Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (The Fey Series)

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “We have no reason to,” Monte said. “We have only your word. And that is worth nothing to us.”

  The little man exhaled loudly. Theron sat stiffly, his fingers again creeping to his neck. “He didn’t kill me,” Theron said, uncertain why he was defending the little man.

  “Of course not,” Monte said. “Why should he? You were his way to me. Or to the King. What’s your real plan? Assassinate the King?”

  The little man shook his head. “We’ve had people closer to your King than I am.”

  “The girl,” Monte said. “We know.”

  “No,” the little man said. “You don’t know. The only thing we have in our favor at the moment is your awful ignorance. And that ignorance could get you all killed. I am willing to betray everything I was raised on for safety. I am the key to your winning this war.”

  Monte glanced at Theron. “Let me see that wound,” he said. He tilted Theron’s neck back, and Theron winced at the pain as the scar pulled. “I hope you don’t mind if I clean it with a bit of holy water.”

  Theron frowned. “Holy water’s not for—oh,” he said as he understood. “I don’t mind.”

  Monte grabbed the vial from Kondros. The little man cringed as if he expected the water to come toward him. Monte poured a bit on his handkerchief and dabbed at Theron’s neck. The kerchief came away bloody.

  “Well,” Monte said. “He didn’t enchant you.”

  “I can’t,” the little man said. “I have no magick. Would I smell like this if I did?”

  Monte ignored him. He handed the vial back to Kondros, spilling a drop on Kondros’s hand. Kondros grinned at him and wiped the drop away.

  “He already tested me at the palace,” Cyta said.

  “Good test,” the little man said, his voice shaking. “None of our people would survive.”

  “Want me to touch you?” Monte asked.

  “No!” The little man screeched the word. “I said I would help you! What more do you want?”

  Monte shrugged. “Maybe you won’t die, if you lack magick, as they say.”

  The toes of the little man’s boots pushed at the plank floor. He backed the chair up as far as it would go. “No. I don’t believe that. There are Red Caps missing. I think they died from the poison like everyone else. Please. Please. I am making you an offer. Please. Don’t kill me. Please.”

  Monte sighed and set the vial down. He put the kerchief down beside it. Theron’s heart was pounding. The little man’s fear was infectious.

  “All right,” Monte said. “I’ll accept your offer. But you will have to do things on my terms. I will not take you anywhere near the King, and you will answer every question I put to you. I will have a guard on you at all times, with holy water beside him, and if you make so much as one wrong move, we will spray you. Is that clear?”

  The little man’s mouth worked but nothing came out. Finally he nodded.

  “If your information is not useful, we will kill you. If your information is wrong, we will kill you. Is that clear?”

  The little man swallowed. “Yes.” The word came out as a near whisper. Theron truly believed the little man was terrified. “What happens when you learn that I’m telling you the truth?”

  “We’ll negotiate then. At the very least, we’ll let you live. And if you are telling us the truth, that is more than your people were willing to do.”

  The little man nodded and looked away. Monte pushed his chair back and stood. “I want you men to take him to the guard barracks. We’ll put him in the keep alone, and one of you will guard him tonight. Tomorrow I will have new guards posted. Until you hear from me, though, none of this has happened. I don’t want word to get out in this city that we have a Fey prisoner.” He glanced at the little man. “If it does, I may not be able to keep my word about keeping him alive.”

  “We won’t say anything,” Theron said. Then he looked at his companions. “Will we?”

  They shook their heads. They both crouched without Theron saying another word and started untying the little man’s feet.

  The little man was watching Theron. When he saw Theron’s gaze on him, he mouthed, “Thank you.”

  Theron nodded, not wanting to have a Fey indebted to him. Once the Fey man was in Monte’s prison, Theron hoped he would have nothing more to do with him.

  Monte was watching them help the little man to his feet. “Whatever else happens, men,” he said, “you did the right thing by bringing him to me.”

  Theron wasn’t so sure. He had wanted something more decisive to come from this meeting—a way to kill all Fey quickly, or even better, a way to rescue his friends.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Tel paced Andre’s chambers, reviewing the Midnight Sacrament. Andre’s memory of the ceremony was very detailed, so detailed that Tel found it confusing. He knew if he relaxed and let his mind take over, he would be able to perform it correctly, but he wasn’t sure he could relax. One slip, and he would die.

  Damn that Solanda. She had sent him here, to this place of death, to discover a secret that he couldn’t know unless he became their religious leader, or Elder Matthias. If Tel took over either of those two men, he could send the secret back to Shadowlands, and stay here, substituting real water for the poison and protecting his people that way.

  Only he wasn’t a real hero, and he was frightened. He might not live through the night.

  The sound of horse’s hooves and a voice shouting at the gate made him hurry to the window. In the darkness he could barely see the Danites standing guard at the gate. A horseman stood there, talking with them. He heard the voices floating over the air and leaned forward to see if he could make out what was being said.

  When he heard the name Nicholas, he froze. The Prince was back on an urgent matter. Had they discovered the bones in the stable? Had something else happened? He didn’t know, but his mouth had gone dry. The guards stood away, and Nicholas’s horse hurried through the gate into the courtyard.

