Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (66 page)

“Only near the blood, Highness. Some of the hay bales was messed, and the horses was skittish, but that seemed right ta me. Lots of fear and stink around here, so they shouldna been actin’ too normal.”

“Did he go to Midnight Sacrament?” Nicholas asked.

“Miruts?” The groom looked at Nicholas as if he were crazy.

“You go, don’t you?” Nicholas pointed to the tiny sword around the groom’s neck. “Did he go with you?”

“We dinna see each other outside the stables, Highness. I dinna think he had nothin’ to do outside the stables.”

“So he never went to Midnight Sacrament?”

“I never seen him,” the groom said. “But I always go to the chapel in the palace.”

“It would seem likely that he would go here too, wouldn’t it, with his preoccupation with the horses?”

The groom shrugged. It seemed that the implication that Miruts didn’t go to Midnight Sacrament disturbed him more than the talk of blood and bones had. “We dinna talk about his beliefs, Highness. He did go to Absorption Day with me once, though.”

“This year?”

The groom shook his head—one quick, frightened movement. “The year afore last. At the Tabernacle. We took Missy and the gelding because they hadn’t got their ride yet that day.”

An unusual occurrence, then. Going to the Tabernacle was always an honor for the lower classes, particularly for Absorption Day. It spoke of some belief. “Was it his idea or yours?”

“‘Twas mine, Highness.” The groom licked his bleeding lips, then met Nicholas’s gaze. “They important, Highness? His beliefs?”

Nicholas had heard that the lower classes believed that they could be punished for not following Rocaanism. Perhaps some of the Danites fostered that belief. When he became King, he would make it clear that believers could do whatever they wanted, think however they wanted. “Normally his beliefs aren’t important at all. But they might be, when combined with his disappearance.”

The groom rubbed a hand against his thigh, a nervous habit he didn’t seem to be aware of. “You think it has somethin’ ta do with the invasion, then?”

“I don’t know,” Nicholas said. “I certainly hope not.”

But he remembered Stephen’s face as the holy water hit him, the sure, clear knowledge that he was going to die. Nicholas had known Miruts—not well, but he had known him. Miruts loved his horses enough that he would chastise the King’s son if he brought a horse back as tired and lathered as Ebony had been. Miruts was not the kind of man who involved himself in politics and intrigue unless it affected his horses.

“At the Absorption Day,” Nicholas said, “did Miruts take part in the ritual?”

The groom frowned in memory, his upper teeth digging into his lower lip. Then he took a breath. He had left tiny bite impressions on the skin beneath his lip.

“He bought the holy water, Highness. We shared it.”

And Stephen had taught Nicholas that a warrior covered his sword in holy water to protect it before going into battle. Stephen had always had a vial stored near his swords.

Exhaustion made Nicholas’s limbs tremble. Stephen had been right on that day so long ago. The Fey could take over men’s minds and capture their spirits. How many people in the palace were working for the Fey? And how would the King ever know?

“Thank you,” Nicholas said. He patted the groom’s arm. “We’ll search for Miruts, but until he returns, the horses will be your responsibility. Can you take care of them?”

“Aye, Highness.” The groom’s face lit up for the first time. Horses, it seemed, were his passion as well.

“I’ll talk to the master of the yard, and if Miruts doesn’t return, you will inherit his cabin as well as his job.” Nicholas smiled at the boy’s joy. “See to it that you use it as little as he did.”

“Aye, Highness!” He turned, about to run into the stable, before bowing deeply.

“Go on,” Nicholas said, suddenly feeling infinitely older than the groom in front of him.

“Thanks, Highness!” the groom said, and ran into the stable. His voice, high and excited, echoed into the night.

“And so old Miruts is forgotten,” Nicholas whispered. It saddened him, somehow, that the groom he had relied on had also been co-opted by the Fey.

Then he froze in the middle of the yard as the darkness fell around him. His swordmaster, his favorite groom. What if they weren’t trying to get to his father? What if they were trying to get to him? That would explain the woman and her vacillation between ferocious warrior and attracted female.

But Nicholas had nothing to offer.

Unless they assassinated the King.

He swallowed. A breeze had come up, drying the sweat off his forehead, sending a chill even deeper into him. All possibilities, but none of them certainties. He needed to get out of those clothes, then he needed something to eat, and he needed to speak to his father.

Nicholas crossed the courtyard in long strides, seeing tall, slender shapes lurking in the shadows, shapes that proved to be bell pulls or cleaning equipment when he got up close. This day had left him as shaken as the day Stephen had died, only for different reasons. He pulled open the kitchen door and stopped.

Two women he didn’t recognize stood in front of the hearth fire, arguing about whose duty it was to keep it burning. It had burned down to embers, and if someone didn’t start it soon, it wouldn’t be ready for the next day’s cooking. The chef was in the back corner, arguing with a serving boy, and the butcher, his smock covered with ancient blood, leaned against the wooden meat counter, arms crossed.

