He grabbed her arm, and stopped her just before she reached Gift.
"Let me go," she snapped.
"No," he said. "It could be an enchantment."
"Here?" she asked. "From what?"
Scavenger looked around. In addition to the swords and chalices, there were bowls and tapestries hanging on back walls. A whole wall of vials glistened. Vials that held the holy poison.
Scavenger swallowed hard. Light flooded the place, and the marble floor extended as far as the eye could see. Beyond the fountain were stairs, and beside them, two corridors that continued a long way. He suspected there were caverns off those corridors, and something more up the stairs, all containing more paraphernalia from the Islanders' religion.
He shuddered.
"Scavenger?" she asked.
"This has something to do with their religion. And the water from their religion kills Fey. Imagine what the other parts of it might do. Something could have ensnared him when he walked in."
"But we're Fey," she said.
"You haven't come into your magick yet," he said. "And I don't have any."
"Oh." She glanced at Gift. So did Scavenger. The boy had taken a step back. His eyes were still glazed, though, as if he couldn't see what was right in front of him.
"What are you doing here?" he asked suddenly. But he wasn't addressing them. He was addressing the air.
"Maybe it's a Vision," Leen said, taking a step back herself so that she wouldn't touch him.
"Was his last Vision like that?" Scavenger asked, even though he knew the answer. Gift was like other Visionaries. He fell to the ground. He drooled. He writhed, sometimes in pain, and moaned. He didn't talk in complete sentences. Visionaries didn't act like people in a L'Nacin pretend story. They had what seemed like fits.
"No," she said softly. "It wasn't."
"You're not real," Gift said and reached out a hand. It stopped, fingers moving, as if he were touching something.
"See?" Leen asked. "He thinks he's looking at someone. Let me get him."
"No." Scavenger kept his grip on her.
"If someone were truly there, we'd see it," she said.
"Not necessarily," Scavenger said. "His brain is different from ours, and so are his talents."
"But if you're right about the religion, we have to get him out of here," Leen said.
Scavenger's mouth was dry. She had a point. She had a very valid point. But he wasn't sure what to do about it. In all his years, with all the magick he'd studied, he never heard of anything like this.
Had he?
Something niggled at the edge of his mind, but he couldn't remember it.
"Let me think," he said. "Let me think."
But the harder he concentrated, the farther away the feeling got. It was as if the feeling were a child who was scampering just out of reach.
"Maybe," Leen said, "he really sees something."
Her words broke his concentration. "I have no doubt he sees something," Scavenger snapped.
"No," she said, speaking quickly as if she were trying to placate him. "I mean, maybe something's really there."
"That's what I've been saying," Scavenger said. "Maybe something is."
"But maybe it has nothing to do with Fey magick," she said.
Scavenger froze. He hadn't considered that.
"I mean," she continued, "we are in a place where the Islanders' religion is. Gift is part Islander. Maybe this is something only Islanders see."
A chill ran down Scavenger's spine. When Scavenger had moved to Adrian's farm, he had learned as much as he could about the Islander religion. Knowledge, after all, was a protector. It would save him.
He had always believed that.
Gift wasn't just part Islander. He had the blood of their religious leader in his veins. The founder of the religion, the one that the Rocaanists called the Roca. The royal family was part of an unbroken line back to that man — centuries back. The amount of the Roca's blood running through his veins had to be small, but every Fey knew that blood told.
Blood told.
"This might be a religious vision," he said.
"Yes," Leen said, as if he were agreeing with her. He was actually just speaking aloud.
"Or it might be a warning," he said.
"A warning?"
"The cave is not well guarded. Why hasn't anyone come here in all this time? Because they knew what lay within?"
He glanced around at all the undisturbed wealth. If Fey had found this place, they would have plundered it. They would have sent the stones into the Empire, used the swords as weapons, and melted the chalices.
But the Islanders held the articles of their religion in high esteem. Even people who questioned the religion, like Adrian, respected the others who believed. Theft of these objects might be such a taboo that no one would even think of it.
"I don't understand," Gift said. "Why hasn't anyone explained this to me before?"
He sounded as if he were having a rational conversation. The hair on the back of Scavenger's neck rose. He didn't know what to do. For the first time since he'd learned all the Fey magick systems, he had run into a situation that he didn't recognize. He wasn't sure if they could tamper with it without hurting Gift, and he wasn't sure if they could leave him in the throes of whatever it was without hurting him as well.
Scavenger hated this feeling.'
"Maybe one of us should go get Coulter," Leen said.
"What could he do?" Scavenger asked. He hadn't taken his gaze from Gift. Gift's arm dropped to his side, and he frowned, as if he were listening intently — to someone in front of him.
"Coulter's got Islander magick. He might know — "
"Coulter knows as much as I do. He was raised by the Fey until he was a small boy, and then Adrian taught him, alongside me. His magick comes from the Fey upbringing."
"If that were true," Leen said softly, "then you would be magick too. There's a wild magick here. You know it as well as I do."
He knew it. He knew it well. He just didn't like to admit it. Admitting it meant two things: It meant that he could never come into his own magick, and it meant that there was an entire magick system out there that he didn't understand — maybe that no one understood.
