When Rugar had been a little boy, he had learned in school of the Co. The Co had inhabited a small region in the Northeastern tip of Galinas, and they had had powers that enabled them to command all the wild beasts to kill Fey. Fey were slaughtered for years before a Spell Warder discovered that the Co’s magic was not a conscious one. If they did not feel threatened or powerless, they couldn’t summon help. So the Fey planned a midnight raid, knowing that the Co would be asleep in their beds. The stealthiest Fey went on the raid—those that could move silently, including the Wisps and Dream Riders, who helped only on special occasions. The Dream Riders kept the Co from waking by giving them good dreams. The Wisps kidnapped all the babies under one year of age—children that could be molded to the Fey way—and the rest of the Fey slaughtered the Co in their sleep. Co magic failed them. Except for a bit of Co blood in the Fey bloodlines, the Co no longer existed at all.
But to hear the stories, it seemed that the Fey suffered some losses of their own before they figured out a way to defeat the Co.
Rugar’s breath caught in his throat. He was always one step behind his father. Rugar had forgotten about the Co until this moment. And he had forgotten about the pattern.
The Black Queen had sent a small contingent of Fey to attack the Co, but she had done so warning them that they would have no assistance. She was testing a new warrior-leader. If he did not find a way to defeat the Co, he would not lead her troops. He had found a way, but it had taken him years. By the time he returned, she was dead, and another led in her place. Another who cared nothing for a warrior who had been trapped in a war that he had nearly lost.
He had learned the story of the Co as a coda to Fey history: one of the few battles that the Fey had nearly lost, led by a renegade warrior who should never have disobeyed his Queen. The warrior’s disgrace was twofold: that he had gone off on his own, and that it had taken him years to win a war that should have ended in months. But the new Black King had taken over the Co’s land and had taken credit for the defeat, even as he discredited the warrior who had finally achieved that defeat.
Rugar rubbed a hand over his mouth. His father was an expert on Fey history. He had more than once told Rugar that a Fey who did not understand history was ignorant not just in the ways of the past but in the ways of the future.
The ways of the future.
Rugar felt cold. His father had heard something about Blue Isle, and then he had goaded Rugar into going, as a sort of rebellion, much like the fight against the Co. If Rugar failed, it would be his fault for disobeying his father. If he succeeded, then he would be his father’s tool, finding the way around the Islanders, and solving what could have been a very serious defeat for a large Fey force.
Rugad the Black King had not lost his urge to fight. He had merely used his excellent talent at treachery against his own son, a son who was worthless to him because he had grandchildren who could carry on the tradition of leadership. Rugar would be old when he became King, and a Black King should be young at first, young enough to shoulder the burdens of command.
“Bastard,” Rugar muttered.
The lights around the Circle Door suddenly began rotating. He leaned forward on the block. The lights weren’t supposed to do that. They either lit outside when it was dark, or they lit inside when someone without magick or the password tried to get in. They never lit inside and rotated.
Another Fey stopped beside him. A husbander, who usually worked outside the Circle. “What is that?” he whispered.
“Something different,” Rugar said. “Go get Jewel as well as some of the Infantry. We need to be prepared for this. Oh, and that prisoner. Let’s bring him too.”
“Which one, sir?” the man asked.
“The younger one. The one who is supposed to help us. Him.” Rugar stayed next to the block. As far as he could tell, he was too far away to be splashed if Islanders somehow got inside the dirt circle, managed to open the door, and throw poison inside.
The lights flashed brighter, and spun faster, until they became a blur. Heat emanated from the door, melting the mist around it, making the base of Shadowlands look like glass. Rugar thought he could see grass below, but he wasn’t willing to get closer to look.
Voices grew louder behind him. He recognized Jewel’s and Burden’s. He suppressed a flash of irritation, wishing that young, magickless Infantryman would leave her alone. As they got closer, Rugar saw the husbander with them, and the prisoner Adrian, looking confused.
