He scurried up to the altar. The podium was on its side and shattered. A dead servant lay across the sacrificial table, the skin on his face half-gone as if someone had been trying to carve him up there, on the holy place. The entire chapel smelled of blood. And all ceremonial swords were gone.
Matthias whirled on his feet, trapped. If he left by the back way, he would be in the front of the building, and if he left the way he’d come, he would encounter the Fey.
As if they heard his thought, they charged in both doors. The group had split in half and they were running at him, hands chillingly empty of any weapons at all.
He would not die like this. He would not let them kill him there. He pushed the body of the servant, looking for his weapon, but finding nothing. Then he saw the glittering vials of holy water the Rocaan had blessed the night before for Midnight Sacrament. The vials were made of heavy, thick glass. Perhaps they would stop the Fey while Matthias thought of something else.
Matthias grabbed vial after vial and flung them at the Fey, at the group before him, then at the group to his right. The first glass hit the stone and shattered, and the Fey screamed in pain. Then the next glass shattered. Matthias kept throwing until he realized that the Fey were no longer advancing.
The stench in the room had grown. It smelled as if something was burning. It took a moment for him to realize that all of the Fey were clutching their legs and screaming. They had fallen to the ground and were rolling in the blood. He glanced behind him. He had thrown maybe ten bottles, certainly not enough glass to cut that many men.
Then he realized that they weren’t bleeding, but their clothes were peeling from them as if trying to get away. He stood for a moment, his hand over his mouth. They were lying in the water, and every time it touched part of their bodies, they screamed. The little man was already dead, his eyes rolled back in his crushed face.
Matthias’s hands were shaking—the entire thing had left him terrified—but he had to know. He had to know. The glass couldn’t have killed them, so the water must have.
The holy water.
Matthias took a vial and walked down the steps, his heart pounding so fiercely he felt as if he couldn’t breathe. He uncorked the bottle and waited until he saw the Fey who had looked at him first. The creature was still alive, his legs and hands a mass of burns, his clothing ripped and tattered.
His gaze met Matthias’s, his skin pale and his dark almond-shaped eyes wide with shock. “What have you done?” the Fey asked in accented Nye.
The words startled Matthias, made him wonder if they were faking, if that was how they had caught all the others. He tossed the water forward, and it landed on the Fey’s perfect features. The creature screamed until his lips melted over his mouth. Matthias stood, riveted, tears in his own eyes, watching the creature—the man—flail as the flesh melted over his nostrils and his body could no longer get air.
The other Fey were still moaning, oblivious to their leader’s death. But Matthias watched for what seemed like forever as the leader clawed at his featureless face with his misshapen hands. At long last the body stopped moving.
Matthias staggered back up the stairs. The screams in the chapel were drowning the screams from elsewhere in the Tabernacle. But here and in the other chapels scattered through the building, he had the power to stop it all.
Quickly he tied the hem of his robe around his waist, making a giant pouch, which he filled with holy-water vials. Then he took as many as he could carry.
He carefully skirted the wounded and dying Fey and made his way to the double doors of the chapel. He had to move slowly, but it was a small price to pay for his own survival.
THIRTEEN
He had blood on his lips. Scavenger wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, but that only made the problem worse. The sticky substance smeared across his skin. He hated this part of his job. He smelled of iron and death, and would for the next few days.
Scavenger staggered down the road between the buildings, bodies spread around him. When he had followed the Foot Soldiers up this road toward the palace, he had thought the area reeked of fish. Now he could smell only himself.
Ahead of him, the warehouses and docks covered the rocky shoreline. The dark-brown water of the Cardidas glittered beyond them, empty of ships. Only a small, odd Circle of Light indicated that ships were in Shadowlands. In the bright sunlight the Circle was nearly invisible. Still, he glanced at it, reassured by the closeness of everything familiar.
