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

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  He looked away from her, at the point in the wall that would have had a window if the Fey had seen any point in installing windows in Shadowlands. He was not a young man. He understood what he was giving up. She could only hope that his love for his son was strong enough to make this kind of deal possible. An inbred knowledge of the culture would provide more than even a Doppelgänger could.

  “What do I have to do?” he said.

  “You will live in the Shadowlands, with us,” she said. “You will be available whenever any of us wants you.”

  “And my son?”

  “I will make sure he leaves Shadowlands today. You may watch if you like.”

  He still wasn’t looking at her. His jaw worked, and he blinked several times, hard. Then he swallowed again. “When do I see him again?”

  “You won’t,” she said. “You will be with us now.”

  His head whipped around, his hair flying, his eyes flashing. Again, she was astonished at the power of Islander expressions, as if their emotions were somehow stronger than hers. “No,” he said. “No. I won’t work with you under that term. I don’t care what you do to me. If I can’t see my son, I won’t work with you.”

  “You will not see him,” she said. “We cannot let you out of here, nor can we let anyone else in.”

  “No,” he said again. “I will not work for you for twenty years only to discover that you killed my son five minutes after you set him free.”

  A point she hadn’t thought of. Not that it made any difference to her. She had other uses for Adrian’s son. “You will see him once a year, then,” she said, “in a prearranged time in a prearranged spot. You will always be accompanied by one of us, and you will speak Nye or Fey unless one of your guards is fluent in Islander.”

  He blinked, apparently startled at her easy concession. She stood before he could recover and think he might be able to get her to concede other points.

  “And that is all. Have we a deal, Adrian?”

  He looked up at her. Emotions warred across his face. He opened his mouth, closed it, then shut his eyes as well. He bowed his head and sighed. When he looked up again, his lashes were wet. “A deal,” he said softly.

  “Good.” She went to the door. “I will have Mend return to untie you. We will find suitable clothing for you, and a place for you to stay. I will make sure she brings you a meal.”

  “Wait!” Adrian said. “I would like to spend the last few hours with Luke.”

  “I understand that,” Jewel said. “But I will not have you giving him ideas, and I don’t have someone to supervise you yet. You will have a chance to talk to him before we set him free.”

  She pulled the door open.

  “You realize,” he said low and deep, “that if anything happens to Luke, I will kill you. Not anyone else. Just you.”

  She turned back to him. He was staring at her with an intensity she had never seen before. Hatred. Pure, deep, and unabashed, just as Ort’s had been. Only unlike Ort’s, Adrian’s felt personal. Didn’t he realize that she had helped him? She could have got what she needed without setting Luke free. She could have coerced Adrian, or more likely, Luke himself. The information would not have been as comprehensive and detailed, but that had never stopped them before.

  “I understand the passion,” she said, keeping her tone level. “But I would warn you that if you kill me, my people will make certain that no drop of blood in your line remains to pollute the Isle. And once each and every one of your relations die—probably in front of you—then my people will turn their attention to you. We do not believe in quick death, Adrian.”

  “You have no soul,” he said.

  She smiled. “So they say. But I suspect that it is the other way around, for we are guided by our ghosts, and you must rely on stories told to you by old men. Perhaps that is why your ‘holy’ water kills us—because we have something inside that can be touched by the supernatural.”

  “I will work for you,” he said, “but I will not like it.”

  “You don’t have to like it,” she said. “You simply have to do it well.”

  SIXTY-TWO

  Coulter was talking. His baby voice rose and fell as if he were having a conversation. Eleanora heard excitement in his tone and a kind of joy, as if he found this conversation special. She sat up in bed and wiped a hand over her face. The room was dark, but a thin sliver of moonlight came in the window. The blanket had fallen to one side. She had been asleep for quite a while, but not long enough. She felt groggy.

