“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 bat
tle. 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.”
Rugar smiled. The Nyeians hadn’t lied to him, then. He glanced at the palace, looking pale and insubstantial in the distance. He would eat his evening meal in the highest tower, overlooking the sea. “Thank you,” he said. He still had much work to do before he got to that meal.
He leaned over the railing and looked at the north side of the harbor. The docks, filled with every ship from a smallest fishing vessel to the largest barge, stood in uniform rows along the harbor’s edges. The fish hatcheries, the warehouses, and the grain silos were gray shapes on the city’s outskirts. Through those streets his people were scattering in a force one third the size of Jahn’s population.
Rugar gripped the rope ladder on the side of the ship and worked his way down. There the wetness felt natural, and the slide of his boots against the wooden rungs the norm. He leaped from the bottom of the ladder onto the dock, wincing as the sound echoed over the rain.
Then he turned and scanned the gray buildings, hoping to see movement. He saw nothing and heard only the rain on the water. He shoved his hands under the wool of his cape and permitted himself one shudder.
The only Fey he could see were two Red Caps talking outside one of the warehouses. The Warders were setting up inside a warehouse, and Rugar suspected that was the one. The Red Caps had little to do before a battle started, but afterward they became invaluable. He was glad he never had to work with them. They made him uneasy. Small and magickless, they were like square, truncated Fey, with the same upswept features and none of the graces. Most Red Caps didn’t even bother to bathe. Their very ugliness kept them separate from the other Fey; their lack of magick ensured that they would never attack their betters.
The world rolled beneath his feet. Rugar hated these first moments on land, when the sea still controlled his movements. He wished he had the skill of a Shape-Shifter, able to adapt to any environment.
Rugar walked cautiously along the dock toward the shore. The rain seemed to be lessening. The Sprites had warned him that they couldn’t time it perfectly. He wiped the water off his face with his dry sleeve. Time. He had to do it now.
He had to hide the ships before the Islanders awoke.
Rugar stepped off the dock onto the shore, his boots miring in the muck. Then he raised his arms and closed his eyes, picturing as the generals had taught him long ago, a world with the substance of fog. Around that world he built a box so large that a hundred giants could not hold it. He carefully slipped that box over all the ships. He built a small circular doorway the size of a fist on the east side and marked it with Fey lights, then pushed the whole thing out to sea.
The sound of the rain changed its timbre. Gone was the hollow pounding of water on wood, and added was the slap of drops on water. He opened his eyes.
The ships were gone.
Safe in the Shadowlands.
He had opened the door once again.
Slowly he let his arms drop; then he sank to his knees in the mud. The effort of making the Shadowlands had cost him what energy he had left. But he could not quit now. The cold against his legs would keep him awake. And once the battle started, he would get a second wind.
The ships were gone, and the troops were dispersed. Soon the rain would end and the sun would rise for the first time in days. The people would awake to an empty harbor and a city full of strangers.
A tingle of excitement ran through him, banishing the exhaustion. The Fey would strike quickly and effortlessly.
They would own the city by dinner, the Isle by nightfall. Once the Fey’s hold was secure, Rugar would take a ship back to his father to let him know the good news—and to hear his father’s apology—in person.
EIGHT
Nicholas awoke with a start. Something was different. He sat up on the feather bed, the clammy blankets stic
king to his bare flesh, and listened.
The rain had stopped.
He smiled and pushed the blankets aside, then slid off the high bed. The rug, handwoven by his mother, felt damp. It was as if the rain had touched everything. He pushed aside a tapestry and peered out.
The sun was rising, red and fierce, in the east. Raindrops glistened on every surface, catching and reflecting the sun’s rays. The brightness made him shield his eyes for a moment until they adjusted. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed the sun.
The courtyard was empty, except for the birds singing in the brown garden. The gardener would be pleased the rains had ceased. He might have a chance to save the vegetables. He had been worried that the palace would eat only apples all winter long.
No breakfast yet, and the fire had gone out in his grate. He was up before the servants. Nicholas grinned. He let out a whoop sure to wake the palace. It had been a while since he’d sneaked into the kitchens to get his own food. He put on a pair of tattered pants, a heavy shirt, and a pair of boots. Then he grabbed his scabbard and attached it to his waist. No sense letting a beautiful morning like this pass. As soon as he finished eating, he would go to the courtyard, rouse the swordmaster, and fight.
Nicholas chuckled, then ran his fingers through his long blond hair to get some of the knots out of it. He tied it all back with a leather thong and opened his door.
The corridor was empty except for an elderly servant carrying firewood up to his father’s floor. Nicholas nodded and scampered for the stairs. His boots slapped against the stone as he hurried down.
Other servants were beginning their rounds. A young boy, carrying firewood destined for Nicholas’s room, gaped in surprise as Nicholas bounded past him. The round matron who kept the wing was already directing a group of girls toward the gallery at the base of the family tower. A breeze carried the scent of damp ground, and he paused for a moment at the double windows to soak in the sunshine once again.
Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (The Fey Series) Page 5