He saw holy water everywhere. One of the Auds had brought him a flask of wine with his luncheon, and he had poured it into a mug, staring at it for the longest time, his tongue dry with thirst, wondering if the wine was made with the poison. But he knew it wasn’t—or at least the Andre part of himself knew. Still, his hand shook as he brought it to his mouth to drink.
Even as Tel walked the halls, leaving the meeting and coming back to his rooms, he saw the water. Auds cleaning the walls, buckets of brownish liquid filled with damp cloths beside them, filled him with terror.
And to his surprise, none of the terror was worth it. He had thought that if he took over one of the Rocaan’s assistants, an Elder, he would learn the secret to the poison, only to discover that no one but the Rocaan himself knew how to make the stuff.
No wonder the old man had looked haggard and ill since the Fey had arrived.
Tel wasn’t quite sure how to get the information either. Did he become the old man? What if the holy water was part of the old man’s makeup? What if, in becoming Rocaan, some part of the body changed? Tel could imagine himself, covered with blood, trying to absorb the old man, only to feel himself melting as so many other victims had. The image left him in the uncomfortable wooden chair, feet pressed together and hands wringing. He knew this place was safe, except for the cabinet near the door, where Andre kept his own supply of holy water, for both worship and protection.
The Rocaanists all imbued the water with mystical qualities. Andre had believed that the Roca gave them the water as a protection. Its use in Midnight Sacrament had taken on a special meaning to him after the Fey had arrived. Andre believed that the Roca had known about the Fey and had given the water to the Islanders as protection.
Not a bad idea, when one thought about it, although Tel didn’t know how a man at the dawn of time had known that invaders would arrive at Blue Isle now. Perhaps the Roca really had had the Ear of God.
Tel shook himself and stood up. Andre had a loose body that Tel had tied into knots. He moved his shoulders, hearing the cracks and pops. If only he could return to the stables, where he could work with the horses and ignore the crisis around him. He had snapped at Solanda because he had known she was right: he had gone to that place all Doppelgängers were warned about, the place where it became more comfortable to be someone else than to be himself.
He wouldn’t make that mistake here.
He was running the risk of making a different mistake. He had been told in his training all those long years ago that Doppelgängers risked their lives for the troops. No Doppelgänger was more at risk than Tel was right now. And he was so frightened, he wanted nothing more than to be in his room.
Still, he had other problems to contend with. He was supposed to conduct Midnight Sacrament that night—actually handle vials with the holy water in it—and he was supposed to meet his contact at the same time. He wasn’t sure how he was going to accomplish both tasks.
No one ever got out of Midnight Sacrament. It was one of the most important duties an Elder could perform. He paced on the bare stone floor, his hands clasped behind his back. He had to find a way out of this, and he had to do it soon. Because if he didn’t show up at the meeting place, the messenger would assume he was dead, and he would have no help from Rugar.
Assume he was dead. Tel sat down. If they assumed he was dead, he could go back to being a groom. Life as a stable boy wasn’t glamorous, but it was safe. And the Fey weren’t going to get off this island for a long, long time.
A shudder ran through him. He knew what he was contemplating. If he got caught, the Shaman would speak his punishment. Tel had seen a Doppelgänger punished for abandoning his duties just once. The Doppelgänger was forced to go through a dozen Nye prisoners, changing into one after another in rapid succession until his own being broke under the strain. Then he was whisked away by the Spell Warders to be used in their strange and secretive experiments.
No one ever heard from him again.
Tel gazed out the window. In the courtyard below, children played a game under the supervision of an Aud. Normally, Andre would be down there, but Tel couldn’t stomach playing with Islander children. Not at this juncture. He believed the meeting covered him: all of the Elders had been stressed by it. Matthias had a look of trapped terror, and Porciluna’s face remained red during the entire thing. Tel had spent most of the meeting wondering about the additional bloodstain. Had Rugar sent another Doppelgänger there?
If so, then Tel might be less important than he thought. He could leave, and no one would be the wiser.
Except the other Doppelgänger, who, if he too were present at the meeting, would know that Tel was around. What if they both left? Then the Fey were doomed never to learn the secret.
Happy screams, mixed with laughter, floated up from below. The children came there every afternoon at Andre’s instigation, although he wasn’t always part of the playtime. Andre had believed that indoctrinating the children young—and making such indoctrination fun—would help the religion. It had worked so far, and it had made Andre the Rocaan’s favorite.
Tel turned away from the window and leaned on the cold stone wall. He wiped a hand over his face. If he merely stayed where he was, and was cautious, he might learn the secret of the holy water from the Rocaan. Or he could transfer to Matthias’s body after a few days. Andre’s memory said that Matthias had also learned the secret on the day of the First Battle for Jahn.
The key was to do both the Midnight Sacrament and to meet his contact. The contact would wait. It would be part of his instruction to give a Doppelgänger as much time to arrive as possible. If Tel made it through the Midnight Sacrament, no one would know who he was. He would be trusted completely.
