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

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  It was one of the reasons he wanted to go first. He wanted to use the newfound power, the one that the burning boy had taught him, and he didn't really want his friends to see it.

  He still hadn't come to terms with it.

  He still wasn't sure it was magick.

  "Is that where we're goin?" Denl asked. He was pointing behind Matthias.

  Matthias turned slowly. He had been unwilling to look before this. A cave opened against the mountainside, its mouth as wide and huge as the entranceway into the Tabernacle. Around its mouth were swords.

  Rocaanist swords.

  His mouth went dry.

  The Fey couldn't be here. They couldn't. They wouldn't go inside something guarded as that was, with swords that large.

  He hadn't seen swords that size outside of the Tabernacle. One had hung from the sanctuary ceiling, point down, and visitors had often worried that it would fall and hurt them. These swords did not look as precarious. They were made of stone.

  The first two were embedded in the rock platform like columns rising in front of a large building. They were tall and imposing, and he could feel their strength.

  Fey trails led around them, and down, into the mouth of the cave. The burning boy was here as well.

  Matthias could sense him.

  Two other swords were embedded in the sides of the cave's mouth, as if someone had thrown them there in a fit of anger. The swords extended straight out. If they weren't so large, someone could grab them and fight with them.

  If they weren't larger than a man himself.

  And above the cave's mouth was the final sword. This one was carved into the rock, point extended downward, as if it would fall on anyone who went inside.

  Matthias wondered if the Fey had been afraid as they entered. He wondered if they had looked up at that sword and seen their doom.

  "They're inside the cave," he said.

  "Na Fey would go in there," Denl said. "Tis Rocaanist."

  "Nonetheless," Matthias said.

  Tri cleared his throat and stood, brushing off his clothes as he did so.

  "If we do this right, we have an advantage."

  "They're trapped," Matthias said.

  "Who knows ha far the cave goes, though," Jakib said.

  "It doesn't matter," Matthias said. "They'll be trapped inside without food or water."

  "There might be water inside," Tri said. "If it is truly a Rocaanist cave, it should have holy water."

  "Which will poison an unprepared Fey," Matthias said.

  "Aye," Denl said. "They might be afeared ta drink it."

  "All the better," Matthias said. "I'll go first, as I said, then I'll beckon you forward."

  "How can we hold a siege with only four people?" Tri asked.

  Matthias grinned. "If we do this right, they'll think there are more than four out here."

  He started toward the cave, walking slowly, quietly, past the first two swords. They were Rocaanist. The symbols on the hilt were ancient, dating from the Roca's time. Their meaning had been disputed for centuries, their true translation lost. It didn't matter. Matthias felt as if he were seeing an old friend.

  As he approached the swords that stuck outright, he noticed that someone had scraped dirt off one of the hilts. A jewel gleamed redly from its place near the markings.

  His stomach jumped. A passage from the Words flitted through his mind, but he couldn't catch it. Or was it from the Secrets? He couldn't remember, not right now. He was thinking of too much.

  But he knew it was something about jeweled swords held by giant hands.

  The Hand of God.

  He shuddered.

  What had Pausho said?

  I discourage no one from touching the Hand of God.

  He stood on his toes and ran a finger along the jewel. It tingled against his skin.

  There was so much here. So very much for him to learn, to understand. And he had no time.

  He had to take care of the Fey first.

  Denl and Jakib stayed a good distance behind him. Tri was a bit closer, staring at the swords openmouthed.

  Matthias looked away from them, and up at the sword above him. He had been wrong. It hadn't been carved above the mouth of the cave, but mounted there instead. Its mounting was thin, a single bracelet, as if the sword were in a stand on the ground instead of hovering above the ground.

  If the Fey hadn't been afraid as they had gone in here, they should have been.

  He felt a nervous jumping in his own stomach. They were expecting him. What had he done that day when he killed Burden so long ago? What had he done on the mountainside below? He had built a shield, an invisible shield in front of himself.

  He wondered if he could do it, without an immediate threat.

  He took a deep breath, imagined it, and then hoped it was there.

  It was the best he could do.

  A light as bright as sunshine poured out of the cave. With it came a calmness that he hadn't felt since he was an Aud, decades before. He would go to the edge of it, just inside, and see what he faced. If they attacked him, he would use his newfound powers to attack back. If they emerged, then Denl and Jakib and Tri could handle them.

  There couldn't be that many of them.

  He didn't see that many trails.

  He took a step beneath the giant sword, stopping in the light at the cave's mouth. He peered inside, saw chalices and marble steps, and heard the splashing of water, mingling with voices.

  Then a man's voice cried out, and a woman appeared from nowhere. She was as tall as he was, taller maybe, and Fey. She rammed her fist through his shield, making it visible and shattering it at the same time. Pieces flew all over the cave, skittering on the marble, cutting through the air.

  Her hand wrapped itself around his throat so tight that he couldn't breathe, and she tugged him just inside.

  He struggled against her. He had never felt anyone so strong. She grabbed him with her other hand, preventing him from using his right arm. The pain in his throat was intense. He couldn't breathe. He pulled against her, trying to think of a spell, trying to imagine magick, but each time he did, it disappeared. The thought went away as if it had never been.

