Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (The Fey Series)

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Nicholas didn’t care what kind of threats he faced as long as he learned to fight. Stephen had been teaching Nicholas for three years now, and though Nicholas had become proficient, he still couldn’t beat his swordmaster.

  The shutters were closed, but a light burned within. Nicholas knocked. He heard a chair scrape against wood, and the bolt go back before the door swung open.

  The flickering candlelight added depth to Stephen’s wrinkles. His short gray hair was tousled. He was wearing his winter sweater and a pair of heavy pants, even though it was the middle of summer. “By the Sword,” he said. “You’re drenched. Get inside before you catch your death.”

  Nicholas pushed the hair off his face. His hands were red with cold. “No,” he said. “Come out. We have practice.”

  “Not in this weather, we don’t,” Stephen said.

  “I have to learn to fight in all conditions,” Nicholas said.

  “But I don’t have to teach you unless the sun is shining. Now, come in and dry off.”

  Nicholas stepped inside. Stephen was the only servant who could speak to him with such disrespect, probably because Stephen was the only one whom Nicholas actually trusted.

  The air inside was warm. A fire burned in the fireplace, and a book was open on the table. Stephen kept his quarters spare but comfortable. “What were you thinking?” Stephen asked. “You know we never fight in such weather.”

  “It’s been three days,” Nicholas said. “I’m tired of being inside.”

  “You’ll be inside until the storm breaks.”

  “But we don’t know how long that will be. It never rains like this in summer.”

  “I know.” Somehow Stephen made the two words sound ominous.

  Even though Nicholas longed to warm up near the fire, he wouldn’t let himself go any farther without Stephen’s invitation. Stephen had only so much space in his single room. He filled it with the table, three chairs, an end table, and a pallet on the floor. A wardrobe stood against one wall. The others were decorated with swords and knives, all different shapes and sizes. Stephen claimed they had once been used in battle, but Nicholas doubted that. Blue Isle had never seen much fighting—even the Peasant Uprising wasn’t a real war, according to the Nyeians who visited the palace. Nicholas liked to think that Stephen made up the stories of battles to give himself a purpose. After all, the King really didn’t need a swordmaster. Nicholas was learning the art because anything was better than spending his days in a room with Auds.

  “Come on in,” Stephen said. “I’ll give you some mead.”

  Warm mead sounded good. Nicholas removed his dripping coat and hung it on the peg behind the door. He shook the water from his long hair like one of the kitchen dogs. Stephen sputtered as he was sprayed, and wiped his face.

  “They should have an etiquette master for young Princes,” Stephen mumbled.

  “Sorry.” Nicholas grinned. He could never have done anything like that in the palace. Someone would see and report back to his father. Nicholas never quite measured up to his father’s wishes. His father wanted Nicholas to be a scholar, to know all he needed to know about the realm. Nicholas wanted to ride horses and win sword fights, and impress women—if only he knew any women to impress.

  Stephen went to the fireplace, grabbed a stone mug from the rack on the side, and dipped it into the pot of mead warming at the edge of the fire. He used a cloth to wipe off the end.

  Nicholas took the mug, then took a sip. The burning-hot liquid coursed through him, warming him as it went. He liked Stephen’s mead. It was sweet, as mead should be, but Stephen always added butter, which he stole from the buttery. It made his mead so much richer than the King’s.

  Stephen closed his book, then sat at the table. He kicked out a chair, which Nicholas caught with his free hand. Nicholas sighed. “I guess this means we aren’t going out.”

  “I am an old man,” Stephen said. “I believe in guarding my health.”

  “Then maybe we could do some close maneuvers inside. I’m still not as good with a dagger as I would like.”

  Stephen grinned and glanced around the room. “I value my possessions,” he said.

  Nicholas did not grin back. He wasn’t sure if Stephen had insulted his progress or not.

  “And you are doing just fine with a dagger.” Stephen rested his arm on the closed book, his hand clutching his own mug. “I think now you are a match for any swordsman who would challenge you.”

