Sitting would do him no good. He needed to move. He put a hand in the soft earth, feeling the warm, viscous liquid close around his skin. He stood and the mud dripped off him. What a wonderful commander he made, the son of the Black King, looking tall and proud in the land of his enemies.
That thought made him smile. He shook the mud off as a dog would, then leaned his head back. The sun was shining on ground made muddy by his own Weather Sprites. His troops were scattered throughout Blue Isle, wreaking havoc, putting fear into the people, killing the leadership. Everything about the campaign had gone well. The terror he was feeling came strictly from the Vision.
And this Vision conflicted with the other he had had. He made himself step out of the mud hole and pace on the squishy grass beside the path. His father had told him, all those decades ago, that Visions came in random order. He might see the evening of his death at the age of eighty mingled with the birth of his child at the age of twenty. The Vision he’d had of the dead Fey could take place years from now. None of the faces were clear. If they had been, he might be able to pinpoint the events in time.
But his Visions of Jewel had been clear. She was only a few years older as she walked through the Islander palace with a babe in her arms. He could place that Vision in time, and that time was soon.
These Visions had come because he was on the Isle. He had not had Visions on the sea. Perhaps he was Blind on the sea. He had heard of such things before. Visions also came easier when he was exhausted, as he was now. His mind was more susceptible to them.
He should be thankful that the Visions had returned.
“Rugar!” The voice was breathless. Rugar closed his eyes and kept pacing, hoping the voice’s owner would get the hint not to disturb him now or that his bodyguards would come and take the voice away.
“Rugar! By all the Powers, Rugar, you need to listen to me now!”
Finally he recognized the voice. It belonged to Caseo. Caseo, who was supposed to be in the warehouse with the other Spell Warders, taking the Red Cap spoils and devising specialized spells for the Blue Isle campaign. Rugar suppressed a sigh. He knew how ridiculous he looked, but he didn’t care. He crossed his arms and whirled. “You’re away from your post.”
“With good reason.” Caseo’s eyes were wild. “Rugar, they are slaughtering us.”
“Who?” Rugar didn’t know if this was another of Caseo’s exaggerations.
“The Islanders. Across the river. Upon my soul, I have never seen anything so gruesome.” Caseo’s gaunt features looked even more hollowed by the bright daylight. Caseo valued his position as leader of the Warders. He would not leave at a time like this to spread a rumor.
Rugar felt the chill return. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know exactly. The smell comes in clouds, a great putrefying stink, and then it clears, and we can see black-robed Islanders pouring some liquid on our people. They are screaming, Rugar, screaming as they die.”
Rusty and Strongfist approached. They kept a respectable distance, but they got close enough, as if Caseo’s very wildness made them nervous.
Rugar’s mouth had gone dry. “Where is this exactly, Caseo?”
“In that huge building across the river. The one with all the towers and without the gates. The one the Nye said belonged to the religion.”
The words barely registered. Instead, in his mind’s eye, Rugar was seeing a black-robed man running from a room, carrying glass bottles in his arms. Water, falling from the sky, made him feel weak. Water. “Liquid,” he said.
“What?” Caseo asked.
“No wonder,” Rugar murmured. His people were dying. In droves, as they never had before. No wonder he had been knocked flat by the Vision. The first and second parts were no Casting at all. They were Present. But if he didn’t stop this now, the third part of the Vision would be Future.
He grabbed Caseo by the shoulder. “You must take me there,” Rugar said. “Take me there now.”
“I can’t,” Caseo said. “They’ll kill you.”
Rugar shook his head. “I saw it all in a Vision. We will stop them. We have to.”
SIXTEEN
The Rocaan’s chambers had never been so mussed. Mud covered the floor. The couches were pushed against a wall, the tables moved into the middle. Someone had kindly closed the door to his bedchamber. At least forty people filled the room, some bending over vials, others carrying trays of filled vials into the corridor. The conversation was deafening, but occasionally it would still when a particularly loud scream would echo from the courtyard.
