The Resistance: The Fourth Book of the Fey (Fey Series)

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  No one believed the story. Islanders didn't have those kinds of powers.

  But the thought made Tuft uneasy. Especially the closer he got to finding the great-grandson.

  Wisps were easy to kill. One of his ancestors had gotten caught in a jar of honey and drowned. Still another was eaten by a cat.

  Tuft was scaring himself. He had to stop thinking about these things. The closer he got to his quarry, the more he had to protect himself.

  He didn't have to get close.

  All he had to do was spy them from a distance and then bring the troops in. He could escape long before anyone even knew he was there.

  And there were no cobwebs. He had to remember that. This tunnel was clear.

  A faint smell of smoke was mixing with the musk of river water. He was either getting close to the surface of the city or he was getting close to a burned-out area. There was another scent below the smoke smell, one that made his skin crawl.

  Rotting flesh.

  He hadn't smelled that since the last battles on Nye. The Nyeians were desperate and they continued fighting long into the night, going for days while the corpses of their compatriots rotted at their feet. It had been a week-long siege before the Fey had broken through. Thousands of dead, all left in the sun, in the heat, for days.

  He never thought he'd get over that. He had to force himself to eat after that because the smell stayed on his tongue for months.

  He flew out of the tunnel and into a wall of stench: rotting flesh, old smoke, and general decay assaulted him. He flipped over once, then caught himself, swallowing hard to keep the meager contents of his stomach down.

  Smells were always harder when he was smaller.

  The tunnel had ended in a large room. Bodies clustered near its opening, most of them weeks dead. Another fork dead-ended toward the side. There was only one way to go.

  He kept toward the ceiling, one small hand over his mouth and nose. The bodies belonged to Black Robes. Suddenly the acrid smell of smoke made sense.

  He had to be below the Islanders' holy place, the place that Rugad had destroyed. The layout of the tunnels must have made the place a horrible trap. The Black Robes that had managed to crawl to the other side were lucky — he was amazed they had survived at all.

  One body in a doorway looked crushed, as if something had walked on it. He hovered near the corner where the ceiling met the wall and tried to hide his tiny light. He eased through the door, and saw, at the other end, Rugad's great-grandson holding a crate.

  The great-grandson raised his head slowly, as if he sensed something. Tuft held his breath. Another man — a boy, really — in a dirty robe that had once been a light beige came out of a side room carrying a crate. The great-grandson said something and the boy shook his head.

  The great-grandson could sense Tuft.

  Tuft backed away slowly. The area they were in appeared to have many doors, but they didn't look like passageways. He couldn't really explore it. But if he got out of here quickly, he could get the Infantry below.

  He could capture the Black King's great-grandson.

  He flew back and stopped near the bridge tunnel. There had to be another way out. He hovered for a moment, considering.

  But if there were, the Black Robes would have known.

  They wouldn't have died inside the tunnels or crawled to the other side.

  There were only two ways out. Either he had to go past the Black King's great-grandson, or he had to go back.

  He would go back, but he had to hurry. He could fly fast. He had once held the Wisp record for traversing Nye the fastest. It had been years ago, but he could fly that fast again.

  He had to.

  He didn't dare lose his quarry now.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Con carried the full crate down the catacomb. His back ached and he was covered in grime. The sword bumped against his leg as he moved, but he wanted to keep it beside him. He wasn't sure if that was because it had unusual properties or because it had taken the place of the swords he used to see around the Tabernacle. The religious swords, the ones that spoke to him of God.

  Or perhaps he kept it as penance for all the lives he had taken. He tried not to think of them, and indeed, he had avoided doing so for most of the last week. But every now and then, memory of that moment, the moment when the sword slid through flesh as easily as water, would return to him.

  He made himself concentrate on his work. He had searched for another way out, but had found nothing. Sebastian couldn't sense anything either.