  “Even someone from Nye?”

  “Anyone,” Stephen said with the same solemnity he had used before.

  Cold water dripped off the tips of Nicholas’s hair onto his wrists. He adjusted his position so the drops ran down his back. “You really think I’m that good?”

  “I think so. Now it’s only a matter of practice.”

  “Great,” Nicholas said. He took another sip of mead. He had never expected to receive Stephen’s full approval. But Stephen was acting oddly today. “Something’s bothering you, isn’t it?”

  “The weather,” Stephen said. “I have lived in Jahn most of my life. I have never seen summer rains like this.”

  Nicholas shrugged. “Things change.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Stephen murmured.

  “What do you mean?”

  Stephen shook his head. “An old man’s wanderings on dismal summer days. When the sun returns, I will be myself again.”

  “I hope it comes back soon,” Nicholas said. “I am getting restless.”

  Stephen smiled. He set his mug down, the muscles rippling in his thick arm. “You wouldn’t be if you studied as you were supposed to.”

  Nicholas grimaced. He glanced at the single, shuttered window, then at the glow of the fire. The heat was pleasant, although he was shivering from his wet clothes. He hated the lights in the middle of the day, and he hated to be restricted. Sometimes he worried that all of his practice, all of his work, would fade away. He would lose his skill because the rain forced him indoors for days.

  “I am too young to spend the rest of my life in a room,” Nicholas said. “Besides, my father isn’t that old. He’ll live a long time. I won’t become King until I’m older than you.”

  Stephen raised a grizzled eyebrow. “Older than me.” His tone was flat, as if the choice of phrasing had bothered him. He leaned back, tilting his chair on two legs, and frowned at Nicholas. “Have you ever thought that your father might need an adviser?”

  “My father has a hundred advisers.”

  “All with their own agendas and concerns. You would be the only one who would share his concerns.”

  “Me?” Nicholas took another sip of mead. The liquid had cooled and was thick and sugary. “He would never listen to me.”

  “On the contrary,” Stephen said. “I think he would welcome your advice.”

  Nicholas stood and paced around the small room, leaving boot prints on the wooden floor. He couldn’t sit with the thought. His father, listening to him. How very strange. “Has he told you this?”

  “Not directly,” Stephen said. “Mostly he wishes aloud that you were able to converse with him on several subjects.”

  Nicholas had heard that, too, and had taken it as nagging. Since Nicholas’s mother had died, his father had worked as hard as he could to raise the boy well. Even though servants, and later his stepmother, had done the actual work, Nicholas spent some time every day with his father. The affection between them was genuine, but Nicholas had never thought that he could be his father’s equal.

  “You’re just trying to get me to study harder.”

  Stephen shook his head. “I am just trying to get you to think. Three quarters of swordplay is mental, you know. The more you use that brain of yours, the better horseman and swordsman you’ll be.”

  “I do better when I’m not thinking about what I’m doing,” Nicholas said. He stopped beside the fire and let the heat radiate through his wet clothing.

  “You do better when you are so practiced, so used to
thinking about it, that you put no effort into the thought. Imagine if you were that way on affairs of state. You are already a better swordsman than your father. You could be a better statesman, too.”

  Nicholas grinned at Stephen. “You know how competitive I am, and you’re using it.”

  “Yes,” Stephen said. He glanced at the shuttered window. The drum of the rain on the roof almost drowned his words. “I think it’s time we all do the very best we can.”

  THREE

  Rugar stood on the prow of the ship, his hood down, water pouring down his face. The rain felt cool and good. He had forgotten the feeling of power it gave him to control the weather. The Weather Sprites had done his bidding to perfection.

  By morning the rain would break, and the Fey would be scattered throughout Blue Isle.

  If the maps, the Navigators, and the captive Nyeian were right.

