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

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  "So why did you wait until now to help me?" Gift asked.

  "I did not wait," she said.

  He frowned. She would nearly convince him, and then she would turn everything on its head. But how could a person — or even the shade of a person — convince him that it was a Mystery? He did not know. His training had not prepared him for this.

  And he knew so little of the Islanders. Most of what he knew he learned from Sebastian, who understood things imperfectly. And he could not travel across the Link anymore. He couldn't even ask Sebastian if he wanted to.

  But Adrian would be coming soon. And Adrian, even though he did not practice the Islanders' religion, was raised in it. Adrian knew more about it than Sebastian would.

  He would reserve judgment about this woman apparition until then. He would wait to see if Adrian could see her. Adrian would be the test. He was Islander, but he had no magick.

  Adrian would help him figure this out.

  She was studying Gift. He wondered if she could read his thoughts. She didn't seem to be able to, but he couldn't completely tell.

  "You don't understand the nature of my intervention, do you?" she said finally, since he had not spoken. "I helped you rebuild Shadowlands. Do you think you learned in an instant what most Visionaries take years to learn?"

  "I don't remember you," he said. "I was alone then."

  "And who do you think got you out of Shadowlands before your great-grandfather came? You would have died there, when he killed the Failures."

  "I thought Black Blood couldn't kill Black Blood."

  "That's right," she said. "But accidents happen. And he didn't go with his troops into your Shadowlands. His hands would not have been on it."

  "They say he came for me."

  "And he might have killed you, if I hadn't gotten you out in time."

  Now he knew she was lying. He had had two Visions. Two Visions so clear that they made him leave Shadowlands. He could still see them as if he had had them moments ago:

  In the first, he was standing in front of a Fey he had never seen before. They appeared to be in the Islander palace, in a large room. The room had a lot of Fey guards. Behind them, the walls were covered with spears. A throne rested on a dais, but no one sat on the throne. On the wall behind it was a crest: two swords crossed over a heart.

  He had never been there before, but he recognized the crest. It belonged to his father's family.

  The Fey was a man with the leathered skin of a fighter. His eyes were dark and empty, his hands gnarled with age. He had the look of Gift's long-dead grandfather. He was staring at Gift, hands out, eyes bright, as if Gift were an oddity, almost a religious curiosity.

  Then Gift felt a sharp shattering pain in his back. The Fey man yelled — his words blurring as his face blurred, as the room blurred, and then the Vision disappeared into darkness.

  The second Vision was somehow more disturbing, even though it felt impersonal. He wasn't in his body. He floated above it, as if he were looking through a spy hole or were a spider on the ceiling. His body stood below, taller than the strange Fey man. His body was exactly the same age it was now; it belonged to a teenager, not a full-grown Fey. The man and Gift's body stood close together. Fey guards circled the room. Two guarded the door. The Fey carried no weapons, but some of them looked like Foot Soldiers, with slender, deadly knife-sharp fingers.

  No one seemed to see him.

  The older Fey wasn't speaking. He was examining Gift's body as if it were a precious and rare commodity. The body — and Gift — were studying the man in return.

  Then someone in a hooded cloak slipped through the door. The Fey guards stepped aside, and the old man didn't see the intruder. A gloved hand holding a long knife appeared from inside the cloak, and with two quick steps, the intruder had crossed the room, and shoved the knife into the body's back.

  Gift was screaming, but he couldn't get inside the body. The old man was yelling, the door was open, and the intruder was gone.

  The body lay on the floor, eyes wide, blood trailing from the corner of the mouth. It coughed once, then its breath wheezed through its throat. The wheeze ended in a sigh, and all the life disappeared from the face.

  Gift's face.

  And then the Vision ended.

  Two versions of his own death. One from inside his body — where he felt the final death-blow — and one from out. They had confused him, and so he had gone to the Shaman as she had taught him to do with difficult Visions long ago. She had looked at him with compassion.

