by A. M. Manay
“That won’t be necessary, my lord. I am ready to go,” Shiloh replied, stepping out of a shadow next to the Temple, her bag on her shoulder. Her neighbors all traced circles on their foreheads. Their relief at her timely appearance on this particular occasion was, nevertheless, obvious.
Hatch eyed her appraisingly, lingering on her hook. “I am not a lord. I am but a simple barrister, blessed to be in the king’s service,” he replied before demanding, “Show me your eyes.”
She obeyed, stepping into the light and pushing back her hood to reveal the unnaturally colored eyes that were one of the hallmarks of her condition. She squinted in the bright sunlight, her pink irises glowing. Finally, he nodded, seemingly satisfied as to her identity.
“Good. We shall leave immediately. I want to make our last camp before dark.”
His gaze fell upon the steel hook that served as Shiloh’s left hand.
“First, I shall need to take your weapon,” he added.
“Well, master barrister, this isn’t a weapon. It’s my hand,” she calmly replied.
“Nevertheless,” Hatch countered, implacable, but his eyes betrayed some sympathy.
Shiloh pressed her lips together until they nearly disappeared. Wordlessly, she turned and began stalking off toward the trees.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Hatch demanded.
Shiloh wheeled on him with a glare that could have cut his throat. “I don’t know how they behave in the City, but here in the hills, a woman does not disrobe in public. I will return presently. You need not fear.”
She straightened her back, lifted her chin, and strode quickly away. A few of the townspeople snickered.
“If you run, they will be punished, and so will you be,” Hatch warned loudly. She made no reply.
***
Silas Hatch waited for the girl to return, his eyes never leaving the spot where she’d crossed into the forest. He was not a man to take chances. He didn’t want anything even resembling a weapon on her person, just in case she decided that she liked him about as much as she liked Feralfolk.
He looked over the crowd of villagers. Typical of the Teeth, the child’s neighbors were a sullen and suspicious bunch, most of the children lacking shoes, along with a fair number of the adults. Prosperity in the rest of the kingdom of Bryn never quite managed to make it up into the mountains.
It doesn’t help that Lord Blackmine has barely set foot above a thousand feet of elevation since King Rischar made him Lord of the Teeth.
It was hard for him to picture Edmun living in this sad place. After all, the priest had been a royal bastard, one of old King Jerroh’s many illegitimate spawn. He’d grown up serving at court, surrounded by wealth and education, rising by virtue of his genius to become headmaster of the Academy. Then the war had come . . .
Silas knew that Edmun had been lucky he’d even kept his head, probably because no one had been brave enough to climb the Teeth to take it . . . But to think of him here, with only one student to occupy his brilliant mind, spending his final years literally out in the cold, leading peasants in worship and mediating disputes between shepherds . . . It was appalling.
Silas was curious about the girl who had earned his old mentor’s respect. Elder and Babe above, they’d all been terrified of him in their school days. During the war, Silas had thought the man might’ve been made of stone. And yet, it seemed he had adored this girl, if his letters could be trusted.
Silas felt a twinge of pity. Whether it was for Edmun or for the girl, he couldn’t say.
I do hope I won’t have to kill her.
***
Muttering curses, covering her humiliated tears with whispered words of rage, Shiloh's hand shook as she undid the hooks holding her jacket closed beneath her heavy cloak. Cold weather came early to the Teeth, and she was accordingly dressed for a winter journey. Beneath her quilted leather jacket was a sweater of wool, and beneath that a tunic of embroidered linen that fell to her knees. They did not wear corsets in the Teeth; corsets were a vanity for the irreligious of the flatlands.
Her skirt was calf-length, as was the mountain custom, the better to keep it out of the snow and mud. She wore wool leggings beneath, attached to a garter, and knee-high boots. Her boots were starting to look worn, but they were sturdy and whole and would make it through the winter.