The area near the docks was as empty as the river. The bridge, which had been filled with panicked horses and screaming Islanders a few hours before, was bare except for a few bodies hanging off the sides. He couldn’t see any Red Caps working up there, but Red Caps were short and probably weren’t easily visible over the stone wall. Good pickings, and so close to the Shadowlands. If only he were so lucky.
He had walked for what felt like miles to return to the warehouse. The sun was growing warm, and the mud was slick. He felt twice as heavy as usual with his cargo hanging from the pouches secured to his belt. Made from sheep bladders and spelled by the finest Domestics, these pouches kept even the slimiest material safely wrapped inside. He had seen a Red Cap with bad pouches once; the poor man had dribbled blood all the way to the camp, only to be slapped by one of the Warders for leaving a trail.
Scavenger was cautious not to leave a trail. All his life he had been careful not to make any mistakes. Still, it had got him nowhere. Red Caps were victims of their birth: short, squat, magickless, they had no function at all outside of war. In peacetime the Caps had settlements outside the Fey areas so that “real” Fey wouldn’t need to be reminded that not all of their race grew tall and slender and beautiful.
Still, he missed the peace. During the last year his hands had been clean, and he hadn’t been covered with filth. He didn’t have to take orders from Foot Soldiers and hold strips of some poor person’s skin in his hands.
Scavenger swallowed and licked his lips, wincing at the blood taste. Then he took a step down the incline leading to the warehouses, lost his footing, and slipped along the side of the path, holding himself up with one hand so the pouches around his waist wouldn’t burst. By the time he reached the bottom, the blood on his palm was his own. He wiped it against his pants and hurried into the Warders’ new den.
They had chosen the largest warehouse near the river as the place to set up their quarters. The doors were made of gray, weathered wood, splintered in some places. A few Islander bodies were scattered outside, and more lay on the shoreline, most killed by Infantry instead of Foot Soldiers. The bloodletting would occur later, if at all.
Scavenger hurried up the wooden ramp and pulled the doors open. The building smelled of rotted fish and stale water. He sneezed, glad for a different stink to wash the blood from his nostrils. Already someone had made Fey Lamps and left them along the wooden floor, the trapped souls inside beating against the glass, the light fresh and strong and lovely. Scavenger stopped and stared into one of the lamps. A slender man hovered inside, his tiny face wrinkled with confusion. The Islanders had probably never seen Fey Lamps before, and that poor man probably had no idea that he was trapped inside one, destined to remain until his soul gave up. He probably didn’t even remember his capture. The Wisps usually worked very quickly, aided by the Domestics.
“Are you a Cap, or someone I should worry about?” Caseo’s deep voice rumbled from deep within the warehouse.
Scavenger stood, heart pounding. Caseo was the most powerful of the Warders, and the most willing to use that power. “Number Fifteen,” Scavenger said, his own voice rising on the last syllable.
“Well, then, come forward, boy. The day has only begun.”
Boy. Scavenger’s mouth set in a hard line. He had not been a boy in over thirty years. Just because he had no magick and because his body had never grown willowy and straight didn’t mean he was a boy. He was as much Fey—adult Fey—as the rest of them.
He took a deep breath, unw
illing to face a Warder while angry. He had done that once and found himself working with the five-day-old corpses in the battlefields outside Uehe. He had been almost twenty then, and had never seen—or smelled—that kind of putrefaction before. He hadn’t allowed himself to see it since.
“I am coming, sir,” Scavenger said. He followed the trail of lights. They illuminated bare walls, made of unpainted wood. From hooks hung a handful of torn nets. Most of the hooks were empty.
He rounded a corner and found himself in a room that held more light than a meadow in the noonday sun. Fey Lamps hung from the walls and the ceilings as well as stood on the floor. Most of the furniture had been pushed against the walls except for an oversize table and ten stools for the older Warders. All twenty of the Warders were inside, bent over small pieces of paper, their robes pulled tight. Solanda, the Shape-Shifter, was with them and was pacing like a trapped animal.
Scavenger stared at her for a moment, her tawny hair, golden skin, and unconscious grace marking her as the most perfect of all the Fey. Even the dark-brown birthmark on her chin—the mark all Shape-Shifters were born with—added to her beauty.
