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

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “Now, be fair,” Caseo said, baiting Touched even further. “You know that they didn’t come to this conclusion intellectually.”

  Rotin nodded. She scooped out the last of the herbs with her little finger, then slipped the mortar and pestle back into her pocket. “Oh, I had forgotten,” she said. She turned, grinned at Touched, then rubbed the herbs across her teeth. “It was with the Ghitlans that we learned the art of torture.”

  He sucked in his breath. She licked the herbs off her teeth and put the bag away, shuddering as their effect hit. Touched’s eyes filled with tears.

  “You’re making this up,” he whispered. “You’re making this up to justify your own cruelty.”

  “I wish I were, boy,” Caseo said. “Warding is not an easy position. They told you that when you took the oath. And I told you that you were too young to do it, too young to understand the choices, remember?”

  “You were jealous of me,” Touched said. “Until me, you were the most talented Warder ever.”

  Caseo shot a look at Rotin. How many minds had she influenced with her drivel? “No, child,” he said. “I simply understand choice. You don’t. I know that one little Red Cap’s life is worth a lot less than a hundred other Fey lives. I know that a bit of torture, judiciously applied, will teach us more about the properties of this water than any of the ‘experiments’ we do. And I am not above ruining one life to save a thousand.”

  “You’re mad,” the boy said.

  “Am I?” Caseo asked. “Your family lived through the Nye campaign, did it not?”

  Touched swallowed. His father had been in the thick of the fighting. The Warders had come up with a new spell to be used by Beast Riders, which probably saved all the lives on the front. The Fey all knew it.

  “We discovered the Beast Rider spell through judicious experimentation. One hundred fifty Nye prisoners died in various ways before we discovered the quickest and most effective way—the most painless, you might say.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before I joined?” Touched asked.

  Rotin shrugged. “A discipline does not reveal its secrets to outsiders. Besides, you never balked at hanging Fey Lamps, or working on spells to aid the Weather Sprites. How many creatures do you think died or drowned because of those rains last year?”

  “I didn’t,” Touched said.

  “You have the abilities to be a Warder. Therefore you are a Warder. Or you become nothing. You know the choices,” Caseo said.

  “I thought being a Warder was an intellectual skill,” Touched said.

  “It is,” Rotin said.

  “I didn’t think it involved torture and killing.”

  “It does,” Caseo said. “And now you must live with it. We all had to.” He glanced at Rotin, her eyes still glazed. “And we all do it in our own individual ways.”

  Touched glanced at both of them. Then he opened the door and ran from the building.

  Rotin leaned back, stretching her arms over her head. “I think you were a bit harsh on the boy.”

  Caseo shook his head. “We need him. He is talented and he is right. We were going about this wrong. But we have limited resources. And if his revulsion saves us time and resources, then we are better off.”

  “Time and lives,” Rotin said. “You mean time and lives.”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Caseo asked.

  “You are a cold one,” Rotin said.

  “If the boy can help us neutralize the poison, so much the better. But I am hoping for more. He gave me an idea. We create spells. We need to make that water a more effective poison.”

  “It’s already quite effective,” Rotin said.

  Caseo braced his fingertips on the table. “Not against Islanders,” he said. “And it needs to be. We need it to be. Imagine them pulling out their little water pouches and dying by their own hands.” He laughed, delighted at his own idea. “And that’s the beauty of Warding, Rotin. The ability to twist something harmful into something useful.”

  FIFTY-SIX

  Nicholas swung off his horse. He was tired and covered with sweat, his long blond hair plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck. The stallion was lathered. He had run it too hard after his meeting with the Rocaan.

  The courtyard was busy in the early evening. The twilight cast everything in pinks, golds, and shadows. Two stable boys were leading his father’s favorite mare and the new gelding into the stables. A dairymaid was struggling over a butter churn, and the cook was outside, calling the dogs.

