Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey Read online

  The Danite looked at him, then bowed as best he could on the horse. “We come from the Tabernacle, Highness. The Rocaan saw ships in the harbor this morning, strange ships that arrived in the rain. There are strangers all over the city, and as we rode here, we heard screams in the streets. A woman ran from the alley not far from this place, her clothing in tatters, shouting that she had seen the devil.” The Danite’s words were clipped. His face was red, and he looked as exhausted as his horse. The Tabernacle was on the other side of the river from the palace.

  “We shall go to my father at once,” Nicholas said. He stood as tall as he could, adopting the tone his father used for business. “Guard, send someone ahead. Tell my father we will meet him in his audience chamber, and tell him the matter is urgent. You,” he said to the groom standing to the side, “take the horses. See that they’re well taken care of.”

  His heart was pounding in his chest, and he was trembling with excitement, but he tried not to show it. Something was happening in Jahn this morning, something that had scared the Rocaan and put terror in the hearts of these Danites.

  The guard ran ahead. The Danites dismounted, and Nicholas led them through the door that took them to the inner court instead of through the kitchen. “Why didn’t the Rocaan come himself?” Nicholas asked.

  “He wanted to,” the tall Danite said, “but the Elders thought it would be too dangerous.”

  Nicholas frowned. How long had the Tabernacle known about this crisis before bringing it to the King?

  They went through a narrow corridor, then into the Great Hall, before Nicholas led them through the door that led to the audience chamber.

  Four guards stood in front of the oak door. Two of them moved in unison to pull it open as Nicholas and his party approached.

  The formal audience chamber smelled musty. His father hadn’t used it in weeks. Ancient spears lined the walls, and behind the dais stood the family coat of arms: two swords crossed over a heart.

  His father was already inside, seated on the throne, wearing the blue velvet robe he usually wore to a family breakfast. Two of his advisers, Lords Stowe and Powell, stood beside him like silent sentries. They still had morning beards, and Lord Powell’s ponytail was askew. Nicholas’s father, at least, looked clean shaven.

  “What is this disturbance that breaks my routine?” Nicholas’s father asked.

  Nicholas stepped forward, leaving the bowing Danites behind. “These men rode in moments ago from the Tabernacle. They claim strange ships are in the harbor and strange men are in the streets.”

  “How many ships?” his father asked.

  The rotund Danite stepped forward. “The Rocaan could not tell, Sire. He saw them in the rainy darkness before dawn. By the time the sun rose, the ships were gone.”

  “Then why didn’t he come to tell me himself?” Nicholas’s father asked. He was leaning forward, his brow creased and his elbows resting on his knees.

  “Because there is more, Sire. There are strange people in the streets, lots of screams and cries. We saw a woman who claimed to be pursued by a devil. We saw blood running like a river from the ports.” The tall Danite cast a quick glance at Nicholas as he spoke, as if he didn’t want to say that last in front of a boy. Nicholas stood taller. He was no longer a boy. And hadn’t his response been the same as his father’s?

  “The Elders did not think it wise to send anyone important into the streets, which is why we were chosen.” The rotund Danite spoke without anger, as if he knew he was of no consequence. “The Rocaan believes we have been invaded. He believes we must act quickly, or perish.”

  Nicholas felt as if all the wind had been knocked out of him. Lord Stowe gripped the top of the throne tightly. Nicholas’s father had turned pale. “Invaded?” he asked, as if he didn’t quite understand the word. “But no one can get into Blue Isle. The Stone Guardians protect us, and we have authorized no maps since Nye was overrun.”

  Then a look of horror crossed his face before disappearing behind the mask he usually wore. The look made Nicholas cold.

  “Does the Rocaan know who brought the ships?” his father asked.

  “No, Sire,” the tall Danite said. “Not for certain. But he has a suspicion.”

  “The Fey,” Nicholas’s father said, answering his own question. “They are more skilled than we thought.”

  NINE

  The sunlight felt warm on his skin. Silence had been cold ever since the fleet had left Nye. He openly attributed his chill to the wind off the ocean, but actually he knew that it was because he wore Fey form again. For too long he had worn the shape of a Nyeian general, shedding that body only days before the fleet had left for Blue Isle.

  Steam rose off the mud as the sun hit it. He stood beside the large central building where the guards had their morning meeting. The barracks were twenty-five small, hut-like buildings that formed a perfect half circle. The central building was in front of them. He hid between one of the huts and the building’s entrance, leaning on the wet wood wall. The buildings in this part of Jahn were long and two-storied, except for the palace itself. Most of the buildings were made of wood, although some of the older ones had stone facades. The road before him was cobblestone, but the path leading to the central building was dirt.

  Silence had spent his morning searching for the closest thing the Islanders had to an army. Before the fleet had left Nye, he had scanned his Nyeian general’s memory for evidence of an army on Blue Isle and had come up empty. Apparently the Islanders had no army, only guards who theoretically protected the King. No Nyeian had ever seen the guards fight or do more than hold ceremonial weapons.

