Caseo dropped to his knees, his other hand over his chest. The blood was coming in spurts. His eyes were wide with shock, his mouth open, but no sound was coming out. There was no one else outside, and no one seemed to be moving in the Warders’ cabin.
“I’m sorry,” Scavenger said. He hadn’t meant to become as bad as Caseo. He hadn’t meant anything bad at all. Now they would know who did it. The other Warders would know that a Red Cap had hurt Caseo. He had to get away.
His feet slipped in the blood on the porch. The blood was flowing down the steps and disappearing into the gray mist that was the ground. He jumped over the steps and ran for the Circle Door, repeating the chant over and over until he arrived. The Door opened for him, and he dived out, tossing the knife away as he did so.
He had planned to do this, but not after killing Caseo. He had planned to kill Rugar, and he didn’t even know where Rugar was. Now he had no way to find out.
Scavenger slipped into the woods and ran away from the skeleton pile, down the embankment to the side of the river. There he stopped to catch his breath. He was covered in blood, and the blood smelled no different from any other kind. No different at all.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
They took Titus to one of their buildings, but only the older man went inside with him. Titus was unprepared for the darkness inside the building. The older man knocked on a lamp, and a small creature stood up, extending light in all directions. He knocked on another, and another, until the room glowed.
A table and several chairs furnished the front. A fireplace stood off to the left, the fire only embers now. A woman peeked in the door and asked a question. The older man shook his head. She nodded, slipped back out, closing the door behind her.
“What’s your message, child?” the man asked in Nye.
Titus didn’t know how to speak to this man, if there wasa protocol or not. He merely bowed his head, then said, “The Rocaan wishes a meeting with you. He wants to end this war, and he believes that you two can do so together.”
“I thought the Rocaan was your religious leader.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But I should have that discussion with your King.”
Titus shook his head. “The Rocaan says the King has handled this long enough, and this is a spiritual matter.”
“Ah,” the older man said. “So we go in to see your Rocaan, and he kills us all.”
“No. He would not do that,” Titus said. “He would like to speak with you about power, spiritual power, yours and his.”
“I see.” The older man slid a chair near Titus. “Sit, boy, and be comfortable. I won’t hurt you.”
Titus sat as he was bade. He entwined his fingers together and kept his head bowed.
“This Rocaan of yours, he is the one who leads all of you in religion, doesn’t he?”
Titus nodded.
“And he makes the poison that kills us.”
“He never meant it to kill you. He didn’t know.” Titus spoke with strong emphasis, just as the Rocaan had. His emphasis would have been strong, even if the Rocaan’s hadn’t. “Holy water has been part of our religion since the beginning. We didn’t know its properties, until an Elder discovered it by accident.”
“By accident?” The older man’s smile was cold. “How do you kill by accident?”
“He threw a bottle at your people to keep them away from him. It shattered, and they died.”
The older man’s eyes opened a little, then returned to their hooded gaze. “I see. Then he told your people, and the killing started.”
Titus swallowed. The Rocaan said he wasn’t supposed to talk back to the Fey, but he would have loved to point out that they had started the killing, not the Islanders.
“Must I see your Rocaan alone, or may I bring guards?”
“He would like you to come as you would, as long as you promise not to attack him. He says he will come with friends as well.” Titus licked his lips. “He wants to perform a Blessing to cleanse us all of hatred, but to do that, he will need to use some holy water. He promises not to turn it on you. Likewise, he says you may bring weapons if you promise not to use them against him.”
“He’s a trusting sort, is he?”
Titus nodded. “He is a good man, sir. He would not kill anyone.”
“What of all the Fey he has killed?”
Titus was so relieved that the Rocaan had thought of all the answers to these questions. Titus never would have been able to think of them himself. “He has killed none personally, sir, and he wishes the others were still with us. But he begs you to consider the circumstances, and to ask yourself whether or not you would have done the same as he did in handing out holy water.”
The Fey smiled. “What I would have done is immaterial. What he has done is the issue, and what he plans to do is even more important.”
Titus peeked through his eyelashes at the Fey. “What he plans to do is to make you acceptable to God so that this fighting might end, and we might all find a peaceable solution.”
“And what if I don’t want a peaceable solution?” the Fey asked.
Titus shrugged. “Then, sir, I guess things will remain the same.”
The Fey put his finger beneath Titus’s chin and raised the boy’s head. The older man smelled of pine trees and leather. His skin was covered with faint lines and was darker than that of a man who had worked all his life in the sun. “Can you guarantee that your Rocaan will be at this meeting?”
“Yes, sir,” Titus said. “It is his idea, and he has given his word. He never goes back on his word.”
The Fey smiled. “Then tell your leader that I will meet him. I will bring a full contingent of warriors who will have magick as well as swords. Tell him that if he does not show, I will slaughter any Islander I see. Tell him also that if he betrays me in any way, I will do the same to him.”
“Yes, sir,” Titus whispered. A shiver ran through him that he could not control. This man, this Fey, meant what he said.
“Tell him the next time he wishes to send a message to me, he will send a man, not a child. I have no more sympathy for children than I do for men. I will kill one as easily as I will kill the other.”