As much as he liked to pretend that he had accepted the fact he would never have magick, he hadn't. He figured that he would get it somehow, and Coulter had given him hope. If an Islander boy could have it, then Scavenger could, too.
Part of him knew that was wishful thinking. Part of him didn't care.
But the second thing, the second thing scared him.
It had taken him decades to learn all about Fey magick. Fey magick, in the hands of the inexperienced, could sometimes be deadly. And it could certainly be unpredictable.
To have a wild magick, or a magick system that no one understood — well, that meant that the system was dangerous just by its very existence.
"Maybe we should shake him free," Scavenger said. He let go of Leen's arm. She glanced at him, her long face filled with uncertainty.
Then she reached out and slowly touched Gift.
He turned and glared at her with such ferocity that Scavenger's hand went, unbidden, to his knife.
"I'm fine," Gift said. "Now let me be."
"But — " Scavenger started.
"There's nothing in front of you," Leen said.
"You don't know that," Gift said.
"We can't see anything," Leen said.
"I heard you earlier." Gift sighed. He held up a single finger in front of him, as if he were asking someone to wait. "I'm all right," he continued, this time more gently, as if his words could calm them. "There's no need to send for Coulter. He'll be here soon enough. Why don't you two explore a little? But be careful of the items on the walls."
"And you'll keep talking to the air?" Scavenger asked.
"I'm not talking to the air," Gift said.
"Then who are you talking to?" Scavenger asked.
A look flic
kered across Gift's face, passing so quickly that Scavenger couldn't quite identify it. It felt like guilt, though, as if Gift were lying.
"I'm not certain," Gift said. "I'll tell you as soon as I find out."
"Be careful," Leen said. "You don't know what kind of place this is."
"I have a pretty good idea," Gift said, and turned away from them, smiling at his invisible companion as if in apology.
Scavenger watched him for a moment. Gift didn't say anything. He appeared to be listening.
"I don't like this," Scavenger said loudly, knowing Gift could hear him.
"You're not supposed to like it," Leen said.
"We're supposed to protect him," Scavenger said.
"And we are," Leen said. "We just don't know what we're protecting him from."
But Scavenger knew. Gift would look like that if he were talking to a Wisp in its small form, or if he were conversing with a Spy that had blended in. Islanders would see what Scavenger was seeing now.
Nothing.
Only Scavenger wasn't an Islander. He was Fey. He knew that magick took many forms.
He just didn't recognize this one.
And that frightened him.
THIRTY-THREE
Con gripped his sword tightly, but he felt completely overwhelmed. How, even with a powerful weapon like this one, could he defeat all those Fey?
The Fey filled the corridor, going all the way back to the entrance. They brushed against the soot-blackened walls, and had pushed aside the bodies of the dead.
"So you are the Black King's great-grandson," said the Fey woman nearest Sebastian. She was older than most Fey Con had seen, with a streak of white layering her black hair.
"No … " Sebastian said.
Con started down the pile. He'd fought off a number of Fey before with it. But never an army.
Never an army.
"The Black King wants to meet you," the woman said.
Sebastian stepped backward, into the pile, and the entire thing swayed. Con stopped, grabbed on, looking for a place to jump. He couldn't land wrong, though. He didn't dare lose the sword or hurt himself.
"Run … , Con." Sebastian shouted. "Run!"
"No," Con said, holding out the sword. "You won't take him as long as I'm here."
The swaying nearly stopped. Then Sebastian hit the pile again. Con suddenly realized Sebastian was doing that purposely.
But to what end?
The Fey were coming closer. Con couldn't wait for the swaying to stop. He took a step —
And the crates tumbled around him. He lost his footing, slipped, and fell backward, as crates fell in all directions. He wrapped his arms around his head, and something hit his fingers. The sword slipped from them. He heard it clatter through the crates. He could see it, cutting through the wood as if it were water.
It plunged through the bodies beneath him, disappearing into "the "pile of flesh.
Con saw all of that as he fell. He dropped quickly, crates scraping against him, splinters digging into his bare skin. The fall seemed to take forever, even though he knew it was only a matter of moments —
And then he landed, in soft goo and bones. Bodies. The stench covered him, and he fell into it, deep into it. His weight had broken through the rotting flesh.
Sebastian was screaming, that awful raspy sound that Con had only heard a few times before. It made his hair stand on end.
Then it ended abruptly, as if someone had placed a hand over Sebastian's mouth.
"Come on," the woman said. "Don't struggle. We won't hurt you."
"The Black King wants to see his great-grandson," a male Fey said.
Con struggled to get out of the goo. He pushed his face through and took a deep breath, nearly gagging at the stench. The crates were shattered around him, making an effective barrier between him and Sebastian.
Con couldn't reach his sword, either. He couldn't see it anymore. He wasn't sure where it was. All he knew was that he hadn't landed on it.
He shoved at the crates, trying to make them move. They were wedged pretty tight, and he was exhausted. He could barely move his arms. A pain ran through his lower back, a pain that didn't entirely feel natural.
