“Before he took the prisoner to the dungeons,” Nicholas said, “Stephen had apparently told my father that the Fey could enchant a man and make him do their bidding.”
The Rocaan pushed himself out of the chair and walked over to the fire, holding his hands over the flame as if he had suddenly become cold. The room was too hot. Nicholas found it was difficult to take a deep breath.
“So you’re saying an enchantment can make a man die like a Fey?” Porciluna asked.
Nicholas shook his head. “I don’t know. But we do know that Stephen was working for them, and he died like them. And he was the only one who survived the attack in the passages.”
“Left there,” Matthias said. “Left there as a spy.”
“They stole blood and skin from the poor people they killed,” the Rocaan said. His voice sounded very far away. He was hunched over the fire as if he couldn’t quite stand upright. “Perhaps their magick requires blood in order to function.”
“What did Stephen say about the attack?” Porciluna asked.
“He said he couldn’t remember much,” Nicholas said. “It seemed believable. He was clearly hit on the head. I even attributed his personality change to the invasion, and to his injury. I never suspected that he would work for them.”
“Why not?” The Rocaan turned.
“Because he was too honorable,” Nicholas said. “He taught me that a sword is more than a weapon. It is a symbol of hope for our religion, and it has powers that should not be lightly used. He taught me to honor the sword, to thank it, and to use it with reverence. He also taught me to honor my enemies, to understand them, and to realize that in understanding them, I might gain more than I would ever gain in fighting them.”
“Perhaps this understanding led him to join their side,” Porciluna said.
Nicholas shook his head. “He knew more about the Fey than all of us combined. He had studied them. He had talked with people who fought them. When the Fey took over Nye, he thought it terrible. He believed they were voracious, that they absorbed cultures instead of letting them be. He would never have gone to them—not willingly.”
“The bones and the blood.” The Rocaan leaned against the fireplace, careful that his robes were nowhere near the fire itself. “They must be part of a magick ritual to take over a person—to ‘enchant,’ as the Prince said. And leaving them at the site must be part of the ritual.”
“If that’s the case,” Matthias said, “then the ritual in the sanctuary failed, and the one in the chapel was successful.”
“Because most of the bones were gone,” Porciluna said.
Nicholas shook his head. “This doesn’t seem right. Then what happened to Lord Powell? And why haven’t we found any more unconscious people?”
“Perhaps it happened too long before,” the Rocaan said.
“The blood was still wet in both cases,” Matthias said.
“A big stain like that would take time to dry,” Porciluna said.
“Yes, but we had Midnight Sacrament for the Elders the night before. Someone would have noticed it then, and the sanctuary was cleaned before that,” Matthias said.
“Andre conducted Morning Sacrament in the chapel for the staff,” Porciluna said. “He noticed nothing unusual.”
“Did you see if anyone saw anything odd?”
Matthias shook his head. “Both areas were empty for several hours before the blood was found. How long was Stephen unconscious?”
Nicholas shrugged. “We don’t know. It was well after dark when Lord Stowe began the search.”
The Rocaan stuck his hands into his pockets and walked toward them. “We are getting nowhere here. We have no knowledge, only speculation. But we have a solution.”
“Holy water,” Nicholas said.
The Rocaan smiled at him. “Yes. We test everyone to make certain they do not—melt, as the Prince so delicately put it—and we trust no one who refuses to touch the water.”
“I think we might need this at the palace as well,” Nicholas said. “We will need more than we have, I’m afraid.”
The Rocaan nodded. “I will see to it that you get some. Matthias, you will need to help me.”
“Pardon me, Holy Sir,” Nicholas said. “But if someone in the Tabernacle is working with the Fey, then the vials of holy water you already have might be tainted. It would take little to replace them with real water. You will need to keep the holy water in hands you can trust, and you will need to make certain that it is holy water you have in the vials. Is there a way to do that?”
The edges of the Rocaan’s eyes crinkled as if he was about to smile and was suppressing it. “We can do that,” he said. “I have already thought of it. The holy water I used with you I made myself just before we met.”
The two Elders did not seem startled by this news. “So far,” Matthias said, “we have been fortunate that the Roca provided us with a weapon against the Fey—”
The Rocaan winced at the word “weapon.” Nicholas filed the reaction away to think on later.
“—but that weapon will not serve us forever. They have not conquered half the world by being stupid. We have been lucky; they thought us easy to take. But we can’t lose that advantage now. We need to outthink them and anticipate them. The water is one way. There have to be others.”
“Why hasn’t anyone just told them to get off this damn Island?” Porciluna asked Nicholas.
The oath startled Nicholas. He glanced at the Rocaan and saw nothing in the man’s face that led him to believe Porciluna’s attitude was a problem. Apparently they all had wondered that.
“If they leave with a bottle of holy water, they put all their people at work on it. Once they find a way to neutralize it, they return with more ships, more power, and destroy us all.” Nicholas looked at Porciluna as he spoke. “It is a risk we do not want to take.”
