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.”
“And the best,” the Rocaan said. “For as many tales of horror, there are tales of giving. Have faith. Not just in Roca, but in Blue Isle itself.”
“It is hard, Holy Sir,” Porciluna said. “Blue Isle is no longer a place I know.”
“It is no longer a place any of us know,” the Rocaan said. “But hardship should bring us closer to each other, not pull us apart. And it is the duty of the Church to maintain unity.”
Even as he said the words, he winced inwardly. By making the holy water a weapon, a tool of destruction, he had ruined the Church’s chance to play a benevolent role in this crisis.
Even the Elders had forgotten the mission of Rocaanism. It was time he put things right.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Rugar sat on the Meeting Block in the center of Shadowlands. The sound of pounding wood echoed hollowly from all directions. It had taken three weeks for his people to find the best location for the larger Shadowlands, and a week for him to build it properly before he could allow anyone to move in. The Battle for Jahn had left him exhausted—more by the failure than anything—and the following skirmishes did nothing to rest him.
At least this Shadowlands was the proper kind for a military base. He didn’t spend most of his time repairing the walls or making sure the ships were linked. The ships remained in the first Shadowlands, in Jahn Harbor. This new Shadowlands was outside of Jahn near some abandoned cabins in a deserted section of woods. The loneliness of this place made foraging difficult, but it also ensured that the Islanders did not attack.
The Shadowlands was like a great box with nothing inside, but it did have a top, a bottom, and walls. They were barriers to the touch and felt solid but had no visible form. Somehow the air came throug
h those barriers. Shadowlands made by poor Visionaries or inexperienced leaders sometimes did not have that quality, and the air disappeared quickly. More than one campaign had lost soldiers because a poorly equipped leader had tried—and failed—to build a proper Shadowlands.
This one now looked like no Shadowlands he had ever seen before. Most he had lived in had been for a week or two during a campaign in a specific location. Some Shadowlands had been for leaders only and were like a personal tent. Others had tents inside for the troops. But none had individual buildings like this one.
Getting the wood had been most difficult. He had sent parties out in groups of five to chop trees and bring them into the Shadowlands, where Domestics molded them to the proper shape. There still weren’t enough homes for everyone. Many crowded into cabins much too small. The Shadowlands had space enough, but getting materials had been the problem.
As were other supplies. He had nightmares about water, dreaming that the Islanders had switched the water supply with their poison, and all the Fey in the Shadowlands were dying of thirst. The Domestics had said that they could purify waste water and had convinced him to keep a store of it, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that unless there was an actual emergency. Instead, he sent parties to the Cardidas every day to bring back the needed buckets.
Jewel was presently overseeing the rationing of the day’s water. He was so thankful to have her beside him, and even more thankful for Silence, who had saved her. She had stumbled back late the evening of the First Battle for Jahn, wearing a bloody Islander robe, her wrists bruised, telling the horrific tale of being held by these Islanders. Rugar had forbidden her to leave the Shadowlands since.
He couldn’t wait for her to join him. News was long in coming from the Uehe. It had him half-worried and half-excited. The scouts he had sent to the mouth of the Cardidas weren’t back, and they knew he wanted word immediately. The longer they waited, the better the chance that the ship had made it through the treacherous channel.
He hoped it would. He prayed it would. He used all his powers, limited as they were on effecting the future, to ensure it would. Unless a ship got out, the Fey had no chance of leaving this place.
The pounding made his head throb. He had had to live with that pounding since they had moved to this Shadowlands. New houses, new construction all the time. He had his people prepare for a long siege, and he wanted them to be comfortable. He wished he could make it so that they would have nothing to worry about, but that seemed beyond his power. Even food had become an issue.
They could grow nothing in there. The formlessness of the Shadowlands did not allow anything to be planted in the ground. Many of the Domestics brought soil in from the outside and built large soil boxes so that they could grow gardens. So far they weren’t working. Jewel had suggested tending gardens outside the abandoned hovels—and if the Domestics couldn’t make a go of the interior gardens, he would give it some thought. Instead he sent his people out in raids. Usually for meat, but sometimes to steal vegetables from unsuspecting Islanders.
So much balancing. He had never worked so hard or worried so much in his life. Campaigns had always been difficult, but not like this, where he had to take into account everything, from housing his troops to feeding and clothing them.
Someone laughed behind him. He turned. Jewel was threading her way through the stacked wood that the Domestics were molding for the house to be built in the back of the Meeting Block. He still couldn’t get used to the lack of color in the Shadowlands. The odd opaqueness made her look sickly: her dark skin mottled, her black hair colorless. She waved when she saw him. He waved back.
