She pushed a strand of hair off her face. "I know where young Gift is," she said.
"I know," Nicholas said. "You told me that when we first saw you."
"You can't believe her," Arianna said.
"I can," he said firmly, not sure how to deal with his wild daughter when she was this distraught. "I can, and I do."
"I will take you to him," the Shaman said. Her back was straight, her eyes meeting his. "I think it is for the best."
"Arianna and I can go alone if this is dangerous for you."
The Shaman shook her head. "Being on Blue Isle with the Black King is dangerous for me," she said. "It doesn't matter where I am."
"I don't want to find him," Arianna said.
Nicholas ran his hand along her back. He could feel the knobs of her spine. "I do," he said.
She turned toward him. "Aren't I enough, Daddy? Aren't we family enough?"
He nodded. "You are, and always will be, my closest child. Mine from the start." He had held her when she was only moments old, when she could barely hold her shape.
His wife, dead, before the fire.
He shook the memory away. "But the Black King has come for his great-grandchildren. And if we are to defeat him, we need him to come to us."
"The Shaman says we can't kill him."
"We can't," Nicholas said. "But we can stop him from getting you or Gift."
"I don't care about Gift!" Arianna said.
"I know," Nicholas said. "But your great-grandfather does. He doesn't need the power that Gift will bring him."
"And we do?"
Nicholas pulled her close. He couldn't explain his longing for his other child. He couldn't explain the sudden need he felt to protect the boy. But he could give Arianna a reason she understood.¨
"We need the Black King to come to us and us only," Nicholas said. "He'll come wherever you are. Wherever Gift is."
"And if we're together, he'll be there," she said.
"That's right."
She sighed, then leaned her head on Nicholas's shoulder. So fragile and vulnerable and impulsively difficult. How had he ever lived without this child?
"I'm not going to be nice to him," she said.
"Just don't hurt him," Nicholas said.
"You might want to remember," the Shaman said, "that the Sebastian you loved came entirely from your brother Gift."
Arianna pushed away from Nicholas, and faced the Shaman, face red. "I'll never believe that."
The Shaman shrugged. "Then you deny yourself another member of your family. One you could love."
"You're biased."
"And so," the Shaman said softly, "Are you."
Nicholas took a deep breath. He'd had enough. They could argue as they walked. "We have to get ready," he said. "Can we reach Gift by nightfall?"
"No," the Shaman said. "But we can be there by dawn."
Dawn. His son. His children together with him for the first time. Another step toward rebuilding.
Toward defeating the Black King.
Toward hope.
TWELVE
Tuft flew in the center of the tunnels, the tiny spark of light created by his body the only illumination. His wings flapped above him, his arms were tucked against his chest, and his legs were pulled in tight. The lack of air in this place bothered him, and so did the hay, the dust, and the spiderwebs. He was afraid of many things as he flew, afraid that his small spark of light might ignite a fire in the dryness and the hay, afraid the dust would overwhelm him, afraid he would get trapped in a web and be unable to free himself.
Now that he was far away from the palace, it was clear that these tunnels hadn't been used in a long, long time.
The Black King had sent him on this mission personally. Tuft still wasn't used to being one of the most important Wisps in the invading force. Flurry, the Black King's favorite, had never returned from his mission to find the great-grandson. Neither had Cinder. Two other Wisps had been injured during battle, and many of the more senior Wisps were scattered along the Isle, doing scouting business and the things that Wisps were good for. Tuft was one of the few remaining in the Black King's entourage, and he was the most senior, even though his battle experience on Nye was slim.
Tuft had been sent into the tunnels to see what he could find. The Black King believed that these tunnels had been used by the Islander King in his counterattack. The Black King also believed that many of the palace staff had escaped through here. Wisdom imparted all of this information to Tuft when he assigned Tuft the task of exploring the tunnels.
"The most important thing," Wisdom had said, "is to find out how far they go, where they end up, and what their real purpose is."
