Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey

by Rusch, Kristine Kathryn

  Two men had disappeared from the palace the day the blood and bones had appeared in the Tabernacle. Those two men had acted strangely since the Fey had invaded. Both men had cleaned blood and bones from their favorite places. Both men had spoken to a cat.

  The Rocaan would order, as Nicholas had requested, anyone who saw a cat in the Tabernacle to kill it on sight. The chefs would have to stop feeding their pets around back, and the Rocaan would probably extend the order to dogs as well. No sense in having any dumb animals threaten the safety of this holy place.

  Then he would touch all his people with holy water. Before that he would watch Matthias make a mixture, to make certain that he wasn’t under Fey influence and simply pouring water into bottles. And the Rocaan would have anyone report strange behavior to him. Anyone reported more than once would have to be tested by water again. And again.

  The Rocaan sank into another chair. His body felt twice as heavy as it had when he’d woken that morning. Not exhaustion, per se, but disillusionment. He had thought the Tabernacle a fortress, and then the Fey had invaded it. Enemies within.

  “‘There are enemies without and within,’” he whispered, quoting, but condensing the Words. “‘We choose to fight . . . with faith.’”

  He picked up his sword and placed it against his forehead. The tiny silver filigree was cool against his skin. “If ever I needed your guidance, Holy One, it is now.”

  He waited, but no still, small voice came to him. Only a rush of panic and fear. He closed his eyes. The Roca had led his enemies to the holiest of places, but he had not killed them. Instead, he had offered himself as a sacrifice that his own people might live. And by doing so, he had become Beloved of God.

  But he had not desired to become Beloved of God. The Rocaan lifted his head. And that was where all the Rocaans made their mistake. The Roca had desired to protect his people, and nothing more.

  The thoughts didn’t feel like his, but like a voice whispering in his ear. He didn’t move. Was that the still, small voice? It had a certainty that he had lacked for decades.

  And here he was, questioning it.

  But he wasn’t questioning the certainty. He was questioning the voice. And perhaps it didn’t matter where the voice had come from. What it said was right. The Roca never, in all of his teachings, asked to become Beloved of God. Love was something that God bestowed as a reward for the selflessness with which the Roca had acted.

  Yet if the Rocaan acted with selflessness now, it would seem that he was trying to curry favor. He had to examine his own heart and see if it was pure. He had to cleanse it of the ambition to become Beloved, and leave only the desire to do the right thing, the proper thing. To protect his people with minimal bloodshed as the Roca had done.

  So far he had failed to do that.

  But the Words did not tell whether the Roca had failed before the Absorption. No one knew what made him bring the Soldiers of the Enemy to the holy place. Frustration? Failure to do something earlier? Wisdom and prevention? The Rocaan had no way of knowing.

  He sighed and let the sword fall against his chest. If only he had known sooner that the Elder in charge of the Oral Tradition was stifling it. What Rocaan had thought that up and believed it good for the people? The answer to that question was lost forever, although the Rocaan thought he knew. Through the Rocaans numbered in the late twenties and early thirties, there was a lot of political intrigue and assassination. The Rocaan in those days held as much power as the King, maybe more, and because the position was not hereditary, more Elders believed they should get the position than did. Perhaps, in those days, the Elder in charge of the Oral Tradition was told to keep it silent, not to give any region or any one extra power.

  He gripped his sore knees. He had changed that now. When he met with Elder Eirman, he stressed that the Elder was to take stories about the Roca from the various Auds and Danites and record them. The stories might not be true, but they might shed a light on the history that was missing.

  They might help a future—or current—Rocaan.

  He closed his eyes. The heaviness was so deep in him that he was afraid he would have to call someone just to help him out of the chair. He started to lever himself out when the door into the audience chamber swung open.

  Elder Reece bowed to the Rocaan. The younger man was wearing his Danite’s robe, which he always wore at Midnight Sacrament when he was not performing it. Reece was thin to the point of gauntness. He was not wearing a cap on his balding head, and as he faced the Rocaan, he licked his lips nervously.

  “Forgive me, Holy Sir,” he said, “but I believed I might disturb you in the audience chamber.”

  The Rocaan sighed. He had wanted to go to his own chamber. But he supposed he could wait a bit longer. Maybe when Reece was done, he would help the Rocaan out of his chair.

  “What is on your mind, Reece?” the Rocaan asked.

  Reece nodded and swallowed, self-effacing bobbing movements that made the Rocaan want to demand that the man learn self-respect. But Reece had always been timid. Elders were supposed to exhibit different qualities, and none of the others could have taken that one.

  “You said, Holy Sir, that we were to report to you when we saw something out of the ordinary,” Reece said. “I thought you might like to know about the Sacrament, since you didn’t attend.”

  The Rocaan sighed. Timidity was trying at the best of times. “I know the ritual, and I probably know who was there, since Andre presided. What happened? Did he skip?”

  “Oh, no, Holy Sir. His delivery was quite heartfelt.” Reece looked up. “Would that all of us were able to achieve that degree of feeling in the ritual itself.”