Everything she wore was dark in color: warm browns, deep greens, rich blues. Only small children were permitted rowdy reds, yellows, and pastels. No one dressed in purple, of course. The only thing she wore that caught the light was the hook that served as her left hand.
A curl of pale pink hair fell in front of her eyes, and she tucked it impatiently back behind her ear. Like all the women she knew, she covered her hair year-round when outside the home, most often with a hood, but sometimes with a scarf in warm weather.
The leather straps that held her prosthesis buckled beneath her sweater and over her linen, looped beneath the opposite arm, and crossed her upper back before moving down her half-formed left arm, which ended a few inches below the elbow. Her father had taken great pride in crafting her false limbs as she’d grown, experimenting with different materials and different shapes of hooks, always seeking beauty and improvement. She smiled through her tears, thinking of him.
Shiloh wiped her running nose and then pulled back on her sweater and jacket. She folded the left sleeves and used her teeth to place a long pin to hold them neatly in place, so they wouldn't drag along, empty and forlorn. She pulled her warm cloak back around her, as if its bulk could protect her from feeling small, and she walked back to the man who held her life in his hands.
She shoved her hook toward Hatch, looking determinedly past his left ear. Her eyes were dry; her expression revealed nothing, but she could not hide the red nose that betrayed her earlier tears.
Hatch cleared his throat. “I will take care with it,” he assured her. “Do you have any other weapons?” he asked.
Shiloh bent down to pull a knife from her boot and handed it over. A sling and a bag of round pebbles followed from her pocket. Then came a set of knitting needles and a small roll of wool yarn. Laughter rippled through the crowd.
“Is your terror of me now alleviated, Master?” she asked softly. She heard chuckles behind her back.
“You ought to learn to mind your tongue,” one of the men retorted, “before I decide to tan your hide. Maybe you ought to concentrate on praying that Master Hatch doesn’t lock you in the High Tower for the rest of your miserable life.”
“That is sufficient, Perce,” Hatch scolded the young man, his tone and eyes both ice cold. He glanced at the now muttering villagers. “Let's get moving. Captain Pike, you may start setting up your garrison on the edge of town. Brother Wilar, the village of Smoke Valley is now yours to govern. Their loyalty to lord, crown, and the Holy Family is now your responsibility. The king is counting on you both.”
The captain nodded smartly. The priest squared his narrow shoulders and tried to look resolute.
“A garrison? We'd be glad of some protection from the Feralfolk; Gods know we've lost souls to them enough, but our town is too poor to house and feed a whole garrison,” a village elder protested. “Winter is on the way. There's been a drought. A few men, sure, but three dozen? We’ll starve.”
Hatch shook his head almost sympathetically. “The orders come from the Earl of Blackmine and from your king. It is out of my hands.” The villagers shuffled anxiously, eying the men and grabbing hold of their daughters.
“You may wish to buy some furs from them before we leave, sir,” Shiloh advised softly. “It's going to snow tomorrow, and none of you look to be dressed for it.”
“Are ya daft, girlie?” one of the guards asked. “It's barely autumn.”
Shiloh held Hatch’s eyes but said nothing more. If he chose not to believe her, it was his funeral.
Hatch sighed. “All right, Miss Teethborn, tell me with whom I must haggle.”
<
br /> ***
Hatch knelt to help Shiloh mount his horse. She didn’t weigh more than a bundle of twigs. At least she had decent shoes, and her skirt was loose enough to accommodate her riding astride. Her father had been a smith with a reputation for skill and fair dealing, according to one of his sources. She’d have been more financially comfortable than her neighbors, he supposed.
He could feel her tension when he swung his leg over to settle behind her. Frightened and brave. To his surprise, she didn’t turn around once as they left her home behind them. Perhaps she had already said her goodbyes. Perhaps there was no one left to whom she would wish to say them.
Silas thought back to the day he’d left his own home behind, headed for the City. He’d been thrilled to leave the monastery to make his fortune at court. He’d felt some fear as well, of course, and some shame for his poverty. But watching that dock fade into the distance had been one of the happiest moments of his life.
