The Resistance: The Fourth Book of the Fey (Fey Series)

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  The sword was beside him now, as was the other thing he had rescued from the palace: Sebastian, the Fey-like creature made of stone, who was King Nicholas's son.

  "We … must … leave." Sebastian spoke slowly, his voice deep and rich, as a stone's might be. Con turned. Sebastian sat up, his hands behind him, bracing him. In the week they had known each other, Sebastian had never made a suggestion, let alone given a command.

  "Leave?" Con said.

  Sebastian nodded in his curious fashion. His head went down once and then up again, as if the movement were difficult for him. All movement seemed difficult for him. Con did not know if that was unusual.

  He had discovered Sebastian by accident. Con had hidden in a room in the palace, a room filled with rubble. He had set his unusual sword on that rubble. Then there was an explosive sound, like booming thunder, and all the air seemed to disappear from the room. Con was thrown back. When he came to himself, he saw that he was not alone.

  Sebastian sat in the middle of the room, naked, lines and cracks running through his body as if he were a shattered goblet that had been poorly repaired. The rubble was gone. And Con recognized Sebastian for what he was: the King's half-witted son.

  It startled Con that the result of a mixed marriage between a Fey and an Islander would result in a young man who seemed to be made of stone instead of flesh, whose mind, while intact, moved as slowly as a mountain, and whose soul seemed as fresh and innocent as that of a newborn babe.

  "We … must … leave," Sebastian said again, and Con frowned. He had felt that way for days, but the Officiates refused to let anyone out of the cavern. They were afraid that people who explored the tunnels would find Fey and lead the Fey back here. The Officiates weren't protecting the cavern for its holy water supplies — holy water had been rendered useless in the battle against the Fey — but for all the other supplies: food, extra water, and even blankets. It was as if the gang that had hidden here had abandoned everything quickly and under duress.

  "I know," Con said, hoping that would placate Sebastian. Sebastian had proven difficult in a whole manner of ways. Once he got an idea into his mind, it seemed to stay. He had wanted to look for his sister and father after Con had rescued him from the palace. Con had finally lied to him, telling him that they were going to search in the tunnels below.

  A day later, Sebastian had said, rather sorrowfully, "We … aren't … looking … any-more."

  And they weren't. The King had disappeared, leaving his son to fend for himself. It wasn't that the King was dead — Con had seen him ride out of the palace on a horse. The King had left without his son, a son and heir who was at a disadvantage at all times. It was an unusual cruelty, given Sebastian's capacity or lack thereof. Con found that he couldn't abandon Sebastian too. He felt that Sebastian was part of his Charge. The Rocaan hadn't known that Sebastian needed guarding, but the Holy One had. And He had sent Con.

  "Now," Sebastian said. His grating voice held an urgency that Con had never heard before.

  Con turned to him. Sometimes he found it hard to look at Sebastian, with all the lines and cracks running through his grayish skin. Now they seemed like sorrow lines, all pointing to the fear that made his chin jut forward, his mouth turn down.

  "Why?" Con asked, in spite of himself.

  "Magick … shifted," Sebastian said.

  Con didn't know what that meant. But he did know that Sebastian was half-Fey and that he might know things that Islanders wouldn't. It had been what the Officiates feared when Con stumbled on their hiding place.

  Take him away, they had said. He's Fey. He does not belong here.

  He is the King's son, Con had said.

  We cannot have him here, they had said.

  He is my Charge, Con had said.

  And that had silenced them. They had argued about Sebastian a bit later as well, but by then, Con had another answer for them. If they let Sebastian go, he might lead the Fey to them. They had extrapolated that answer to all the people hiding in the cavern and now no one could leave.

  "Where would we go?" Con asked. He had been asking himself that for days. He hated the darkness here, the sense of waiting, the anticipation of doom. The Officiates seemed to have forgotten the Words Written and Unwritten:

  A man's strength lies in his ability to rescue himself and others.

  The Officiates may have forgotten that, but Con hadn't.

