The darkness in the room did seem odd. It took a moment for her to realize what was different. Her door was closed. She never closed her door.
She crossed the rag rug and pulled the door open. The door to Coulter’s room stood open, and she heard him clap again, little giggles making him hiccup.
He had not done this before.
She felt chill, trying to tell herself it had to do only with the cold night air. But something was wrong here.
The cabin was too small to have a real hallway. Her door opened into her room, as did Coulter’s, and the doors faced each other at the edge of the living area. There was no way the cat could have accidentally closed one door and opened the other. And Coulter’s bed had bars around it, thanks to Helter. The boy couldn’t have got free.
She almost called out Coulter’s name, then stopped. No sense alarming the boy, especially when he sounded so happy. She stepped into his room, and froze.
The moonlight streamed through his window, making the room almost as bright as day. Coulter stood up in his bed, his little hands reaching through the protective bars. He turned to Eleanora and smiled, joy radiating from his face.
A woman stood next to his bed. She wore a shift that was too short for her. Her feet were bare, and her hair hung down to the middle of her back. She was tall and slender, and had an unusual grace.
Eleanora didn’t have to see her eyes to know the woman was Fey.
“Get away from my child,” Eleanora said.
Coulter’s baby face puckered in confusion. He obviously hadn’t expected the anger in Eleanora’s tone.
“Oh?” The woman’s voice was light, airy, and musical. “He’s your child? I didn’t think Islanders could have children so late in life.”
“He’s my child,” Eleanora said. She took a step into the room, her fists clenched. The death of Coulter’s parents still haunted her nightmares. “Your people killed his family, and I saved his life. I’ve raised him. He’s mine.”
Coulter hiccuped again, and his lower lip jutted out. He was going to cry.
“I think he’s something quite special,” the woman said.
“Yes, he is,” Eleanora said. She took another step into the room. She wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do. The woman was young and supple and, being Fey, could probably kill with a single touch. “Stay away from him.”
The woman laughed, a throaty, almost purring, sound. “You think I would hurt him? I’m not a Foot Soldier. My magick is nothing so crude as that. No, this child is valuable alive.”
Eleanora’s heart was pounding hard. “This child is valuable because he’s an individual. And he is mine.”
A big tear ran down Coulter’s cheek. He sniffled and clung to the bars. Eleanora had never seen him cry this way. It was as if her anger raised something in him—a memory, perhaps? It couldn’t be the woman. He had been laughing with her.
“I know he’s yours,” the woman said, keeping her tone level. “But I want you to give him to me.”
“What?” Eleanora gasped the word.
“Give him to me,” the woman said. “I will raise him with the same love and care that you would give. I will teach him things that he can do, things he could never learn from you. You’re an old woman. You will probably die before he can live on his own. And then what will happen to him? Do you think that neighbor of yours is enough of a Rocaanist that she will take in a stray child?”
This woman had been watching her. She had been watching them all.
“He’s my child,” Eleanora said again. “He loves me. He’s had enough disruption in his life. He can’t afford more.”
Another tear ran down Coulter’s cheek. He gripped the bars as if they held him in place.
“The child needs more than love,” the woman said. “He needs knowledge of his abilities and power.”
“What abilities?” Eleanora asked. Maybe if she kept the woman talking, she could figure out a solution to this. Maybe someone would notice voices coming from her cabin and bring help. Maybe she could catch the woman off guard and get her away from Coulter.
“He has a magick all his own that brought me to him, and that I can feel even now. Most of you lack that magick and have no idea how to train it.”
“He’s a baby,” Eleanora said. “Babies always have magic.”
“Not like this,” the woman said.
Coulter gave a shuddering sigh and hiccuped in the way that precluded a major yell. Go, baby, yell all you want, Eleanora thought to him, wishing he could hear her. Yell so loud that we’ll get help.
“I want you to give him to me,” the woman said.
“I can’t,” Eleanora said. “I watched you kill his parents. How do I know you won’t kill him?”
“You have my word,” the woman said. “I would not harm a hair on his beautiful head.”
“Word? Word?” Eleanora’s voice rose. “How can I believe that? You people have invaded us, murdered my friends, ruined our homes. How can I believe you won’t hurt my child?”
Coulter screamed and both women jumped. He started to sob, deep, yelping sobs that seemed to come from the depth of him.
Eleanora ran to him and scooped him up, holding him against her chest as she had done when he was a baby and she was hiding him from the Fey. He grabbed her with all of his strength, wrapped his tiny legs around her body, and clung to her neck. His tears soaked through her nightdress.
She put her hand on his small head, protecting it, and ran from the room. She couldn’t hear the woman following her, only her own footsteps in the front room. As she opened the main door, the cat shot out of the house and ran down the steps. Eleanora followed, her balance precarious as she cradled Coulter.
