that this Fey was simply not one of the locals playing a little game."

"We've had other indications.  We had a messenger from the South earlier today  — "

"As did we.  How convenient.  And, I suppose, the rumor that holy water is no longer effective?"