The Secrets. He reviewed them each night like a ritual prayer, but he did not understand most of them. Like the Ritual of Absorption, which no Rocaan had ever performed, but which had traveled down from the beginning of the religion. Perhaps that ritual was as garbled as the Words Unwritten. Perhaps parts were missing, parts forgotten by elderly, dying men trying to carry on a tradition.
A knock sounded at the door, followed by a soft voice identifying the Aud who had left earlier. The Rocaan moved his hands from his face and sighed.
“Come,” he said, and the boy entered, carrying a tray of food. The scent of fresh mutton stew with gravy, potatoes, and onions filled the room, and the Rocaan’s stomach growled. The chef had also put fresh bread beside the plate, knowing the Rocaan’s penchant for doughy food. The Rocaan’s nightly cup of mead reflected the light.
The boy set the tray on the table. The stew was still steaming.
“Holy Sir,” he said, keeping his tone respectful, “would you like me to douse some lights?”
“No, boy,” the Rocaan said. “I need them tonight.”
The Aud nodded and clasped his hands over the front of his coarse black robe. He turned, revealing the black bottoms of his very dirty bare feet as he moved.
“Boy?” the Rocaan said. “Where are you from?”
The Aud stopped, faced the Rocaan again, but kept his head bowed. “The base of the Snow Mountains,” he said.
The Rocaan nodded. He had been to the Snow Mountains just once, as a Danite. The villages there were small because the winters were harsh, and it took a certain type of person to brave the deep snows. Some said that the peasants who survived the Uprising fled to the Snow Mountains, but no one had wanted to pursue them.
“What stories do your people tell of the Roca that you have not heard since you became an Aud?”
To the Rocaan’s surprise the boy flushed. “‘Tis blasphemy, Holy Sir.”
“Blasphemy?” the Rocaan asked. “How do you know this?”
“‘Tis a self-centered focus that feeds lies.” The boy was paraphrasing the caution that all novitiates receive.
“But no one told you it was blasphemy, then?”
“No, Holy Sir.”
“Then please, boy, share it with me.”
The boy shook his head.
“I have the Ear of God,” the Rocaan said. “If I determine it blasphemy, we shall Bless you again, wipe your lips with holy water, and pray for forgetfulness.”
The boy swallowed so hard, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes, Holy Sir.”
“Come,” the Rocaan said. “Sit beside me. The chef gave me too much bread for an old man to eat.” He was conscious of the dietary restrictions that limited Auds to one meal of meat per week. He did not want to violate that for the boy, but he also didn’t want the boy to watch him eat.
The boy brushed off the back of his robe before sitting in the chair beside the Rocaan. The boy took the bread with an eagerness the Rocaan remembered. Auds were never fed enough, nor did they get enough sleep. It was part of the ritual indoctrination. Any boy who was strong enough to survive the routine of work and deprivation was strong enough to serve God.
But the boy did not eat until the Rocaan took a bite. The stew was rich and heavily herbed. The tastes exploded across his tongue. Like so many who had lived through the starvation of early religious life, he had grown fat and accustomed to luxuries—so much so that in an unconscious fashion he never wanted to be deprived again. Perhaps that, too, was wrong. Perhaps much in Rocaanism needed rethinking.
“Tell me, boy,” he said softly.
The boy chewed and swallowed. The Rocaan handed him the mead and the boy took a sip. Then he sighed, as if he knew he could not get out of telling the Rocaan what he needed to know.
“It is said by the people of the Snow Mountains that the Roca was born there during a blizzard to a very poor family. Green lightning mixed with the snow to show the power that was unleashed that evening.” The boy did not look at the Rocaan as he spoke. He tore the bread he held into small pieces and placed them on his robe. “People did not go near the family for fear of that power. They did not believe in God then, did not know of wisdom or of anything beyond this life of pain.”
