"The King knew that peace is better than war. It's a lesson that you might remember, Holy Sir."
"And you might remember that you are addressing the Rocaan, your leader."
"I do not believe you represent the Roca. I do not believe you are Beloved of God. I believe that the 50th Rocaan chose you because he believed he would return, and I think that's where he made his mistake. He tried to make you his guarantee, thinking God would never allow a man like you to become 51st Rocaan, and God showed him otherwise. 'An arrogant man always suffers for his pride.'"
Matthias looked at Titus. Titus's cheeks were flushed with a fervor that Matthias had never experienced. "You're the one who is being arrogant now," Matthias said. "You have no knowledge of the 50th Rocaan. You were a child when he died."
"I was fourteen," Titus said, "and I had survived my Charge. I went into the Fey's shadow world unprotected and alone."
"You think that gives you a moral superiority over the rest of us?" Matthias asked. "It shows only that they had a use for you alive."
"You see things only as they exist in this world, not as they exist in the spiritual realm," Titus said.
"I see things as they are," Matthias said. He put a hand on the wall and eased himself up, holding back a moan as he did so. He would be sore thanks to Nicholas's moment of temper.
"If you saw things as they are, you would know that the King is right. God cannot allow you to live."
Matthias straightened and looked down on Titus. "If there's anything I've learned in my years in the Tabernacle, it's to not second-guess God."
"Yet you speak with such surety of God's hand in the deaths you've caused." Titus stood as well.
"You know I could take your robe for this insolence."
"But you won't," Titus said.
"No," Matthias said. "I won't." He studied the boy for a moment. Titus was shorter than Matthias, and stockier, but hardy. No one would think him important because he wasn't important. "I have something else in mind for you."
Titus wiped his hands on his robe, then shook the dirt from the floor off. Some of the threads hung to the floor. The breeze from the window had grown chill. Matthias was tired. He wanted nothing more than to rest in his apartments. But he didn't have time for that. He couldn't ignore this many warnings. To do so would be foolish.
"I am not certain I will do what you tell me," Titus said.
"Based on what?" Matthias said. "I am still Rocaan."
"But not rightly so."
"You cannot determine the right or wrong of any situation. You are only a Danite."
"I still know what feels proper."
Matthias smiled. "You follow your heart because you're unwilling to study. But now you will have to study."
Titus clasped his hands in front of him. "Why?"
"Because I am going to give you the Secrets."
Titus took a step backward. He hit the altar, nearly knocking it over, and caught it with his left hand. "You can't," he said, finally appearing his age. "I'm a Danite. You have to teach an Elder."
"I don't have to teach anyone," Matthias said.
"But that means I'll be your successor."
Matthias shook his head. "I warned you, Titus. You need to study more."
Titus was gripping the altar with his left hand, the knuckles white.
"The 50th Rocaan gave me the secret to holy water long before he made me his successor. It was custom among the early Rocaans to give the Secrets to a trusted Aud." Matthias smiled. "Of course, if the Aud did not progress in his studies, he often died when the next Rocaan was chosen."
"That's not true!" Titus said.
"It's very true," Matthias said. "The history of the Tabernacle is full of unexplained deaths, betrayals and counterbetrayals. The early Rocaans were not as secure in their powers as some of the later ones. The practice died out around the Tenth Rocaan. But it was allowed, even encouraged, for the very reasons you're encouraging me."
"I'll check the history before I agree," Titus said.
Matthias crossed his arms, ignoring the pull in his back. "Why, Titus? Are you afraid?"
"I'm not afraid," Titus said.
"You're not? You don't want the power of life or death over the Fey?"
"I would never use holy water as a weapon," Titus said.
"Never?" Matthias asked. "Not even if I die?"
"I don't know what your death has to do with it," Titus said.
Matthias was beginning to feel stronger. Titus was right. The binding helped. He could no longer feel the blood running down his back. "If I die without choosing the next Rocaan, the Elders will choose him. What if that Rocaan wants to use holy water to attack the Fey? You have to teach him the Secret, Titus."
"And if I won't?"
Matthias shrugged. "The death of the church will be on your shoulders, not mine."
Titus moved behind the altar, using it as a block between himself and Matthias. "You're a cruel man, Holy Sir."
Matthias shook his head. "A realistic one."
"Why teach me?"
"I thought you heard my conversation with the King."
"Only the parts he shouted."
"He didn't shout, Titus."
"He raised his voice."
Matthias remembered Nicholas speaking in whispers. He would have to see if there were echo chambers built around this room. It was old enough, and it had been used as a headquarters once. Such devices might make sense.