Then the Circle Door opened, and a Black Robe stumbled inside. Rugar gasped. The Black Robe looked around wildly. The approaching Fey stopped. Only Adrian, the prisoner, came forward.
He held out his hands, as if he were to protect them all from the poison. “Religious Sir,” he said, “you are in a dangerous place.”
“I am in a safe place,” the Black Robe snapped. “You are the one who is in danger. Rugar, I need to talk with you.”
Rugar stood very still. The accent and emphasis made the phrasing sound like Quest, but he couldn’t tell—not for sure. Still, he had ordered the Doppelgänger to return if he couldn’t find anything. But that didn’t explain the door.
“The Circle Door had trouble with you,” Rugar said, careful not to use any names. “Is there a reason for that?”
“I don’t know,” the Black Robe said as he grabbed Adrian by the throat and held him aloft without any effort at all. Adrian coughed and kicked, but couldn’t reach the Black Robe. The Black Robe took a knife from his pocket. “Should I decapitate this one and get a real body back?”
“Let him go!” Jewel said.
The Black Robe looked from her to Rugar.
“Let him go! He’s mine, and I promised him protection.”
Adrian’s kicks were getting weaker. His face was turning blue. The Black Robe looked at Rugar. Rugar shrugged. “Let him go. He’s supposed to help us.”
The Black Robe dropped Adrian. He landed with a thud, both hands going to his throat as he coughed and gasped for air.
“Get a Healer,” Jewel said.
“You’re awfully suspicious of a Doppelgänger who has returned home on your orders,” the Black Robe said.
“I have never seen the Circle Door behave that way before,” Rugar said, “and I should have. I’m the one who designed it.”
“I got in, didn’t I? Without the passwords. I couldn’t have those, I’ve been gone for too long.”
Rugar nodded. If it was Quest, then that was true. Quest would not have known the password. But something had disturbed the door. “Take off the robe,” Rugar said, “and all the religious trappings and pass through the door again.”
The Black Robe sighed, then slipped the robe over his head. He took off the tiny sword around his neck. His feet were already bare. His body was thin, with ribs showing, and legs as thin as sticks.
He stepped over the robe, turned, and went through the Circle Door. This time the lights did not show. The Door merely opened, giving Rugar a glimpse of the twilight meadow beyond. A breeze wafted through, carrying the scent of pine. Jewel tilted her head toward the breeze and took deep breaths, her eyes closed.
Then the door closed and she stopped, a flush building in her cheeks. Apparently her longing for the outdoors was overcoming her pride. Rugar said nothing, but stared at the empty grayness where the door was.
After a moment the door opened as it would for any Fey. No lights, no rotation. Quest stepped in. His penis had shriveled with the cold, and goose bumps had risen on his flesh.
“I really don’t understand what the problem was,” he said.
Rugar was not going to respond. Not yet. “Now,” he said, “pick up that robe and hold it near the door.”
“I wouldn’t mind putting it back on,” Quest said, but he bent and picked up the robe anyway. He held it near the door, and the lights came on, just as they had before. And then they began rotating.
Rugar sat down. The lights came on only when someone who was not Fey tried to get in, or when someone didn’t know
the password. And they never rotated.
“Try it again with the sword this time,” he said.
Quest dropped the robe and picked up the sword like a small weapon. He held it near the Circle Door. This time the lights were even brighter, and they rotated even faster.
“Put it down,” Rugar said tiredly.
Quest turned. “What does that mean?”
Rugar didn’t answer him. The fear that had haunted Rugar all morning felt like a block of ice in his belly.
“I want you to take those things to Caseo, then put on some real clothes and come to my cabin to see me,” Rugar said. “I don’t want anyone else to touch that piece of jewelry or the robe. Is that clear? Even if Caseo wants to work on them, I want you there, Quest.”
Quest glanced at the others. They were displaying no emotion. So he shrugged and picked up the material. “Mind if I get Caseo’s help finding my old form?”
“Yes,” Rugar said. “Right now I do. I want to see you as soon as possible.”