“Yes,” the Rocaan said, “but this presupposes that we will not learn how to defend ourselves in their absence.”
Nicholas bit his lower lip. “I think the chances of that are less than the chances they will learn how to deal with us. Whom would we go to for information? And what would we do when we had it? Nye had years of warning before the Fey arrived, and did nothing. All of Galinas has struggled to defeat them. They have powers that we do not. And they use them. We cannot learn as quickly or as well.”
“Perhaps,” Matthias said, “we have other weapons at our disposal that we are not aware of.”
“The Roca’s sword?” the Rocaan asked. “The gold with which we decorate our Tabernacle? The food we eat? How would you test these theories, Matthias?”
The amount of anger in the Rocaan’s words made Nicholas want to back away. He held himself rigid, though, and pretended as if he had heard nothing unusual. He would have to report this, as well, to his father. The last thing they needed was divisiveness among the Rocaanists.
“I am merely suggesting,” Matthias said slowly, as if he were speaking to a child, “that Blue Isle might have advantages Galinas never had.”
The Rocaan stood. “We are wasting our time discussing things to which we have no answers. Matthias, you are to come with me. I will send a delivery of holy water to the palace, Highness, and I will test the messenger before it leaves here. You should test again on the other end.” He nodded at Nicholas. Porciluna and Matthias stood reluctantly. Nicholas remained seated, the unease he had felt since he had arrived growing.
The Rocaan made his way to the door, the red velvet in his robe sweeping behind him. He placed his hand on the knob and then turned to Nicholas. “I think we forget, Highness, that the Roca, in all his wisdom, swore to protect us. We merely have to understand how those protections work.” He smiled. His features looked gentle in the fading light. “We will be safe. I know it.”
FIFTY-ONE
Solanda was tired and thirsty by the time she reached the end of the path. She had followed the voice, a small command in the back of her head, for miles until the path began to trail the side of
a stream. Daisies grew alongside it, big white flowers that had no scent. She had never seen so many in one place. They hid the grass, making the banks of the stream look white. She walked around them, past a large tree that split the path, and onto a clearing.
Her tongue protruded from her lips, and she was panting. But she wasn’t certain if the water was safe to drink, and so she pressed on. When she reached the bushes that separated the forest from the clearing, she stuck her head through them and stared.
Several cabins stood in a small semicircle. Only a few were as fine as the abandoned one she had seen. Children played around an oak stump so large that the Fey would have used it for a meeting place. Five boys and three girls of varying ages danced in a circle, singing, their hands clasped.
Solanda sat down. The words of the song sounded like nonsense, although she wasn’t sure of that. The dance was a familiar one—she had seen older Fey use it to create a Ground Circle before opening a door into Shadowlands. How strange that small children this far from Jahn had learned the same thing.
Or perhaps not so strange. Any beings that stood upright might think to join hands and dance in a circle. The difference was that here she didn’t understand the song. And the song was probably what created the magick.
A woman stood near one of the houses, a basket of wash on her hip. Her breasts were enlarged from a recent pregnancy, and she smelled of milk. But the baby scent was not the one Solanda was following. The woman watched the children with a parent’s intensity. In the distance men’s voices were shouting rhythmically, as if they were working. The breeze carried the odors of sweat, children, and fresh fish.
Instantly Solanda’s mouth watered. It had been a long time since she had eaten. The voice in her head was still, as it had been in the house. She had found the place she was meant to be.
Approaching the woman seemed best. Women on this Island seemed to have a special fondness for cats, as if the animal’s grace and freedom appealed to them. Solanda had seen little grace or freedom among Island women.
Solanda walked out of the clearing, careful to brush in some dead leaves as she did so. The grass was soft beneath her paws: this part of the Island had no troubles with drought. If anything, it was a bit swampy. She would bet that the river overflowed at least once a year.
The children continued to dance. Up close, their words were no clearer and the melody was unfamiliar. The woman sighed and smiled, placing a hand on her other hip. She looked as if she wanted to call one of the children away but was unwilling to break up the group.
Solanda was afraid the woman would leave before she had a chance to catch her attention.
Another woman came out of the second house. This woman was older, with the loose, wrinkled skin brought on by malnutrition and age. Her clothing was clean, though, and well tended, even though it had a lot of mended rips. And, oddly, she smelled of baby.
A familiar baby.
Solanda’s ears pricked forward.
“. . . doesn’t like them playing this kind of game now that the Fey have arrived on the Isle,” the first woman was saying. “He believes that any mention of magick is enough to bring them too close.”
“Superstition isn’t going to get us anywhere,” the older woman said. Her voice was deep and tired. “The Fey are too ruthless to be popping in and out of a scene every time someone speaks of magick.”
She spoke with authority. She must have been in Jahn during some of the battles. Only skirmishes occurred this far out. Solanda crossed the small dirt path, away from the children, and staggered the last step toward the women. She wound around the first woman’s legs, meowing plaintively.
