Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey Read Free Page A

which he stole from the buttery. It made his mead so much richer than the King’s.
    Stephen closed his book, then sat at the table. He kicked out a chair, which Nicholas caught with his free hand. Nicholas sighed. “I guess this means we aren’t going out.”
    “I am an old man,” Stephen said. “I believe in guarding my health.”
    “Then maybe we could do some close maneuvers inside. I’m still not as good with a dagger as I would like.”
    Stephen grinned and glanced around the room. “I value my possessions,” he said.
    Nicholas did not grin back. He wasn’t sure if Stephen had insulted his progress or not.
    “And you are doing just fine with a dagger.” Stephen rested his arm on the closed book, his hand clutching his own mug. “I think now you are a match for any swordsman who would challenge you.”
    “Even someone from Nye?”
    “Anyone,” Stephen said with the same solemnity he had used before.
    Cold water dripped off the tips of Nicholas’s hair onto his wrists. He adjusted his position so the drops ran down his back. “You really think I’m that good?”
    “I think so. Now it’s only a matter of practice.”
    “Great,” Nicholas said. He took another sip of mead. He had never expected to receive Stephen’s full approval. But Stephen was acting oddly today. “Something’s bothering you, isn’t it?”
    “The weather,” Stephen said. “I have lived in Jahn most of my life. I have never seen summer rains like this.”
    Nicholas shrugged. “Things change.”
    “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Stephen murmured.
    “What do you mean?”
    Stephen shook his head. “An old man’s wanderings on dismal summer days. When the sun returns, I will be myself again.”
    “I hope it comes back soon,” Nicholas said. “I am getting restless.”
    Stephen smiled. He set his mug down, the muscles rippling in his thick arm. “You wouldn’t be if you studied as you were supposed to.”
    Nicholas grimaced. He glanced at the single, shuttered window, then at the glow of the fire. The heat was pleasant, although he was shivering from his wet clothes. He hated the lights in the middle of the day, and he hated to be restricted. Sometimes he worried that all of his practice, all of his work, would fade away. He would lose his skill because the rain forced him indoors for days.
    “I am too young to spend the rest of my life in a room,” Nicholas said. “Besides, my father isn’t that old. He’ll live a long time. I won’t become King until I’m older than you.”
    Stephen raised a grizzled eyebrow. “Older than me.” His tone was flat, as if the choice of phrasing had bothered him. He leaned back, tilting his chair on two legs, and frowned at Nicholas. “Have you ever thought that your father might need an adviser?”
    “My father has a hundred advisers.”
    “All with their own agendas and concerns. You would be the only one who would share his concerns.”
    “Me?” Nicholas took another sip of mead. The liquid had cooled and was thick and sugary. “He would never listen to me.”
    “On the contrary,” Stephen said. “I think he would welcome your advice.”
    Nicholas stood and paced around the small room, leaving boot prints on the wooden floor. He couldn’t sit with the thought. His father, listening to him. How very strange. “Has he told you this?”
    “Not directly,” Stephen said. “Mostly he wishes aloud that you were able to converse with him on several subjects.”
    Nicholas had heard that, too, and had taken it as nagging. Since Nicholas’s mother had died, his father had worked as hard as he could to raise the boy well. Even though servants, and later his stepmother, had done the actual work, Nicholas spent some time every day with his father. The affection between them was genuine, but Nicholas had never thought that he could be his father’s equal.
    “You’re just trying to get me to study harder.”
    Stephen shook his head. “I am just trying to get you to think.