  It had taken Silence a good hour to find anything that passed for a guard. Finally he had followed to this place three men wearing black tunics and tight pants, thinking the men’s clothes were a uniform. When he’d seen that the barracks pressed against the palace like a barnacle on a ship, he’d known he was right.

  He hadn’t wanted this assignment. He hadn’t even wanted to come to Blue Isle. But Rugar was short of Doppelgängers, and Silence hated civilian life. Spying on other Fey for the Black King was not the best use of Silence’s talents. Besides, he had been getting tired of the Nyeians. He had lived inside their skins for nearly a decade, and he had nothing new to learn about the culture. The fact that no one understood the Islanders intrigued him. The idea of an easy and prestigious kill also lured him away from Nye.

  Rugar had sent all ten Doppelgängers on this trip to get as close to the Islander King as possible. Silence planned to be the one who killed the ruler.

  Silence had not yet found the man he wanted, and he had little time. His height and slenderness, his sun-browned skin, his upraised eyebrows and slightly pointed ears, marked him an outsider. How much these people feared strangers was unknown to him. Too many passersby had already noted his presence. He couldn’t continue observing for long.

  He slid along the wall and approached the main building. Its white wood walls appeared to have swollen with the rain. The building had no windows at all. In order to observe, he would have to slip inside, something he did not want to do, as he was unprepared to make a sudden change.

  With his left hand he patted his hip, his fingers touching the hilt of his stiletto. It was still there. Good. He couldn’t act without it.

  He looked at the barracks around him. For the moment the yard was empty. He climbed the two stone steps to the door and slowly turned the knob. He moved with the stealth for which he had been named, keeping to the shadows, hoping no one would notice his strange presence.

  The building smelled of greasy meat, and sweat. He stepped into a narrow hallway, the floor made of rough planks, the walls of unpainted wood. The hall was dark. The only light came from the room beyond, where half a dozen lamps hung from holders built into the wall. He peered around the door. A group of men talked and laughed, empty plates of food still scattered on the tables.

  These men were older than the ones he had followed. They had all thic
kened with age, and their skin lacked the elasticity of youth. On Nye they would be leaders. Probably here as well. He was in luck.

  He peered around the door, barely breathing. The men all deferred to a large man with thinning blond hair and large jowls. His eyes were nearly lost in his florid face, and his mouth puckered out of his rounded cheeks.

  Perfect. Except that he couldn’t prepare there. A Doppelgänger had only a moment before the blood he needed to change dried on his skin. He would have to find a victim somewhere close.

  He slunk back to the door and let himself out. The sunlight was blinding. In the distance he could hear shouts, cries, and screams: a sign that his comrades were already at work. He had to hurry. Soon the tableau inside would break up and he would lose his opportunity.

  An elderly man ran from a door on the side of the palace toward the barracks. Silence slipped into the shadows. When the man reached the main building’s stairs, Silence grabbed him and pulled him between buildings.

  The man was thin and bony with age, his skin hanging in wrinkled folds around his features, his pale eyes wide with shock.

  “I need your help, friend,” Silence said in his most soothing voice. The man shook his head. Silence grabbed the man’s shoulder with his right hand, and with his left he pulled the stiletto from its sheath against his hip. In a quick, practiced movement, he jabbed the blade into the man’s neck, severing the carotid artery and sending blood spurting like a geyser.

  The man’s eyes grew wider as his skin grew paler. He gestured wildly, then sank to his knees, all the time gurgling as he tried to call for help. Silence stripped the clothes from his own body, then stood in the spray as if it were a shower, massaging himself quickly so that the blood coated all of his skin. He rubbed what he could into his hair, then, as the stream tapered off and the old man fell face forward in the dust, Silence took his clothes and squeezed what little blood he could get from them.

  Then he ran up the stairs and inside the open door. The men were already splitting up. Someone apparently had come to them with news of the fighting near the docks. Silence’s quarry still sat at the table, barking orders like a small dog.

  Silence’s heart was pounding against his rib cage. He had never done this in broad daylight, always preferring the protection of night. Fortunately, all the men except his victim were disappearing through a side door, and no one else had come past the front.

  Silence waited until the orders stopped before peering around the door. The blood was growing sticky. He had only a moment left.

  His prey sat alone, face red, sweat dripping down his forehead even though the room was not hot. He appeared to be alone.

  Good.

  Silence stepped into the doorway, knowing that the shock of his naked, blood-covered body would gain him time to cross the room.

  “By the Sword,” the man said, standing, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. “What in the name of Roca are you?”

  “I am your Doppelgänger,” Silence said as he lunged across the room. He still clung to the stiletto with his right hand, but as he mounted the table, he dropped the blade onto the plates with a resounding clang.

