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

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  She hadn’t expected to be waiting in a room with furniture so ornate she was afraid to sit down.

  Helter had taken her to the back door, and a servant had led her through the kitchen into a room that was the size of the cottage she had shared with Drew. The room smelled faintly of woodsmoke even though the fireplace wasn’t in use. A pipe sat in a tray near an overstuffed chair. Someone liked spending time there.

  The servant had bade Eleanora sit, but even after the servant had left, she remained standing. Furniture crowded the room, chairs against walls, tables and seating arrangements in the middle of the thick carpet. Her makeshift crutches caught on the nap, and she had to place one forward to keep from falling.

  She leaned on the crutches and stared at the shelves, and the tiny things everywhere. Small carvings on the tables, a tiny silver sword built into one of the lamps, a painting of an elderly man over the fireplace. She had never seen so many possessions in all her life—and these were in one room of a huge house.

  Finally the door opened. The man who entered was wearing breeches tied at the knees and a white shirt, and he had his brown curls pulled back behind his head. He was balding, and he had deep circles beneath his eyes.

  “Good day, miss,” he said. “I’m Lord Stowe. Your man said this was urgent.”

  She nodded. “I’m afraid I’m unable to curtsey, sir.”

  He looked her over, his tired gaze taking in her crutches and splint. His smile was sympathetic. “I completely understand,” he said. “I hope you haven’t been standing this entire time. I would beg you to sit.”

  “No, sir,” she said. “I couldn’t. I’ve been traveling in these skirts.”

  “I’d rather you muddy a chair than pass out on my rug,” he said.

  She flushed and sat on the red stuffed sofa. The sofa was hard, even though it looked as if it should have been soft. Aches grew in her body. She hadn’t realized how very tired she was. “Forgive me for taking your time, sir,” she said. “But I would hope you can help me.”

  “I will try.” He sat in the overstuffed chair and turned it to face her, his hands folded in his lap.

  “My child was kidnapped. The woman who took him was Fey.”

  Lord Stowe gaped, then recovered and closed his mouth. “Did someone see the woman? Are you sure the child didn’t—forgive me—wander off?”

  Eleanora bit her lip, then ran her tongue over the spot her teeth had touched. She decided to ignore his unintentional assumptions about her child-rearing skills. She took a deep breath, then looked away from him, studying her hands. They were gnarled and covered with spots. The hands of an old woman.

  “This will sound crazy, sir,” she said, “but I brought a cat in the day before. She looked hungry, and my boy liked her, and I gave her some leftover food and some water. It seemed all right. I’ve always shared with God’s creatures and never had any trouble before. But in the middle of the night, sir, my baby woke me up. He was laughing. When I went into his room, a Fey woman stood in the moonlight wearing one of my shifts. She was playing with him. She said she would take him away from me, so I grabbed him and ran. He is just a little thing—he didn’t weigh much, but I can’t move very fast. The cat ran out ahead of me—and here’s where it sounds crazy, sir—it changed into the woman, only this time she wore nothing. She was younger than I am, and stronger. She broke my ribs and my leg, and took my boy. Some of the men chased her, but they lost her on the trail. At dawn they followed her path as best they could. They think it led to the Fey place.”

  “Shadowlands?” Lord Stowe asked.

  She nodded. The retelling had brought tears to her eyes.

  “And you’re convinced this was not a dream.”

  She brought her head up. He was holding the unlit pipe, turning it over and over in one hand. He appeared interested in her answer, again seeing nothing wrong with the question.

  “Oh, no, sir,” she said, keeping her voice calm. She had come to him for help. She had to remember that. “Others saw the woman, too, although I’m the only one who saw her change.”

  He nodded, brow furrowing. “How old was your boy?”

  “A year and a half, sir.”

  “So he was not a Fey child.” He muttered the last, as if he had been thinking it all along.

  Her cheeks grew hot. “No, sir. The Fey killed his parents. I got him out before they could find him.”

