TWENTY
Eleanora stopped at the fork in the path. She was deep in the forest, where the trees grew tall and thick. No sunlight filtered through the branches, but even there the leaves dripped with the remains of the rain. A large and twisted oak had grown into the intersection. She used the oak’s gnarled roots as a chair, not caring about the damp wood pressing against the only dry portion of her skirt. Her stomach was growling, and she was dizzy from too much exertion. The baby was heavy. She made a cocoon of his blankets and cradled him on her lap.
His little forehead was wrinkled, his pale-blue eyes staring up at her as if he had a thousand questions but didn’t know how to frame them. Since they left the house, he had made almost no noise, and she had been frightened that she had hurt him. Yet he seemed fine.
He was only a few months old. She had nothing to give him, no way of keeping him fed. Helter’s house was farther away than she had thought, or perhaps her exhaustion combined with her panic made it seem farther. The fork was the halfway mark. She was so tired that she wondered if she could go on.
She leaned her head against the trunk, feeling the dampness against her scalp. Maybe a moment to catch her breath. She had heard nothing behind her on the road, no sign that those evil creatures were following her. If she hadn’t been carrying the baby, she would have thought she’d made it all up.
A little food might revive her. She took the bread out of her pocket and ripped off a large hunk, eating it so quickly she barely tasted the doughy freshness. Her mouth watered at the unexpected treat, and she had to stop herself from eating the entire loaf. If she did, she would waste it. Her stomach wouldn’t be able to hold that much food that quickly.
She shoved the rest of the loaf into her pocket, then set about tending the baby. She couldn’t change him, although he needed it, and she had no milk. He wasn’t ready for hard food, and she didn’t want to risk choking him. Finally she settled on giving him drops of water from nearby leaves. He balked at the lack of a nipple, but when she put the water on her fingertips, he sucked greedily.
“Poor little one,” she whispered. How quickly his life had changed. She ran a hand over his soft head, feeling the silky strands of hair against her palm. His lower lip trembled, but he didn’t cry.
Her hands shook as she wrapped the baby in his blankets. Then she placed him against her right shoulder, cradling his head with her right hand and supporting his bottom with her left. She had tried carrying him a variety of ways, and each made her arms ache. Odd to have lived as long as she had and to have gained no experience with babies.
Ah, Drew, she thought. I never believed I’d need it.
She slowly got to her feet and walked around the tree so that she left no footprints on the trail. She took the right fork, which led to Daisy Stream, but she didn’t use the path. Instead she walked parallel, behind the first row of trees. Branches hit her in the sides, and water ran down her face. She was able to protect the child from the worst of it, but when his little back got whacked with a twig, he began to whimper. By the time she could no longer see the gnarled oak, the baby’s whimpers had turned into sobs.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please shush.”
His crying grew louder. He was responding not to her words, but to the fear that was rising within her. She was merely an old woman. She had no special strengths. She didn’t know why she had gained this burden when this morning all she had to look forward to was a slow death.
When she had gone around several corners, she crossed through the trees to the path. No matter how magickal those creatures were, they wouldn’t be able to see her prints from the fork. She adjusted the baby so that his face rested against her chest, muffling his cries as best she could without smothering him. The trees were thinning, and she could hear the gurgle of a stream. Perhaps the fork was not halfway. Perhaps she had misremembered it. Perhaps she was closer than she thought.
She stumbled against a root, pain shooting up her leg. Her grip on the baby loosened, and for a moment she thought she was going to drop him, then land on him, killing him. But she caught him, then regained her balance, stopping as the pain waved through her.
The baby’s cries had become shrill screams. She put him back in his position against her shoulder, then patted gently between his shoulder blades, trying to soothe him. But he would have none of it. It was as if he suddenly knew that he was orphaned and that he might not live through the day. But he couldn’t know that. He was probably tired and cold and hungry and wet.