  Nicholas wiped a hand over his face, wincing at the scents of leather and horseflesh. The events at the Tabernacle had disturbed him. The bones, the blood, the reminders of Lord Powell’s death and of Stephen’s. Sometimes Stephen’s face came to him in dreams, melting, drowning in his own tears. They’re killing me, he would say. You can see it, Nicky. You can stop it. But Nicholas hadn’t seen it until too late.

  The second groom came out of the stable and took the reins of Nicholas’s horse. “I’ll take him, Highness,” the groom said, bobbing his head. He was young, with hair cropped short and a face darkened by the sun.

  “Where’s Miruts?” Nicholas asked, removing the saddle. The stallion was breathing as hard as he was.

  The groom came alongside him and helped, using his body to push Nicholas away, as if reminding Nicholas that tending the horses was not his job.

  Nicholas glanced over at the groom. He was perhaps the same age as Nicholas, but held himself as if he were much older. His cheeks were flushed, and he kept his eyes turned away.

  “‘Tis sorry I am, Sire, but I dinna know,” the groom said. He patted the horse’s side, then snapped his fingers. “Take Ebony inside,” he said to one of the stable boys, “and give him a proper rubdown.”

  The stable boy nodded and led the horse inside. Nicholas felt a pang watching it go. He had felt linked during that long ride along the Cardidas, as if the horse’s effort purged him of the tension from the Tabernacle.

  The tension had returned.

  “Well?” he said.

  “‘Twas yesterday mornin’ when I last saw Miruts,” the groom said. “And he was actin’ strange afore that. He spooked the horses sometimes, and he done odd things. Like yesterday, he spent a long time talkin’ to a cat.”

  “A cat?” Nicholas asked.

  The groom nodded. The red in his cheeks grew. “He give it some water and then petted it.”

  Whatever Nicholas had expected, it was not this. “It doesn’t sound that odd,” he said.

  “Oh, but ‘tis,” the groom said. “ ‘Twas Miruts who told me that I should not touch another animal except the horses. Such highbred creatures, he said, easily spooked and we wouldna wanna spook the King’s stable.”

  “So you think he’s been going against his own orders for some time.”

  The groom shrugged. “He’d been skittish since the Fey come, Highness.”

  Suddenly Nicholas came alert. “His behavior changed when the Fey arrived?”

  “‘Twas the invasion.” The groom looked up. He was biting his lower lip. “He was never the same after that. I ask him once what was happening for him, and he said the world couldna be as it was. Not ever again.”

  They all had felt that way. Nicholas’s own behavior had changed. But not enough. Not the way Stephen’s had. “How much did he change?”

  “He was the same, I guess,” the groom said, although his tone sounded uncertain. “But he got sloppy, and he liked things he never liked afore.”

  “Such as?”

  “The palace, Sire.” Now the groom was biting his upper lip. His lower lip was bleeding. “Beg pardon, but he dinna really care who he was helping. Then the Fey come, and suddenly he wants to know everything. Like who’s where and who’s doin’ what and why. ‘Twas like he woke up and liked people bettern horses.”

  And suddenly Stephen forgot his expertise on the Fey and rarely left the King’s side. Nicholas swayed a little. He would have to go into the kitchens an
d see what he could find to eat. He had missed luncheon and probably supper.

  “What else?” Nicholas asked.

  The groom smiled a little, then wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “ ‘Twas Miruts lived only for horses. Now ‘tis like horses is his job and nothing else. He never used ta be with the fellows at night and just chat. But he started last fall. Sometimes he would forget his extra work or to check the others”—the groom looked down—” ‘Twas me that took up the slack, Highness.”

  The groom obviously wasn’t saying that to make an impression. He sounded annoyed.

  “Where do you think he went?” Nicholas asked.

  The groom shook his head. “He never left afore. I dinna think it of him. He—well, he used ta—care about his work.”

  “Did you see him talking with anyone you didn’t know?”

  “No.” The groom frowned. “But sometimes he would leave at dusk, which was bad, doncha know, because so many bring their rides back about then, and he would go to his cabin and leave a light burning, like he went in there ta just sit. Used ta be he would stay here with the horses till near bed. I used ta wish I had his place because he never used it ‘cept to sleep, and sometimes not even then.”

