Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (72 page)

The pews were already filled with the faithful. Many had their heads bowed in meditation, others had arms raised in prayer. Some stared at the Sword hanging from the ceiling. Andre used to love Midnight Sacrament for its simplicity. Tel appreciated its shortness.

The Aud crouched behind the Sacrificial Table. He took the vials of holy water out of the box and then took the vials off the shelves built under the table itself. Tel watched very carefully as the Aud placed the old bottles back in the box. Then, slowly, Tel let the door ease closed.

The other Auds were watching him as if he had gone crazy. He smiled at them, then shrugged. “No detail is too important,” he said.

He backed away from the door and stood near an empty counter, careful not to let his body touch it in any way. He couldn’t control his shaking. What if the Warders were wrong? What if the deaths had nothing to do with the water itself but with the rituals that created it? What if he went into that sanctuary and the Isle God struck him down?

Foolish thoughts. He made himself take a deep breath. Very foolish thoughts. If the Isle’s God was going to strike him down, it would have done so when he’d killed that parishioner on the street after morning services, and then attacked Andre in the Tabernacle itself. The God would have to have been deaf not to have heard Andre’s pleas as he’d struggled with Tel.

He rubbed a hand over his face. He had to remember all that he had learned. How Esx, the ancient Doppelgänger too old to practice his trade, had taught all the young boys to eschew sex and sexuality except in the host bodies, to have the only joinings be with the victims. In those teachings, which began when Tel’s magical abilities had appeared at age twelve, Esx had taught them that if gods were as all-powerful as their worshipers claimed, no Fey would exist. They would have been struck down by the all-powerful gods whenever the Fey invaded the gods’ lands.

Esx had lived through four major campaigns and the transfer of twenty-five bodies. He had kept the last because he had grown accustomed to it. In all of that experience he had to have faced moments like this one. He would never have made that comment about gods without reason.

The Aud pushed the door open and came back into the room, struggling yet again with the heavy box. His black robe was damp with sweat, and he reeked. Andre would have thanked him for his help, but Tel could not bring himself to do that. Instead, he said, “Remember to place those aside so that they can be refilled with more of the new batch.”

“Yes, Respected Sir,” the Aud mumbled, and Tel thought he heard surliness in the tone.

Then another Aud came to him, carrying a large silver sword. Tel made himself smile, although his heart was pounding. The sword was ancient and had never been used in combat. Its ornate hilt was the model for all the small swords that the Rocaanists wore around their necks. The Aud extended the sword to him, hilt out.

“Is it prepared?” Tel asked, thankful again that his voice sounded calm.

The Aud flushed. The question must have seemed unusual. “As always, Respected Sir.”

Tel reached for the hilt quickly. If he was going to die, it would be better here, in the back, near all the holy water, than in front of the worshipers in the sanctuary. Fewer witnesses, less chance to corroborate the story.

But he touched the hilt of the sword and felt nothing except the cool softness of the metal. His eyes filled with tears of relief. The Aud hadn’t lied. He had wiped the sword clean of all water: contaminating it in religious terms so that it could be Blessed in the Midnight Sacrament, recalling the action of the Roca before he was Absorbed.

“Thank you,” Tel said, perhaps as much to their nonexistent God as to the young Aud who had handed him the sword. He gripped the hilt tightly, then took a deep breath to brace himself. His biggest test in this body—perhaps his biggest test ever—would come in the next few moments.

He slid the sword through his sash, then retied the sash tightly so that the sword wouldn’t slip. Then he opened the door and stepped onto the altar. The door closed behind him with a slight click.

Slowly heads came up and arms came down. The sanctuary, which had seemed cold and large in the morning, was now hot and crowded. He stood, as Andre used to, and waited until the gathered people were done with their meditation and prayers.

Some had been there for hours, he knew. It was custom for the people to cleanse their minds and spirits in communication with the Holy One before attempting Absorption with their God. He also knew that some hoped for true Absorption, but that it had never happened—not in the history of the organized Church.

Finally the entire congregation looked at him. The faces were unfamiliar—not anyone Miruts had known—and oddly familiar. He had the feeling of having stood before them as recently as the previous morning. He knew that the ceremony he performed tonight was, in many ways, linked for them to the ones Andre had performed in the past. All of the Elders knew that the congregations appeared to support a particular Elder, and Andre’s liked his soft-spoken style.

Tel’s heart was pounding. Time to start. If he did it right, no one would know who he was. No one would be able to guess he wasn’t who he appeared to be.

He swung the sword over his head and caught its tip with his left hand. He was surprised at the blade’s softness, although his Andre memories had warned him that it would be.

“ ‘There are enemies without,’ “ he said, projecting his voice without making it sound loud.

“ ‘And within,’” the congregation responded.

Despite his fear, he almost smiled. They had no idea. “ ‘We are surrounded by hatred—‘ ”

“ ‘—greed,’” the congregation said—

‘”—lust,”’

“ ‘—cruelty,’”

“ ‘—and loss.’” He took a breath where Andre always did. The body did not know this, the mind knew this. He was shocked at how rote the service was. He brought the sword down with both hands so that the flat of the blade faced the congregation. “ ‘We chose to fight, not with weapons—‘”

“‘—or with cunning,’ “ the congregation said—

 
“ ‘—but with faith.’” Slowly he brought the sword down and laid it flat on the Sacrificial Table. The light from above reflected off the tiny images etched in the blade. “Tonight the Holy One will take our troubles to the Ear of God.”