  "I … do … not … know," Sebastian said. "But … we … must … go. Now."

  "All of us?"

  "No." Sebastian's sorrowful look seemed to grow deeper. "You … and … me."

  Con rubbed a hand over his face. The fear that had been bottled up inside him flared. He had fled here because he hadn't known where else to go. He had planned to go back to the Tabernacle, but it only took moments for him to realize that the Tabernacle — and the entire city — were gone.

  He supposed they could try to find his parents, to see if his family had survived. He had been a second son, sent young to Rocaanism, as was the tradition. His family gave him away, and he belonged to the Roca now. It had been such a wrenching parting, a loss that had ripped through him and left him speechless for months, that he did not want to face them ever again.

  He wasn't even sure he wanted to know if they lived or died.

  "We have nowhere to go," Con said. He could imagine them, scavenging through the countryside, trying to avoid the Fey. Sebastian could not move quickly. If a Fey spotted them, they were doomed.

  Sebastian shuddered. Con could feel it, a deep rumbling from within, as if the earth actually moved.

  "I … know … one … place," Sebastian said. "But … I … have … never … been … there."

  "Great," Con said. "How are we supposed to find it?"

  "I … have … mem-o-ries … not … mine … . I … will … ex-plore." And then he vanished from his eyes. Con had never seen anything like it. One moment, he was talking to a living, breathing person, the next he sat beside a statue. The fear he had been fighting grew. If this truly was his Charge, then it was a strange one. But he could not deny it. The King carried the Roca's blood. He was a direct descendant of the Roca's bloodline. And that meant his son was, too.

  And with the death of the Rocaan, that meant the King's family, within their bodies, guarded one of the most precious pieces of Rocaanism.

  Con had always wondered about the Roca. His advice, recorded in the Words Written and Unwritten, seemed so wise, and yet his final action, the one the religion celebrated, seemed on the face of it so foolish. The Roca, when asked to choose between leading his people into a battle they could not win or slaughtering the Soldiers of the Enemy, decided instead to offer himself as a sacrifice. He cleaned his sword with holy water before letting the Soldiers of the Enemy run him through. And then he was Absorbed into the Hand of God, where he now interceded for his people.

  Although he hadn't done a lot of interceding lately.

  Con clenched a fist. The thought was blasphemous and he knew it. But the Islanders were faced with the Soldiers of the Enemy for the second time in twenty years, and each time God had done nothing.

  Perhaps He was displeased with the uses holy water had been put to. Or perhaps He expected more from his people, as the Words Written and Unwritten said.

  Then, suddenly, Sebastian was back in his own eyes. The change was startling and subtle at the same time. Con couldn't explain the difference, but he felt it. It was like a breeze suddenly coming up on a warm summer's day.

  "I … can … find … it," Sebastian said. He slowly reached across the distance between them and took Con's arm. Sebastian's grip was firm, almost painful. "We … must … go."

  "All right," Con said. He knew that leaving, despite the Officiates' orders, would be easy. The darkness would give them cover, and no one paid attention anyway. They were all too involved in their own loss. "I'll get supplies, and then we can leave."

  He wasn't sure about trusting this creature beside him, but he knew it was b
etter than remaining here, beneath the ruined city, waiting for the Fey. He had fought the Fey once, and that was more than enough.

  SEVEN

  "You are not the only one who can kill the Black King," the Shaman said. She wrapped her blanket tighter around herself, as if her own words made her cold.

  Nicholas felt unusually warm, despite the snow, despite the chill air. The sunlight was thin, and seemed to have no heat. But the warmth he felt came from within, from a decision soundly made.

  He had no other choice.

  "There are others — "

  "Who won't even get close."

  She tilted her head toward him. Her hair looked pale in the thin light. It formed a nimbus around her head. She was only one of two Fey he had ever met whose hair was not black.

  "You won't get close either," she said. "He expects you now. He sees you as a worthy adversary, and he will expect you to try again. He will do everything he can to prevent that."

