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

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  "You were eating at the cavern."

  "Yes … ," Sebastian said.

  "The supplies were meager there. Here we have an entire room full of food."

  "I … ate … so … . no … one … thought … me … strange."

  That failed, Con thought, but said nothing. "You sure you'll be all right without food?"

  "Yes … ," Sebastian said. "I … am … different … from … you."

  That was true. Con still hadn't figured out the extent of Sebastian's abilities, but they seemed strange to him. Strange to him, even though he had been born after the first Fey invasion.

  "Mind if I eat?"

  "You … need … to," Sebastian said.

  Con pulled open another crate, and then another. Turnips, potatoes, apples. There was enough food to feed him for the rest of his life.

  If the food didn't spoil.

  The turnip had tasted all right, as turnips go. But he took a potato and bit the end off it, letting it crunch beneath his teeth. He was so hungry he had to remind himself to eat slowly.

  Sebastian stood at the door and watched. At first, it bothered Con, and then he didn't care. He filled his face until he was sated, and then he looked at one of the bottles of holy water.

  He was so thirsty, and there didn't seem to be real water here.

  Would the Holy One mind if Con used holy water to quench his thirst?

  Con minded. If there was other water, he would drink that first.

  "Sebastian," he said, "would you see if there are water stores in any of these rooms?"

  "I … do … not … want … to … go … in," he said.

  Con was beginning to understand Sebastian's hesitation. He had been warned about holy water his entire life; he had told Con that. In fact, as they hurried (as much as Sebastian could hurry) through the tunnels that first day, Sebastian had asked Con if he were carrying holy water.

  He had been, but it had been lost in the fight.

  "You don't have to go in," Con said. "Just see."

  He wiped some juice from his chin and stared at the food stores. He wasn't willing to stay down here indefinitely. Sebastian had told him that the walk to his friends' place was at least a day. That meant that Con would need food. He couldn't carry much. The sword was awkward enough. He kept it threaded through his makeshift belt most of the time, but sometimes he had to hold it.

  His robe had a few pockets. He would stuff them full. Then he would see if Sebastian would be willing to carry some food, too. As terrified as Sebastian was, Con suspected he wouldn't help.

  He could hear Sebastian shuffling through the passageway. Con put a hand on his stomach. It felt heavy and bloated. Not as satisfied as it had been earlier. In his haste, he had overeaten. But at least he had some nourishment.

  At least he would get through this day.

  "There … are … more … bod-ies," Sebastian said, his voice echoing through the passageway.

  "No water?"

  "I … have … not … looked … in … all … rooms," Sebastian said. But he sounded doubtful.

  Besides, water was not stored in crates, it was stored in animal bladders. With the stench and the soot on everything, the water would be tainted.

  Con hadn't thought of that before.

  The only water stored in vials was holy water.

  He closed an eye, and murmured a small request for forgiveness to the Holy One. Water was only an issue down here, Con prayed. Once he reached the top, he wouldn't need to carry his own.

  Only this once.

  Only this once.

  He crouched beside the vials and picked up one. It had the same black film that everything else had. Then he uncorked it.

  His hand was trembling. He could hear Sebastian, walking along the passage. If Sebastian saw him doing this, then he would be even more frightened.

  But Con couldn't spill. He didn't want any of this liquid near Sebastian. Con had heard that the touch of holy water on cloth had killed Sebastian's mother, Jewel. He didn't want to do the same thing to Sebastian.

  But Con was so thirsty.

  He held the vial gingerly by its neck. Then he drank.

  At first the water tasted like potatoes and the stench outside. Then he could taste the water itself.

  Bitter.

  So bitter that it would have made tears come to his eyes, if he had any tears within his body.

  He drank the entire vial, put the cork back on, and set the vial in the corner. Then he took a bite of a potato to clean the taste from his mouth.

  How awful. No wonder no one drank it. He hoped it wouldn't harm him, like it harmed the Fey. Holy water wasn't made for drinking, after all.

  But it had quenched his thirst.

  By the time Sebastian made it back to the door, Con was standing. "Would you help me carry some of this food?" he asked.

  "I … have … poc-kets," Sebastian turned out the pockets of his robe.

  "Good," Con said. "This will help me once we get out of here. Even if we can take a little bit, then we'll be all right."

  "I … do … not … know … how … to … get … out," Sebastian said.

  Con suppressed a sigh. "I told you. By that pile of bodies. There's a rope ladder."

  "No … ," Sebastian said.

  "I came down it," Con said.

  "There … is … no … lad-der," Sebastian said. "And … no … more … tunnels."

  "That you could see," Con said with authority, although his stomach was jumping.

  "Right … ," Sebastian said.

  Con stepped over the body, and pushed past Sebastian. He hurried down the passageway, not stopping to peer in rooms. No wonder it had taken Sebastian so long to look around. Sebastian had gone a considerable distance.

  The bodies at the opening were piled as high as Con. It looked as if they had fallen in their attempt to escape the Fey.

  Either that, or climbed over each other in an attempt to get out of here.

  The stench was back, but it wasn't as bad as it was before. He peered at them, then above them. Way above, he should have seen the rotted stairs, but they were gone, too.

