Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey (57 page)

“Come with me,” Caseo said. “And bring the pouches with you.”

“No,” Scavenger said. “Let someone else carry the pouches.”

“You are a Red Cap,” Caseo said. “Whatever else happens, we all must do our jobs.”

The remark made Scavenger flush. He leaned over and picked up the pouches by their tied ends, holding them together in his fists. The weight was hard on his arms—he was used to carrying them around his waist, which made them feel like part of him. But he said nothing as he followed Caseo up the stairs and into the Warders’ cabin.

Scavenger had been inside many times, but he had never been allowed to linger. The other Warders sat around a table, and except for the closest, who wrinkled his nose as Scavenger passed, they did not seem to notice him. Caseo pointed to the back wall where other blood pouches had been stacked. Scavenger placed his pouches on top.

The main room was stifflingly hot. A fire blazed in the fireplace—covered with too much wood—a waste and a crime when a number of Fey still had to sleep on the ground or in crowded buildings with no heat. The Warders were all balding, bony creatures—even the women—with eyes that saw beyond the simple, everyday pleasures. A shudder ran down Scavenger’s back. It was one thing to spar with a single Warder, quite another to face the entire troop.

They sat with their hands under the table, and they all wore heavy robes despite the heat. Scavenger appeared to be the only one sweating. He licked his lips, longing for a glass of water, and knowing they wouldn’t offer it to him.

A bowl of water sat in the very center of the table, and to one side, an open pouch of blood. A strand of skin lay in another bowl, in pinkish water. The skin had a freshness that the skin he pulled today did not have.

“What are we doing?” Scavenger asked.

The Warders all looked to Caseo at the same time. It was as if they had no volition of their own, even though Scavenger knew they had. He had met each of them individually on the ships, had dealt with them more than once when he’d brought in pouches or helped with the blood supply. They seemed shocked that he dare speak aloud in a room with people so much his betters.

“This Red Cap,” Caseo said, putting his hand on Scavenger’s shoulder, “has said he is as much Fey as the rest of us. And I suddenly realized that he can help us all in determining that. We assume that it is our magickal powers that make us Fey. He has none and yet considers himself one of us. I think a bit of a test is in order, don’t you, Warders?”

They did not respond. Scavenger shook Caseo’s hand off his shoulder. Even when the man was trying to be civil, he still patronized Scavenger. Even when they were trying to work together.

“I’ve never heard anyone say that magick powers make a Fey,” Scavenger said.

Caseo’s smile was back. “Of course not,” he said. “But what makes us different from, say, the Nye? Our powers.”

“We look different,” Scavenger said.

Caseo shook his head. “People from different parts of the world look different from each other. All the peoples around the Eccrasian Mountains share our dark coloring, just as the peoples on Blue Isle all have round features and pale hair.”

“Our military might makes us different,” Scavenger said. “Our determination to be the strongest people in the world.”

Caseo laughed. The other Warders watched, their faces expressionless. It was as if their bodies were in the room, but their minds weren’t. “How could we conquer so many people on strength alone? You are a naive child, Red Cap.”

“I am not a child,” Scavenger said. “I am only ten years younger than you are. I remember you in school. I remember when you got your powers.”

“We will have this discussion until you prove you are as worthy to be called a Fey as I am,” Caseo said.

“So,” Scavenger said. “I’ll prove it.”

Caseo’s smile was slow and reached his eyes for the first time since Scavenger had known him. “All I want you to do,” he said, “is to take a bit of skin you brought with you and place it in the bowl of water.”

“What will that prove?” Scavenger said. “Is it a spell I’m supposed to know? I have no training there. And don’t lie to me. I know you all were trained once your powers appeared.”

“It is a spell,” Caseo said, “but I’ll give you the words when you put the skin in the water.”

Scavenger shook his head. “The test is unfair. I have no magick. That we all know. I have been tested by two Shamans. I have worked with some of the greatest Shamans of our time, and they have shown that I have no magick.” He glanced at the bowl, then at the other bowl with the skin already in it. He had seen no spell that required skin in water. But he did know that the Warders were testing the Islander poison. By placing Islander skin in Islander poison, they were seeing if its effect on Islanders was the same as its effect on the Fey.

A shiver ran down his back. He went to the corner and picked the last pouch he had made off the stack. He opened it, and the stink of rotted flesh almost made him gag. The Warder closest to him turned green. He brought the pouch back to the table, letting the stink affect them all. He grabbed the edge of one skin and held it tightly between his finger and his thumb.

“I am a Fey,” he said through clenched teeth, holding his anger back so that he didn’t grab the bowl and spray everyone in the room with its contents. “That poison will kill me.”

Caseo shrugged. “That remains to be seen. No Red Cap has yet died from it.”

“Such a test,” Scavenger said. “If I die, I prove that Red Caps are worthy of your respect. And if I don’t, I prove that we are not true Fey.”

“You said you are strong,” Caseo said. “Prove it. Touch the water. Help us solve this problem. If you live, then we will know that it affects only those of us who are magick.”

“I may not have magick,” Scavenger said, “but I have brains, and what you are proposing is a kind of murder.”