"What about the other one?" a different woman asked.
"What about him?" the main woman said.
"Should we kill him?" And Con heard desire in her voice.
The female leader laughed. "Foot Soldiers," she said. "I thought you would have had your fill of carnage on the other side of the river."
"One can never have too much," she said primly.
"I suppose not," the first woman said, although she sounded doubtful.
"Well?" the Foot Soldier asked.
"No," the leader said. "Let him be. The Black King said he wanted to see this one right away. That's more important."
Con pushed against the crates with all his strength. They shifted, but they didn't part. He let out a little sob of air.
"No!" he screamed. "Take me!"
Maybe if they got him free, he could get the sword, and if he got the sword, he could fight them.
Someone laughed — he thought it was the woman again — and then he heard footsteps.
Walking away.
"No!" he screamed again. "Don't leave me here!"
But his voice echoed.
They had to be carrying Sebastian.
Because they were already gone.
THIRTY-FOUR
Jakib and Denl had brought torches. Apparently Marly had given them a bit of food and some skins filled with water as well. By the time they were halfway up the mountain, Matthias was grateful for their preparation. He would have been both night-blinded and exhausted without their help.
The trails that only he could see were bright, though; they looked like fires burning through brush. The night was clear, but dark; there was no moon. The stars were faint glimmerings against the black velvet sky. The mountain loomed like a giant shadow before him.
Except for the glowing light in the center. It beckoned like a beloved room. The beckoning enticed him and made him shiver at the same time. He tried to ignore it as best he could, thinking that it was something else, something other, something that had nothing to do with the trails he followed.
He hoped.
"You cold?" Tri asked from beside him.
"No," Matthias said. Of all the discomforts he was suffering, cold was not one of them. The air had chilled since the sun went down, but the chill was expected: at least he had remembered to wear an extra sweater when he left.
"You plan to walk all night?" Tri asked.
"If that's what it takes," Matthias said.
"And what'll you do if you find them?"
Matthias didn't know the answer to that. He had no holy water with him, and it was worthless anyway. He had only his wits to fight the Fey.
And he wasn't sure he wanted to fight them at this time, anyway.
He found it interesting that Tri had asked the question. Apparently Tri's desire to warn the "tall ones" had disappeared with the sun.
Or maybe the Blooders they had seen in the center of town had chased it away.
Matthias didn't answer Tri. Instead, he kept walking, following the trails that etched themselves across the dirt path.
The trails were so odd. There were two of them, weaving back and forth across each other, burned into the ground as if they were meant to lead him forward. The panic they had raised in him when he was in Constant had faded —he wondered if some of that were caused by the town itself — but he still felt an odd prickling.
The others couldn't see the trail. Not Tri, not Jakib and Denl, not the townspeople.
Just Matthias.
Matthias had done so many things that were unusual, even impossible, and each time it bothered him.
The Fiftieth Rocaan, his predecessor, would have said that was because Matthias did not relax into God's will. The Fiftieth Rocaan had believed that Matthias had a special understanding of that will.
Matthias had discounted the Fiftieth Rocaan. Matthias's special understanding had come from his great scholarship. He had learned, in his early years in the Tabernacle, that he lacked the faith the Fiftieth Rocaan had. Many other members of the Tabernacle did as well — it was a profession more than anything else — but Matthias had respected the believers.
The Fiftieth Rocaan had been a believer.
And so had Titus, Matthias's successor.
Both of them had died at the hands of the Fey.
Matthias shivered, and looked up. The trails wound around a mountain path, illuminating it for him. They switched back and forth only a bit more, finally ending in a rock outcropping. And as he looked at the outcropping, which was still some distance away, he felt the flicker of a presence.
He stopped. He had felt that presence before. Faintly. It had been there since just before he had become Rocaan. Only then he had felt it on the western side of Jahn, near the Daisy Stream. Soon the presence had become something he called wishful thinking, like a dream, like the shadow of a dead loved one looking over a man's shoulder.
And yet here it was on the mountainside, the mountainside where he was abandoned as a babe, so strong and clear that it seemed as if he could reach out and touch a person.
"Are ye all right, Holy Sir?" Denl asked.
Denl had stopped beside him. His torch flared brightly against the black sky. The fire almost looked unreal, as if it were drawn by one of the artists the Tabernacle used to hire.
"Yes, I am, thank you," Matthias said. The torch was distracting him from the trails. Something about them bothered him. They were different from the presence, and yet tied to it.
He shuddered again.
He couldn't go any farther without a plan.
And he wanted to go alone.
He turned to Tri. "Listen," Matthias said, "stay back here. If we do find Fey ahead, go to Constant. Tell the Wise Leaders you've found the tall ones, and tell them where."
"No," Tri said. "They're precisely the people we don't want up here. I came here to warn the tall ones to leave."
"I know," Matthias said. "And you can if the tall ones are Islander. If they're Fey, get the Wise Leaders. The Fey are more dangerous. They don't need protection. They will destroy the entire town."
The Resistance: The Fourth Book of the Fey (Fey Series) Page 21
