Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (58 page)

“Prejudiced, young man?”

Nicholas nodded. “You have decided, without evidence, that I am not worthy of your confidence, even when my father sends me in his stead. Now, I may assume you are showing disrespect to my father—which I am sure you would never do—or I can take you for your word that you would rather speak to someone older on the assumption that someone older would be wiser. That is, of course, the accepted opinion. But you forget, Holy Sir”—and he made sure the title had a spin of sarcasm—“that my father would not send me in his stead if he did not have a full belief in my abilities to handle any situation.”

Nicholas’s words echoed against the gold walls. His own faith in his father had been shaken when he’d realized that his father had been testing Nicholas’s loyalties. But despite those fears, his father had been alone with Nicholas numerous times. The test of Nicholas had come with Stephen because, as his father explained, chances were Nicholas was loyal. Still, Nicholas caught the threads of fear and relief in his father’s tones, and understood what the tests had cost him.

The Rocaan put his hands behind his back and studied Nicholas. Matthias started to say something, and the Rocaan shot him a look that obviously demanded silence. Nicholas didn’t appreciate the scrutiny. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared back at the Rocaan.

Finally the Rocaan nodded. “You are quite right, Highness. I let my expectations get the better of me. I am not as flexible as I used to be, especially in situations of crisis.”

Nicholas smiled. “I understand, Holy Sir. These are trying times for us all. Now, you mentioned a matter of some urgency. Would it be possible to sit and discuss this?”

Matthias was staring at Nicholas as if he had never seen him before. Good. In the past Matthias had thought of Nicholas only as a wayward student. It was time that Matthias, too, learned that Nicholas was a man, capable of ruling Blue Isle if he had to.

“Yes,” the Rocaan said. “We should be comfortable, even though I find this room quite cold. Porciluna, if you would be so kind as to light a fire for us. I think we should sit near the oriel. I am finding more and more comfort in the Roca’s Absorption these days.”

Matthias hurried around the Rocaan and pulled out chairs so that they would fit in front of the oriel. The Rocaan sat in front of the panel with the Roca on it. Light streamed from the window onto his chair, making him glow. He appeared younger than he had a few minutes earlier.

He patted the chair beside him for Nicholas. Matthias took the chair to the left, leaving Porciluna a chair farther away. Porciluna was still bent over the grate, struggling with the fire as if he hadn’t made one in years. With each step he wiped his hands on a cloth he had taken from his robe. The cloth was growing black with ash.

Nicholas sat. Up close, the smell of mothballs and aging flesh was much stronger. The Rocaan’s eyelashes had sleep on them, and his robe, though well pressed, had a slight stain on the corner. His hands were covered with as many wrinkles as his face, and liver spots dotted the skin like freckles.

Nicholas hadn’t realized until this moment how old and frail the man was.

The Rocaan reached out and patted the back of Nicholas’s hand, as if to reassure himself that the boy was real. Nicholas had never had to establish a relationship under crisis before. He finally understood how difficult such trust was.

“I do not mean to offend, Highness,” the Rocaan said, “but would you mind if I Blessed you before we began our talk?”

A Blessing was an honor usually reserved for special occasions—weddings, coronations, or funerals. But it also involved touching the forehead with a ritual sword covered in holy water. A good precaution for them both.

“I would be honored to receive your Blessing, Holy Sir,” Nicholas said. “How would you like to proceed?”

The Rocaan took the chain holding the silver sword off his head. Then he pulled a small vial of water from the pocket of his robe, and from another pocket he pulled a tiny cloth. He must have planned this when he’d heard that Nicholas was coming. He certainly wouldn’t have asked as much of the King.

The Rocaan poured half the water from the vial onto the cloth, then polished the tiny sword with it. “We do not need kneeling here,” he said to Nicholas. “The Holy One knows that you are submissive in your heart.”

Behind the Rocaan, Matthias rolled his eyes. He knew better than all of them that Nicholas was not submissive in areas of religion.

“Bow your head and extend your left hand,” the Rocaan said.

Nicholas did as he was bid. His heart was beating triple time. He had not been Blessed since he’d been a child—and he had believed then, in a young, unfocused way. He did not believe now, thinking that Rocaanism was mostly stories told to the less intelligent to keep them in line. For a moment, though, the childhood belief came back to him—not strong enough to qualify as faith, but enough to give him fear. What if his lack of faith caused the Blessing to fail? Would he melt like the Fey?

He closed his eyes. The point of the tiny sword scratched his palm, encircled the third finger of his left hand, and drew blood from his fingertip. The sharp stab was momentarily painful, nothing more. The Rocaan placed his other hand on Nicholas’s head. The Rocaan’s hand was bigger than he expected, and warm, sending heat through him.

“‘Blessed be this man before Us,’” the Rocaan said. “‘May the Holy One hear his Words. May the Roca guard his Deeds. May God open his Heart.’ “

Nicholas swallowed, wishing the moment would pass. He felt no different, except for the tiny pinprick of pain in his fingertip. At least he was not dead. He had had an odd fear of holy water ever since he had seen the Fey die from it.

“Blessed be,” the Rocaan said.

“Blessed be,” Matthias repeated.

“Blessed be,” Porciluna said from across the room.

Then the Rocaan took his hand off Nicholas’s head. Nicholas felt as if a great weight had been lifted. He raised his head, and the Rocaan was smiling at him, revealing teeth broken and yellowed with age. “Welcome to the Tabernacle, son of my friend, grandson of my oldest friend.”