  So was the door.

  Light filtered into the shaft, illuminating the body on top.

  Around the opening were burned timbers.

  The Tabernacle fire had destroyed the stairs and the rope ladder. The bodies in front of Con hadn't come because they were trying to get out of the catacombs, but because they had fallen in.

  He glanced around at the walls. Soot-covered, but smooth. The doors on this side opened to unfurnished rooms.

  Nothing more.

  There had to be another passage out.

  There had to be.

  He pulled the map out from his robe. The map, which the Rocaan had given him only two weeks before, was crumpled and coming apart. It was older than Con, older than the Rocaan had been, maybe even as old as the Tabernacle itself.

  It showed passages, all right. The palace side of Jahn was honeycombed with them. But the Tabernacle side only showed this one.

  Leading from the Tabernacle to the bridge. What few branches had existed were, as he learned on his first trip, dead ends.

  Dead ends.

  Like this one.

  Unless they could figure out a way to escape this place, they were trapped.

  They would have to go back to the other side.

  Back to the place that made Sebastian frightened. Back to the magick that awaited them.

  Back to the ruined city now owned by the Black King.

  Con turned and saw Sebastian making his slow way through the corridor.

  "What … will … we … do?" Sebastian asked.

  "I don't know," Con said. "I really don't know."

  TWENTY

  Tuft flew into the tunnels. Unlike the last time, only hours before, the tunnels were alive with sound. The Infantry marched.

  Rugad was as good as his word.

  The sound of hundreds of feet marching in unison on stone accompanied
Tuft as he made his way through the tunnels. Occasionally voices echoed back and forth, but for the most part, the Infantry leaders did not speak, and the Infantry itself was too well trained.

  Tuft didn't speak either. He was one of a dozen Wisps searching the passageways for the Black King's great-grandson. They would find him.

  They had to.

  The Black King did not tolerate failure.

  Wisps were not the only searchers. The Infantry searched, in its own way, and Rugad had also sent a group of Spies, Beast Riders (Rat Riders, from what Tuft had seen), and Charmers. They would be able to deal with the Black King's great-grandson — hold him, and not kill him.

  Tuft wended his way along the familiar passages. He had come from the palace. Apparently Rugad had gotten word quickly to all the Fey. Tuft had come across dozens of troops — half Infantry and half Foot Soldiers — already. Some were searching the tunnels.

  Others were heading the same direction he was.

  Toward the cavern.

  He wasn't far from it now. It amazed him how knowing the route made the journey quicker. The troops had gotten rid of the cobwebs. They had disturbed the dirt and dust; particles floated through the air all around him. Because he was at his smallest size, some of the particles looked as big as boulders. He had to dodge them as he flew.

  The tunnels were also hot. That many people were bound to have an effect on the small space, an effect that even Tuft could feel.

  At least the tunnels were light this time. The Infantry had hung Fey lamps in their wake. The tiny Islander souls batted against the glass like moths, their small hands clenched into fists that pounded fruitlessly against the glass.

  Sometimes, when he was in a taunting mood, he flew up against the glass and pounded back. Most souls didn't realize they were dead. Most of them didn't realize that the hands they used were composed entirely of their essence and their thoughts. If they thought themselves trees, they would be trees.

  Trees made of light.

  Of brilliant pure light.

  The Fey lamps made from Islanders burned brighter than any Tuft had seen. It was as if someone had brought hundreds of rays of sun below. The bright light illuminated the tunnel even more for him. The cracks in the stone, the layers of dirt and grime, even on the ceiling, told him that these tunnels were centuries old. They had been built for another reason, a reason he didn't know and didn't comprehend.

  He doubted the Islanders did.

  The Black Robes were using this place as a dwelling, hiding like rats.

  And like rats, they would be flushed out.

  He passed a group of Rat Riders flowing toward the cavern. They looked more menacing than other Beast Riders somehow, perhaps because he couldn't believe anyone would choose to be a rat. Beast Riders chose their creature when they came into their magick. They could look like a Fey, although eventually they would adopt parts of their creature — Bird Riders often had featherlike hair — or they could look like the creature with a Fey riding on its back. Only that Fey did not have legs. Its torso disappeared into the creature's back. The Fey on the back of the Rat Riders were small, and looked as mean as the rodents they rode.

  Tuft shuddered. He was glad they weren't searching for him.

  He was heading to the cavern, not to see the capture of the Black Robes, but to figure out the direction in which the great-grandson had traveled. Tuft had a hunch, a hunch he did not explain to anyone.

  He believed the great-grandson would go south.

  It seemed logical to Tuft. The palace was to the north. The great-grandson seemed to be, from everything Tuft had heard, of limited intelligence. Therefore the boy would figure that going south — the opposite direction from the Black King — might prevent the Black King from capturing him.

  As Tuft got closer to the cavern, the sounds intensified. The marching feet were fading, going off in different directions — searching.

  The sounds he heard were screams.

  Male voices raised in terror, howling, shouting warnings. A few of the Infantry were uttering the undulating Fey victory cry.