  Lord Stowe set his pipe down. He pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to the fireplace, his back to her. “Do you think they wanted him for a reason?”

  The memory came unbidden. The slender woman looking natural in the moonlight, her voice so confident, so sure she could treat Coulter better than Eleanora could. “She said he had magick. That if he grew up with her, he would learn how to use that magick, but if he stayed with me, he would not understand his power at all.”

  “Magick.” Lord Stowe turned around so that he could see her face. He grabbed the back of the chair nearest him and leaned on it. “Are you sure he was born on Blue Isle?”

  Eleanora nodded. “I helped with the birthing, sir. I knew his parents since their marriage, long before the Fey came.”

  “And his parents were Islanders?”

  “His mother was born near Daisy Stream. I watched her grow up.”

  “And his father?”

  “Was from the Snow Mountains, sir. He was a good man, very handy at wood carving. The Fey killed them on the day of the invasion, and I sneaked the baby away, or they would have killed him too.”

  Lord Stowe rubbed his chin. “They have an Islander whom they claim has magick.”

  He shook his head, then studied her for the second time. Somewhere in the last few moments he had come to regard her differently. She could see it in his face. She was no longer a poor woman, little better than a servant. She was someone who had lost a child.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  Tears filled her eyes. She thought her need obvious. “I want you to find him and bring him home.”

  He let out his breath slowly. In the silence she heard Helter’s voice. You’re crazy, woman, to think the King will help you. You don’t even know the boy is alive. For all you know, that creature killed him like his parents. Maybe they need to kill a whole family to make their own magick work.

  “It would take another attack on their homeland to find the boy,” Lord Stowe said. His voice was gentle. “I will have to speak to the King about this. I doubt we can risk the men.”

  “He’s only a baby!” Her voice rose into a wail. She took a deep breath and calmed herself. “He’s all I’ve got. He needs me.”

  A touch of red dotted both of his cheeks. Lord Stowe stood and came over to her, patting her shoulder. “We’ll do what we can, ma’am,” he said. She had been wrong. Her pain meant nothing to him. He saw Coulter’s loss as a technical problem, unexplained behavior by the Fey.

  “Please,” she said. “Please help me.”

  He took his hand off her and stepped away. She felt his absence more than she saw it.

  “I will,” he said softly. Then he stared at her for a moment before speaking again. “I will send in one of my servants to help you up. We’ll also find you an easier way home.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. She didn’t look up. He wasn’t going to help her. No one could.

  His footsteps made the floor creak. She heard the other door open, but it didn’t close. Finally she looked in that direction. He was still studying her.

  “Have you heard of the Fey taking other children like this?” he asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “Neither have I. It’s peculiar, isn’t it?” And with that he left the room.

  Peculiar? Perhaps it was, from a lord’s point of view. But from hers, the loss of Coulter meant the loss of everything. And she had no idea how to get him back.

  SIXTY-NINE

  Voices woke him.

  Tel had been sleeping lightly—it had taken him hours to settle
down after the Midnight Sacrament. But the cot was comfortable when he put enough blankets on it, and after he’d built a fire in the bedchamber’s fireplace, he had relaxed enough to sleep.

  He strained to hear, and his Andre memories recognized the tones of Matthias and the Rocaan. Tel’s mouth immediately went dry. The only way he would learn the secret of holy water was through those two, and he hadn’t thought he would have a chance to be near them both so soon.

  Tel threw back the covers and got off the cot, slipping on the black robe that Andre had always worn when he was going somewhere in the middle of the night. Only unlike Andre, Tel put on sandals as well. He didn’t want to risk walking on anything dangerous.

  He combed his hair with his fingers, then grabbed the small stiletto he had brought with him and slipped it into the pocket of his robe. The voices grew even closer. They must have been in the hall outside. He opened the door.