The Rocaan set his spoon down. This story was old. He could tell from the cadence in the boy’s voice, and the rhythm of the story itself. The boy spoke it as the Rocaan spoke the Words Unwritten, as something he had learned so young, it was a part of him.
“As the Roca grew older, it was said he had the winds under his command. He could bring a storm or turn it away, and often did, to protect his family’s land. When he learned that other boys did not have this talent, he ran into the mountains to find out why he had been chosen.” The boy put a piece of bread in his mouth and chewed. He glanced at the Rocaan out of the corner of his eye, then looked away.
“A great storm rose that night, but when it cleared, people in the valley saw that there was no snow on the mountaintop. Shepherds claimed that the storm had stopped at the tree line, and that the sun had shown even though it was dark. After that night the Roca came down and told the people of the valley about God. He also told them that, without his leadership, they would die in a great war, and they all bowed down and worshiped him. The Roca stayed in the valley until the Soldiers of the Enemy arrived, and then he took his wife and sons and came to Jahn.”
The Rocaan picked up his cup of mead and took a long, hard sip. This story did not exist in the official oral histories, nor was it in any of the scholarly works. Yet it covered a period the Rocaan had never heard covered.
“Why do you think this blasphemy, boy?” he asked.
The boy was about to eat another piece of bread. He set the bread back in his lap after the Rocaan asked the question. “Because it is about the Snow Mountains. They make it sound as if the Roca is theirs only, as if he comes from them.”
“But the story also makes it clear that they treated him as an outsider, and that they were afraid of him.”
The boy nodded. “I told Elder Eirman about this, and he said that I should stop listening to such tales and to get about my own studies.”
“I shall speak to Elder Eirman. As the historian, he should investigate these stories, not deny them.”
“Then you don’t believe it’s blasphemy?” The boy spoke quickly, his question revealing his youth and the depth of his fear.
“If it is blasphemy, it is not yours. And who is to say at this early date? We do not know where the Roca was born or how he came to be before he fought the Soldiers of the Enemy. Perhaps your story is true.”
“If it is true,” the boy whispered, “then why don’t they speak it in church? Why is it told late at night, during great storms, in hushed voices as if the people are afraid that God might hear?”
“I don’t know,” the Rocaan said. He handed the boy another piece of bread. “Thank you for telling me. Your soul is safe, child. You are innocent of any wrongdoing.”
Tears filled the boy’s eyes, but he kept them downcast. He took the extra piece of bread and picked up the crumbs of the first with his free hand.
“Do you know other boys with these kinds of stories?” the Rocaan asked.
“We do not talk, Holy Sir,” the boy said, and the Rocaan smiled at his own foolishness. Of course the boys didn’t talk. Auds were forbidden to speak to each other because it was believed that they could learn nothing from each other. They were innocents, and innocents in equal ways. They could only learn things of value from their betters. While the rule made certain that the Auds did not band together and protest their living conditions, it also made certain that stories like this one were buried.
How many of the Auds the Rocaan had served with had known this tale? And how many other tales had Elders suppressed all these years?
“Thank you for indulging an old man, boy,” the Rocaan said. “When you leave, I would like you to find Elder Eirman for me and bring him here.”
“You will not tell
him about me, will you?” the boy asked, then clapped his hands over his mouth. Slowly he brought them down, his face bright red. “I am sorry, Holy Sir. You have God’s wisdom.”
And sometimes even God’s wisdom was not enough. The Rocaan smiled at him. “I will keep your secret, boy.”
The Aud bowed his head. “Thank you, Holy Sir,” he said; then he took his bread and left the room.
The Rocaan leaned against his chair, exhausted from the encounter. Stories of the Roca that existed outside the religion. He would never have thought it if he hadn’t been studying so intently. Perhaps if he asked all the Auds who served him, they would each have a different story of the Roca’s origins. Perhaps the Danites would as well, although he doubted if they would say anything. If this boy, after being an Aud only a few years or even months of his short life, was afraid to speak, imagine how Danites, who had lived with the secret for at least a decade, felt.
