"Sebastian. It is an Islander name."
"My … fa-ther … is … Is-land-er," the golem said.
Ah, and perhaps in that answer lay the proof. The golem had a brain. Rugad had suspected it earlier, when it had saved Nicholas's life, but this proved it. The golem claimed not the blood connection, but the emotional one.
"Where is your father?"
"I … do … not … know," the golem said.
Rugad smiled. "Would you tell me if you did?"
"I … do … not … know … that … either."
And there he saw the true golemness of its nature. It hadn't confronted the problem, therefore it did not need a solution.
"Where were you going when we found you?"
"A-way … from … the … Fey," the golem said.
"There is no away," Rugad said. "We have taken the Isle."
"The … tun-nels … were … a-way."
"For a time," Rugad said. "And then we found you."
"You … kil-led … all … those … peo-ple … be-cause … of … me?" Its voice shook. Compassion in a golem. How very rare. And a clue, Rugad thought, to the secret of its long life. Either the one who created it had compassion, or it served another purpose.
Or both.
"I discovered them because of you," Rugad said. "You can determine if that's the same thing."
The golem turned away from him. Rugad took a step closer. He would have to approach this thing with caution. As with all magicks on Blue Isle, he didn't dare underestimate it.
"You … have … kil-led … a … lot … of … peo-ple."
"More than you know," Rugad said.
"Why?"
"It's called war, little creature," Rugad said, suppressing a smile.
"No … " The golem raised its head. Its gray eyes met Rugad's and Rugad had the distinct impression the creature had known of his approach. "It … is … con-quest."
"Yes," Rugad said. "It is."
"But … peo-ple . .. die … . It … is … not … worth … my … fa-ther's … life, … my … fri-end's . .. life, … the … lives … of … peo-ple … I … do-n't … even … know."
Rugad tilted his head. What a fascinating creature. He hadn't heard such sophistication from a golem before. It was trying to argue philosophy with him.
The question, of course, was why. Was it trying to distract him? Or did it sincerely want to know?
Perhaps it was trying to put off what it saw as its upcoming death.
But golems were amazingly hard to kill. Surely it knew that much.
"We kill as few people as possible," Rugad said. "We need workers for the Empire."
"But … they … are … not … just … work-ers … . They … have — "
"Lives, loves, people who care for them. I know." Rugad waved a hand. He had heard this before from other sources, and intrigued as he was by this golem's curiosity, he didn't want to explain what was essentially unexplainable. There were so many layers to what he did. The expansion of the Fey empire was not done just for conquest, nor was it done for the thrill. The Fey were meant to rule the world, but they had to conquer it one place at a time.
And just as the Fey were meant to rule the world, Rugad's family was meant to rule the Fey. If the golem were truly Fey, he would understand this. It was as simple as the type of magick a Fey was born with. If he had no magick, he became a Red Cap. If he had Shifting magick, he became one of the most pampered of all Fey.
Yet there was even more than that, things Rugad would not ever speak of for fear his own people wouldn't understand. He was getting older, and the thrill of creating violent death had left him as a young man. He would retire to one of the large estates in Nye if he had his way, or perhaps see the Eccrasian Mountains before he died. But he might not have that choice. He had brought the Fey this far. He needed to bring them as far as he could while training his successor. And Jewel's brother Bridge was not a worthy successor. Rugad had left so many trusted advisors in Nye with Bridge primarily because he was afraid that Bridge would make a serious — and costly — mistake.
"You … do … not … know … why … you … do . . this," the golem said.
This time, Rugad did smile. "Of course I know," he said. "I simply will not debate it with a creature like you."
He reached across the short space between them and grabbed the golem's wrist. The skin was cold and barely pliable. A rough approximation of skin. He could feel the cracks beneath his fingers.
The golem looked down, then started to pull away. Rugad grabbed its other hand. He squinted. He could see the faint lines of Links through the cracks in the golem's face.
"Let's see what you're really made of," Rugad said, and stuck a finger in the golem's ear.
There were four strong Links flaring inside. Two of them were severed, one a long time ago, its strands black and flat, decayed. The second had the vibrancy of Rugad's great-grandson — it was still yellow, although the yellow was fading. This one was not severed permanently. It just looked as if the door had closed.
Rugad remembered —
— the force that had appeared inside Gift, the whirling force that had seized him and thrown him out of Gift's body as if he were nothing more than a bit of soul for a Fey lamp.
So that was what it had done, that Enchanter. It — "he" — had closed all of Gift's Links and made him inaccessible.
But this creature had lived with the royal family. And it had two other Links.
Rugad could not step inside the golem's body — he needed a Link of his own to do that — but he could invade an existing Link. He had taught himself how to do that years ago, and he had done it several times, the last using Gift's Link to Shadowlands to take him to his great-grandson.
And getting thrown out.
He could feel the golem pulling at his hand, flapping at him ineffectually. The golem probably did not understand what he was doing. The only Link that looked traveled was Gift's. The others existed but had not had any internal visitors.
