Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (73 page)

He turned toward the back door, but found that he couldn’t go in. He was trembling so badly that he was afraid he would accidentally knock one of the vials of real holy water upon himself. He stood near the Sacrificial Table, thinking of the words he had just spoken, and wondering if they were true. Their former leader had given them a weapon against their enemies. The holy water—the poison—had truly kept them all safe this past year.

But it did not keep them safe any longer. A viper was in the nest. The enemy had infiltrated their holiest of places and survived.

He bowed his head and breathed a silent word of thanks to whatever had protected him in this place: the Mysteries, the Powers, or the Islander God.

SIXTY

The Rocaan sat alone in his audience chamber, his head buried in his hands. For the first time in his entire career, he missed Midnight Sacrament. But he didn’t care. He was shaking all over. The strain was too much for him. He was an old man. Didn’t God care about that? Shouldn’t a man have peace in his old age?

Not a Rocaan, and he knew it. He served the place of the Roca on the Isle, and it was his duty to keep his people protected from their enemies, a duty he was somehow failing.

Enemies were never supposed to be allowed within, and yet if young Nicholas was to be believed, they had somehow found a place in the Tabernacle, perhaps even corrupted an Aud.

Or, God forbid, an Elder.

The Rocaan brought his head out of his hands and sighed. The room was bright with torches, and the wood carvings made it feel warm. But he shivered with an internal chill. What if he was the one corrupted and he didn’t even know it?

But he would know it. He wouldn’t be able to touch holy water. Young Nicholas had said that his swordmaster had died touching holy water.

The Rocaan stood. His legs ached, and his knees cracked as he moved. Too old. Why hadn’t God brought this before a younger Rocaan? But if He had waited, whom would He have had to tap? Matthias? Andre? Or no one at all?

Torches burned from their pegs overhead. No one had bothered to light the chandelier, and its carefully crafted glass baubles hung low. The paneled walls depicted the reign of the first Rocaan as he converted the countryside and subdued his brother, the King. All of the chairs were pushed against the walls, except for the two he and young Nicholas had used.

Two men had disappeared from the palace the day the blood and bones had appeared in the Tabernacle. Those two men had acted strangely since the Fey had invaded. Both men had cleaned blood and bones from their favorite places. Both men had spoken to a cat.

The Rocaan would order, as Nicholas had requested, anyone who saw a cat in the Tabernacle to kill it on sight. The chefs would have to stop feeding their pets around back, and the Rocaan would probably extend the order to dogs as well. No sense in having any dumb animals threaten the safety of this holy place.

Then he would touch all his people with holy water. Before that he would watch Matthias make a mixture, to make certain that he wasn’t under Fey influence and simply pouring water into bottles. And the Rocaan would have anyone report strange behavior to him. Anyone reported more than once would have to be tested by water again. And again.

The Rocaan sank into another chair. His body felt twice as heavy as it had when he’d woken that morning. Not exhaustion, per se, but disillusionment. He had thought the Tabernacle a fortress, and then the Fey had invaded it. Enemies within.

“‘There are enemies without and within,’” he whispered, quoting, but condensing the Words. “‘We choose to fight . . . with faith.’”

He picked up his sword and placed it against his forehead. The tiny silver filigree was cool against his skin. “If ever I needed your guidance, Holy One, it is now.”

He waited, but no still, small voice came to him. Only a rush of panic and fear. He closed his eyes. The Roca had led his enemies to the holiest of places, but he had not killed them. Instead, he had offered himself as a sacrifice that his own people might live. And by doing so, he had become Beloved of God.

But
he had not desired to become Beloved of God.
The Rocaan lifted his head.
And that was where all the Rocaans made their mistake. The Roca had desired to protect his people, and nothing more.

The thoughts didn’t feel like his, but like a voice whispering in his ear. He didn’t move. Was that the still, small voice? It had a certainty that he had lacked for decades.

And here he was, questioning it.

But he wasn’t questioning the certainty. He was questioning the voice. And perhaps it didn’t matter where the voice had come from. What it said was right. The Roca never, in all of his teachings, asked to become Beloved of God. Love was something that God bestowed as a reward for the selflessness with which the Roca had acted.

Yet if the Rocaan acted with selflessness now, it would seem that he was trying to curry favor. He had to examine his own heart and see if it was pure. He had to cleanse it of the ambition to become Beloved, and leave only the desire to do the right thing, the proper thing. To protect his people with minimal bloodshed as the Roca had done.

So far he had failed to do that.

But the Words did not tell whether the Roca had failed before the Absorption. No one knew what made him bring the Soldiers of the Enemy to the holy place. Frustration? Failure to do something earlier? Wisdom and prevention? The Rocaan had no way of knowing.

He sighed and let the sword fall against his chest. If only he had known sooner that the Elder in charge of the Oral Tradition was stifling it. What Rocaan had thought that up and believed it good for the people? The answer to that question was lost forever, although the Rocaan thought he knew. Through the Rocaans numbered in the late twenties and early thirties, there was a lot of political intrigue and assassination. The Rocaan in those days held as much power as the King, maybe more, and because the position was not hereditary, more Elders believed they should get the position than did. Perhaps, in those days, the Elder in charge of the Oral Tradition was told to keep it silent, not to give any region or any one extra power.

