Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey

by Rusch, Kristine Kathryn

  Rugar smiled. The Nyeians hadn’t lied to him, then. He glanced at the palace, looking pale and insubstantial in the distance. He would eat his evening meal in the highest tower, overlooking the sea. “Thank you,” he said. He still had much work to do before he got to that meal.

  He leaned over the railing and looked at the north side of the harbor. The docks, filled with every ship from a smallest fishing vessel to the largest barge, stood in uniform rows along the harbor’s edges. The fish hatcheries, the warehouses, and the grain silos were gray shapes on the city’s outskirts. Through those streets his people were scattering in a force one third the size of Jahn’s population.

  Rugar gripped the rope ladder on the side of the ship and worked his way down. There the wetness felt natural, and the slide of his boots against the wooden rungs the norm. He leaped from the bottom of the ladder onto the dock, wincing as the sound echoed over the rain.

  Then he turned and scanned the gray buildings, hoping to see movement. He saw nothing and heard only the rain on the water. He shoved his hands under the wool of his cape and permitted himself one shudder.

  The only Fey he could see were two Red Caps talking outside one of the warehouses. The Warders were setting up inside a warehouse, and Rugar suspected that was the one. The Red Caps had little to do before a battle started, but afterward they became invaluable. He was glad he never had to work with them. They made him uneasy. Small and magickless, they were like square, truncated Fey, with the same upswept features and none of the graces. Most Red Caps didn’t even bother to bathe. Their very ugliness kept them separate from the other Fey; their lack of magick ensured that they would never attack their betters.

  The world rolled beneath his feet. Rugar hated these first moments on land, when the sea still controlled his movements. He wished he had the skill of a Shape-Shifter, able to adapt to any environment.

  Rugar walked cautiously along the dock toward the shore. The rain seemed to be lessening. The Sprites had warned him that they couldn’t time it perfectly. He wiped the water off his face with his dry sleeve. Time. He had to do it now.

  He had to hide the ships before the Islanders awoke.

  Rugar stepped off the dock onto the shore, his boots miring in the muck. Then he raised his arms and closed his eyes, picturing as the generals had taught him long ago, a world with the substance of fog. Around that world he built a box so large that a hundred giants could not hold it. He carefully slipped that box over all the ships. He built a small circular doorway the size of a fist on the east side and marked it with Fey lights, then pushed the whole thing out to sea.

  The sound of the rain changed its timbre. Gone was the hollow pounding of water on wood, and added was the slap of drops on water. He opened his eyes.

  The ships were gone.

  Safe in the Shadowlands.

  He had opened the door once again.

  Slowly he let his arms drop; then he sank to his knees in the mud. The effort of making the Shadowlands had cost him what energy he had left. But he could not quit now. The cold against his legs would keep him awake. And once the battle started, he would get a second wind.

  The ships were gone, and the troops were dispersed. Soon the rain would end and the sun would rise for the first time in days. The people would awake to an empty harbor and a city full of strangers.

  A tingle of excitement ran through him, banishing the exhaustion. The Fey would strike quickly and effortlessly.

  They would own the city by dinner, the Isle by nightfall. Once the Fey’s hold was secure, Rugar would take a ship back to his father to let him know the good news—and to hear his father’s apology—in person.

  EIGHT

  Nicholas awoke with a start. Something was different. He sat up on the feather bed, the clammy blankets sticking to his bare flesh, and listened.

  The rain had stopped.

  He smiled and pushed the blankets aside, then slid off the high bed. The rug, handwoven by his mother, felt damp. It was as if the rain had touched everything. He pushed aside a tapestry and peered out.

  The sun was rising, red and fierce, in the east. Raindrops glistened on every surface, catching and reflecting the sun’s rays. The brightness made him shield his eyes for a moment until they adjusted. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed the sun.

  The courtyard was empty, except for the birds singing in the brown garden. The gardener would be pleased the rains had ceased. He might have a chance to save the vegetables. He had been worried that the palace would eat only apples all winter long.

  No breakfast yet, and the fire had gone out in his grate. He was up before the servants. Nicholas grinned. He let out a whoop sure to wake the palace. It had been a while since he’d sneaked into the kitchens to get his own food. He put on a pair of tattered pants, a heavy shirt, and a pair of boots. Then he grabbed his scabbard and attached it to his waist. No sense letting a beautiful morning like this pass. As soon as he finished eating, he would go to the courtyard, rouse the swordmaster, and fight.

  Nicholas chuckled, then ran his fingers through his long blond hair to get some of the knots out of it. He tied it all back with a leather thong and opened his door.

  The corridor was empty except for an elderly servant carrying firewood up to his father’s floor. Nicholas nodded and scampered for the stairs. His boots slapped against the stone as he hurried down.

  Other servants were beginning their rounds. A young boy, carrying firewood destined for Nicholas’s room, gaped in surprise as Nicholas bounded past him. The round matron who kept the wing was already directing a group of girls toward the gallery at the base of the family tower. A breeze carried the scent of damp ground, and he paused for a moment at the double windows to soak in the sunshine once again.

