Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (23 page)

Gingerly she leaned her weight on her sore leg. The pain was fierce, shooting from the arch of her foot into her thigh, but she could walk. She limped the next few steps, then regained her earlier pace, deciding that a little pain was worth her life.

The trees were thinning into shrubs, and the darkness of the forest was fading. Sunlight streamed through holes in the branch canopy above her. But aside from the baby’s cries, she heard nothing.

Her throat was suddenly dry. What if she was wrong? What if those creatures had come from the coast instead of from Jahn? Perhaps all the people between Daisy Stream and the Infrin Sea were dead. More bodies, more blood. If she closed her eyes, she could see the stripped skeletons lying in their yards, the tall, thin creatures watching from doorways and laughing at her.

If everyone was dead between Coulter’s home and the Infrin Sea, then she had no reason to hide in the forest. She and the child would have to die too. Or perhaps she could bargain for his life. They could raise him anyway they wanted to. They would get rid of her; she was just a meddlesome old woman. But a child. A child was precious to any race.

The baby shuddered, gulped, and then stopped crying. Little shivers ran through him, though, as if he was too tired to make a sound.

She rounded another corner and saw the clearing ahead. The sunlight fell across the grass, and she saw people moving, children playing near the edge of the forest.

They were alive, then. The creatures hadn’t come there first.

Relief gave her the extra energy she needed. She couldn’t run, but she tried, hobbling as quickly as she could across the mud and the wet.

As she burst out of the trees, the children screamed and ran away in terror: only then did she realize what an awful sight she must make.

“Help!” she cried. “Please! Someone!”

Her legs would take her no farther. She managed to stay upright for the sake of the baby. The sun felt warm on her skin, but her clothes were heavy with water. The baby started to wail again.

Three men and two women ran toward her. She recognized them: Helter and his wife, Lowe; Pier and his wife, Vy; and Arl, who was unmarried. Lowe took the baby, and Eleanora felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her. She pitched forward. The men caught her and eased her to the ground.

“Eleanora?” Helter asked as if he were uncertain.

“Yes,” she said. She closed her eyes, feeling the world spin. It was all right. She was with friends and safe now. But not for long.

She sat up. “The baby needs care,” she said. “He’s Coulter’s. His parents are dead.”

“Dead?” Lowe asked. The baby whimpered in her arms.

“Murdered,” Eleanora said. Then, in gasps and bursts, she told them the story of her morning. Vy glanced from her to the baby as if only the child made Eleanora’s tale real. Pier supported her with his thick arm. Arl watched the forest as if he expected the creatures to burst through it at any moment.

When she finished, there was a long silence. The children had crept back up and were listening, their eyes wide. She wished she hadn’t spoken in front of them, but she had had no choice.

She had black spots in her vision. She wouldn’t be able to continue much longer. The fear and exertion had finally caught up with her. “I haven’t eaten,” she said into the silence.

Her voice seemed to snap Lowe out of her shock. “Yes,” she said. “And this baby needs to be changed.” She cradled him close.

Helter nodded. “Let’s go inside. We need to make plans.”

Plans. Eleanora closed her eyes for just a moment. They would rely on her for the plans, and she didn’t even know if the creatures were human. She had no idea if knives wounded them or if they could even die.

“Come on, Eleanora.” Pier’s voice was soft against her ear. “We’ll take care of you.”

She hoped so. As Pier helped her to her feet, she opened her eyes.

Arl hadn’t moved. He still stared at the forest, a look of quiet horror etched on his features. “They’re going to come for us, aren’t they?” he whispered.

“I’m afraid so,” Eleanora said. Of that she had no doubt.

TWENTY-ONE

The Black Robes scurried by him. Scavenger blended into the shadows along the wall of the empty storefront. He was across the dusty street from the palace, but it seemed as if he were miles away. Since he had run to Caseo to report the evil across the river, he had seen over fifty Fey die. No blood, but that hideous stink, the shrill cries of pain. The Black Robes had not seen him yet, but he knew they would want to kill him, since he had Islander blood on his clothes.

Caseo had ordered him to the palace to continue his work, but Scavenger couldn’t. His pouch was empty. He couldn’t bear to cross into the walls, to be trapped in a world even more Islander than this one. Besides, the blood magick no longer worked. He had seen Foot Soldiers attempt to touch the Black Robes. The Black Robes would toss liquid onto the Foot Soldiers before the incantations were complete.

The Islanders were winning.

When he had arrived, he had peered through the hole in the battered gates and seen Islanders in hand-to-hand combat with Infantry. The Foot Soldiers had just arrived, and they had begun their deaths by touch. They looked for Red Caps—three were already working inside—and when he saw that his comrades were so busy, he slunk back into the shadows. Scavenger needed to concentrate on his own life. They had enough blood pouches in the warehouse to last half a year.

If they lived that long.

The wood of the building was still damp from the rains. He could feel it through his shirt, clammy against his skin. His entire body was shaking. There was nowhere to hide. It was only a matter of time before they found him and covered him with that awful poison.

