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

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  His father shook his head. “Your first instinct was right. This is not a place for you. The Rocaan is a smart man. If this is his doing, then it might be a simple ceremony. He has said in the past he does not like being held hostage to the Fey. If it is not, the guards will inform us. I don’t want you in the middle of this.”

  “Like it or not, Father,” Nicholas said, “I am in the middle of this. I fought during the invasion beside kitchen staff, I sat next to a Fey in this very room, and I suspect I’ve seen even more. Trying to protect me won’t accomplish the job. Either I die or I don’t.”

  His father’s cheeks flushed. “It’s not that simple. You’re the heir. If something happens to me, this country needs you.”

  Nicholas sighed and sat down. He knew his father would say that, and he really had no argument against it. Fey leaders fought beside their men, but Islanders were not Fey. “Father,” he said, “I would like to know what the Rocaan is doing because he is doing something. And it’s time. We can’t let these Fey stay on our lands. They have too many tricks, and someday they’ll outsmart us. We have only one advantage. They have several.”

  “I’ve thought of this,” his father said. “But I have no ideas. We can’t let them through the Stone Guardians. They’ll just get reinforcements. The Fey prisoner told me a lot, and I have him attempting something that might help us, but I don’t know if I can trust him to work for us. And now the Rocaan, the source of holy water, has left the city. Each change leaves me more and more unnerved. More and more confused. I take an action, and I wonder if I’ve gone far enough. Then I take another action, and I think I may have gone too far. I am not prepared for this kind of leadership, Nicholas. Nothing in our history teaches the kind of thinking a man needs to fight an invasion. Internal dissent, yes, but an invasion—“ he shook his head.

  Nicholas stared at him. He knew his father was having trouble with all of the changes, but he had never thought of him as weak. The evidence was becoming clearer and clearer, though. Alexander was failing to act, to press any advantage that the Islanders had. And someday the Islanders would no longer have an advantage.

  “We have two choices,” Nicholas said. “Either we fight them and defeat them completely—kill them all—or we somehow learn to live with them. This halfway stuff where occasional skirmishes break out, and people die, is not going to work for much longer. We’ve already had one Fey come over to our side. How many Islanders will they convince to go over to theirs?”

  His father looked stricken. He had obviously not thought of that. He glanced at the scroll, tied in red ribbon, then back at Nicholas. “What would you suggest?”

  “We go into their Shadowlands with the strongest force we can gather, get them to open up, and throw all the holy water we can inside. It might not kill them, but it might.”

  His father shook his head. He had argued against this once before in front of all the advisers, worrying that the supply of holy water would disappear and the Islanders would have gained nothing. Nicholas had thought then that his father’s argument was faulty.

  “We even have a way in,” Nicholas said. “Lord Stowe introduced me to a boy yesterday who was one of the prisoners the Fey held. His father is still inside. He might be able to get us into the Shadowlands, just enough that we could make this plan work.”

  His father stroked his chin. His eyes held a sadness that had been growing all year. “Even if we can talk the Rocaan into making enough holy water,” Alexander said, “we still would not be certain we have all the Fey. They don’t all look like us. Some are tiny wisps, and others shape-change, and still others duplicate themselves into us.”

  “We could get them over time,” Nicholas said. Why was his father waiting? If his father’s actions hadn’t been consistent since the Fey arrived, Nicholas would have thought the King on their side. “What would they do without their friends? They would be stuck here and would probably live as quietly as they could.”

  His father looked away. Nicholas followed his gaze. His father was staring at the scroll. A thousand dead. No King had ever presided over so many deaths. Nicholas sat down. It was finally becoming clear. “And what if we decide not to annihilate them?” his father asked. “What if we decide to make peace?”

  Nicholas started. Peace? Peace with the Fey would change Blue Isle forever. But war with the Fey had changed it too. And Nicholas had also seen the dead. He just hadn’t ordered their deaths. He thought for a moment, then said, “We would need a guarantee, something to show that they would never double-cross us, that we could learn to coexist peacefully on this small stretch of ground. And we would have to continue our self-imposed exile here. We couldn’t have any contact with the outside world, because if any Fey left, they might bring reinforcements.”