  Or in life. The Rocaan’s leg aches were growing worse. He wanted to stand. “You said that something was out of the ordinary.”

  “Yes, Holy Sir.” Reece tugged on his sash; then, for a brief moment, his gaze met the Rocaan’s. “I don’t know if you remember when I first came to see you, years ago?”

  “What does this have to do with anything, Reece?” the Rocaan snapped, unable or unwilling to remember their first meeting.

  “Well, Holy Sir, if you do not remember, I need to refresh you. It’s important.” Reece looked extremely sincere.

  The Rocaan sighed again and made himself remember what he could. “I recall something about the ceremonies.”

  “Yes, Holy Sir. I had a reaction to holy water, if you recall. It makes my skin blister. You said that it should not worry me, that as long as I had faith, I would be welcome in God’s service.”

  The Rocaan sat up straighter, his tiredness forgotten. He did remember now. And he remembered that Reece was not the only one who had had trouble with holy water in the past. An entire kirk near the Cliffs of Blood had had a reaction to the Rocaan’s holy water. He had figured that it was because his recipe relied on the old recipes, whereas the more recent Rocaans made holy water without the seze. They believed that the Roca did not know of seze, an herb which grew only in the Kenniland Marshes, so they thought the herb a late modification. The Rocaan was a purist and had no evidence that the Roca knew otherwise, so he went back to the original recipe. Once his recipe started going to the outskirts of the Isle, the towns near the Cliffs of Blood reported rashes after Midnight Sacrament.

  “I do remember now,” he said. “But I thought we gave you dispensation to wear gloves.”

  “Yes, Holy Sir. But sometimes I spill a drop or two on bare skin, and the blisters return almost immediately. The last time was so bad that Elder Vaughn sent for a doctor.”

  The Rocaan had not heard of this. “What was bad?”

  “The blisters spread up my arm until I was in such pain, I could barely stand it. The doctor prescribed a salve, and I healed.”

  The Rocaan nodded. How odd. He had allowed gloves for all the congregations near the Cliffs of Blood. He wondered if any of their symptoms had worsened. Doubtless he would have heard of it if they had.

  “And what bearing does this have on tonight?
” the Rocaan asked. Poor Reece. The Rocaan would never consider him to become Rocaan. The congregation would grow old and die before Reece made his first decision.

  “I spilled half a vial of holy water on my left arm, Holy Sir.” Reece pulled up his sleeve and extended his arm. The skin was pale and covered with freckles and short blond hairs. “But I am not injured.”

  The Rocaan touched Reece’s arm. The skin was smooth. “And they will not show up later?”

  “They have always appeared before the Sacrament ended, Holy Sir. The last time so fast that I thought my entire arm engulfed in flames.”

  The Rocaan gripped Reece’s elbow. “Help me up.” Reece grabbed back and pulled. The Rocaan stood. His heart was pounding. This was precisely the thing that young Nicholas had warned him about. “You are certain that the vial contained holy water.”

  “A Danite handed it out at the service, Holy Sir. Andre took the vials from beneath the Sacrificial Table. Before service an Aud was replacing bottles. I assume that was your directive. We had discussed this, that all the water would be replaced.”

  “Yes, we had,” the Rocaan said. He let go of Reece’s arm. His palms were covered with sweat. He had been making the holy water properly. But that meant Matthias hadn’t been. And Matthias had discovered one of the bloodstains. Just as the missing people in the palace had.

  “Help me to my room,” the Rocaan said.

  “Yes, Holy Sir.” Reece put an arm around him to brace him. The Rocaan leaned in, his mind already far ahead of his body. He would make a new vial of holy water. Then he would wake up Matthias.

  They would settle this thing between them once and for all.

  SIXTY-ONE

  The mist that the Weather Sprites had created left a dewy coating all over the Shadowlands. It also gave the air a chill it didn’t normally have. The weird ground that was not really visible beneath the grayness was as slick as a newly laid marble floor. Jewel slipped once and caught herself before dropping the torch she carried. After that she walked as carefully as she could. She hoped her father would talk the Sprites out of experimenting again soon.

  Odd magick, Shadowlands. The Sprites could normally create rain without much effort at all. But something in the Shadowlands itself prevented it, just as it had prevented the sunshine they had tried for days earlier.

  Finally she found the building she was looking for. The Domestics, at Rugar’s command, had hastily constructed a shed for the prisoners. The shed was small, and its boards were mismatched. She hoped the prisoners were tied or spelled, because it would take little effort for a man of Adrian’s strength to break through the flimsy construction.

  She opened the door and was glad that she had remembered the torch. Only Fire Domestics could have seen in this darkness. She placed the torch in the holder built high into the wall—almost too high; she hoped it wouldn’t start the makeshift room on fire. The prisoners huddled together on the floor, blinking in the light. The close room smelled of unwashed bodies and excrement. No one was taking care of any of their needs.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked in Nye.

