And this time, Con didn't think he could get them out of it.
He had returned, almost at a run, and found Sebastian lingering on the edge of the main corridor, tears streaking his grimy face. Dirt lodged in the cracks of his skin, making him look as if his features were etched in blood.
Con had reassured Sebastian that they weren't going back the way they came, and then they both turned their attention to getting out.
Fortunately, there were a lot of crates. The Auds had planned for their survival well. It was too bad that they had died down here anyway.
He climbed off the pile of crates and went back to one of the side rooms for another. There were crates stacked against the walls in each of the rooms, and he and Sebastian had been whittling them down, taking the closest rooms and working back to the farthest.
He was in the second room this time. Most of the crates were gone. He lifted one off the floor and stopped.
Someone had coughed.
Sebastian never coughed.
Con swallowed. He carried the crate out of the room and stopped in the corridor.
Nothing.
No sound at all.
Except Sebastian in the next room, shuffling across the floor.
Con waited until Sebastian emerged.
"Did you hear anything?" Con asked.
Sebastian shook his head slowly.
"Do you feel anything?"
"On-ly … the … chan-ge … from … be-fore," Sebas-tian said.
"It's still here."
"Once … chan-ged … it … stays … that … way," Sebas-tian said.
"Forever?" Con asked.
"No," Sebastian said. "Un-til … some-bod-y … else … chan-ges … it … again."
And no one had. So if the light or the magick shift had stayed, they had no way of knowing.
And they had no way of knowing if it had returned.
Con took a deep breath. The crate he was holding was getting heavy. And he still had some distance to go with it. He carried it to the crate pile, then balanced it carefully, and stepped onto the first layer of crates. He and Sebastian had built several layers, each angling toward the wall, and they shuddered as he stepped on them. They were sturdy enough, but just barely.
He was nearly to the highest layer when he heard another coughlike sound. He made himself set the crate down, and he turned.
Sebastian was standing at the base of the crate pile, holding his crate like a statue. Only he was trembling.
He had heard the sound too.
Slowly Sebastian set the crate down. Con crouched and peered into the corridor behind them. It seemed darker than it had before. He heard a faint shuffling, as if clothing were rustling.
Then, all along the back, lights flared.
Eerie lights.
The lights the Fey had.
The lights that appeared to have tiny glowing bodies trapped inside glass.
There had to have been fifty lights. They scattered throughout the corridor. They flared as if people had pulled a cover off each simultaneously.
As his eyes adjusted, he saw a sea of faces staring at him. Fey faces.
"Noooooo," Sebastian wailed.
Con wanted to join in. But he didn't.
He grabbed the hilt of his sword and pulled it out.
He didn't know how many Fey he could kill with this blade, but he knew he was about to find out.
THIRTY-ONE
Wisdom placed the meal on an ornate table near the embroidered couch. The smell of fresh bread enticed Rugad's nostrils. His stomach rumbled, but he made no move away from the window. He kept his hands clasped behind his back and continued to watch Wisdom through a reflection in the wavy glass.
Wisdom seemed solicitous. His braids fell along his back and sides, brushing his tattooed arms. He kept his hair out of the food. When he stood, he stared at Rugad for a moment, but his expression was neutral. Rugad half expected Wisdom to make a face.
"Forgive me, sir," Wisdom said, "but I do think you need to eat."
Rugad still did not move. The sun was setting over the city, sending waves of red light through the still-smoky air. He liked being on flat land, where the sun lingered longer than it did near mountains. The sunset was stunning, and he found himself longing to be outside, to be in a Shadowlands, to be anywhere but here.
"Sir?" Wisdom said.
He was going to force Rugad to speak. Rugad didn't want to waste any words, not now, not when he knew how speaking felt. He would save it for more important things.
He turned, glared at Wisdom, and then turned back toward the window. The light was mingling with the clouds, creating red smoke. Wisdom's image lay across that, staring at Rugad. Wisdom's expression was carefully neutral, as if he were trying to control some great emotion.
Finally he nodded once, even though he thought Rugad could not see him, and then left the room. Rugad waited until he heard the door snick closed before leaving his post at the window.
As he walked, the jar with his voice in it bumped against his hip. Sometimes he missed the range and power of that voice, the casual use he had put it to for so long. Nothing was casual about speaking now.
The meal prepared for him in the palace's kitchen used the palace's stores. Nicholas had eaten well, although his peasantry to the south had not. Rugad had respect for Nicholas as a warrior, but as a ruler, Rugad believed Nicholas tolerated too much poverty. Nicholas hadn't learned the first rule of leadership: unhappy people revolted.
The Fey knew that. The Fey knew that very well.
If Rugad couldn't kill Nicholas and make himself — or his great-grandchildren — into the rulers of Blue Isle, then he could do the next best thing. He could make those pockets of poverty believe that the loss of Nicholas the King's throne was the best thing that ever happened to them.
Rugad was already doing that to the south and in other parts of the country that he had conquered easily. There were still untamed sections of Blue Isle, and he would try to charm them, too.
