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

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  When he saw her, he swore. He opened his mouth and looked away from her, probably to call one of the stable boys for help, when she meowed at him and raised one paw. He looked back at her, his brow furrowing in puzzlement.

  She sat next to the support beam and said in Fey, “I’m thirsty. Bring me some fresh water outside this smelly building.”

  “But—”

  “A Doppelgänger should never question his betters,” she said, and jumped off the wall. Straw dug into her pads, and she silently cursed him for his job. She shook the strands off her feet, then went outside to wait.

  The sun had peeked over the gate. The day would be hot and steamy after the night’s rain. She found a patch of sunlight, letting the warmth soak into her bones.

  Presently Tel came out, carrying a ceramic dish filled with water. He set the water in front of her, then sat down cross-legged beside her.

  “Who are you?” he asked in Fey.

  “First,” she said, looking around to make sure no one else was in earshot. She didn’t see anyone. “Talk to me in Islander. I’ve picked up enough of it this last year to be conversant. Second, treat me like a cat you’ve been trying to tame for some time. Use that stupid baby talk Islanders use when talking to us. Third, I will still use Fey. Maybe no one will realize what I’m doing. And fourth, idiot, I am the only Shape-Shifter Rugar brought with him.”

  “Solanda?”

  “One and the same. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to have a drink.” She stood and bent to the water, scooping it into her mouth with her tongue. Spoiled horses didn’t have to drink out of mud holes for their nourishment. She drank half the bowl—she hadn’t realized just how thirsty she was—before sitting again and looking at Tel.

  “You have water on your whiskers,” he said in Islander.

  “Brilliant observation,” she said. She shook her head, splattering him. He wiped off his arm, lips pursed. She hated Doppelgängers. Thought they were as important as Shape-Shifters, but they lacked so much natural talent. “I’m here from Rugar. He says the quality of your information is poor. He wants you in the Tabernacle.”

  “What?”

  A stable boy brought another horse outside. Solanda moved closer to Tel, rubbing her head against his leg. She purred. Tel put a tentative hand on her back. She wrinkled her nose at the stink of horses.

  She waited until the stable boy was gone before continuing. “He wants you to discover how they make that poison. The Spell Warders are having no luck with it.”

  “By the Sword,” he said, an expression she had never heard, but she assumed it was a human oath. “I could die.”

  “You could be kicked to death by a horse too. Wouldn’t it be better to die knowing that you had got information that could save us all?”

  He looked around, scratching behind her ear as he did so. She couldn’t help herself. The scratching felt good and she leaned into him.

  “Listen,” he said in Fey. “I have heard that we can die just from going into that place.”

  “Not true,” she said. “I have known Fey who’ve been inside.”

  “Have they lived?”

  No. They had all died. Even the Doppelgängers. “They were careless,” she said. She pulled away from his hand, even though the touch felt good. “If you refuse this assignment, I will bring a Red Cap here to douse you and turn you to your old form. You’ll have to make it back to Shadowlands alone and unprotected.”

  He wiped his hand on his pants legs and stared down at her. “You play mean,” he said in Islander.

  “The poison terrifies me. I want off this wretched place. The last ship didn’t make it, and I’m beginning to be afraid that Rugar is going to settle. I don’t want to settle. I want to move on. Nye wasn’t heaven, but it was better than living in the Shadowlands.”

  Tel stared at her for a long moment. His eyes narrowed, and she finally saw the Fey in him. He, too, lived in terror of the poison.

  He took a deep breath, rubbed a hand over his forehead, and sighed. “How long do I have before I’m supposed to go?” he asked in Islander.

  “Right away,” she said. “I don’t think I’m the only one who is impatient.”

  He frowned at her, then picked up the bowl of water and tossed the water onto the ground. She almost commented on his rudeness—he could have asked her if she wanted more—but then realized that was what he wanted.