Tuft couldn't divine a purpose. He'd been following the tunnels all morning, and they were vast. An entire catacomb below the city was certainly more than a single Wisp could map out in a single day. He kept expecting the tunnels to end soon, to dead-end in a brick wall somewhere, but so far they hadn't. At some point, he thought, he would have to hit the river. The tunnels couldn't go through that.
He had noted many things worth reporting. The area around the dungeons was relatively clean, and got cleaner when he was under the barracks. This, he supposed, was where the counterattack was staged.
He took a side tunnel near the dungeons and found two sets of footprints in very old dust. They went to a hidden door. He squeezed his small frame through that door, and found himself back in the palace, in the Great Hall with all the weapons. A few of the Fey had said that a Black Robe had magickally appeared in this place, carrying a mighty sword.
The magick hadn't been magick at all. Simple, old-fashioned ingenuity.
As he flew now, he found himself in a tunnel still filled with cobwebs. They were the things that bothered him the most. He had visions of himself caught in the sticky strands, unable to grow large because of his panic. His thrashing would cause a spider to come down from her lair and entrap him farther. He had heard stories of Wisps dying this way in the ancient homes on L'Nacin, but he didn't know if the stories were true.
He didn't want to find out.
There were footprints in this tunnel as well, a single set moving toward the palace and a double set moving away from it. They appeared old, but he couldn't tell how old. He suspected they dated from the most recent attack on Jahn. Someone had come through here, and then two others had left the same way. He didn't know if these prints were related, but he did assume they would help him follow the main tunnels.
He kept flying. He felt as if he had been flying too much since he had arrived on Blue Isle barely a month before. First he did scouting, then he searched for the Black King's great-grandson, then he fought a bit in the attack on the city, and then he explored.
These tunnels were the worst of it, though. He hated darkness like this. Being the only illumination made him feel so exposed. Usually man-made places had torches burning or fires in the fireplaces, so he could pretend to be a spark. No one noticed him then. If he ran into anyone here, they would notice a single dot of light, flying alone, with purpose. They might assume he was Fey and crush him between two open palms.
His mother had died that way, slapped like a gnat between the palms of a Nyeian merchant during a scouting mission. Tuft had seen it all and narrowly missed being crushed himself. He still had nightmares about giant hands closing in on him, about the seconds before the pain began.
He shook himself and kept flying. His mission was to follow the tunnels to their end, and he would do so. He had brought no supplies with him, but he had seen lots of side tunnels, and a few other hidden doors. He assumed he could go to the surface anytime he needed refreshment. The Fey owned Jahn now. Finding a place to get food and water would be easy.
The tunnel made a banking turn up ahead, and he thought he smelled the rusty stench of the river. He heard echoes, too. At first he thought they were simply the sound of water against stone, but then he realized he was hearing voices.
Whispering.
&
nbsp; The hackles rose on the back of his neck, and his wings stuttered. He dropped halfway to the floor before he could recover himself.
Why would anyone whisper down here? Why not speak aloud?
Unless they were afraid of being heard.
But by whom?
By what?
These tunnels appeared empty, and he hadn't noticed any sound carrying. If it did, he assumed he would have heard the sound of the Fey above, going about their day-to-day business.
He heard nothing.
Until now.
The whispering was getting closer. Despite his aversion to cobwebs, he flew toward the ceiling of the tunnel and slowed down. He didn't want to be noticed. He merely wanted to observe.
He went around the corner, and found himself in a large cavern. If he weren't so close to the ceiling, he probably wouldn't have noticed that the cavern was man-made. But it was. Each brick had been put in by hand. Many of them were moist. The river was nearby, and its wetness trickled in the side of the cavern.
But that wasn't what startled him the most. What startled him, and nearly made him flee back up the tunnel, were the preponderance of Black Robes. Even though Rugad's Spell Warders had neutralized the Black Robes' poison, Tuft had heard stories. He knew that it melted Fey with a single touch. He also knew that he had been given an antidote. But his fear was that these Black Robes had other tricks up their sleeves, tricks they had been unable to use in Rugad's quick and surprising attack on their stronghold.