The woman stepped away. “Look at that filthy thing, Eleanora. Where did it come from?”
Solanda bristled. She was not filthy. She had made sure of that. Besides, she thought Island women liked cats.
“Oh, I think she’s beautiful,” the older woman—Eleanora—said, and crouched, holding out her hands. “Come here, gorgeous.”
Solanda stopped winding around the first woman’s legs and peered suspiciously at Eleanora. At least she didn’t use that awful baby speak so many people used with cats. And she waited until Solanda was willing to come to her.
“Don’t go near it,” the first woman said. “They carry disease. You’ll bring it to Coulter.”
“Nonsense,” Eleanora said. “I have lived near cats all my life. They’re obsessed with cleanliness.” She hadn’t broken her eye contact with Solanda. “Come here, beautiful. I promise not to hurt you.”
The first woman took another step back. “What will you do with it when you get it?”
Solanda was now free of the woman’s legs. She didn’t move, preferring to watch Eleanora from a distance.
“I’ll feed her and give her some water. She looks like she hasn’t had any for a long time.” Eleanora hadn’t moved her hands. She was used to cats. “Hey, gorgeous, I have a rug in front of the fire, a little extra fish, and lots of water.”
With a soft meow Solanda went over to Eleanora and sniffed her fingers. They smelled of fish and baby sweat.
“That’s it, gorgeous. I won’t hurt you.” Eleanora used a soothing tone, a gentling tone, but one that held respect, not contempt. In spite of herself, Solanda was growing to like this woman.
Solanda rubbed her mouth against the woman’s hand, dripping a bit of saliva onto the woman’s skin. Now her own scent mixed with that of the baby. So far, the voice hadn’t returned to her head. She was apparently on the right track.
Eleanora cupped Solanda’s chin. The gesture was friendly, not confining. “Would you like to come in and have some dinner?”
Solanda purred. Eleanora let go of Solanda’s chin and then went to the next cabin. The children were still singing behind them. Solanda followed Eleanora.
“You’re a fool, Eleanora,” the other woman said.
Eleanora ignored her.
The steps up to the cabin were coarse, the wood poorly sanded. The small porch had been made later, out of logs, and was uneven. As Solanda stepped across the threshold, she was assaulted by smells: fresh bread, fresh fish, and dirty diapers. The main room had toys on the floor, and an expensive iron mesh in front of the fireplace, probably to keep the baby away from the flames. There was no real kitchen to speak of, only a pantry that lacked a separate fireplace. The bread must have come from someone else.
Eleanora poured milk from a pitcher into a bowl, then put the bowl on the ground. Solanda drank it, even though she knew too much would give her the trots. She didn’t care. If it got too bad, she could go into the woods and be Fey for a few hours. That would take care of any discomfort.
“I don’t have a lot of fish. It spoils fast unless I pickle it. Better to let you finish these last few bites.” The woman spoke as she worked, pulling bones from the flesh before setting pieces on a small plate. Solanda appreciated the effort. Here was a woman who cared about beings smaller than herself.
When she put the plate in front of Solanda, Solanda’s feline side took over. She inhaled the food so quickly, she barely had a chance to taste it. Then she sat on her haunches and cleaned her face, slowly and delicately, making certain no pieces of fish fell off her whiskers onto the floor.
Eleanora took the plate away. “Liked that, did you? Well, then. We always have a bit extra if you want to stay.”
For the moment she did. Solanda finished cleaning and then spread out on the small rug before the hearth. She closed her eyes, meaning to doze, but all the travel of the last few days finally got to her, and she slept.
A shriek woke her. She opened her eyes to see a small boy wearing only a diaper walking toward her, his pudgy legs spread wide and thumping in the ungainly fashion of a being that has just learned to walk. She feigned sleep, figuring she could sprint away if she had to, as the toddler got to her. His fat fingers were clutching the air in anticipation of reaching her. He was bending over when Eleanora appeared and scooped him in her arms.
“No, Coul
ter. Be nice to the kitty.”
Exactly, Solanda thought, and then she stretched herself awake. And as she awoke, she studied the child. He was the one whom she was there for. She knew it with a depth that matched her ability to Shape-Shift. Something about this child had drawn her miles away from her home.
He looked no different from other boys of his age. He had big curious eyes—blue—a color she had never seen in Fey children—and hair too brown to be called blond. His legs were still pudgy enough to have dimples for knees, and his toddler’s stomach protruded over his diapers. He was jabbering at the woman who held him. Baby speak: half real words, half a garble of sounds. Solanda didn’t even try to follow the train of thought.
Instead she rolled onto her back and revealed her belly to him, more as a sign to Eleanora that Solanda was worthy of trust. She needed some time there, to see what made the child special, and she could use the fresh food. Besides, a bit of diversion from life in the Shadowlands would be nice.
Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey Page 41
