Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (61 page)

Theron grabbed a pouch and opened it. With the other hand he took the knife from his boot and dipped it into the water. Cyta and Kondros did the same. Then Theron retied his pouch and attached it to his belt again. He held his knife out before him and was about to go into the clearing when someone grabbed him from behind.

A hand that smelled of rot covered his mouth and pulled him backward. The sharp edge of a knife bit into his throat.

Cyta and Kondros both turned, one hand on their pouches, the other holding a knife. Their eyes were wide.

The stench of the man holding Theron made him gag. “Now,” the man said in badly accented Nye. He was whispering. “If you throw that stuff on me, it will bring the others, and that will bring still others. And we, none of us, want that.”

Cyta and Kondros didn’t move. Theron’s eyes were watering. He held his breath, wishing he could speak. The pain in his throat was sharp, and he thought he felt the coolness of blood trickling down his neck.

“Now,” the man said, his voice close to Theron’s ear. “I need your help, and I believe you need mine. So how about we have a little chat, away from this clearing?”

Theron kept gesturing with his eyes, wishing he had the power to communicate with his mind.
Throw
the water on him. Throw it!
But his friends didn’t seem to get the message. They were watching the man, not Theron.

The man pulled Theron backward, keeping the pressure on his neck steady. His hand clamped even harder on Theron’s mouth, fingers digging into his cheek, forcing him to bite the flesh inside. He let out a breath, then took another as he stumbled backward, his gaze on his friends, his free hand opening a pouch. He gripped the knife tightly with the other hand. All he had to do was shove it into the man’s leg, and the man would die. But he might kill Theron in the process.

They crunched through dead leaves and branches. Theron watched the clearing, expecting the other Fey to follow, but they did not. When they were what he believed to be a safe distance from the clearing, he turned his knife hand and shoved the blade at the man’s leg. Immediately the hand over his mouth moved and knocked Theron’s knife away.

“Kill him!” Theron shouted.

The man’s knife dug deeper into his throat. “Do it,” he said to the others, “and I’ll kill him. You”—he moved his head as if he were nodding at someone—“slash those pouches off his belt, yours, and your companion’s, then drop your knife. You drop yours now.”

Cyta dropped his knife. Theron shook his head just a little, trying not to jar the blade at his throat. Kondros shrugged, then reached over and cut Theron’s belt off before cutting away Cyta’s and his own.

“Now,” the man said, “we’re going to talk for a minute.”

He pulled Theron against him, keeping the pressure on his throat. He took his other hand off Theron’s mouth and encircled his waist. The man’s grip was strong. Theron couldn’t have broken it if he’d tried.

“You are too close to the Circle,” the man said. “Islanders this close to the Circle will die, didn’t you know that?”

“We came to get our comrades,” Theron said. The blade pushed against his Adam’s apple, making speaking painful.

“The dead?” the man asked. “The dead do not care how they end up. Be thankful they can be useful.”

“Useful? To you? They don’t want to be useful. They want to be Blessed,” Theron said.

“Shh, Theron.” Kondros held up a hand and faced the man. “You said you needed our help.”

A little shudder ran through the man’s body. Theron felt it in his back. He frowned, thinking that, for a moment, Kondros might be taking the right tack.

“You know nothing of us,” the man said. “I can tell you.”

“You would tell us about the Fey?” Kondros said. “Why should we trust you?”

“Because,” the man said, his voice soft. “They just tried to kill me. I want to get out of here.”

“One of their own?” Cyta’s voice rose with incredulity.

It sounded like a lie to Theron too. “No,” he said. “We can’t trust you.”

“Let Theron go,” Kondros said, “and you will prove your trustworthiness.”

The man’s body shivered again. Theron watched his friends’ faces. They betrayed nothing. He waited, holding his breath—that stink was overwhelming—and then the man let go. The knife dropped and the arm released Theron.

He stumbled forward, and Cyta caught him. Theron turned to see who their attacker was. Another short Fey—he hadn’t realized that they were short—stood behind him, his face and arms smeared with blood and dirt. His clothing, originally red, was covered with brown stains as well. Only his dark coloring, telltale eyebrows, and high cheekbones made him look any different from the Islanders.

“What do you want from us?” Theron asked.

The man wiped the back of his hand against his forehead, as if he was unwilling to smear his face. “Take me somewhere safe.”

“There is nowhere safe for you among our people,” Kondros said.

The man shook his head and glanced over their shoulders at the clearing. “I can’t go back there.”

“What happened?” Cyta asked.

“They tried to kill me,” he said.

“How?” Kondros appeared to have infinite patience. Theron was ready to snap at the man.

“They had some of your poison. They were going to pour it on me as an experiment.”

Theron let his breath out slowly. So they were trying to figure out holy water. Already this man had given them some information they could use. But was this a plant? He didn’t understand why the man would come to them instead of to his own kind.

“And you ran away?” Kondros asked.

