Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (43 page)

“My apologies, Respected Sir. I am not usually in charge of the rooms. Your man seems to have disappeared.”

Another one. This was disturbing him as well. “All right, then. I want the tapestries done, here and in the other Elders’ quarters, as well as the lights, and lighting the night fires. Make sure that someone has taken care of the Rocaan as well.”

“As you wish, Respected Sir.” The Aud went to the first lamp and lit it.

The brightness in the room increased, revealing the velvet sofa, the ornate chairs flanking a table decorated with tiny swords. The Aud went from light to light until a softness filled the room. Then he pulled and fastened the tapestries in front of the windows, blocking out the darkness and replacing it with scenes from the Roca’s life.

Matthias and Porciluna watched the Aud move from place to place, saying nothing. Once the Aud glanced over his shoulder at them, and then continued, as if he found their behavior strange. Finally he crouched in front of the fireplace and pulled pieces of wood together to build a fire. The small thumps and shufflings he made were the only sounds in the room.

Matthias looked away, grateful for the respite from the conversation. He had been ignoring the Rocaan, and the problems there, worrying more about the Fey and the future. It had been easy to stay away from the old man; he didn’t seem to be comfortable around Matthias these days, as if he blamed Matthias for all the decisions he had made during the invasion. Matthias should have realized that someday the problem would come back to him, since he was the one the Rocaan had trusted with the secret of holy water. On the day of the invasion Matthias had been the Rocaan’s choice to succeed him. Matthias doubted if the Rocaan felt that way now.

Wood snapped behind him, and the faintest scent of smoke filled the air. He turned. The Aud was replacing the grate. Then he stood, wiped his hands on his robe, and bowed his head. “Anything else, Respected Sir?” he asked.

“Not in here,” Matthias said, hoping that the Aud heard his pointed reminder to remember the other chambers.

The Aud nodded again, then let himself out.

Once the door had clicked shut, Porciluna said, “All the little things seem to be coming apart.”

“They do, don’t they?” Matthias said. “Just another sign, I guess. Although”—he chose his words carefully—“these do not mean that the Rocaan is crazy.”

“He’s not thinking clearly,” Porciluna said. “He is tending to the wrong things.”

“The Rocaan is a man of faith.” Matthias stretched his legs and leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked from his weight. “There are times when he will not follow logic but that still, small voice within.”

“We are all men of faith,” Porciluna said.

“Are we?” Matthias raised his gaze to Porciluna’s face. Porciluna’s features looked soft, as if the candlelight had wiped any edges off.

Porciluna straightened, placing his hands on his knees. “If we weren’t, we wouldn’t be Elders.”

Matthias smiled. “Come now, Porciluna. Save that talk for the faithful. You know as well as I that many men are here because they have nowhere else to go, and that others are here because if they are sufficiently ambitious, they can live a life of luxury.”

“If you’re implying that I am here for such base reasons—”

“I’m not implying anything,” Matthias said. “But if we are going to have a true discussion about the future of the Tabernacle, we need to do so honestly. I have watched you, Porciluna, and I can predict your actions. If you were listening to a still, small voice, I would not be able to. You are an ambitious man who enjoys this life. I do not know if you believe in the Roca or in God.”

“All the men here are good,” Porciluna said.

Matthias studied him, knowing he would get no more out of Porciluna than that. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “They are. And there is a lot of wisdom in the Words Written and Unwritten.”

“But they say nothing about what to do with a Rocaan who is unfit,” Porciluna said. “I think we should call a meeting of the Elders. Take a vote, maybe remove him.”

Matthias folded his hands over his stomach. It was growling. He hadn’t eaten all day. “It’s unprecedented,” he said. “It might cause a schism in the Church that we don’t need.”

“It might save us.”

The words hung in the silence. The wood snapped again, an explosion in the quiet room. Then logs tumbled as the fire burned itself down.

Matthias pushed himself out of his chair, clasped his hands behind his back, and walked over to the fireplace. The Aud had built a lovely fire. The red and gold sparks flew up the chimney, and the fire itself burned tall and hot. “What bothers me,” he said, letting the warmth caress the front of his body, “is how do we judge? If you study the words, the Roca often seemed irrational. Perhaps true faith is a form of insanity.”

“It seems to me,” Porciluna said, “that he cannot reconcile what he knows of Rocaanism with the powers of holy water.”

“You mean, he cannot countenance the fact that it causes death?”

“Death in unbelievers.”

Matthias laughed. “If that were the case, then half the leaders of the Church would be dead. I have trouble with that property of holy water myself, and I have not the purity of spirit the Rocaan does.”

“So you do believe that the events have hurt his mind.”

“I think the events of the past year have changed all of us.” Matthias put one hand on the mantel. “But if they’ve hurt his mind, I don’t know. I do know that he has questioned his actions since that day. And I also know that, more than any of us, he listens for the still, small voice. Perhaps he is hearing it. How are we to tell?”

Porciluna stood. “I plan to call the meeting of the Elders.”