  “Rugar expects a message as soon as you’re in the Tabernacle,” she said. “A courier will be waiting for you down at the warehouse near the old Shadowlands at midnight tomorrow.”

  He didn’t respond, even though she knew he had heard her. He turned his back and went inside the stable. She watched for a moment, fighting the urge to follow him. He was too comfortable. She recognized the signs. She had seen it twice in Nye—Doppelgängers who had turned, whose hosts had proved stronger than the Fey self. She would warn Rugar. He could decide if Tel formed a threat to the rest of the community. She hoped not. Too many in their small force had died in the past year.

  But she didn’t have long to reflect on it. She still had one more Doppelgänger to talk with, and she wanted to do so before the nobility woke.

  Now she wished she had sneaked into the kitchen. She trotted across the courtyard, glad she had had the water. As the sun struck the damp dirt and stone, steam rose. She wanted to finish her duties so that she could find a nice, cool piece of shade and sleep.

  She rounded a corner, went past the kitchen and along the archway, dodging the feet of busy servants, most of whom took no notice of her. The sounds in the yard had increased—the chickens squawking as they got fed, horses neighing and people shouting greetings to each other. A ragged black cat with half an ear hissed at her from a hole a fallen stone had left in the wall. She hissed back for good form, then scurried away. Other cats lived in the yard, and the last thing she needed was a fight.

  Finally she found the door she was looking for, the one that opened into the corridor outside the Great Hall. She bumped against it, thinking it would open from her weight, but it didn’t. She scanned the yard, hoping to see someone coming toward her. When no one did, she lay as near to the door as she could, her muscles tense so that she could spring through at a moment’s notice.

  She had catnapped for about an hour when the door finally opened. She slipped between the booted feet that made their way out, ignoring the shouted “Hey!” and scampering down the hall. She had no idea where to find Quest, but her best chance was there.

  The inside of the palace was cool after the growing heat outside. She hurried down the corridor, enjoying the cold stone against her pads. The air smelled of dust and freshly baked bread, an odd combination. She headed toward the kitchen because she wasn’t sure where else to go.

  Finally she heard voices: a woman speaking softly to a man at the base of the stairs. She stopped and peered around the corner. The woman was one of the servants. She was slender and very blond, her hair paler than her skin. Her serving dress was cut low across the bodice, but it appeared as if she had tried to pull the bodice higher. She held a feather duster before her like a weapon. The man was Quest in his human role as master of the hall. He was giving the woman instructions, and she was arguing with him. Suddenly he took the duster from her and tossed it across the floor. It skidded to a stop near Solanda. Solanda didn’t back away quickly enough.

  “Oh, lordsy,” the woman said. “I dinna let this one in, sir.”

  “But make sure you get it out,” Quest said.

  The woman hurried toward Solanda. Solanda ran past her and careened into Quest’s leg. He cried out as she dug her claws into his pants leg and climbed up his side. He was brushing her away, but she bit his hand.

  “Get this thing off me!” he yelled.

  The woman came over, apologizing as she walked.

  “Stupid,” Solanda hissed in Fey. “I have to talk to you.”

  The woman grabbed her and Solanda yowled, digging her claws in harder. “‘Tis sorry I a
m, sir. I dunno how she got in here.”

  “Go about your dusting,” he said. “I’ll take care of the damn cat.”

  “Sure is a strange one, that,” the woman said. “I dinna ever hear nothing meow like that before.”

  “Go,” Quest said, “or I will discipline you immediately.”

  The woman hurried to her place in the hall and picked up her feather duster; then she disappeared down the corridor.

  “I hope to hell this is you, Solanda,” he whispered in Fey as he pulled her off, “because if it isn’t, I’ll make sure you don’t live through the day.”

  “Testy,” she said. “Get me out of this corridor and we’ll talk.”

  He cradled her with one hand, pushing her body against his shoulder as if she were a child. He went up the stairs, past the first landing and the tapestry-strewn window, and onto the first floor. As one of the ranking officers of the house, he had special privileges, such as a room in the palace proper.