But the golem was smart, and Rugad had vowed not to underestimate it. He plunged his finger into the first still established Link he found. It was the largest, a white Link with a trace of purple in the middle.
Then he slid himself into it, the part of himself that was not attached to his body. His essence. What so many cultures called his soul.
The Link was wide and full of great affection, and easily traveled even though the path felt new.
And as he moved along it, he learned who it belonged to.
Arianna.
His great-granddaughter.
He would learn where Nicholas had taken her.
Rugad had not expected it to be so easy.
He had succeeded on his very first try.
FORTY-TWO
It had been years since Boteen had ridden in a carriage. It had been even longer since he'd ridden in one guided by Horse Riders. A majestic team, husband and wife, allowed themselves to be strapped into the conventional horse riggings at the front of the carriage. Then they had trotted along, as if they were simply dumb beasts, instead of leaders of their own troop, great Fey in their own right.
The things Rugad could get his people to do.
Boteen stretched out inside the carriage. He was not alone: there were several other Fey in the troop, but he was the only one in this carriage. Some Wisps and Bird Riders flew overhead, and an entire Infantry troop marched behind. The Infantry was the backup, as they were in any mission of this kind. If diplomacy did not work — and diplomacy in this instance would be quite simple, something Rugad called "Surrender or Die" diplomacy — then the Infantry would be called in while the Wisps sent for the Foot Soldiers.
Another carriage, also pulled by a team of Horse Riders, followed along behind him. In it was one of Rugad's favorite Charmers, a Domestic (for reasons Boteen had yet to fathom), and a Scribe. The Scribe was unusual. Rugad had brought three of them along on this trip, and they were, for the most part, useless. But Rugad believed in keeping h
imself informed, and also in sending messages back to the entire Empire. He used the Scribes for that.
Boteen thought it silly. Scribes had very little magick and almost as little brain. That was, Rugad said, what made them excellent recorders. Sometimes they recorded things on precious paper, but most often they reported meetings back word for word, a tedious process that could take hours, even, in cases like this, days. Boteen had had to sit through several Scribe re-countings, and each one had made him, by the end, want to rip those scrawny little beings' voices right out of their throats.
He hadn't, of course. Enchanters were perceived as dangerous enough. If they didn't handle their magick properly, they lost their very precarious hold on sanity. He had watched himself closely for that. Too many magick systems running through him, too many to manage, and too many stressors had often led him to be unreasonable. If unreasonable was the worst that happened to him, then he would be all right.
He shivered. The night air was cool, and he had the carriage windows open. They were traveling along a cobblestone road that ran beside the Cardidas River. They had left Jahn hours ago and were heading northeast. He had seen the maps. The trip would take them along main roads until they got into the foothills of the Eyes of Roca. There the roads were less passable — sometimes impassable in the winter — and the towns were few and far between. He was not relishing disappearing into pure Islander country with only a handful of Fey to back him up and an Infantry troop in case someone got into trouble. Most of them wouldn't even know if he were in trouble. Enchanters had ways of hurting each other that weren't visible, that weren't even comprehensible to normal Fey.
But this Enchanter wasn't really Fey. He was Islander. And he probably hadn't had the training that Boteen had. From the impressions Boteen took of the man, he'd had no training at all. That made him difficult on the one hand, and an easy mark on the other.
Boteen only hoped that this Enchanter would lead him to the Black King's great-grandson. To have Rugad in Boteen's debt, well, that would be the biggest coup of all.
It would certainly make this trip worthwhile. Boteen leaned back in the carriage seat. He didn't want to sleep in here. He felt odd enough traveling in the contraption. He had learned from the Domestics who'd prepared it that this carriage had been owned by the Tabernacle. They claimed they had cleaned it of all anti-Fey spells, but he had Cleansed the thing himself before getting in. Actually, he had performed three small spells: a Cleansing of all harmful things; a Repellent, so that any remaining harmful things could not touch him; and a Charm, so that even if they remained and tried to touch him, they would be favorably disposed to him.
He had never used quite so much protection before, but he had never been so leery of a vehicle before. He had been willing to use the energy before this trip to safeguard his own life.
The carriage was large and black. Several other people could easily have fit inside. The seats were made of velvet, and Boteen could still see the outlines of the tiny swords that had once been embroidered into the material. There had been tiny swords on all the outside corners of the carriage as well. The Domestics had removed them, but no matter how many spells had been done on the vehicle, small ghost swords remained.
Through the first hour of his journey, he had stared at the ones inside, trying to fathom them. He had seen religious symbols in many other countries, but never had he seen one quite like this. A sword. A weapon of death.
It made no sense to him.
He had studied them until he could stand it no longer, and then he had ordered the Fey lamp to extinguish itself.
He had been sitting in darkness ever since.
He had nothing else to do. He knew they were heading on the right path. He had sensed the Enchanter in the Cliffs of Blood. Boteen had not felt it necessary to follow the Enchanter's trail. That trail was convoluted. It had crossed and recrossed several boundaries. It had doubled back on itself and it had faded twice. He had seen that much inside Jahn. He didn't want to lead this entire troop in circles. Time, as Rugad noted, was the most important thing here.