The man nodded.

“We’ll take you somewhere safe,” Theron said, “if you get our people buried.”

The man frowned, then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what happens to them. They’re already gone.”

“It matters to us,” Theron said.

“No.” The man’s word was soft. “All that is there is the useless parts. We have taken the rest. They’re gone.”

“Taken the rest?” Cyta asked. Theron’s stomach turned again. “For what?”

“Magick,” the man whispered, as if he had said a holy word.

“Oh, God,” Theron said, and the statement was half a prayer. No matter what, the King or one of his advisers had to speak with this creature.

“If you come with us,” Kondros said, “you need to get rid of your knife, and you need to let us have our protection back.”

“Don’t pour the poison on me,” the man said. “I ran from that.”

Theron could feel the man’s terror. If all the Fey felt that way, holy water was a better weapon than he had thought. “How do we know that they’re not going to come after you?”

The man smiled. The smile was not a happy one. “I’m a Red Cap,” he said. “They won’t even notice that I’m gone.”

“I think we should just leave him here,” Cyta said in Islander.

Kondros shook his head. “What if he’s telling the truth?”

“Then we missed an opportunity,” Cyta said. “But if he’s not, we’ll die.”

“I won’t hurt you,” the man said in Nye. “I promise. You may tie me up if you like. Just get me away from here.”

Theron touched his neck. Blood smeared against his skin. The cut wasn’t scabbing yet. “We could just kill you.”

The man nodded. “You could. But I will tell you all you need to know about the Fey. I will tell you everything.”

Theron looked at Kondros over the man’s head. They couldn’t make that kind of decision. A lord would have to, or the King himself. Maybe they could bargain this man’s existence for a burial of their friends. Or a rescue of Adrian and the others.

“All right,” Theron said, giving a small nod. “We’ll take you somewhere safe.”

FIFTY-THREE

Just being in the Tabernacle terrified him. Tel clasped his hands together and sat in one of the wooden chairs, trying to keep himself calm. So far, he had managed well enough. Seeing Matthias just after the change had been awkward and frustrating. If Tel had had a bit more strength, he would have attacked Matthias then. But Tel might not have come through the experience sane. He hadn’t had a chance to get near Matthias in the meeting later in the day.

The Elder’s—Andre’s—private rooms were austere, although they looked as if they had been built for opulence. The main room was wide, with a fireplace that extended to the ceiling, and a balcony that overlooked the entire city. The bedroom was also big and had another huge fireplace. Neither fireplace looked as if it had been used much, and Andre had chosen to sleep on a cot. He had furnished the main room with wooden furniture—no cushions—and had removed all the rugs, leaving only the tile floor. Still, it was better than the stables, where Tel had been before.

But not much better.

Not enough to make up for the danger he was putting himself in. If only he could stay in the private chambers. When he ventured out, the Tabernacle was his worst nightmare.

He saw holy water everywhere. One of the Auds had brought him a flask of wine with his luncheon, and he had poured it into a mug, staring at it for the longest time, his tongue dry with thirst, wondering if the wine was made with the poison. But he knew it wasn’t—or at least the Andre part of himself knew. Still, his hand shook as he brought it to his mouth to drink.

Even as Tel walked the halls, leaving the meeting and coming back to his rooms, he saw the water. Auds cleaning the walls, buckets of brownish liquid filled with damp cloths beside them, filled him with terror.

And to his surprise, none of the terror was worth it. He had thought that if he took over one of the Rocaan’s assistants, an Elder, he would learn the secret to the poison, only to discover that no one but the Rocaan himself knew how to make the stuff.

No wonder the old man had looked haggard and ill since the Fey had arrived.

Tel wasn’t quite sure how to get the information either. Did he become the old man? What if the holy water was part of the old man’s makeup? What if, in becoming Rocaan, some part of the body changed? Tel could imagine himself, covered with blood, trying to absorb the old man, only to feel himself melting as so many other victims had. The image left him in the uncomfortable wooden chair, feet pressed together and hands wringing. He knew this place was safe, except for the cabinet near the door, where Andre kept his own supply of holy water, for both worship and protection.

The Rocaanists all imbued the water with mystical qualities. Andre had believed that the Roca gave them the water as a protection. Its use in Midnight Sacrament had taken on a special meaning to him after the Fey had arrived. Andre believed that the Roca had known about the Fey and had given the water to the Islanders as protection.

Not a bad idea, when one thought about it, although Tel didn’t know how a man at the dawn of time had known that invaders would arrive at Blue Isle now. Perhaps the Roca really had had the Ear of God.

Tel shook himself and stood up. Andre had a loose body that Tel had tied into knots. He moved his shoulders, hearing the cracks and pops. If only he could return to the stables, where he could work with the horses and ignore the crisis around him. He had snapped at Solanda because he had known she was right: he had gone to that place all Doppelgängers were warned about, the place where it became more comfortable to be someone else than to be himself.