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

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  The room smelled of candle wax. Someone had thought ahead and lit the lamps inside. It was not bright enough, but it would do. Such a waste to spend a sunny morning in a room with no windows.

  He sighed and brushed the hair from his face. His hand was shaking. He hadn’t slept more than an hour or two—and that was in snatches. He kept coming awake at every noise, waiting for the messenger to tell him what had happened on the raid against the Fey. When the news came, over a light breakfast of freshly baked bread and milk, it left him stunned. He had been expecting the worst, but somehow, when the worst had happened, he found himself ill and shaken. He had been unable to finish eating. So he faced this meeting tired and hungry, his mind full of images of the men he had sent to their deaths for nothing more than to satisfy his own suspicions.

  The War Room had changed in the last year. It had the polished shine of a room well used. The table glowed. He had replaced the odd assortment of stools and benches with padded chairs. The washbasin he had asked for sat on the other occasional table, along with a matching pitcher. An assortment of knives and swords stood in a specially built case. A sleeping mattress was rolled against the wall, and a plush carpet with a blue, gold, and brown-patterned weave covered the floor. Some dried meat, pickled vegetables, and kippers were stored on the shelves, along with regular water. Vials of holy water covered a lower shelf. He wanted supplies up there in case something trapped them inside.

  New maps had been copied and hung on the wall. On one of them, the artist had marked the sites of all the battles and skirmishes since the Fey had arrived. On another the artist had noted all the battles of the Peasant Uprising, in the vain hope that it would show the King where to stage current battles. But so far, the Fey had chosen the sites.

  He pushed off the door and walked around the room. Soon the others would arrive and he would have to take action. But for the moment he was alone and able to think. So much of this was new: the constant vigilance, thinking in terms of war instead of commerce. No ships had left the Isle since the Fey had arrived because Alexander feared giving the Fey a map of the correct route. The Islanders were complaining of shortages, but mostly in exotic goods. The only area that concerned him was that of cloth, since the Island woolens were coarse and uncomfortable. But for centuries Blue Isle had been self-sufficient. With a little time and patience it would be again.

  All of that planning he could handle. The loss of life, on the other hand, kept him awake. The nightmares were getting worse instead of better.

  Alexander stopped pacing in front of the vials of holy water. Unlike his son and all of his advisers, Alexander had killed no one in this war. On this night that would change.

  Yet what he was about to do was different. He wasn’t killing in the heat of the moment. He had planned this, and already his stomach was churning. He didn’t want to think about all the possibilities. But he had to.

  For the sake of the Kingdom.

  He took a deep breath, grabbed one of the vials, and pulled off the stopper. The slight pop made him wince. He set the stopper down, fighting the urge to sneeze when the faintly dusty aroma of the water reached his nose. He gripped the vial by the neck, took it to the basin, and poured it in. That way the water was easily available. He also half hoped that he wouldn’t have to use it at all, that he could think of a way to get them to dip their hands into the basin voluntarily. But he knew that would never happen.

  A rap on the door startled him. He capped the empty vial and replaced it on the shelf, heart pounding. He wasn’t ready for this meeting. He would never be ready.

  The guards weren’t to knock unless at least two of his advisers had shown. The knock echoed again.

  “‘Tis Lord Stowe, Sire, and Lord Fesler.” The guard’s voice sounded muffled through the door.

  “Come,” he said, tugging on his shirt. Since the invasion he had changed from robes to the pants and shirts his son preferred. They gave him more mobility and made him less visible among his staff. No one had advised him to make the change, but he felt it prudent. He walked over to the chair at the head of the table as if he had been there all along.

  Lord Fesler came in first, a slender man with hollowed cheeks who looked as if he had never slept. He had not been one of the King’s trusted advisers until after the war had started, but during the past year his soft comments and his wry observations had had more truth in them than most. Alexander didn’t like him but had learned now more than ever that liking meant little in a world at war.