The cat blocked her way. She nearly tripped over it and extended a hand to keep her balance. Coulter gripped her tightly, not screaming anymore, his little body shuddering. The moonlight caught the cat at an odd angle, making it seem bigger than it was. Eleanora regained her footing. No. The cat was bigger. It was changing, quickly, like a rain cloud turning into a storm.
Then the woman stood in front of her, in place of the cat. She was naked. Eleanora screamed, and Coulter clung even tighter. The woman reached for Coulter, grabbing him around the waist and tugging. Eleanora kicked her, and the woman wrapped her leg around the one Eleanora had used to brace herself, then pulled Eleanora to the ground.
She wrapped her arms around Coulter as she fell, hoping she could protect him. She felt the woman’s hands beneath her upper arms, warm against her skin. As Eleanora hit, the air left her body, and she heard something snap. Her arms loosened, and the woman pulled on Coulter. He cried out and grabbed harder.
Eleanora screamed “No!” as she scrambled for a good grip on her baby, but the woman unhooked his hands and pulled him away. He kicked at her and started to wail. “Maaaaaaaa!” he cried, his baby voice high and fine. “Maaaaaaaaa!”
Doors opened around them. She heard Helter’s voice over her son’s screams. She tried to stand, but couldn’t. There was a deep pain in her chest, and another in her right leg. She screamed for help.
The woman cradled Coulter much as Eleanora had done. She pressed his face against her bare shoulder, muffling his cries. He did not hold her. His little arms reached around her neck, his hands open and grasping.
“She’s stealing Coulter!” Eleanora cried. “Please, help!”
Helter ran down his stairs, and she heard others follow. The woman glanced over her shoulder once, at Eleanora, a look full of pity, and then loped across the clearing.
Coulter screamed, his high, angry, frightened scream. She pushed herself on her elbows, ignoring the pain in her chest. “No!” she cried. “He’s mine!”
But the woman didn’t seem to hear, or if she did, she didn’t notice. She crossed the moonlight field with the speed of a cat. The men were far behind her.
“Stop her!” Eleanora shouted, but no one seemed able to catch the woman. As she reached the edge of the clearing, Coulter wriggled his
head free. He screamed for Eleanora, his gaze on her, his face pleading, and his tiny hands reaching for her.
Then the woman bounded into the woods, and Eleanora could see Coulter no more.
The men hurried after her, feet crackling in the underbrush. She could hear them from this distance. The woman could probably hear them even better. They would never catch her.
Eleanora lay back on the ground, her throat raw from screaming, the feel of Coulter’s frightened grip still imprinted around her neck. Don’t let him die, she prayed to whoever was listening. Not after all he’s been through. Please. Don’t let him die.
SIXTY-THREE
Rugar had to admit the scene was affecting. He stood at the opening to Shadowlands, near the Meeting Block, Jewel and Burden beside him, two Domestics on the other side, and four Infantry near the door itself. The young male prisoner stood in front of the door, his father at his side. Rugar still wasn’t sure if he approved of Jewel’s bargain—he believed they could have got the information another way—but her point was that they hadn’t yet. It was better to have a source inside the Shadowlands, especially one who had a stake in being honest.
Jewel looked haggard. She had been looking tired for weeks now, complaining of the grayness in Shadowlands, but the last few days had taken their toll. The fight with Caseo, and then the work with the prisoners, had exhausted her. And the night before, staying up all night with the Domestics and Spell Warders to make certain that the boy had the proper links to Shadowlands, had tired her even further.
The spells sounded good. They had enchanted him just enough and wove a linking spell into his hair, so that they could find him at all times. The Warders had done the linking spell over Caseo’s objections and had made it general enough that no one Warder owned it. That way, if they all died before the prisoner did, a new generation of Warders could still track the boy.
The boy had no idea he had been spelled. He ate and slept the night in the Domicile while the Fey cleaned him up. Jewel negotiated with the Dream Riders to weave dreams for him, dreams that he would confuse with memories, so that his experiences as a prisoner would be more pleasant. She let them add her into the dreams in a more important role, since the boy was of an age with her. Rugar had initially opposed that, but she told her father that she wanted the boy’s link with Shadowlands to have several layers.
Until these last few weeks in Shadowlands, Rugar hadn’t realized that his daughter was so devious. In her fight with Caseo, in her approach to him, and in her treatment of the prisoners, she reminded him of her grandfather. No wonder the Black King had been so angry when Rugar had wanted to bring her to Blue Isle. None of Rugar’s other children had ever shown the kind of manipulative thinking and powerful sense of self that Jewel had.
The two Islanders were talking softly in their own language. Jewel had found a Fey who understood Islander to translate. Rugar could understand none of it. Jewel was listening intently to the translation, her mouth curving downward as she did. Rugar put his hand on Jewel’s arm. “Enough of this mawkishness,” he said.