No food sat on the counters, and Nicholas could smell only the remnants of the night’s meal. Usually he found something to steal, a bit of mutton left for the servants, a slice of bread not yet put into the pantry. And he had never, ever seen the hearth fire out.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his voice booming over the din.

The arguing stopped. All of the parties looked at Nicholas, equal mixtures shock and chagrin on their faces. Then, as a unit, the men bowed and the women curtsied, holding the position. Nicholas wasn’t used to royal treatment in the kitchen. He liked it when they pretended he was one of them.

Of course, he had started it by being imperial. A headache pounded behind his eyes. “Stand up!”

They stood. The women clasped their hands in front of their bodices, as if they were waiting for a reprimand. The butcher braced himself against the counter again, and the chef rubbed his shoulder as if it hurt him.

“What is going on?” Nicholas asked, his tone softer this time.

“‘Tis duties, Highness. There’s been some problems today,” the chef said.

“Then where is the master of the hall? I’ll speak with him.”

“We dinna know, Highness.”

The headache suddenly grew fierce. “He’s missing?”

“Yes, Highness.”

Nicholas grabbed a stool and pulled it close, then sat down and rested an elbow on the counter. He waved a hand at the women—“Get the hearth fire started so that we’ll have breakfast tomorrow”—and rubbed his eyes. Duty demanded that he would no longer be the boy he once was.

“Get me some dinner,” he said to the serving boy. “Whatever is left and some mead, and send someone for the assistant housemaster.”

“Beg pardon, Highness,” the chef said, “but the master dinna have help. He give us each our areas and expected us to work ‘em.”

“Then what happened in the kitchen today?” Nicholas asked. “It shouldn’t matter that the master was gone.”

The chef shot a quick glance at the butcher, who made a dismissive motion with his head. The butcher again crossed his arms over his chest.

“His Highness wanted roast pig, smoked over the stone hearth outside. ‘Twas most of the day I was gone, Highness. I sent a message to the master of the hall that I wouldna be here and would he look in on the workers. No one said he was gone.”

The serving boy came in carrying two plates and balancing a mug of mead, his little finger hooked in the handle, and the body of the mug resting against his stomach. He slid the first plate in front of Nicholas—several slices of bread and newly whipped butter, and a sliced apple, then said, “Beg pardon, Highness, but the pork is still hot. Dinna know if you wanted ta be riskin’ it, though.”

Nicholas raised a brow. “When did you serve my father?”

“Just afore sundown, Highness.”

Nicholas nodded. “Then the meat should be fine.” He smiled at the boy as he set down the second plate and the mead. Nicholas took the mug first and guzzled its contents, enjoying the richness, and not caring as to the effect. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gave the mug back to the boy. “Get me more,” he said, “and make sure I see the other heads of the household.”

The boy nodded, glancing quickly at the chef to make certain that he and not someone else should perform the duties. The chef gave one surreptitious nod, which Nicholas chose to ignore.

The liquid helped his headache a bit. He put a slice of pork on a piece of bread, added a slice of apple, then put another piece of bread on top of it. Then he took a bite of the sandwich. His stomach rumbled. He hadn’t been this hungry in a long time.

“The master of the hall is missing,” Nicholas said. “Has anyone searched for him?”

“The housekeeper,” the chef said. “We have na seen him in the kitchen areas, and we looked in the wine cellar, the buttery, and the pantry.”

“Could he have been doing some special work for my father?” Nicholas asked around a second mouthful of food.

“Oh, no, Highness,” the chef said. “If he was, we would know.”

“What do you think happened to him?” Nicholas asked. He took a sip of the mead. His headache was easing. He had let himself go too long without food.

“I dunno, Highness,” the chef said.

“Has he ever done anything like this before?” Nicholas asked.

The chef shook his head.

The hair rose on the back of Nicholas’s head. This disappearance seemed as odd as the groom. Nicholas finished his sandwich, then pushed the plates away. The serving boy entered again, followed by three women. Nicholas recognized them—he had seen them every morning—but he didn’t know their names. They all looked as if they had been awakened from a sound sleep.

“This is Agnes, Highness,” the serving boy said as the stoutest and eldest woman curtsied. “She is the main floor and east wing.”

“Agnes,” Nicholas said.

“This is Charissa, Highness,” the serving boy said as the young blond woman curtsied. Nicholas watched with interest. He had watched her slender form with interest more than once. “She is the public-visitation rooms, second floor and above, as well as the west wing.”

“Charissa,” Nicholas said.

“And this is Evadne, Highness,” the serving boy said as the third woman curtsied. She was middle-aged with salt-and-pepper curls and muscular arms. “She is the north and south wings.”

“Evadne,” Nicholas said. “You may all stand. Thank you, boy, for finding them for me.”

The boy nodded, then backed away, knowing that he had been dismissed.

“Have any of you seen the master of the hall?” Nicholas asked.

All three women glanced at each other, then shook their heads. “Beg pardon, Highness, but he has na been around all day,” said Charissa.

“Nor yesterday afternoon neither,” said Evadne.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Nicholas asked.