  The baby conversation continued. He laughed, a wonderful soprano trill, followed by the pat-pat of baby hands applauding. How odd. He always slept through the night. He had ever since they’d come there, when fear and exhaustion had overwhelmed him. Sometimes she thought he went through deep grief for his parents, but the others told her he was too young for that. Still, she remembered the feelings: the anger, betrayal, and sadness all mixed together. For the first few months of his life with Eleanora, Coulter had been a difficult child. She had soothed that away by making him the center of her world.

  He cooed, and then she woke up enough to remember the cat. She let out an exasperated sigh. She had kept the door to Coulter’s room closed, and her door open, thinking the cat would come to her. But there was no cat in sight. And Coulter sounded awfully loud for a baby talking behind a closed door.

  She pushed the wisps of gray hair off her face, careful not to pull any. She hated the way her hair had got thin in the last few years, the way she could feel her scalp through the strands. Sometimes she wondered if she would live long enough to bring Coulter into adulthood, and she prayed that she would. He needed someone who loved him, needed to be cared about. And she needed to be valuable in the last years of her life.

  Coulter laughed again. Not a dream, for sure, then. That baby was probably playing with the cat.

  Eleanora swung her feet off the cot Helter had made for her and adjusted her nightdress. The cabin was cold in the middle of the night because she let the fire go out. She always wrapped the baby well and made sure he was comfortable before putting him down. She didn’t plan on his playing in the moonlight.

  Still, the thought made her smile. It pleased her that Coulter had become such a happy child. It meant she was doing something right.

  The wooden floorboards were cold. She stood, feeling the ache in her bones that had become more and more common. She was eating well now, but somehow that only made her ache more, as if the additional weight in her body put too much pressure on her legs.

  The darkness in the room did seem odd. It took a moment for her to realize what was different. Her door was closed. She never closed her door.

  She crossed the rag rug and pulled the door open. The door to Coulter’s room stood open, and she heard him clap again, little giggles making him hiccup.

  He had not done this before.

  She felt chill, trying to tell herself it had to do only with the cold night air. But something was wrong here.

  The cabin was too small to have a real hallway. Her door opened into her room, as did Coulter’s, and the doors faced each other at the edge of the living area. There was no way the cat could have accidentally closed one door and opened the other. And Coulter’s bed had bars around it, thanks to Helter. The boy couldn’t have got free.

  She almost called out Coulter’s name, then stopped. No sense alarming the boy, especially when he sounded so happy. She stepped into his room, and froze.

  The moonlight streamed through his window, making the room almost as bright as day. Coulter stood up in his bed, his little hands reaching through the protective bars. He turned to Eleanora and smiled, joy radiating from his face.

  A woman stood next to his bed. She wore a shift that was too short for her. Her feet were bare, and her hair hung down to the middle of her back. She was tall and slender, and had an unusual grace.

  Eleanora didn’t have to see her eyes to know the woman was Fey.

  “Get away from my child,” Elea
nora said.

  Coulter’s baby face puckered in confusion. He obviously hadn’t expected the anger in Eleanora’s tone.

  “Oh?” The woman’s voice was light, airy, and musical. “He’s your child? I didn’t think Islanders could have children so late in life.”

  “He’s my child,” Eleanora said. She took a step into the room, her fists clenched. The death of Coulter’s parents still haunted her nightmares. “Your people killed his family, and I saved his life. I’ve raised him. He’s mine.”

  Coulter hiccuped again, and his lower lip jutted out. He was going to cry.

  “I think he’s something quite special,” the woman said.

  “Yes, he is,” Eleanora said. She took another step into the room. She wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do. The woman was young and supple and, being Fey, could probably kill with a single touch. “Stay away from him.”

  The woman laughed, a throaty, almost purring, sound. “You think I would hurt him? I’m not a Foot Soldier. My magick is nothing so crude as that. No, this child is valuable alive.”

  Eleanora’s heart was pounding hard. “This child is valuable because he’s an individual. And he is mine.”