A drop of water fell onto one of Hatch’s leather gloves. He looked up, searching for clouds in the clear blue sky, then realized that the splash had been a silent tear from his passenger. He considered offering some words of comfort, but he decided that she might not welcome such an acknowledgment. She didn’t strike him as the kind of girl who would wish to show weakness to a stranger. Perhaps she hadn’t yet realized that tears could be a woman’s weapon.
She remained silent as they made their way. Whether this was Edmun’s influence, her own turn of mind, or pain at her departure, Silas could not say. He wondered how she would adapt to the girls at court, with their ceaseless chatter and ringing laughter.
Of course, they may well not deign to speak to her. If she is lucky, she’ll be novel enough to gain a little popularity, at least among the bastards and the lesser gentry. The lords know courtiers are prone to boredom, having so little actual work to do.
He did not imagine that the king’s new wife would be interested in having an Unclean maid in waiting, and one unskilled in the entertainments of court at that.
We’ll have to find something for her to do when she isn’t at study. Perhaps one of the tutors can use her help with something. She is probably a diligent worker, given how demanding a master Edmun always was. The library can always use some tending, or the Temple, or the gardens. Assuming she is physically strong enough for such work.
Now, her health or lack thereof . . . that was a topic of great interest to Hatch. As a student of dark magic, and a creature with a naturally morbid temperament, he had read a great deal about the effect a mother’s curses could have on an unborn child. He’d had occasion, over the years, to examine a few such unfortunate children; unhappily, they had already died before he’d gotten his hands on them.
The autopsies had proved less enlightening than he had hoped. Two of them had been born dead, or so the mothers had plausibly claimed at trial. The third had obviously been strangled in the family’s unsuccessful effort to hide his birth. They’d hanged the mother at a crossroads, as he recalled.
He’d only met a live one once, during his years abroad, where they were not so fussy about such accidents. The girl’s parents had been disinclined to allow him to examine the child in detail, alas. All of the specimens had shared hair and eyes of bright colors along with significant anatomical abnormalities. The live one had also possessed an accumulation of scars.
Hatch had pressed Edmun for details about Shiloh’s condition, to little avail. The priest had admitted that the child had suffered from bouts of affliction from time to time, illnesses whose symptoms matched the results of certain hexes that had been popular during the war. However, Edmun had offered little beyond the fact that the girl had come close to death on more than one occasion.
She should present a fascinating case study, when the time comes.
Assuming, of course, that no misfortune intervenes.
Chapter 2
One of Us Had Better Be Praying
Little Shiloh knocked on Brother Edmun’s door, shaking like a leaf.
“Where have you been, lazy child? You’re late. Did the roosters all perish in the night? Were you picking daisies?” he scolded, pulling open the door. He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her inside.
“I’m sorry, Master,” she whispered. “I fell down . . . they were hiding and . . .” Her voice was thick with tears, and he looked down at her in surprise. There was something on her cheek. She swayed dizzily.
“Are you bleeding?” Edmun exclaimed. He guided her gently into the light pouring through his window and knelt down in front of her. The irritation drained from his face when he pulled back her hood. “Lords above,” he breathed.
Shiloh’s hair was matted with blood, which continued to seep steadily from a deep gash on the crown of her head. Another wound in front of her left ear bled freely, crimson pouring down her neck and staining her collar. A bruise had begun to color her forehead. Edmun pulled out his wand and murmured an incantation. The flow of blood slowed until, soon, it stopped altogether.
The priest felt for broken bones. “Where else did they get you, poppet?” he asked. “Where else does it hurt?”
“It hurts when I breathe,” she admitted.
“Ach, probably a cracked rib. What in blazes happened?” he asked.
“They threw rocks at me,” she replied, a tear sneaking down her face. “Big ones. They hid behind the Temple, so my Da wouldn’t see from his window.”