The shaking returned. He rubbed his hands together. He couldn’t wear gloves—he wasn’t even sure that would work. Even if it did, gloves were not an option. The Elder had to pour the holy water onto cloths he touched with his bare hands.
But the Rocaan had given him a solution earlier. Tel just hadn’t seen it until now.
He hadn’t been willing to see it until now.
They were going to switch all the holy water with holy water the Rocaan especially prepared. Tel was an Elder. The Auds would trust him. Excitement built in his stomach, making the trembling worse. Now all he had to do was find a source of vials and clean water.
The Cardidas had clean water. And he could get the children to help him haul it up as one of Andre’s games. No one questioned Andre’s games.
A relief filled him that was so strong, he felt his face flush. He was ready to be a Doppelgänger again. He would discover the riddle of the poison, and then he would leave Blue Isle. Forever.
FIFTY-FOUR
The Rocaan paused and rubbed his eyes, wincing as the dirt from his fingers made the stinging worse. He hadn’t spent a long time at study in years. He leaned back in the wooden chair he had placed in front of his scrolled desk, listening to the wood creak beneath his weight. His eyes were tearing. He needed better light.
He stood slowly—he had been sitting in the same position since Alexander’s boy had left him hours before—and gripped the back of the chair. The others thought the Rocaan was working on the holy water, but that was Matthias’s task for the day. The Rocaan would do his in the morning when he was feeling fresh and alert.
Tonight he would continue his search for answers and draw his own conclusions without the benefit of Matthias’s twisted scholarly mind. Today the Rocaan had reread the Words Written, trying to see if he had forgotten anything, misinterpreted anything, failed to understand anything. He found himself skimming the familiar text, and after a while, he had to force himself to read aloud. Even that hadn’t helped completely, because he started adding the Words Unwritten, like a descant floating high above a melody. Belief did not seem to allow for thought. The Words had taken the position of ritual so long ago for him that he couldn’t even remember when they had been fresh.
If they had ever been
fresh.
His father used to recite the Words before each meal, and the Rocaan had grown up chanting the text of his religion as if it were the lyrics to a song. Perhaps he had never sought meaning before. Perhaps what he most resented about Matthias was not his lack of belief, but his ability to set the recitation aside and see the Words for what they really were.
Try as he might, the Rocaan could not see the Words Written for what they were, but what the religion had intended them to be, a small part of the ritual, a part of the teaching, a part of the healing. For hidden between the lines of the text were the Words Unwritten, and behind those were the stories that provided the backbone of the faith. Stories illustrated by the ancient paintings in the Tabernacle, by the oral histories, not considered part of the Words, memorized by one particular Elder—in this case Eirman—to chant at Absorption Day Services.
A rap on the door startled the Rocaan out of his reverie. Instead of bidding the knocker—he knew it had to be an Aud—to come in, he went to the door himself and looked through the view slit. The Aud who stood in the corridor was impossibly young, perhaps no more than fifteen, a boy who barely had enough age to make a lifelong decision, and who probably hadn’t. The Rocaan was half tempted to open the door and demand if the boy’s parents had forced him there as they had Matthias, or if the boy had come of his own free will.
Instead he pulled the bar back and opened the door, blocking the boy’s entrance with one hand placed on the door frame, his arm against the opening. “I would like dinner brought to my room,” he said, not allowing the boy a chance to speak. “I will light my own fire and lamps tonight.”
The boy nodded, his face flushing red as he moved. Then he bowed his head and disappeared down the corridor, his bare feet slapping against the carpet. The Rocaan waited until the boy was gone before closing the door. He had always thought it ridiculous that the leaders of the Church were waited on like nobility. If anything, they should be the servants, working to help the others. But somewhere someone had decided that the Elders and the Rocaan needed care if they were to continue the spiritual quest, and their material needs were provided for them.
But perhaps it was the physical needs that provided the spiritual insights. Lord knew how distant he had become from his God, his fellows, and himself since he had become Rocaan. And he should have become closer.
When he’d been a boy, watching the Rocaan at an outdoor service near Kenniland Marshes, he had thought it would be such a magickal thing to be Beloved of God, and all that it implied. The Holy One would sit on the Rocaan’s shoulder, and the Roca himself would act as guide. The Rocaan had never coveted the position for himself—to do so would be to violate all the tenets of his faith—but when he found he had it, he had thought that something, someone, would swoop down from above and bless him, that he would truly feel Beloved of God.
Instead, he was an old, tired man with no hopes, no dreams, and no understandings.
He pushed away from the door, grabbed flint and a candle, and lit it. Then he lifted the cones off lamps and touched the candle to the wicks. The Auds were usually more frugal, lighting only the lamps near the Rocaan’s bed and near his favorite chair. But he lit every lamp in the room. Finally he eased his elderly body into a crouch and built a fire, as he used to do when he was an Aud, serving the Danite in charge of his parish almost sixty years before. His hands still remembered the routine.
He opened the grate, then piled the wood on the stone, added kindling and tinder, and lit the fire. The Danite he had served had never had fires of this size. He had always saved the wood for his Auds, so that they would have enough for their common room where they said their daily prayers. But wood wasn’t plentiful in the Kenniland Marshes, although it was near Jahn. The forests here were thick and strong, replanted each season like any other crop.