  Did you know that each Visionary sees his own death? she had asked.

  He had nodded. So this is mine?

  She had shaken her head. Two Visions, two paths. In the second, you do not die. Someone else does.

  Sebastian did. Sebastian, good, innocent, and childlike.

  Sebastian, the golem who should not live and did. Sebastian, whom Gift loved like a brother. Sebastian, who had so much of Gift inside of him that Gift wasn't certain if one could survive without the other.

  How do I stop it? Gift had asked.

  You must change the path.

  But how?

  The Shaman had shrugged. I have not seen this path. We cannot compare. The future is too murky. Everything is changing now. By next week, our lives will have a different meaning.

  He had changed the Vision. Or at least, he had changed part of it. Sebastian had died, from a stab to the back. But it had not been by someone in a hood. It had been by Gift's great-grandfather's guards, and Sebastian had chosen to sacrifice himself, to save Nicholas.

  Gift has Seen that too. He had Seen Sebastian, light pouring out of each hole in his body, just before that body shattered.

  "I had a Vision," he said to his mother's apparition. "You didn't help me out of Shadowlands. I had a Vision."

  She smiled at him. "Where do you think Visions come from, young Gift?"

  "They are sent … " he said, starting to recite the catechism of a Visionary, the catechism taught him by the Shaman. But he let his voice trail off before he could finish.

  "They are sent," his mother said, "by the Mysteries and the Powers."

  "So you know the future."

  She shook her head.

  "You must, if you can send Visions," Gift said.

  "The future is always changing. You should know that, too."

  "But you know one version of it."

  "Perhaps," she said, "And perhaps I do not."

  "But you could help me. If you truly have the power you say you do, you could show me the right path," he said.

  "I could," she said. "And tomorrow I could show you a different path, equally right. And the next day, I could show you yet another."

  "So you won't help me."

  "This is an uncertain time," she said. "You had a string of Visions only a week or so ago. It showed different futures, all coming from the same event. It was a warning, young Gift, that each action you make will have an effect right now. Each decision — "

  "Even talking to you?"

  "Coming here was an important choice," she said. "Accepting my help will be another."

  "Why are you pressuring me?" he asked. "If what you tell me is true, you've been here my whole life. Why now? Why can't I decide tomorrow or the day after that?"

  "This is the place where three points converge, Gift," she said. "Soon I may not have a choice as to what I do."

  "Explain that," he said.

  "I don't have to," she said. "In less than a day, you'll know."

  "I want to know now," he said.

  She brushed a soft hand across his cheek. Her smile was gentle. "You are my son. And Nicholas's. Neither of us had much patience. You seem to have even less."…

  "So what I choose now dictates your future," Gift said.

  His mother shook her head. "What you choose now dictates the future of all the Fey," she said.

  THIRTY-NINE

  The Shaman insisted that they walk through the dark. She had a small torch and she car
ried it gingerly, as if she were afraid that it would burn her fingers. It cast a very thin light on the trail.

  Nicholas had never seen darkness like this, not in all his life. He had rarely gone outside of Jahn. The city always had lights. Or it had always had lights before the Black King burned it.

  The thought sent a shaft of pain through his heart. One day he would learn his own limits. He would learn how many losses he could endure before his heart burst from the strain of it all. First his father, then Jewel, then Sebastian, and then his kingship, maybe even Blue Isle itself.

  And still he kept moving. Still he kept trying. He wasn't always sure why.

  Except for Arianna. She was ahead of him, her tall, slender frame outlined by the light of the Shaman's torch. They had walked farther down the mountainside. They were in the trees now, tall pine trees that smelled fresh. The snow was above them, but the night was cold, even here.

  The mountains, the Shaman said, were always cold.

  She insisted on traveling in silence. She said there were beasts here that could hurt people. And even though she was not native to the Isle, she seemed to know.

  She knew much more than he expected. But she wouldn't tell him how long it would take to reach Gift. All she said was that they had to hurry.