Gingerly she leaned her weight on her sore leg. The pain was fierce, shooting from the arch of her foot into her thigh, but she could walk. She limped the next few steps, then regained her earlier pace, deciding that a little pain was worth her life.
The trees were thinning into shrubs, and the darkness of the forest was fading. Sunlight streamed through holes in the branch canopy above her. But aside from the baby’s cries, she heard nothing.
Her throat was suddenly dry. What if she was wrong? What if those creatures had come from the coast instead of from Jahn? Perhaps all the people between Daisy Stream and the Infrin Sea were dead. More bodies, more blood. If she closed her eyes, she could see the stripped skeletons lying in their yards, the tall, thin creatures watching from doorways and laughing at her.
If everyone was dead between Coulter’s home and the Infrin Sea, then she had no reason to hide in the forest. She and the child would have to die too. Or perhaps she could bargain for his life. They could raise him anyway they wanted to. They would get rid of her; she was just a meddlesome old woman. But a child. A child was precious to any race.
The baby shuddered, gulped, and then stopped crying. Little shivers ran through him, though, as if he was too tired to make a sound.
She rounded another corner and saw the clearing ahead. The sunlight fell across the grass, and she saw people moving, children playing near the edge of the forest.
They were alive, then. The creatures hadn’t come there first.
Relief gave her the extra energy she needed. She couldn’t run, but she tried, hobbling as quickly as she could across the mud and the wet.
As she burst out of the trees, the children screamed and ran away in terror: only then did she realize what an awful sight she must make.
“Help!” she cried. “Please! Someone!”
Her legs would take her no farther. She managed to stay upright for the sake of the baby. The sun felt warm on her skin, but her clothes were heavy with water. The baby started to wail again.
Three men and two women ran toward her. She recognized them: Helter and his wife, Lowe; Pier and his wife, Vy; and Arl, who was unmarried. Lowe took the baby, and Eleanora felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her. She pitched forward. The men caught her and eased her to the ground.
“Eleanora?” Helter asked as if he were uncertain.
“Yes,” she said. She closed her eyes, feeling the world spin. It was all right. She was with friends and safe now. But not for long.
She sat up. “The baby needs care,” she said. “He’s Coulter’s. His parents are dead.”
“Dead?” Lowe asked. The baby whimpered in her arms.
“Murdered,” Eleanora said. Then, in gasps and bursts, she told them the story of her morning. Vy glanced from her to the baby as if only the child made Eleanora’s tale real. Pier supported her with his thick arm. Arl watched the forest as if he expected the creatures to burst through it at any moment.
When she finished, there was a long silence. The children had crept back up and were listening, their eyes wide. She wished she hadn’t spoken in front of them, but she had had no choice.
She had black spots in her vision. She wouldn’t be able to continue much longer. The fear and exertion had finally caught up with her. “I haven’t eaten,” she said into the silence.
Her voice seemed to snap Lowe out of her shock. “Yes,” she said. “And this baby needs to be changed.” She cradled him close.
Helter nodded. “Le
t’s go inside. We need to make plans.”
Plans. Eleanora closed her eyes for just a moment. They would rely on her for the plans, and she didn’t even know if the creatures were human. She had no idea if knives wounded them or if they could even die.
“Come on, Eleanora.” Pier’s voice was soft against her ear. “We’ll take care of you.”
She hoped so. As Pier helped her to her feet, she opened her eyes.
Arl hadn’t moved. He still stared at the forest, a look of quiet horror etched on his features. “They’re going to come for us, aren’t they?” he whispered.
“I’m afraid so,” Eleanora said. Of that she had no doubt.
TWENTY-ONE
The Black Robes scurried by him. Scavenger blended into the shadows along the wall of the empty storefront. He was across the dusty street from the palace, but it seemed as if he were miles away. Since he had run to Caseo to report the evil across the river, he had seen over fifty Fey die. No blood, but that hideous stink, the shrill cries of pain. The Black Robes had not seen him yet, but he knew they would want to kill him, since he had Islander blood on his clothes.