  Lord Stowe followed, his brown curls pulled back behind his head. He had deep circles beneath his eyes. He pushed the door closed and took his customary seat beside Alexander.

  “You’ve heard,” Alexander said.

  Stowe nodded. “They came to me after they spoke to you.”

  “The raid?” Fesler asked.

  Alexander shook his head, unable to say more.

  “We’ll discuss it when the others get here,” Stowe said.

  The knock sounded again. Alexander’s hands were shaking. He gripped the back of the chair, the wooden edges biting into his palms, to hide his nerves.

  “Captain of the guards, Sir Monte, Lord Egan, and Sir Stephen of His Majesty’s Swords.” A different guard this time, his voice ringing through the door clearer than the others had.

  At the mention of Stephen’s name, Alexander’s mouth went dry. “Come,” he said again, hoping that his voice sounded the same.

  The door opened, and Stephen came in first. His face had no expression at all, but his eyes seemed to take in everything. He stopped at a chair on the other side of the table, in full view of Alexander.

  Lord Egan followed. His back was hunched, hiding his bulk, and his round face still showed signs of his famous joviality. But he hadn’t smiled much since he had found a place among the King’s council. His advice, like Fesler’s, had been sound and necessary.

  Monte stopped in front of the door to give additional instructions to the guards. The War Room was no longer a secret among the staff. Most knew that it existed, although only an elite cadre of guards knew exactly where it was.

  Alexander pulled his chair back and sat in it. He looked at all of his advisers. It felt as if his own gaze were jumping like Stephen’s was. He wasn’t sure if he should look at the swordmaster or ignore him.

  After a moment the chair was too confining. He wanted to pace. Nicholas was late, and it bothered him. Nicholas was always late. Alexander frowned at the thought. His son would be the only adviser who would be announced alone.

  He had waited to test his son last. His son and his most trusted adviser. Of all the advisers, only Nicholas had been alone with his father since the war had started. Nicholas had other chances to betray, but none like this.

  None like this.

  But Nicholas was infatuated with the Fey girl. Nicholas had touched her. Nicholas thought her “magnificent.”

  Alexander stroked the arm of his chair, his fingers still shaking. The invasion had brought him to this. A distrust of his own son. The future of his people. He hadn’t wanted to face this thought, but he might have to, in just a few moments.

  The sense of urgency didn’t leave him, although he knew that at present his people were fine. Still, this was the moment his father had warned him about. The moment when being King took more resolve than desire. The moment when he lost his humanity for the sake of his country.

  “Something has disturbed you,” Stephen said, looking at Alexander’s hand.

  This man missed nothing. Alexander bit back the rage that filled him. He met Stephen’s gaze. The man’s eyes were cold. “Yes,” Alexander said calmly. “Something has.”

  A knock on the door was followed by, “His Highness, Prince Nicholas.”

  Without waiting for Alexander’s invitation, the door opened. Nicholas entered. His hair was tousled and he was still rubbing sleep from his eyes. He did not apologize for being late.

  He looked normal. The boy Alexander had raised. The child he had he
ld.

  If Nicholas was enchanted, Alexander would have known.

  Alexander let out breath he didn’t know he had been holding. “We need to get under way. Have a seat, my son.”

  Nicholas nodded. He pulled out the chair next to Stephen and sat. Alexander watched, lips pursed. Nicholas took too many risks. It would cost the boy someday. Alexander would have to talk with him. Warn him. Again.

  Alexander stood, unable to sit any longer. He paced around his chair and glanced at the water in the bowl, glad to see it was still there. Then he took a deep breath. “We received news of the raid on the Fey’s hiding place this morning. Five of our people survived. Two were badly wounded. Three weren’t injured at all. Three others were captured. Theron, the leader, came back here to get help for the dying and the dead.”

  “Captured?” Monte asked, his tone implying all sorts of horrors none of them wanted to think about.

  “Along with holy water,” Alexander said.