“Thank you for the Welcoming, Holy Sir,” Nicholas said, “and for the Blessing.” He could breathe now. They had both touched the holy water and were sure of each other’s influences. But the Elders hadn’t. He wondered if he should ask them to leave and then decided against it. Whatever the Rocaan planned to discuss, the Elders probably knew.

A whiff of smoke filled the room, and then wood popped and snapped behind them. Porciluna had got the fire started. He walked quietly across the floor and sank into the remaining chair.

“Forgive the precautions,” the Rocaan said. “I am not used to this world filled with enemies. Before we had only to watch for the overly ambitious and evil among us. Now we must watch everything, for without caution we will die.”

“The Fey have destroyed life in Blue Isle,” Nicholas said, agreeing.

“Not destroyed,” the Rocaan said. “Damaged. Perhaps, with work, we can repair it.”

“Perhaps,” Nicholas said, although he did not believe it. A change like this would leave a permanent stamp upon the community.

The Rocaan apparently didn’t notice the subtle disagreement in Nicholas’s tone. “We asked for this meeting,” he said, “because we have had some alarming events here in the Tabernacle. We have found bones.”

Nicholas frowned. “Bones, Holy Sir?”

“Bones,” the Rocaan said. “One bone in the sanctuary itself, accompanied by a bloodstain as large as this chair, and a full skeleton, disassembled, in the Servants’ Chapel near a spray of blood.”

Nicholas felt a chill, even though the fire sent heat through the room. “Do we know what they belong to?”

“They’re human,” the Rocaan said. “Matthias and several others have assured me of that. And, it appears, they are from two different bodies. The bone found in the sanctuary is not missing from the skeleton found in the Servants’ Chapel.”

“No reports of fighting,” Porciluna said. His voice was thin and grating, just as Nicholas remembered it.

“And no one missing from the Tabernacle,” Matthias added.

“Have you checked servants?” Nicholas asked, knowing that most of the nobility would have missed that. The servants were often unseen.

“Matthias assembled the entire staff, as well as the Auds assigned here, the Officiates, and the Danites,” the Rocaan said. “No one was missing.”

“What about visitors?” Nicholas asked.

“We have not had any unannounced visitors since the invasion. We believe it is safer that way. Even Midnight Sacrament is held in the smaller chapel on the grounds, with Danites at the doors as a protection.” The Rocaan’s tone implied that he did not like the arrangement. “We thought the palace might be able to help, since Matthias says you found bones and blood on the day Lord Powell died.”

Nicholas nodded. His father had told him to be completely honest with them. Nicholas was glad for the Blessing now. Even knowing that he was talking with the real Rocaan made him nervous. Sharing information seemed both dangerous and necessary.

“I captured a Fey woman on the day of the invasion and brought her to my father for interrogation at Lord Powell’s suggestion. After speaking with her for a few moments, my father decided to put her in the dungeon for later interrogation. He assigned Stephen, my swordmaster and a self-proclaimed expert in the Fey, to accompany Lord Powell and the woman to the dungeons.” Nicholas ran a hand through his hair—his father’s gesture, a thought that made him stop immediately. “They took the passages so that they wouldn’t get caught in the corridors. When Lord Stowe went to the dungeons later, the woman wasn’t there. So we sent guards into the passages. I went with them. We found Stephen unconscious and wounded against the wall. The woman was gone. All that remained of Lord Powell was a pile of bones and a large pool of blood.”

“Are you sure that was Lord Powell?” the Rocaan asked.

“Who would it have been?” Nicholas asked. “The woman escaped. Her ropes were cut.”

“The bones could have belonged to anyone,” the Rocaan said. “They could have added a guard to their retinue. Lord Powell might be in their custody even as we speak.”

Nicholas’s throat was suddenly dry. In all the times he had thought of that incident, he had never come up with that particular twist. To be a prisoner of the Fey for an entire year was a thought he wasn’t sure he wanted to contemplate. “There’s more,” he said, pushing the thought away. “Stephen began to act strangely after he healed. He made suggestions that were unlike him and refused to work with me on the sword. After a few skirmishes where it became clear that the Fey had inside information, my father believed that someone in the palace was spying for them. He tested all of us. Two nights ago, in the raid on the Fey hiding place, we learned that Stephen had been providing the information. My father confronted him in front of all of us and—” Nicholas’s dry throat seized up on him for a moment. He had to clear it before he could continue. “—and Stephen got hit with some holy water. He—melted—just like a Fey.”

Matthias whistled. Porciluna ran a hand over his sweating face. The Rocaan frowned as if he didn’t understand the implications of what Nicholas had said.

“Before he took the prisoner to the dungeons,” Nicholas said, “Stephen had apparently told my father that the Fey could enchant a man and make him do their bidding.”

The Rocaan pushed himself out of the chair and walked over to the fire, holding his hands over the flame as if he had suddenly become cold. The room was too hot. Nicholas found it was difficult to take a deep breath.

“So you’re saying an enchantment can make a man die like a Fey?” Porciluna asked.

Nicholas shook his head. “I don’t know. But we do know that Stephen was working for them, and he died like them. And he was the only one who survived the attack in the passages.”

“Left there,” Matthias said. “Left there as a spy.”

“They stole blood and skin from the poor people they killed,” the Rocaan said. His voice sounded very far away. He was hunched over the fire as if he couldn’t quite stand upright. “Perhaps their magick requires blood in order to function.”