Quest sighed but said nothing else. He headed down the path between buildings. Rugar sat for a moment. His heart was pounding as if he had run for miles, and he was having difficulty catching his breath. Everything was spiraling out of control. He couldn’t even control the reaction of the Circle Door he had created from a recipe designed by a Visionary centuries before. The last Shadowlands had slowly disintegrated around them, and this one had gained a mind of its own. He was simply not equipped to cope with this.
His books and references were back on Nye. He had no other Visionaries to ask whether this feature of the Circle Door was normal. Because he had never seen it before, he suspected it was not—and he had seen some strange things come into Shadowlands in his time.
“Papa?” Jewel was crouched in front of him. He hadn’t seen her approach. “I’m sure Quest will be waiting for you.”
Rugar nodded. He had her still, but what would she think if she knew he had holes in his Vision, holes that could cause something like this?
“Do you know what caused the Door to react that way?” she asked.
“I wish I did,” he said. Then he stood. His body was cramped, not from sitting too long, but from tension. He shook some of it loose and headed for the cabin.
He didn’t want to think about what Quest’s return there alone meant. If Tel truly was dead, then Quest was the only remaining Doppelgänger. The Black King had once said that Rugar relied too much on his Doppelgänger. But in this place they hadn’t done him much good.
The problem was that Solanda became his only eyes and ears in the world of the Islanders. And she wasn’t always reliable. Her insights were accurate, but she was never around when he needed her.
Quest was waiting outside the cabin, wearing a loose pair of breeches and a shirt that was too big for him. His Islander body looked tiny this close; the shortness made his thinness look unhealthy.
“Let’s go in,” Rugar said. “It’s better to have this talk alone.”
Quest followed him inside. Once in, Rugar lit a fire in the fireplace. He had to get rid of the chill in his body. He suspected that the chill had less to do with the air than with his own tension; but, still, a fire might help.
He stood, placing his hand on his knee to brace himself. “All right,” Rugar said. “Tell me how to make the poison.”
Quest looked at his hands. “I don’t know.”
“You came in here dressed as a Black Robe. How could you not know?”
“I thought Ipper told you that Danites weren’t privy to the information.”
“And I thought you were smart enough to find out anyway.”
Quest sat down. Rugar bit back irritation. He hadn’t told Quest to sit. But he would let it go for now.
“It’s dangerous there,” Quest said. “Anything can kill you. Anything at all. They put their poison on a lot of things, and as a Danite, I was expected to hold vials of it, and pour it on things. I had to touch it all the time.”
“Did you?” Rugar asked.
Quest shook his head. “I only had to hold a vial during one of the Midnight Sacraments, and then it didn’t hurt me. I think I managed to keep it off myself. The other times I made sure I didn’t come close to the stuff. People were watching me. I think they were getting suspicious. Even if you hadn’t ordered me out of there, I would have had to leave.”
“Risking your life was worthless if you didn’t learn the secret to that stuff.”
Quest kept his head down. “I did learn some things about it.”
“Such as?”
“That it doesn’t come from some stream or pond like we thought. That the Rocaan makes it. The secret is passed from one Rocaan to the next. No one else knows it.”
“I thought you told Ipper that two people knew it.”
Quest nodded, raising his head. His cheeks were flushed. “I guess the day we invaded, the Rocaan taught one of the Elders the secret because he was afraid he would die. So now two of them know. But I couldn’t get near either of them. They’re too well guarded.”
Rugar clenched his fist. “What about one of the higher-ups? Why didn’t you see if you could become one of the guards?”
Quest shook his head. “It wasn’t that easy. No one is alone in that place. I had to ask for a special audience just to get my Danite alone. And even then he was wary. Good thing I moved fast.”
Rugar’s nails dug into the flesh of his palms. They were getting nowhere on this. Quest did not have the information, and short of sending him back in, Rugar couldn’t get it from him.
“Did you see evidence of any other Doppelgängers in the Tabernacle?” Rugar asked.
