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

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Caseo’s hands were shaking. He had to stop working or he would spill. He sat in one of the chairs, and it squeaked under his weight. The cabin was cold. He had been inside for days. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten.

  Touched was sitting in the other chair, staring at the ceiling as if it had secrets to reveal. Two Warders were asleep in the back room, and the others had gone to their own places for sleep, being too afraid to spend much time in this place, near the poison.

  Caseo wished he could sleep, but his mind was too busy. After the discussion with Touched and Rotin a few days ago, he had dreamed a solution: an elegant spell with twists and turns that befitted a Master Warder. But when he awoke, he couldn’t remember the details of the spell, only the sense of it. He had sent for Touched and explained what he could remember before he forgot it, and since then the two of them had worked almost nonstop. They were no closer to a solution, but it seemed to them as if they were.

  Sometimes that sense of confidence made all the difference.

  At least Caseo knew what direction he was going in. Touched had been right. They needed to create a spell of their own. But Caseo had come up with the aspects of the spell that would make it work for the Fey.

  The spell would have to make the poison deadly to Islanders, and Islanders only. It would have to be cast from a distance, and in a situation of extreme stress. Only a handful of Fey could throw spells, and even fewer could do so under stress. His best choices were Warders themselves, or Weather Sprites. But there were too few Warders to waste, and the problem with Sprites was that they usually worked in private. The same, for that matter, could be said about Warders. Domestics might be able to do the work, but they would have to be right over the poison, and that was too dangerous. Still, as Rotin had pointed out, better to lose a few Domestics than not to solve the problem at all.

  Caseo shifted his feet. They brushed against something on the floor, and a tingle ran up his leg. A bit of magick. He glanced down. The robe that Quest had brought in. Robe and sword. Religious icons, Quest had said before he ran off to a meeting with Rugar. Quest had promised to come back, but never had. Caseo had forgotten about the robe until now.

  “Touched,” he said.

  Touched was still staring at the ceiling. He didn’t appear to hear Caseo.

  “Touched!”

  Slowly Touched leaned forward. His eyes focused on Caseo. “What if—“Touched’s voice rasped. “What if we forget about Sprites and Domestics? What if we use an Enchanter?”

  Caseo resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “A great idea,” he said, “except that we don’t have an Enchanter with us on this trip.”

  Touched blinked and frowned. “But we do. We have one in camp. Can’t you feel it?”

  Caseo couldn’t feel it. He had never been able to feel Enchanters. It was one of his only failings as a Warder. But he was not about to admit that to Touched. “I will check with Rugar. If we have an Enchanter in camp, it is not something he wants others to know.”

  Touched bit his lower lip, then let go. He had bite marks in the flesh. “It would work as an Enchanter spell. An Enchanter has the distance and the power, and he wouldn’t have to work a bottle at a time. He could do it all at once.”

  The idea was brilliant, but worthless without an Enchanter. If the boy was feeling one, then something odd had happened. Perhaps one of the children had come into puberty with full Enchantment powers. But Caseo would have had hints. Enchanters, like Shape-Shifters and Warders, showed their powers from childhood. Only in glimpses and promises, but the powers existed. He would have known if Rugar had brought an Enchanter.

  Besides, Enchanters were so rare that the Black King probably couldn’t spare one. It was quite normal for long-distance campaigns to operate without one.

  “It’s a good idea,” Caseo said, “but I think we have to stick with the Domestics and the Sprites for now. Better to work with the powers we have.”

  “Shame,” Touched said. “It was a good idea.”

  Caseo almost contradicted him. A good idea was one they could use. But he had been harsh enough with the boy lately. And at least he was visualizing spells. That was better than the other Warders were doing.

  “Did you get any others?” Caseo asked.

  “I was working on that one.” Touched bit his lip again. He would have to change that habit, or one day he would bite through.

  “All right, then,” Caseo said. “Do you remember what Quest said when he brought the robes in this morning?”

  “He said that it had caused lights to rotate inside the Circle Door when he arrived. Rugar made him take off the robe and sword, and then the lights stopped.”

