There had not been an Absorption since the Roca.
The chill in his knees had spread through his thighs into his groin. Little shivers ran through him, but he would stay until he felt he had somehow touched the Holy One.
His neck was cramping. Outside, the rain beat harder on the tapestries. Maybe the Officiate who had blessed him as a Danite had been right: We must offer ourselves, failings and all, to the Holy One. The Holy One brings both joy and sorrow to the Ear of God. But you must remember that sorrow is our burden, and God has made no promises to alleviate the pains of the flesh.
The smoke from the incense had grown thick and cloying. The Rocaan coughed, then wiped his hands against his robe. The kneeling cushion was so wet, the dampness was creeping into the fibers of his own garment.
At what point would God allow suffering to end and piety to be achieved? The Rocaan was an old man by any standard. Someday the chill would become permanent, and he would die frail and ill. All men died, and no requests to the Holy One changed that. Even Roca had died in a way, when he’d been Absorbed, all those centuries ago.
He thought he heard voices in the wind, and the creaks and groans of large ships. The Rocaan sighed. Daylight was coming too quickly. He had not yet made peace with his God. The groanings continued, combined with the slap-slap-slap of waves against a hull. Soon he would hear the longshoremen arguing about the best place to pull cargo ashore, and he would no longer be able to concentrate on the still, small voice within.
Longshoremen. The Rocaan paused, thoughts of the Holy One forgotten. He had been speaking with the Elders about the problems with the sea-going community, how half of them were out of work now that the trading with the Nye had ceased. The longshoremen, in particular, were affected.
He stood, his legs shaking beneath the thin, damp robe. The voices were soft, not the usual shouts and curses that interrupted his moments of worship. He gripped the altar to maintain his balance, then waded back to the window and pulled the tapestry aside.
The rain still fell heavily, and within an instant his face was drenched, water dripping down the inside of his robe. The darkness seemed heavier than it had been before. He placed his hands on the wet stone sill and leaned out, gazing upward. He saw nothing more than the individual drops illuminated by his small candle. The clouds were thick. No light could pierce them. The wind was blowing from the west, guiding any ship in the Cardidas to Jahn with great ease. The creaks of the wood were louder now. He looked, but no matter how much he squinted, he could not see any ships or their lanterns.
His hands were growing numb, and he could no longer feel his feet. If there was a ship below, and its captain glanced up, he would see the Rocaan peering out the window like a common schoolboy. Somehow that thought filled the Rocaan with alarm.
He let the tapestry fall, and as he did, he heard a sound he had not heard since he’d been a boy, fishing with his father. The ululating cry of a man signaling to his mates without words. A cry designed to be a call of the wild, although it sounded like no creature the Rocaan had ever heard. Some kind of prearranged signal that required a prearranged action. A cargo ship’s captain would not do that.
The Rocaan grabbed his candle and placed it outside the door, careful to set it away from the trickle that had invaded the hall. Then he went back into the room and closed the door after himself, waiting until his eyes adjusted to the blackness before making his way to the window again.
This time he tied the tapestry back and stared at the river below. He heard splashes, and more soft voices, although no matter how hard he concentrated, he could not understand their words. He squinted until finally he could see the outlines of the masts, dozens of them, disappearing into the distance like a ghostly invasion force.
He would have heard had there been a fleet coming to Blue Isle. He would have assigned Auds to minister to their needs, Danites to see to their faith, Officiates to give them contact with the organized Church—and, if they were important enough, an Elder or two to begin political relations. This was different. How different he did not know. He needed the advice of someone else. Someone he could trust. Someone who would look with a clear eye.
He left the tapestry open and went from the room. It felt odd to walk on dead feet. As he bent over to pick up the candle, he noted that his skin was blue. He could not spend any more time in that room this morning. Surely God did not require a man to lose his feet in pursuit of a Blessing. He climbed the stairs, using the wall for support now more than ever, finding that numb feet could not properly judge stair height. When he reached the hallway, he handed his candle to one of the guards.
“Get Elder Matthias for me, and quickly,” he said. Then he let himself into his chambers.
As per his instructions, someone had lit his daily fire and placed a tray beside the hearth. He glanced at the warm milk, freshly squeezed from one of the goats housed in the yard, and instead took a small bite of the roll the servants baked every morning. The bread was still hot and doughy in the middle, just the way he liked it. Then he pulled off his robe, leaving it in the middle of the floor, and slipped on the plush red velvet robe of his office, basking in its softness and warmth. He sat on the flagstones and extended his feet toward the fire. A slight needles-and-pins feeling changed almost instantly to deep, agonizing pain as his feet thawed. He grabbed them, startled by the cold flesh on top and the hot flesh on the bottom, and squeezed, as if the pressure would make the pain go away.