  Tel leaned back inside, his heart racing, the indecision gone. He had to go to Midnight Sacrament now. If the Prince had discovered something, Tel had to be around to know what that something was. The messenger be damned; Tel would get another message to the Shadowlands when he had a chance.

  Which meant he had to perform Midnight Sacrament. And he had to protect himself. He gripped the wall for support, the stone digging into his fingers. The fear had left him light-headed. But he had no time. He knew only one way around all of this. At least he was prepared.

  He grabbed Andre’s service robe and slipped it on. The children had helped him bring buckets into the Tabernacle. He had stolen new, unused vials from the storage room and filled them with river water, and then he had, with the help of an Aud, brought them to his room. He tied the belt around his waist, nervously adjusted the sword, and put on his biretta. Then he pulled the bell pull, hoping that the Aud who was supposed to respond wouldn’t be too late.

  He glanced out into the courtyard again, but couldn’t see the Prince or his horse. Andre hadn’t been summoned for a meeting, so chances were that Nicholas had come to see the Rocaan or a specific Elder. If only Tel had picked Matthias when he had been trying to rise in the ranks. But Solanda hadn’t left Tel much time, and he had taken the first he could get. Tel had had only Miruts’s limited knowledge of Rocaanism to go on, and from that perspective he had done well. It was only when he settled into Andre’s body that he realized he had made a mistake.

  There was a soft knock at his door. “Come,” he said without inquiring who it was. Andre never did. Elders did not think themselves at risk there.

  An Aud stood at the open door, head bowed. “Yes, Respected Sir?”

  Tel took a deep breath, then swept his hand toward the box of vials he had left on one of the tables. “Please take those down to the sanctuary. We have new holy water from the Rocaan for the service tonight.”

  “Yes, Respected Sir.” The Aud went to the table and picked up the box, groaning under its weight. Tel hel
d the door for the Aud, then followed him into the corridor, knowing that it wasn’t customary, but not caring. If anyone asked, he could say he was making certain the new holy water made it to the sanctuary.

  In truth, he wanted to know where the vials would be. So he followed the Aud through the corridors, holding his robe close to his sides so that he wouldn’t brush anything or knock anything loose. His biggest fear was that there was another poison in this building, a poison the Warders and Rugar did not know about.

  As Tel went past the audience rooms, he heard voices. The Aud continued, head down, as if he heard nothing. Tel wanted to stop, to listen, to see if he was missing anything, but he didn’t dare. He needed to know where those vials were at all times.

  The voices grew louder as he passed the closed door. Two Danites stood outside, their heads bowed, hands clasped in front of them. Tel ignored them as a good Elder should and stared straight ahead, listening with all his power.

  He didn’t recognize the soft voice, although it sounded familiar to Andre. The louder voice, the one that spoke with energy and feeling, was Nicholas’s. The words were muffled, but some of the sentences were clear:

  “. . . some kind of pattern, and since it is unusual, we must take it as a threat.”

  The soft voice responded. Tel couldn’t make out the words.

  “Well, it certainly isn’t normal, and anything abnormal we must assume is Fey. Besides, this happened near Stephen . . .”

  And then Tel was beyond the door. He could hear no more. He resisted the urge to glance back. Stephen. Stephen. The name was familiar to him, but he wasn’t sure through which of his personalities or why.

  He followed the Aud down the narrow back stairs to the sanctuary. The Aud kicked at the closed door at the base of the stairs. When it opened, he walked through. Tel put his hand on the door, trying not to cringe as his fingers touched the wood, and then slipped inside also.

  The rooms behind the sanctuary were used as storage and quick-changing rooms for Elders who ran late. Extra robes hung on the walls, covering the various swords, each done in a different style. The floor was covered with handmade tile, depicting a Rocaan crowning a King, and the browns and reds of the tile gave the room some life.

  Tel was glad he had followed the Aud, because vials of holy water stood everywhere, some in boxes, some out.

  The Aud stood in the middle of the mess, holding the box, his young face red with exertion. “Where would you like me to set this, Respected Sir?”

  Tel’s hands were shaking. One misstep in this room, one casual bump against those vials, and he was a dead man. “Let’s take the vials under the Sacrificial Table,” he said, relieved his voice was calm, “and replace them with these.”

  The Aud pushed open the door to the sanctuary with his back. Tel started to follow, but the Aud grinned at him. “I can do the job, Respected Sir. There is no need to supervise me.”

  “Still,” Tel said, “this is an important task. The Rocaan wants to make sure it is done right.”

  The Aud who had opened the door initially said, “The Rocaan didn’t seem to mind when we brought the rest of these down here. I think he’ll trust us to put them under the Sacrificial Table.”

  Fear was making Tel jumpy. “Yes, but I am in charge of this particular box, and I am going to make certain it is in its place before Sacrament.”

  The Aud shook his head. “All right,” he said. “But I wouldn’t want to go against tradition just to supervise a task that would have been done well anyway.”

  Tel almost asked, Go against tradition? and then his Andre memory worked for him. Elders were not supposed to be seen before Midnight Sacrament since sometime before they theoretically became the Representative of God.