  “Reinforcements might come anyway,” his father said. “We don’t know if they were scheduled to arrive after so much time has passed. What if we slaughter them all and the Black King’s entire army arrives? What then?”

  “We fight again.”

  “We don’t have those kinds of resources, Nicholas,” his father said. “The more men we lose, the fewer we have to fight with.”

  “But holy water—”

  “Is a weapon. We always will need someone to wield it.”

  His father actually had a point. Perhaps what Nicholas had seen as weakness was consideration for life. “And if we make peace?” Nicholas asked.

  “Then we do so in a way that they can’t break that peace. No matter who arrives.” His father picked up the scroll and hit it against his palm. “Let’s see what the Rocaan is about. He’s a wise man. When he returns, we’ll ask his advice. We’ll let him settle this once and for all.”

  “I sure wish you would let me go with him,” Nicholas said.

  His father smiled. “I know, Nicky,” he said. “But part of learning to rule is realizing that you will never be able to do what you want.”

  EIGHTY-THREE

  The kirk at Daisy Stream was a small building the size of a cottage in Shadowlands. The building was made of wood and stone. The wood was so old that it had been bleached white by the elements. The stone was crumbling. Rugar had no idea how long the kirk had stood there, but he knew it had probably stood for centuries. The wood, even though it was white, looked as if it had been replaced more than once.

  He did not touch anything. He waited until his lieutenants had touched each part of the exterior before he even went near it. They also pushed down the weeds that surrounded the building on three sides. Only the front, with the dirt path leading to the open door, had no weeds.

  The kirk appeared to be well used, for all its age.

  It stood at the edge of the stream. The water burbled beside it, down a bank so steep that the water had no chance of rising over it. Rugar had made Burden dip a finger into the water itself, half hoping that Daisy Stream was the source of the poison, but no such luck. Burden had removed his hand with an exclamation about the chill, and nothing more.

  Rugar had brought Burden with him because he didn’t want to leave the Infantryman alone with Jewel. Over the course of the year, Burden had got too bold. A childhood friendship was not enough for Burden to base his confidence on—he seemed to think he would be the next addition into Rugar’s family. Jewel didn’t appear to give him that idea, but Rugar wanted to take no chances. Better to have Burden with him.

  Rugar also brought Quest, two Beast Riders who remained in the woods some distance from the kirk, and the remaining Infantry leaders, as well as his own personal guards. He also brought three Domestics and one Healer on the off chance that something might go wrong. He had considered bringing the Islander Adrian, but thought that might be tempting fate.

  This meeting had Rugar both excited and frightened. He wasn’t sure what the Rocaan was up to, but Quest assured him that the purpose had to be benevolent. Quest believed that the Rocaan had been opposed to the fighting, and even opposed to the use of holy water as a poison. But Quest hadn’t been sure what
the old man would offer Rugar.

  Rugar would accept nothing. He wouldn’t have to.

  The air smelled faintly of moss and damp grass. The stream had its own rich, musty odor. Rugar had had his people survey the entire area, to see if any Islanders were setting up traps or encampments. He found neither, and he found that strange.

  Finally he sent one of the Infantrymen inside the kirk with a Fey Lamp. Rugar stood at the door and watched the man’s progress, expecting the lamp to go out. It did not. It illuminated a single room, the size of his own meeting room. A sword had been tacked to the far wall, and a small structure had been built in the middle of the floor. The structure had a cushion on its pedestal, and a small table about chest high, with an empty candleholder on it. The rest of the room was empty.

  After the soldier had touched everything, Rugar went in. The musty smell was stronger there. The floor was made of stone, and even with the light of the Fey Lamp, the place had a dark, ominous look to it. He couldn’t imagine worshiping in a place like this: he almost expected cobwebs and ghosts instead of religious ecstasy. But, then, he was never raised in any kind of religious tradition, and barely understood it.

