Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (80 page)

Dello came out of the back room. Her clothing was rumpled, and her long black hair was slipping out of its braid. She had lost weight since the arrival on Blue Isle. Her cheeks were gaunt and hollow. She stopped when she saw Solanda.

“You stole a baby?” she asked, her voice flat and soft. Baby theft was the bane of adult Shape-Shifters. Their bodies never stayed constant enough to nurture a child within, so they stole children. But often they stole babies from other Fey, not from the people they were fighting. Beast Riders, Foot Soldiers, and Weather Sprites were the ones who stole from the enemy.

“Get this boy off me, would you?” Solanda asked.

Dello came over and delicately removed the boy’s tight fist without touching Solanda’s breast. “He’s Islander,” she said in wonder.

“I’m not so sure,” Solanda said. She unhooked the boy’s other hand and passed him to Dello. The boy immediately started to sob. “He hasn’t slept all night, and I haven’t had a chance to feed him. He also misses the woman who raised him.”

“His mother?”

“His mother is dead.”

Dello frowned at her. “We have no facilities for children here.”

“I know,” Solanda said, “but we have people who know how to raise them. Let’s put him in good temporary care, some Sprites, maybe, or someone else who won’t die in a battle.”

One of the men had propped himself up. He wasn’t wounded that badly, because he was staring at Solanda’s naked form with appreciation.

Dello’s lips tightened. She patted the baby gently, soothing him.

Solanda glanced at her breast. It was red and marked with welts from the boy’s fingers. Served her right, she guessed. If she could get away with a kidnapping so easily, then she was as lucky as she thought she was.

“Is there anywhere I can get some food—and some clothes? It’s cold out there.”

“You shouldn’t be talking to me,” Dello said. “You should be talking to Rugar.”

Solanda crossed her arms. She hated it when someone quoted the rules to her. She wanted to make it through this short stint in Shadowlands without seeing Rugar at all.

“He’ll have to know about the child,” Dello said, anticipating Solanda’s response. “You might as well tell him now. It’s better than having him ambush you about it when you least expect it.”

She had a point, and Rugar’s temper could be fierce with someone who did not follow the rules. The man was still watching her. She could stand it no longer. She sighed and then slipped into her cat form. The warmth of the fur enveloped her even as the body changed. The boy watched her from Dello’s arms, his tears forgotten. This trick, at least, fascinated him.

Solanda didn’t say anything as she hurried out the door. Once outside, she paused. She probably should have said something to the child. But he was too young. It didn’t matter to him if she followed the niceties of life.

Unlike Rugar. He would hate this.

A few more people stirred in Shadowlands. She saw a couple more Domestics going about their morning tasks, although how they could tell it was morning was beyond her. The mist was almost to the level of her chin. She scrambled as quickly as she could, then climbed the steps up to Rugar’s cabin.

The wood was wet and slick. How had they created the mist? Or was Shadowlands deteriorating again? It had scared her when it had deteriorated the first time. She thought about changing into her woman form to knock on the door, then changed her mind. She butted her entire body against the frame, as a real cat would.

A sleepy Jewel pulled the door open. Her hair fell straight down her back, and she wore a woven wrap that had a faint scent of cinnamon.

“I need to see your father,” Solanda said. “I also need clothes, and some breakfast.”

Jewel stared at her for a moment. “Yes, it’s nice to see you too,” she said. “I was wondering where you had got to. Of course I’ll get my father for you. And here, a wrap.”

She took hers off and dropped it. Solanda wasn’t able to move quickly enough, and the wrap landed on her head. The smell of cinnamon was overpowering. She poked her face out in time to see Jewel striding naked into the corridor.

Solanda made a small huff of disgust. Then she crawled from underneath the wrap and closed her eyes, putting on her woman skin. The air grew colder as she felt her limbs stretching. Finally the change ended. She opened her eyes, grabbed the wrap, and wound it around her.

The cinnamon indicated a spell for extra warmth, something she was profoundly grateful for. She stepped inside to see Jewel, dressed in another wrap, cross the hall and knock on a different door.

The cabin was plain. A fireplace graced one wall, and a table with food and stools for chairs nearly filled the room. Quite a comedown from Rugar’s place in Nye. He had taken over a bank building there, slightly smaller than his father’s, and had used the vault for a bedroom.

Solanda picked a slice of bread off the table and took a bite. It tasted a bit stale. She didn’t care. She hadn’t eaten since the day before.

Rugar came out of the back room, Jewel at his heels. He was rubbing his hand through his hair in an attempt to comb it. He had pulled on a pair of breeches, but his chest was bare. She was surprised at the flatness of his belly, and the muscles lining his chest and sides. She had always thought Rugar a bit soft: a man who talked about fighting but who had never done any himself.

“What’s so important that you had to wake me up?”