  The woman put her face close to his, and with a start, he realized he recognized her.

  But he couldn't.

  He was dying.

  It was the only explanation.

  She smiled and loosened her grip just a little.

  "Frightened, holy man?" she asked.

  He brought a hand up to her wrist, trying to pull her fingers away. His air was going. He had felt this before, this desperate ache in his chest. He was gasping this time, though. He was trying to bring air into his lungs, but it wouldn't go through his throat.

  Her grip was too tight.

  It was too tight.

  "Do you want to beg for mercy, holy man? I'll let you go if you do." Her smile grew. Her hand was warm, her skin was clear. The top of her head was unharmed. She didn't look like she had when she had been carried out of the Coronation Hall, that foul mist rising from her hair.

  Black spots floated in front of his eyes. Beg for mercy? Have a second chance? Undo the very thing Nicholas had nearly killed him for all those years ago?

  Matthias nodded, once.

  She loosened her grip enough for him to draw air. It felt like life going into his lungs. He gasped once, twice, three times. The spots had gone away, but the ache in his chest remained. And he was getting light-headed.

  "Jewel," he said, knowing how ridiculous it was. She was dead. He had killed her. Intentionally, no matter what he had said to Nicholas. Matthias had killed her because he thought her evil, because she had polluted his people, the Roca's direct line. Because her children would inherit unless he could change it.

  He had called it God's will.

  Had it been?

  How could it have been if he were demon-spawn?

  And if he wasn't?

  She had her head tilted slightly, her brown
eyes watching his every move. He could feel her breath on his face. How could she be alive? And younger than he remembered?

  "Can't say it, can you, holy man?" she asked, but her fingers didn't tighten.

  "Jewel," he said again. "I'm sorry. Please let me go. I didn't realize — "

  Her fingers dug into the skin of his neck, shoving his Adam's apple backward and making him choke. He tried to cough, strangled, and felt a searing pain as muscles strained against her touch.

  "You couldn't do it, could you, holy man?" She pushed her face close to his. Her nose nearly touched his. "You couldn't apologize. I thought maybe after all these years, after learning what you had done, and figuring out what you are, that you might actually be sorry. Deep-down sorry, but you're not."

  He clawed at her wrist, shoved with the arm she gripped, and pulled backward with his feet. His head ached, and the pain in his chest turned into a burning. His entire chest felt as if it were on fire, and he didn't know how to stop it.

  The black spots had returned. They were growing larger and larger.

  "I am sorry," he mouthed, but the words didn't come out. Not a sound came out.

  She understood anyway. "You said, 'I'm sorry. Please let me go.' Me, Matthias. Me. Me. Me. Everything is always about you. You destroyed a marriage, nearly killed a newborn, and those actions led to the destruction of a culture, the loss of hundreds, maybe thousands of lives. 'I'm sorry,' you say. 'I'm sorry. Please let me go.'"

  This time she did press her nose against his.

  "Never will I let you go," she whispered. "The Powers have promised you to me, and I will take you, Matthias. I will never let you go."

  The pressure of her fingers increased. The pain brought tears to his eyes. He struggled against her, but his struggles were growing weaker now. He could feel himself slipping away.

  You have a great magick, holy man.

  But this time the comment running through his head was a memory, not a command. He couldn't find the magick, couldn't find a way to save himself.

  He took the last of his strength, shoved —

  — and she didn't move.

  It made no impact on her at all.

  "Please," he tried to say, but nothing came out.

  Please, he thought.

  Please. Stop.

  But he couldn't stop her. The blackness had covered his eyes. The pain was receding and he was tumbling inside himself, backward, backward.

  To the awaiting darkness.

  Now she could kill him.

  Now she could have her revenge.

  And she deserved it.

  He knew that, deep down.

  She deserved it all.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  His mother had been talking to him. He had just asked her to tell him how to save his sister, when she had tilted her head as if she were listening. She got a terrifying expression on her face, sharp and furious and hateful all at the same time, then she had run up the stairs so fast that he couldn't keep up with her.

  Gift just started after her, stupidly, as if she had fled from him. Perhaps his sister was coming. Perhaps his mother was going to help her into the cave.

  Coulter was staring up the steps, too, but his expression was not one of confusion.

  It was fear.

  "What's going on?" the Cap asked.

  "He's here," Coulter said.

  Gift shot a glance at him. He? Not Nicholas's father. Coulter wouldn't use that tone about him, would he?

  "The Rocaan?" Adrian asked.

  "Yes," Coulter said.

  Gift felt a shudder run through him. The man who had come back from the dead — or what he and Leen had thought was dead. Outside.

  And his sister about to arrive.

  His half-Fey sister.

  And his mother, disappearing up the stairs.

  Outside there was a male cry, sudden and abrupt. It almost sounded as if it had been cut off in the middle.

  Gift started up the stairs. The Cap grabbed for him, but didn't stop him. Coulter kept pace with him. Leen joined them, her expression hard.

  Adrian and the Cap didn't follow. The Cap handed Adrian a sword from his stash and then Gift didn't look at them any more.