At that moment someone knocked on his door.
He sighed; then he backed away from the fire, eased himself into his chair, and put his feet on the ground. He wiped his eyes, swallowed, and, ignoring the pain, called, “Welcome!”
The door opened and Matthias entered, already natty in his pressed black. The robe whispered as he walked. The only concession he had made to the earliness was that he was not wearing his sash or biretta. But his hair was combed and his face already clean shaven.
“I hope, Holy Sir, that nothing amiss has happened,” Matthias said, his tone matter-of-fact instead of questioning.
“I certainly hope so as well,” the Rocaan said, gritting his teeth. The pain was coming in a steady ache, marred by sharp stabs. “I would like you to go down to my worship room, look out the window, and tell me what you see.”
Matthias cocked his head. He was young, the youngest of all the Elders, his skin still unlined and taut. “And what, exactly, am I looking for?”
“I will tell you when you return, since I do not want to influence you. And perhaps, by the time you get down there, what I want you to see will be gone, so do not worry if you fail to see anything at all.”
Matthias frowned and clasped his hands in front of his robe. The black robe of an Elder was also made of velvet. The higher authorities in the Church seemed to believe that ranking members should live in comfort. Whenever the Rocaan thought of changing that, he remembered that he would have to give up his soft bed, his morning fire, and his sweets.
Matthias did not look as if he were going to move.
“And one more thing,” the Rocaan said, mostly to spur Matthias on, “do not bring a light into the room. I’m afraid you’ll have to stumble around in the dark.”
“All right.” Matthias bowed his head. He backed out of the room slowly.
The Rocaan waited until the door closed before allowing a moan to leave his lips. The pain was easing, but it had been excruciating during his conversation with Matthias. Only the toes continued to hurt. He eased one foot up and massaged it, then the other, noting with pleasure that the blue had left the skin, replaced with healthy red. No toe had an unnatural whiteness, which he had feared. He had seen too many Danites lose flesh to that wintry color.
He took another bite of his roll, then drank some of the milk. Even as the pain left, he felt unsettled. He had not completed his morning ritual. But, if the truth be told, he had not achieved the sense of peace he sought for a long, long time. This intrusion had simply been a little more startling.
He leaned his head back, then heard footsteps in the corridor. They had more urgency than they had had before. The knock, even though he expected it, was sharp and frightening. No vision, then. He had seen ships.
“Come,” he said.
Matthias was already halfway into the room. He closed the door tightly, then hurried down the small flight of stairs. “Ships,” he said. “I saw ships. Dozens of them. Should I send for the head of the Port Guild?”
The Rocaan rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. The pain in his feet was gone, but a headache had started above his eyes. “Before you go, tell me what you saw.”
“It took a moment, in the darkness,” Matthias said. “That floor is damned wet in there.”
“It’s the rain,” the Rocaan said tiredly.
“Then I saw masts, and if I looked carefully, I saw the ships themselves. They’re not Nyeian. I’ve never seen them before. And it was quiet except for low voices.”
“What were they saying?”
“I couldn’t make it out.”
“Neither could I.” The Rocaan let his hand drop. He opened his eyes. Matthias’s face was flushed, his eyes sparkling with the excitement. The Rocaan sighed. “I think you must go to the King.”
“Holy Sir?”
A thread of irritation ran through the Rocaan. Did he have to explain everything? Matthias was sharp. He should have figured the problem out already. “The ships are unknown, Matthias,” the Rocaan said. “They are not planned for. I suspect our visitors are uninvited.”
Matthias shook his head. “That’s impossible. No one can get to Blue Isle’s shores without guidance.”
“Someone had to once,” the Rocaan said, “or we would not be here.”
Matthias took a step backward, then sat in the armchair near the bed as if he needed something to support his weight. “What would anyone want with Blue Isle?”
The question was soft, almost rhetorical, but the Rocaan chose to answer it. “We are one of the richest countries in the world. To ignore us would be foolish.”
Matthias looked at the Rocaan, his gaze piercing. “You know who this is.”