  Rugar pulled his cloak closer. They should have spotted land by now. The year-old charts suggested that the Stone Guardians were near, yet the view was the same: choppy gray water in all directions. The downpour ruined Rugar’s visibility, but he had Beast Riders circling—three Gulls, stolen from his father’s private force.

  Rugar pushed his wet hair off his forehead. His cloak had been spelled to repel moisture, but sometimes he liked the feel of the water on his skin. His bootmaker’s magick hadn’t been quite so skillful. Rugar’s feet were soggy blocks of ice, chafing against the leather. The wind was slight—just enough to push the ships forward without the crew’s resorting to oars or spells.

  The ship groaned beneath him, the wood creaking as the prow cut through the waves. The steady drum of the rain drowned out the sound of water splashing against the sides. Rugar clasped his hands behind his back. Normally, he liked travel, but sailing was different. Riding from country to country allowed him to fantasize about conquest, but he had never seen Blue Isle, had only heard about it through myths, histories, and the Nyeians, who were notoriously untrustworthy. Rugar’s father, the Black King, didn’t even believe the common knowledge: that the Islanders had not seen war. But Rugar believed it. Who would attack that Isle? The Islanders had been smart. They had traded with nearby nations, given them favored status even though (the Nyeians said) the Islanders did not need the goods in return. The Isle was completely self-sufficient.

  It was also between the Galinas continent and the Leutian continent. The best point from which to launch an attack that would bring the rest of the world into the Fey Empire. The Fey had already overrun three continents since they’d left the Eccrasian Mountains centuries before. They should not stop simply because they’d reached the end of Galinas. It was Fey destiny to continue until all five known continents belonged to the Empire.

  The fact that Blue Isle was rich made the idea of conquest all that much sweeter. Within a few days the Fey would own Blue Isle. Rugar would own Blue Isle.

  The Black King would apologize for doubting his only son.

  A gull cried overhead. Its caw-caw echoed over the rain and the splash of the waves. Rugar looked up to see one of his own men on the gull’s back, his lower body subsumed into the gull’s form. Only the man’s torso and head were visible, looking as if he were actually astride the gull. The gull’s own head bent forward slightly to accommodate the unusual configuration, but that was the only concession to the difference. The Rider and the gull had been one being since the Rider had been a child.

  Beast Riders were kin to Shape-Shifters, but like a Shape-Shifter, once the alternate form was chosen, the Rider could not be anything else. The Riders chose the time and place for each Shift, but their moods were always governed by the creature they chose to share their Shape with. Rugar did not understand what forced a Riding child to choose a gull instead of, say, a horse. Yet he was grateful that some did; he was getting tired of the complaints of the landed Riders. Those that Shifted into horses had worn their human forms all during the trip. They were pacing belowdecks, threatening that if they didn’t return to their equine forms soon, they would lose the ability to do so ever again.

  Since Rugar had heard these complaints on every campaign he had ever been on, he ignored them. But in such close quarters, his ability to ignore was growing thin. He now wished he had placed the remaining Riders on one of the other ships, and kept only the gull Riders with him. Even they weren’t as useful as he would like. Because of their odd physiology, Beast Riders could travel only short distances in their altered form. Rugar would have loved to have sent the gull Riders all the way to the Isle when the ships had set sail, but that would have killed the Riders if there were no places to land along the way.

  Rugar stared straight ahead, as if by concentrating he could make the Stone Guardians appear. No one had spoken to him all day. Since the rains had started, no one had spoken to him at all, except when they needed something from him. He checked on the Warders, as he did every morning, trying to avoid the Nyeian they kept in thrall. So far, everything had gone smoothly.

  Just as he had planned.

  The gull cried again and dived toward the ship. The Rider held on to the neck feathers with his tiny hands, as if he truly had to balance on the creature. Riders always pretended to Ride, even though they became part of the animal. The gull swooped around Rugar, then landed on the deck, skidding a bit on the wood.