  The older man, Ort, grunted harshly and turned his face away.

  “How—eat?” the boy asked. “When no—mouth, ah, toe? toe?”

  “Tongue,” she said, impatient with his poor language skills. “And he has a tongue. He just can’t use it unless we let him. Of course, we could remove it permanently if he likes.” And she smiled sweetly at Ort’s back.

  Adrian leaned against the wall, just watching her. His hair was plastered against his forehead, and his feet were braced against Ort’s body. Apparently he too had noted how flimsy the walls were and had been trying to push them down.

  She ran her gaze over him slowly so that he wouldn’t miss her scrutiny. “And what did you plan to do when you escaped the shed? Stand where you think the exit is and beg someone to open it for you?”

  “I would have thought of something,” he said.

  She leaned against the door frame, as much to avoid the stink as anything. She couldn’t close the door. Four of them wouldn’t fit in the shed. “Have you considered my offer?”

  “You’re treating us like animals,” he said as if he hadn’t heard her. “No one should be kept like this. We haven’t had water since yesterday.”

  “Well, then you’ll piss less, won’t you?” she said. She shoved her thumbs in the waist of her pants. “I see our friend Ort is as rude as ever. The head of our Spell Warders has been asking for prisoners to use in his experiments, Ort. I suspect you would like to volunteer.”

  The man didn’t move. He kept his face averted.

  “No,” the boy said. “Please. He—ah—means it not.”

  “He’s a full adult,” Jewel said. “He knows what he’s doing. One thing you’ll need to learn about life, boy, is that you can’t protect others from themselves.”

  “As if you’re so old and wise,” Adrian said.

  She stared at him a moment. He stared back. Nights of maltreatment and no food seemed to have strengthened him instead of cowed him. “You did not answer my question.”

  “You must want something from us desperately if you’re willing to deal with me,” he said.

  She sighed, as if the conversation had been a trial, and grabbed the torch. “I am not desperate. You merely touched my heart the other day. I see that I was wrong about you. I will be letting Caseo know that he can have you. And I’m sorry, Luke. Caseo is not known for his kindness.”

  “Papa!” the boy cried in Islander. It was one of the few words she knew.

  “I will, however, not tell him that you are all related by blood. It’s the least I can do.” She made certain that her smile was cold. Then she slipped out of the shed and closed the door.

  As the latch snicked shut, she heard the boy cry out again, and then Adrian shouted, “Wait!”

  She hesitated just a moment. If she opened the door, would she be playing it right? It probably didn’t matter. The man was probably playing her, not allowing himself to bow too far to her whims, but not willing to jeopardize his son.

  She pushed the door open and held the torch inside. Adrian had bent his tied legs so that he didn’t touch Ort. “I’ll talk to you,” Adrian said. “But I want to see Luke free first.”

  “Nice try,” she said. “But I am a woman of my word. I will set your son free if you talk with me and give me something worth his life.”

  Ort grunted again and shook his head. Adrian ignored him. “What would you consider worth that much? I already told you I don’t know the secret to holy water.”

  “I thought perhaps the deal might jog your memory.”

  “I can’t remember something I don’t know.”

  “Then you have nothing to bargain with,” she said. “I would hear what you have to say before I let your son go free.”

  Ort grunted louder and turned toward Jewel. Then he shook his head at her three times. She smiled at him. “You’re not part of this,” she said. “Attempt to influence this one more time, and I shall give you to Caseo right now.”

  Adrian was staring at her. His face was thinner than it had been even the day before, and there were deep lines under his eyes. The decision had been weighing on him heavily. Ort watched him carefully, as did Luke.

  “I—ah—may to speak him—ah—in Islander?” Luke said.

  “No,” Jewel said. “I want to hear anything you have to say.”

  “Please, lady. I no to speak Nye good.”

  She almost relented. But she couldn’t trust the boy any more than she could trust the men. “No,” she said.

  The boy blinked away tears. “Papa, please. No. I—ah—I stay. With you.”

  “You’re just a baby,” Adrian said. “And there’s no future here.”

  “Papa, please. Please.”

  Ort watched them both. Then he looked up at Jewel. The fury in his eyes was as palpable as a slap. She stared back at him, unwilling to let a prisoner get the better of her.

&nb
sp; “All right,” Adrian said. “I’ll deal with you. On your terms. But with one change. I would speak to my son in my own language before he leaves. You can get someone fluent to listen in, if you want, I don’t care. But I want him to be able to talk with me.”

  It was a reasonable request, particularly with someone listening in. “Done,” she said. “But you must realize that your son may not go free. Your information has to be worth his life.”

  Adrian swallowed. “I know that.”

  Ort turned his head away and leaned his forehead against the wall. Jewel crouched in front of Luke. “Luke,” she said, “I promise you that I will listen carefully to your father and make a sound decision. I know Ort believes that I will listen and then betray my promise. But I will not do that. And neither will you. I want you to understand this: if your father and I set you free, you must recognize that the Fey can be fair. You must speak to that. Is that clear?”