The Black Robes had paused at the gates of the palace, peering inside with what seemed to be trepidation. Fey guards littered the street, moaning and crying as they died. Scavenger tried to turn his gaze away, but he could not. The horror of melted hands, of missing faces, held him rapt. He could almost picture himself there, dying in hideous agony.

Strange that it should bother him now. He bathed in the blood of others, gathered it for use in magic poisons. He had seen more people die than he cared to think about. But he had seen only a handful of Fey die. Not dozens, like this.

The Black Robes hadn’t gone in yet. The melee inside seemed to frighten them. They held out the remaining bottles and counted among them. Scavenger crept to the side of the building, making certain that he did not step into the open. Some of the Fey near the side of the road saw him and yelled for him to help them. He put a finger to his lips. He couldn’t help them if he died too. Didn’t they know that?

The Black Robes didn’t seem to hear. They seemed less fearsome now that they weren’t moving. There were only about twenty of them, and each seemed to be down to a bottle or two. Certainly not enough to attack the force that had spread itself through the palace.

Scavenger licked his dry lips. Perhaps the Fey inside didn’t even know of this new danger. Someone would have to warn them.

He put a hand on the side of the damp building. To warn them meant that he would have to find a way across the road so that the Black Robes didn’t see him. He had already warned Caseo. He was not heroic enough to warn the people twice.

“See how they skulk and hide as if their little lives are worth something.”

The voice was unfamiliar and nasal. Scavenger whirled, his heart pounding. A heavyset man with puckered lips, large jowls, and beady eyes stood in front of him. The man was Islander and wore the uniform of the King’s guards.

The man smiled at Scavenger’s fear. “Your pouches are empty, boy.”

Scavenger bit his lower lip, unable to speak. His hands went to the dry, empty pouches hanging flaccidly at his side. Then he realized what the man had said. How did Islanders know about pouches?

“Wh-who are you?” he asked, turning slightly so that his back was against the wall instead of facing the street.

The man’s smile grew, making his eyes nearly disappear in the folds of his face. “Quartermaster Grundy,” he said lightly, as if he found the name amusing.

“Y-you have no bottle,” Scavenger said.

“Of course not,” the man said. “It would kill me.”

Scavenger let his mouth drop open; then he closed it quickly. Kill—? He frowned, then collapsed against the building as the strength left his legs. Fey. The man was speaking Fey. There was no way for an Islander to know that language. He peered up at the man’s piggish eyes. He was too far away to see if they were flecked with gold.

“Who are you?” he repeated.

The man laughed. His cackle rose over the moans of the dying. “Ah, Scavenger, I am your friend Silence. Don’t you recognize me?”

The Doppelgänger. Scavenger slid all the way to the ground, his butt landing in the drying mud. The relief flowing through his veins made him weak. “I thought you were going to kill me.”

“I would like to.” The smile had left Silence’s face. “You have no blood for me. I am in the wrong body. I need a change.”

Scavenger leaned his head against his knees for just a moment. He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Silence. Somewhere Silence had learned tolerance of Red Caps. He was the only Doppelgänger who spoke to Scavenger as if Scavenger was worth something.

When he felt as if he could breathe comfortably, he glanced at the Black Robes. They were still huddled by the door of the gate. “A quartermaster?” he said as if the word had just occurred to him. “Someone who manages the barracks?”

“I had little time for preparation,” Silence snapped.

“What are those Islanders over there with the bottles?” Scavenger still hadn’t looked at Silence. The Fey on the street closest to the storefront had stopped moaning. They looked dead.

“They’re Danites. Religious Islanders.” Silence’s tone was flat. Scavenger finally looked at him. His skin was red with the heat, sweat trickling down his hairline. The body was a poor choice all around for its lack of exercise and mobility. “I don’t pretend to understand this. Grundy has no knowledge of Danites having magickal powers. Nor does he think of them as warriors. Either I picked an exceedingly stupid host or something is odd here.”

“Everything is odd,” Scavenger said. “It is as if we are cursed.”

Silence nodded. He was staring over Scavenger’s head at the street beyond.

“Are you going to absorb one of them?”

Silence shook his head. “Grundy has his uses right now. I am not sure if a Danite is the proper place for me either. They usually don’t have access to the King, which is my assignment, and they aren’t supposed to be powerful. I am wondering if a Fey has turned on us.”

“No one would do that,” Scavenger said, but the conviction had left his voice long before he’d finished the sentence. He remembered the conversations on the ship, the Visions that contradicted Rugar’s calm. No Fey would go against a Vision. But no Fey had ever helped the enemy either.

“Shima’s troop led in?” Silence asked. The question seemed less for information and more for confirmation.

Scavenger nodded. The Black Robes were talking among themselves. They didn’t seem to notice the Fey writhing at their feet.

“Then Jewel is inside,” Silence said.

Scavenger froze. The Black King’s granddaughter. Women of that lineage were supposed to have special powers, but Jewel’s hadn’t manifested yet. She was still young and serving with the Infantry as part of her experience. “There’s no way we can stop the Black Robes,” Scavenger said.