Despite the growing heat, the Rocaan sat by the fire, wearing his heavy robe, his feet still bare. His discarded breakfast sat on the table beside him. Someone had pulled the tapestries back from the window, letting in the blessed sunlight, and the cries of agony from the courtyards below.
Holy water. His holy water was killing them. The sacred water used by Roca himself to clean the sword before the Soldiers of the Enemy used it to run him through. The secret passed from Rocaan to Rocaan in an unbroken line, from generation to generation. Passed in small vials to the congregation during Midnight Sacrament so that they could clean their own swords in a ritual purification.
And here he sat, the Fiftieth Rocaan, knowing how few vials there were in the building, that the water killed, and that without it, every human on Blue Isle would die.
If he ever needed to reach the Ear of God, now was the time. Only he couldn’t feel the presence of the Holy One. He was on his own.
He felt that way too—the only person in the chamber not moving or planning or discussing. He wanted them all to leave so that he could think. His very being felt that it wasn’t right to use holy water to kill, no matter how well and fast it worked.
The Elders were running the operation in the Rocaan’s chamber. They had the Auds searching the sanctuaries, chapels, and back rooms for more holy water. The Elders had said nothing to him, had not consulted him beyond Matthias’s quick announcement of the effect of holy water. To that, the members of the Rocaan’s staff, the clergy, and the highest authorities in the Tabernacle had cheered.
Cheered.
The Rocaan put his head in his hands. His palms were hot and clammy. His body ached with the strain of the morning. Even his chair felt uncomfortable. He drew up his knees so that his bare feet disappeared under his robe, a trick he hadn’t used since he’d been an Aud.
Earlier, the ululating cries had scared him, brought him to his knees in honest prayer for his own people. He had clutched the tiny silver sword he wore around his neck, wondering if he could accept it into his body with the same ease and grace that Roca had all those centuries before.
The martyred hero who, in death, had captured the love of God.
The Rocaan wanted nothing more for his people than to capture that same love. Instead they were fighting back with a force he didn’t recognize or understand. Rocaanism did not condone murder, yet what were they doing but murdering with the very substance that he had blessed?
Warm fingers brushed his arm and he jumped. He looked up to find Matthias bending over him. Beside him the wood snapped, and two Auds fought over who would take the next group of vials to the Danites on the floor below. Matthias’s blond curls were mussed, and his mustache looked ragged, as if he had been chewing on it. There were hollows under his eyes that had not been there earlier.
“Holy Sir,” Matthias said, “we must speak.”
The Rocaan glanced around his chamber. Danites stood in groups of three, arguing. Vials covered all the tables, and Auds brought even more. The screams of the dead and dying rose from below, adding an odd counterpoint to the dull roar of conversation.
“Holy Sir?” Matthias repeated.
In the space of one morning it had all changed to this. “Yes,” the Rocaan said. “We do need to speak. Alone.”
He did not understand how his chambers had become the central command for a war he did not want. It was almost too much to bear. “Get them out,” h
e said to Matthias. “Get them out and we will talk.”
“But they feel safe here.”
The Rocaan glanced bitterly at the vials. “They have another safety now.”
Matthias followed the Rocaan’s glance and frowned. He squeezed the Rocaan’s wrist and then got up. One by one, he spoke to the other Elders, all of whom looked at the Rocaan before nodding. The Elders spoke with the Officiates, and within minutes the vials and the people had left the room.
The screams from outdoors had grown louder. Only the crackle and snap of the burning wood sounded familiar. A trickle of sweat ran down the Rocaan’s brow, past his eye, and onto his cheek. It felt like a tear, but his eyes were dry.
“They’re gone, Holy Sir.” Matthias stood in front of him, hands clasped and head bowed. His curls were thinning around his crown.
The chamber seemed bigger with all the sofas pushed aside. Vials were scattered on the tables, and some trays sat on the floor. The Rocaan pushed himself out of his chair. Suddenly the heat was too much for him. “You do not believe in Roca, do you, Matthias?”