  As big a change as Stephen, if not bigger. Nicholas’s mouth was dry. He cleared his throat, then said, “Did you ever find any bones in the stables? Unidentified bones?”

  “Bones, Highness?” The groom frowned at him as if Nicholas were crazy. “Only when the dogs try to bring the bones the cook gives ‘em. Big smelly things, those bones are, sometimes with the meat still hangin off ‘em. But real bones, no, Sire.”

  Nicholas nodded, feeling a deep relief. The head groomsman must simply have been unnerved by the Fey. Everyone’s behavior had changed. Nicholas himself felt as if he had grown up in the last year and become an older version of the self who had woken up on that bright sunny morning.

  But he wasn’t quite willing to let the subject go yet. “You’re sure?” he asked. “Not even last year, just after the invasion?”

  “Oh, then.” The groom attempted a small smile, but it failed, leaving his eyes sad. “We cleaned up lots of bones last year, Highness. And bodies. The whole courtyard was littered with them. A lot of us in the yard had to handle them Fey, Highness, and most of us was afraid that even dead they could hurt us. But we found lots of bones.”

  “Lots of bones?” Nicholas asked, forcing the words out.

  The groom nodded. “Mostly we thought them Fey just melted, Highness. You know, until nothing was left on them.”

  “In piles?” Nicholas asked.

  “Bones in piles, you mean, Highness?” The groom frowned. “Twice. Once near the gate, right near the body of a guard. ‘Twas his throat they had cut. One of the stable boys was helpin’ me, Highness, and he thought maybe the guard dumped his whole bottle of water on the Fey while it was tryin’ to kill him. Lot of good that did the poor bastard, eh, Highness?”

  Nicholas was shaking. The skin melted. That’s what Lord Stowe said. That was what had happened to Stephen. But it didn’t melt away. It didn’t completely disappear. This was a tactic the Fey used that no one yet understood.

  “You said twice, that you’d found them twice,” Nicholas said.

  “Ah, that’s right,” the groom said. “Miruts found the second pile in the stable. He was cleanin’ it out when I come in the next day.” The boy looked up at Nicholas. “Lor, in the stable, like you asked. What does it mean, Highness?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Nicholas said. “But Miruts touched them, right? What was he doing with them?”

  “He was takin them outside in piles. He”—the boy looked down—“he, ah, had given some of the longer ones to the dogs.”

  “And you didn’t like that.”

  The groom shook his head. He kept his eyes downcast. “Sorry, Highness. I mean, I didn’t think it Rocaanist, if ye follow. They had been living creatures once with brains, more like us than animals. And I wouldn’t give none of them horse’s bones to the dogs. I sure wouldna do it to no being that thought and spoke and fought like them Fey do.”

  Neither would Nicholas nor, he doubted, his father, nor anyone in the guards. It was a particularly cold thing to do. Bodies were buried and Blessed. Even the Fey bodies left in the courtyard were buried in an unmarked area of unconsecrated ground near the river. Protectively covered with limestone and holy water so that they wouldn’t rise again, but buried nonetheless.

  Not fed to the dogs.

  Nicholas licked his lips, not liking what he was thinking. “Was there blood near the bones?”

  The groom nodded, his eyes widening. “A large stain. Both times, Highness.”

  “But you said a man’s throat had been cut near the gate. Wouldn’t that create a lot of blood?”

  “Sure, Highness.”

  More sweat ran down Nicholas’s face, even though he felt chilled. “And was there blood?”

  “‘Twas a lot.”

  “Near the man?”

  “And the bones,” the groom said.

  Nicholas swallowed, the movement hard on his dry throat. He hadn’t forgotten the discussions after the Fey had arrived: how they could kill with a single touch; how some of the guards had disturbed the Fey peeling skin off bodies; how some Danites believed the Fey collected blood.

  “Highness? Are ye all right?”

  “Yes.” Nicholas ran a hand over his face, wiping the sweat off his brow again. He was hungry. He was tired. He had been disturbed by the conversation with the Rocaan. The mood was just carrying to this moment, that was all.

