Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (12 page)

Mehan’s screams were long and bloodcurdling. Coulter’s had not been like that. What was the point of such torture when the victim would die anyway? Did these strangers get a perverse sort of pleasure from it? Or did they know Eleanora was listening? Were they using it as a lesson for her?

The yard behind the cabin was dark. The sun’s rays didn’t touch there until afternoon. It still held the cool damp of early morning. No strangers were there; no footprints touched the muck. She damned the mud. When the strangers finally found the back door, they would find her prints and be able to chase her through the woods.

She would have to find a way around that.

She gave the problem to the back of her mind while she concentrated on the cabin. Mehan’s screams had turned into moans, which were somehow more hideous in their passiveness. She was losing, but she wasn’t passing out.

Eleanora walked through the muck, and as she did, she had her plan. It was meager, but it was a start.

She pushed open the door and stepped inside. The cabin smelled of fresh bread. She couldn’t help herself. She had to take a loaf. If she were to help the child survive, she had to eat. She took the warm loaf from the small table. Then she heard the whimpering.

The baby’s cries were lost in his mother’s sounds of agony. Perhaps the Holy One had heard Eleanora. Perhaps the Words were right when they claimed that Roca loved children above all else.

But she hadn’t saved the boy yet. She still had a lot to do. Being in the cabin was only the first step.

She followed the whimpers into the small side room. Coulter had built the baby a cradle, and Mehan had filled it with woven blankets so soft, the baby was being reared like a tiny King. Eleanora stuffed the loaf into the pocket of her skirt, then picked up the baby, blankets and all. His whimpers turned to wails as she touched him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I wish I were your mama.”

Her voice soothed him. She put him on her shoulder, remembering all the nights she had wished for someone like him, someone she and Drew had made, tiny and warm and loving.

Outside, his mother’s cries ended abruptly, as Coulter’s had. Terror froze Eleanora. If they found her, they would kill her the same way—and then what would happen to the child?

She wrapped him in the blankets carefully so that he wouldn’t suffocate but so that any cries would be muffled, then hurried to the door with him. Once she reached it, she stopped. She would have to move slowly there. Caution now would save them later. She turned her back and looked over her shoulder, carefully stepping in the footprints she had made before.

The voices continued to argue out front. The small man cackled again, sending shivers down Eleanora’s back. The strangers hadn’t found her yet. Clearly their magick wasn’t all-seeing.

She reached the woods more quickly than she’d thought she would. The footprints looked as if someone had gone into the cabin and was still there. They would spend precious time searching for her in the nooks and crannies Coulter had built for his wife. Then, and only then, would they come to the woods and try to find her.

The baby made quiet sobs against her, his little body quivering. He could sense her fear. She ran her hand over his warmth. They wouldn’t make him bleed. No one would as long as she breathed.

She retraced her steps all the way to the bend in the path. Then she stepped off the trail and walked in the marshy grass, cutting across country. She ran as quickly as her ancient body and sodden skirts would let her. The baby whimpered as he bounced, protesting the violent motion, but doing no more.

For all she knew, these strangers were marauding across the countryside. If they had come from the river, and had gone to Coulter’s first, then they had come from Jahn. She could only hope that they hadn’t reached her other neighbors yet.

She would go to Helter’s cabin. They were on Daisy Stream, as far from the Cardidas and from Jahn as she could get by foot.

Helter was a good man. He would know what to do.

ELEVEN

Jewel wiped the sweat from her brow. Her sword felt heavy and useless against her hips. She was standing in the middle of the road, surveying the scene. The troop, a hundred strong, under the command of Shima, were scouting the parameters of the wall surrounding the palace as well as harassing the peasants who dared interfere with them. Three Islanders were dead, their bodies trampled on the streets for the others to see. Already the murders had made some courageous souls lose their willingness to stand up to the Fey.

The problem had become obvious the minute they’d arrived. The Islanders did not follow traditional wall design. This palace had four gates—one on each expanse of wall.

Jewel was half-afraid that Shima would order them to find three more rams. Each moment they took would allow the Islanders to organize. So far, the Fey had met with no real resistance at all.

Shima was standing near the first gate. She was too thin, her body almost curled in on itself, her long hair white, and her face marked with scars from all the battles in which she had fought. She was a minor Visionary but had no other skills, and had long preferred to lead the Infantry, claiming that an army’s strength was in its youth.

She was discussing the problem with one of her lieutenants rather heatedly, her voice occasionally carrying over the dust and haze. Jewel rubbed her arms. She had always thought idleness the scourge of war-making.

Burden brushed against her, his hand cupping her elbow protectively. He was a year younger than she was, but they had always been close. He had joined the Infantry when his family had turned him out at the age of twelve for not yet developing any magick. No matter how much talk the Shamans did, his family would not take him back. Jewel had watched over him from that point, little thinking that he would grow taller and stronger than she. His face still bore a deep tan from the Nye campaigns, and in the last few months his smile had gained a confidence it had never had before.

