Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey by Kristine Kathryn Rusch Page B

Warders believed there was no magick. Magick was extremely rare outside of the Fey—the Fey had encountered only a handful of peoples with even the slightest talents—but Rugar thought it prudent to check.
    The Sailor beside Kapad remained motionless. Across the deck another Sailor stood, then staggered backward, his hand to his face. He collapsed on the puddle-covered deck, water splashing around him. His dark skin had an unhealthy pallor and his features looked sunken. The Navigator who had helped him to the surface took his hands, speaking in a low voice. Rarely did Sailors work such long hours. They had been leaning over the rails since the middle of the night. Usually they worked in tandem teams, often leaving one creature and moving into another through the duration of a voyage.
    But the Navigators had never encountered Ze before and had asked the Sailors to stay with the creatures until the ships reached Jahn.
    The Navigator frowned and leaned against the rail. “Sir?” he said slowly, forming each word as if he were trying to speak while he was listening to someone else. “The Ze claim to have seen no magick here, sir.”
    That was the response Rugar had wanted to hear, but he didn’t believe it. “None?”
    “They didn’t understand the pictures we were sending them. They asked the others, a sea lion and her young son, some sea otters, a few passing fish, and none of them had seen any magick either. If I hadn’t been speaking with them, they would have thought the whole thing impossible.”
    Rugar smiled. The Nyeians hadn’t lied to him, then. He glanced at the palace, looking pale and insubstantial in the distance. He would eat his evening meal in the highest tower, overlooking the sea. “Thank you,” he said. He still had much work to do before he got to that meal.
    He leaned over the railing and looked at the north side of the harbor. The docks, filled with every ship from a smallest fishing vessel to the largest barge, stood in uniform rows along the harbor’s edges. The fish hatcheries, the warehouses, and the grain silos were gray shapes on the city’s outskirts. Through those streets his people were scattering in a force one third the size of Jahn’s population.
    Rugar gripped the rope ladder on the side of the ship and worked his way down. There the wetness felt natural, and the slide of his boots against the wooden rungs the norm. He leaped from the bottom of the ladder onto the dock, wincing as the sound echoed over the rain.
    Then he turned and scanned the gray buildings, hoping to see movement. He saw nothing and heard only the rain on the water. He shoved his hands under the wool of his cape and permitted himself one shudder.
    The only Fey he could see were two Red Caps talking outside one of the warehouses. The Warders were setting up inside a warehouse, and Rugar suspected that was the one. The Red Caps had little to do before a battle started, but afterward they became invaluable. He was glad he never had to work with them. They made him uneasy. Small and magickless, they were like square, truncated Fey, with the same upswept features and none of the graces. Most Red Caps didn’t even bother to bathe. Their very ugliness kept them separate from the other Fey; their lack of magick ensured that they would never attack their betters.
    The world rolled beneath his feet. Rugar hated these first moments on land, when the sea still controlled his movements. He wished he had the skill of a Shape-Shifter, able to adapt to any environment.
    Rugar walked cautiously along the dock toward the shore. The rain seemed to be lessening. The Sprites had warned him that they couldn’t time it perfectly. He wiped the water off his face with his dry sleeve. Time. He had to do it now.
    He had to hide the ships before the Islanders awoke.
    Rugar stepped off the dock onto the shore, his boots miring in the muck. Then he raised his arms and closed his eyes, picturing as the generals had taught him long ago, a