  They had been two weeks without battle, and the battle lust, apparently, had yet to die within them.

  Tuft rounded the last corner before the end of the tunnel. The well-lit floor was black. Water ran along it as if the river had broken through the walls.

  Water —

  And blood.

  Tuft wondered if Rugad had had enough foresight to send Red Caps. Someone had to stop all this magick material from going to waste.

  Tuft flew the last of the way, hearing the cries grow, smelling the copper scent of blood. When he reached the cavern, he instinctively rose with an updraft, and narrowly avoided a strip of skin whipping through the air.

  Careless. The Foot Soldiers were being careless.

  Tuft looked down. Three Foot Soldiers flayed a Black Robe — or what was left of him — on the ground below. They were saving his head for last.

  The scene repeated all through the cavern. Fey lamps were stacked on crates, set on the floor, hanging from torch hooks, but there weren't enough to illuminate the entire room. Shadows lurked everywhere, and in many of them, Black Robes were huddled, clutching vials of their holy poison.

  A lot of vials had already been smashed against the ground. Shards of glass mingled with skinless bodies, and other dead still wearing their robes, skewered by the Infantry.

  The Infantry was farther ahead, swords flashing in the uneven light. The clang of metal on metal echoed through the cave, mixing with the screams of the not-yet-dead.

  The Rat Riders had found some Black Robes as well. The rat part of the Rider gnawed on the corpses while their Fey halves urged them on. Tuft shuddered as he watched them gorge. Sometimes even his own people disgusted him.

  Up ahead, some Black Robes were running into the tunnels, only to be turned around by Infantry there. The sound of shattering glass resounded, followed by laughter, and cries of pain.

  This was the last stand of the Black Robes. There would be no other. Their hiding place discovered, their future gone. They would pay for murdering an entire troop of Fey.

  All of them would pay.

  Tuft had no qualms about turning in their hiding place. He had seen what their holy poison could do. A Fey body had been removed from the bridge the night one of the Wisps had come to Jahn to announce the Black King's invasion. The body was melted into a round ball. Only an ear and a protruding hand identified it as Fey.

  He flew across the cavern, hoping for a sign, for anything that would lead him to the Black King's great-grandson. The boy clearly wasn't here. If he were, the Black King would never have allowed this attack.

  He had thought the Black King wanted no one killed.

  That order must have changed. He knew how it would. The Black King had them searching for a Fey. There clearly were no Fey here.

  Tuft hoped the Black King wasn't relying solely on Tuft's word. That would be a bad idea, since Tuft had never seen the boy himself.

  Tuft shoved the thought from his mind. He let the air current carry him across the carnage, toward a darkened area of the cavern. Lights marked where the Fey had already been.

  Darkness pointed the way to uncharted territory.

  Besides, this dark spot was, if he was not mistaken, on the cavern's south side.

  He slid around a corner, and went up a steep incline. No one had come here. Not even terrified Black Robes. But his own small light illuminated a recent trail.

  His heart started to pound hard and his mouth went dry.

  A recent trail.

  He was tracking something.

  He only hoped it was his quarry.

  The tunnel narrowed and he paused. Was it too narrow to fit an Islander-sized person?

  Probably not, for the trail continued.

  The trail.

  Finding the Black King's great-grandson would be the pinnacle of Tuft's career. Forever after he would be known as the Fey who saved the Empire.

>   He tried to contain his excitement.

  It was too soon to count a victory where there was none.

  But it was close. He knew it was close.

  He could sense it.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The Cardidas River smelled faintly of blood.

  Boteen crouched beside the bridge and dipped his hand in the water. It was murky and brown, and looked as it had since he arrived on the Isle.

  Pure enough.

  But the scent of blood was nearly overpowering.

  Boteen closed his eyes and kept his hands in the water. The river held much blood. Ancient blood. Blood that had been shed over centuries. In its murky bottom were secrets as yet unopened, secrets that could lead him —

  He opened his eyes and pulled his hands from the water. Therein lay madness. Enchanters could not follow every trail, could not search for every scrap of history, no matter how intriguing.

  He was following the trail of the Islander Enchanter. It was fresh here. Fresher, anyway. Only a few weeks old.

  How strange, since most of it was over a decade old.

  This new part of the trail was clear: It had a gold center with imprints upon it, imprints he couldn't read. Around the edges, the gold faded to silver, and now as he reached the fresher trail, the silver had turned red.

  The sight of it made shivers run through him. This Enchanter should have died twice.

  Twice his magick saved him.

  He was a powerful man.

  The ground near Boteen had a large imprint, the size of a body. Boteen had run his hand along the grass. He dug his fingers into the dirt, but could get nothing. The near-death was the only story here, and it had nothing more to tell him.

  But the river.

  The river fairly screamed at him.

  The river smelled of blood.

  Of the Enchanter's blood.

  Boteen wiped his wet hand on the grass and decided to try again. This time he took a deep breath. He would control the path this time. He would deal with the other magick in this water later.

  He plunged his hands into the coldness, letting his mind search and search the murky depths until he felt the brush of a rope. His fingers caught it, squeezed it, and it squished against his skin, as if he were trying to hold mud.