Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (37 page)

Kapad! Turn us around!

I am.
Kapad’s voice was faint in his head. Too faint when they were this close.

The blood was flowing back into Emaque’s left side. The pain as the nerve endings came alive was exquisite. He put a hand on his back to cover the pain there and felt the ripped tatters of his shirt, and long, deep scratch marks—so deep, the skin had been tattered around them. The girl had hung on so tightly that something had had to drag her away. He looked again at the bodies in the water and this time recognized her uniform and build. She had tried. Somehow she had saved him—at the cost of her own life.

He hadn’t even asked her name.

The ship finally turned. He felt it groan as it moved in the water. Kapad had said nothing, unusual for him. Emaque squared his shoulders. No time for sentimentality. He gazed across the deck. It was broken up as if things had been shot through it, like the cannon fire the L’Nacin had used and then their underground had later sold to the Nye. He wondered if the vessel was even seaworthy. But the crew was supposed to take care of that. Only he didn’t know how many of them were still alive, if any.

Imatar was not on the other side of the deck, in his place. Maybe he, too, had come to himself. Or maybe his guardian had moved him—a dangerous and tricky thing, but one sometimes made necessary by battle.

The rain had turned to a light mist: the Weather Sprites had decided to seed only through the Stone Guardians. As the ship continued to turn, Emaque saw even more bodies in the water, and wood from a destroyed Islander ship.

Emaque?
Kapad’s essence seemed even fainter this time.
I need help
—

Emaque hurried across the deck, avoiding the holes and the broken equipment. A body, badly twisted and melted, crouched under a chair. He shuddered. They had met the Islanders, and the Islanders had used their poison. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see what had happened to Kapad.

Still, Emaque grabbed the railing and mounted the steps that led to the pilothouse. They were slick, and they shouldn’t have been. He clung as he moved, and when he reached the top, he first looked to the Guardians. They were behind the ship now. Emaque silently thanked the Powers. He would never have been able to navigate a ship through those mountainous rocks.

Then Emaque looked at the wreckage that was the pilothouse. The glass had been broken on all sides, and most of the crew were hideously dead, the stench from the potion and melted flesh rising over the stench of blood.

Kapad’s body was undamaged, but he huddled at the base of the great wheel. Emaque went to him.

“Imatar’s dead,” Kapad whispered, the words having that curious echo effect in his ears and head.

A chill ran down Emaque’s back. He had to sever the link with Kapad, and quickly.

“Ship first,” Kapad said. “There’s still crew alive. You have to get us to Shadowlands. Can you pilot?”

“If I have to,” Emaque said. “With your help.”

“I don’t know how much help I can be,” Kapad whispered.

I’ll die if you do,
Emaque sent.

I won’t
die.
As if that were a promise any man could keep. Kapad couldn’t keep his eyes open. He stretched a shaky hand to Emaque.

Where’s Imatar?
Emaque sent.

The tainted arrows got him when we saw the ships. Someone said the girl took yours. They’re getting wise to our ways,
Emaque.
Kapad’s eyes fluttered open.
We have to sever the link.

Emaque nodded. He took the tiny gold scissors from Kapad’s breast pocket and snipped the air in front of Kapad’s nose, and then in front of his own. No one was certain how that magick worked, except perhaps the symbolism severed the link in the minds.

Kapad looked up at him. “We’ll never get off this damn island,” he said, and died.

THIRTY-SIX

The rain had stopped, but the air still felt damp. The Rocaan stood at the edge of the pit, his tiny filigree sword in one hand and a pouch filled with burial herbs in the other. The Danites usually Blessed the dead, but lately, when it came to mass anonymous burials, the Rocaan had been doing the work himself.

This burial pit was on a small hill overlooking the Cardidas, just outside of Jahn. Other pits were hastily covered, and someone had posted a sign warning the curious away. The grave diggers waited at the edge of the hill, their backs to the Rocaan. Diggers were unclean, and unable to take part in any religious ceremonies.

Two Elders, Porciluna and Andre, stood a respectful distance away. None of the Elders believed the Rocaan should be there. They believed him too old and frail to stand in the wind.

The rotting smell from the mass grave was mixed with the odd perfumy scent of lime. The Rocaan stared at the bodies below, wrapped in cheap linen and tied head and toe. He hoped the Holy One had guided their way to God’s side. No one deserved to end up like this, one slab of meat among many, resting on a thin layer of dirt between them and other dead.

This group of twenty—mostly men—had died defending six hovels to the south of Jahn. Apparently Fey had raided the meager store of goods the families had stored, and they had come out brandishing weapons. None had had holy water, having used it to fight off a previous raid.

The Fey had killed them all and escaped, just as they had done on a hundred other raids up and down the Cardidas. Of the families, only four women remained alive, and ten children. The orphans’ quarters were already overrun. If the children stayed at their homes, they would starve, and if they went to the orphans’ quarters, they wouldn’t be any better off.