He was not smiling now. “She’s pissing away our advantage.” His voice was low, conspiratorial.

“I know.” Jewel answered him in the same tone. She glanced around. The other members of the troop were restless as well. If Shima didn’t take action soon, the Infantry would take it on their own, and that would be disaster. Most of the Infantry were in their teens—too young to have magick or sense.

“You should talk to her.”

“And say what?”

His grip on her elbow tightened and he pulled her closer, as if they were lovers, embracing. The tactic wouldn’t fool Shima, but Shima was still arguing with her lieutenant. “You already have a plan. I can tell.”

Jewel glanced up at him sideways. He had trimmed down since the Nye campaigns. The thinness accented his high cheekbones and made his eyes more prominent. “What makes you think that?”

“Your impatience. You chafe when someone else misses the obvious.”

Well, Burden hadn’t missed the obvious. He saw how annoyed she was. And she had Seen what to do as clearly as if the battle had already been fought. They didn’t need four rams. They needed reinforcements to guard the other gates while they broke into one.

“If I speak to her, she’ll think I’m pulling rank.”

Burden shrugged. “What she thinks won’t matter.”

“She’s my commander.”

“You are the Black King’s granddaughter. In the end we will all answer to you.”

Jewel sighed. Part of the point of serving in the lower divisions was to learn humility. And humility didn’t come naturally to her. She wiped the sweat from her forehead. It was gritty. Even after a rain the air there had a level of dirt she had never felt before.

A group of soldiers stood in front of one of the shop doors, playing with the people within as cats played with mice. The soldiers’ laughter filtered over the road. Shima didn’t seem to hear. She was gesturing at the gate, then at the ram. The troops were splitting off, wandering down the road to see what kind of loot they could find.

Jewel pushed past her other comrades, touching an arm here, a shoulder there, noting their relative calmness. Even though they were about to go into battle, they didn’t seem worried. Fighting there was different from fighting in Nye. The Nyeians had an army that had defended their northeastern border countless times against raiders—and had not lost, until the arrival of the Fey.

These people, on the other hand, seemed to have no idea what defense was about.

Sunlight fell on the wall, making the damp gray stone almost bright. If she squinted just right, she thought she saw lookouts hidden in tiny towers behind the gate. Another thing to plan for.

As she approached Shima, the words of the argument grew clearer. “. . . say we rip apart one of the buildings and use the lumber as rams,” the lieutenant was saying.

Shima shook her head. “The wood won’t hold against these gates. No. It’s better to return to the ships. We still have supplies there.”

“But the ships are in Shadowlands,” Jewel said. She stopped in front of them, her back to the other troops. “And I can assure you my father will not get them out.”

“Your father’s carelessness got us into this mess in the first place!” Shima snapped. “Year-old maps. No schematics of the buildings. No knowledge of the Islanders themselves. Lucky for him they’re sheep. What was he thinking, bringing us here unprepared?”

“He prepared as best he could. If we had sent Fey here with Nyeians, we would have lost any element of surprise.”

Shima started to answer her, but Jewel held up her hand.

“We are losing that element of surprise now,” Jewel said. “As you so aptly pointed out, we do not know what these people are capable of.”

“You forget yourself,” Shima said, straightening to her full height. She had nearly half a head on Jewel.

Jewel took a step back so that she did not have to look up. “I believe you forget yourself,” she said. “And if I have to, I will take over this troop so that my father’s mission will be carried out.”

The lieutenant was standing to the side, his eyes wide, his face flushed with the heat. A silence was growing around them as other members of the troop realized that a power struggle was going on. Only the laughter of the taunters in front of the store provided a distraction from the tension. Jewel could hear nothing on the other side of the gate. It worried her. She knew they could hear the argument, but she wasn’t sure if they understood it.

Shima’s gaze moved away from Jewel and surveyed the people behind her. Something in their posture must have convinced her, for when she looked back, her angular features had tightened even more. “I take it you have a solution.”

Jewel nodded. “Send a small band for reinforcements. We need a double team. Then divide us in half. One half remains here to batter down this gate. The other half divides into thirds. Each third will guard a gate. That way if anyone in the palace tries to bolt, we have the advantage. We will also be able to enter that second way.”

Shima nodded at the lieutenant. “Grab four and head for the docks. We need another hundred as quickly as possible.”

The lieutenant bowed once, then scurried away. Jewel did not watch to see whom he chose as his companions. Her gaze was still on Shima.

Shima’s entire frame had acquired a rigidness it had never had before. She barked orders at the remaining troop, dividing it now along the lines Jewel had suggested, and ordering the battery to begin as soon as the soldiers were in place. Then she looked at Jewel.

“The plan is a good one. Did you pull it from some military history lesson that I forgot?”