  The outside of the cave was light. It had become day while he was inside that place and he hadn't even realized it.

  His mother was standing in the mouth of the cave, her hand around the throat of the man who had killed her. She was holding him away from her with her other hand. His face was red, his eyes bulging, his lips moving, but making no sound.

  "My God," Leen whispered. "What is it? What's happening to him?"

  And then Gift realized that she couldn't see his mother. Leen saw the murderer of Gift's mother gasping for breath, one hand in the air instead of clutching Gift's mother's wrist.

  How odd it must look.

  And terrifying.

  "She's killing him," Gift said.

  "Who?" the voice came from behind him. He turned slightly. Adrian.

  "My mother," Gift said.

  Adrian was holding a sword and peering around Gift's shoulder. He didn't seem upset. He seemed stunned, worried, almost frightened.

  Gift took a step closer. Coulter put his hand on Gift's arm. "If she is killing him, let her," Coulter said. "It is between them."

  Gift wasn't going to stop her. He had been going to help her. But in stepping closer, he realized something: the Rocaan's companions were behind him, watching with the same terror that Leen was. They must have assumed he was under the influence of a great magick —

  And maybe he was.

  The Rocaan's mouth was moving, forming words. Please, he was saying in Islander. Please.

  Gift's mother seemed to be ignoring him. And she seemed to be enjoying herself. Then the Rocaan's body collapsed. Gift's mother didn't move. She kept her hand on his throat, kept holding him upright. She was like a cat who was playing with a bird long after it died. She would hold him until all the life had drained out of him.

  Gift felt oddly detached, watching her. This wasn't what he had imagined from his mother. Or what he had expected. He had thought that she would be a good woman, a woman who knew no cruelty.

  How could he have thought that?

  She was Fey.

  Suddenly Coulter looked beyond the two of them, as if he saw something else.

  Adrian noticed too. He came up beside Coulter, and said softly, "What is it? What do you see?"

  "Nothing," Coulter said.

  "Something has changed," Adrian said. "I can tell from your face."

  Coulter looked at him, gaze flat. Gift felt it too. For all he tried to remain separate from Coulter, he couldn't entirely. They were Bound. Parts of their emotions leaked back and forth, rather like a heightened awareness, a knowing of things they wouldn't normally know.

  Something was wrong.

  Was it Gift's mother? Was she wrong in getting her revenge?

  "What is it?" Gift asked.

  Coulter looked at him, and Gift realized he had misinterpreted Coulter's earlier expression. Coulter's gaze hadn't been flat, hadn't been hiding things.

  It had been frightened.

  "Coulter?" Gift whispered.

  "There's another one," Coulter said. "The third one."

  "The third what?" the Cap asked.

  "The third Enchanter," Adrian said. "Right, Coulter?"

  Coulter nodded.

  "What about him?" Gift asked, even though he had a hunch he already knew.

  "He's here," Coulter said. "And he knows we are, too."

  SEVENTY-TWO

  She had to hurry.

  The Shaman glanced over her shoulder. Nicholas struggled behind her, his face dripping sweat, Arianna slung over him as if she were dead already.

  They might lose everything. In the next few moments, they might lose Arianna and all their power in the battle against the Black King.

  If she didn't hurry.

  The Place of Power was over the next rise, behind a boulder, and down
. They would be coming at it from the side, not from below.

  For the first time in her life, for the only time, she wished that she had more than one type of magick.

  She wished she could fly.

  "Hey!" Nicholas said, and she could hear how out of breath he was. "Slow down!"

  But she couldn't slow down. She had to get there.

  She had to be there.

  Now.

  She scurried across the thin trail, her feet catching on the rocks that had fallen and embedded themselves in the dirt. She dropped the bundles and Arianna's boots, and held her arms out for balance. She was breathing hard.

  She hoped Nicholas would forgive her.

  She hoped he would understand.

  The future was the most important thing. She had to prevent Black Blood fighting Black Blood.

  There was only one way to do it, at least according to her Visions.

  "Wait!" Nicholas called, his voice growing fainter.

  She didn't say anything. She had reached the top of the rise. Below her, she could see the glow that indicated the Place of Power. Three Islanders stood outside, looking terrified, looking shocked.

  She was too late.

  She was already too late.

  She slid past the boulder, grabbing it as she went. No one seemed to hear her coming despite the shower of rocks that preceded her. They fell onto the flagstones below — or what used to be flagstones. Moss had grown between them, and the rocks had chipped and broken.

  This was an old place, as old as the place in the Eccrasian Mountains.

  It felt the same: all full of magick and power; full of evil and good; timeless, soulless, and somehow the center of everything.

  Rocks rained on her.

  She glanced up.

  Nicholas had reached the top of the rise. He too saw the Islanders below. He had one arm wrapped around Arianna's legs. The other was free so he could climb down.

  "Wait!" he said when he saw the Shaman looking at him.

  She shook her head and skidded the rest of the way. The movement scraped her thighs and buttocks, but she didn't care.

  In a few moments, minor pain wouldn't matter.

  Nothing would matter.

  She ran across the flagstones. The Islanders turned when they saw her come. One had a knife.