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

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “You’re a fool, Eleanora,” the other woman said.

  Eleanora ignored her.

  The steps up to the cabin were coarse, the wood poorly sanded. The small porch had been made later, out of logs, and was uneven. As Solanda stepped across the threshold, she was assaulted by smells: fresh bread, fresh fish, and dirty diapers. The main room had toys on the floor, and an expensive iron mesh in front of the fireplace, probably to keep the baby away from the flames. There was no real kitchen to speak of, only a pantry that lacked a separate fireplace. The bread must have come from someone else.

  Eleanora poured milk from a pitcher into a bowl, then put the bowl on the ground. Solanda drank it, even though she knew too much would give her the trots. She didn’t care. If it got too bad, she could go into the woods and be Fey for a few hours. That would take care of any discomfort.

  “I don’t have a lot of fish. It spoils fast unless I pickle it. Better to let you finish these last few bites.” The woman spoke as she worked, pulling bones from the flesh before setting pieces on a small plate. Solanda appreciated the effort. Here was a woman who cared about beings smaller than herself.

  When she put the plate in front of Solanda, Solanda’s feline side took over. She inhaled the food so quickly, she barely had a chance to taste it. Then she sat on her haunches and cleaned her face, slowly and delicately, making certain no pieces of fish fell off her whiskers onto the floor.

  Eleanora took the plate away. “Liked that, did you? Well, then. We always have a bit extra if you want to stay.”

  For the moment she did. Solanda finished cleaning and then spread out on the small rug before the hearth. She closed her eyes, meaning to doze, but all the travel of the last few days finally got to her, and she slept.

  A shriek woke her. She opened her eyes to see a small boy wearing only a diaper walking toward her, his pudgy legs spread wide and thumping in the ungainly fashion of a being that has just learned to walk. She feigned sleep, figuring she could sprint away if she had to, as the toddler got to her. His fat fingers were clutching the air in anticipation of reaching her. He was bending over when Eleanora appeared and scooped him in her arms.

  “No, Coulter. Be nice to the kitty.”

  Exactly, Solanda thought, and then she stretched herself awake. And as she awoke, she studied the child. He was the one whom she was there for. She knew it with a depth that matched her ability to Shape-Shift. Something about this child had drawn her miles away from her home.

  He looked no different from other boys of his age. He had big curious eyes—blue—a color she had never seen in Fey children—and hair too brown to be called blond. His legs were still pudgy enough to have dimples for knees, and his toddler’s stomach protruded over his diapers. He was jabbering at the woman who held him. Baby speak: half real words, half a garble of sounds. Solanda didn’t even try to follow the train of thought.

  Instead she rolled onto her back and revealed her belly to him, more as a sign to Eleanora that Solanda was worthy of trust. She needed some time there, to see what made the child special, and she could use the fresh food. Besides, a bit of diversion from life in the Shadowlands would be nice.

  “Ah, Coulter,” Eleanora said. “The kitty is being nice to you. Here is how you pet it.”

  She bent down, keeping one arm wrapped protectively around the child, and rubbed Solanda’s stomach. Solanda purred and squirmed. Touch felt so much better in her feline form.

  The boy, Coulter, reached out a pudgy hand and patted Solanda’s tummy gently. Instantly a burst of power ran through her, and she almost Shifted.

  “By the Sword,” Eleanora said, and pulled back.

  Coulter protested and reached for Solanda. Solanda stood. Had she started to Shift? She cleaned her face as a pretense for examining her body. Nothing was different. Each hair was in place. But Eleanora must have seen the momentary waiver. Solanda had to make that look like a trick, but she didn’t want the boy to touch her again. So she went and rubbed on the woman’s legs.

  “You spooked me, gorgeous,” the woman said.

  “Me!” the little boy said. “Me!” He was reaching for Solanda. If she concentrated on her form, she might be able to hold it while he touched her. Then she would be able to see what kind of power he really had.

  “Be careful,” Eleanora said again.

