Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (63 page)

Until last year it had been.

Now he wondered if the Nye weren’t right. And if the Islanders hadn’t lost more than stories when they’d let go of their past. The Rocaan was an old man, and he remembered little of his childhood. The King could recite his lineage, a long string of names that went back to the Roca himself. The Rocaan leaned his head on the back of the chair and whispered, “ ‘And when the Roca Ascended, his two sons stepped forward. The eldest said he would stand in the Roca’s place as Leader of Men, and then a voice came from the Sky—in a peal of thunder—and commanded that the second son take the Roca’s place as Beloved of God. And from that moment to this, only second sons could become Elders and then Beloved of God.’ “

The Rocaan himself was a second son, as had been the Rocaan before him, and the Rocaan before him. The King was always the eldest son. How odd, though, with the commandment in the story buried in the Words Unwritten, that “second sons could become Elders and then Beloved of God.” Not second sons of the King, nor second sons of the current Rocaan, but second sons only. It was as if an admonition had been dropped. Why make the Kingship hereditary and the Rocaan not? Had Rocaanism lost its power because the Rocaan did not have the King’s blood?

Despite the warmth of the fire, the Rocaan shivered. A chill had risen in the back of his neck and traveled down his spine. Alexander had had only one child, a son. Alexander’s father had had only one child as well. There was no way to test the theory, no way to see if the second son of the King would ascend if touched by holy water and a ceremonial sword. Had a King failed to have two sons? Had a Rocaan failed to reproduce? Or was the stricture against women in Rocaanism a constant from the beginning? Even that the Rocaan did not know.

When the Forty-ninth Rocaan had summoned this Rocaan to his deathbed, the dying man had touched the younger man’s forehead with a finger dipped in holy water, drawing a sword on the Rocaan’s forehead. You
shall be
Blessed
of God,
the dying Rocaan had said. Then he had closed his eyes and whispered,
May God forgive me.
For decades the Rocaan had wondered what his predecessor meant. He had been filled with such sorrow and such joy at the moment: sorrow at the loss of a mentor, and joy at being chosen to succeed him. In the next few days the dying Rocaan had shared what little energy he had, making the new Rocaan Keeper of the Secrets.

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.