Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey

by Rusch, Kristine Kathryn

  She dug her chin into her knees. She wouldn’t look at him, and that unnerved him. He wanted some response from her other than this cold contemplation.

  “I can’t believe he would abandon his own son to the whims of fate.”

  Rugar sighed. She was young yet, unused to making difficult choices. Someday she would understand that to follow the heart wasn’t always the best thing for a ruler. “He tried to convince me against it. We argued for a month. You just remember the day he gave in.”

  Rugar did too: the look on the Black King’s face when he said See if you can put a force together was a look of farewell. He had not seen the troops off, as was his custom. In fact, he had left the province the day before.

  “But to abandon you—”

  “I’m an adult, Jewel. I make my own choices for good or ill.” Rugar smiled, wondering if he would have the same strength his father had.

  “But you’re next in line.”

  Rugar nodded. “And I am twenty years younger than he is. If he serves as most Black Kings have, he will die as an old man. I’ll have a reign of ten years at the most. Losing me isn’t the great crime of this trip. Losing you is. The fact that he let you come along shows how much he wanted to believe in me. You were his inheritance, not I.”

  Her face sank lower against her knees until only her eyes and nose were visible. Rugar put out his hand, and it hovered over her back for a moment; then he pulled it away.

  The pounding continued, a monotonous sound. They had an odd mix of Domestics with them. Those who could shape the wood could not force it to hold together. They had to use the old-fashioned method with a hammer and wooden nails.

  “If I don’t come back,” she said, the words muffled against her skin, “what then?”

  The question didn’t surprise him. He had been expecting it most of her fighting life. What did surprise him was that it had taken her so long to ask.

  “Your brother Bridge will become Black King.”

  “Bridge,” she breathed. They both knew she was the better choice. She had bested Bridge in everything, from sword fighting to military strategy. “Why didn’t you tell me this before we left?”

  “Because,” he said, “I thought we’d win.”

  She closed her eyes and hid her face behind her knees. This time he did put a hand on her back, feeling the rigid posture, the stiff muscles. She didn’t acknowledge his touch. He had betrayed her by treating her as a child, and now he could have cost her the future she had trained for.

  He had never intended that.

  “Shima had Seen her own death. Others came to you, saying that this mission would be a failure. Your own father told you not to go, and still you came.” Although her words were angry, her muffled tone was soft and full of disbelief. “Didn’t you at least question yourself?”

  “No,” he said.

  She brought her head up, her dark eyes shining. “Why not?”

  This time he looked away, unable to face that loss and earnestness mixed in her features. “When I was a thirteen-year-old boy, I had my first Vision. I saw a black horse, running through a field, a Beast Rider hiding beneath the blanket across its back. Two armies flanked the horse, and they watched as it reached the Oudoun leader. The Beast Rider stood, the horse reared, and its hooves tore the leader apart. I told my field commander about it, and he laughed at me. So I told my father, and when a Beast Rider came to him with that exact plan, my father approved it, and that was the decisive end for the Oudoun War. My father said he had never heard of a Vision so clear in its detail in one so young. It indicated great power. I saw the Shaman. I talked with other Visionaries. They made me create tiny Shadowlands. They dissected my Visions. The verdicts were all the same. I was a powerful Visionary. And my powers seemed to grow as I got older. I saw no reason to doubt this Vision of you. Even though it was shorter than many I’ve had, it was still strong, and detailed.”

  “But when they speak of Vision,” Jewel said, “they say that it is the duty of a Visionary to compare his Vision with the Vision of others.”

  “It is,” Rugar said.

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “I did,” he said. “Think about it, Jewel. We are not immortals. Fey die in campaigns. Just because Shima Saw her death, and others Saw failure, didn’t mean that we would all fail. It simply meant that there would be a cost. I expected a cost. And if I had thought that cost would have been you or the family or the people themselves, I would not have done this.” He looked back at her after that. Her mouth was parted slightly, her eyes wide. They had not had a conversation like this one for a long, long time. If ever. Jewel had never really been an adult to him before. Now, with his father across the sea, and his advisers unwilling to listen, he had no one but this black-eyed girl.

  “What did you hope to gain?” she said.

  “Have you forgotten already?” He stared at her until she looked away.

  “No,” she said. “I haven’t forgotten. But we aren’t on our way to Leut, and Blue Isle doesn’t seem particularly wealthy to me. Not now.”

  “Oh, but it is,” he said. “I wasn’t wrong about that. Look how they’ve sustained this campaign they were unprepared for. They have no food shortages, and the people are well fed.”

  “Not all of them.”

  He shrugged. “Even the wealthiest nations have poverty. You look to see how many people suffer, not whether people suffer at all.” He glanced around, realizing for the first time himself how lucky they were to be trapped there—if they had to be trapped anywhere. Otherwise they themselves might have starved. “The Isle is supporting us now, too, Jewel, and there is almost no effect from it. We’re raiding their gardens and killing their livestock, and still they eat.”