Caseo was leaning forward, his hands spread on the table’s surface. He was studying some paper as well, a map perhaps, although Scavenger couldn’t get close enough to look. Caseo’s hood was back, revealing his gaunt features. He turned toward Scavenger, eyes dark holes in his narrow face.
“Well, boy,” Caseo said. “Bring it here. I’m sure there is much more waiting for you.”
Scavenger swallowed the insult and came forward. The Warders at the foot of the table stepped aside. Solanda reached around Caseo and picked up the paper, tucking it under her arm and turning her back on Scavenger as if his ugliness offended her.
He stopped at the table’s edge. The edge brushed against his chest. The table was long and made of a thick wood. Ancient bloodstains marred the wood’s surface, and he knew that the Islanders had used it for cleaning fish. The fishy smell was particularly strong in this room.
Scavenger pulled his pouches off his belt and reached up to set them on the table. No one helped him, although the movement was clearly difficult for him. The pouches slid into large, wobbly, bladder-shaped things, disgusting packets of disgusting material. Now he understood why Solanda had turned away.
Caseo grabbed one, hefted it in his right hand, and grinned at Scavenger. “Where’d you get it?”
“The palace,” he said. “They’re inside already.”
Caseo’s grin grew. “Maybe this won’t take as long as we thought. The waterfront is taken, as are most of the shops. We need to keep some of these pitiful creatures alive to help us tend the land.”
Caseo bent over the pouch and, holding it carefully with his left hand, untied it with his right. He put the leather thong on the table, then reached inside the bladder and pulled out a long, slim strip of skin, curling with length and black with blood. He held it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger.
“Are they all cut so fine?” Caseo asked.
Scavenger nodded. “The Infantry pushed in quickly, left a lot of them alive, and the Foot Soldiers didn’t have to do much work.”
“Completely untouched,” Caseo said, addressing the other Warders. “Look at this. Curling, thin, pristine. Rugar was right. This will be a haven for us.”
Scavenger bit the skin off his lower lip. He had heard the dissension, of course. The worry that Rugar’s Vision was going. But Caseo’s words had a calming effect. Pristine. Generations of Islander lives untouched by any harmful magick. No wonder the souls in the Fey Lamps burned so brightly. All the Islanders on Galinas had met the Fey before. It made the fighting that much harder, for the nourishment the Blood Users took was thinner in those places.
“Excuse me, sir,” Scavenger said, knowing he was not needed anymore. “Can I go?”
“In a minute, boy,” Caseo said. He set the skin back in the pouch and handed it to another Warder to seal. Then he took a tiny rag offered from yet another Warder and cleaned off his fingers. He turned toward Scavenger, leaned his hip against the table, and crossed his arms. “You say you found these pickings at the palace.”
Scavenger nodded. “I’m sure there’ll be more.”
“I’m sure,” Caseo said. “That’s why I want you to round up the Caps working the harbor area and bring them to the palace with you. We’ve done all we’re going to do down here, and the Foot Soldiers are long gone. Knowing the Caps, they’re probably skipping stones across the water rather than searching for more work.”
Scavenger pursed his lips and straightened his back. Now he knew that Caseo was baiting him on purpose. The Warders—everyone, for that matter—knew how much a good Cap hated his work. The Cap who liked the work was slipping into madness and was therefore unreliable.
“May I go?” Scavenger repeated, this time not making the necessary bow to Caseo’s power.
“And see how he doesn’t deny it? Were you skipping stones before you found us, boy?”
Scavenger pulled more pouches from the inside of his shirt and threaded them through his belt. When he was done, he said again in a level tone, “May I go, sir?”
Caseo waved his hand. “You have already wasted enough time. Go now.”
Scavenger spun and stalked out. Red and green colors flashed in front of his eyes from the brightness of the Warders’ room. As the darkness swallowed him up, he heard Solanda’s voice, as warm and rich and musical as he had imagined. He had to strain to hear what she said.
