by A. M. Manay
“Looking for something?” Hatch asked. He sat down next to her and handed her a hard biscuit.
She nodded her thanks and replied, “I was looking for him,” just as a falcon dove from the sky, a rabbit in his talons. He dropped it next to Gil by the fire, then landed on Shiloh’s shoulder.
“You're welcome,” she called over to the cook, smirking.
She then turned to thank the bird. “Thank you, Honey,” she told him. “You are a good friend.” He rubbed his head against her hood.
“Is that your familiar?” Hatch asked. Honey turned to glare at him suspiciously. Shiloh said nothing. She looked down at the sails of the fishermen on the lake, tacking for home at the end of their day.
“You hardly have to pretend you don't have powers. If Brother Edmun hadn’t told us everything, I wouldn't be here,” Hatch replied.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked plainly. “Am I really going to the Academy?”
“Yes,” he answered. “You will be educated with pure-blooded noble children and your fellow mixed-blooded illegitimate offspring. Your power is too great to be managed at a monastery, or else you’d just be tossed into holy orders like most of us. If Brother Edmun was correct in his assessments, you will be one of the greatest sorcerers at court for the rest of your many comfortable days.”
“Because if you're planning to kill me, this is the place I would choose,” she continued, as though he’d said nothing. “It’s pretty here. I'd prefer my bones rest in my own land, close to my Da and Brother Edmun, if it's all the same to the king.”
Hatch raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you think? That King Rischar sent me because he means to kill you?”
She shrugged. “That's what Brother Edmun feared. He told me to run. Sometimes.”
“Why do you suppose he asked us to save you a place at the Academy, then? If he feared for your safety in our hands?” Hatch asked.
“He knew I needed to finish my education, and that I need a proper wand of my own. And Brother Edmun seemed sure you would do right by me, right up until he got sick. As the end approached, his fear won out."
“It tends to do that.” After a silence, Hatch asked, “Why didn't you? Run, I mean.”
“I was afraid you'd punish the villagers if you couldn't find me. Which, apparently, you would have.”
“But they must have treated you terribly,” Hatch argued. “I saw the way they looked at you.”
“They did. But children don't deserve to suffer for the sins of their parents,” Shiloh replied. “And I wasn't really looking forward to spending the winter in a cave. And I would rather die than become a Feral.”
She studied him for a moment before she continued, “I have sat by every sick bed in that town at least once, pouring potions down ungrateful throats. I’ve helped deliver every baby born in that village since I was eight years old.
"They spit and cast superstitious signs whenever I walked by, but they surely sent for me when their pains came. They sent for me because I never lost a mother or a baby, in seven years. They could take a holy bath and wash me off, but there is no washing off a dead child or a dead mother. Usually they’d have someone carry them to the Temple before they called for me, just to be safe. No one is Unclean in the Temple, not even me.
"They can scorn me all they want to, but I wasn't about to stand by and watch strangers take lives that my master and I worked hard to save. We’ve lost too many of them to the Feralfolk as it is.”
“Speaking of the Feralfolk, that was a remarkable display of power.”
Shiloh admitted nothing, her face frozen.
“We will teach you how to better control your gifts,” Hatch continued. “When you have a proper wand, it will be easier for you to focus the destruction. Tell me, did your hook amplify the magic?”
Shiloh looked away. “I don’t know how I did it,” she finally confessed. A silence followed, broken only by the sound of the rising wind. Shiloh rubbed her left arm.
“Does it hurt? Your missing arm?” Hatch asked avidly, examining her with unblinking green eyes.
“Sometimes,” she lied, looking down. All the time. Every Gods-damned day.
“You seem awfully calm for someone who thinks she is about to be murdered,” Hatch observed, the corners of his lips betraying his amusement.
“There are worse things than dying. I should go say my prayers,” Shiloh declared, and she stood gracefully and walked away, cradling the bad arm with the good one.
Hatch’s eyes remained upon her as she pulled a worn leather case out of her pack. She opened it, revealing the portable prayer altar it contained, with its nub of a candle and a small icon of the Mother, its color muted by years and by soot. Shiloh stuck a twig in the fire and used it to light the candle before pulling a pretty red leaf out of her pocket. She placed it before the image, a poor girl’s makeshift offering. Even Gil watched with grudging respect as Shiloh knelt and bowed, singing softly, performing the traditional evening ritual.
Shiloh noticed the stares as she sat up and blew out the candle. You'd think they've never seen a woman pray before. Maybe the City really is as full of heathens as Edmun used to complain.
Shiloh eyed the clouds piling up in the western sky, blazing pink with the setting sun.
One of us had better be praying.
A storm is coming.
***
Shiloh swore softly as she pried a ball of snow and ice from a horse’s hoof. “I can’t believe I didn’t check your horses for shoes before we left the village. What kind of a blacksmith’s daughter am I? You’ll be lucky if you get home with a single horse who isn’t lame. Shoes in the snow. For the Gods’ sakes.”
“You thought of the furs, for which I am grateful,” Silas replied, eyes crinkling. “It’s not much farther to South Lake. We can have someone there take the shoes off. I’ll have them replaced when we get into the flatlands and out of the snow.”