  Lord Egan slumped in his chair. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow. “Now they’ll know how to defeat us.”

  Lord Stowe shook his head. Unlike the others, he had had hours to think about this. He knew, just as Alexander did, that nothing was absolute. “None of us knows the secret to holy water. None of us knows how it works. And taking our people will not change that. The Fey can’t handle the water, so if they were to study it, they would need human hands to conduct the test.”

  “Throwing the water at the Fey hideout did not dissolve it?” Stephen asked.

  Alexander stopped behind his chair. He leaned his elbows on top of it and considered the question. A reasonable man would ask it—that had, after all, been the plan. But a spy would want to know what had happened to his camp. All of Stephen’s questions in the past few months had been like this. Maybe even in the past year. “No,” Alexander said. “The mysterious hiding place still stands.”

  “I don’t understand this,” Lord Fesler said. “This was supposed to be a secret raid. How did they best us in a secret raid?”

  “There were things we did not know,” Alexander said. “They apparently have a circle in the ground with some magick properties. They seem to have the ability to erect a barrier that holy water cannot penetrate. Theron has developed a theory. He believes that water to them is like fire to us. It will consume our skin, our lives, and most of the things we use. But it will not destroy stone, and it will temper iron. We have only one element to use against them. They have many to use against us. Fortunately, our one weapon is more powerful than anything else they have.”

  “It sounds as if they are going after the secret,” Nicholas said.

  “I would be too,” said Alexander. “We are trying, in fact, to learn as much about them as we can and are thwarted on every path. Perhaps we can find a way.”

  “We have been unable to capture them,” Lord Egan said.

  “We haven’t really tried,” said Monte.

  “Do you think we have a chance against people like that?” Stephen asked.

  Alexander stood and crossed his arms. “What do you think, Stephen? You’re the expert on the Fey.”

  He frowned just a little. “I am no expert.”

  “On the day of the invasion, it was you who gave us all instructions about the Fey. On that day, before the girl arrived, you told us many things about the Fey.”

  “The girl,” Stephen said softly. “We had a prisoner.”

  “Yes,” Nicholas said. “And if it weren’t for you and Lord Powell, we would have kept her.”

  Alexander wasn’t going to allow his focus to shift away from Stephen. “You told us that the Fey were fighting machines, that they would not stop until they control the entire world.”

  Stephen shrugged. “It was obvious. And true.”

  “You said you have studied the history of warfare, yet it is Lord Stowe who has contributed the most history. What happened to all your knowledge, Stephen?”

  “It was merely reading and oral history, most of it worthless, Sire.”

  “You didn’t think so during the invasion.”

  Lord Stowe was watching both men as if they were sword fighting. Nicholas had pushed his chair away from Stephen, so that he had room to stand quickly. Lord Egan leaned back, his face a mask.

  Stephen glanced at them all before looking at Alexander. “You seem to have an agenda, Sire.”

  “I am simply curious at your lack of willingness to put your knowledge to use. On the day of the invasion, you said to me that you wanted to be useful. It was one of the reasons I included you in the meetings in this room.”

  “Haven’t I been useful, Sire?”

  The words echoed in the silence. Lord Fesler rubbed his thumb against his forefinger over and over again. Stephen’s eyes glittered as he awaited Alexander’s response.

  “Not in the way you promised, Stephen.”

  “Perhaps I could not be.”

  “No, perhaps not.” Alexander leaned against the end table. The water in the bowl sloshed beside him. “You also told us that the Fey could kill with a single touch.”

  “And we saw that later. Reports of men being killed by touch.”

  “Yes, we did.” Alexander wanted to look at the holy water but couldn’t give himself away. “And then the others left, and you said something interesting to me.”

  “I told you they could enchant,” Stephen said.

  The response surprised Alexander. Somehow he had thought Stephen would not remember that conversation. “And you told me that they could take over a man’s body to make him do their bidding.”