  He looked down at the creature. The gull Rider, Muce, let go of the neck feathers, straightened his arms as if they were cramped, and tilted his head until he could see Rugar. Then Muce grinned and slowly grew. As he stretched to his full height, the bird’s body slipped inside his own. The gull cried as if in protest. The cry halted as the bird’s features flattened against Muce’s stomach.

  Muce, in fully human form, was taller than Rugar, but had a broadness that seemed almost unformed. Muce’s dark hair, including the hair on his chest, had a feathered quality, and his fingernails were long, like claws. His nose was not tiny, as a Fey nose should be, but long and narrow, hooking over his mouth like a beak. The nose, combined with his dark eyes and swooping brows, gave his face a nonhuman cast.

  He was naked, but didn’t seem to notice the rain.

  “The Guardians are ahead,” he said. His voice had a nasal quality. “Beyond them is the Island.”

  Rugar grinned. “So our schedule is right. We will be there tomorrow.”

  Muce shrugged. He glanced over his shoulder at the water before them, a furtive, birdlike movement. “From the air it looks as if there are no passages through the Guardians. The water froths, beats against the rocks, and then deadends. I swooped down and saw crevices, but the waves reared at me like live things. I don’t think one ship will survive, let alone an entire fleet.”

  “The Nye had to trade with the Islanders somehow,” Rugar said.

  “Perhaps there is an easier way. The Nye have no reason to tell us the truth.”

  “No one lies to the Fey,” Rugar said.

  Muce shuddered and, Rugar suspected, not from the cold. The Fey had a gift for torture.

  “You need to gather the rest of the Gull Riders and see if they can spot a way through those rocks,” Rugar said. “The more backup we have, the better off we will be. These ships need to go through intact. The Islanders have never experienced battle. We’ll teach them what war really is.”

  “It sounds like a slaughter,” Muce said.

  “A morning’s worth,” Rugar said. “Once they see that they have no way to defeat us, they will capitulate. The Guardians are our only obstacle.”

  “All right,” Muce said, although he sounded doubtful. “I will gather the others and see what we can discover.”

  Without waiting for a response, he stretched out his arms and slowly shrank to his gull form. The gull, as it appeared from his stomach, finished the cry it had been making when it absorbed. It took a few tiny steps backward before launching itself into the air. Muce grabbed the feathers he had held before and, as he flew away, did not look at Rugar.

  The gray skies and thick rain drops obscured t
he Gull Rider quickly. Rugar watched it go. He clenched his fists. He hoped that what he had said to Muce was the truth. Rugar had had no Visions since the ships had sailed.

  He had expected to have a Vision before now. As the ships drew closer to Blue Isle, he had thought the proximity would draw more Visions from him or expand on his last Vision, the one that had brought him there. He had seen Jewel—as a woman fully grown—walking through the palace on Blue Isle as if she belonged there. But that Vision was nearly four months old now, and he had not had another one. For a while he was afraid they were going into this battle Blind. Then he had practiced making tiny Shadowlands, as he used to do as a new Visionary. The Shadowlands would capture the cups he had placed in the room and conceal them in a space he had made, proving that his powers were fine. On this trip, then, the Mysteries had given him only one Vision to plan with.

  He had spoken to no one about his lack of Vision, not even the Shaman who had consented to go on this trip. Visions were unpredictable things. Perhaps, once he was inside the Stone Guardians, he would be able to See Blue Isle clearly.

  No one has conquered Blue Isle before. His father’s voice rose out of the mist. The Black King’s arguments had haunted Rugar since the ships had left Nye.

  No one has tried, Rugar had replied, even though he knew he was wrong. The Nyeians told stories from the dawn of their history which told of a force of long boats, twenty strong, that had been turned away from Blue Isle. The stories were so old that some thought them myths.

  When his father had learned of that attempt, his protests had become even stronger. The last fight, when the Black King had learned that Rugar was taking Jewel, had been blistering.

  She is the only hope for the Empire. His father had leaned on the heavy wooden desk in his office at the former Bank of Nye. You cannot take her from here.

  I can do as I please, Rugar had said. She is my daughter.