There were several ways to make a country loyal. The simplest and easiest was by force. It was never the best. He hated having his people unhappy.
He did not want to be the king his countries revolted against.
Even Nye, which had been part of a prolonged battle, had eventually bowed to his will. And now, decades later, the citizens of that fine country had been sad to see him leave. He had worried about his exit: his grandson Bridge was the logical ruler, but Rugad had not officially appointed him. Bridge was a lousy Visionary and an even worse diplomat. Rugad had decided that it would be better to let Jewel's brothers fight out the position of leader on their own. If they failed — and someone else took their place — it wouldn't matter. Nye was one small country in the Fey Empire. It didn't need the Black family as rulers. It could survive any Visionary and do so probably better without Bridge and his ilk than with them.
Rugad sat down on the embroidered couch. He took a slice of bread off the tray and frowned at the rest of the food. A bowl of soup, a slice of mutton — gathered from where he didn't know, since he hadn't seen any sheep near the city — and some cheese. More food than he would be able to eat, especially with his throat still sore.
He took a bite of bread because it smelled too good to resist. It tasted as good as it smelled, fresh and doughy and still slightly warm. The soup was good, too. It was made from a beef broth and had several vegetables as well as chunks of meat. The first bite he took warmed his throat. The second eased the ache. He ate so fast, he almost felt as if he were a young man on the battlefield again.
Almost.
When he finished, he took a sip of the honeyed mead that the Domestics had been preparing for him since his injury. It stayed warm until he drank it, no matter if he waited a matter of minutes or hours. It had healing properties that sped his recovery, and he found that he felt rejuvenated after each sip.
The sun had nearly set. The red glow on the horizon was fading. The room itself was growing dim. In a moment,
he would have to get someone to bring him a torch and to light some candles.
But he didn't move. Not yet. He enjoyed these last few moments of every day, the moments just before the sun disappeared over the mountains to the west, moments just before the city became dark.
And it did become dark.
The palace sat amid vast ruins. He hadn't had to level a city before, at least not like this one. His soldiers had set some fires of their own, but the burning of the Tabernacle had destroyed most of the buildings on the other side of the river. For the first few nights after Rugad had taken over Jahn, the still-hot embers glowed orange all evening. Since then, the fires had gone out completely, and at night the palace itself glowed like a lighthouse on a stormy seacoast. Desolation for miles. As far to the south as he could see, there were only ruins of buildings, but no buildings themselves.
A knock at the door made him set down the mead. He stood.
"Come," he said, the very word bringing back the ache that the liquid had eased.
The door opened.
Boteen stood outside, hunched slightly in the short hallway. Behind him stood a Domestic with a torch and a candle.
Rugad beckoned them with his hand. They came inside. The Domestic placed the torch in the torch holder near the door, then used the candle to light all the lamps on the room. The lamps gave the area a soft light, not the bright, almost unnatural light cast by the torches. Early on, the Domestics had brought in a Fey lamp, but the souls inside began to wail when they saw the room. The sound was soft, but persistent. Rugad had ordered it removed so that he could rest.
He had never heard Fey lamps wail like that one, although he had heard of such a thing in the old stories. The amount of power it took for the souls to make themselves heard was vast, and the Fey lamp had flickered and died a few days afterward.
Boteen waited until the Domestic left, then closed the door behind her. Rugad watched Boteen. He was so tall, so slender that he looked as if he could break. The tops of his boots were coated with ash and mud. The bottoms were clean so that he wouldn't track into the Black King's residence.
"I have found one Enchanter," Boteen said.
"Where?" Rugad still wasn't used to the rasp. He had expected his voice to be more powerful than it was.
"There is an area north of here, where the mountain range is called the Eyes of Roca. The northeastern end has some of the tallest cliffs in the world. Their stone is red, and therefore they're called the Cliffs of Blood."
Rugad knew all that. He knew the geography of Blue Isle as well as he knew the wrinkles on his skin.
"You have Seen him?"
Boteen's smile was tight. Only one Enchanter in the history of the Fey had ever had Visionary powers. Only one. And he had tried to overthrow the Black family six centuries before.
Tried, and failed.
The Black family's resources were greater than most knew. Even most Enchanters.
"I have felt him," Boteen said, that tight expression making his voice sound a bit constrained. "But more than that. I have found trails. He may be with your great-grandson, although I have my doubts. His energy mingled with that of your great-grandson on Jahn Bridge. I felt your great-grandson through the Enchanter, then mentally followed the Enchanter's trail to the Cliffs of Blood."
"But you didn't go there."
"I didn't have time. I could if you wanted me to."
Rugad shook his head. He had been meaning to send people to the Cliffs of Blood. He had been meaning to make some changes all over the Isle.
Now was the time to do so.
"You had said there was another," Rugad said. "Where is he?"
Boteen's gaze flickered onto Rugad's face, and then flicked away. "I am having trouble locating him."
"I thought Enchanters felt each other."
"They do," Boteen said, "up to a point. I knew there were two others on the Isle. I just didn't know where. Now I have found one."
"But not the other." Rugad ignored the pain in his voice. This was more important.