  "I'll figure out something. I know passages in the palace — "

  "And I'm sure he will soon if he doesn't already." The Shaman turned slightly on her rock. Her dark eyes were like holes in her face. "Nicholas, you have never met anyone like him. He has held continents under his hand. He is the smartest military leader the Fey have had in generations, and we are a military people. You were lucky the first time, and you nearly killed him. You will not be lucky again."

  "Have you Seen something?" Nicholas asked.

  She stared at him. Then closed her eyes. "I have Seen many things. Mostly, I See death."

  Nicholas shook his head. There was death all around them. Arianna was his heir now. She could rule if something happened to him. If there was something left to rule. And the only way that would happen would be to eliminate the Black King.

  "I can try to get close," Nicholas said. "I have been known to have amazing luck."

  "You would need it," the Shaman said quietly. "The Black King probably has orders out for your execution."

  The thought didn't shock him. He knew it. He might use it to his advantage if he had to, although he wasn't quite sure how.

  Yet.

  Something scraped behind him. Nicholas turned. His daughter stood at the mouth of the cave. She was wrapped in a blanket, but her thinness was still painfully apparent, her Fey features all the more severe because of it. She used to have some of his roundness. That was all gone now.

  Only her bright blue eyes and her pale brown skin showed his paternity. He had never noticed how frail the light skin and dark hair made her look. Not even as a newborn that couldn't keep its shape had she struck him as this vulnerable.

  "Dad can't get close, but I can," Arianna said. She sounded confident, but her eyes looked haunted.

  "You cannot get close, child," the Shaman said without turning around. She continued to face the valley, as if she could see something in the villages below.

  "I can," Arianna said. In the past, that sentence would have had fire behind it. Now it only had a quiet determination. "I can look like a hundred different Fey. I can get in so close he wouldn't even know I'm there. I could look like his most trusted advisor."

  "With practice," Nicholas said. His heart had contracted in his chest. He didn't want to think of her there, with the Black King, so close to his power and his temptations.

  And his soldiers.

  "With practice," she agreed.

  "And then what would you do, child? Would you try to reason with him? Would you make him leave? Would you offer yourself as a sacrifice, pretending to work with him, while saving Blue Isle?"

  Arianna's eyes flashed. Blue and bright and deep. "I would kill him."

  "You cannot," the Shaman said. "It will destroy the Blood Magick."

  "I don't believe in that," Arianna said. "Dad stabbed the Black King and nothing happened."

  "Your father did not kill him."

  "I may not be considered part of the Blood," Nicholas said.

  "But you might be," the Shaman said. "Do not underestimate the Mysteries and the Powers. They hold the secret to all."

  "And they seem to be capricious," Arianna said. "I can try."

  "You would risk a Blood war?" the Shaman said. "You would risk being wrong? The Black Throne is held together by Blood Magick. If that Blood — and you are part of it, child, through your mother — if that Blood turns on itself, insanity will reign. Millions will die. You can gamble with your own life, child, on a hunch, but you cannot gamble with the lives of millions. And neither," she said, looking at Nicholas, "can you."

  "I already have," he said. "I tried to kill him."

  "Did you?" she asked. She hunched forward, but she still did not turn. "You are a warrior, good Nicholas. Warriors do not fail."

  Nicholas's heart was in his throat. Arianna frowned at him, as if she did not understand.

  "Why wouldn't you try to kill him?" she asked.

  "I did," Nicholas said.

  "And something within you prevented it. Something stopped you from severing his head from his body," the Shaman said.

  "Yes," Nicholas said. "The toughness of his throat."

  Arianna crossed her arms. The blanket fell away. She was wearing britches and a linen shirt, and she looked cold.

  The Shaman shook her head. "I think it was more," she said. "I think it was the knowledge of the consequences if you were wrong. You are a man used to making decisions for countless people. You do so instinctively. You did so that day."

  "You sound so sure of yourself," Nicholas said.

  The Shaman turned then. Her face was gray, her eyes dark. "I've Seen it," she whispered. "I've Seen the Blood turning on itself. The insanity."