“I woke
you
up,” Solanda said, taking another slice of bread and breaking it into small pieces. “Not your daughter.”

Rugar gave Jewel a pointed glance. She shook her head as if she could not believe what Solanda had said, then disappeared down the hallway.

“I wanted to tell you what I’ve done before the Domestics did,” Solanda said. .

“The Domestics?” Rugar sat down. He still looked half-asleep. With his left hand he picked up a pitcher and poured himself and Solanda water.

She nodded, then took a sip of water. It tasted good. “I brought a baby to them this morning. Actually, not a baby, really, more like an infant or a toddler. He has some language and he can walk on his own.”

Rugar set his cup down. She had his full attention now. “Where did you get this child?”

“Near Daisy Stream. Apparently some of our soldiers killed his parents a year ago, and an old woman took him to safety. I brought him here.”

“Whatever were you thinking?” Rugar asked. “What are you doing with an Islander’s child? If you had wanted a child of your own, you should have told me. I think we could have resolved the problem without resorting to theft of an Islander.”

“I don’t think so—” Solanda said.

“I do. Do you know what this will do? They will come after us even stronger now. We’re not just trying to kill their soldiers. We’re going after their babies.”

Solanda straddled a stool, unshaken by his anger. “Rugar, you should trust me.”

“Trust you? You may have escalated the war without consulting me, and you ask me to trust you?”

“Yes,” she said. She leaned forward until her face was inches from his. “That’s precisely what I’m asking you. I have never brought you a child before, and when I have done something without consulting you, it has usually been right.”

He moved away from her. “Usually.”

“I’m right in this case,” Solanda said. “That child called to me. I found his home, the one where his parents were killed, and then I tracked him.”

“I thought you said his parents died a year ago.”

She nodded.

“Then how—?” He stopped himself. She could tell from the look in his eyes that he had the answer. “It’s not possible.”

“It happened,” she said. “He
called
to me. Not a conscious thing. I think he left a trail for his parents to follow if they had lived. Only I’m the one who followed it.”

He crossed his arms. “The Islanders don’t have magic.”

“This little one does,” Solanda said. “Which is probably why their holy water works as it does. They just don’t acknowledge their powers as magick. They couch it in religion.”

Rugar shook his head. “We would know.”

“We do know,” Solanda said. “We know very well. Our people have died for that knowledge. I think it is time we realize that we may not be the only magick people in the world.”

“If they were magick, they would live differently.”

“They live no differently from some of the Fey settlements. They have just incorporated magick into their lives in an unusual way.”

Rugar’s frown grew deeper. “It doesn’t seem like magick to me.”

“It would if you look at this child,” Solanda said. “He has a second voice, one I can hear in my head. I would never have found him if it weren’t for that voice. And it developed young. He must have been in swaddling when he left that trail I followed.”

“I don’t like the implications of this,” Rugar said.

“Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean that it’s not true,” Solanda said. “I think you need to let the Spell Warders know they’re working with a new kind of magick, and they need to figure out what to do with it. To neutralize it, perhaps, as they would a bad Fey.”

“I’ll see the child first,” Rugar said.

Solanda shrugged. “Do as you want. I’m going to finish some of your bread, and then I’m going to get some sleep. If you haven’t found any work for me by the time I wake up, I’m going back on the prowl to see what oddities I can find.”

“I thought you wanted this child.”

She shook her head. “I brought the child for you. I do think he should be raised here. I don’t think the Islanders should be allowed to have anything so powerful.”

“What do you suggest that we do with him?” Rugar asked. “We can’t use the powers of a baby to fight a war.”

“Not yet,” she said. “But we can use him in the future. And that’s what you need to be looking toward, Rugar. You keep thinking this is an ordinary campaign, and it’s not. The Fey will be on Blue Isle for a long time, and I, for one, will not spend that time in this gray and dismal place.”

“We’re safer in Shadowlands,” Rugar said.

“Probably.” Solanda took a sip of water. “But safety is never a consideration in war, particularly if you want to win.”

SIXTY-SIX

He felt like a thief in his own home. The Rocaan crept down the corridor, carrying a small lamp in one hand, a vial of holy water in the other. The lamp’s light was faint, barely illuminating the floor and the wall beside him. He was shaking, not with exhaustion, which he felt in every ache of his body, but with fear.

The Rocaan should not be frightened of anything.

But he was no better than the people he decried. He was going to one of his Elders to see if the man had been tainted by enemies of his people. He was not acting like a Rocaan. He was acting like a soldier.

Only he couldn’t help himself. He had to know.

The doors in the Elders’ wing had locks, but the Rocaan had a ring of keys to open all of them. He was the only person with access to all of the rooms in the Tabernacle.

He stopped at the door to Matthias’s chambers and rested his head against the door frame. He could change his mind now. He could ask Matthias what was going on.