  The man was backing up, but he tripped against his chair and would have fallen if he hadn’t used his hand to steady himself. Silence leaped on him like a spider, wrapping his legs around the man’s torso to hold his position, his elbows in the man’s neck to brace his arms. Silence stuck his fingers into the man’s eyes and his thumbs into the man’s mouth, prying the teeth open and pushing hard against the back of the throat.

  Then he pulled and pulled and pulled until the man’s essence broke free and fluttered between them for a moment like a frightened child. Silence bit into the mist and sucked it inside, feeling rather than hearing the man’s screams. Then he felt his body mold and twist and expand until it too had a wide girth, small eyes, and a puckish mouth.

  The body between his legs and arms vanished, and he nearly lost his balance before remembering to put his own feet on the ground. The bones clattered to the ground. He grabbed a chair and pulled it close to him, sinking in it.

  Images mixed in his mind, memories not his own. His stomach churned with the grease of the ancient duck the cook had made, and his head ached from a hangover even though he had had nothing to drink for weeks. The culture wasn’t clear yet, and neither was the language, but it would be in a moment. He would just have to wait.

  He wiped his hand over the back of his mouth. Clothing. He was sitting there completely nude. Quartermaster Grundy had never been nude in his life. Fortunately, the quartermaster’s quarters were in the building. With luck he could get to them and take out the uniform the quartermaster had discarded the night before.

  Then both personalities melded, and he clenched his fists. A quartermaster. He had fallen short of captain of the guards. He might have to go through this painful process all over again. This was what came of too little cultural study, too little preparation, and too much arrogance.

  Silence shook off his annoyance. He was there. He had invaded an Islander. He had a culture to learn and people to manipulate. He wasn’t yet close to the King, but he would be.

  Of that he was certain.

  TEN

  Her hands were gnarled and they ached with the cold. Eleanora winced as she gripped the stale bread crust and snapped it in half. She put the smaller half aside for her midday meal, scraped the crumbs into her dry palm, and took a bite from the larger half. The bread crunched beneath her remaining teeth. She shuffled to the door, opened it, and spread the crumbs on the walk.

  She was never so hungry that she couldn’t share with the birds.

  The sun was out for the first time in days. Its light shone like diamonds through the leaves of the trees. Although the land around her small home was still a mucky swamp, she had faith that it would all dry soon. Maybe then she could walk to Coulter’s cabin and see if she could get him to cut her some wood. Someday she might even be able to pay him for his help.

  Then she closed the door and went back inside. The single room was dark and colder than the outdoors. She hadn’t made a fire since two nights before, when she’d cooked the last of her stew and then slept in the fire’s warmth. She was saving her remaining stack of wood, although for what she wasn’t sure. Part of her thought she was saving it to keep herself warm on the night she died.

  She had no delusions that she would live much longer. A body as old as hers could not take the starvation and the chill. Her clothing hung about her like blankets now, and she could see all the bones in her arms. She was glad she did not have a silver glass so that she could see what suffering had done to her face.

  Drew had always thought she had a beautiful face.

  But Drew was six months dead, and she would not be far behind him. She had never before realized how much easier life was when there were two to share the misery. He would have found some dry wood while she would have dug roots to feed them.

  She missed him more than she had ever thought possible. They had fought from the day they’d met, but they had loved with equal passion. And he had never once blamed her for the lack of children just as she had never blamed him for his inability to farm or to keep sheep. He had been good with his hands, and in the end the neighbors had bargained for his services: a dozen eggs in trade for a repaired wheel; a month’s worth of bread for a well-built chimney. She had been living off the last of that charity since he’d died. But when the rains came, the charity ended.

  She ate her piece of stale bread, washing it down with a glass of the rainwater she had collected during the night. The water was cool and fresh and sweet. Even the rain brought good things.

  Perhaps she wouldn’t wait for the mud to dry. Perhaps she would slog her way over to Coulter’s. It didn’t matter if her skirts got muddy. They were old anyway, and she no longer had anyone to impress.

  She swallowed the last of the bread, then pulled open the door again, expecting to scare the birds. Instead she was the one su
rprised. The crumbs remained, littering the walk. No four-pronged footprints marred the surface of the mud. In the rain the birds had swooped down as soon as she’d tossed the crumbs to them. They had flown overhead as if they’d expected the early-morning ritual.

  But they hadn’t swooped this morning, and she had been too preoccupied with the sun to notice. She glanced at the trees, the raindrops glistening on their wet branches. The birds should have been singing in the sunlight. Now that she thought about it, she realized she hadn’t heard a bird since she’d woken up.

  How odd. How very odd.

  You must listen when nature whispers in your ear, Drew said. She turned to thank him before realizing that he spoke with the voice of memory. A thousand times each day her mind caught her like this: she would look with a sudden warmth filling the cold places in her heart, only to discover that what she had seen or heard had not been Drew.