  He'd even asked Sebastian if they should return to the cavern. Sebastian had shuddered and whispered, "No … ."

  With the rope ladder gone and the staircase burned, they had to build a way to get out of the catacomb. Con figured if he could get the pile of crates high enough, he and Sebastian could reach the floor ledge. Then they could boost themselves out.

  He didn't want to think about Sebastian trying that. With his solid stonelike weight and his nonathletic manner, it would be difficult at best.

  But their only other choice was to go back under the bridge. And they couldn't do that.

  They had pushed the bodies against the wall, using them to brace the crates. Con had done much of that distasteful task. Sebastian had started to cry, that awful rasping sound he made, and Con hadn't been able to take it. Certain things seemed to terrify Sebastian; death — and its most visible signs — was one of them. On other things, he seemed sensible and almost normal.

  Con wasn't sure why he had gotten this Charge. Sometimes he wondered why, with the Tabernacle gone, he continued it. He tried to control the blasphemous thoughts, but they were hard, especially here, in its ruined bowels. How could a god, particularly the God he had encountered in his studies, have allowed this?

  What point did it serve? Did it allow the Holy One to bring his followers closer to God's Ear? Or did it test the faith of the survivors?

  He didn't know. He didn't have the answers for any of it. He was the lowest of the low, an Aud who had, until two weeks ago, done menial tasks that no one else wanted to do. Then the Rocaan had called him to his study and given him the Charge that had led him to Sebastian.

  And Sebastian had been a trial in and of himself.

  But over the last few days, Con had developed an affection for Sebastian. His quirks, his difficulties, his loyalties. If only he were more agile. If only he could help more.

  Con's hands were filthy with the rotting flesh of his former comrades. His nose was clogged with the stink of decay, and he wasn't sure he would ever get clean. But he kept working, trusting Sebastian's instincts, the instincts that got them through the tunnel in the first place.

  Sebastian carried a crate out of the room. He cocked his head as he stepped into the catacomb and then he shuddered once. Con set down his own crate on the bed they were making, and turned.

  Sebastian was walking at double his usual pace — almost at normal speed.

  It looked as if he were running.

  He reached Con quicker than he ever had before. Con took the crate from Sebastian, grunting as he did so. Its weight was nearly double what he expected.

  Sebastian was slow, he was heavy, but he was strong.

  "Did … you … see … that … light?"

  Con frowned. Light? Except for the light pouring down the small tunnel near the bodies, the catacombs were in shadow. Fortunately his eyes were used to it, from being underground for so long.

  "No," he said.

  Sebastian held up a hand. "It … feels … different."

  "What does?" Con asked, dreading the answer.

  "The … magick."

  Con swallowed. How could there be magick down here to feel? These catacombs were below the Tabernacle, the place where magick gave way to God.

  "Is this like the last time?" Con asked.

  Sebastian nodded. One slow movement, up and down. "The … same."

  "So you want us to leave? We can go back," Con said.

  "No!" Seb
astian said. "The … light … came . .. from . .. there."

  "Is it following us?"

  Sebastian went completely still as if the thought had not occurred to him until this moment. "I … do … not … know … . But … we … must … leave."`

  "We're working as fast as we can," Con said. "We can't go any faster. There's only the two of us."

  "You … can … go … . I … can … boost … you."

  "No," Con said. "We stay together. Besides, if I left, you'd never get out of here."

  "I … could … go … back."

  "Into the strange magick? I don't think so."

  "Con … it's … Fey. They … hate … peo-ple … like … you."

  "They're not real fond of you, either, from what I saw when I found you," Con said. "Let's just finish building this stairway and get out of here."

  "I … hope … we … have … time."

  "Me too," Con said, and felt his exhaustion in each word. He would have to work harder and faster.

  And he would have to pray.

  The Rocaan had given him this Charge for a reason. Con had defended Sebastian so far. He had guarded the King's only son. They had made it through several impossible situations.