The Rocaan had condemned them all. Listening to Matthias on that wretched day of the invasion, over a year before, had been a mistake. He had known that Matthias reacted from his own scholarship and his own mind, not from any still, small voice, and yet the Rocaan had listened. If he hadn’t, if he had sacrificed himself, perhaps all of these unfortunates would be alive.

The paupers’ graves bothered him the most. He did not do burial work for those who could actually afford him. He left that to the Danites. But these people, whose families still mourned, and who had fought for their homes, didn’t have enough money for an individual resting place. Instead they were given an anonymous home in a worthless plot of ground as a reward for all their sacrifice.

He couldn’t ask them for forgiveness. Such forgiveness had to come from his God, and within his own self. But he could use all his powers as a Rocaan to make sure that the Holy One saw and rewarded even these poor souls.

Porciluna was watching him, arms behind his black robe, concern on his round face. Andre stood beside him, hands in the pockets of his robe and head down. Of all the Elders, Andre was the only one who understood the guilt that the Rocaan was feeling, who even accepted the thinking that had brought the Rocaan to this place. During the invasion Andre had saved a small cadre of children who had been in the Tabernacle for a faith class, and he had not killed a single Fey. Instead he had threatened them with the holy water, and splashed some on the floor before him, and the Fey, already familiar with its powers, had run.

The Rocaan held the sword out before him, his hand extending over the pit. “Holy One,” he said, letting his voice reverberate as if he were doing Midnight Sacrament, “I am your increasingly unworthy servant. But I beg you to overlook the messenger and hear the message.”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Porciluna’s feet shift. The words were not the correct ones for the ceremony. But they were right for the prayer the Rocaan had to offer.

“These souls have given everything because it was asked of them. In return they have nothing, and their families even less. Please, Holy One, find their Beings and transport them to the side of God. Bless them with Your presence, and reward them for their love.”

Then he slipped into the words of the ceremony. “Bless the Honored Dead. Treasure their Beings, and we will treasure their memories upon this land.”

He bent and planted the edge of the filigreed sword in the soil, his hand scraping against the lime. Then he reached into his pouch as he stood and scattered the herbs across the bodies.

“As the Roca honored God, so have you. As the Holy One has spoken to God, so have you. As God has loved us all, so have you. You return to the cycle of life, that in dying we might all live. It is with the Roca’s highest Blessing that I leave you so that the Holy One may Absorb your soul.”

Then he touched his scented fingers to his forehead, whispered one word of personal blessing, and backed away from the pit. The wet ground was particularly soft over the other pits, but he had no choice but to walk on them. Since the Fey had arrived, countless lives had been lost. The day of the invasion had been particularly devastating, but there were skirmishes inside and outside of Jahn. He let the Danites take care of the communities outside the city because he wasn’t up to such travel. He could do only so much.

As he reached the Elders, he paused and glanced at the pit one final time. The grave diggers were shoveling the pile of dirt beside the pit onto the bodies to make an even layer. They had to leave dirt, though, so that there would be some for the next group. Sometimes these pits held bodies eight layers deep.

“You are exhausting yourself,” Porciluna said. His voice was raspy from too much wine and fine food. Since he had become an Elder, he had grown to double his size. “You cannot continue coming here. The Danites can bless the dead.”

The Rocaan shook his head. “These people have died because of my sin. The Danites cannot acknowledge that.”

“How could you have sinned?” There was no respect in Porciluna’s tone. “You did not ask the Fey to Blue Isle.”

“Let him be,” Andre said. He took the Rocaan’s arm and helped him across the marshy ground. The air smelled of loam and the tang of the Cardidas. “The Holy Sir has more knowledge of the Mind of God than the rest of us. If he believes he has somehow done something to bring this scourge upon us, I will believe him and help him find a way to banish it.”

“You’re saying that the Holy Sir is a sinner? That is blasphemy in the Ears of God.” Porciluna punctuated his words with pants, his breath short as he tried to keep up.

“It is blasphemy,” the Rocaan said, “to argue at the site of death. And Elder Andre was merely saying that unlike the rest of you, he believes me.”

“Thank you, Holy Sir,” Andre said. He helped the Rocaan down the steps leading to the road. Their carriage waited, a large black conveyance with tiny swords embroidered in the corners on all three sides. The driver, sitting up front, picked up the reins when he saw the Rocaan. The team, two matching black horses, pawed the rutted road as if anxious to be off.

Porciluna opened the door, and the Rocaan climbed in. He sat behind the driver, his legs outstretched before him, his body almost collapsed with exhaustion. Porciluna and Andre sat across from him.

“Holy Sir,” Porciluna said with some surprise. “You left your sword at the grave site.”

“It belongs there,” the Rocaan said. To mark the place of Absorption. To mark the site of a crime. To mark his guilt.

“We should send the driver for it. The grave diggers will merely take it.”

The Rocaan leaned forward. “Porciluna, you have no faith in the human spirit.”

“Indeed, I have too much,” Porciluna said.

“We are to believe the best of others, not the worst.”

Porciluna’s cheeks flamed. “In this last year I have seen the worst of everything the world has to offer.”