Titus swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
Then the Fey chucked Titus’s chin and smiled at him. “Now, tell me where this meeting will take place.”
“Two days hence in the kirk near Daisy Stream.”
“A kirk?” The Fey raised one eyebrow. “Isn’t that a religious spot?”
“Yes, sir, but he begged me to remind you that you may come armed.”
“I would prefer to meet in a place that does not hold religious significance to your people.”
“He says he understands that, sir, but he begs your forgiveness. He says if he meets you in a kirk, no one will question him, and the King will not send troops.”
The Fey’s smile faded. “Your Rocaan is a wily man.”
“No, sir,” Titus said. “He is a good man who wishes for peace before he dies.”
The Fey crossed his arms, leaned against the table, and sighed. “All right. Tell your Rocaan that I agree to his terms, and warn him that if anything is different from what you have told me, I will take revenge. Warn him that Fey adore taking revenge.” Then the Fey smiled, a cold, forbidding smile. Titus shuddered in spite of himself.
“You’re dismissed, boy. You’ll find Burden outside where you left him. He will let you out of Shadowlands.”
Titus stood. His legs wobbled beneath him.
“And, boy, be sure to tell your Rocaan everything that I have told you, because I will hold you responsible for that meeting as well as him.”
“Yes, sir.” Titus bowed his head, uncertain what the Fey meant by that comment, but it frightened him nonetheless.
“You’re dismissed, boy.”
“Thank you, sir.” Titus made himself walk to the door. He couldn’t run, couldn’t show weakness in front of these people. He pulled the door open and stepped into the grayne
ss. The boy who had brought him was waiting with a group of other Fey by a nearby building. When the boy saw Titus, he came over.
“So,” the boy said. “He decided to spare you.”
Titus put his chin up. “I have a message to take back to Jahn.”
The boy shrugged. “I won’t stop you, not when our illustrious Rugar thinks you should go free.”
Titus didn’t answer. He hurried down the steps and walked through the ground mist back to the place where he had come in. Only there was no door.
“You shouldn’t hurry, little mouse,” the boy said. “You can’t leave without my help.”
Suddenly Titus’s throat went dry. What was to stop the boy from killing him and not telling his leader? Then they would have an excuse to rain terror on the Rocaan. But if they could do that, they already would have. “Your leader said I could go.”
The boy smiled. “And so he did. This time. But when he decides that you will do as we want, you’ll be mine. I’ll make sure of that.”
He waved his hands, and the door opened. Titus jumped out, rolled on the grass, and landed outside the dirt circle. The barrier was gone. He grabbed his bottle of holy water and looked up in time to see the door close. Darkness surrounded him, but for the first time since he had left Jahn, he felt safe.
SEVENTY-NINE
The cabin had an odd smell to it. Jewel pushed aside with her foot the chair the Islander boy had sat on. She would have a Domestic clean it. She refused to sit on it herself. Her father was watching her closely.
“All right,” he said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“That you’re a fool.” The words hurried out of her, almost unbidden. She hadn’t realized how angry she was until she said them. “You shouldn’t have agreed to their meeting. You should have set up your own. And with their religious leader? What can he do except kill you? You should be seeing their King.”
“Their King can’t help me.” Rugar leaned against the fireplace. The morning’s fire had burned to ash.
“And this religious leader can?” Jewel threw her braid over her shoulder and faced her father. He was smiling at her. That irritated her even more.
“He is the keeper of the secrets. We will learn about their magick.”
“If they don’t do away with us first. Papa, this is a trap. Go after that little boy and make him change the meeting.”
Rugar shook his head. His eyes crinkled with an amusement he couldn’t hide. “Jewel,” he said quietly, “once we learn their secrets, we can win this war.”
“I refuse to believe he would set up a meeting with you in order to teach you the secrets that give them an advantage.” She stood, too, so that she faced him. She was as tall as he was, and it gave her a feeling of power. “He is probably planning to kill you, and if any Islander can, he can.”
“He won’t kill me. He’s letting me go in there with weapons.”
Jewel bit back anger. She had never seen this stubborn side to him before, although she had heard her grandfather speak of it. This was the side that had brought them all to Blue Isle in the first place. “If you go in with weapons, he’ll go in with weapons. He’ll kill you one on one, and then where will we be?”
“You’ll be in charge.”
“And our people will want to return to Nye. They won’t listen to me. I’m still a young girl to many of them. They don’t even know that I have my Vision.”
He raised an eyebrow in that measuring look she hated. “And whose fault is that?”
“One Vision does not a Visionary make,” she said. Then she put her palms on the back of her chair and leaned toward him. “What does your Vision say about this meeting?”
Color rose in his cheeks, but he didn’t pull his gaze from hers. “I have had no Vision about this.”
“Well, then,” she snapped before she could help herself, “at least we know you won’t die.”
“That’s a folktale,” he said. “If Visionaries see their own death, they don’t talk about it.”
“I know it’s a folktale.” She said each word with such force she spit as she spoke. She resisted the urge to cover her mouth. “I was being sarcastic, and underneath it, I’m frightened. Caseo says you have lost your Vision. Is that true?”