  Surely the Holy One would help him through one more.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Matthias rarely went to the center of town. He hated being surrounded by the stone buildings, hated the press of people near him. He never felt that way in Jahn, but here, among people who stared at him because of his height, he felt it always.

  Almost as if he could feel their enmity.

  Almost as if he could feel the terror that had sent him, as an innocent, to a near-certain death on a mountainside.

  "The tall ones left town around dawn," Tri said. He was as nervous about going into the main part of town with Matthias as Matthias was.

  "I dunna know how ye believe ye can find em anaway," Denl said.

  Jakib nodded. He seemed to pick up on Matthias's unease. None of the group that Matthias had traveled with here seemed comfortable in this place. They had been uneasy since they left Jahn. Yasep, their leader, had said it was because they had only lived in Jahn, but Matthias knew that to be a lie. Most of the group had accents from the Kenniland Marshes, and Jakib and Marly had looks that showed they had been born here.

  Yasep was hiding something, as usual, only Matthias didn't know what it was.

  And at the moment he didn't care.

  What he did care about was the feeling deep in his belly, the feeling that the "tall ones" Tri had talked about were Fey.

  And the even deeper feeling that Matthias knew how to find them.

  He knew he had to go to the center of town, to the market, no matter what would happen to him there. That was where he had to start.

  Once he reached it, he would know what to do.

  If he hadn't been such a skeptic, if his religious days weren't behind him, he might have hoped that the still small voice was finally speaking to him, giving him its wisdom, wisdom he had hoped for as an Aud and even more so as the Rocaan.

  But this didn't feel like a voice. This was a knowledge as sure and fine as the knowledge of his own name.

  "If you don't want to go into the market with me," Matthias said, "I understand."

  "Tis na that," Jakib said. "Tis like yer tryin to walk inta the face a the enemy."

  "We don't know that," Matthias said.

  "The market isn't a good idea," Tri said. "They'll be spooked from this morning's incident. A lot of people don't know you're back. And you don't … look like yourself anymore."

  Matthias smiled, then winced as pain lanced through his face. "They wouldn't care how I looked," he said. "They'll always be frightened of me."

  Still, a shudder ran down his back. He didn't like to tempt the people here. For the most part they left him alone, but he had had bad moments in the years he lived here after he had left the Tabernacle. Some of the moments were so uncomfortable that he considered going elsewhere, but he didn't. He needed the information the mountain provided.

  He also didn't like to be away from the mountain anymore. It drew him, even if he didn't go up its side.

  Matthias led them down a slight hill into the marketplace. It was in the exact center of town, in a plaza that had been built for this purpose. Many of the booths were permanent, built at the same time as the plaza itself. Families owned the booths and the position, along with the small business itself, ran from generation to generation.

  Matthias's stomach tightened as he came closer to the plaza. Every muscle in his body was taut. He hated coming here. When he had lived here before, he had hired someone to do his shopping until he ate some spoiled meat and was deathly ill. After that, he had only friends shop for him, and even then, he was leery.

  The marketplace was not as busy as it would have been in the afternoon. Some of the merchants were wrapping up their wares. Others were pulling coverings over their booths. Still others were making sales — which, in this part of Blue Isle, often included barter. Matthias scanned the customers and saw no familiar faces. He recognized many of the merchants, however, although they didn't seem to recognize him.

  He swallowed, and stepped forward, his feet brushing against the polished stone of the plaza.

  All around him, conversation stopped.

  "Demon-spawn," someone whispered.

  "Tall ones again," someone else said.

  Tri raised his hands. "Silence!" he said. "That's Matthias. Don't you recognize him?"

  "Demon-spawn," a woman said. She stood near the edge of the crowd. As Matthias passed her, she spit at his feet.

  He resisted the urge to look at her. If he did so, and something happened to her later, he would get the blame. Instead he kept his eyes downcast. He was looking at the stone, but watching people through the corner of his eyes.