  Nicholas was moving by rote now. He had passed exhaustion miles back. Arianna had been exhausted when they started. He didn't know what kind of energy she used to keep going. Sometimes he thought she was so far gone that she didn't even know what she was doing. If the Shaman had found the edge of a cliff and said to jump, Arianna just might without a single question asked.

  He was so worried about her. She was different now. Less, somehow. The loss of Sebastian had taken something from her. It didn't seem to matter that he wasn't her blood brother. He had been more to her than that. He had been the brother of her heart.

  Nicholas understood that.

  Sebastian had been a child of his heart.

  The pain flared through him again. He took a deep breath. As long as he felt pain, he was alive.

  The trail was a narrow path that wound around trees and boulders. He could barely see it in the dark. Mostly he walked where Arianna had walked. He was thankful for the boots she had stolen for him. He was thankful for small things now.

  Small things were all he had.

  Small things: Arianna, and the hope of Gift.

  The hope of Gift, and the equal and almost greater hope of getting the Isle back. Of giving the Isle to his children, without the Black King's interference.

  Sometimes Nicholas wished he had shoved harder. He couldn't believe that the Black King had lived through that sword through the neck. Nicholas had thought that Fey were easier to kill.

  Jewel had been.

  At least for Matthias.

  All it had taken was a touch of holy water to a cloth Matthias had placed on her head.

  And then she had died.

  Horribly.

  He took two greater steps. If Jewel had lived, Arianna would not have. Jewel had not known how to bring a Shape-Shifter into the world, particularly one as powerful as Arianna. And no Fey would have come into the palace voluntarily at that time.

  Although Nicholas had once wondered if the Shaman would have come when Jewel had her first birth pains. She had come as Jewel was dying. She might have come to save Arianna at birth.

  And then again, she might not have. The Shaman was a firm believer in the way that things should go. She believed that the Fey Mysteries and Powers would make things right.

  He suspected that was what forced her to lead them in this darkness, what gave her the direction to find his real son.

  Gift.

  He liked the name. It was so very Fey, and yet not Fey. It was, like Jewel's name, in the L'Nacin tradition. In the tradition of other peoples that the Fey had captured.

  Jewel had been well named. She was his jewel. She had been from the moment he saw her, even though they were at opposite points of a blade.

  And Gift was well named. He was the son that Nicholas wanted, the son that would replace the son he had lost.

  At least Nicholas hoped that would be the case.

  He hoped Gift would accept him.

  So much depended on this son he had never met. An entire Kingdom rested on their interaction. The future of the Fey Empire as well. The Shaman was helping them because she did not want the Black King to continue his rule.

  Nicholas's thoughts had run like this the entire night. As they walked, his mind had worked around and around each topic, ending, as always, with Gift. He saw nothing beyond this meeting with his son. He had no plans yet, felt he could not have any plans until he met this first child, the hope he and Jewel once had of uniting their two races.

  Ahead of him, the Shaman stopped. Her hand was shaking. The light from the torch wavered across the ground. It made the world itself look as if it were moving.

  "Take this, Arianna," the Shaman said. Her voice sounded thick, as if she could barely speak.

  Arianna didn't move. Nicholas sprinted ahead, grabbing the torch from the Shaman. She looked at him, her button brown eyes filling with tears, and then she collapsed in a heap at his feet.

  He handed the torch to Arianna and was about to pick up the Shaman when his daughter placed her free hand on his shoulder.

  "Don't," she said. "It's a Vision."ŽHe peered at the Shaman. Her eyes were open, but unseeing. She was breathing. She looked like Ari had looked in the tower, shortly after the troops had routed the Fey.

  "But you're not —

  "Visions are personal things," Arianna said. "She told me."

  Nicholas crouched beside the Shaman. Her hands were clenching and unclenching, her lower body twitching as if she were trying to run. Her mouth worked. Only her eyes remained unmoving. Staring straight ahead as if they were seeing into the darkness itself.