  The corridor was wide and long, with no furnishings in that section, only paintings of previous Rocaans and Elders. Matthias and the Rocaan stopped only a few feet away from Tel, and both looked guilty. The Rocaan carried a small lamp, which illuminated their faces. Matthias was carrying a tray of vials. Tel froze. He couldn’t attack them. Not when they had the very thing that would kill him.

  “I—ah—I heard voices,” he said.

  “Sorry, Andre,” the Rocaan said. His voice was as warm as his gaze. “We didn’t mean to wake you.”

  Matthias held himself at a distance. He didn’t smile as he looked at Tel. Instead his expression was wary. “We didn’t expect anyone to be up.”

  They spoke softly. The other Elders slept in that wing.

  Tel felt the knife heavy in his pocket. He glanced at the tray of holy water, wondering if he could maneuver around it. “Is there a problem?”

  The Rocaan started to speak, but Matthias shot him a warning glance. The Rocaan seemed to ignore it. “We discovered that the holy water in the sanctuary had been tampered with. We’re replacing it.”

  Tel’s entire body went cold. He slipped one hand into his pocket. If they accused him, he would attack them—holy water be damned. They would throw it at him anyway. He couldn’t protect himself from them if they wanted to go after him.

  “How did you discover it had been tampered with?” he asked. “Did something happen?”

  The Rocaan shook his head. “Something didn’t happen.”

  His remark made no sense in the light of anything Andre remembered. There was no physical reaction to holy water, except among the Fey.

  “What do you mean?” This time he glanced at Matthias, who was watching him closely. “Was there Fey? I don’t understand.”

  “You’re not meant to,” Matthias said. His tone was cold.

  “Nonsense, Matthias,” the Rocaan said. “He’s an Elder.”

  “And we haven’t touched him with real holy water all day. I’m not telling him any secrets. Would you mind a Blessing, Andre?” Matthias asked.

  Tel clung to the stiletto. He didn’t understand the level of menace in Matthias’s voice. Did Matthias have a suspicion about who he was? “A Blessing would be fine,” Tel said, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking too badly. It would bring the other two men closer to him and would give him a chance to catch them off guard. Perhaps.

  “You are not wearing your sword,” Matthias said with a touch of rebuke. “You will need to get it if we’re going to Bless.”

  With his free hand Tel touched his chest, pretending surprise that the sword wasn’t there. Andre never took his off, but Tel hadn’t wanted anything around his neck while he slept.

  “I had taken it off because part of it snagged on a nail,” he said. “I thought it had broken. I must have forgotten to put it back on. It’s in the room. I’ll go get it. Would you like to come in?” His entire body was shaking, as much with anticipation as fear. If he could get them into his chambers, he could get Matthias to set the tray down and move away from the water. He would slit Matthias’s throat and use the blood to become the Rocaan. The old man wouldn’t be able to move quickly enough to get away.

  The Rocaan swayed a little, as if he could feel the dilemma that Tel was going through. The Rocaan touched Matthias’s arm, careful not to upset the tray. “Forgive me, Andre,” the Rocaan said. “But I think Matthias and I should finish this task first. We still need to check the Servants’ Chapel, Matthias.”

  Matthias glanced at him. “You could stay with Andre and Bless him while I finish.”

  The Rocaan shook his head. He looked exhausted. The old man usually never allowed himself to go without sleep. It was a secret of his endurance. “I would like to finish the task myself.”

  Matthias sighed as if he didn’t approve. He turned back to Tel. “Until later, then.”

  “Later,” Tel said.

  The two men came toward him. Tel opened his door. He loosened his grip on the stiletto and pulled his hand out of his pocket just as Matthias tripped and tilted the tray toward him.

  Tel didn’t have time to jump out of the way. Only one vial fell off, and he caught it in his left hand, the stopper still on. The glass felt cool against his hand. No burning. No sudden change. Nothing had spilled.

  He could feel the panic bubbling through him, but he refused to let it overtake him until the others were out of sight. Keeping his hand steady, he replaced the vial on the tray. As he did so, he noted Matthias watching him carefully. Matthias had spilled the tray on purpose.