It was time to lift the strictures from this religion. The arrival of the Fey had caused him to question holy water. Perhaps the Fey would cause him to question other things. Perhaps the Fey were not evil at all, but merely a testing, to keep the faith pure.
FIFTY-FIVE
The little filth had deprived him of his chance to work with the water. Caseo rubbed his hands together. The Warders were gone, except for two, Touched, the youngest, and Rotin, the second-oldest. They seemed as frustrated as Caseo at the lack of progress. And then to have that filthy Red Cap betray him. A Red Cap’s life was worthless. The creature could have done something useful, and it had not. Instead, it acted frightened when it alone might have held an answer to the way the Islander magic worked.
Touched was hanging Fey Lamps. Rotin had her bald head cradled on her arms, as if the day’s work had exhausted her. Caseo knew better. He had worked with Rotin since they’d been children. She did her best thinking when she was tired, frustrated, and hiding.
He put on the gloves the Domestics had made him especially for the poison work. Even though he trusted the magick, he still was cautious and had yet to spill on them. His hands didn’t shake until late at night, after everyone had left and he was alone. Then his entire body trembled with the risks he took daily. He went around the table and picked up two bowls, one with water alone, and one with a strip of Islander skin in it. He placed them with the other bowls filled with an inch of poison, all showing failed experiments, in the corner, on a table protected by Caseo’s most powerful spell so that no one would stumble against them accidentally.
“It seems to me,” Touched said as he stepped down from the chair he had been using to hang the Fey Lamps, “that we are going about this wrong.”
The use of the word “wrong” almost made Caseo spill the second bowl. He set it down quickly, breathing heavily at the nearness of his miss.
“You’re suggesting that I don’t know what I’m doing?” The fear that had risen in him made his question harsher than he had intended it to be.
“No!” Touched’s eyebrows rose in protest. Of all of them, only he looked odd with the baldness all Warders acquired after initiation, as if he were not meant to be a Warder at all. Caseo could still see the missing hair floating like a nimbus around Touched’s head. “I’m saying that—”
“We’re doing this wrong.” Rotin sat up. Her voice was raspy from the herbs she used. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her entire body moved as if she were exhausted. “I know you don’t like criticism, Caseo, but really, that is a childish, egotistical way to lead anything.”
Caseo stiffened, unwilling to look at them. He backed out of his magick corner and examined his gloves for droplets before removing them. “We’re not discussing me,” he said.
“No, we’re not. We’re discussing our solutions to this poison.” Rotin rubbed her eyes. “Let Touched speak. Your jealousy of him can be so counterproductive.”
Caseo bit back anger. He was not jealous of Touched. He merely did not like children. And Touched was not yet twenty, too young to be a Spell Warder. Too young to be considered one of the great powers of the race.
“What are we doing wrong?” Caseo asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from his tone.
Touched shoved his hands into the pocket of his robe. The gray material blended with the colors of the Shadowlands, making him look almost invisible. Only the brightness of the Fey lights, shining on his bald scalp, gave him any warmth at all.
“We don’t dissect magicks,” Touched said. His voice squeaked on the word “dissect.” He cleared his throat. “We create them. We might never find out how this works by reversing our process.”
Despite himself, Caseo felt a leap in his heart. He knew what the boy was saying. “You want us to create this kind of poison? With the same properties?”
Touched nodded, his eyes sparkling in a way that showed how he deserved his name. “We can test it on Fey dead. Some folks died of other than poison causes in the last battle, right?”
Rotin shrugged. “No one has checked.”
“And even if they have, the magic is gone from them,” Caseo said.
“There is no proof that it is magick caused,” Touched said. “Even Infantry died in Jahn on the day of the First Battle. That suggests that magick is not an issue.”