  She looked as if she were dying. He had only seen eyes that lifeless on bodies.

  On Jewel.

  He wanted to touch the Shaman, to wake her, to make her stop this.

  "How long can this continue?" he asked Ari, although he knew her understanding of Visions was less than his.

  "Until it's done," she said, and he looked up at her. Apparently the Shaman had been talking to her. And apparently Arianna had been listening.

  "I don't like this," Nicholas said.

  "Imagine what it's like from the inside," Ari said. Her voice was dry. She hadn't crouched beside the Shaman. She stood tall, almost as if she were a light, a column herself.

  As if she didn't want to face this.

  "Have you had another one?" he asked.

  "No," Arianna said. "Sometimes, the Shaman said, they don't come again for years."

  She didn't sound happy about it. She didn't sound happy about this ability at all. She had reveled in her ability to Shift, so much so that she had Shifted without help, without Solanda's permission, for years.

  And she had done it well.

  Nicholas would not be alive if his daughter hadn't disobeyed those rules almost from the beginning of her life.

  The Shaman let out a deep sigh, then she slowly brought a hand to her face. Her eyes closed.

  "Now?" Nicholas asked Arianna.

  "If you want," Arianna said. She sounded as if she would never help someone who had just had a Vision. Or perhaps she would never help the Shaman.

  Nicholas put his arms under the Shaman's shoulders and helped her up. He cradled her against him. He had never really held her before, not like this, and he hadn't realized how frail she was. She was tall and large, like his daughter, but she lacked the firmness Arianna's young body had. She felt as if she could break if he squeezed too hard.

  "Are you all right?" Nicholas asked.

  "As right as I can be," the Shaman said. Her voice was shaky. She wiped the sides of her mouth with her thumb and forefinger, then sighed again.

  "What was it?" Nicholas asked.

  "I'm not sure," the Shaman said. "Did you
See anything?"

  "I don't have Vision," Nicholas said.

  "I know," the Shaman said. "But sometimes there's an open Vision, especially when it's happening now or if it's really powerful — " She shook her head as if she didn't want to say any more.

  "I didn't See anything," Nicholas repeated, half disappointed that he hadn't.

  The Shaman looked over her shoulder at Arianna. "Did you?" she asked.

  "I had no Vision," Arianna said. She sounded relieved.

  "Oh, dear," the Shaman said. Then added softly, "This one's mine."

  "Yours?" Nicholas asked.

  "Help me up," the Shaman said. "We have to hurry. We don't have much time."

  "What's happening?" Nicholas asked.

  "Help me up," the Shaman said again.

  He braced her against him, then lifted her slowly. Her entire body was shaking. If he didn't know better, he would think she was trying not to cry. She moved away from him slightly and brushed off her robe. Then she took the torch back from Arianna.

  "We have to keep walking," the Shaman said.

  "You'll tell us what you saw as we go," Nicholas said, and it felt like an order. He'd never given the Shaman an order before.

  She started down the path. She walked hunched over, and he wondered if the fall had hurt her.

  "Is she all right?" Arianna whispered.

  "I don't know," Nicholas said.

  "Come on," the Shaman said.

  They hurried to catch up. Nicholas's heart was beating. He could still feel her frailness in his arms.

  "What did you See?" he asked again.

  The Shaman let out a small breath. "According to Fey tradition," she said, "there are three Places of Power in the world. The first is in the Eccrasian Mountains. That's where the Fey are from. It is said that a goatherder one day discovered this place and brought his family inside. When they came out, they were Fey."

  She didn't look at them as she spoke. Her voice was shaking.

  "How could that be?" Arianna asked.

  "Just listen, child," the Shaman said. It was the closest she had ever come to yelling at Arianna.

  Arianna glanced at Nicholas. In the light of the torch, he could see the fear lines on her thin face.