Rugar stared at her for a long time without saying a word. The color in his cheeks grew deeper.
“Is that true?” she asked again.
“Not all events require a Vision.”
“No,” she said. “Only the important ones. I think a meeting between the Fey and their local enemy leader is an important event, particularly since one or both of you could die. And you have no Vision about it? Has anyone? Have you checked with the Shaman?”
“She would tell me if she saw something bad.”
“Would she? Does she know that she is supposed to do that, or will she assume that you have Seen as well?”
“Why are you being so forceful, Jewel?”
“Because you’re being stupid. And I don’t want you to die.” Her voice shook a little on the last word. His death would devastate her, and she would have to be the one to carry on, not just for herself but for the force on Blue Isle. “I’m going to talk to the Shaman.”
“No, Jewel.” Rugar used the commanding voice he had used when she and her brothers had misbehaved as children. The voice stopped her, even now. “The Shaman is not supposed to be disturbed on mundane matters. If she has a problem, she will come to me. Now, let this go. I will take care of this. You aren’t thinking it through.”
Jewel crossed her arms. “I am thinking very clearly. Why don’t you tell me what you believe I’m missing?”
“Quest.”
Jewel frowned. “Quest?”
Rugar nodded. “He goes, takes over the Rocaan, and we know the secret to their holy water. It is the opportunity that Quest missed in the Tabernacle. And we have guards around him so that nothing will happen to him.”
“He’ll have Islanders around. They won’t let that happen to their religious leader.”
“Who is going to stop us? How fast can we kill a handful of Islanders?”
“And what happens if one of them manages to spray poison on you or on Quest?”
“We’ll protect him.”
“What happens if that Rocaan has some kind of force in his body, some magickal force that will kill Quest on contact? What happens if there are powers in his robe, like the one that Quest brought back?”
“It didn’t hurt him before. It won’t hurt him now. And if it does, we’ll designate a runner. We’ll bring one Warder, so that Quest can blurt the secret immediately, and we’ll send them both back to Shadowlands.”
Jewel rubbed her temples with her thumb and forefinger. “This seems like quite a risk to me.”
“Funny,” Rugar said quietly. “It seems like our last chance to me.”
EIGHTY
Alexander sat in the sun on the courtyard bench, not far from the door to the kitchen. It was just after sunrise, and he had been awake all night, the stories he had heard from Scavenger whirling in his head. He had been thinking of the little Fey since the man had left, wondering how he was doing—and how he would know if Scavenger succeeded. Scavenger would come back if he could, but Alexander held that as faint hope. Alexander knew if anyone murdered him, that person would die instantly. The guards would see to that. He suspected the Fey would have the same methods.
The air still had the dampness of early-morning dew, and the cold that came with the night hadn’t yet burned off. The stone bench was cold beneath his legs. Four guards stood as unobtrusively as possible near him: one beside the palace, one near the stable, and two behind him. Still, anyone looking for them would see them.
He was staring at the kitchen door, and just as his chamberlain had predicted, the chef came out with scraps of food and bowls of milk. Dogs and cats came running from all parts of the courtyard.
Alexander watched the cats. Five black cats, some with white markings, several gray cats, and thre
e orange tabbies. The chef clucked at them as he knelt, petting the few who would let him get close. Some of the cats sat behind the bowls, waiting for the others to finish. The dogs didn’t have that politeness. They wrestled over bones and growled over scraps of meat. The chef ignored them, watching the cats instead.
Even more cats came from the stables: some pure white, others with brown markings, as varied and diverse as horses. Alexander had had a cat as a boy, a young female who neglected him only when she had kittens, and who had died, trampled under the hooves of his father’s favorite stallion.
Alexander hadn’t allowed a cat near his rooms since. The heartbreak had been the greatest he had felt up to that point, and he hadn’t wanted to feel it again. Banishing cats, of course, hadn’t protected him from sorrow—he still felt the death of his second wife as if it had happened that morning—but it gave him the illusion of control.
Just as this new measure would.
Everything that he had been able to check about Scavenger’s stories had been true. The little Fey hadn’t been lying to him—or if he had, he had done it in a way that was extremely subtle. Then the stories that confirmed what he said, stories that the little Fey couldn’t know, like the one Nicholas had told him the night before, about the woman whose infant had been stolen by a cat. An orange tabby, like the ones seen in the palace and the stable before the two servants had disappeared.
Shape-Shifter, Scavenger had said. She’s considered the purest Fey, the best of all of us. I’ve never understood it, since Shape-Shifters are prone to odd lapses. In their old age they steal children because they can’t have any of their own. They raise those children as if they were Fey.
The Shape-Shifter also carried messages back and forth, according to Scavenger, and often learned much about enemies by living in their houses. Scavenger had apparently hated her, for reasons he would not explain, but even that didn’t prevent Alexander from seeing what a threat she was to his own people.
All the Fey were a threat. They had destroyed much of his faith in himself. He no longer trusted his perception. He wasn’t as quick as Nicholas, who tossed an open vial of holy water at anyone who came near him, but he had the same suspicions. He was afraid that no one was the person he had once known. Sometimes he even doubted himself.
Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (The Fey Series) Page 61