"I will teach you because you are a Danite," Matthias said. "You cannot, even by a vote of Elders, become Rocaan. You cannot kill me for the privilege of taking my power. And one of the conditions of knowing the Secrets is that you reveal that knowledge to no one."
"That can't be a condition," Titus said. "We know you know them."
"I am Rocaan," Matthias said. "You know I now possess the Secrets, but you don't know when I learned them."
"We know you learned holy water the day of the Invasion."
"Did I?" Matthias asked. "Or did the Rocaan say that to reassure the others?"
"Are all Rocaans as devious as you?" Titus asked.
"If they want to survive," Matthias said. "Only if they want to survive."
FORTY-THREE
The boy huddled in the middle of the table, his arms wrapped around his legs. He peered over his knees, watching Touched's every movement. Rotin sat at the head of the table, staring at the boy. She had not had any herbs since the morning, and was clearer than Touched had seen her in a long time.
The other Warders were gone; they had scattered after the meeting. Touched had tried to send for them, but Rotin said she had already done so. He didn't believe her, but he didn't know how to countermand her.
It felt as if she were testing Touched, seeing if his judgment was as good as he claimed. And she was using the boy to do it.
At the moment, the boy, Coulter, seemed very small and powerless. He hadn't moved since Touched grabbed him and dragged him to the Warders cabin. Touched had been afraid the boy would defend himself in some way, but the boy had done nothing. Still, Touched was prepared. He had all of his guards up, waiting for some blistering bit of light, some elegant piece of magic to come his way.
So far nothing had.
The boy had been sitting on the table for a long time.
"Awfully young," Rotin said.
"So's Gift," Touched said. "They have to have some differences."
"Untapped magic. Do you know what possibilities that has?"
Touched nodded. He knew. He wondered how it was funneled, how the Islander society used such magic. Aside from the poison, he had no idea.
Rotin stood and put her hands flat on the table. "You gave him all the mental tests and he passed. There are others."
"Shouldn't we wait for the other Warders?"
She shook her head in a way that made Touched realize the other Warders weren't going to come. "Get me a pouch," she said.
He had been afraid of that. "Rotin, we need him alive."
&
nbsp; "The Islanders don't need an Enchanter."
"He's not theirs," Touched said. "He's ours. Raised here, remember?"
"I'm not anybody's." The boy's voice was high and childlike, but his inflection had strength.
"It would be better for all of us if you worked with the Fey," Touched said.
"Not necessarily," Rotin said. "We can certainly test some poison theories with this little one."
"It's not the magic," Touched said. "We were wrong about that. There's something about being Fey that makes us react to the poison. We lost Red Caps because of it."
"Did we?" Rotin said, her gaze still on the boy. "Or did they take advantage of the situation and run away?"
"I saw one of the bodies myself," Touched lied. The boy gave him a sharp look, the only real movement he had made since he huddled on the table. The boy had heard the lie.
But Rotin hadn't. "You saw one?"
Touched nodded. He wasn't about to lose this boy because Rotin wanted to test poison on him. If things went right, the boy could provide the antidote to the poison. But Touched wasn't about to tell her that yet.
She might be jealous enough to block him. Warders were odd that way, particularly Warders who had been twisting their mind with herbs.
"Then I need a pouch," she said.
He swallowed. He couldn't refuse her on this. They had a lot of pouches left from the battles years before. The pouches contained blood, skin and muscle from the dead; some from Fey, some from Islanders. The matter was used in spell-making, in power expansion, and in experimentation. They had used some with the poison, but discovered what they already knew: Fey skin melted and transformed in the poison. Islander skin did not.
Aside from the occasional pouch used in Domestic spell development, none had been used since those poison experiments.
"Wait until I get back before you try anything," Touched said.
"Of course," Rotin said.
The boy's lower lip trembled. He was afraid of Rotin.
"I mean it," Touched said. "Don't start without me."
Rotin nodded.
Touched went through the doorway leading into the hall. The Warders cabin was larger than many of the cabins, with storage rooms in the back, and two sleeping rooms used by any Warders who worked too late. The sleeping rooms were usually empty now, unless Rotin used too many herbs, but when the cabin was first built the rooms were always full. Touched had spent many nights in those rooms himself, dreaming of complex and beautiful spells he could never quite remember when he awoke.
The first storage room was orderly --filled with bowls, pipes and other supplies. It was the second room he went to.
The room had a faintly dry odor to it, as if death waited here. Piles and piles of pouches littered the floor, the counters, the walls. The Red Caps had left a thin path as they stored the pouches. Touched stopped at the edge of the path and stared.