She was speaking to Burden, who laughed again. He touched her arm—an easy gesture that turned into a caress. Rugar straightened. Burden was overstepping himself. He had ever since the night of the First Battle for Jahn, as if he had some moral superiority over Rugar. As if his actions in the battle had given him a right to Jewel. She wasn’t dissuading him, and Rugar liked that even less. Too many children were conceived out of boredom. He didn’t want his daughter to be tied to a child in a place like the Shadowlands.
Jewel slipped out of Burden’s grasp and ran to her father. Her hair flew behind her, and he smiled in spite of himself. She was beautiful. Even in this gray place his daughter had a joy that made everything lighter.
She sat beside him, crossing her legs as he had done, knees meeting. “Water rationed,” she said. “It’s getting easier all the time. Everyone is bringing the right-sized containers now, and no one is fighting anymore. Pretty soon we might be able to let them collect water on their own.”
He shook his head. “Someone would always take too much.”
“We almost have too much in storage right now,” she said. “Gia says we’ll have to build another storage tank soon.”
“Good,” he said. “Right now we can’t have enough.”
She leaned back and placed her hands flat on the Meeting Block, gazing up at the opaqueness that anywhere else would have been sky. “You think the scouts are dead?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not willing to speculate.”
“The last time, the scouts made it back after the survivors,” she said reflectively.
“The last time, the Islanders fought from the land. If they had fought from the sea, then the scouts would have come back first.”
“You know,” she said, still not looking at him, “I’ve often wondered why no one has come for us. Grandfather should have sent reinforcements by now. The Black King never lets a force stand on its own for longer than a month or two. Do you think he’s all right?”
“He’s fine,” Rugar said.
She sat up. “You’ve heard from him?”
“No,” Rugar said. “I just know he’s not coming.”
The words hung between them. She ran a hand over her long hair, smoothing it, then grabbed a strand and twisted it around her forefinger. Finally she said, “That’s what you were fighting about that day in Nye, that day I was waiting for you. He said he wouldn’t back you up.”
Rugar looked at his hands. That conversation lived in his head, moment by moment, day by day. He had thought that when he became an adult, he would make good choices, strong choices. He had thought that his father was too out of touch with his people to know the future. He had forgotten that the Black King was a great Visionary, greater perhaps than Rugar, because the Black King had had decades to perfect his magic. What had his father Seen? And why hadn’t he said anything?
“I’m right, aren’t I?” she asked. “He didn’t want us to come here.”
Rugar swallowed. He couldn’t keep this inside anymore. “He said that our people were tired of fighting, that they needed a few years to rest and to enjoy the fruits of their triumphs. Some soldiers, like me, had fought their entire lives, and now it was time to reward them. He said that to push on with the battle was to force our people to a place where they could lose for the first time in our memories.”
“He was right,” Jewel said, drawing her knees to her chest.
“We know that now,” Rugar said. “But he could have been wrong.”
“Why’d he let you go?”
“Wisdom.” Rugar had thought that through too. “It allowed him to get on with the business of ruling his Empire without the distractions. But he was angry that I took you.”
“I wanted to go,” Jewel said.
Rugar nodded. “And you were in my Vision of this place. Jewel, I swear to you, I saw you walking through that Islander palace as if you owned it. An older you. I thought it meant we had won.”
“We’re not done yet.” She rested her chin on her knees. “I want to know why Grandfather thought us a distraction.”
Rugar glanced around. The pounding continued, but Burden had left, and he didn’t see any others around him. “It was brilliant when I finally realized what he had done.” Rugar sighed. “You’re too young to remember, but when I was a boy, we stopped the fighting for a year. We had a truc
e with L’Nacin, and we might have stopped our westward march at that point, but a lot of our soldiers didn’t adapt to civilian life. Many couldn’t even tolerate guard duty—no action. So they formed outlaw bands, marauders, and they pillaged L’Nacin, raping and murdering, and then selling what they stole, even if the booty was slight. There are always people who cannot let go of the excitement of war. So your grandfather remembered this and ordered me to take only volunteers, thinking that the people who volunteered for this mission would be the ones who would have gone outlaw otherwise.”
“Some didn’t come willingly.”
“That’s true,” Rugar said. “Some came because I’m their commander, not the Black King. And some came because they don’t believe the Fey should stop with Galinas. Still others came because they love fighting.”
Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey Page 26