  The boy cooed as he reached for Solanda. His touch hit her fur like a bolt of lightning. She had to bite on her back teeth—hard—to hold herself in the cat form. He had a power, and he was too old to have Fey blood. An Islander with power. Rugar would love to know of this.

  But how to tell him? Solanda would need to think a bit before she made a choice on how to act.

  She moved away from the baby’s hand and bumped against Eleanora’s leg, showing a preference as best she could. Better that the child did not try to touch her. Better that she kept her shape constant. It had been too close, a moment before.

  Eleanora crouched and put the baby down. “Leave her for now, Coulter. We will teach you how to be with the kitty while she’s here. We’ll have you feed her. That will help.”

  He continued to reach for Solanda, and she dodged, using Eleanora’s legs as protection. The boy had determination. His blue eyes glinted as he chased her.

  “Coulter!” Eleanora said, and scooped him up again.

  Solanda dived under a chair and huddled there. Here was the key they had all been looking for. Somehow this baby had survived the attack on the other cabin. Somehow he had drawn Solanda to him. He had power. She had been touched by children before, and that had never forced a change. No. There was something about him. Something important.

  She lay down under the chair and placed her chin on her paws. The elderly woman was explaining to the child in words he probably couldn’t understand why he shouldn’t grab for a cat. Solanda tried to ignore the love there.

  The old woman had been kind to her. Kindness was rare in any country, and Solanda would repay it by breaking the old woman’s heart.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Theron’s hands were shaking as he approached the site. He felt older than he had the last time he’d walked down this road. Cyta and Kondros were both silent as they walked beside him. They weren’t exactly disobeying orders, but they weren’t obeying any either. No one had said that they could return to the battlefield. No one had said they could collect the dead.

  This was the first time the King had allowed the dead to rot. Before, he had always sent teams to bury them and Danites to bless them. It was almost as if he was ashamed of the defeat. Theron was. He was even more ashamed of returning from the battle alive and whole. He should have been wounded. He should have lost a limb or blood or anything, something to show that he had suffered as much as his men.

  But he could never suffer that much. He had not died.

  Or been captured.

  Cyta had mentioned trying to launch a rescue squad, someone to go after Adrian, Ort, and Luke. But Theron wasn’t ready for that yet. The King might have something planned for that rescue. Perhaps that was why he didn’t want anyone near the battle site. But that didn’t seem right. If he had wanted a rescue, he should have mounted one by now.

  Kondros said he believed that the King counted the prisoners as lost. Bodies that belonged on the pile with the rest of them.

  Theron couldn’t bear that. Adrian had been a friend. A good man. Someone you could trust in any situation. Ort was a great fighter, and Luke was just a boy. Their lives couldn’t end because a ruler saw them only as bodies to be launched against an enemy.

  Theron stopped at the edge of the path before it opened into the clearing. His throat was dry and his heart was pounding in his throat. “You two don’t have to go on,” he said quietly.

  “And let you go back there alone? You must be kidding,” Cyta said.

  “We’ve come this far,” Kondros said. “We can go all the way.”

  “But I don’t think we can bury all the dead—and do we dare do it without a Danite?
”

  “Better than letting them rot,” Cyta said.

  “If they’re still there,” Kondros added.

  “I guess there’s only one way to find out.” Theron rubbed his damp palms on his pants, then took a deep breath and stepped off the path. He remembered walking this way in the darkness, remembered his misgivings, and wondered why he hadn’t listened to them. Because he had trusted his King. He wasn’t sure he would do that again.

  They had barely gone ten paces when the smell hit them: rich and fecund and sour, it invaded their nostrils and tried to sink into their bodies. The stench brought tears to Theron’s eyes. The King should be there. He should know what his plan had led them into.

  Cyta had turned green. Kondros, his lips puckered in distaste, ripped the hem off his shirt and tied the material around his nose. Cyta, hands shaking, did the same. Theron brushed the pouches filled with holy water that he had hung from his belt. He was glad for them. He would never have come this far without them. Quickly, he ripped his shirt and brought the rag up to his nose. The cloth blocked the invasive nature of the smell, but didn’t make it go away.

