Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (31 page)

The Words Written and Unwritten were clear on the sacrifice itself, on how the Roca died and was Absorbed into the Hand of God. But the Words were silent on the fate of the Roca’s people, and on what became of the Soldiers of the Enemy.

Until this moment the Rocaan had always been caught in the ritual and ceremony surrounding the miracle. He had never thought of the human consequences. The canonical law did not say if the Roca was successful in finding a third alternative to the crisis facing his people. Instead, it focused on the fact that the Roca, holy being, had found a place before the Eternal Flame, cupped in God’s hand, able to do God’s bidding from that moment forward.

But what was God’s bidding? And how was a Rocaan, the Roca’s emissary to the world, able to know?

“You need a lamp.”

Matthias’s voice made the Rocaan start.

“I prefer the darkness,” the Rocaan said. “It hides the truth of the day.”

Matthias stepped onto the balcony, the open door leaving a triangle of light on the floor. His blond hair was mussed, his face drawn. “At least we survived,” he said.

“But at what cost?” the Rocaan asked. He stretched out his legs in front of him, feeling the strain of the overworked muscles.

Matthias sank into the chair beside the Rocaan. For a moment the odor of Matthias’s nervous sweat overpowered the stench of death. “We had no choice, Holy Sir.”

“We did not think of other choices,” the Rocaan said. “We followed blindly the path laid before us. Perhaps I should have given myself to them, as the Roca did so many generations ago.”

“And then what?” Matthias said. “They would have slaughtered you, and no one would have been able to save us.”

“I am not a savior,” the Rocaan said. “I am a purveyor of destruction.” He stood, ignoring the shooting pains in his back and feet, walked to the edge of the balcony, and leaned on the railing. The lights continued to flicker in the harbor.

“The Roca knew he was Beloved of God,” Matthias said.

“The Rocaan is also supposed to be Beloved,” the Rocaan said. The wood was still damp beneath his arms. “And you forget that there were people involved in that story, too, and Soldiers of the Enemy. You are a great scholar, Matthias. What became of the people the Roca swore to defend? What became of the enemy?”

“‘The enemy is always with us, within ourselves.’ ”

“I can quote the Words Written and Unwritten. They say nothing on these points. What of the history?”

“The history?” Matthias sounded confused.

The lights continued, nearly a dozen of them, circling the same point. “Yes. We study the Roca. We believe he was a man. We use the Words as a guide, but we know nothing of the human truth.” The Rocaan gripped the wet wood. “It did not matter until now. I had never even thought of it until this moment.”

“There is historical precedent for what we did today,” Matthias said. “The Forty-fifth Rocaan, the Twenty-third—”

“May all have missed what the Holy One was trying to tell them. Perhaps it is the duty of a Rocaan to sacrifice himself for his people every few generations. Perhaps it is a test of faith, of the religion itself. Perhaps, in failing to do our duty, we have destroyed the very foundation of our belief.”

The chair creaked behind him as Matthias stood. He came to the railing and stood beside the Rocaan. Matthias’s height prevented him from leaning on the railing. He put his hands behind his back and stared over the carnage to the river. “You speak of things we cannot know,” he said softly. “The Fey would have killed you. That much is certain.”

“And perhaps I was to be Absorbed into the Hand of God. Perhaps that is the duty of the Rocaan. Not leadership in this world, but in the next.”

“There is nothing about that in the Words Written and Unwritten.”

“The Words are full of such admonitions,” the Rocaan said, “about the Roca himself. Tell me, Matthias. Who are the Soldiers of the Enemy? We do not know. Such a general name. Perhaps they were Cemeni and the other leaders of the Peasant Uprising. Perhaps the Forty-fifth Rocaan failed to follow the model set by the Roca. Perhaps we have new Soldiers of the Enemy here now, and perhaps I have failed.”

“I think God never makes easy choices,” Matthias said.

“And I think that is an easy answer for a complex problem.” The Rocaan let exhaustion fill him. “I cannot stand more of this day. I am going to my chambers.”

“Wait.” Matthias put a hand on the Rocaan’s shoulder. “What are those lights?”

“They have been flickering all evening.”

“I thought I just saw someone disappear into them.”

The Rocaan patted Matthias’s hand. “I think they are Fey souls meeting their own version of God.”

“Or a new style of Fey magick that we are unfamiliar with. What happened to the ships, Holy Sir? Ships like that do not disappear from our harbors, and yet our people couldn’t trace them.”

The Rocaan felt an odd chill mixed with an even odder hope. If the Fey weren’t dead, then he had another chance to serve his own God. He looked at the dark courtyard below, as if he could see the bodies rising whole and strong. “What do you think it is?” he whispered.

Matthias shook his head. “I do not know,” he said. “But I promise you an answer by morning.”

THIRTY-ONE

The Shadowlands leached the ships of color. Rugar stood on the deck of the
Feire
, watching as more and more of his people staggered into the Shadowlands, bloody, beaten, and terrified. In all of their history the Fey had never encountered someone with more power than they had.

