Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (18 page)

The Visions had been filled with terror: fear of dying, panic at being unable to breathe, horror at all the bodies strewn about the grass. The smell of limestone brought with it the rot of death. Normally he would have had days to sort this. But now he had to loosen the terror himself.

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,” he 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.