“If you keep baiting the little troll, he will come after you.”
Scavenger felt his face heat. “Little troll” was worse than boy. He bowed his head and scuffled out. It was his fate to be hated, something he deserved for being ugly and short and having no magick. But sometimes he wished a day could go by without anyone reminding him of his hideousness. That would be a day to remember.
He pushed open the double doors and stepped into the sunlight. Screams, clangs, and the sounds of battle echoed from all sides. The noise was louder than it had been before, probably because he was near the water, where the battles all along the riverfront carried on the waves. He hurried down the ramp, not even glancing at the bodies, looking for other small, blood-drenched Fey like himself.
It took a moment before he realized something odd was happening across the river.
Instead of the wild joy of a successful Fey battle cry, he heard sobs of pain. He shielded his eyes and hurried down the dock, staring at the huge building on the other side of the water.
The building was constructed like a fortress, with four towers flanking one central tower. The towers all had windows, and each was painted with a giant white sword pointing downward. The building did not have walls like a fortress, only passageways connecting one tower to the other. Its stonework looked uneven, as if parts of the building had been built at different times.
As Scavenger squinted, he could see people being pushed out of the windows. Tall, lanky people, dressed in brown leathers, wearing no armor, only the casual battle dress of the Fey. Most of them were not screaming. Islanders in black robes were leaning out the upper portions of the towers, pouring liquid from tiny bottles onto the fighters below. A huge cloud rose over the battle area, and as its tendrils reached across the river toward Scavenger, he backed away. Still, he caught its scent—putrid and rotting, like the bodies he had had to tend when he’d been but a boy.
Over there, in the fortress, the place he remembered from the attack plans as the seat of the Islanders’ religion, Fey were dying. They had some kind of magick there—that’s why the building had no walls. They didn’t need the protection. They could kill as the Fey could.
He bit his lower lip and squinted. Black-clad figures were mingling among the Fey. Sunlight glinted off heavy bottles, and more liquid fell. Each time it touched a Fey, a bit of steam arose. He glanced at the warehouse. If he warned Caseo, they might be able to get word to Rugar, and he could bring the ships out of Shadowlands and th
ey could leave.
But Scavenger could find Rugar on his own. Then Caseo would have to fend for himself.
Scavenger ran down the dock, the half-formed plan sounding good in his mind, until he realized he had no idea where Rugar was. Besides, the Fey needed the Warders. They came up with new spells, new fighting methods. If something different was happening, the Warders had to know first so that they could save everyone.
He damned the Mysteries that had led him to this place, that didn’t allow him the personal revenge he wanted. Then he ran up the ramp, slammed his hands on the double doors, and hoped that Caseo would believe him.
FOURTEEN
Alexander had been in the War Room once; his grandfather had proudly shown it to him when he’d been a boy. He had learned how the room had been used to stop the Peasant Uprising, and how it was designed to keep the lessers in check.
Alexander was inside now, a boy no longer, but a King suddenly thrust into war. He had changed into a peasant shirt and long pants—an irony not lost on him—but one his son had insisted on, and one that made sense. He needed the freedom of movement that robes did not give him. He had his sleeves rolled up, and he, his advisers, and Stephen, his son’s swordmaster, were poring over plans of the castle: twelve men in a room the size of his bedroom suite.
It felt as if they were hiding.
The room smelled damp and musty. Ancient maps, tattered and chewed by mice, covered one wall. Lord Stowe had ripped one down and used it as a cloth to dust off the long, filthy table that stood in the middle of the room. The advisers had insisted on coming there—the uppermost tower, protected by one long flight of stairs and a secret exit behind the throne. It had been designed by someone wilier than Alexander. The design made it impossible to trap anyone inside—unless, of course, the attackers knew the building’s plans.
And no one knew the plans of this room. Each King learned it from his predecessors. Nothing was written down. Not even the advisers knew of the escape route that wound its way through a false wall all the way to the dungeons below.
Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (The Fey Series) Page 10