His clothes smelled of mud and the odd rot that had set in on the bodies near the port. Since he’d entered, he had made the entrance circle near the dock wider and ringed it with newly made Fey Lamps. He had one Foot Soldier outside, changing the lamps as their powers faded. Already a hundred Fey had entered the Shadowlands. He wanted to make sure all the other survivors did too.

He had not seen Jewel, even though he searched for her. He hoped she had gone to her quarters on the
Eccrasia,
but he had not yet had a chance to search.

“Sir, another!” a Weather Sprite called to him from her position near the prow of the ship. He stiffened. This Shadowlands had been a creation of haste and confidence, meant to house ships and perhaps fifty of the invading force. The strain on his creation was showing. Corners were breaking, sending bits of light and glimpses of the ships to anyone who was observing. He was glad for the dark. Otherwise, the Islanders would find them.

He tugged at his caked clothing, wishing for a moment—just one moment—to search out his missing daughter and to bathe himself. But he was the only one who could repair the Shadowlands. He crossed the deck, his footsteps echoing in the hollow nothingness that made up the Shadowlands. Soldiers, unwilling to go into the darkness belowdecks, crouched against the railings, leaning against each other for comfort. He nodded to them, trying to reassure them, faking a confidence he didn’t feel.

This failure had caught him off guard. He had prepared himself for a quick battle, and a quick victory. Another mistake. If he had known that the invasion would become a long, drawn-out series of attacks, he would have slept more. He would have prepared himself for the strain on his own resources.

As it were, he would have to work with the Spell Warders on finding a counterspell to the Islanders’ magick poison. He would also have to keep repairing the Shadowlands while his scouts looked for a new opening. Then he would have to create another Shadowlands, a firmer one that would withstand the presence of his entire fighting force. No one had built a Shadowlands like that since the Black Queen at the battle of Ycyno two centuries before. He only hoped he had the strength.

The Weather Sprite stood near the railing at the edge of the prow. He pointed to the hole in the Shadowlands, but he didn’t need to. The sound of water lapping against the dock was clear, as was the cool breeze, filled with the scent of death. He peered at it and saw that it faced the far side of the river, near the ghastly palacelike religious building where the destruction had started.

“Thank you,” he said. “I can tend to it now.”

But he stood for a moment, gazing through the hole at the crispness and clarity of the real world. He didn’t relish living in a Shadowlands, not even for a few days. Its grayness was depressing; it dampened the spirits instead of raising them.

Then he reached up and gripped the soft edges of the Shadow with his fingers. He closed his eyes and, with his Vision, closed the hole, made a seam, and willed the seam away. When he opened his eyes again, the hole was gone. Only grayness faced him. A never-ending grayness.

And silence. That disturbed him the most. None of the soldiers talked as they returned. They found a place to collapse and remained there, nearly motionless.

The Fey had lost battles before, but this was different. In the past the enemy had had greater numbers—as this one did—but those numbers had been trained. The enemy had also had more advanced weapons. The advantages had always been in the physical world, not in the magickal one. The Fey had been seduced into thinking they were the only ones who had conquered that realm. The shock of discovering the truth, and the horridness of the deaths visited on them, affected him profoundly—yet he was the one who had to revive their spirits.

He hurried along the deck until he reached the connecting bridge built especially to link ships hidden in Shadowlands. Nothing natural occurred in the Shadowlands—no water, no ground, nothing except air that a Visionary poured into the hiding place. The walls of the Shadowlands were porous, an invention of an early Black King, and allowed the air to filter through. Nothing else did filter through, not even sound, which made the Shadowlands dangerous to leave.

Since this was a simple Shadowlands, the walls were tight and spare. As he crossed the bridge, Rugar could feel the damp coldness brushing against him. The next Shadowlands he built—the one built for a longer fight—would not have this design flaw.

He crossed quickly and stepped onto the bridge of the flagship, the
Eccrasia.
Here the soldiers conversed in low voices. He heard only snatches:

“. . . black robes . . .”

“. . . never would have believed that something so ungainly . . .”

“. . . on horses . . .”

“. . . entire room full of bodies . . .”

“. . . no faces . . .”

“. . . most still alive . . .”

He had seen the destruction himself. The thought of identifying the dead filled him with a different anguish. And he couldn’t get his father’s words out of his head.

No one has conquered Blue Isle before.

And his own cocky response:
No one has tried.

But he had checked only Fey and Nye records. Perhaps Blue Isle had been attacked from Leut, even though it was farther away. He had thought Leut had no real history of trade or warfare this far north from its land mass, but he had not checked. Perhaps all that he had known about Blue Isle was wrong. It certainly seemed that way after this morning.

On the way to his own cabin, he stopped at Jewel’s and knocked. The portal was dim, and he heard nothing inside. “Jewel,” he said softly.

No one answered.

When he came back from his cabin, he would open the door and see if she was resting inside. But he doubted it. She was always at his side during a crisis.

He put his hand against the door and leaned his forehead against his knuckles. If she was dead, he would never forgive himself. Jewel, the brightest of all his children. But he had seen her, walking through the Islander palace as if she owned it.