Matthias brought his head up quickly. Standing at full height, he was nearly a foot taller than the Rocaan. “I am an Elder.”
The Rocaan nodded. “A second son. A family decision. You have an apt mind, a quick wit, and a penchant for reality. Very valuable, and rare in an Elder.”
“We do not have time for philosophical discussion,” Matthias said. “People are dying.”
“And we are killing them.” The Rocaan took Matthias’s hand and led him to the window across from the bed. He pulled back the tapestry depicting the first Rocaan touching the Ear of God, and looked out.
The sun gave everything a white, pure light. Water still clung to the moss growing near the window. Bodies were scattered on the courtyard, faces gone, arms and legs wrapped around torsos as if trying to block pain. The Rocaan had never seen anything like it.
He stepped back and pushed Matthias forward, standing behind him so that Matthias could see nothing except the death below.
“The Words Written and Unwritten forbid murder,” the Rocaan said.
“These creatures are evil,” Matthias said, his voice shaking. “They have a power that slays men with the touch of a finger.”
“ ‘The evil that men do corrupts entire nations,’ “ the Rocaan quoted. “ ‘We must fight such evil by being good.’ “
“ ‘We must be strong in the face of our enemies.’ “ Matthias turned so that he faced the Rocaan. He stood so close that the Rocaan could feel the heat of his body.
“Strong, yes,” the Rocaan said. “But not even Roca fought back with physical force.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Matthias said. “Even as we speak, our people are dying all over the city. Only here have we found the answer.”
“The answer lies in the holy water,” the Rocaan said. “And it is not a simple question of blessing the Cardidas. The secret of holy water was passed from Roca to the first Rocaan and has been passed to each Rocaan like a closely guarded key. Only I can create this weapon, and so you must listen to me.”
Matthias bit his upper lip. His lower teeth were yellow and crooked.
“Roca did not give us holy water so that we could kill,” the Rocaan said.
“No, Roca gave it to us that we might live,” Matthias said. “And we did not understand its secret until now. When it touches a holy man, it purifies him, and when it touches an evil man, it kills him.”
The Rocaan shuddered. “You are not thinking. If holy water killed evil men, then murderers, thieves, anyone with sin in the heart would die at Midnight Sacrament. This goes beyond that. It is almost as if the Fey’s presence has caused a new magick to blossom. A magick I cannot condone.”
Another scream rose from below, long and loud and male. At the same time, someone pounded on the door. “Holy Sir!” the voice cried. “We are running out of holy water!”
Matthias licked his lips. His eyes glittered with a panic the Rocaan had not seen before. Matthias swallowed as if he were nervous about speaking and then bowed his head. He did not look at the Rocaan as he spoke. “If you do not bless more water, Holy Sir, then you shall be breaking the highest law in the Words Written and Unwritten. For you are right, they say that a man may not murder, but there are wars written in the Words and in our history. The King’s defense against the Peasant Uprising was called a jihad by that Rocaan. Are you saying that defense is not viable?”
Matthias had the mind of a scholar. The Rocaan had used it in the past but could not follow it now. He wouldn’t defend himself until he understood the argument. “What law am I breaking?”
Matthias looked up, his pale skin flushed. “You would be committing murder, Holy Sir. Mass murder. You would be—you are—condemning us all to death.”
The Rocaan took a step backward. This he had not considered. The pounding on the door made his head throb.
Matthias followed, using his tall body as a weapon, a weapon that intimidated. “We cannot survive against magickal touch. If we do not defend ourselves against these creatures, we will be slaughtered like the lambs kept outside the city. Even as we argue, the King could be dying. The King, the direct descendant of Roca on earth. It is our duty under the Law of the Sword to protect all believers. The Fey are not believers. They are Something Other. A test, perhaps, sent to slaughter us all. Perhaps we of this generation were meant to discover new properties in the holy water. Perhaps all of this is a sign that the prayers the Holy One has taken to God’s Ear were heard. And you would have us forsake all that. You would try to be as great a martyr as Roca. He died to save us, Holy Sir. Your action would not save us. It would slaughter us all.”