  "Begone," someone whispered.

  He could feel the word down to his feet. A panic built in him. He had to leave. He had to leave now.

  "Stop," Tri said. "He's a member of our community. He was rejected by the mountain. You have no right."

  "He has no right to be here," a man said. "He has never had a right to be here."

  Matthias kept walking. Below him, the stone started to glow as if a small trail of fire as wide as his little finger were burning before him.

  "Demon-spawn," another woman said as he passed. She too spit at him. The spittle landed on the tiny fire but did not sizzle.

  Matthias's stomach jumped again.

  "What do ye see?" Jakib asked.

  "That light," Matthias said softly, pointing downward. "Do you see it?"

  Another fiery trail appeared beside the first. This one burned silver. He crouched, touched it and felt —

  Jewel. Nicholas. Standing beside the crib, their newborn son inside. Jewel hovered near it, not letting Matthias close. The baby cried once —

  "Tis stone," Denl said, and Matthias thought he heard panic in Denl's voice.

  The trail remained. The image had left.

  Fey. This path was left by Fey. Why? To trap him? Had they placed the image in the small fiery path for him to find?

  Why?

  How had they known he was here?

  "Demon-spawn."

  "Begone."

  The panic rose in him again. He clenched a fist, took a deep breath, and pushed the panic away.

  Beside him a woman gasped and clutched her chest. She shot him a wild-eyed look, then ran out of the marketplace.

  Tri put his hands beneath Matthias's arms. "We need to leave."

  "I found them," Matthias said.

  "They're not here now," Tri said. He tugged on Matthias. "Let's go."

  Denl had his hand on the hilt of his knife. So did Jakib. They were standing beside Matthias as if they were guarding him.

  "I've changed my mind," Tri said. "I don't want to find them."

  Matthias touched the other fire trail. He saw nothing special. The trail wrapped around his fingert
ip, but he felt no pain. The stone was smooth and cool beneath his skin.

  Tri tugged again.

  "Demon-spawn." This time several people said the word at once. Matthias saw even more feet around him. He glanced up, realized that everyone in the marketplace was watching him.

  The trails burned ahead of him, thin lines glowing in the twilight.

  He stood, shaking. The Blooders were staring at him, all of them, as if he were hideous, as if he could turn them into ash with the blink of an eye. His hand started to wander to his injuries, but he didn't let it. He held his fist to his side.

  "Demon-spawn," several voices murmured.

  Matthias held up his other hand. He was trembling. Tri had stepped slightly behind him. Jakib and Denl hadn't moved.

  "You people have no compassion at all," Matthias said. This time he did let his fingers brush his bandaged face. "I nearly died a few weeks ago, and you don't care."

  "You shouldn't have lived, demon-spawn!" a man shouted from behind him.

  Bile rose in Matthias' throat. He swallowed. "I'm from here. Someone, maybe even someone in this crowd, fathered me. Someone gave birth to me, and has never spoken to me, never even acknowledged that I exist. Instead, you let the so-called Wise Ones take me to that mountain, naked, and alone, and leave me on the snow."

  "Matthias — " Tri's voice held a warning.

  "I am here," Matthias said. "I was born here, and I live here, and you will have to accept that I am as much a part of this place as you are, tall as I am, disfigured as I am, hated as I am. I won't leave just because you tell me to."

  "You should have died on that mountain," the man behind him said.

  Matthias didn't turn. He didn't want to see who spoke to him that way.

  "Maybe," Matthias said. "Or maybe the Roca had another plan for me."

  "The Roca doesn't love tall ones," a woman said.

  "Really?" Matthias asked. "Then maybe the plan was God's."

  "Matthias — " Tri warned again.

  "Or maybe it belonged to the demon you served."

  "I served the Tabernacle," Matthias said.

  "And do no longer," said the man.

  "Oh, I still do in my way," Matthias said. "It's why I'm here."