They were hiding here now. A hundred of them, maybe more, with crates of vials stacked up against the wall, and the stench of the river around them.
The Black King would be happy to know of this enclave. He would destroy them as surely as he had destroyed their stronghold two weeks before.
This was enough. He could explore the rest of the tunnels later. The Black King would want to know this information immediately.
Tuft was about to turn back when he heard a whisper that caught his attention.
" … gone," said the voice in Islander. Tuft's Islander had been mediocre when he came to the Isle. It had gotten better in the last month. "I woke up and Con had disappeared. The Auds say he left with the King's son."
The King's son. That was the phrase that caught Tuft.
Of course. If the boy had been hiding here, no Wisp would have seen him. Rugad hadn't even known about the tunnels until recently.
"Good riddance, I say," another voice whispered. Tuft didn't even look for the source. He clung to a crack in the bricks along the line between the wall and the ceiling, trying to be as invisible as possible. He had to work to make purchase in the grout. His tiny fingers could barely hold on, and he didn't want to flap his wings too much. These bricks were old and crumbling. He didn't want to send a spray of dust onto the Black Robes below. They might look up and find him.
"That boy isn't right in the head," the second voice continued. "And he looked so strange, as if he were coming apart from the inside out."
Tuft frowned. He didn't know what would cause that. Usually the Fey bred well with other races. It didn't create health problems. It usually made them stronger.
"You're sure they're gone?" the second voice asked.
"I haven't seen them, and I looked. Con was in my service before the Rocaan called him to that Charge. He's a good boy. I'm worried about him, especially with the King's son. He seems to think the King's son is part of his Charge, but I think he's wrong. And that sword, did you see it? It's all covered with dried blood."
Tuft shuddered. Probably Fey blood. This was very interesting, more interesting than he expected. Probably more interesting than the Black King had expected.
"I saw it," the second voice said. "He's not been acting like an Aud. That sword, and that attitude. Not wanting to stay here when his betters say he should."
"They'll punish him," the first voice said.
"If they find him," the second voice said.
"If we can get the religion back on its feet."
The sentiment seemed to depress both of them, and they were suddenly silent, staring at their hands. Tuft clung to the grout, watching them, and trying to put the information together in his head. The King's son had been here, but he was gone, traveling with a Black Robe. For what? Protection?
The important information, though, was that the boy had recently left. Tuft would be able to find him in the tunnels.
And then do what? Ask him to wait? Tuft was just a Wisp. Even if he grew to full size, he wouldn't be able to fight a Black Robe with a sword.
Better to go to the Black King. Better to let the Black King plan an invasion of the tunnels. With hundreds of Fey in here, the great-grandson wouldn't have a chance. He would belong to the Black King.
Tuft smiled. And he would be the hero. The one who brought the Black King's great-grandson home.
THIRTEEN
Con slid out of the narrow passage, clinging to his sword. The dust swarmed around him, and he tried not to cough. The air smelled of smoke — not fresh any more, but cloying just the same. He leaned the sword against his leg, then turned around and grabbed Sebastian's hands.
The feel of Sebastian's skin was always startling to Con. It was cool and smooth to the touch. If Con didn't know that Sebastian could breathe and talk, he would think him as dead as the stone around them.
Sebastian gripped hard. He was still in the passage. Getting him out would be interesting.
The entire morning had been interesting. After Sebastian's warning, Con had led them through the tunnels until they came to the passage that Con dreaded. It was built under the bridge that spanned the Cardidas River. The builders had placed a tunnel below the walking area, and time and lack of use had made the passage so narrow that Con had had to crawl through it two weeks before.
Two weeks.
It seemed like a lifetime.