“Who?”
She shook her head. “It’ll be worse for me if they know I told you.”
Edmun held her by the shoulders. “I know that, Shiloh. I am not an idiot. I worked all my life with obnoxious children. I’ll not be revealing that you told me who they are. We’ll get your justice on the sly; mark my words. But first, I’ll teach you how to make charms to protect yourself from the worthless Teethtrash that inhabit this Godsforsaken village. I should have done it already. Now, do as I say, and tell me their names.”
“Victoh, Meggan, and Karl,” she confessed.
“Sounds about right. Their parents are lazy dolts and mean as snakes.” Edmun gently wiped the blood from her face and kissed her on the forehead, then pointed at her little desk.
“Now, to work,” he ordered. “A girl like you needs to learn to use her pain, or else she hasn’t a chance in the world.”
***
Shiloh forced herself not to look away when they rode by what was left of the Feralfolk who’d attacked the previous winter. Edmun would have wanted her to face the truth. Their bodies had been mostly consumed by the fireball, but the scorched bones had been left behind. The elders had insisted on mounting the skulls for a warning, and Edmun had gone along with them.
So far, it had been effective. There hadn’t been a raid in eight months. Not so much as a single goat had gone missing. Shiloh wondered if the warning would continue to work once word got around that the pink-haired monster had left town.
“You have to accept what happened,” Edmun had insisted. She’d spent days after her father’s death sitting in the dark, neither eating nor sleeping, neither weeping nor raging. She’d just sat, like a stone. He had insisted on dragging her out into the light. “I know it is terribly painful, my dear poppet, but you simply must.”
It had been so strange, to watch her teacher puttering around her father’s house, doing her chores, fixing her meals, taking care of her as she had him for the previous decade. Watching the frail old man trying his damnedest to prepare her a bath had finally broken through her ice and allowed her to cry.
And she had faced it all, in the end. She had buried her father properly, with all the rites. She had faced the pile of smoldering corpses she’d produced in her paroxysm of grief. She had faced her terrified neighbors at Temple and at market. She had faced Edmun every morning, faced his sad eyes and his declining health. At least Edmun hadn’t been afraid of her, even after the Feralfolk.
She wondered how the people at court would see her. Would she
just be a country mouse, poor and ignored by her betters? Would she be taunted for her condition, as she had been in her village? Would they learn to both fear her and need her, as her neighbors had? Would they know what she had done?
Will the king decide he doesn’t want me alive after all?
They made Hatch’s camp just before dark. It was a flat little meadow with enough trees to provide a bit of a wind break, which was welcome as cold air began to pour in from the north. On one side, it was a few paces off of the road. On the other, the ground fell steeply away, offering a view of the Great Lake.
The superstitious guards had refused to ride with Shiloh, as had the hostile Perce, so Hatch had taken her on his own horse. It had taken her an hour to relax. She’d never been so close to a man who wasn’t her father or her teacher, much less a man of his reputation. She hoped he hadn't noticed her silent tears as they'd left behind the only home she had ever known.
She fingered the bronze medal around her neck, the talisman of the Mother. She reached into her pocket to touch Brother Edmun’s prayer beads, its semi-precious stones worn smooth from his years of use. The familiar words moved on her lips as she silently repeated an old prayer.
Blessed Mother, keep me in your arms. Bid the Elder to cover me in wisdom. Bid the Father to protect me. Bid the Maiden to walk with me. Bid the Youth to cheer me. Bid the Babe to smile upon me. Most of all, dear Mother, fill me with your courage, that brings forth life into this wicked world, that I may walk in the way of the Holy Family, all of my days.
She looked up to see that one of the guards, Riloh, had started a fire. Another, Gil, began a stew, grumbling all the while.
“What is the use of a woman too unclean to cook for ye or to screw ye,” he muttered. “Useless little weirdling.”
Shiloh pretended not to hear, like she always did. She simply gazed up at the sky.