  His room was small, though, with an ancient feather bed that needed airing. It had one uncovered window that gave the place a larger feel. He set her down on the mildewed rug—obviously a discard from the nobility—and immediately went to his washbasin. He pulled off his shirt, revealing long scratches on his side and arms.

  “Couldn’t you have done something else?” he asked.

  She jumped onto the bed and sneezed as dust rose around her, the motes floating in the window’s light. She sat, then wiped her nose and mouth with the side of her paw and sneezed again as more dust got into her nostrils. “Don’t you ever clean this room?” she asked.

  “I barely have time to sleep.” He grabbed a ripped cloth and dipped it into the water. “Master of the hall has its benefits—and I do hear a lot—but I work harder than I have ever worked before.”

  She sighed. Complaints. She hated complaints. As if she didn’t work for the cause. Still, she didn’t have to pretend to be the enemy every day.

  He wiped the blood of the scratches, wincing as he did so. “By the Powers, these things hurt.”

  “Cat scratches,” she said without apology. “If I were you, I’d get a Healer to look at them so they don’t get infected.”

  “They don’t have Healers here.”

  “They must.”

  “Butchers is more like it,” he said. “They have no knowledge of the Mysteries.”

  “Well, the wounds don’t really matter,” she said.

  He stopped wiping. “They want me back?”

  “No.” She sat with her front paws pushing on the feather bed, her back paws braced behind her. She couldn’t relax in this room. The smells, the dust, were driving her crazy. “Just a moment.”

  She closed her eyes, willed and imagined her human form. Her body grew and stretched, the power surrounding her. At some point the tickle of the dust was gone, replaced by the faint odor of mildew and sunshine. The bed’s softness eased the jolt of her change. When she finished, she was sitting in the same position, only her knees pushed into her breasts, and her hands were flanked by her legs.

  The avid and shocked expression on Quest’s face made her stay that way. She had forgotten about the heightened sexuality of Doppelgängers.

  “Sorry,” she said, wishing she had something to cover her nakedness. “I’ve been a cat too long today.”

  His smile held understanding and irony, neither of which she wanted to see. He set the cloth down on the stand and sat beside her. She didn’t move away. No sense in antagonizing him.

  “They don’t want you back,” she said, continuing the conversation, hoping it would distract him.

  It did. He leaned away from her so that he could see her face. “My information’s been good,” he said.

  She nodded, liking his defensiveness. “But it’s not the information we need. The power here is diffuse, it seems.”

  “The Rocaanists make no state decisions.”

  So he had already thought of this. “No,” she said. “But they know the secret to the potion.”

  He paled. She did admire a Doppelgänger’s ability to absorb everything about its host.

  “You’ve already thought of this,” she said.

  “I’ve heard rumors,” he said. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, then winced when the movement pulled at the scratches. “They found bones over there. And then one of the Auds melted. Only they think that a Fey was hiding in an Aud’s clothing.”

  “We lost two in the Tabernacle,” she said. “Rugar was hoping not to send anymore, but we can’t find the secret to their poison.”

  “How do you expect me to do that?” His voice rose just a little. “The holy ones have to touch that stuff every day.”

  “Not all of them,” she said. “Even I know that.”

  He didn’t even have the grace to smile at trying to fool her.

  For a moment she wished she were back being a cat. It was hard to hide the anger. Both of these cowards were fighting her. “You should know better than to let your fear overcome you,” she said. “We need the answer to this. We need it or we will all die. Do you think you can avoid this poison forever? What happens when they start testing loyalties with it? You know they will. They just haven’t thought of it yet.”

  “Oh, they’ve thought of it,” he said. “All of the King’s advisers have been touched.”

  All? She wondered at that. “Well, then,” she said. “You’d best discover the secret.”

  “You have no sympathy,” he said, the smile finally crossing his face. She wondered why her coldness amused him.