The last was not a quote from the Words Written and Unwritten, but a part of the ceremony that had been added centuries before by the Twentieth Rocaan. Tel raised his hands again, this time without the sword. The sleeves of his robe fell away, revealing his bare arms. The congregation mimicked his posture.

“When the Roca asked for God’s ear, he begged for safety for his people. Yet they were besieged by enemies, and it appeared that God did not listen. The Roca brought the enemies to the holiest of places, and there he asked God to strike them down. When God did not, the Roca thought to strike them down himself, but he thought, ‘Would that mean that I believe I am better than God? For if God is not willing to do this thing, He in His wisdom must have a reason. And I am but a lowly creation, not a creator. I do not have the ability to see more than my small corner of the Isle. I cannot even see what is across the water. I cannot see God in his holy place. I cannot see the beasts in the trees. I am lowly, unworthy of making decisions for my God.’”

Tel brought his arms down, as the ritual decreed, and fingered the sword. “So the Roca ordered his men to stand at his side, their blades out but useless. And when he was approached by his enemies in that holy place, he welcomed them and bade them to wait until he cleaned his sword. Then he took the water left him by a fallen comrade and cleaned the blade.”

Tel’s hands were shaking as he reached to the shelf below the Sacrificial Table. Danites had emerged from the doors behind him and flanked him. He took a vial in each hand and passed them to the Danites without looking at them. When they had a grip on their vials, they proceeded to the pews, the first Danites to the pews farthest in the back, and there they waited, one hand on the vial’s bottom and the other around its neck.

The congregation did not watch them, but instead used that moment of silent progression to offer their remaining prayers to the Ear of God. Slowly arms came down and heads bowed until Tel spoke again.

He waited until the last Danite was in the aisle. Then he took the last vial and set it beside the sword. Fear made his chest ache. He took a small cloth from the second shelf. A lump had risen in his throat, and he cleared it softly before continuing.

“As he cleaned his blade, the Roca told this to his men.” His voice sounded shaky. This next quote from the Words Written and Unwritten frightened him more than any other part of the service. “He said, ‘Without water, a man dies. A man’s body makes water. His blood is water. A child is born in a rush of water. Water keeps us clean. It keeps us healthy. It keeps us alive. It is when we are in water that we are closest to God.’ But his men said—”

“‘Holy Sir, when a man stays too long in water, he dies.’” The congregation and the Danites stated the rote response.

“And the Roca looked at them all with great pity in his eyes. ‘A man dies only when he is not pure enough to sit at the feet of God.’ “ Then Tel picked up the vial and pulled out the stopper. A faintly bitter scent reached him, and bile rose in his throat. He made himself swallow once, twice, to keep himself from vomiting, the terror so overwhelming, his entire body was shaking. “‘When you touch water,’ the Roca said to them all, ‘you touch the Essence of God.’”

He poured the water from the vial onto the cloth. It took a moment for the water to seep through, but when it touched his hand, he made an involuntary groan. No one else seemed to notice. The Danites took his action as a cue to pass the vials down the rows, and parishioner after parishioner poured a few drops of water onto their own cloths.

Tel watched for a moment, mesmerized, wondering if the very smell of the water would contaminate him and corrode him from the inside. But his hand did not hurt, and no foul stench rose from him. He let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding, and as the air passed from him, an elation filled him.

Carefully, he put the cloth on the blade. He had to do this properly as well. To rub back and forth was considered bad luck. Early Rocaans believed that it released the demons in the blade, the demons that caused the blade to be used as an instrument of war. He didn’t want that. What if they were right? What if there was something trapped in the blade, something as deadly as the water?

He stroked downward from the hilt to the tip until water glistened on the silver. Then he removed another cloth from the lower shelf and blotted the water without drying it off. He turned the sword over and repeated the procedure again.

A low murmur had filled the sanctuary: people asked for verbal blessings from the Holy One. In case they were Absorbed, they wanted to go with religious words on their lips. Tel wanted to laugh at the seriousness with which they all took this folderol, but Andre had believed it utterly, and enough of that belief came through the memories that Tel felt as if he were committing heresy by even having the thought.

The congregation had finished, and the Danites had retired to the back to await the end of the service so that they could collect the empty vials. Tel lifted his sword by the hilt, his movements so practiced that it took no effort to lift it into position. The position brought some of the fear back: the blade’s tip pressed against his flat stomach, the pressure just enough to mime the Roca’s Absorption.

“We allow no enemies here,” he said in accordance with the service. His words sounded hollow, his throat dry. “The Roca has protected us from all that would threaten us. We shall not die by the Sword. Instead, we live by it.”

He let go of the sword, and it clattered against the table, knocking the vial over. The remaining water spilled along the surface and dripped onto the carpet. He used all of his control to keep from jumping away.

“Go forth,” he said, “and remember what a gift it is that the Roca has given you.”

“We go with thanks,” the congregation said.

Tel picked up the small sword around his neck and touched it to his forehead. Then he raised his arms and bowed to the sword hanging from the ceiling. The others did the same as they stood. No one spoke as they left the sanctuary.