  A big tear ran down Coulter’s cheek. He sniffled and clung to the bars. Eleanora had never seen him cry this way. It was as if her anger raised something in him—a memory, perhaps? It couldn’t be the woman. He had been laughing with her.

  “I know he’s yours,” the woman said, keeping her tone level. “But I want you to give him to me.”

  “What?” Eleanora gasped the word.

  “Give him to me,” the woman said. “I will raise him with the same love and care that you would give. I will teach him things that he can do, things he could never learn from you. You’re an old woman. You will probably die before he can live on his own. And then what will happen to him? Do you think that neighbor of yours is enough of a Rocaanist that she will take in a stray child?”

  This woman had been watching her. She had been watching them all.

  “He’s my child,” Eleanora said again. “He loves me. He’s had enough disruption in his life. He can’t afford more.”

  Another tear ran down Coulter’s cheek. He gripped the bars as if they held him in place.

  “The child needs more than love,” the woman said. “He needs knowledge of his abilities and power.”

  “What abilities?” Eleanora asked. Maybe if she kept the woman talking, she could figure out a solution to this. Maybe someone would notice voices coming from her cabin and bring help. Maybe she could catch the woman off guard and get her away from Coulter.

  “He has a magick all his own that brought me to him, and that I can feel even now. Most of you lack that magick and have no idea how to train it.”

  “He’s a baby,” Eleanora said. “Babies always have magic.”

  “Not like this,” the woman said.

  Coulter gave a shuddering sigh and hiccuped in the way that precluded a major yell. Go, baby, yell all you want, Eleanora thought to him, wishing he could hear her. Yell so loud that we’ll get help.

  “I want you to give him to me,” the woman said.

  “I can’t,” Eleanora said. “I watched you kill his parents. How do I know you won’t kill him?”

  “You have my word,” the woman said. “I would not harm a hair on his beautiful head.”

  “Word? Word?” Eleanora’s voice rose. “How can I believe that? You people have invaded us, murdered my friends, ruined our homes. How can I believe you won’t hurt my child?”

  Coulter screamed and both women jumped. He started to sob, deep, yelping sobs that seemed to come from the depth of him.

  Eleanora ran to him and scooped him up, holding him against her chest as she had done when he was a baby and she was hiding him from the Fey. He grabbed her with all of his strength, wrapped his tiny legs around her body, and clung to her neck. His tears soaked through her nightdress.

  She put her hand on his small head, protecting it, and ran from the room. She couldn’t hear the woman following her, only her own footsteps in the front room. As she opened the main door, the cat shot out of the house and ran down the steps. Eleanora followed, her balance precarious as she cradled Coulter.

  The cat blocked her way. She nearly tripped over it and extended a hand to keep her balance. Coulter gripped her tightly, not screaming anymore, his little body shuddering. The moonlight caught the cat at an odd angle, making it seem bigger than it was. Eleanora regained her footing. No. The cat was bigger. It was changing, quickly, like a rain cloud turning into a storm.

  Then the woman stood in front of her, in place of the cat. She was naked. Eleanora screamed, and Coulter clung even tighter. The woman reached for Coulter, grabbing him around the waist and tugging. Eleanora kicked her, and the woman wrapped her leg around the one Eleanora had used to brace herself, then pulled Eleanora to the ground.

  She wrapped her arms around Coulter as she fell, hoping she could protect him. She felt the woman’s hands beneath her upper arms, warm against her skin. As Eleanora hit, the air left her body, and she heard something snap. Her arms loosened, and the woman pulled on Coulter. He cried out and grabbed harder.

  Eleanora screamed “No!” as she scrambled for a good grip on her baby, but the woman unhooked his hands and pulled him away. He kicked at her and started to wail. “Maaaaaaaa!” he cried, his baby voice high and fine. “Maaaaaaaaa!”

  Doors opened around them. She heard Helter’s voice over her son’s screams. She tried to stand, but couldn’t. There was a deep pain in her chest, and another in her right leg. She screamed for help.