Caseo frowned. The magick had been his theory; he was not so willing to part with it. “We never know if the Infantry has magick. Some just don’t have magick in enough quantity. The Red Caps have no magick at all, and none of them died.”
“None of them were in the thick of the fighting,” Rotin said. “Let the theory go, Caseo. The fact that the little Red Cap defies you shows that he has enough sense to save his own life. Would you volunteer for an experiment that might kill you horribly?”
“Of course not,” Caseo said. “But my life is worth something.”
Touched sat in his chair, appearing to melt into the wall with that peculiar talent he had for disappearing when controversy started.
Rotin had never been threatened by Caseo. She wrinkled her nose at him. “A Red Cap’s life is worth something too. Someone has to be willing to work in the heat and stink to give us materials. We all need to be divided up when we die. Who would do that if the Red Caps didn’t?”
“Domestics?” Caseo said, although he knew they would shrink from the job. “Perhaps we could design a spell that would enable them to do a Red Cap’s job without touching a body.”
“There’s no need when the present system works so well. And on a battlefield, a Domestic is always overworked.” Rotin reached into the pocket of her robe and removed a packet of herbs. Then she reached into the other pocket and took out a tiny mortar and pestle. She ground the herbs together and licked her finger, placing it in the mixture.
“Doing it straight now, Rotin?” Caseo asked.
She licked the herbs off her finger and shuddered with an almost orgasmic pleasure. The problems of being a Spell Warder, denied sexual experience in return for a touch of all magicks. Her eyes were shiny as she looked up at him. “You don’t allow us much time to ourselves these days. I take my enjoyment as I can.”
“The others have left,” he said. “You could have left too.”
Touched was watching from the corner, his eyes bright under the Fey Lamps. He was too young to have any vices or to understand the losses he had volunteered for.
“I knew you were reaching a dangerous level of frustration,” she said. “The next thing you will do is kidnap babies and pour poison on them.”
“Children have magic,” Touched whispered.
“Dormant magic,” Caseo said. Rotin knew him too well. He had thought of that, but the children in camp were all too close to puberty to be of use to him.
“If you’re going to take anyone,” Rotin said, “it should be Infantry, who are by far the largest force we have here, and who are interchangeable.”
Caseo licked his own lips, wishing for the first time that he had a taste for her herbs. He had tried them once, but the resulting sensation overwhelmed and frightene
d him. He preferred to be overwhelmed by his own magical power rather than to be overwhelmed by an outside force he could not control.
“So you have been thinking along the same lines I have,” he said.
She smiled. “I know how your mind works, Caseo. I may not share some of your abilities, but I know where frustration takes you.”
Touched had backed himself so far against the wall that, if he forgot himself, he would slip through it. “You’re talking about taking Fey lives to test magic,” he said.
Rotin nodded. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“The first time was when?” Caseo said, delighting in her game with the boy. “When the Fey came down the Eccrasian plain?”
“Against the swords of Ghitlus,” Rotin said, her grin growing, her back to the boy so that he couldn’t see her. “The Warders believed that the swords had magical properties, having never seen metal weapons before.”
“And so they tested swords against all kinds of spells and finally determined that the swords themselves had special powers. Then, with the Black King’s permission, they tried the swords on Infantry,” Caseo said.
“And the Infantry died. But so did Ghitlans who faced the sword,” said Rotin.
“The Spell Warders thought, ‘What an odd magick that kills its own,’ “ Caseo said.
“So the Warders did more experiments,” Rotin said, “and discovered that they could hex swords and they could put magick properties on swords that changed swords. And eventually they concluded that swords had no magical properties of their own, but that they were made of a specific material that allowed them a kind of strength we had never seen before.”
Touched’s eyes were wide. No one had briefed him on the difficulties Spell Warders sometimes faced. He was probably like so many others, figuring that Warding was one of the most powerful positions among the Fey, not realizing that with power came difficult choices.
Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (The Fey Series) Page 41