Matthias pushed away from the fireplace. His skin was hot in the front, but the rest of the room still felt cool. “If you say one word about removing him, I will fight you every step of the way.”

Porciluna frowned. “Why? You’re the logical choice to be the next Rocaan.”

“Inherit an office that your actions would rob of all its powers? I think not, Porciluna. The Rocaan shall remain until he dies in office. And when he does, the next Rocaan will be his choice for a successor, as it always has been.”

“But he has already made the choice,” Porciluna said.

“Oh, no.” Matthias turned back to the fire. The flames had died down but were still burning more blue than red. He could not see anything reflected in them. “He taught me the secrets of holy water so that he would not have to bear the responsibilities of its use alone. Never once did he say anything about my succeeding him. I think the lesson was more my punishment for forcing him into taking action.”

“We could hold the meeting without you,” Porciluna said.

“But you won’t,” Matthias said. “You can’t get rid of the Rocaan without my help. You’ll have no one to take his place. And I will not replace him without his blessing.” He turned and faced Porciluna. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Clear enough,” Porciluna said. His tone made Matthias cringe.

“Don’t make a mockery of this,” Matthias said. “Right now we need to be unified.”

Porciluna pursed his lips. “All right. We’ll be unified. For now. But I warn you, Matthias, if the Rocaan gets worse, we’ll have to take action.”

“I’ll let you know when he’s worse,” Matthias said. “I’ll let you know when to take action.”

“Always in charge, eh, Matthias?” Porciluna bowed slightly, just as the Aud had done, but unlike the Aud, Porciluna’s expression was mocking. “I’ll let myself out. Good night.”

Matthias didn’t answer him. Once Porciluna disappeared through the door, Matthias locked the door after him. Then he leaned on it.

A revolution in the Church couldn’t come at a worse time. He hoped he had staved it off. For if he hadn’t, more than the fate of Rocaanism was at stake. The fate of the entire Isle was.

FORTY-ONE

He was cold, and he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since they had left the ships. Scavenger curled up behind a pile of wood, near the back of Shadowlands. He no longer kept night or day hours. He paid attention to the niceties of time only when his services were needed. Until then he slept when he felt like sleeping, and ate when he felt like eating.

As if he had that kind of choice.

He pulled his coat over his short legs and patted a pile of empty pouches together as his pillow. The gray mist that formed the base of Shadowlands had a chill to it, even though Rugar denied it. And the ground beneath the mist, the invisible ground that no one could see, felt like the flat end of a sword blade. Cool and smooth and completely lacking in warmth.

A year they had been in Shadowlands, and no one had seen fit to give the Red Caps somewhere to sleep. He had spoken to Tazy, the head of the Foot Soldiers, several times about this, and Tazy promised each time to do something.

He had done nothing.

Scavenger even thought of speaking to the Warders, but he lacked the courage. And he certainly didn’t have the courage to speak to Rugar. Rugar would probably ignore him anyway.

Scavenger curled against the wood. It felt damp. He shivered, wishing for something more comfortable to lie on, and closed his eyes. Everything looked gray. He was so tired of gray. He had even sneaked out one day and wandered through the forest, and when he had returned—in full view of Rugar’s daughter and her Infantry companions—no one had said a word. It was as if he didn’t exist.

He had never existed for them. He was a tool, as their swords were tools, to be used only during warfare, only at the right time. It galled him that he had no recourse. As a young man he used to dream of growing into his magickal powers late—very late—and becoming a Shaman or an Enchanter, who could twist them all. At the very least he hoped he would become a Dream Rider, so that he could control their subconsciouses while they slept.

But he had grown no magick, just as he had failed to grow tall, and so those dreams had become nothing more than fantasies of revenge, fantasies he could never complete.

Now that Silence was gone, doing his duty somewhere in the city, no one spoke to Scavenger, no one except the other Red Caps. They discussed the best places to sleep or the places to steal food outside Shadowlands. Nothing terribly illuminating.

“Boy!” A foot prodded his back.

Scavenger kept his eyes closed. He didn’t move. He had learned long ago that if he ignored people who sought him out, they often went away.

“Boy!” The prodding became almost a kick. A sharp pain ran up Scavenger’s spine.

The idiot would kick him to death if he didn’t respond. Scavenger opened his eyes. One of the tall Infantry boys stood over him. He spent most of his time with Rugar’s daughter. Scavenger remembered thinking the boy’s name was appropriate.

“Boy!” the boy said as he kicked him.

Scavenger rolled away. Burden. That was what the child was called. Burden, because his parents thought he would come to nothing. They suspected he would be a Red Cap, but he grew too tall, too graceful, too beautiful. A Fey as tall as that would come to his magick eventually.

“What?” Scavenger said, careful not to let resentment into his tone. If he complained about each time he was called “boy” by someone younger than he was, he would have been killed by now.

“We need this wood. You’ll have to move.”

Scavenger sighed, grabbed his cloak and pouches, and sat up. His back would be bruised where the boy had kicked it. The spot had been a good one for a few days. Now maybe he could steal Vulture’s place under the Domicile stairs.