  Two days. They should have returned sooner.

  As Theron reached the edge of the clearing, he heard voices. They spoke in a guttural language that he recognized as Fey. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. He glanced at his companions. Cyta’s green color had stayed, and a sweat had broken out on his forehead. Kondros bit his lower lip.

  Quietly, Theron parted the tree branches and peered into the clearing. The bodies were stacked like cordwood near the dirt circle. There were no lights flickering in the air, no Fey visible. Then a short, squat man came out of the woods behind. He was covered with dirt (or blood?) and carried in his hands long dripping strips of something (cloth?). Another short man came from the same area, his hands stained and empty, pouches hanging from his belt like the pouches hung from Theron’s.

  They spoke, and he realized these were the voices he had heard. Sounds traveled in this clearing. Instinctively he tamed his breathing. Cyta and Kondros did the same.

  A third Fey—a woman—dragged a body by its heels from the woods on the other side. The face looked odd, as if someone had carved holes in it. Then Theron realized that it was missing skin.

  Instantly he felt nauseous. They were mutilating the dead. He had heard that the Fey did that, but he had never seen it. He glanced at his companions. Three against three. Good odds, unless more Fey came from the Circle.

  Theron grabbed a pouch and opened it. With the other hand he took the knife from his boot and dipped it into the water. Cyta and Kondros did the same. Then Theron retied his pouch and attached it to his belt again. He held his knife out before him and was about to go into the clearing when someone grabbed him from behind.

  A hand that smelled of rot covered his mouth and pulled him backward. The sharp edge of a knife bit into his throat.

  Cyta and Kondros both turned, one hand on their pouches, the other holding a knife. Their eyes were wide.

  The stench of the man holding Theron made him gag. “Now,” the man said in badly accented Nye. He was whispering. “If you throw that stuff on me, it will bring the others, and that will bring still others. And we, none of us, want that.”

  Cyta and Kondros didn’t move. Theron’s eyes were watering. He held his breath, wishing he could speak. The pain in his throat was sharp, and he thought he felt the coolness of blood trickling down his neck.

  “Now,” the man said, his voice close to Theron’s ear. “I need your help, and I believe you need mine. So how about we have a little chat, away from this clearing?”

  Theron kept gesturing with his eyes, wishing he had the power to communicate with his mind. Throw the water on him. Throw it! But his friends didn’t seem to get the message. They were watching the man, not Theron.

  The man pulled Theron backward, keeping the pressure on his neck steady. His hand clamped even harder on Theron’s mouth, fingers digging into his cheek, forcing him to bite the flesh inside. He let out a breath, then took another as he stumbled backward, his gaze on his friends, his free hand opening a pouch. He gripped the knife tightly with the other hand. All he had to do was shove it into the man’s leg, and the man would die. But he might kill Theron in the process.

  They crunched through dead leaves and branches. Theron watched the clearing, expecting the other Fey to follow, but they did not. When they were what he believed to be a safe distance from the clearing, he turned his knife hand and shoved the blade at the man’s leg. Immediately the hand over his mouth moved and knocked Theron’s knife away.

  “Kill him!” Theron shouted.

  The man’s knife dug deeper into his throat. “Do it,” he said to the others, “and I’ll kill him. You”—he moved his head as if he were nodding at someone—“slash those pouches off his belt, yours, and your companion’s, then drop your knife. You drop yours now.”

  Cyta dropped his knife. Theron shook his head just a little, trying not to jar the blade at his throat. Kondros shrugged, then reached over and cut Theron’s belt off before cutting away Cyta’s and his own.

  “Now,” the man said, “we’re going to talk for a minute.”

  He pulled Theron against him, keeping the pressure on his throat. He took his other hand off Theron’s mouth and encircled his waist. The man’s grip was strong. Theron couldn’t have broken it if he’d tried.

  “You are too close to the Circle,” the man said. “Islanders this close to the Circle will die, didn’t you know that?”