  “Would you like some help, Matthias?” Tel asked. There were other ways to learn the secret of holy water.

  “Sorry,” Matthias said. “We’ve been at this all night.”

  “I appreciate the offer of help,” the Rocaan said, “but it would take longer to teach you than it would to get the task done. We will see you at Morning Sacrament, Andre, and I will do the Blessing afterward.”

  “If he comes to Morning Sacrament, there’s no need for a Blessing, is there, Holy Sir?” Matthias asked.

  Tel’s heart was pounding so hard, he was surprised it hadn’t smashed a hole through his chest. Did they know? It seemed as if they did.

  The Rocaan sighed. “Thank you, Matthias. You are always looking after me.”

  “I try, Holy Sir,” Matthias said. He looked over his shoulder at Tel. “I’ll see you after dawn.”

  “Until the Sacrament,” Tel said. “Good night, Holy Sir.”

  “Andre.”

  And with that they walked off down the corridor. Tel slipped into his chamber. He closed the door and leaned against it, near collapse. He hadn’t been that frightened in all his life. He had nearly died out there.

  Maybe he would die. Maybe they had changed the formula somehow. He picked up a flint. His hands were shaking so badly, he could barely get a spark. But he managed, and he lit the lamp near the door. Then he stared at the palm of his left hand.

  It looked no different. From what he had seen in the battles, the victim died almost immediately. The change was sudden and devastating. His palm looked normal. Nothing had changed.

  He closed the hand into a fist and took a deep breath. They didn’t know, but Matthias suspected something. After all, Tel had been the one conducting the service. Maybe he should have noticed something unusual with the holy water. If the Aud reported that Tel had ordered it brought down, they all would know.

  He made himself take a deep breath and think. Auds didn’t talk to Elders unless asked a direct question or unless they were performing a service. In all of Andre’s years in the Tabernacle, an Aud had never approached him with tales of another Elder. He was probably safe on that one.

  But the difference in holy water. He had thought no one could tell. So had Andre. Obviously there was a secret he didn’t know. The switch wouldn’t work again. He would have to figure out a new way to protect himself.

  Especially since he had only an hour or so until Morning Sacrament.

  Tel pushed away from the door and wandered to one of the couches. There he perched on the edge,
rested his elbows on his knees, and reviewed what Andre remembered of the Morning Sacrament.

  In many ways it was the same as the Midnight Sacrament. Only the message was different, and he didn’t need to concern himself with that. He had to concern himself with the holy water. And since he wasn’t conducting the ceremony, he wouldn’t have to touch the vials—only one, the one passed down the pew in which he sat. The Danite would remove the stopper and then each worshiper would dip their cloth into the water and use it to wipe the sword. With the stopper already removed, he couldn’t fake the movement.

  Or could he?

  No one cared about the color or type of cloth used. That kind of strict regulation had been banned by the Fifth Rocaan when he’d realized that his parishioners all had differing economic circumstance. Rather than ban them from worshiping, he loosened the regulations on the symbols carried by those parishioners.

  Any color cloth. And black would not show a water stain.

  Tel took a deep breath. It would be risky—his entire position there was risky—but he could chance it twice a day. Andre had access to black cloth because he made certain that the Auds and Danites were properly robed. The lesser Rocaanists didn’t wear velvet robes. They wore a good sturdy linen weave: thick and heavy enough to minimize the damage. If he threw away the cloth after the ceremony, it wouldn’t matter if the water got onto it, as long as he never touched that water.

  He leaned his head back, feeling some of the adrenaline ease out of him. He would have to make it through another day. But not many more than that—because he had to find a way to get to the Rocaan alone. Then Tel would know the secret all the Fey were looking for.

  SEVENTY

  Alexander stood outside Scavenger’s quarters. This would probably be his last meeting with the little man. He had gained all the knowledge he believed he could, and it seemed as if the little man was telling the truth. Now Alexander would have to decide what to do with the prisoner.