  “Odd,” Caseo said. He kicked the robe again. The tingle ran through his leg. “Pick this up, would you?”

  Touched got up with a sigh. He wasn’t shaking like Caseo, but he had been working as hard and had gone pale with exhaustion. He crouched and put a hand on the black cloth, then drew back with a cry, as if it had burned him.

  “It’s alive,” he said.

  “It certainly has power, doesn’t it?”

  Touched looked at his hand. “It doesn’t seem to have hurt me. Quest wore this all the time?”

  “For a few days. He seems fine. Yet we have the small matter of the inside lights.”

  “Do they ever rotate?”

  “No, never,” Caseo said. “Shadowlands is a purely functional spell. Whatever is built into it serves a small purpose. The lights have always given us the information we have needed, but they have never acted on their own accord before.”

  Touched frowned and leaned back. “Are they Fey Lamps?”

  Caseo shook his head. “They are part of the Shadowlands itself. Just a construct from Rugar’s Vision. I almost dismissed the boy’s story this morning. Rugar’s Vision has been spotty, and that can sometimes create anomalies. But now I’m not so certain. You and I have both felt power from this robe, and I wager if I wake up the others in the back, they would feel it too.”

  “What does it mean?” Touched said.

  “I don’t know,” Caseo said. “Quest said these are religious garments, and the sword is a religious symbol, as is the poison. Perhaps their religion has a power they don’t understand or know how to use.”

  “What makes you think they don’t know how to use it?” Touched said.

  “Because if they knew, we would be dead. They would have defeated us,” Caseo said.

  “You can’t know that,” Touched said.

  Caseo smiled at him. “I can, and so can you if you learn to observe. This robe has enough power to jolt us, who happen to be guarded against other beings’ magick. It also has enough power to cause the Circle Door to behave strangely. Whatever you may think of these things, Touched, these are not small matters. It suggests a great power.”

  Touched ran a finger over the robe, wincing as he did so. “Then we need to study it as well. Maybe it holds the secret to the poison.”

  “Maybe,” Caseo said. He didn’t want to rule anything out. “But I think we can solve the riddle of the poison without it. If you say you have developed a spell for an Enchanter, then we are not far from developing one for others.”

  Touched dropped the robe. He wiped his hands on his own robe as if he were cleaning them off. “I think we should check with Rugar first and find out about the Enchanter we have here.”

  “No,” Caseo said. “That’s taking the easy way. He’s keeping the Enchanter from the rest of us for a reason. We’re better off with a wide-ranging spell; one that can be done by a variety of people.” He looked at Touched. “If you can devise a spell for an Enchanter, you can devise one for a Sprite.”

  Touched seemed to grow even paler, his eyes dark circles in his narrow face. “I work best with Enchanters,” he said.

  “We all do, boy,” Caseo said. “They fill in the gaps for us, make spells that are awkward seem elegant. But we don’t have a choice here. We will work with the Domestics and the Sprites.”

&nb
sp; “I can’t,” Touched whispered.

  Caseo froze. “You . . . can’t?”

  Touched shook his head. He wasn’t looking at Caseo. “My Domestic spells never work. And I don’t understand Sprites.”

  “Your Domestic spells seem to work fine,” Caseo said. He felt odd—lighter than usual, as if part of him was elated that Touched couldn’t work and the other part was very, very angry.

  “Rotin helped. She’s always finished them.”

  The anger took over. Caseo had to struggle to keep the emotion off his face. “She has?”

  Touched nodded. “She said I wasn’t to tell you, but I don’t know how I could avoid it here. I can’t translate the spell over to the Domestics or the Sprites. My talent seems to lie in the large spells, like an Enchanter’s, or the bloody spells like the ones the Foot Soldiers use.”

  And here Caseo had always believed that Touched would be the next great genius of Spell Warding. Rotin had been playing with him, just as she had been playing with Touched a few evenings ago. Her manipulation was going to stop. Caseo would see to that. Touched was no more talented than the rest of them. In fact, he had the normal weaknesses that any new Warder had.