The passage had gotten, if anything, more narrow. The smell of smoke hung in it, overpowering the scent of the river. Rocks had fallen from the roof of the passage, probably caused by the hundreds of Fey feet that had crossed the bridge in the last two weeks.
Or maybe nothing had fallen. Maybe Con had remembered it slightly wrong. But it didn't matter. The problem had been getting Sebastian through it.
Sebastian was tall and slender, but he had no agility at all. Con had to show him how to crawl through the narrow space, and more than once, Con had to back up to find Sebastian. Sebastian would be stuck and crying in a small area, head down, arms extended forward. Con never wanted to hear Sebastian cry again. The sound was like rock grating on rock, and it made his hair stand on end.
Sebastian had been crying a lot since Con found him. The loss of his family, particularly his sister, made him seem lost. He had almost no coping skills, and had never, Con discovered, been outside the palace grounds until Con led him away. The tunnels terrified him, and the narrow passage made things worse. But Con didn't have to explain to Sebastian the importance of leaving the cavern. Sebastian already knew it, and he wanted out more than Con did.
The warning had chilled Con. He knew they had to escape that place sooner or later — the Fey would find them eventually — but something in Sebastian's manner had really convinced him. Sebastian had Fey magick, and if he claimed he could feel other shifts around him, then Con was inclined to believe him.
Sebastian needed a protector, and Con would be it, until he found the King, or until Sebastian could be on his own.
"All right," Con said, holding Sebastian's hands tightly. "I've got you. Ease forward, and I'll brace you."
Sebastian inched forward. Con moved his hands down Sebastian's arms, until he held Sebastian's shoulders through his robe and guided him out. Sebastian was heavy. He seemed to weigh twice as much as Con expected, given Sebastian's slenderness and the fact that he never ate much. He never complained about being hungry or thirsty. On that level, Sebastian's needs seemed to be few.
"Where … is … the … ground?" Sebastian asked, his voice raspy fro
m disuse and smoke.
It had taken a long time for Con's eyes to get used to the darkness, but Sebastian's didn't seem to be adjusting at all. Not only was he struggling through the passages, he was struggling through them blind.
"It's quite a ways down," Con said, wishing that Sebastian were agile enough to slide down, face first, like Con had. "I'm going to keep bracing you until you can get your legs out."
The passage's opening was wider on this side. Con hoped that by bracing Sebastian, Sebastian would be able to maneuver his legs forward, and then ease down. Con would have to carry him for part of it, but not for all of it.
Con kept one hand on Sebastian's shoulder and moved the other to Sebastian's chest. Sebastian's hips were nearly out.
"All right," Con said. "Can you get on your knees?"
"Yes," Sebastian said. He slowly moved up, crouching on his knees. Con couldn't reach him anymore, but Con kept his hands up anyway, to catch Sebastian if he fell. Or to break Sebastian's fall.
Con shuddered. He wasn't certain if he was strong enough to survive Sebastian's weight on him if Sebastian did fall.
Sebastian braced his hands on the passage opening, as Con had instructed him. Then he put one foot out, followed by the other. He didn't get tangled, as Con had feared he would, in his own robe. He was sitting, his feet dangling off the ground.
"Great," Con said. He lowered his arms. His right arm tingled. It was going to sleep. And his shoulders ached. He wasn't sure how much longer he would have been able to support Sebastian. "Now put your hands on my shoulders and slide down."
Sebastian leaned forward. Con could almost hear the creaking of Sebastian's body. At times, he was furious at the King for abandoning this boy.
Sebastian's large hands fell on Con's shoulders, firm and solid and heavy. Sebastian put all his weight on them and slid his legs forward. It was everything Con could do to keep from staggering backwards.
Sebastian's slide seemed to take forever. But finally, he reached the bottom of the new tunnel, and stood like a child, proud to be on his feet. He kept his hands on Con's shoulders and smiled.
The Resistance: The Fourth Book of the Fey (Fey Series) Page 9