  This time he saw servants crossing the courtyard. The dairymen were coming back from the milking, large buckets hanging from their hands. Some children were playing on the cobblestones while their mothers chatted. A man whisked them all away. No one seemed cross; no one seemed angry. Their spirits all seemed as high as Nicholas’s.

  He took a deep breath and bounded down the remaining twelve stairs, appearing in front of the great stone arches like a man ready for battle. Then he hurried through the Great Chamber, startling maids already at work cleaning the furniture and scrubbing the ornate stone inlays. His stepmother, in her short reign, had decreed that everything in the palace remain clean—too many servants were idle—and the decree had lasted beyond her.

  Once he got to the Hall, he slowed down. This was one of his favorite rooms, and not only because the great state dinners were held there. It was long and wide and had arched ceilings because it connected two towers and had no floor above it. The arched windows matched the ceiling in design, some of the few windows in the palace to have precious glass. His grandfather had installed them to impress visitors, even though the greatest visitors Nicholas had ever seen were mayors from Nye when he was a boy.

  He liked the majesty of the room, but more than that, he liked its history. Swords hung from the inner wall, so many he couldn’t count them, in styles as old as recorded history. None were ceremonial. Most had nicks and cuts from prolonged use. Some were almost as short as the dirk the swordmaster sometimes carried, and Nicholas’s grandfather had once explained that those swords had been for dueling almost four hundred years before.

  Nicholas’s favorite sword, though, had been his great-great-grandfather’s in the Peasant Uprising. Blood still blackened the tip. Legend had it that his great-great-grandfather had stabbed the man who’d crippled him before passing out on the field. Sometimes Nicholas thought he carried the soul of his grandfather’s grandfather. No one in his immediate family enjoyed the idea of fighting quite so much. In fact, Nicholas’s father had been opposed to his work with the sword until he’d realized that Nicholas would learn nothing if he could not pursue his own interest.

  The sun was thin through the mottled glass. The Hall wasn’t as enjoyable as usual because beauty awaited o
utdoors.

  Nicholas scurried past the buttery, where he heard men swearing over the churns, and the pantry, where he heard servants laughing as they broke their own fasts. He stopped at the kitchen, and the heat from the great fireplaces and huge stoves made sweat instantly run down his face. Shortly after Nicholas had been born, his father had remodeled the kitchen at the chefs request, adding a high ceiling and ventilation in the roof, but even that did not stop the heat from being overwhelming.

  The bakers were making bread in the brick-lined ovens, and the room smelled of smoke and yeast. The chef was scolding an assistant about the quality of the eggs picked for the King’s breakfast, while the butler inspected the milk brought by the dairymen. With the roar of the flames, the thump of the bread on the top of the ovens, and the shouted conversations, no one noticed Nicholas when he arrived.

  He smiled as he stood. He had missed this, the constant daily drama. It was the servants’ duty to make sure none of it reached the upper regions of the palace, but that meant his life was led in too much tranquility. He was too young to be tranquil, too young to recite the verses of the Words Written and Unwritten foisted on him by overweight Auds, too young to sit, as his father did, and listen to the complaints from region after region about this year’s harvest or last year’s wool.

  Nicholas sneaked inside, slipped past the butler, and stopped by the ovens, reaching for the steaming bread on top. The senior baker slapped his hand so hard that Nicholas pulled it away.

  “Is it fingers ye be wanting to lose, boy?” the baker snapped before realizing whom he was speaking to. He stepped back, bit his lower lip, and bowed his head. Sweat dripped off his nose. “‘Tis sorry I am, Highness. I dinna think ‘twould be you.”

  Nicholas laughed. “This morning I am just a yeoman seeking out a simple breakfast.”

  “Nay,” the baker said. “If ye were a yeoman, I’d be tossing ye out on yer behind. Now, get yerself into the pantry with the others, and I’ll be bringing yer bread.”

  “All right,” Nicholas said. The conversations around him had stopped. The chef had crossed his arms over his chest, as if he didn’t approve of Nicholas’s presence either. “But I don’t want much. I would hate to overeat on a morning like this.”

  He hurried out of the kitchen and back into the pantry. The room smelled like bread and was cool compared with the kitchen. Fresh-baked bread loaves already graced the shelves, and the King’s cutlery stood in its holders on the wall. A dozen servants remained, sitting on stools around a makeshift wooden table littered with crumbs and cracked cups filled with water. They were laughing, a sound that cut off when Nicholas entered. His chamberlain was inside, and he stepped forward, face red and eyes filled with fear.

  “I dinna know ye’d be up, milord,” he said. “Ye usually sleep another hour or more.”

  “How can anyone sleep with the sun back?” Nicholas said. He ruffled his chamberlain’s short-cut brown hair. “I would’ve thought you’d have been outside, enjoying the first light we’ve had in days.”

  The chamberlain shrugged, clearly relieved that he wouldn’t be chastised for not knowing his master’s wishes. “‘Twas certain I was that I’d be there with ye not long after ye rose,” he said.

