by A. M. Manay
“He killed himself to strengthen his curse?” Shiloh asked, her lips trembling. “Does that work? How can he place a curse on someone who isn’t right in front of him? Someone who might not even be born yet? Is that even possible?”
“Supposedly,” Hatch replied grimly. “It is very old, forbidden magic, the stuff of legends. Difficult to perform, illegal to teach. Someone must have given him the idea. Maybe Blufeld. I don’t know.”
He shook off his shock and crossed to Shiloh, taking her firmly by the shoulders. “You cannot tell the king of this. Whether or not the curse was properly cast, his grace will panic if he knows of it. And in his panic, he will find a way to make things worse. We will bring him Kepler’s head and tell him that the traitor killed himself. But of those words, we say nothing. Do you understand me?”
She looked up at him, her face frozen and eyes wide. Hatch shook her and repeated the question. “Do you understand?” he demanded.
Finally, she nodded. He let go of her, and she sank to the dusty floor, prayer beads in hand.
Silas climbed the ladder again. From the top, he used magic to decapitate the late Lord Kepler and to pull the head aloft, wholly unwilling to descend into the pool of blood. He climbed back down, holding the head by its hair. Shiloh kept her eyes carefully fixed on the ground until he placed it in a sack he found in a corner.
“Time to go,” he proclaimed. “We’ll torch the place and return to the castle. This building is unusable now.”
Shiloh pulled herself to her feet and followed him silently. They crossed the threshold and Hatch turned, raised his wand, and set the stomping tub alight. They crossed to their mounts, and Silas handed Shiloh a waterskin.
“Thanks,” she said and took a long swallow.
Hatch noticed that a single tear had traced a path through the dust on her face.
“Are you troubled?” he asked.
“Yes, I . . . it was just . . . shocking. Why would he do such a thing? Not the suicide. I can understand not wanting to live to be captured. But to attempt such a vile piece of . . .” Shiloh trailed off, shaking her head.
“You obviously don’t have enough experience with hatred,” Hatch replied. “Or selfishness. The kind of man who would damn an entire kingdom over his own suffering is a worthless man, indeed.” He wished he could bring Kepler back to life so he could kill the idiot again.
He lifted his wand and aimed it at the roof of the building. The wooden shingles quickly caught flame. They stood and watched it burn, taking care to be sure that the fire did not spread to the surrounding rows of grapes.
“You think this is about Zina and her execution?” Shiloh asked. “That’s the only reason I can think of that Kepler would hate the king so violently.”
“Probably. That doesn’t explain Blufeld, though. He’s never loved anyone in his life, as far as I can tell. He did it for pride, maybe. Or religion. Whatever it is, I’ll find out,” he vowed, face dark.
Soon, all the available fuel had been consumed, and the stone walls stood alone and empty but for ashes, charred wood, and heat-twisted metal. They mounted their horses and guided them back to the road. Smoke rose to the sky in the late afternoon light, and blood dripped from the bag, leaving a macabre trail as they departed for Blufeld Castle, both of them careful not to look back.
***
They left Blufeld Castle in the hands of Waterton’s cavalry. Rischar still needed to decide who would inherit the lordship. He’d had all Blufeld’s legitmate sons arrested. Shiloh doubted there would be mercy for any of them.
She still could not believe that Jaym was gone.
When at last they rejoined the women, Shiloh’s tension fell away to see that Penn and her ladies were safe. The queen’s reunion with her husband nearly brought tears to Shiloh’s eyes. Relief and grief swirled together to create a potent brew, and the queen held her husband close for a long time.
I wonder when she’ll tell him she’s pregnant, Shiloh thought. After the funeral, surely. She tried to turn her mind from Kepler’s curse, desperate to believe that the little one growing inside her friend would not be tainted by the dead man’s final act of evil.
“Where’s Lady Hana?” she asked Daved as they stood waiting to hand over their reins to the groomsmen.