  “None.” She let the word hang between them.

  He touched her arm. “I’d forgotten how beautiful Fey women are.”

  She looked down at his hand. “I find Islanders repulsive.”

  He flushed and pulled his hand away. “I’m not an Islander,” he said despite his movements, but with a resignation that meant he understood.

  She brought her legs down and stretched, deliberately taunting him now. The movements felt good. In the space of a single night, she had forgotten how wonderful long limbs felt. When she finished the stretch, she turned to face him and sat cross-legged. He let his gaze roam her body, but he did not touch her.

  “Rugar did not send me to entice you or to reward you,” she said. “He isn’t pleased with the information he’s received from you. He was hoping that the Doppelgängers would give him the knowledge he needed to defeat these people. Instead, you have all grown comfortable in your imitation Islander lives.”

  “All?” Quest asked.

  “We’ve spent too long here, and they’ve discovered Shadowlands. If they can find a way in, they can defeat us. We will never see our families again. We will never leave this place.”

  “That’s not my fault,” Quest said.

  “No,” she said. “It’s not. Completely. But I’m appalled to know you have thought of going to their religion and have not done so for fear of your own life. You are our sacrifice. That is what your powers make you. And instead, you hide here and then talk as if you are doing us all a favor by cleaning their King’s palace.”

  “It’s not like that—” he said.

  “Really? It certainly seems that way.”

  “I thought I was getting enough information here.”

  This time she was the one who smiled. Coldly. “If you were getting enough information here, then you would have known that they had found their way to Shadowlands.” She put up a hand. “Don’t deny it. I saw the surprise on your face. You shouldn’t have to hear it from me.”

  He leaned his head back against the stone wall and closed his eyes. She stood and splashed some of the water onto her face, then wiped it off with another of his ripped cloths. Some of her feline habits never went away. Whenever she was nervous, her face felt dirty.

  This fear disturbed her. How many others did it paralyze? Perhaps that was why the Spell Warders couldn’t find the secret to the poison. They were too afraid of it. She would have to talk with Rugar when she got ba
ck. The Fey, in the shock of their defeat, had lost their ability to take risks.

  “You’re right,” he said, his voice soft. “I hate to admit it, but you’re right. How soon does Rugar want me to leave?”

  “Now,” she said. “Only give me time to get out of this hellhole. That woman heard me talking to you.”

  She set the damp cloth down and faced him. The color in his cheeks remained high.

  “You understand what you need to do?” she asked.

  “I need to find the riddle of that poison.”

  “As quickly as possible,” she said.

  He nodded. “I have some ideas. I have choices as to who to take on. I will get it for you. For Rugar. Tell him, Solanda.”

  She smiled—a real smile this time. “I will tell him,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She settled on the rug, then let her body slip into itself, her mass compacting and somehow lessening, although the Warders had never figured out how that happened either. The feline form felt like an old friend—she hadn’t been out of it long enough—and she sneezed at the dust and mildew.

  “I wished we could do that as simply,” Quest said.

  Her tail twitched. His magick would never come as easily. Her kind were the only true Fey. The rest were imperfect, unable to achieve even half the magick she could.

  He stood and grabbed his shirt. The wounds had dried on his skin.

  “One other thing,” she said.

  He slipped the shirt on and adjusted it, then looked down at her.

  “Rugar expects to hear as soon as you are settled in your new form. A messenger will meet you tomorrow night at the base of the bridge just crossing the Cardidas after dark. Make sure you are there. If not, we will assume that you did not survive the transition.”

  He swallowed visibly, his Adam’s apple moving up and down. “I’ll survive,” he said.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Alexander entered the War Room alone. He shut the door on his guards and leaned against it, still winded from the climb up the stairs. He was not as young as he used to be, and his body reminded him of that fact daily. When he crouched, he needed to brace himself to rise, and when he climbed stairs, he had to pause on every other landing to rest.