  The woman cradled Coulter much as Eleanora had done. She pressed his face against her bare shoulder, muffling his cries. He did not hold her. His little arms reached around her neck, his hands open and grasping.

  “She’s stealing Coulter!” Eleanora cried. “Please, help!”

  Helter ran down his stairs, and she heard others follow. The woman glanced over her shoulder once, at Eleanora, a look full of pity, and then loped across the clearing.

  Coulter screamed, his high, angry, frightened scream. She pushed herself on her elbows, ignoring the pain in her chest. “No!” she cried. “He’s mine!”

  But the woman didn’t seem to hear, or if she did, she didn’t notice. She crossed the moonlight field with the speed of a cat. The men were far behind her.

  “Stop her!” Eleanora shouted, but no one seemed able to catch the woman. As she reached the edge of the clearing, Coulter wriggled his head free. He screamed for Eleanora, his gaze on her, his face pleading, and his tiny hands reaching for her.

  Then the woman bounded into the woods, and Eleanora could see Coulter no more.

  The men hurried after her, feet crackling in the underbrush. She could hear them from this distance. The woman could probably hear them even better. They would never catch her.

  Eleanora lay back on the ground, her throat raw from screaming, the feel of Coulter’s frightened grip still imprinted around her neck. Don’t let him die, she prayed to whoever was listening. Not after all he’s been through. Please. Don’t let him die.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Rugar had to admit the scene was affecting. He stood at the opening to Shadowlands, near the Meeting Block, Jewel and Burden beside him, two Domestics on the other side, and four Infantry near the door itself. The young male prisoner stood in front of the door, his father at his side. Rugar still wasn’t sure if he approved of Jewel’s bargain—he believed they could have got the information another way—but her point was that they hadn’t yet. It was better to have a source inside the Shadowlands, especially one who had a stake in being honest.

  Jewel looked haggard. She had been looking tired for weeks now, complaining of the grayness in Shadowlands, but the last few days had taken their toll. The fight with Caseo, and then the work with the prisoners, had exhausted her. And the night before, staying up all night with the Domestics and Spell Warders to make certain that the boy had the
proper links to Shadowlands, had tired her even further.

  The spells sounded good. They had enchanted him just enough and wove a linking spell into his hair, so that they could find him at all times. The Warders had done the linking spell over Caseo’s objections and had made it general enough that no one Warder owned it. That way, if they all died before the prisoner did, a new generation of Warders could still track the boy.

  The boy had no idea he had been spelled. He ate and slept the night in the Domicile while the Fey cleaned him up. Jewel negotiated with the Dream Riders to weave dreams for him, dreams that he would confuse with memories, so that his experiences as a prisoner would be more pleasant. She let them add her into the dreams in a more important role, since the boy was of an age with her. Rugar had initially opposed that, but she told her father that she wanted the boy’s link with Shadowlands to have several layers.

  Until these last few weeks in Shadowlands, Rugar hadn’t realized that his daughter was so devious. In her fight with Caseo, in her approach to him, and in her treatment of the prisoners, she reminded him of her grandfather. No wonder the Black King had been so angry when Rugar had wanted to bring her to Blue Isle. None of Rugar’s other children had ever shown the kind of manipulative thinking and powerful sense of self that Jewel had.

  The two Islanders were talking softly in their own language. Jewel had found a Fey who understood Islander to translate. Rugar could understand none of it. Jewel was listening intently to the translation, her mouth curving downward as she did. Rugar put his hand on Jewel’s arm. “Enough of this mawkishness,” he said.

  Jewel nodded once; then she glanced at him. “It would work better,” she said, “if you stopped the proceedings instead of me.”

  It would look as if he had the power, as if she were trying to stop him. He understood the game, but he never quite knew how to think up twists for himself. Perhaps that was why his father was relieved to see him go. With Rugar out of the way, someone with a more devious mind could rule the Fey.