Time, and finding the boy.
Boteen wasn't sure what he would do with the other Enchanter. The man's hatred of Fey was a serious problem. Boteen doubted he could negotiate.
He would probably have to kill the Enchanter, which was a shame. The Fey could learn so much from him.
But there was a second: he knew that. And maybe the second would be more reasonable. Right now, Boteen did not have the luxury for niceties.
He leaned deeper into the seat and put up his feet. His skin crawled as the velvet moved slightly. He was imagining spells where there were none, but he knew it was better to be alert.
Rugad had warned him repeatedly not to underestimate the Islanders.
Boteen would not. He would assume that even if the other Enchanter were not trained, he would be powerful. Boteen could only hope for the advantage of surprise. After that, he figured, it would be a contest of equals.
Or near-equals.
Experience in battle always counted for something.
In the end.
FORTY-THREE
Luke hadn't traveled at night since the second Fey invasion. This night, though, he was moving through his cornfield, traveling as silently as possible.
He had heard that one of the farms to the south of his had become a Fey base. He wanted to check out the rumor in broad daylight, but he couldn't think of an excuse. He knew he wasn't the best liar, anyway, and that to risk it might show the Fey that he was plotting against them.
He wanted them to become complacent. He had seen the signs already.
The guards that had visited the farms every day for the past two weeks didn't come as often now. They still visited daily — but only once a day instead of twice or three times. Luke's neighbors said the same thing.
He crouched in the cornfield and finished his preparations. He had a lot to do. He needed to pick a target and then assemble some men to harm that target. He had ideas on how to do that as well.
He knew the one thing he had to avoid: the appearance of a resistance to the Fey. If he caught them by surprise, he would do more good.
That meant no meetings, no secret rendezvous, and very little explanation of the plans beforehand. He felt like he had when he was a boy, when he had been on that attack where he and his father had been captured by the Fey. His father had known what the plan was, but Luke hadn't. He was just a teenager then, and had come along because he begged.
His father had regretted giving in ever since. Their lives certainly would have been different if Luke had stayed home.
He wouldn't be crouched in the cornfield, using soft dirt to cover his pale skin.
The dirt on his father's farm was the darkest Luke had ever seen. He had gotten the idea in the afternoon while Jona's girls helped him work the farm. They were solid workers, and they would make certain that he got everything done, despite his work against the Fey.
He couldn't thank Jona enough for that. The best thing Luke could do was make certain that his plans against the Fey worked.
What he had come to was this: He needed to create a weakness in their army, a hole in their strength that couldn't be covered up. If he succeeded, he hoped the word would get around to other Fey garrisons and the Fey would worry about the Islanders.
The Islanders had an advantage: Even though the Black King had arrived with thousands of Fey, the Islanders still outnumbered them. The key was to get those Islanders to resist all at the same time.
It wouldn't happen overnight. It might not even happen while Luke was alive — he fully expected to die in his resistance to the Fey — but it would happen. And he had to be the one to start it.
He had special knowledge.
He knew that even if Nicholas was dead, Gift lived. And in Gift flowed the blood of the Roca. Gift might not know the traditions of Blue Isle, but he could learn — and Luke's father could teach him. Gift was part Fey, but Coulter loved him. And Coulter would
not love someone who had only the Fey Empire in mind. At worst, Gift could unite the Fey Empire and Blue Isle.
At best, he could drive the Black King out.
Luke needed to provide the opportunity for Gift to drive his great-grandfather out. He needed to make it possible for the Fey to leave Blue Isle. Very few people knew how to do that.
But Luke did.
He hadn't lived among them, but his father had. His father had often said that the Fey's greatest flaw was their belief that no one could be better than they were.
It was how the Islanders had kept the first invasion at bay. The Fey had conquered so many other countries, using small annies and more intimidation. But the Islanders had stopped the Fey, using fear and holy water, something not every Islander had.
Holy water no longer worked, but Luke was willing to bet his life that fear would.
Fear would.
And he was going to begin that tonight.
Alone.
He finished rubbing the dirt on his arms and face. He rubbed some extra on his blond hair and on his clothing. If someone were looking for him, they'd be able to see him.
But they had to be looking.
He slowly made his way out of the cornfield. It was on the southern reaches of his father's land. The farm that the Fey supposedly held wasn't too far if Luke stayed off the roads and in the fields. His problem was that he couldn't damage crops as he went. Too many irate farmers might report the damage to the Fey, thinking the Fey had done it, and the Fey would get wise.
There was no moon. The stars winked above him but provided little light. That was good. He couldn't have planned this better if he had tried.
He crossed an unplanted field that separated his father's farm from the nearest neighbor's and noted that someone had been tilling the soil. This field was uneven and rock-strewn. The soil had played out long ago. His father and the neighbor had been trying, over the last few years, to figure out how to revive the soil. Either the Fey had ideas or they didn't care.
The Resistance: The Fourth Book of the Fey (Fey Series) Page 28