The pounding on the door continued. Neither man acknowledged it.
The Rocaan sank back in his chair. He was not used to making quick decisions. Never in his years as Rocaan had he had to make a decision without lots of prayer, lots of consideration. Yet he, in a matter of moments, had to make a decision that would change the faithful’s relationship with God and Roca forever.
“Holy Sir! Please!” the man outside called.
“Please,” Matthias whispered.
“Forgive me,” the Rocaan murmured under his breath. He spoke to the Holy One, asking for forgiveness for not one, but two sins. He would break two laws this day. He sighed. “Tell them that their water will come.”
Matthias nodded and went to the door. The Rocaan stared at the fire, at the red embers glowing at the base of the flame. He waited for the still, small voice to speak from within. But no voice spoke. No voice indicated which path was right and which path was wrong. A man is cursed who must make decisions based only upon his own knowledge.
When Matthias finished speaking to the man outside, he closed the door. “And where will we get this water?” Matthias asked.
The Rocaan stood slowly, feeling every one of his years. “We shall make it,” he said.
Matthias gasped. “Are you dying, Holy Sir?”
The Rocaan shook his head. “No. But I refuse to let the blood of the invaders stain my hands alone.”
SEVENTEEN
Solanda paced the warehouse. Its rectangular shape, which had seemed large that morning, now felt tiny. She had sat in each chair, rubbed her hands on the scarred tabletop. The smell of fish made her stomach growl. The uneven boards rocked under her bare feet. She avoided the bags of blood and skin; they disgusted her. The creatures that used them were not true Fey. There were only a handful of true Fey, and she was lucky enough to be one. And unfortunate enough to be the one traveling with Rugar.
She owed him, but not this much.
No windows. She hated the darkness. She stopped for a moment by a Fey Lamp and crouched in front of it. The little soul inside batted against the glass like a butterfly caught in a jar. Solanda reached out with her long finger and traced the cool surface. The creature batted harder. If she opened the glass, the soul would get away. As a child, she used to open Fey Lamps and try t
o catch the fleeing souls. She had succeeded only once, and the soul had burned her mouth.
She stood and paced again. They had no right to leave her alone. Caseo swore he was going for Rugar, that the crisis across the river would have ramifications for them all. She had never felt so useless. Rugar had forbidden her to look outside or to get involved at all. He had no job for her yet—might not have a job for her at all.
If the invasion didn’t go as planned, she would become key to the takeover of Blue Isle. As things stood, she was a reserve weapon. They hadn’t needed her in the Nye campaign, and now she had traveled across an ocean—water, damn them all—to hide in this filthy warehouse guarding packets of blood used by her inferiors.
She would take this no longer.
The next time she circled around to the main hallway, she left the room and its wonderful lights. She rounded the corner and crossed the boards. The wood felt slimy beneath her bare feet, and the fish smell had grown. Her stomach growled again. Rugar left her with orders to stay in that awful warehouse with no windows and no food and did not tell her when anyone would get back. If someone returned before she did, let them worry. She wasn’t the type to stay in one place.
The restlessness came from her cat self. She had learned, over the years, not to fight some of the feline impulses. They served her well. Others merely annoyed her. The only problem with being a Shape-Shifter was choosing the permanent altered form. She had done so as a child of three when her constantly shifting form threatened her health. Every Shifter reached that point. Solanda’s had come earlier than most, and she resented it. To this day Solanda had told no one that she had made her choice to Shift into the form of a cat because her baby self thought cats were the prettiest creatures she had ever seen.
She walked down the long hall. The wood got drier, and the smell receded. When she reached the outside doors, she placed both hands on them and pushed. Sunlight cascaded in, blinding her for a moment, bringing sound. Screaming cries, thuds, and running feet. She stood in the open doorway blinking against the light, hoping that no one saw her.
Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (The Fey Series) Page 12