“I heard someone say they locked her in the convent, in one of the cells for hermits,” Daved replied, eyebrows drawn. “The nuns will guard her until Hatch figures out if she knew anything. She might never leave this place again. I never really liked her much, but what an awful thing to happen to a girl just a month after her wedding. She’s only eighteen.”
“Agreed,” Shiloh sighed.
Of course, Zina was only twenty-two when she lost her head. Penn is seventeen. Jaym was eleven. Daved is thirteen. Silas Hatch was, what, sixteen when he killed my mother? Lord Kepler was twenty when he spilled his own blood.
This kingdom chews up its children and spits them out.
Shiloh shuddered.
They rested only briefly before resuming the grim journey back to the City. Jaym’s body, preserved by magic, was carried at the front of the procession. Dressed in royal finery, he lay on a bed of flowers atop an enchanted litter. In the towns, women stood by the side of the road and wept to see him.
At the rear, the prisoners rode chained in rough carts, led by Kepler’s severed head on a pike. Onlookers threw rotten vegetables and, occasionally, manure. The filth attracted stinging insects. Shiloh could find in her heart little sympathy for them. The pain of the previous few days was too fresh.
They rode in near silence. It was difficult for her to believe that they had set forth only two weeks previous, full of smiles and laughter and plans for revelry.
Hatch came up alongside her. “If you’re tired, you know you can ride in a carriage,” he offered.
She looked over at him with a lopsided smile. “I look that bad, do I, my lord?”
“That isn’t what I meant,” he defended himself. “But the last time you had such a trying adventure, it cost your health quite dearly.”
“True enough,” she acknowledged. Wanting to change the subject, she asked, “Who is to be the new Castellan? Must all the guard be replaced?”
“Aye, they must. We know not whom Gordan compromised. Master Deniss has agreed to take the job for now. He knows best which boys might be ready to step up,” Hatch explained.
“And who will be the new Lord Blufeld?”
Hatch shook his head. “I’m not certain. I seem to recall my father having a couple of legitimate nephews who went to Estany for school. Their mother is Estan, I believe. The genealogists will know. My guess is that is whom the king will choose. Lord Waterton will govern the people of the Vine in the interim.”
“His grace and Lord Redwood seem to be spending a lot of time together,” Shiloh observed. Daved and Rischar were riding side by side.
“Indeed,” Hatch concurred. “I suppose it is only natural. Lord Redwood is in need of a father, and his grace has lost a son. And after Daved risked his own life standing against the rebels, no one can doubt his loyalty to the crown.”
“Do you know, yet, why any of this happened?” Shiloh asked softly.
“Based on my father’s ranting in his cell, in his case, it seems to be a combination of longstanding contempt for his grace, anger at the Reforms, and unadulterated rage at my elevation to the nobility,” Hatch reported, rolling his eyes. “So many dead, and other lives ruined, over his need to have a temper tantrum.
“As for Gordan Courtborn, he has always had an erroneously high opinion of his own abilities and a chip on his shoulder. I suppose he thought he deserved more than he had, more of a reward for remaining loyal when Edmun sided with the Usurper. As for Kepler, we already discussed your theory on that.” Hatch heaved a sigh.
“Do you think his wife knew?” Shiloh asked, biting her lip.
“No, I doubt it,” Hatch replied, shaking his head. “I mean, if you were p
art of a treasonous, secret conspiracy, would you tell Lady Hana?”
Shiloh snorted a laugh. “No, I suppose not. Every last person at court would have heard about it within a day.”
Hatch shot a glance back over his shoulder toward Queen Penn’s carriage. “Please tell me she’s pregnant,” he implored Shiloh. “I would appreciate a bright spot in the midst of this gloom.”
She had mercy on him and replied, “I think so. But it’s very early. It’ll be another few weeks until we can be certain.” Again, she pushed aside her anxious thoughts about Kepler’s blood curse.
“Then I shall cling to this slender thread of hope,” he replied melodramatically, pressing a hand to his chest and drawing a head shake and a smile from Shiloh.
“Does it pain you, my lord,” she asked, “to see your father and half-brothers in chains?”