“Others?” Quest frowned. “I saw no others, or if I did, they were well hidden.”
“What about talk? Any suspicious folk? Any blood or bones?”
“My change was very messy,” Quest said. “Someone walked in almost as soon as it was over, and I had to leave before being seen. It took me a while to integrate into this one. This Danite was a true believer, and taking on his person was tough. At first his soul thought I was God.”
Rugar smiled, although he didn’t want to. He didn’t like the details of Doppelgänger existence. Nothing. No others. The others had to be dead. Which meant that Quest was the only remaining Doppelgänger. Everything was getting too hard.
Quest frowned. “But shortly after I got there, they did have a big meeting, looking for something. And from what I could tell, that was unusual. So I don’t think we should send anyone else back in there. The Islanders are getting too suspicious.”
“There’s no one to send in,” Rugar said.
“What?” Quest’s voice had a shocked edge to it.
“You’re the only one left. I need to keep you here for now.” Rugar’s voice was soft. He hated that—hated the necessity behind keeping Quest in Shadowlands. He was becoming too protective. They lived like besieged people, guarding every resource and making do with nothing.
All that effort, all those lost Doppelgängers, and nothing to show for it.
Rugar sighed. He wouldn’t be able to get any more out of this conversation. “All right,” he said. “We’ll debrief about the religion later. Go to Caseo and see if you can help him.”
“Yes, sir.” Quest didn’t sound happy. He stood and with a bow let himself out of the cabin.
Rugar stared at the closed door for a long time. He was suffocating there, worse than any of them. Suffocating on his own sense of failure.
SEVENTY-TWO
Matthias had had no sleep. His eyes felt dry and gritty. He had gone to both Morning Sacraments to make certain everything was all right, and by the time he’d got back to his own chambers, he’d been too keyed up to rest. He ate a large breakfast and paced before being summoned by the Rocaan.
The Rocaan’s rooms were too warm, as usual. He sat in his favorite chair, wrapped in a blanket, a glass of milk beside him. Deep shadows made his eyes look sunken, even though he assured Matthias that he had slept. The incident with
the holy water had frightened them both, and if such disruptions continued, Matthias was afraid the Rocaan’s precarious health would fail.
Matthias couldn’t allow that to happen, not without knowing where or if the Fey were in the Tabernacle. He couldn’t very well present himself to the Council of Elders as the only choice to be the next Rocaan because he was the only person he was certain had not been touched by the Fey.
“All right,” Matthias said, sitting on the overstuffed chair beside the Rocaan, wishing he could open a window and let cool air in. “Tell me this idea.”
The Rocaan shook his head. “It’s not an idea, Matthias. It’s what we’re going to do.”
Matthias hated it when the Rocaan got like this. This attitude had created his exhaustion in the first place, with his presiding over burials like a simple Danite, and keeping track of each piece of news about the Fey. “What are we going to do?” Matthias asked.
“We’re going to meet with the Fey.”
Matthias sat up. He hadn’t heard this. Had this been the point of Nicholas’s second visit the night before? “The King set this up?”
The Rocaan shook his head. “You will set this up. I have given it great thought. We will meet their leaders at the kirk near Daisy Stream.”
“We? Who is ‘we’?” Matthias asked. His heart was pounding.
“A few of us from the Tabernacle. Not many.”
“No one from the palace?” Matthias asked. “Aren’t we presuming to run the affairs of state when we should be concerned with affairs of the soul?”
The Rocaan lifted his head. His round eyes had a shine to them that Matthias had seen only a few times. “Sometimes affairs of the state are affairs of the soul. I think our problem has been that we have failed to recognize this in the past.”
“Forgive me, Holy Sir,” Matthias said, “but what can you hope to accomplish?”
The Rocaan drew his blanket tighter around his body. “I hope to drive the Fey from this Isle.”
“By meeting with them?” Matthias shook his head. “They don’t listen to reason. Everything we know about them tells us that.”
Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (The Fey Series) Page 56