  The room was so silent that he could hear Egan’s labored breathing. Everyone was watching Alexander, except Nicholas, whose gaze remained on Stephen.

  “What happened in that corridor, Stephen, with that female Fey?”

  Stephen touched the scar on his cheek. “I told you,” he said. “She broke her bonds and attacked me. When I came to, she was gone, there were bones at my feet, and the guards were standing over me, concerned that I was dying.”

  “Why didn’t she kill you?” Alexander asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t have to. Maybe Lord Powell fought harder.”

  “I thought the Fey could kill with a single touch.”

  “Not all of them. I told you that. I said some of them could.”

  “Do you think she could?”

  “Obviously she could,” Stephen said. “How do you think Lord Powell died?”

  “Then why didn’t she kill you? She touched you, didn’t she?”

  Stephen paused, his mouth open slightly, as if shocked by this line of questioning. “Her knife touched me,” he said.

  “Her knife touched you,” Alexander said. “Then how did she knock you unconscious? Did she touch you, Stephen?”

  “What are you trying to say, Sire? That she took me over?”

  “Someone cut her bonds, Stephen. Someone set her free. Lord Powell is dead.”

  Color ran into Stephen’s face. “It could have been anyone,” he said. “Someone else could have helped her. Your son was taken with her. Why didn’t she attack him? Have you asked yourself that?”

  Alexander clenched his fist. “Are you saying Nicholas is enchanted?”

  Nicholas’s eyes were wide. He was staring at his father in disbelief. “Father—”

  Alexander waved a hand to silence him. Nicholas needed to wait. Alexander couldn’t afford that distraction. Not yet. “Don’t change the focus of the conversation, Stephen. We are talking about you.”

  Stephen gripped the edge of the table. “Why are you accusing me of this now? You’ve trusted me all year.”

  “Someone let the Fey know that we were going to attack them last night. Only you and Nicholas knew the plan.”

  All of the lords looked shocked. Monte reached for the knife at his belt. Nicholas stood.

  “And you wouldn’t think of accusing your son?” Stephen asked with a snarl that Alexander had never heard before. In all the years he had
known Stephen, Alexander had never heard such contempt in Stephen’s tone.

  Alexander didn’t think. He whirled, grabbed the basin, and flung the contents toward Stephen. Stephen screamed and launched out of his chair, grabbing Nicholas and using him as a shield. The water splattered the table and chair and sloshed near Stephen’s shoes, but did not touch him.

  Lord Fesler grabbed another vial off the shelf. Monte rose, knife extended. Stephen pulled a knife himself and placed it at Nicholas’s throat.

  “Use that,” Stephen said to Fesler, “and I will kill this sorry excuse for a boy.”

  “Do it,” Nicholas said, his voice strained against the knife. “He won’t have time to kill me.”

  Alexander gripped the dripping basin, breathing hard, terror pounding in his chest. Either way he was risking Nicholas. “What did they do to you, Stephen?” Alexander asked. “I thought of all of us you were the most incorruptible.”

  “Did you?” Stephen said. “There are ways to get to everyone.”

  “He’s not Stephen,” Nicholas said. A drop of blood ran down his skin and disappeared under the collar of his shirt. “If he was Stephen, he would not need to be frightened of the holy water.”

  “The boy thinks he is so clever,” Stephen said. “But what do you know of the Fey and their magicks? Nothing. Nothing at all. Perhaps the water will merely break the enchantment.”

  Fesler took the stopper off the vial.

  Stephen smiled. “It will cost a Prince’s life to find out.”

  “Do it,” Nicholas said again.

  “And lose what pitiful advantage I have? I don’t think so.” Stephen backed toward the door, his grip on Nicholas tight.

  Alexander set the basin on the table and held up his hands. “Let my son go, and you can go free.”

  “Really, Sire, I am not that stupid. Your son will get me out of here.”

  “You can’t get out of here when you’re pulling him,” Lord Stowe said. “If the King gave his word, then he means it.”