  Which didn’t help them now.

  “Tell me your Enchanter spell,” Caseo said. “I’ll translate it.”

  Touched frowned at him. “Will you be able to? I thought only the spell’s creator could translate.”

  Caseo shook his head. “It’s easier for the spell’s originator to translate. But anyone can do it. It will just take me more time.”

  Touched ran a hand along the table. “Even if you do figure it out,” he said, “how will you test it? We can’t use Jewel’s pet. She’ll hurt us somehow.”

  “Rugar and I came to an agreement,” Caseo said. “Jewel gets to keep her pet and to set the boy free. In exchange for my willingness to go along, I get the old prisoner. The disagreeable one. And I’ve been saving him for a moment like this.”

  “We’ll have only one chance, then,” Touched said.

  Caseo smiled at him. “We need only one. If he dies, our spell will have worked exactly as we planned.” He leaned forward, his tiredness forgotten. “Tell me your spell, boy. Let’s defeat these Islanders once and for all.”

  SEVENTY-SIX

  Titus cried as the road wound into the trees outside of Jahn. He knew he shouldn’t cry, just as he knew he shouldn’t have cried when his parents had sent him to the city two years before. The Holy One was supposed to watch over him, carrying his prayers to God’s Ear. But he had never seen the Holy One, and he had seen a Fey, and, God forgive him, he believed in the Fey. He knew what they could do.

  The tears came in bursts. He had been crying for most of the day now, although at the moment he was merely sniffling. His eyes felt swollen, and his throat was raw. If people saw him, they would think him daft.

  But he had never been this far to the west of Jahn. He could hear the river burbling far below. The trees overhead provided a cool shade against the hot sun. He had forgotten how much he liked trees—and how much he missed them. When he had agreed to become an Aud (“Second son,” his father reminded him. “Second sons always get religion”), he hadn’t realized he would be sent to the city, where everything was hot, smelly, and dust covered.

  His father was proud of him. (“They’re sending you up, son, because you’re smart. Only the smart ones get to go to that Tabernacle.”) His father would be even prouder if he knew the honor the Rocaan had bestowed on Titus. Titus had never met the Rocaan before dawn that morning, had seen him only in official ceremonies. Once he had shaken the Rocaan’s hand, when he had come to Aud’s Day in the Servants’ Chapel, and once, a few weeks before, he had received the Rocaan’s Blessing along with all the other Auds.

  This morning he had received the Rocaan’s Blessing again. Only Titus had been alone in the room. Up close, the Rocaan was an old man who smelled. The base of his robe had stains on it, something the Danites would have chastised Titus for. He hadn’t liked seeing that. It almost made him believe the Rocaan was human. When the Blessing was over, the Rocaan had touched Titus’s shoulder and asked him if he was courageous.

  He had said yes. What else could a boy say when faced with the link to his God?

  The Rocaan had smiled and then given him his first Charge. The other second-year Auds were jealous. What Aud got his first Charge from the Rocaan himself? But if they knew what the Charge was, they would be glad the Charge had come to Titus.

  Titus stopped and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He wouldn’t cry anymore. He wouldn’t. The Rocaan had told him it was holy to die in God’s service.

  But he was only fourteen years old. Why would God want him now?

  Ahead, he saw the huge oak he had been warned about. Soon he would see the clearing that led to the Fey place.

  He sniffled, then headed for a large stump off the side of the road. When he sat, he bent over and pressed his face against his knees. The vial of holy water burned like a torch in the pocket of his robe. The Rocaan had told him not to bring any, but Elder Matthias had argued that he should.

  He is not going as an enemy, the Rocaan had said.

  He is certainly not going as a friend, the Elder had replied.

  The problem was Titus didn’t understand why he was facing the Fey at all. Alone.

  His feet were cold, and he wished for the millionth time since he had become an Aud that he was allowed to wear shoes. Even more than his shaved head, he resented the bare feet. He hated being cold, and coldness always started with his feet.