  He left the kirk and stepped into the sunlight, blinking at the brightness. With a snap of his fingers, he ordered two more men inside, and then Quest, who would know better than any of them what should be there and what shouldn’t. It bothered Rugar that he couldn’t find any poison, or any preparations for the meeting at all. Perhaps it was as Quest had said: perhaps the Rocaan had a nonmilitary reason for the visit.

  Still, if there was anything in and around the kirk that would harm Fey, Rugar would find it before the Rocaan arrived. Then the Fey would set up their own defensive systems. The Rocaan would never know how many people Rugar had brought with him. And he wouldn’t know about Quest.

  Rugar waited on the path out front, glancing inside occasionally, and watching as his lieutenants combed the area around the kirk. From all evidence, it looked as if no one had been near the place in weeks. But he knew better than to trust his eyes.

  Finally Quest came out and stood beside Rugar. The other men were still inside, shining the Fey light in corners and gingerly touching the large sword.

  “Nothing is out of place,” Quest said. “The sword is symbolic of the religion, but the blade is tarnished. It hasn’t been used in even as much as a ceremony in a long time. The altar in the center shows more sign of recent use. The pillow is worn, and there are no cobwebs on it, and no dirt, for that matter. But there’s also no holy water, which means whoever is using it is not a member of the clergy.”

  “What’s the purpose of this building?” Rugar asked. He had been expecting something much bigger and more accommodating for the kind of meeting the boy had asked them to.

  “Some areas have only a limited number of residents, and it’s not worth the time for a Danite or an Aud to stay there permanently. So they travel through and hold a Sacrament or a Blessing here when they arrive. Otherwise the faithful in the area tend to their own religious needs. Whoever has been using this place has been praying, and little more. There hasn’t been a big service here in a long, long time.”

  “Do you know that from your last host, or does evidence in the building tell you that?”

  “Both, actually,” Quest said. “The Danite assigned to this region should be farther west right now. And if there had been a ceremony, the weeds would be trampled, and there would be less dust in the building itself. Maybe even some holy water. Frankly, that Danite might get into trouble for letting the sword tarnish. The symbolism there is probably not one the Rocaan wants.”

  “So no one has been here except a few worshipers.” Rugar turned and stared at the building. It held his future, and he wasn’t certain he liked that. “No preparation for this meeting, or do you think we merely got here ahead of them?”

  “No preparation would be my guess, at least here,” Quest said. “If they prepared at all, they probably did so in the Tabernacle.”

  “But they could have sent the boy here before he saw us. It’s not that far away.”

  Quest nodded. “They could have. But I’ll wager they didn’t. Auds are servants and message bearers, as far as Tabernacle staff are concerned. If they wanted someone to do something of more complexity, they would have sent a Danite.”

  “This meeting makes no sense,” Rugar said. He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the area. “Perhaps if I understood why they wanted it, I would be able to plan better myself. It’s not an ambush, because we got here first and they’re clearly not here. They also allowed us to bring weapons.”

  “The Rocaan is not an easy man to understand,” Quest said. “At least from all I’ve heard about him. He does things for religious reasons, not for the sake of logic.”

  “Clearly,” Rugar said. He peered inside the kirk again. The Infantryman had located a small mouse nest in the back corner. The mouse had used some of the stuffing from the pillow to line its little home. If anyone else had asked for this meeting, Rugar would not be there. But the opportunity to use Quest to get the information from the Rocaan was too great. It would finally allow the Fey to take Blue Isle.

  Rugar glanced at Quest. “Are you ready?”

  Quest nodded. He glanced nervously at the door. “I am most afraid that the old man will be so holy in his own right that he will poison me.”

  “We have yet to encounter anything like that,” Rugar said.

  “Until we came here, we had yet to encounter anything like their holy water.”