Caseo had ordered him to the palace to continue his work, but Scavenger couldn’t. His pouch was empty. He couldn’t bear to cross into the walls, to be trapped in a world even more Islander than this one. Besides, the blood magick no longer worked. He had seen Foot Soldiers attempt to touch the Black Robes. The Black Robes would toss liquid onto the Foot Soldiers before the incantations were complete.
The Islanders were winning.
When he had arrived, he had peered through the hole in the battered gates and seen Islanders in hand-to-hand combat with Infantry. The Foot Soldiers had just arrived, and they had begun their deaths by touch. They looked for Red Caps—three were already working inside—and when he saw that his comrades were so busy, he slunk back into the shadows. Scavenger needed to concentrate on his own life. They had enough blood pouches in the warehouse to last half a year.
If they lived that long.
The wood of the building was still damp from the rains. He could feel it through his shirt, clammy against his skin. His entire body was shaking. There was nowhere to hide. It was only a matter of time before they found him and covered him with that awful poison.
The Black Robes had paused at the gates of the palace, peering inside with what seemed to be trepidation. Fey guards littered the street, moaning and crying as they died. Scavenger tried to turn his gaze away, but he could not. The horror of melted hands, of missing faces, held him rapt. He could almost picture himself there, dying in hideous agony.
Strange that it should bother him now. He bathed in the blood of others, gathered it for use in magic poisons. He had seen more people die than he cared to think about. But he had seen only a handful of Fey die. Not dozens, like this.
The Black Robes hadn’t gone in yet. The melee inside seemed to frighten them. They held out the remaining bottles and counted among them. Scavenger crept to the side of the building, making certain that he did not step into the open. Some of the Fey near the side of the road saw him and yelled for him to help them. He put a finger to his lips. He couldn’t help them if he died too. Didn’t they know that?
The Black Robes didn’t seem to hear. They seemed less fearsome now that they weren’t moving. There were only about twenty of them, and each seemed to be down to a bottle or two. Certainly not enough to attack the force that had spread itself through the palace.
Scavenger licked his dry lips. Perhaps the Fey inside didn’t even know of this new danger. Someone would have to warn them.
He put a hand on the side of the damp building. To warn them meant that he would have to find a way across the road so that the Black Robes didn’t see him. He had already warned Caseo. He was not heroic enough to warn the people twice.
“See how they skulk and hide as if their little lives are worth something.”
The voice was unfamiliar and nasal. Scavenger whirled, his heart pounding. A heavyset man with puckered lips, large jowls, and beady eyes stood in front of him. The man was Islander and wore the uniform of the King’s guards.
The man smiled at Scavenger’s fear. “Your pouches are empty, boy.”
Scavenger bit his lower lip, unable to speak. His hands went to the dry, empty pouches hanging flaccidly at his side. Then he realized what the man had said. How did Islanders know about pouches?
“Wh-who are you?” he asked, turning slightly so that his back was against the wall instead of facing the street.
The man’s smile grew, making his eyes nearly disappear in the folds of his face. “Quartermaster Grundy,” he said lightly, as if he found the name amusing.
“Y-you have no bottle,” Scavenger said.
“Of course not,” the man said. “It would kill me.”
Scavenger let his mouth drop open; then he closed it quickly. Kill—? He frowned, then collapsed against the building as the strength left his legs. Fey. The man was speaking Fey. There was no way for an Islander to know that language. He peered up at the man’s piggish eyes. He was too far away to see if they were flecked with gold.
“Who are you?” he repeated.
The man laughed. His cackle rose over the moans of the dying. “Ah, Scavenger, I am your friend Silence. Don’t you recognize me?”
The Doppelgänger. Scavenger slid all the way to the ground, his butt landing in the drying mud. The relief flowing through his veins made him weak. “I thought you were going to kill me.”
“I would like to.” The smile had left Silence’s face. “You have no blood for me. I am in the wrong body. I need a change.”
