Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey Read Free

use the sword decades ago and then had had no duties until Nicholas had turned fifteen. During those years Stephen had become a scholar, studying the history of Blue Isle. He had also become an expert in Nye culture, then had turned his attention to what he called the next threat: the Fey.
    Nicholas didn’t care what kind of threats he faced as long as he learned to fight. Stephen had been teaching Nicholas for three years now, and though Nicholas had become proficient, he still couldn’t beat his swordmaster.
    The shutters were closed, but a light burned within. Nicholas knocked. He heard a chair scrape against wood, and the bolt go back before the door swung open.
    The flickering candlelight added depth to Stephen’s wrinkles. His short gray hair was tousled. He was wearing his winter sweater and a pair of heavy pants, even though it was the middle of summer. “By the Sword,” he said. “You’re drenched. Get inside before you catch your death.”
    Nicholas pushed the hair off his face. His hands were red with cold. “No,” he said. “Come out. We have practice.”
    “Not in this weather, we don’t,” Stephen said.
    “I have to learn to fight in all conditions,” Nicholas said.
    “But I don’t have to teach you unless the sun is shining. Now, come in and dry off.”
    Nicholas stepped inside. Stephen was the only servant who could speak to him with such disrespect, probably because Stephen was the only one whom Nicholas actually trusted.
    The air inside was warm. A fire burned in the fireplace, and a book was open on the table. Stephen kept his quarters spare but comfortable. “What were you thinking?” Stephen asked. “You know we never fight in such weather.”
    “It’s been three days,” Nicholas said. “I’m tired of being inside.”
    “You’ll be inside until the storm breaks.”
    “But we don’t know how long that will be. It never rains like this in summer.”
    “I know.” Somehow Stephen made the two words sound ominous.
    Even though Nicholas longed to warm up near the fire, he wouldn’t let himself go any farther without Stephen’s invitation. Stephen had only so much space in his single room. He filled it with the table, three chairs, an end table, and a pallet on the floor. A wardrobe stood against one wall. The others were decorated with swords and knives, all different shapes and sizes. Stephen claimed they had once been used in battle, but Nicholas doubted that. Blue Isle had never seen much fighting—even the Peasant Uprising wasn’t a real war, according to the Nyeians who visited the palace. Nicholas liked to think that Stephen made up the stories of battles to give himself a purpose. After all, the King really didn’t need a swordmaster. Nicholas was learning the art because anything was better than spending his days in a room with Auds.
    “Come on in,” Stephen said. “I’ll give you some mead.”
    Warm mead sounded good. Nicholas removed his dripping coat and hung it on the peg behind the door. He shook the water from his long hair like one of the kitchen dogs. Stephen sputtered as he was sprayed, and wiped his face.
    “They should have an etiquette master for young Princes,” Stephen mumbled.
    “Sorry.” Nicholas grinned. He could never have done anything like that in the palace. Someone would see and report back to his father. Nicholas never quite measured up to his father’s wishes. His father wanted Nicholas to be a scholar, to know all he needed to know about the realm. Nicholas wanted to ride horses and win sword fights, and impress women—if only he knew any women to impress.
    Stephen went to the fireplace, grabbed a stone mug from the rack on the side, and dipped it into the pot of mead warming at the edge of the fire. He used a cloth to wipe off the end.
    Nicholas took the mug, then took a sip. The burning-hot liquid coursed through him, warming him as it went. He liked Stephen’s mead. It was sweet, as mead should be, but Stephen always added butter,