He brought his torch down to his side, wondering if it made him obvious. Probably, and he didn’t know who or what was marauding this night. He turned and pulled the unlit torch from beside the door, letting the stick fall to the ground, and stuck his own torch into the slot. The flame reflected off the open doors. As the breeze moved it, the light occasionally revealed the interior of the Tabernacle.
Matthias shuddered. He didn’t want to go inside again.
He wiped his hands on his already filthy robe and picked his way across the inlay tiles, keeping to the small paths left between the fallen bodies. This tile had been one of his favorites, depicting the Second Rocaan carrying the Words Written to worshipers outside of Jahn. The joy on the Rocaan’s face as he gazed at the Words reflected Matthias’s own joy when he studied. Now he wondered if he would ever be able to look at the tiles in the same way again.
Small losses. He could focus on the small losses without thinking of the larger ones. The larger ones would make him crazy.
The walls surrounding the Tabernacle grounds prevented him from seeing the Cardidas. For a second he thought he heard voices carrying over the water. He held his breath and listened as intently as he could, but he couldn’t tell if he was hearing actual words.
Little shivers ran up his back. The whisper of the river sounded like the whisper of the dead. He gripped the tiny sword around his neck and ran his fingers over its dull edge. If he ever needed to believe in God, in Roca, it was this day. The belief of cowards, the Words Written and Unwritten said, is assured.
He did not like to think of himself that way. But before now he had never known the truth behind that aphorism.
He should have sent an Aud to do this. Someone expendable. But he didn’t know the Auds well enough to choose one who wouldn’t embellish his tale, and he didn’t know how many were still alive. The Rocaan wanted the lights investigated, and Matthias had promised he would do so. He couldn’t go back on his word now.
Young trees stood near the gate, their leaves rustling in the breeze. Matthias let go of the tiny sword and pushed the gate open, thanking the Holy One that someone had had the presence of mind to close it, at least. Except for the occasional body, the road was clear. The mud was rutted from wagon wheels and horses’ hooves, and hundreds of footprints. It seeped under the wood of his sandals, soiling the bottoms of his feet. The cold ooze squished between his toes, and he closed his eyes, willing impressions from the day—the melting faces of the Fey, the blood spilling across pristine floors—away from the sensation.
He had a clear view of the river from there. The lights continued to flicker at irregular intervals, almost like a door opening and closing. Voices rose again from the river, speaking in a language he did not understand.
He crept as silently as he could along the edge of the road, wincing whenever his feet squished in the muck. If only he had more information about the Fey. Could they become invisible? Were they around him now? He resisted the urge to put his hands out in front of him like a blind man, to push away unseen forces.
The only voices he heard came from the river. And the ships were gone. Perhaps they made the ships invisible. But if they had done that, then he would still be able to hear the water lapping against the wooden hulls, and he did not. Only the voices, low and conspiratorial, and the odd lights.
When he reached the bridge, he paused. He could either go back for holy water and then cross the bridge to see what was going on, or slide down the bank and get as close as he could on this side of the river.
If he needed to risk a life, he could send an Aud. The Rocaan needed Matthias. He clearly did not want Matthias dead. If he had wanted that, he would not have shown Matthias how to make the holy water, a process as startling as any Matthias had seen within the Church.
He clung to the wood railing that led up the footpath side of the bridge. The river was almost a mile across, not counting the harbor’s mouth on the other side. In the daylight, things would look far away. At night they had an even eerier cast.
Still, he would follow his plan. He took the muddy footpath down the side of the bridge to the water’s edge. He had to keep one hand against the wet ground for balance. Weeds grew tall there, brushing against the sides of his robe, tickling his bare arms. He rustled as he moved, a sound he feared would carry over the water. Finally he crouched beneath a tree that had grown crossways over the river, providing welcome shade in the daylight, and the illusion of cover now.
The voices on the other side had stilled. One light appeared and disappeared over the wide dock that led into the warehouses. The ships had originally been moored there. He sat, breathing quietly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the moonlight over the river, and the odd darkness that he was in.
After some time—he wasn’t sure how much, but long enough for his body to stiffen—he thought he saw tiny lights flickering in a small, perfect circle. Even though he couldn’t judge exactly, based on the distance, the circle could have been no bigger than his head. It floated above the pier like a tiny beacon.
Slowly he shifted position, careful not to make any noise. He brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. The larger lights disappeared as he rustled his way to this position. He hoped that the Fey hadn’t heard him, that they weren’t around him now. Invisible presences had been hard for him to grasp in his religious studies, but there, faced with a magickal enemy, he had no trouble at all. He didn’t move again for a while, trying to be another body in the darkness.
When he was about to give up, he heard footsteps and voices carry across the water. He squinted as if that would make his vision penetrate the darkness. Four figures moved on the pier—no, five. One of them had an arm around another, who appeared to be having trouble walking.