  Rugar ignored the point. Now that he knew the kirk was secure, he had his own preparations to make. He wasn’t going to let that Rocaan get away, nor was he going to lose his entire squad to these Islanders. If they were too stupid to prepare, that was not his problem. That benefitted him.

  But this might be his only chance at winning the Isle. He wasn’t going to allow any mistakes.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  The Fey were already waiting at Daisy Stream. They were all tall, thin, and dark, their features upswept and narrow. They stood in a group lining the entrance to the kirk. The kirk’s door was open, and it was clear the Fey had already been inside.

  The Rocaan gripped Andre’s hand, and Andre jumped. The Fey made Andre nervous. Reece was sitting at the edge of his seat in the carriage, his hands folded in his lap, his body rigid. He was staring out the small window as if his gaze could control the Fey. Only Timothy had his eyes closed. His lips were moving, and the Rocaan didn’t want to interrupt him.

  They could use all the prayers these believers could muster.

  The Rocaan’s heart was pounding. His body ached worse than usual. In the last few days he had got no sleep, and he had lost the support of some of his Elders. Time had slowed. He felt as if he had lived years instead of hours. Matthias had wanted him to delay the meeting a day, but the Rocaan wasn’t sure his health would hold.

  He gripped the seat of the carriage. He had imagined himself performing the ceremony a hundred times in this small kirk, but he had never imagined the greeting. He had also imagined the Fey’s presence, but not what he would say to them to get them to stand through the ceremony. He should have listened to Matthias. They should have run through the whole event just one time.

  The riders in front of the carriage stopped; then the horses leading the carriage stopped as well. The Rocaan let go of Andre’s hand. Andre gave him a weak smile and moved his arm away. Andre had not been himself on this trip. Nervous, unwilling to brush against anyone, he had sat as close to the carriage wall as he could, and kept his eyes shut most of the time. The Rocaan almost regretted bringing Andre along. If there had been one other true believer among the Elders, the Rocaan would have left Andre behind. But there hadn’t been. And the Words Unwritten said the Roca performed his ceremony with three of his most faithful companions at his side.

  The Rocaan’s body kept swaying even though the carriage had stopped. Apparently he was frightened too—and too numb to feel it
. He mouthed a quick prayer, then pushed open the side door. An Aud was already waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. The Aud took his hand and smiled timidly at the Rocaan. Then the Rocaan recognized him as the boy to whom he had given the Charge: young Titus, who had returned against all predictions, his black robe grass stained, his feet cold and filthy, and his eyes wild. Titus had been inside the Fey enclave and lived. He was a good talisman to have on this mission.

  The Rocaan squeezed the boy’s hand, then stepped down. His swaying had ceased, although his legs felt shaky. He waited until the others had got out of the carriage before facing the Fey.

  The Fey surrounded one man. This man was older; his skin had a leathery look that the Rocaan had often seen in laborers who spent their days in the sun. The man’s black eyes snapped with intelligence. Age had worn his features to a point—his chin was sharp, his cheekbones high. Everything about him gave the impression of upward movement.

  The Rocaan nodded his head. “Welcome to the kirk at Daisy Stream,” he said in Nye. “I am very pleased that you could come. I am the Rocaan, and these are my Elders, Andre, Reece, and Timothy.”

  The Fey’s smile seemed sincere. “I am Rugar, the Black King’s son. My assistants do not need to be named, since this negotiation is between you and me.”

  Negotiation. Without apparently planning to, the Fey had given the Rocaan a way to begin. “I am honored,” the Rocaan said, “to be in the presence of the Fey leader on Blue Isle.”

  “And I am honored,” Rugar said, “to be in the company of a great religious leader. Your people are the first in a long time to stop a Fey drive across a country. I must say, for that reason, this meeting has piqued my curiosity.”

  “My people are not by nature warlike,” the Rocaan said, hoping his words wouldn’t sound like a judgment. “Our religion forbids using anything—including death—for personal gain. I had thought, perhaps, we might discuss what you want on Blue Isle to see if we can come to some kind of terms.”