His legs were wobbling from the strain of the position. He braced one hand on the stone side of the fireplace, another on the floor, and stood. Not much strength left in his old body. What little of it he had once had was leached by sitting all day, eating and sleeping in comfort. His father had not lived this long. He had died when the Rocaan was still an Aud, digging in the marshes for mushrooms. They had not found his body for nearly a week.
The Rocaan leaned against the fireplace after he stood, feeling the warmth of the flame through his velvet robe. Then he turned, staring at the room, ablaze in light. As he had hoped, the faint paintings and etchings became visible.
On the ceiling above him, the Roca receiving the blessing of a child. This etching, like the others, was done in gold, and showed only in the right light. The wall behind his desk showed the first Rocaan receiving the approval of the Holy One in a blaze of white light. He didn’t know much about the First Rocaan. No one kept the oral histories then, except of the Roca himself. He wasn’t even sure how long the First Rocaan had served. He supposed he could figure it out, roughly, using generations and averages of the ages of the Rocaans, but even that would not be right. What of the Thirtieth Rocaan, who put on his ceremonial sword and fainted, never to wake again? He was God’s Beloved for a matter of weeks only, as was the Twenty-fifth Rocaan, who was stabbed by an insane Aud just after the ceremony. Nor did it account for his predecessor, the Forty-ninth Rocaan, who’d been touched by the Hand of God as a boy and who had become an Elder by the age of thirty, Rocaan by the age of thirty-one, and who was God’s Beloved for over sixty years.
The oral histories were imperfect gatherings of fact, put together by men who had no concept of the things that would be important to faith. Who were the Soldiers of the Enemy? Not even Matthias could find that. Nor could the Rocaan find any other reference to them in the Words Written and Unwritten. He knew of no other paintings of them, except those that showed the Roca’s Absorption to the Hand of God. And in those they were small men in armor, their backs to the viewer or their faces obscured by the Roca’s light.
The Rocaan’s legs were giving out on him. He stumbled to a chair and sank into it, covering his face with his hands. Blue Isle had not needed a history before. Islanders were a group, unified by their homeland, separated by rivers and marshes and mountains. While they spoke of history, they did not use it for much besides storytelling, not like the Nye, who believed that the past, not the future, held the secret to their existence. Islanders believed that God held that secret, and belief in God was sufficient for all their needs.
Until last year it had been.
Now he wondered if the Nye weren’t right. And if the Islanders hadn’t lost more than stories when they’d let go of their past. The Rocaan was an old man, and he remembered little of his childhood. The King could recite his lineage, a long string of names that went back to the Roca himself. The Rocaan leaned his head on the back of the chair and whispered, “ ‘And when the Roca Ascended, his two sons stepped forward. The eldest said he would stand in the Roca’s place as Leader of Men, and then a voice came from the Sky—in a peal of thunder—and commanded that the second son take the Roca’s place as Beloved of God. And from that moment to this, only second sons could become Elders and then Beloved of God.’ “
The Rocaan himself was a second son, as had been the Rocaan before him, and the Rocaan before him. The King was always the eldest son. How odd, though, with the commandment in the story buried in the Words Unwritten, that “second sons could become Elders and then Beloved of God.” Not second sons of the King, nor second sons of the current Rocaan, but second sons only. It was as if an admonition had been dropped. Why make the Kingship hereditary and the Rocaan not? Had Rocaanism lost its power because the Rocaan did not have the King’s blood?
Despite the warmth of the fire, the Rocaan shivered. A chill had risen in the back of his neck and traveled down his spine. Alexander had had only one child, a son. Alexander’s father had had only one child as well. There was no way to test the theory, no way to see if the second son of the King would ascend if touched by holy water and a ceremonial sword. Had a King failed to have two sons? H
ad a Rocaan failed to reproduce? Or was the stricture against women in Rocaanism a constant from the beginning? Even that the Rocaan did not know.
When the Forty-ninth Rocaan had summoned this Rocaan to his deathbed, the dying man had touched the younger man’s forehead with a finger dipped in holy water, drawing a sword on the Rocaan’s forehead. You shall be Blessed of God, the dying Rocaan had said. Then he had closed his eyes and whispered, May God forgive me. For decades the Rocaan had wondered what his predecessor meant. He had been filled with such sorrow and such joy at the moment: sorrow at the loss of a mentor, and joy at being chosen to succeed him. In the next few days the dying Rocaan had shared what little energy he had, making the new Rocaan Keeper of the Secrets.
The Secrets. He reviewed them each night like a ritual prayer, but he did not understand most of them. Like the Ritual of Absorption, which no Rocaan had ever performed, but which had traveled down from the beginning of the religion. Perhaps that ritual was as garbled as the Words Unwritten. Perhaps parts were missing, parts forgotten by elderly, dying men trying to carry on a tradition.
A knock sounded at the door, followed by a soft voice identifying the Aud who had left earlier. The Rocaan moved his hands from his face and sighed.
Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey Page 43
