Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (79 page)

It sounded reasonable. Alexander was about to open his mouth to agree when Monte said, “You are our enemy. You have the look of the enemy. Many of our people have lost family and friends to your people. You will not gain a peaceful life in Blue Isle no matter what you do.”

“Then you place me among those who would understand what I have done, and you guarantee my personal safety.”

“It would not be comfortable,” Monte said.

“You think I’m comfortable now?” the little man snapped. “I shred corpses so that I stay out of the way of those more ‘gifted’ than I am. No one speaks to me except other Red Caps, unless they have an order for me. They house us in a different part of camp. They do not let us near their children for fear we would pollute them. If we talk back, as I have done, they encourage the Spell Warders—not obviously, mind you, but encourage nonetheless—to use us in their experiments. More Red Caps die in times of peace than in times of war. We have no value to them at all. At least here I would have a bit of value. I might enable you to save Blue Isle.”

“But you would still live apart,” Monte said. “You will still threaten the children.”

Alexander put a hand on his arm. “We have never had an outsider move into Blue Isle and attempt to be one of us. We have had Nyeians here, and they are treated with courtesy. We have the example of our Roca, who did not kill his enemies, and we have a religion that preaches compassion. Perhaps, in these circumstances, Scavenger will do better on Blue Isle than he will with his own people.”

Monte started to respond, but Alexander squeezed Monte’s arm. He didn’t care if his assessment was right. He merely wanted to convince the little man that it was.

“If you help me,” the little man said, “I will tell you what you need to know.”

“You know how to defeat your own people?” Alexander asked.

“It is not as simple as one single blow,” the little man said. “But with knowledge of all the tricks, you would have a much better chance.”

Monte started to speak, but Alexander touched his arm. “All right,” Alexander said to the little man. “We will work with you. But for now, we shall keep you under guard, and you shall work on my terms. Is that clear?”

The little man pressed closer to the bars, as if the information pleased him. “It is very clear,” he said.

“Good,” Alexander said. “Monte, I want you to find this man quarters with a real bed. I want you to make certain he is fed and comfortable. I also want him far away from any curiosity seekers or any other unsuspecting souls. Keep a large contingent of guards around the building, so that he will know that he is still a prisoner and under our control.”

He turned to the little man. “We shall move you to a better place, and you and I will talk again. You are not to share any information about the Fey with anyone but me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sire,” the little man said.

“I did not give you my title,” Alexander said. “Do not presume.”

“Sorry,” the little man said. “I do want you to know, however, that I appreciate your efforts.”

Alexander turned away from the little man, his guards closing in around him. “Come, Monte. We have other matters to discuss.”

He left the room and stepped into the hallway. The air was fresher there, and not as close. He did not wait to see if Monte was behind him. Instead, he went down the hallway and to the front door of the building. He let himself out and took a deep breath, glad to be away from the stench.

The little man had frightened him, not so much in looks, although the fierceness hidden in those whimsical features seemed a part of the Fey aggression, but in perception. The little man saw too much. If he were, indeed, to help the Islanders, that perception would be valuable. But if he was lying so that he could spy, such perception would help the other side.

Working with the little man would be a risk. But Alexander would take a risk if he had to. This was the opportunity they needed.

SIXTY-FIVE

The baby was crying and struggling. Twice his little feet had caught Solanda in the ribs. She was glad she had taken him at night, because he was not wearing shoes. Shoes would have done damage.

She was on the path outside Shadowlands. The day was dawning pink on the horizon, the sky barely visible through the gaps in the leaves. She had lost somewhere in the woods the men who were chasing her—she was able to move more silently than they were, even though she couldn’t change into her feline form. But the baby had nearly alerted them several times. He had cried out only once, and she had jammed his face into her collarbone. The pain must have stunned him—it stunned her—because he did not cry again. Indeed, he did not move again for such a long time that she feared she had hurt him.

If only the old woman had given Solanda a few more moments. Moments in which to wrap the child in some clothing, to grab a blanket, and to get some clothing for herself. Instead, she escaped the cabin in her feline form, and when she became a woman again, she found she had left the shift somewhere in that meager house.

Her own nakedness bothered her less than that wail. It would haunt her dreams. She should have killed the old woman instead of letting her live to see the boy taken from her. But Solanda hadn’t had time. The cries had drawn the others, and they had nearly caught her.

Solanda’s breath was coming in small gasps, and near the fork in the path she had gained a stitch in her side. The boy had gone through one of his periodic struggles—he seemed to believe that he would be better off on his own toddling feet than in her arms—and she had had to grip him more tightly than she wanted. She hoped she hadn’t bruised him: the Domestics would yell at her. But she was never cut out for motherhood or carrying children, and the fact that the Powers had entrusted this infant to her annoyed her.

Yet she had to follow the magick.

She stopped to catch her breath. The breeze was cold, and she was frozen except where the warm child pressed against her. The boy shuddered too, but she kept her arms wrapped around him. She had tried, for a while, to capture his tiny feet with one of her hands, but he had braced himself on her and tried to push off, so she’d had to let go.