Scavenger leaned his head against his knees for just a moment. He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Silence. Somewhere Silence had learned tolerance of Red Caps. He was the only Doppelgänger who spoke to Scavenger as if Scavenger was worth something.
When he felt as if he could breathe comfortably, he glanced at the Black Robes. They were still huddled by the door of the gate. “A quartermaster?” he said as if the word had just occurred to him. “Someone who manages the barracks?”
“I had little time for preparation,” Silence snapped.
“What are those Islanders over there with the bottles?” Scavenger still hadn’t looked at Silence. The Fey on the street closest to the storefront had stopped moaning. They looked dead.
“They’re Danites. Religious Islanders.” Silence’s tone was flat. Scavenger finally looked at him. His skin was red with the heat, sweat trickling down his hairline. The body was a poor choice all around for its lack of exercise and mobility. “I don’t pretend to understand this. Grundy has no knowledge of Danites having magickal powers. Nor does he think of them as warriors. Either I picked an exceedingly stupid host or something is odd here.”
“Everything is odd,” Scavenger said. “It is as if we are cursed.”
Silence nodded. He was staring over Scavenger’s head at the street beyond.
“Are you going to absorb one of them?”
Silence shook his head. “Grundy has his uses right now. I am not sure if a Danite is the proper place for me either. They usually don’t have access to the King, which is my assignment, and they aren’t supposed to be powerful. I am wondering if a Fey has turned on us.”
“No one would do that,” Scavenger said, but the conviction had left his voice long before he’d finished the sentence. He remembered the conversations on the ship, the Visions that contradicted Rugar’s calm. No Fey would go against a Vision. But no Fey had ever helped the enemy either.
“Shima’s troop led in?” Silence asked. The question seemed less for information and more for confirmation.
Scavenger nodded. The Black Robes were talking among themselves. They didn’t seem to notice the Fey writhing at their feet.
“Then Jewel is inside,” Silence said.
Scavenger froze. The Black King’s granddaughter. Women of that lineage were supposed to have special powers, but Jewel’s hadn’t manifeste
d yet. She was still young and serving with the Infantry as part of her experience. “There’s no way we can stop the Black Robes,” Scavenger said.
“We don’t have to stop them,” Silence said. He gazed over Scavenger’s head at the fighting beyond. “We have to save the future Black Queen.”
Scavenger swallowed. That meant crossing the road, going into the fray. He wouldn’t do that. “We’ll die in there.”
Silence shook his head. “I won’t. They won’t kill a quartermaster.”
“But if you get splashed—”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Or one of our own could attack you.”
“They won’t,” he said with a confidence that Scavenger didn’t believe. He had seen Doppelgängers killed by Fey before.
The pounding hooves were growing closer. Scavenger’s mouth was dry. “I can’t let you go alone.”
“As if you’ll make it, all bloody, your little face smeared with death?”
Scavenger wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but it did no good. The blood was caked on. “They’ll get me anyway.”
Silence shook his head. Grundy’s head. Sweat dripped off the chin. “Oh, no. You’re going to hug the back alleys and the side streets. You’re going to avoid any and all Islanders, like a good Red Cap, and you’re going back to the ships.”
“The ships?” Scavenger said, feeling a brief second of hope. The ships were safe. No Islander could get to the ships. “But they’re in Shadowlands.”
Silence nodded. He crouched so that he was face-to-face with Scavenger. Now Scavenger could see the gold flecks in the eyes; the slightly imperfect formation of the lids. “Look,” he said, his voice thrumming with accents that were Silence’s even though the pitch was not. “You have to go to the Weather Sprites and ask for rain.”
“That’s Rugar’s job.”
“Rugar might be dead by now.”
A chill ran down Scavenger’s back. They could all die. The horses were close; he could feel the vibration of the hooves beneath his feet. The Fey had never lost like this. Never, in all his experience, in all history. Rugar dead? On this afternoon, anything was possible.
Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (The Fey Series) Page 15