  The Rocaan had insisted he travel without any protection except God’s. But wasn’t holy water God’s protection? Apparently the Rocaan did not think so. But the Rocaan hadn’t stipulated where the Charge began. So Titus planned to carry the holy water all the way up to the Fey place.

  The threat of tears subsided a bit. He stood. He wanted to get to the Fey place before nightfall. He couldn’t imagine anything scarier than being there in the dark.

  The bottoms of his feet were hardened by years of being barefoot, so he scarcely felt the rocks. But when he turned at the oak, the chill of the damp grass made him wince. He heard voices echo in the clearing. They used a language he did not understand.

  He swallowed. The Rocaan had assured him that the Fey would speak Nye, maybe even Islander. If they all spoke this odd, guttural language, his Charge would be for nothing.

  He couldn’t see the speakers. They had to be farther away from him than they sounded. Their voices were raised; it almost sounded as if they were fighting. He sniffled again, but not from any threat of tears. The possibility of tears was gone. He was too frightened for that.

  Slowly he crossed the clearing. He saw the dirt circle the Rocaan had told him about. He was supposed to go there and wait, see if someone found him. His entire body was trembling. He tried to tell himself it was from the cold. And he was cold. His toenails had turned blue, and his fingers were little blocks of ice.

  Clutched in those blocks of ice was the vial. He had forgotten to put it down before he reached the clearing.

  “Forgive me, Holy Sir,” he whispered, as if the Rocaan were sitting on his shoulder, watching him.

  He glanced around for a place to leave the vial, but didn’t see any. Finally he set it just outside the dirt circle, letting the vial fall away from the circle onto the grass.

  As the sky grew darker, he realized that the clearing had too much light. He glanced up and saw small lights hovering over the dirt circle. The lights were in the shapes of human beings. When they saw him, they all reached toward him, their tiny lips moving.

  He couldn’t move. So this was what happened to the people the Fey captured. He wanted to turn and run, but he couldn’t. If he did that, he would fail his Charge. Any Aud who failed his Charge would lose his place in the Church. His father would never accept him back home then.

  He closed his eyes and stepped across the dirt circle. When he opened his eyes, the little
beings were all crouched, their heads buried in their hands as if his movement had frightened them. A bit of warmth radiated from the lights, and the grass beneath his feet was hot.

  This was the place the Rocaan had told him to come to. Titus recognized it from the description of the trees and the circles. The clearing had an otherworldly sense, the same kind of sense he had felt when he’d stepped into the Tabernacle for the first time, as if this were a holy place, and he was trespassing.

  But that couldn’t be. The Fey were heathens, godless, and unclean. Some of the Auds even believed the Fey were little demons sent by a jealous rival to destroy the followers of Roca. Titus knew of nothing in the Words to support that theory, but for the first time since he’d heard it, he did not dispute it. There was a power there, a power so great that it made him shudder.

  Then the lights went dark, and a shadow moved across the sky. He felt a change in the wind, as if someone had closed all the doors and windows around the dirt circle. The air was still. With a shaking hand he reached behind him, and his fingers hit an invisible barrier like glass over the dirt.

  He couldn’t get out. He was in a Fey prison, his holy water outside it. He was trapped. He swallowed down the panic—panic did not suit a man of God—and made himself stand in a place where he was warm for the first time in days.

  A door opened in front of him. The door was suspended a few feet off the ground, and it was round. It took him a moment to realize the door’s outlines traced the lights that had been there a moment before. Inside, he saw a gray swirling mass, and beyond it, buildings. A Fey stood just beside the door, with others gathering behind him. This Fey was slender, and just a few years older than Titus, but his face had a fierceness that was both beautiful and terrifying.

  “Tel?” the Fey asked in his guttural voice.

  Titus didn’t move for what seemed like forever. Tell? Was that a command? Or did it mean something in their language? He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His breath was coming in small gasps. Finally he managed, in Nye, “I am from the Rocaan. I have a message.”