The boy shoved her hard with his fists until his upper torso pulled away from hers. He peered into her face, the light of dawn illuminating his small features. She hadn’t believed anything that young could feel anger, but she couldn’t read his expression any other way. His brow was furrowed, his lips pursed, and his eyes blazed. If he had had more than a smattering of baby talk, he would have ordered her to take him back to the old woman.

Solanda was of half a mind to do so. Her job had never before called her to witness someone else in pain. She usually did a quick spy job, or let the others know the leaders’ plans. She always went into areas where no other Fey could go, and sometimes she seduced families, rulers, or soldiers. They always took her for a pet and confided in her. Then she left them, with no blood involved.

“Mama!” the little boy said, the Islander word clear. The tone was a command, not an inquiry. He knew that the old woman was his mother, and he wanted to go back.

“No,” Solanda replied in the same language. “You’re coming with me.”

“No!” the little boy shouted, and pounded on her with his fists. They connected with her breastbone and sent a lot of pain through her. She hadn’t realized that toddlers were so strong.

She grabbed his fists with her free hand and held them against his own chest. “No,” she repeated, then pulled him against her body, a bit more gently this time than the last.

Then she took a deep breath and stepped off the path. The sooner she got rid of this little bother, the better.

The grass was wet against her feet, and she flinched at its chill. She wanted nothing more than to be warm again. She pranced across it, using cat skills, touching as lightly as she could. The oddness of her movements seemed to catch the boy’s attention; he stopped wriggling in her arms and held on as if he was afraid she would drop him.

As she got closer to Shadowlands, the stench of rotting flesh floated on the cool air. The child sneezed and pressed his face against her skin. She wrinkled her nose. She had hoped the Red Caps would be finished by now.

The Ground Circle was as she expected it. No one stood outside it. The Red Caps were probably working closer to the river. Tiny lights indicated the circular opening; they seemed faded in the growing daylight.

She held her breath as she stepped into the clearing. A deer was feeding on a nearby tree. When it saw her, it startled and ran off into the woods, its hooves crunching the underbrush. The child clung to her even more tightly. Something about the clearing seemed to spook him.

Her arms were getting tired. She pried him off her shoulder and balanced him on her left hip—as much for his protection as for relief for her muscles. It was said, although she thought it a superstition, that anyone who went into Shadowlands with his eyes closed would never see real daylight again. Somehow she wanted more for this child.

The boy saw the lights revolving in a circle, whimpered, and buried his head in the soft flesh of her breast. She pushed him away, holding him so that he could not cover his eyes again. Immediately they filled with tears. She looked away.

Her footprints left a shiny path in the dew. She stepped over the Ground Circle, put out her hand, and felt the warmth of the Circle Door. A tear plopped on her left thumb, followed by another, and another. The tears rolled into her palm before falling onto the dirt. She glanced at the boy. He had put one finger in his mouth, the tears streaming down his face. He was not snuffling or even sobbing. The tears seemed to be as natural as breathing.

But much more unnerving. It was as if he knew where she was taking him, and knew he would lose something precious if he went. She glanced at her footprints in the dewy grass, to the sunlight hitting the trees, and the path beyond. She could take him back and leave him in the clearing near the old woman’s house. They would think it merely an odd incident.

Or they would think him enchanted and kill him as the Nyeians had done with any children taken by the Fey during that war.

This magick child could not die.

She held him carefully so that he couldn’t lean against her; then she stepped through the circle. The lights warmed, then burned her skin, as they always did. The boy screamed as they passed through, a high, wailing scream, not of pain, but of fear.

And then she was inside, in the mist and the grayness that was Shadowlands. No one stirred. The air was warmer there, and stuffy, with a touch of woodsmoke that would probably vanish if a wind came up. The mist was thick around her feet, but it warmed them instead of chilled them. The Meeting Rock was empty, and the cabins had that closed look that buildings gain when their inhabitants are sleeping within.

The boy’s scream ended as suddenly as it had begun. He buried his face in her arm and began sobbing, hard, steady sobs as if she had broken his heart. She didn’t need this any longer. Whatever tie she had felt with the child had been broken once she went through the Circle Door. She was supposed to bring him there; she had done that. Now she needed to return to her usual routine.

With a sigh she headed for the Domicile. They would know what to do with him. He grabbed her nipple with one hand, making her bite her lower lip to hold back the pain. With the other he grabbed a handful of hair and tugged. The little brat was punishing her for bringing him inside.

When she reached the Domicile, she knocked loudly. The baby’s grip tightened on her breast, and twisted. She bit back a cry of pain. No one answered her knock, so she pushed the door open.

She had forgotten that this door opened into the infirmary. She was surprised at the moaning Fey in the beds. Fey who got injured in battle usually died. But they were used to fighting experienced warriors. Perhaps more Fey lived through these battles because the Islanders were so inexperienced. The room smelled of pus, sweat, and urine. Two of the men on the beds looked up at her; the rest continued to moan as if she hadn’t arrived. She closed the door and let the building’s heat warm her.