Jewel nodded once; then she glanced at him. “It would work better,” she said, “if you stopped the proceedings instead of me.”
It would look as if he had the power, as if she were trying to stop him. He understood the game, but he never quite knew how to think up twists for himself. Perhaps that was why his father was relieved to see him go. With Rugar out of the way, someone with a more devious mind could rule the Fey.
He stepped forward and clapped his hands.
“In Nye,” she reminded him softly, so softly that no one else could hear her.
“Enough!” he said, his Nye harsh and accented. He never could lose the accent, which always annoyed him. He had a mind for warfare, not for the delicacies of speech. “Any more of this talk and the boy stays.”
The boy actually shot Jewel a mooncalf look, which his father, fortunately, did not see. The father had turned toward Jewel almost in supplication, but Rugar spread his feet and crossed his arms, staring down at them so that no one would argue with him. The father nodded once, although the movement seemed to be against his better judgment, and drew his son in close.
The boy’s expression was equally sad. It wasn’t as if they would never see each other again. Islanders—their sentimentality would be their weakness.
“Burden,” Rugar said in Nye. “Escort the boy to the edge of Jahn.”
Burden left Rugar’s side and took the boy by the shoulders, easing him away from his father. The father grabbed the boy’s arms as if he would not let go.
“Adrian,” Jewel said softly in Nye. “We had an agreement.”
The man caressed his son’s arms as he let go. Then he bit his lower lip and watched as Burden took the boy to the Circle Door. Burden chanted the opening spell for those without the ability to open the Door on their own. The Circle appeared wide and beckoning. Through it Rugar could see the black bark of the trees, the green of the forest floor, and a bit of blue sky. The scent of evergreen flowed in on the wind.
Burden stepped through the Circle Door, pulling the boy alongside him. The Door shimmered as the boy stepped through. The father took a step forward as the boy went through the Door. One of the Domestics grabbed his arm and held him in place. The Circle Door closed, and the man turned to Jewel.
“I’ll keep my part of the bargain,” he said in Nye, “but you’d better keep yours.”
“I keep my word,” Jewel said.
“I hope so,” the father said. A Domestic took his arm, and he followed her to the Domicile. Jewel and Rugar remained beside the Meeting Block.
“I hope you haven’t made a mistake,” Rugar said in Fey.
“I expected something from him,” Jewel said. “This was rather mild. I thought he might leap through the Door with his son.”
“And then what would you have done?” Rugar asked.
“Kill them both,” Jewel said without any emotion at all. Rugar glanced at her. She wasn’t just the Black King’s granddaughter. She was also his daughter. That ruthlessness was his.
Rugar smiled and put his hand on her shoulder, wishing for a moment for the closeness he had seen between the Islander father and son. Such affection had never been his way. “You’ve done well,” Rugar said.
“Thanks,” Jewel said. She put her hand on top of his. As she did, the Circle Door opened. Rugar turned. He could feel the sudden stiffness in Jewel’s shoulder. They both expected Burden to come back in to report a problem with the boy.
Instead Frill and Ipper stepped through. Frill was a boy who was so slender as to be almost frail. Ipper had been spying for Rugar since Rugar had taken his first command. He had the thickness of age, but a grace that the younger boy did not have. They were both frowning as they came through.
Rugar took his hand off Jewel’s shoulder. “Have you messages for me?” he asked.
Ipper nodded. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
So the messages were not simple ones. Rugar sighed. He had been hoping for simple. Just an acknowledgment that the Doppelgängers were in the religious center would have been enough.
“My cabin,” he said. “Jewel, you’ll come with us.”
He led the way. The muscles in his shoulder were tight. They had been tight all year, and his stomach was growing more and more upset. He was tired of all this concern, all this lack of control. It was time that things turned in the direction of the Fey.
When Jewel reached their cabin, she bounded up the steps and opened the door. A faint odor of woodsmoke met them, even though the fire was out and the cabin dark. Jewel awoke the Fey Lamps as Rugar pulled out chairs. Ipper shut the door.
“All right,” Rugar said. “What is it?”
“Tel disappeared,” Frill said. He straddled the chair nearest the door, his long, sticklike legs extended before him.
“Disappeared?” Jewel asked.
Frill nodded. “He was supposed to meet me at midnight. I waited until dawn, when Ipper came and
got me. Tel never showed.”
“Any possibility that you were in the wrong place or had the wrong time for the meeting?”
“We set up the meetings with Solanda before she left on her jaunt,” Ipper said. “Unless you believe she could get her information wrong.”
Rugar smiled. Solanda had a memory that was long and detailed. He knew that from personal experience. “She never gets her information wrong.”
“Quest showed for our meeting,” Ipper said. “And he had news.”
“Does he know the secret?” Rugar couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice.
Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey Page 53