  Jewel stood, put her hands on the small of her back, and stretched. Then she glanced at him, and her face had lines he had never seen before. “So we won’t be rescued. Not even if a ship gets out?”

  “If I believed that, I wouldn’t have sent a ship. No, your grandfather will send help if he has word that we’re alive—and alive in large numbers. But he also needs to know about their poison, and he needs to have Warders working on a way to combat it. Then, and only then, will he send an invasion force large enough to take the Isle and rescue us.”

  She nodded and sat. “So that’s why you’ve been sending the ships.”

  He frowned. “What did you think I should be doing?”

  “Fighting.” The word sounded so simple, especially when she said it. “We’re here to conquer. I thought you should have mounted another battle, and another, and another.”

  “Jewel,” he said, “we’ve already lost over a third of our force. The Second Battle for Jahn showed me that we can’t do that as long as they have their poison. The Warders’ first spell didn’t work, and they can’t seem to come up with anything else. As long as we have no way to fight that poison, we have no way to fight. Better to hold on until we solve the problem and send for reinforcements.”

  She drew herself back into the protected position. “I just hate it here,” she said. “I even dream in gray now. Sometimes I want to go out onto the Isle just to remember what green looks like.”

  “I know,” he said. If he had known another way to build a Shadowlands, he would have. But he didn’t. And the only thing he could think of was to let the others use their skills to improve the box he had trapped them in.

  He and Jewel sat in silence for quite a while. He felt half-ashamed for telling her, as if his failure were compounded. The decision had seemed right at the time. He had never made a real mistake before. And Blue Isle would have been a step closer to Leut. Even if the Fey never went past Blue Isle, they would have the Isle’s wealth. And if they decided to move on, they would have the Isle as a base. Without Blue Isle they could not have Leut. The wars would be done then.

  And what would he have done? He, the Black King’s son, the Prince destined to fight forever and rule not at all. He fathered children, training them in the art of
war, and let the Black King train them in the art of leadership. Rugar would never be other than a military leader, the Visionary whose Vision had led them to this disaster.

  Lights flickered near the Circle Door. Rugar looked up. The Circle Door opened, revealing a bit of green from the forest outside, mixed with the scent of pine. One of the scouts tumbled in. His long hair was matted and covered with brambles, his clothing torn, and his arms lined with scratches. Jewel got up and went to him, bending over him as if she were a Healer who knew what she was doing. Others came running: a real Healer, a Domestic, and Burden crowded around him. Rugar waited on the Meeting Block.

  “Get him some water,” Jewel said.

  Dello, the Domestic, nodded and ran to the nearest cabin, her waist-length hair flying behind her. Neri, the Healer, crouched beside Jewel. Neri’s frown of concentration deepened her wrinkles. She was tiny, but talented. She ran her hand over the scout’s head, smoothing his hair and comforting him with that simple touch.

  “He’ll be all right.” Neri’s voice was soft.

  “What news is there?” Burden asked.

  Rugar stiffened. That boy would have to be dealt with. He knew better than to pull information from a scout before the leader had it.

  “He needs to talk with my father,” Jewel said.

  Dello returned with the water. She brought the scout’s head up and helped him drink.

  Rugar stood. “Bring him to my cabin. Now.”

  He waited until Dello, Neri, and Burden helped the scout to his feet. The scout staggered a few steps, then walked on his own. Jewel flanked him. When he stood, Rugar recognized him as Hiere, the scout he had assigned to the river’s north face.

  Rugar’s cabin was farther into the Shadowlands. It was one of the first built. Originally, it had been used as a meeting place, then he and Jewel had taken it over as living space. He needed privacy, especially for meetings like this one.

  He went in. The furnishings were still sparse: a few chairs and a table. Both he and Jewel had torn apart their ship cabins to form their own bedrooms down a narrow hall. He lit the lamps and turned. All five waited for him.

  “Jewel may stay,” Rugar said, “and Hiere. The rest of you can go.”

  Burden paused for a moment, as if he were going to say something, and then went out the door with the others. Rugar waited until they had disappeared into the opaqueness before asking the door to close.

  He offered Hiere a chair. Hiere sat and couldn’t quite hide his sigh of relief.

  “Well?” Rugar asked, even though he was afraid he already knew the answer.

  Hiere shook his head. “They almost made it,” he said. “They reached a passage in the Stone Guardians and then stopped. The attack was quick and bloody. I thought”—his voice broke—“I thought for a moment that they would make it. I really thought—”

  “Are they all dead?” Jewel asked.

  “No,” Hiere said. “Someone turned the ship around. But it’s badly damaged. I’m not sure if they’ll make it back.”

  “They have usually let our injured come home,” Rugar said. “The Islanders don’t seem as bloodthirsty as—” He didn’t finish the thought. Of course they weren’t as bloodthirsty as the Fey. The Islanders hadn’t learned the necessity of slaughter yet.

  Hiere nodded. “They almost caught me. I had to outrun a group of them near the cabins.”