"Not the other," Boteen said.
"Then how do you know you have the right one?"
Boteen opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed. Not many people could read the emotions that flitted across his face, but Rugad could. Boteen took a deep breath. "Actually, I don't."
Rugad felt his shoulders slump. He had been hoping that Boteen was right. He didn't like hearing the doubt that Boteen expressed.
"There are some … strange things … about this Enchanter," Boteen said.
"Strange?" Rugad clasped his hands behind his back. He could listen more attentively this way. He could also ignore the discomfort in his throat.
"He hates Fey, and yet he has contact with your great-grandson."
"And you think they are together?" Rugad asked.
"I don't know if they're together," Boteen said. "I think it unlikely, and yet there is a possibility."
"Why?"
"They had contact on the bridge across the river the night that Flurry told their King of our arrival. That is the night your great-grandson left town."
"So you believe they left together."
"I do not know. The Enchanter nearly died that night, but someone took him away."
"Flurry did not report seeing my great-grandson with anyone injured."
"But Flurry would not have been looking at Islanders."
"He would have reported it if my great-grandson was with one."
"Perhaps."
"Why would an Islander Enchanter who hates Fey ally himself with my great-grandson? Why would he kill for him?"
"He killed Fey for him," Boteen said softly.
Rugad's hand went to his throat. Suddenly the pain was back, sharp and strong. The girl had also shown a willingness to kill Fey. Did their father have more of an influence on the boy than Rugad thought?
Rugad swallowed, remembering the relaxation techniques the healer had described for him. The pain subsided slightly. "I thought he was raised by Fey."
"Failures," Boteen said. "Who knows what they taught him to do when real Fey arrived."
Boteen had a point. But it wasn't good enough.
"I want you to find this second Enchanter," Rugad said. "I will send some of my people to the Cliffs of Blood. We will know if they have seen other Fey, since none of my troops have gone there before, and neither, so far as I know, had Rugar's."
Boteen bowed his head. "I am not certain I can do that," he said softly.
Boteen had never told him that he couldn't do the work be-fore. "You must," Rugad said.
"This second Enchanter, he's shielded. He has been since we arrived. It is as if he felt me, and then made certain I couldn't find him."
An image flashed through Rugad's mind. It wasn't quite a Vision — more of a memory — and not a visual one. It was the way the Link felt when he was shoved out of his great-grandson's mind.
"If that is the case, the Enchanter you found has nothing to do with my great-grandson," Rugad said. "But it wouldn't hurt to find him anyway."
"What makes you suspect that?" Boteen asked. His voice was soft. He wasn't defensive, merely curious. "If I know, perhaps I can find him better."
"I met my great-grandson's protector," Rugad said. "Not directly, but when I had found Gift's mind, I encountered an angry force that shoved me back, then locked the door after me. I could travel along that Link again, but I was sealed out of Gift's mind. An Enchanter who does that would shield his trail."
"These Enchanters are not trained as Fey are trained," Boteen said. "You cannot make these assumptions."
"And you cannot assume that because they have different training, it is inferior," Rugad said. "My son's mistake here was that he underestimated these people. We will not. You will continue to search for the second Enchanter. I will send a team to the Cliffs of Blood."
"You'll need me to go as well," Boteen said.
Rugad stared at him.
Boteen shrugged. "I am the only one who can follow t
hat trail," he said. "There are only three Enchanters on this Isle, and two of them are not Fey. No one else can read those trails."
Rugad sighed. Boteen was not entirely correct. Visionaries could be trained to read those trails. But Rugad didn't have the time or the inclination to travel across the northern half of Blue Isle. He had more pressing matters.
He sighed. "You will go on this mission," he said, "but you will not lead it. You will have a different agenda than the others. You do not want the Islanders to notice you. And you will follow the trails. Let the others do their work."
Boteen's eyes narrowed. He knew that Rugad did not make idle threats, but he clearly didn't know what Rugad was planning.
"When do we leave?"
"As soon as I assemble the team," Rugad said. "I will contact you."
Boteen nodded, then started for the door. He stopped before opening it. "Rugad," he said, "if you are wrong, and I am right about which Enchanter protects your great-grandson, the boy might be in danger."
"I touched the essence of that Enchanter," Rugad said. "He loves my great-grandson, perhaps a bit too much."
"I hope you're right," Boteen said, and left.
Rugad knew he was right. But what Boteen didn't seem to understand was that sometimes love was as dangerous as hate.
THIRTY-TWO
Scavenger was standing on the marble stairs. He didn't like this place. It was warm when a mountain cave this high should be cold. It was bright when a cave with no openings should be dark. It was filled with the weapons from the Islanders' religion when it was clear no one had been here in centuries.And now Gift was standing on the main floor, not moving, eyes glazed, and the last word he had said was "Mother."
Mother.
Both of his mothers were dead. His real mother had died fifteen years before. His other mother, Niche, had died only a few weeks ago, when Rugad had killed the rest of the Failures.
Leen was running down the remaining stairs. Scavenger started after her.
The Resistance: The Fourth Book of the Fey (Fey Series) Page 20