“I have a suspicion,” the Rocaan said. “Nye has shared our waters for centuries and still needed help to arrive at Blue Isle’s shores. Occasionally other seafaring folk have tried to come to Blue Isle, only to wreck on the Stone Guardians or be savaged by the current. But there is a group that has never tried to attack us before, and now they hold Nye.”
“The Fey,” Matthias breathed.
“Just so,” the Rocaan said. He sounded calmer than he felt. “And if the tales we have heard are true, they are vicious. You must go to the King, and quickly.”
Matthias nodded and stood. He hurried toward the stairs and then stopped. “Even if it is the Fey, we’ll be able to defeat them, won’t we?”
“With God’s help,” the Rocaan said. He folded his hands across his bulging stomach. Matthias scurried from the room, apparently satisfied with the Rocaan’s answer.
But the Rocaan wasn’t. He looked at the closed door. “No, Matthias,” he said softly, as if he hadn’t answered the question before. “They are soldiers and we are farmers, and we shall be slaughtered before we have a chance to learn how to defend ourselves.”
SEVEN
The Cardidas River was over a mile wide at the site of its natural harbor inside the Blue Isle city of Jahn. Although Rugar had known this before he’d arrived, nothing had prepared him for the immensity of the river itself. It had strong currents and dark, brownish waters that spoke of copper in the mud. And the bridge that spanned the harbor was an engineering marvel. It had towers every few feet and stone arches large enough to let ships through. Even in the dark and the rain, the bridge was an impressive landmark.
He didn’t need it. The city of Jahn rose around him, filled with impressive landmarks. If the map hadn’t shown that the palace lay on the north side of the river, and the religious building on the south, he would have thought that Jahn had two palaces. The Tabernacle was the more impressive of the two, with five towers and white walls that flared like torches in the darkness. It also stood closer to the water. He could barely make out the palace’s towers through the rain.
The air on Blue Isle lacked the salty tinge he had grown used to on the open sea. The freshness invaded his lungs, made him feel stronger. He was ready to take this place. Already his troops were scattered through the city. He had watched Jewel’s unit leave, his daughter tall and proud in the center of the troop, looking more like a soldier than any of the others.
This would be her last battle. They both knew it. Even though she hadn’t admitted what had happened outside the Stone Guardians, Rugar knew. She had had the beginnings of a Vision. She was coming into her Sight.
Rugar remained near the prow where he had stood since the ships had arrived. From there he had overseen the troops, watched as his people slipped away under cover of darkness to take positions that would enable quick capture of the city once the sun came up. Not long now. Not long at all.
Beside him the Navigators had come to free the Sailors. The Sailors had got them all through the Stone Guardians. The rocks were huge, three times taller than the ships. He felt as if he were floating on a cloud surrounding a mountaintop instead of on the ocean. At times the rock walls were close enough to touch. He concentrated all his power on making sure things went smoothly—not his magick power, for his abilities did not enable him to work as a Sailor, but his intellectual power, straining for any movement, any sudden change that would put the ship in great danger.
The Nyeian’s mind had disintegrated under the strain, and the Warders had tried to rely on the old maps. But one of the Sailors had discovered a frightened but communicative creature, which called itself a Ze, and it seemed to understand the currents. The Navigators had spread the word of the Ze to the other Sailors, and as a group—with the help of the Ze, the Sailors, and the old maps—the ships had come through with no scratches at all.
The Sailors were still sprawled over the railings, their bodies present, but their minds inhabiting the bodies of the Ze. The Navigators were standing beside them, coaxing the Sailors back to the surface. Rugar rubbed his chapped red hands together. He did need a bit more information.
He walked to the nearest Navigator, Kapad. Kapad had been part of the sea before Rugar had become a member of the Infantry. His eyes were hollow, his own mind still linked with those of two Sailors, and his skin was leathery. His winged brows were silver, but his hair was still black. With his scarred right hand, he held the Sailor’s sleeve.
“Don’t bring him up yet,” Rugar said. “I have a question.”
Kapad blinked once, then nodded. The slowness of the response always unnerved Rugar, even though he knew that a Navigator also passed the information to the Sailors he worked with.
“I need to know the kind of magicks they have protecting the harbor.” With the back of his hand, Rugar wiped the water off his face. “In fact, I would like to know all the magicks the fish have observed.”
Kapad blinked and nodded again. He stood very still for a moment, then said, “He is asking.”
“Thank you.” Rugar waited, hands clasped behind his back. Even though the Nyeians made no report of magick among the Islanders, the Nyeians might not have known where to look. Rugar did not want any surprises. The 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.”
Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey Page 5