“Not in the slightest,” he replied flatly. “If there was ever the need to prove that noblemen need not be noble, they would be the first items entered into evidence. Lord Blufeld is a rapist who has raised a pack of wolves,” he spat, “and he cannot die soon enough.”
“No! Honestly?” Shiloh gasped.
“Why do you think Blufeld has more bastards than we can count, and not a kindness ever done for any of us?” Hatch replied. “His wife would send money for our schooling because it was required by law, but he doesn’t so much as acknowledge our existence, nor our mothers’ own.”
“How awful,” she murmured.
“It will be a happy day for this kingdom when their heads roll,” Hatch declared. “And a happier one for me.”
Chapter 22
Scorch the Earth
Silas rode through the Vine as fast as his horse could carry him, his hand ever upon his wand. Ostensibly, the land was now at peace, but it seemed to Silas that no one knew it.
A truce had been declared, to be sure. But desperation had long since set in among the peasantry, and people were hungry. He’d already fought off two bands of thieves.
I guess I should be glad they taught me so much dark magic during the war, he thought morosely. The robbers never had a chance.
He told himself that soon he would be at the border with Estany, with the king’s own letter of safe conduct and an introduction to the dean of the university there. Soon, there would be many miles and a national border between Silas and his sins.
Who are you kidding? Your sins will follow you everywhere. For the rest of your life.
It was strange, riding through territory that he knew belonged to his father, territory where he’d grown up in penury. Now he carried ten thousand Suns sewn into his clothes. He’d kept a few available to bribe the border guards if necessary. He wondered if Lord Blufeld would ever know his face, his name.
His first stop in Estany would be one of their famous banks. Then a nice inn, he promised himself. A clean one, with good food. Then a tailor. He’d outgrown all his clothes; six inches of leg stuck out of his patched trousers.
Silas passed a shrine to the Elder. If he still prayed, he would have sent up a prayer for Edmun. He hoped the old man had made it to the Teeth. He hoped the baby was still alive. Maybe I shouldn’t hope that, but I do.
It was a strange thing, to travel alone on these rutted roads. Respectable people never did, after all. Respectable people, even the poor ones, had friends and family to accompany them. Even the thieves. To protect them. To keep them in good cheer.
Not you, he told himself. Not anymore.
***
“Well, now, don’t I feel special?” Lord Blufeld spat. Lancis Beckett stood chained to the wall at the top of the High Tower, his king sitting before him, his bastard son Silas at Rischar’s elbow.
“Why did you turn traitor?” Rischar asked, his voice dangerously low. “I want to hear it from your own mouth.”
Blufeld laughed bitterly. “Oh, where to begin? You’re a filthy heretic. You expelled the Patriarch for the sake of your whore. You put in place your so-called “Reforms” that are an affront to all holy tradition. And as if that wasn’t enough, you elevate your hatchet man to the nobility. And now you rely for protection upon an Unclean abomination who ought to have been drowned at birth.
“You’re weak. You do nothing to crush the Feralfolk. You do nothing to deal with the threat posed by Gerne. Redwood plotted under your nose for years. Hell, you even let Edmun live out his life in peace after he backed your sister. You treated your bastard like a prince instead of the servant he should have been. You can’t even manage to produce a legitimate son. Are we to follow a little girl when you die? I decided it was high time that the throne had a deserving occupant who could restore order to this mess of a kingdom.” Contempt burned in Blufeld’s face, and hatred made his words sharp as broken glass.
“And what of Kepler?” Hatch asked, face stony and voice betraying no emotion whatsoever.
Blufeld shook his head in judgment, and his voice dripped with contempt. “That idiot was heartbroken and enraged because you helped his king kill his royal whore of a sweetheart. Gods, the young are stupid. Treason over a woman. Honestly.”
“And your sons?” Rischar asked, controlling his temper with plainly visible difficulty.
“Oh, am I to beg mercy for them?” Blufeld mocked, rolling his eyes.
“That might be a good idea,” Hatch replied coldly. “I thought you might actually care about the ones your wife bore you. Enough to wish them clean deaths at any rate. Enough to protest their innocence if they weren’t involved.”