They were tall, all of them taller than he was, and rail thin. Not Islanders. Islanders were stocky and short. They had thought him demon-spawn when he was a boy because he shot up so quickly and so high in his fifteenth year. He caught his breath and watched.
The Fey moved into a single-file line. The figure in the front paused and gestured at the ones behind. A voice carried across the water, deep and low, speaking again in that guttural language Matthias did not understand. Then the first put his hand through the small circle of lights.
The light grew until it covered the dock. Now Matthias could see the remaining four more clearly. They were blood covered, and the one being held up by the others appeared to be unconscious. Wounded.
The light appeared to be coming from nowhere. It was as if an edge of the night sky had ripped, letting out trapped daylight. He could see the effect of the light shining on the pier, but not the source of the light itself, as if a building blocked his view inside an open door. But there was no building, and no sound of water against a ship’s hull. The fear that had haunted him all night returned, raising goose bumps on his skin.
They pushed the wounded Fey into the light, and he disappeared. Then, one by one, the others followed. Once they were gone, the light remained for only a moment before disappearing too. He blinked against the darkness. The world was as it should have been again.
Except for the tiny circle of light remaining above the pier.
If he were a courageous man, he would return to the Tabernacle, grab all the holy water he could, and toss it inside that circle of light. But he was not. He was not a true child of Roca. He did not believe in self-sacrifice for the good of others.
“Forgive me,” he whispered to the Holy One.
He rested his forehead on his knees. The breeze ruffled his hair and caressed the back of his scalp. He sat there until the implications of what he had seen became clear to him.
The Fey had not evacuated. They were regrouping. They would try again. The battle fought today in Jahn was not a definitive defeat. Instead it was the beginning of something long and terrible.
THE SIEGE
(One Year Later)
THIRTY-FIVE
Emaque crouched on the de
ck of the ship. The Uehe was one of the smaller ships, chosen for its ability to navigate difficult passages. The Weather Sprites had ordered a heavy rain. The icy drops coated him, seeping into his skin. He had not had the wealth to order protected garments, and since he had lived in the Shadowlands, he had not had the need. Still, the rain with its bluster and chill was better than that gray, empty place. Rugar had done what he could to get the Fey to make it home, but home was not a fog-drenched place with opaque walls and no sky. No one was made to live in the Shadowlands this long. Emaque was amazed that they all had.
Some of the water dribbled into his mouth, and he licked the cold wetness off his lips. He leaned against the wooden railing and waited for the call. When he’d first got aboard, he had needed the railing to keep his balance. It had been a year since he had been on a ship—since that awful day when they had lost the First Battle for Jahn. He had not been chosen for the later excursions to the Infrin Sea, for which he was thankful. Too many Fey had died in the skirmishes and battles during the past year. No one had cited any figures, but he guessed their force had gone down by half. After the First and Second Battles for Jahn, Rugar had stopped attempting complete attacks. Still, the guerrilla fights and surprise tactics weren’t working that well either. And the Warders had yet to find any way to counteract the Islander poison.
Emaque had not been called to fight upon land, and he had avoided the escape attempts on the river as well. The first two ships were sunk, and most of the crew on the third and fourth missions did not make it back alive. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be on this trip, but he saw no choice. As a Sailor, his obligation was to the Fey and to the sea.
Imatar, the other Sailor on the voyage, crouched against the rail directly across from him. Together they were to guide the Navigator through the treacherous mouth of the Cardidas River, past the Stone Guardians, and into the sea. Once free, they were to bring Rugar’s message to the Black King.
The rain thrummed on the deck, and the Cardidas raged against the sides of the ship. The ship was rolling just enough to make balance difficult. Most of the crew were at their stations or belowdecks. Emaque could barely see anything through the rain.
The rain was making him reflective. If he had known that he would live on Blue Isle for over a year, he never would have volunteered for this duty. But he had seen the chance for extra bounty, and he had had his eye on one of the Domestics. She wouldn’t have him unless he could buy his own ship. She hadn’t wanted to live the mobile life of a military wife. She had liked Nye and wanted to settle there.
She probably had. She certainly wouldn’t have waited this long.
He sighed and shifted position. They were almost to the mouth. He could smell the salt on the air, as if the rain itself were diluted with it. Excitement built in his chest. It had been too long since he had used his real skills. He was tired of building houses and furniture and working with his hands. It was time to be as the Powers demanded: time to speak to the deep.
He stood, unable to wait any longer. Imatar motioned him down, but Emaque couldn’t crouch anymore. The green trees on the side of the river, the brown mud, the murky grayness of the river itself, were a balm to his eye. Since he had moved to Shadowlands, he’d missed color more than anything.
The river was widening as they reached the mouth. Emaque remembered this from the trip in, the Ze warning him about the sandbars and sudden drop-offs in this part of the river. He had been the first to speak to a Ze that night. Now all the Sailors used Zes when they could.