The bloated, faintly pink pouches were all that remained of hundreds of lives. Inside, stored and preserved, was skin, muscle and blood from dead Islanders. The third storage room had pouches containing Fey material. Most of the pouches dated from the Battles for Jahn almost six years before.
A Domestic spell he didn't understand kept the material fresh until the pouches were opened. Then the Warders had a day, maybe two before decay set in.
Touched grabbed six pouches. They squished under his fingers. He winced, faintly disgusted. This was the part of his profession that he liked the least. The pouches always felt vaguely alive to him, as if some part of the dead being remained within. It would have helped if he understood Domestic spells, but he did not.
The pouches themselves gave off the dry dusty odor. It coated him. He tucked his six pouches under his arms, and headed back to the front room.
Rotin remained in her chair. The boy hadn't moved either. They were staring at each other. Touched could feel the tension in the air.
She was toying with him.
When he had asked her not to.
Quietly, he set the pouches on the floor, then stood. The boy's eyes were wide. If Touched squinted just a little, he could see light bouncing off the boy's shields. Rotin was having less success than Touched did.
Rotin frowned as she tried again. Her half-second of concentration was all Touched needed.
He sent a wall of light and set it up before the boy's. Rotin's spell hit it, and Touched sent it back to her, doubled.
A large bolt of light zoomed toward her. She shot Touched a frightened, angry look before diving from her chair. The light hit the wall, leaving a scorch mark the size of an adult Fey.
The boy still stared at the spot as if that were a way he could maintain his intense focus.
Rotin put a hand on the table and pulled herself up. Her face was flushed with fury.
Touched decided to attack first. "I told you to leave him alone."
"Oh," she said, standing and brushing off her robe, "I thought you wanted me to wait the actual experiments for you, not my double-checks."
"There's no need to double-check me," Touched said. "I was right."
"So you were," Rotin said with just the right amount of surprise. "Give me the pouches."
Touched crossed his arms over his chest. "That spell you sent would have knocked over an adult."
"Only when you doubled it," Rotin said. "Now, let's get to work."
He still wasn't sure enough of himself. She might have been right. He would keep an eye on her, but follow her for the moment. As he reached for the pouches, he let the wall he had placed in front of the boy go down.
The pouches slid away from his fingers. He stared at them. Then he glanced at Rotin. She grinned at him. Domestic games. It had been years since one of the Warders had taunted him with his lack of simple skills.
But he would show her. He would prove to her that he could do as well or better than she could at everything else.
He picked up the pouches and tossed them at her, one by one. She caught them as if she had expected him to do so, then set them on the table.
The boy hadn't moved.
But his eyes took in everything.
When Touched had tossed her the last pouch, he stood and walked to her side. The entire room smelled dry now. Not even the lingering odor of the herbs or of the woodsmoke could cover it.
Rotin put the pouches on the table, and they jiggled slightly. The boy was shaking. He didn't show it, but it was very clear. He was afraid.
And why wouldn't he be? He was a child. An Islander child, but a child all the same.
Touched had been a child when they first tested him for Warding powers. But that had been only a test. They waited until he hit puberty before actually working with him.
It had been scary then.
It had to be terrifying for someone of the boy's age.
Rotin untied a pouch and the iron scent of blood filled the room. The scent was so strong that Touched could almost see it. The boy buried his nose in his knees. Rotin pulled out a piece of skin. It was long and thick as Touched's finger. The Red Caps had flayed it from the bone --had the Foot Soldiers done it while the victim was still alive, the skin would have been so thin it curled.
"Good choice," Rotin said. "We need the thicker skin."
Light flickered around the boy. He hadn't perfected any of his skills. His terror would burn out his shield. He had it at full strength now. He probably thought they were going to skin him too.
Rotin pushed a pouch at Touched. "Here," she said. "Let's begin."
He sighed. He hated this part of Warding.
He took the pouch to the side of the table closest to the boy. Rotin went to the other side. She placed the piece of skin on the boy's barrier. It hung in the air, glued to the barrier by the blood, curving an adult arm's length away from the boy. The skin looked as if it were floating, except for the drop of blood that ran along the shield, marking it.
Touched opened his first pouch, wincing at the stench. This one had been taken from a body at least a day d
ead. Barely viable, and probably useful only for experiments like this one. He reached in, coating his fingertips with slime, and grabbed the first jelled mass he could find.
The skin came out, pale and thick, covered with dark blood.
Heart blood.
No wonder they had harvested this. It had strong magic.
Fey 02 - Changeling Page 46