  But he had already called attention to himself, and it was his life. “I’ll watch from the door,” he said, and carefully, clutching his robes so tightly to his side that it constricted his walk, he made his way to the door. When he reached it, he pushed it open with his shoulder.

  The pews were already filled with the faithful. Many had their heads bowed in meditation, others had arms raised in prayer. Some stared at the Sword hanging from the ceiling. Andre used to love Midnight Sacrament for its simplicity. Tel appreciated its shortness.

  The Aud crouched behind the Sacrificial Table. He took the vials of holy water out of the box and then took the vials off the shelves built under the table itself. Tel watched very carefully as the Aud placed the old bottles back in the box. Then, slowly, Tel let the door ease closed.

  The other Auds were watching him as if he had gone crazy. He smiled at them, then shrugged. “No detail is too important,” he said.

  He backed away from the door and stood near an empty counter, careful not to let his body touch it in any way. He couldn’t control his shaking. What if the Warders were wrong? What if the deaths had nothing to do with the water itself but with the rituals that created it? What if he went into that sanctuary and the Isle God struck him down?

  Foolish thoughts. He made himself take a deep breath. Very foolish thoughts. If the Isle’s God was going to strike him down, it would have done so when he’d killed that parishioner on the street after morning services, and then attacked Andre in the Tabernacle itself. The God would have to have been deaf not to have heard Andre’s pleas as he’d struggled with Tel.

  He rubbed a hand over his face. He had to remember all that he had learned. How Esx, the ancient Doppelgänger too old to practice his trade, had taught all the young boys to eschew sex and sexuality except in the host bodies, to have the only joinings be with the victims. In those teachings, which began when Tel’s magical abilities had appeared at age twelve, Esx had taught them that if gods were as all-powerful as their worshipers claimed, no Fey would exist. They would have been struck down by the all-powerful gods whenever the Fey invaded the gods’ lands.

  Esx had lived through four major campaigns and the transfer of twenty-five bodies. He had kept the last because he had grown accustomed to it. In all of that experience he had to have faced moments like this one. He would never have made that comment about gods without reason.

  The Aud pushed the door open and came back into the room, struggling yet again with the heavy box. His black robe was damp with sweat, and he reeked. Andre would have thanked him for his help, but Tel could not bring himself to do that. Instead, he said, “Remember to place those aside so that they can be refilled with more of the new batch.”

  “Yes, Respected Sir,” the Aud mumbled, and Tel thought he heard surliness in the tone.

  Then another Aud came to him, carrying a large silver sword. Tel made himself smile, although his heart was pounding. The sword was ancient and had never been used in combat. Its ornate hilt was the model for all the small swords that the Rocaanists wore around their necks. The Aud extended the sword to him, hilt out.

  “Is it prepared?” Tel asked, thankful again that his voice sounded calm.

  The Aud flushed. The question must have seemed unusual. “As always, Respected Sir.”

  Tel reached for the hilt quickly. If he was going to die, it would be better here, in the back, near all the holy water, than in front of the worshipers in the sanctuary. Fewer witnesses, less chance to corroborate the story.

  But he touched the hilt of the sword and felt nothing except the cool softness of the metal. His eyes filled with tears of relief. The Aud hadn’t lied. He had wiped the sword clean of all water: contaminating it in religious terms so that it could be Blessed in the Midnight Sacrament, recalling the action of the Roca before he was Absorbed.

  “Thank you,” Tel said, perhaps as much to their nonexistent God as to the young Aud who had handed him the sword. He gripped the hilt tightly, then took a deep breath to brace himself. His biggest test in this body—perhaps his biggest test ever—would come in the next few moments.

  He slid the sword through his sash, then retied the sash tightly so that the sword wouldn’t slip. Then he opened the door and stepped onto the altar.
The door closed behind him with a slight click.

  Slowly heads came up and arms came down. The sanctuary, which had seemed cold and large in the morning, was now hot and crowded. He stood, as Andre used to, and waited until the gathered people were done with their meditation and prayers.

  Some had been there for hours, he knew. It was custom for the people to cleanse their minds and spirits in communication with the Holy One before attempting Absorption with their God. He also knew that some hoped for true Absorption, but that it had never happened—not in the history of the organized Church.

  Finally the entire congregation looked at him. The faces were unfamiliar—not anyone Miruts had known—and oddly familiar. He had the feeling of having stood before them as recently as the previous morning. He knew that the ceremony he performed tonight was, in many ways, linked for them to the ones Andre had performed in the past. All of the Elders knew that the congregations appeared to support a particular Elder, and Andre’s liked his soft-spoken style.

  Tel’s heart was pounding. Time to start. If he did it right, no one would know who he was. No one would be able to guess he wasn’t who he appeared to be.

  He swung the sword over his head and caught its tip with his left hand. He was surprised at the blade’s softness, although his Andre memories had warned him that it would be.

  “ ‘There are enemies without,’ “ he said, projecting his voice without making it sound loud.

  “ ‘And within,’” the congregation responded.

  Despite his fear, he almost smiled. They had no idea. “ ‘We are surrounded by hatred—‘ ”