  “Are we done, Highness? I want ta make sure they’re takin’ good care of Ebony.”

  Normally, Nicholas would have waved the groom away, but he did not. He still had questions, questions he wasn’t sure he wanted the answers to. “Do you remember fighting in the stables that day?”

  “During the invasion, Highness? ‘Twas no fighting here. Me and the boys, we held them off and kept the doors closed. We dinna want them anywhere near the good horseflesh, if ye know what I mean. We was afraid of what they might do.”

  “You kept the doors closed?” Nicholas asked.

  “Aye, Highness.” The groom was looking at him again, a small furrow between his brows.

  “Then where did the bones and blood come from? Did Miruts say?”

  The groom nodded. “He said he found them in the morning when he come in.”

  “And the horses were fine?”

  “Yes, Highness. ‘Twas the first thing I asked.”

  “And was there any sign of a struggle?”

  The groom shrugged. “Hard to tell, Highness. The bodies was still all over the yard, and the whole place was a mess, if ye remember.”

  “I remember,” Nicholas said. And he remembered the stench, the terror, the way that he couldn’t sleep for days afterward—and when he did, he dreamed of the woman, the one who got away. “So it looked as if there had been a battle inside after all.”

  “Only near the blood, Highness. Some of the hay bales was messed, and the horses was skittish, but that seemed right ta me. Lots of fear and stink around here, so they shouldna been actin’ too normal.”

  “Did he go to Midnight Sacrament?” Nicholas asked.

  “Miruts?” The groom looked at Nicholas as if he were crazy.

  “You go, don’t you?” Nicholas pointed to the tiny sword around the groom’s neck. “Did he go with you?”

  “We dinna see each other outside the stables, Highness. I dinna think he had nothin’ to do outside the stables.”

  “So he never went to Midnight Sacrament?”

  “I never seen him,” the groom said. “But I always go to the chapel in the palace.”

  “It would seem likely that he would go here too, wouldn’t it, with his preoccupation with the horses?”

  The groom shrugged. It seemed that the implication that Miruts didn’t go to Midnight Sacrament disturbed him more than the talk of blood and bones had. “We din
na talk about his beliefs, Highness. He did go to Absorption Day with me once, though.”

  “This year?”

  The groom shook his head—one quick, frightened movement. “The year afore last. At the Tabernacle. We took Missy and the gelding because they hadn’t got their ride yet that day.”

  An unusual occurrence, then. Going to the Tabernacle was always an honor for the lower classes, particularly for Absorption Day. It spoke of some belief. “Was it his idea or yours?”

  “‘Twas mine, Highness.” The groom licked his bleeding lips, then met Nicholas’s gaze. “They important, Highness? His beliefs?”

  Nicholas had heard that the lower classes believed that they could be punished for not following Rocaanism. Perhaps some of the Danites fostered that belief. When he became King, he would make it clear that believers could do whatever they wanted, think however they wanted. “Normally his beliefs aren’t important at all. But they might be, when combined with his disappearance.”

  The groom rubbed a hand against his thigh, a nervous habit he didn’t seem to be aware of. “You think it has somethin’ ta do with the invasion, then?”

  “I don’t know,” Nicholas said. “I certainly hope not.”

  But he remembered Stephen’s face as the holy water hit him, the sure, clear knowledge that he was going to die. Nicholas had known Miruts—not well, but he had known him. Miruts loved his horses enough that he would chastise the King’s son if he brought a horse back as tired and lathered as Ebony had been. Miruts was not the kind of man who involved himself in politics and intrigue unless it affected his horses.

  “At the Absorption Day,” Nicholas said, “did Miruts take part in the ritual?”

  The groom frowned in memory, his upper teeth digging into his lower lip. Then he took a breath. He had left tiny bite impressions on the skin beneath his lip.

  “He bought the holy water, Highness. We shared it.”

  And Stephen had taught Nicholas that a warrior covered his sword in holy water to protect it before going into battle. Stephen had always had a vial stored near his swords.