“Oh, is the filthy bastard angry that his father didn’t love him?” Blufeld retorted.
Hatch grinned. “Oh, no. If you had, I might be facing a very bad death, indeed.”
Rischar spat, “I assume your lack of a defense means that your legitimate sons were involved with your plot. Did you make use of any of your bastards?”
“Of course not!” Blufeld scoffed. “I don’t even know their names. Never had a conversation with a one. I only know who this one is because you pulled him from the gutter to be your pet lackey.”
Rischar stood. “Silas is worth a thousand of you. I don’t care how lowborn he is,” he growled at Blufeld. He then turned to Silas. “Hurt him. Then the sons. I want to know everything. Every name. Every conspirator. Everyone who knew and kept his mouth shut. Then have the women arrested. His wife. His sons’ wives. Scorch the earth. Make them wish their line had died long ago.”
“As you wish, Your Grace,” Silas replied with a bow.
The door closed behind Rischar with a loud clang. Silas turned to his father, wand in hand, a cold weight settling into his chest.
“Shall we get started, then, my lord?”
***
“Lord Northgate?” Shiloh called softly. Perce had let her in, but she’d found Hatch asleep at his desk, his head resting on a pile of parchment.
Silas woke with a start, sat up, and grabbed his wand. Shiloh held up hand and hook.
“Just me, my lord,” she assured him.
Hatch relaxed and pocketed his wand. “Sorry,” he apologized, then gestured toward a chair. “What can I do for you?”
“Long day?” she asked, eyebrows high.
“Yes,” he admitted, pressing a hand to his forehead and rubbing the spot between his eyes. “Interrogating the Becketts.”
“Progress made, at least?” she asked.
Hatch nodded. “They don’t have a high pain tolerance, any of them. They’re of the ‘dish it but can’t take it’ variety. Information just poured out of them like water.”
“That’s . . . nice,” Shiloh replied awkwardly, trying not to picture the scene. “I just came to give you this,” she said, handing over a roll of parchment. “The queen and her steward have been working on the arrangements for Lord Wheatley’s funeral. She already consulted with his grace, so we just need you to put things into motion.”
Hatch looked over the paper, eyes darting back and forth. “This should be fine. They unde
rstand that it needs to wait a few more days while we get the new guard up to snuff?”
Shiloh nodded. “Yes, my lord. Lord Wheatley will continue to lie in state at the Cathedral in the meantime. Apparently great throngs have been coming to pay their respects, which offers his grace some comfort.”
“I’m glad,” Hatch replied. He took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. “I’ll be relieved to get the poor boy and his killers into the ground.”
“I think we all will be,” Shiloh concurred. “Are you coming to supper? I think I hear the bell.”
He nodded absently. “I’ll be along in a moment,” he replied, sorting papers.
“I’ll get out of your hair, then,” Shiloh said, standing and smoothing out her skirt, turning to go.
He looked up at her, and his brows drew together.
“What is it?” she asked.
“You’re bleeding,” he explained, rising and crossing rapidly to her side.
“Oh, blast! Where?” she asked, despairing.
“Your back. I can’t tell which hexmark through the cloth. I’d better get you to the infirmary before it gets worse,” he told her, taking her arm.
Before Shiloh could take a step, her body contorted, limbs twisting. A whimper of pain escaped her throat, and Hatch snatched her up in his arms and flew into his anteroom.
“Percy!” he cried. “Run ahead of me to the infirmary. Tell Master Jonn she’s unwell. I think it might be Soor’s Curse. Then go get the Headmaster. We might need his help with this one.”
Shiloh realized she must have looked terrible, judging from the look of alarm in Perce’s eyes. Then another spasm overtook her, and coherent thought fled.
***
Silas leaned back against the stone wall, eyes closed, and listened to Markas chanting the countercurse. They were trading off, he and Jonn and the Headmaster. Between the three of them, they were managing to spare Shiloh most of the pain, but every little sound from her felt like a scream of agony to Silas.