  "When?" The question was Arianna's, and it had a sharpness to it.

  "The first time I Saw it was the day you and your father escaped the Black King," the Shaman said. "I had a series of Visions, and the last showed Blood against Blood, the Fey lunatics, killing all in their path. I have Seen that Vision over and over, child. It is a likely possibility."

  "I didn't See it," Arianna said.

  "We don't See all," the Shaman said. "We only See parts. And sometimes we See nothing at all. That is why Visionaries compare Visions. You Saw something that day. I did too. We should compare."

  The warmth Nicholas felt had fled. Instead, a chill colder than ice filled him. He believed in Visions. He knew their limits and their strengths. Arianna was alive because the Shaman had had a Vision, a Vision that someone needed to assist at Arianna's birth. Otherwise, both Arianna and Jewel would be dead.

  "You saw the result of Blood against Blood," he said, his voice wavering slightly. The Shaman nodded. So that was the difference he had seen in her since they arrived. Not just the fact that she had denied her training and abandoned her post in the Shadowlands, unwilling to die with all the other Fey from the first invasion force. Not just the fact that she was worried for him and Arianna. But the fact that she was terrified for the whole world.

  Everything rested on what they all decided.

  Together.

  He had already seen his world explode twice in his lifetime, but the Fey had an odd way of conquering. They didn't destroy indiscriminately. They kept fields and crops and people alive so that the land would earn for the Empire.

  But if the Shaman's Vision were true, even that would disappear. The Fey would become lunatics, and the Fey-ruled world would turn upon itself, exploding in conflagrations not seen since the Fey began conquering other countries.

  The very thought made his stomach turn.

  "You believe her?" Arianna asked.

  He nodded. "Don't trifle with Visions," he said. "Your mother tried, and walked right into hers."

  Arianna took a step out into the snow. "But they can be wrong. You said they can be wrong. You said my grandfather followed a false Vision. That's why he failed here, why he didn't conquer Blue Isle."

  Nicholas glanced at the Shaman, hoping she would explain. She, in turn, nodded her head toward him.

&nbs
p; "He failed," Nicholas said, "because he didn't compare the Visions. If he had compared his Vision with your mother's he would have learned that she was going to die here. As it was, he had incomplete information, and it cost hundreds of lives."

  "So your Vision could be incomplete," Arianna said to the Shaman.

  The Shaman nodded. "It could be. I'm sure it is," she said. "But we do not know in what way, yet. It might be that if we compare Visions we will learn that you have Seen the path to the Blood against Blood and I have Seen the result. The result is worthless without the path."

  "Not worthless," Nicholas said. "You'd never had that Vision before that day, have you?"

  She shook her head.

  "So something we did then might lead us to the insanity you're talking about. Something changed that day, and we might be on that path."

  "That's right," the Shaman said.

  "Would it be so bad?" Arianna asked.

  Nicholas turned to her, the chill deepening. He must have looked shocked because she raised her hands in self-defense.

  "I mean, I know that all the deaths are bad," she said. "I know that. But they would happen in the Fey Empire and nowhere else. If we don't stop the Black King, there will be more deaths on Leut and in the rest of the world. It seems to me that we're trading Fey lives for real lives. It might be worth it."

  Nicholas was staring at her. She looked the same. The birthmark on her chin made her the Arianna he had always known. Tall, slender, with the look of Jewel. But he hadn't given her this ruthlessness, this utter disregard for life.

  Had he?

  "Your child is truly Fey, Nicholas," the Shaman said, and there was disappointment in her voice. "She could kill the Black King with no remorse."

  "I'd feel the remorse," Nicholas said.

  The Shaman slipped a hand out from under the blanket and put her fingers on his arm. Her skin was cool, as if nothing could keep her warm.

  "That is why you cannot go to him," she said. "You're not a killer, Nicholas. You are a warrior. You cannot kill in cold blood. If you could do that, you would have killed that Black Robe, the one who murdered your wife."