Caseo shook his head. “I am convinced that you will live. I am convinced that magick alone will cause the poison to work.”

“Then why don’t you test it on one of the Infantry?” Scavenger said.

“No,” Caseo said, raising his arms, “I think we shall test it on you.”

Scavenger had been afraid of that. He tossed the skin at the bowl. Warders screamed and backed away as drops splashed around the table. He didn’t wait to see if any of them would die. He ran for the door, yanked it open, and dashed outside.

Damn them. Damn them all. They believed that he was so worthless, he could die for their experiments. He had heard the drill before, on Galinas. One might die that all might live. It was how the generals totaled the winning. If more of the enemy died than Fey, the battle was a success. Lives meant nothing. Especially lives that had no magick.
 
He was through with that. He was through with them all.

FIFTY

Nicholas stood in the Great Chamber in the private wing of the Tabernacle. The oriel cast a thin light on the room itself, but he was impressed by the real glass panels. They depicted the Roca’s Absorption. The Roca himself was in the center panel, calmly cleaning his sword. The Soldiers of the Enemy stood around him, tall and faceless in their black armor. The Roca’s own people crowded the pews and balconies, and their mouths were agape with fear and awe.

The rest of the Great Chamber was just as ornate. Gold leaf covered the walls. On the supporting beams the leaf was shaped into small swords. The chairs were stiff-backed and uncomfortable. He preferred to stand on the red-and-black woven carpet while he waited.

The tables were made of wood with the sword pattern woven into their legs. Each detail added to the whole and made him feel stifled. He had never really believed anything in the Words Written and Unwritten. Studying them with Elder Matthias had been a burden he had been happy to relinquish when the Fey had come. He understood his father’s protests: a King should know about his subjects, and Rocaanism was the single greatest force in Island society, but that didn’t mean Nicholas had to believe it. He just had to know how to manipulate it.

The grate had wood stacked in it, but there was no fire. The simple stone fireplace almost seemed out of place. The stones were roughly cut, without carving or ornamentation. As he inspected them, he guessed that they predated most of the room—that the trappings of the religion had come much later, when such things grew important.

The door opened and the Rocaan entered, followed by Elders Matthias and Porciluna. Nicholas’s own guards were outside the room waiting, as they had been instructed.

The Rocaan’s face had more lines in it than Nicholas had remembered. The man looked small in his velvet robe. Its color exactly matched that of the carpet, and the black sash he wore (with filigreed swords hanging off it like tassels) brought out the accents. He did not wear his ceremonial hat, and his balding head looked naked without it. When he saw Nicholas, his eyes widened.

Protocol required Nicholas to bow to the Rocaan. When Nicholas became King, the Rocaan would bow to him.

Nicholas made sure his bow was sweeping and respectful. As he rose, he said, “Beg pardon, Holy Sir, but my father believes that the two leaders of Blue Isle should not share a room until the Fey menace has passed.”

He had expected a gracious comment in response, but the Rocaan said nothing. Matthias glanced at Porciluna as if he, too, found the behavior odd.

“My father says I am to report to him all that you say, Holy Sir.”

“Your father set the time and place for this meeting,” the Rocaan said. His voice was weak and tremulous, not the powerful speaking voice that Nicholas had heard over a year before. “He could have informed me that he was not coming.”

“Yes, Holy Sir,” Nicholas said. The muscles in his shoulders were tightening. “But he was afraid that you then would come to him. He believes that it is best—”

“That we not meet.” The Rocaan nodded. “I believe he is wrong. That we need to be in contact. But he is frightened. A fear I understand.”

Nicholas was about to deny the statement, and then he realized that the Rocaan was using it as a door to open his own side of the conversation. “You, Holy Sir? But you have God and the Holy One on your side.”

“We all have God on our side, young man,” the Rocaan said. As he spoke, he turned to Matthias as if he couldn’t believe that Nicholas did not know that. Matthias shot the Rocaan a sheepish smile that turned glittery and hard when the Rocaan returned his attention to Nicholas.

“My father says you have urgent business—” Nicholas began, but the Rocaan held up one hand.

“I know,” he said. “I am thinking about whether I want to discuss it with you.”

Nicholas straightened. That was enough. The King ruled the nation, and he determined that his son would meet with the religious leaders. If the Rocaan pushed him around now, he would try to do so when Nicholas became King. “I am heir to the throne,” Nicholas said. “I am the one you will be dealing with in the future. You may as well get used to it now.”

He left off the respectful title. The Rocaan didn’t even seem to notice. “I am not certain whether we will deal, young man,” the Rocaan said. “But we are faced with a dilemma now that I had hoped I could discuss with someone who has done more living than you.”

Nicholas opened his mouth and then closed it again. He didn’t want to defend himself. It would be the worst thing, but he also knew that this old man could ruin Nicholas’s reputation among the Rocaanists. The last thing Nicholas wanted was to be saddled with a reputation for weakness this early in his life.

“You are a prejudiced old man,” Nicholas finally said.

Both Matthias and Porciluna straightened. Not even they, apparently, insulted the Rocaan. The Rocaan tilted his head, as if Nicholas’s comment fascinated him.