  “We came to get our comrades,” Theron said. The blade pushed against his Adam’s apple, making speaking painful.

  “The dead?” the man asked. “The dead do not care how they end up. Be thankful they can be useful.”

  “Useful? To you? They don’t want to be useful. They want to be Blessed,” Theron said.

  “Shh, Theron.” Kondros held up a hand and faced the man. “You said you needed our help.”

  A little shudder ran through the man’s body. Theron felt it in his back. He frowned, thinking that, for a moment, Kondros might be taking the right tack.

  “You know nothing of us,” the man said. “I can tell you.”

  “You would tell us about the Fey?” Kondros said. “Why should we trust you?”

  “Because,” the man said, his voice soft. “They just tried to kill me. I want to get out of here.”

  “One of their own?” Cyta’s voice rose with incredulity.

  It sounded like a lie to Theron too. “No,” he said. “We can’t trust you.”

  “Let Theron go,” Kondros said, “and you will prove your trustworthiness.”

  The man’s body shivered again. Theron watched his friends’ faces. They betrayed nothing. He waited, holding his breath—that stink was overwhelming—and then the man let go. The knife dropped and the arm released Theron.

  He stumbled forward, and Cyta caught him. Theron turned to see who their attacker was. Another short Fey—he hadn’t realized that they were short—stood behind him, his face and arms smeared with blood and dirt. His clothing, originally red, was covered with brown stains as well. Only his dark coloring, telltale eyebrows, and high cheekbones made him look any different from the Islanders.

  “What do you want from us?” Theron asked.

  The man wiped the back of his hand against his forehead, as if he was unwilling to smear his face. “Take me somewhere safe.”

  “There is nowhere safe for you among our people,” Kondros said.

  The man shook his head and glanced over their shoulders at the clearing. “I can’t go back there.”

  “What happened?” Cyta asked.

  “They tried to kill me,” he said.

  “How?” Kondros appeared to have infinite patience. Theron was ready to snap at the man.

  “They had some of your poison. They were going to pour it on me as an experiment.”

  Theron let his breath out slowly. So they were trying to figure out holy water. Alr
eady this man had given them some information they could use. But was this a plant? He didn’t understand why the man would come to them instead of to his own kind.

  “And you ran away?” Kondros asked.

  The man nodded.

  “We’ll take you somewhere safe,” Theron said, “if you get our people buried.”

  The man frowned, then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what happens to them. They’re already gone.”

  “It matters to us,” Theron said.

  “No.” The man’s word was soft. “All that is there is the useless parts. We have taken the rest. They’re gone.”

  “Taken the rest?” Cyta asked. Theron’s stomach turned again. “For what?”

  “Magick,” the man whispered, as if he had said a holy word.

  “Oh, God,” Theron said, and the statement was half a prayer. No matter what, the King or one of his advisers had to speak with this creature.

  “If you come with us,” Kondros said, “you need to get rid of your knife, and you need to let us have our protection back.”

  “Don’t pour the poison on me,” the man said. “I ran from that.”

  Theron could feel the man’s terror. If all the Fey felt that way, holy water was a better weapon than he had thought. “How do we know that they’re not going to come after you?”

  The man smiled. The smile was not a happy one. “I’m a Red Cap,” he said. “They won’t even notice that I’m gone.”

  “I think we should just leave him here,” Cyta said in Islander.

  Kondros shook his head. “What if he’s telling the truth?”

  “Then we missed an opportunity,” Cyta said. “But if he’s not, we’ll die.”

  “I won’t hurt you,” the man said in Nye. “I promise. You may tie me up if you like. Just get me away from here.”

  Theron touched his neck. Blood smeared against his skin. The cut wasn’t scabbing yet. “We could just kill you.”

  The man nodded. “You could. But I will tell you all you need to know about the Fey. I will tell you everything.”

  Theron looked at Kondros over the man’s head. They couldn’t make that kind of decision. A lord would have to, or the King himself. Maybe they could bargain this man’s existence for a burial of their friends. Or a rescue of Adrian and the others.