  Nicholas laughed. His chamberlain knew him well. The man was supposed to serve Nicholas in his chamber only, but Nicholas would never have countenanced a man spending such a beautiful day indoors.

  “Well, make room,” he said, grabbing a stool and shoving it close to the table, “and pretend I’m one of you. I’m going to break fast, then spend the rest of the day in the sun. And if I were King instead of my father, I’d let all of you do the same.”

  The servants cheered and raised their water mugs high over his head in a toast. He wished, just once, they’d clap him on the back as they would each other, but that degree of familiarity would be nearly impossible for them. He was lucky to gain this much.

  The baker came up behind him and put several fresh-cut pieces of bread before him. The butler had added some precious cheese, and the chef had cut one of last year’s apples on the side. The food was much more than Nicholas wanted, but he waited until the baker left to pass the extra pieces around.

  Then he ate quickly. The bread was hot and doughy, steam rising from the center. The cheese was so perfectly aged that it crumbled beneath his fingers. Its sharpness contrasted with the sweetness of the apple, which was still hard and firm from spending the winter in the cellar.

  The others ate their portions greedily. They usually got the leftovers, not the freshly made bread. He wondered how it would feel to eat his breakfast in the room where the fresh bread was stored and not be allowed to taste any. He loved the little luxuries of his life.

  While he ate, the conversation flowed around him, mostly full of kitchen gossip—which yeoman was courting what maid. He listened eagerly, even though he didn’t know half the names, feeling on the very fringe of a society that he barely understood. No one spoke directly to him, and if he asked a question, the silence afterward lasted a moment too long, as if they were trying to decide who would answer him. Finally the chamberlain would, probably because it was his place to deal with Nicholas. After a while Nicholas stopped asking questions.

  When he finished, he got up and excused himself, thanking them all for their hospitality. They laughed with him and thanked him for sharing, but he could see the relief in their eyes that he was leaving. For the rest of the day he would be the topic of conversation in the servants’ quarters, while they wondered as to the purpose of his visit and speculated as to the nature of his character.

  He went back through the kitchen, waving at the chef and the butler as he passed. With the back of his hand he wiped the sweat off his face and smiled to himself. He left through the open back door, kicking aside the bones the kind-hearted chef had left for the dogs.

  Outside, the air was still cool with a touch of damp. But he could feel the heat of the morning was not long away. The sun felt good on his bare arms. There were lots of voices in the breeze, odd cries and shouts he hadn’t heard before. But, then, he had never been in the yard this early before.

  The cats were sitting outside the dairy barns, grooming themselves after their morning treat of fresh milk. One of the grooms had a mare by the leg, and he was examining her hoof in the brightness of the sun. The cobblestones were still wet, and mud from too many boots had been squelched on top of them. The surface would be slick for his workout, but he could handle slick. He relished a challenge that would allow him to push his own limits.

  He went to the swordmaster’s rooms at the very edge of the servants’ quarters. Nicholas knocked on the door, a sharp report over the palace’s early-morning sounds. The door opened, and Stephen stood in front of him, looking sleepy and old in the early-morning light.

  “The sun is out,” Nicholas said. “I thought we shouldn’t wait another moment.”

  “Boys,” Stephen said. He scratched his tousled graying hair and then rubbed the silver bristles on his chin. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

  He closed the door without letting Nicholas inside.

  Nicholas paced outside the door, staring up at the sky as if he were afraid the sun would go away. But the sky was a perfect blue without any clouds at all. If it weren’t for the standing water, the mud, and the wet stones, he would not have believed that the rains had drenched Blue Isle in the dry season.

  The shouts in the streets grew louder, and he thought he heard a woman cry in pain. Nicholas frowned. He glanced at the high stone wall as though he could see through it. Sometimes the sounds were too close, as if the peasants could get inside with no effort at all. He was raised with stories of the Peasant Uprising, of the day they had stormed the wall, and only his great-great-grandfather’s quick thinking and a chefs vat of oil had saved the palace from being overrun. As a little boy, Nicholas used to enact that battle all by himself, standing on the flat part of the kitchen roof and pouring cups of water down the side of the wall.
A manservant had finally stopped him when he’d seen how perilously close Nicholas was to falling into the newly built open ceiling.

  Then he heard the pounding of horse’s hooves, and he moved away from Stephen’s door so that he could see the wooden side gate. The guards signaled down from the towers, and the men double-teamed to pull the ropes so that the gate would go up. Two horses, ridden by Danites with red trim on their hems, marking them as having come from the Tabernacle, came inside. The men let the gate drop behind them as if they were infected by the wild expressions on the Danites’ faces.

  “We need to see the King!” the rotund Danite said. His voice carried all over the yard.

  Nicholas ran forward, his date with Stephen forgotten. One of the guards was speaking to the Danites in a lower tone. The horses were covered with sweat, and one of them reared when Nicholas approached. The Danite struggled to keep hold, but it was a guard who grabbed the reins and calmed the horse.

  “On what business do you need to see the King?” Nicholas demanded.