  “Did they see you come in here?”

  He shrugged. “If they did, they didn’t follow. I’m sorry, Rugar. Sorry to bring such news.”

  Rugar patted the scout on the shoulder. “The news is not your fault,” he said.

  “Why did you run?” Jewel asked. “What about the invisibility?”

  Hiere looked at her for a long moment, his dark eyes sunken in his face. He clearly hadn’t eaten in a long time. The water had only temporarily revived him. “I used all my reserves when I was hiding at the mouth. They attacked the ship in small boats, but they had archers hiding throughout the woods. I had to stay invisible or they would have found me.” He picked at a scab on his arm. “They know we’re going to keep trying until we get out. Respectfully, sir, they don’t need to come in here. They will eventually get all of us at the mouth of the Cardidas.”

  Jewel’s gaze met Rugar’s over Hiere’s head. The truth of that statement caught her as well. Rugar nodded.

  “Jewel, help him to the Healers. Hiere, you’re the first to report. Thank you for your bravery in returning to us quickly. I’ll send a band out to see if they can help bring the Uehe in.”

  Hiere staggered to his feet. Jewel supported him by placing a hand on his back and ducking under his arm. She led him to the door and helped him outside. Rugar walked to the door and stood beside it. His daughter was a tall, strong woman, and the weight of Hiere bent her. He was more exhausted than he let on.

  Or more discouraged.

  Rugar closed the door and sank into the chair Hiere had just vacated. The wood was hard against his body. He had hoped this ship would have made it to Nye, and the Black King would have sent reinforcements. But it wasn’t going to happen now. Not until they found a way to fight that poison themselves, and they were getting nowhere with it.

  He had never been in a position like this. He had nothing to draw on, no reserve army, no help from his father, no unlimited ground. Not even Old Stories or history to give him a grounding. He would have to find a solution on his own.

  Rugar put his head in his hands. He needed a new strategy, and he had no ideas at all.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Nicholas never thought he would outgrow sword practice, but in the last few months he had felt that the time had been wasted. He sat in the courtyard, the sun beating down on the cracked dirt, the unnatural rains of the past year a distant memory. There had been reports of rain near the Stone Guardians, but the storm had never come into Jahn. Rain made him nervous now; it always made him think of Fey attacks, even though he had fought that first battle in sunshine.

  First and only battle. Despite the other fighting—some of it in Jahn, his father had not let Nicholas out of the palace. His father said Nicholas’s life was too precious to waste. He was also convinced that the Fey now knew who Nicholas was—and would try to kill him if they could.

  Nicholas’s sword rested across his legs. He had been polishing the blade, waiting until the practice began. He suspected he was early, Dunbar had never kept him waiting in the past. Unlike Stephen. Stephen had always kept Nicholas waiting, believing the experience good for the Prince.

  Only now Stephen no longer taught sword fighting. He no longer had time for Nicholas, always running to keep up with Nicholas’s father, always sitting in on the advisory meetings. The war had changed Stephen. It had changed all of them. Nicholas felt as if he were disobeying his father each time he took a horse outside the palace walls.

  A shadow fell across the dirt. Nicholas looked up. Stephen smiled down at him. “Are you ready to practice?”

  Nicholas’s heart leaped, but he kept the joy off his face. “What about Dunbar?”

  Stephen shrugged. “He says you were contemplating quitting sword lessons. I think now would be the wrong time to stop, don’t you?” His words were a bit slurred these days. The red scar that ran across his right cheek pulled his lips slightly off center and made the right side of his mouth almost immobile. He had received the wound on the day the Fey woman had disappeared. The day of the invasion. The day Lord Powell had died.

  Nicholas stood and sheathed his blade. “Father won’t let me go with the soldiers. If I can’t fight, there is no point to practice, is there?”

  “And what of defense?” Stephen asked. “Should the Fey ever get into the palace again, you will need your skills.”

  Nicholas grinned at him. “Honestly, Stephen, fighting just hasn’t been the same with Dunbar. He’s good, but he’s not you.”

  Stephen smiled back. He patted the hilt of his own sword. “Should we begin, then?”

  “Here?” Nicholas glanc
ed around the courtyard. It was empty, but Stephen had always taught him that blades belonged in a site away from passersby.

  A bit of surprise passed through Stephen’s eyes so quickly Nicholas thought he imagined it. Then Stephen said, “No, no, of course not. In our old place.”

  Their old place was an alley between the servants’ quarters and the guard barracks. The alley was rarely used and was wide enough for both men to parry and fight.

  “All right,” Nicholas said. He led the way. A groom nodded as he passed, leading one of the King’s stallions. The horses rarely got good exercise anymore. Since the Fey had arrived, Nicholas’s father did not take the horses on their rides, and he forbade Nicholas to as well. He truncated the grooms’ routine, preventing them from going far from the palace. It was as if, with the walls and gates repaired, Nicholas’s father believed that the thin wood would keep the Fey out.