He gripped his sore knees. He had changed that now. When he met with Elder Eirman, he stressed that the Elder was to take stories about the Roca from the various Auds and Danites and record them. The stories might not be true, but they might shed a light on the history that was missing.

They might help a future—or current—Rocaan.

He closed his eyes. The heaviness was so deep in him that he was afraid he would have to call someone just to help him out of the chair. He started to lever himself out when the door into the audience chamber swung open.

Elder Reece bowed to the Rocaan. The younger man was wearing his Danite’s robe, which he always wore at Midnight Sacrament when he was not performing it. Reece was thin to the point of gauntness. He was not wearing a cap on his balding head, and as he faced the Rocaan, he licked his lips nervously.

“Forgive me, Holy Sir,” he said, “but I believed I might disturb you in the audience chamber.”

The Rocaan sighed. He had wanted to go to his own chamber. But he supposed he could wait a bit longer. Maybe when Reece was done, he would help the Rocaan out of his chair.

“What is on your mind, Reece?” the Rocaan asked.

Reece nodded and swallowed, self-effacing bobbing movements that made the Rocaan want to demand that the man learn self-respect. But Reece had always been timid. Elders were supposed to exhibit different qualities, and none of the others could have taken that one.

“You said, Holy Sir, that we were to report to you when we saw something out of the ordinary,” Reece said. “I thought you might like to know about the Sacrament, since you didn’t attend.”

The Rocaan sighed. Timidity was trying at the best of times. “I know the ritual, and I probably know who was there, since Andre presided. What happened? Did he skip?”

“Oh, no, Holy Sir. His delivery was quite heartfelt.” Reece looked up. “Would that all of us were able to achieve that degree of feeling in the ritual itself.”

Or in life. The Rocaan’s leg aches were growing worse. He wanted to stand. “You said that something was out of the ordinary.”

“Yes, Holy Sir.” Reece tugged on his sash; then, for a brief moment, his gaze met the Rocaan’s. “I don’t know if you remember when I first came to see you, years ago?”

“What does this have to do with anything, Reece?” the Rocaan snapped, unable or unwilling to remember their first meeting.

“Well, Holy Sir, if you do not remember, I need to refresh you. It’s important.” Reece looked extremely sincere.

The Rocaan sighed again and made himself remember what he could. “I recall something about the ceremonies.”

“Yes, Holy Sir. I had a reaction to holy water, if you recall. It makes my skin blister. You said that it should not worry me, that as long as I had faith, I would be welcome in God’s service.”

The Rocaan sat up straighter, his tiredness forgotten. He did remember now. And he remembered that Reece was not the only one who had had trouble with holy water in the past. An entire kirk near the Cliffs of Blood had had a reaction to the Rocaan’s holy water. He had figured that it was because his recipe relied on the old recipes, whereas the more recent Rocaans made holy water without the seze. They believed that the Roca did not know of seze, an herb which grew only in the Kenniland Marshes, so they thought the herb a late modification. The Rocaan was a purist and had no evidence that the Roca knew otherwise, so he went back to the original recipe. Once his recipe started going to the outskirts of the Isle, the towns near the Cliffs of Blood reported rashes after Midnight Sacrament.

“I do remember now,” he said. “But I thought we gave you dispensation to wear gloves.”

“Yes, Holy Sir. But sometimes I spill a drop or two on bare skin, and the blisters return almost immediately. The last time was so bad that Elder Vaughn sent for a doctor.”

The Rocaan had not heard of this. “What was bad?”

“The blisters spread up my arm until I was in such pain, I could barely stand it. The doctor prescribed a salve, and I healed.”

The Rocaan nodded. How odd. He had allowed gloves for all the congregations near the Cliffs of Blood. He wondered if any of their symptoms had worsened. Doubtless he would have heard of it if they had.

“And what bearing does this have on tonight?” the Rocaan asked. Poor Reece. The Rocaan would never consider him to become Rocaan. The congregation would grow old and die before Reece made his first decision.

“I spilled half a vial of holy water on my left arm, Holy Sir.” Reece pulled up his sleeve and extended his arm. The skin was pale and covered with freckles and short blond hairs. “But I am not injured.”

The Rocaan touched Reece’s arm. The skin was smooth. “And they will not show up later?”

“They have always appeared before the Sacrament ended, Holy Sir. The last time so fast that I thought my entire arm engulfed in flames.”

The Rocaan gripped Reece’s elbow. “Help me up.” Reece grabbed back and pulled. The Rocaan stood. His heart was pounding. This was precisely the thing that young Nicholas had warned him about. “You are certain that the vial contained holy water.”

“A Danite handed it out at the service, Holy Sir. Andre took the vials from beneath the Sacrificial Table. Before service an Aud was replacing bottles. I assume that was your directive. We had discussed this, that all the water would be replaced.”

“Yes, we had,” the Rocaan said. He let go of Reece’s arm. His palms were covered with sweat. He had been making the holy water properly. But that meant Matthias hadn’t been. And Matthias had discovered one of the bloodstains. Just as the missing people in the palace had.