The Ze were long, eellike fish, with a passion for the slimy weeds that grew on the sides of rocks. For all their willingness to help, the Ze were little more than gossip fish who chose to go from rock to rock and to live their lives through the misfortune of others. On the way in to Blue Isle, Emaque had had to suffer through a steady stream of personal history about each creature that swam by in order to get the bits and pieces he needed about the passageways themselves.
He leaned on the railing and looked at the hull cutting through the water. The spray bit his cheeks, mixing with the soothing touch of the cold rain. The sensation, coming from something other than Fey creations, warmed him and took his mind off the treachery ahead.
“You shouldn’t be standing.” The voice made him start. Emaque turned. Kapad stood behind him, wearing water-protected rain gear. The droplets beaded on the wool, making him shimmer.
“It doesn’t matter,” Emaque said. “We’re almost to the mouth.”
“I know,” Kapad said. “I’m going to set up the link early. I don’t want any mistakes this time.”
Some of the crew of the fourth ship had blamed their failed mission on the Navigator and the Sailors. The crew claimed the Navigator didn’t link with the Sailors early enough, and hence missed the warnings of the Ze.
“Me first?” Emaque asked, hating to link with the Navigator before finding an intelligent creature below the waters that would lead. The Fey-to-Fey link always made him uncomfortable, invaded, a feeling he could avoid only by diving deep into a sea creature’s brain.
“You’re standing,” Kapad said. He held out a hand, wizened and crisscrossed with tiny scars. More than his name, the hand showed him part of the Black King’s generation. When Kapad had started, Navigators could link through any blood vessel on the hand. Now the regulations required that they link through the fingers only.
Emaque sighed and took one more quick glance at the trees, the water, and the rain. In a moment it would no longer be a private joy. He held out his right hand, extending the forefinger, and winced as Kapad pricked it with the small picker each Navigator received at the end of training. Emaque’s blood eased from his body then, dark and red as it mixed with the rain, dripping onto the deck below.
Kapad pricked his own finger, then held the fingers together. For a moment Emaque felt nothing, and then the link, like a small voice inside his head. The link from Fey to Fey was a Navigator skill that Emaque couldn’t replicate if he tried. It had evolved so that the Navigator could listen and respond to the information the Sailor pulled from the deep.
It felt as if part of Kapad settled right behind Emaque’s eyes. “Imatar next,” Kapad said, and the words created an odd echo effect, resounding first in Emaque’s head, and then repeated in his ears. “Why don’t you start delving for the Ze? The sooner we get help, the better. I’ll send over a crew member.”
Crew members always guarded Sailors, just in case, in their excitement, they tried to plunge overboard themselves. Emaque had never had the urge, but he had never met some of the creatures the older Sailors had.
Kapad crossed the deck, stopping to speak to one of the officers. No matter what Kapad’s orders, Emaque refused to start without a crew member present. During his training he had seen a Sailor dive over to be with a dolphin who had enticed him. The man hadn’t known how to swim and had died before the rescue crew and the dolphin could get him out of the water.
Emaque took a deep breath to calm himself. Almost free. Just through the Stone Guardians, where the mouth of the river dumped into the sea, and he would be away from Blue Isle for the rest of his life.
A young woman came up to him and identified herself as his watch. He looked her over: her body was long and wiry, with muscles corded on her arms. She had enough strength to hold him, if she had to.
“You ever done this before?” he asked. Across the deck Imatar and Kapad touched fingers.
She was staring at him solemnly, her brown eyes wide. “On Nye a few times, and on the way here,” she said. Her voice was soft, barely audible above the pounding of the rain.
“All right,” he said, relieved he didn’t have to go into a full explanation. “The important thing is to hold me no matter what. The last time a ship tried this channel, Islanders shot arrows at it. What you have to remember in a situation like that is that it might seem right for you to let me go and take care of yourself, but if I go, then the Navigator loses his way, and we all die.”
“Wh
at about the other one?” she asked, pointing to Imatar. He was standing alone now on the other side of the deck, watching Emaque. “What if you die and he lives?”
“Then we’re half-blind.” Emaque had heard the question before. Crew members often had no magick at all or small magicks like weak Domestic talents: the abilities to make ropes hold, ways to clean the deck and keep the wood from rotting, methods of keeping the food from spoiling. They did not like to be relied on, and hated the job of watching a Sailor. Sometimes Emaque thought that crew members did have magick, but their fear of responsibility kept their talents hidden.
We are only a few miles from the mouth. Kapad’s voice sounded tinny in Emaque’s head. I am at my station. The watch reports ships ahead.
Emaque sent a nonverbal acknowledgment; then he looked over the edge of the ship at the swirling water, his greatest fear clutching at his stomach. He always worried that below there would be no sentient creatures to lead them.
Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey Page 24