The men clapped their hands together, ducking behind the horses to get out of the cutting wind. They’d been of no help. The horses hadn’t trusted them enough to let them work on the ice.
“All right, that’s the last one,” Shiloh reported, standing and brushing snow from her leggings. Though she was accustomed to cold winters, her slight stature and frailty conspired to make the conditions plenty exhausting. At least the heavy snowfall of the morning had stopped. The only snow currently in the air was that tossed about by the wind.
The work with the horses had warmed her, but once they got back on the road, she was soon shivering again. Hatch pulled her closer to him and wrapped part of his cloak around her. Shiloh was too grateful to raise an objection at the impropriety.
Once they had made it a few hundred more yards down the slippery path, Shiloh turned her head to speak softly to Hatch. “That stop cost us a lot more time than I realized. If we don’t make the village before dark, we’ll be in danger from Feralfolk.”
“Even in such weather as this?” he asked, startled.
Shiloh laughed bitterly. “They have skis and sleds, even a couple of witches who fly. They love snow. It’s easy to track their prey, and hard for their victims to run away.”
“It will be a near thing,” Silas replied, brow furrowing. “Not much daylight left.”
“They likely won’t be expecting a wizard of your power and knowledge. That will be an advantage,” Shiloh offered.
Silas smiled coldly. “Has my reputation preceded me?” he asked.
“Only everywhere in this kingdom and others besides. Brother Edmun thought highly of your talents. You were his favorite student.”
“Only until you came along, apparently,” Hatch replied.
Unexpected tears filled Shiloh’s eyes at the reminder of her teacher’s affection. She turned back around, lest Hatch see, and brushed them quickly away before they had a chance to freeze to her face.
They rode in silence unbroken but for the complaints of the soldiers until the sun dipped behind
the mountain, plunging them into a semi-darkness lit solely by the moon’s reflection off the snow. The village was still at least a mile distant.
“Eyes open, men,” Hatch directed. “Wand out, Percy.”
Perce swallowed nervously. “I’m starting to wish you’d brought an extra wand for the weirdling.”
Just when Shiloh was starting to think they might make it to safety without incident, she heard the familiar whistle of an arrow. “Get down,” she cried, throwing herself from Hatch’s horse. More arrows soon followed, and she heard a cry of pain as one of the men proved too slow in heeding her warning.
Hatch remained calm under attack, sending out well-aimed hexes from his wand of flame. Perce seemed to be firing at total random, taking out more snowdrifts and tree branches than Feralfolk. Shiloh could hear the cries of the ones Hatch had managed to hit, but the volleys of arrows kept coming. She heaved a sigh and looked around for something she could use as a weapon.
Shiloh broke off an icicle from the tree behind which she’d taken shelter and yanked off her glove with her teeth, then grabbed the ice in her bare hand. With this makeshift wand, she harnessed the power of water to cast a shield of protection around them, one which allowed the curses from Hatch and Perce to pass through unimpeded. The arrows of the Feralfolk, meanwhile, didn’t simply stop dead upon hitting the ward; they turned and sped back toward their points of origin, betraying those who’d loosed them.
Silas threw his head back and fairly cackled in delight when he realized what she’d done, then continued to cast his curses. The rest of the men stood up now that they had no further need to fear incoming projectiles, save Gil who lay bleeding in the road.
Shiloh, too, stood to see the effects of her ward. In the heat of battle, her hood had fallen back. Her hair had escaped from its thick braid and blew in the wind, forming a halo of pink set aglow by moonlight. The remaining Feralfolk turned and fled down the mountain, speeding on their skis until they were out of sight. The three attackers who couldn’t stand remained behind, turning the snow red.
Hatch disarmed the wounded Feralfolk with a few flicks of his wand. “If you wish to pray before you die, now would be the time,” Hatch told them. One of them began to beg mercy; Shiloh found herself feeling grateful when Hatch cut short his desperate plea. She watched as he proceeded to kill the other two without so much as another word, then closed her eyes. She pushed herself through the shock and dismay that threatened to overwhelm her and turned to assess the damage to their party.
Thankfully, Gil’s wound proved to be fairly superficial. Shiloh knelt and quickly yanked out the arrow and stopped the bleeding, focusing a spell with the help of her ice wand.
“You’re all right, now,” she said soothingly, as though the brute were but a little boy. “I’ve got you. You’re going to be fine. We’ll get you some whiskey for the pain when we get to town. You’re all right.”
She looked up to find Hatch looking down at her, face unreadable. He raised an eyebrow toward her hand, and she dropped the icicle into the snow. She pulled her glove back on with her teeth.
“Mount up. They might have friends,” Hatch ordered.
Their journey warily recommenced, Hatch whispered to Shiloh, “You are a dangerous little thing, aren’t you?”
Unsure how to respond, Shiloh held her tongue. She could have sworn she heard him laugh again, but it was hard to tell above the wind.
At last, they began to descend the pass. The cheerful sight of the well-lit town gilded in white brought the bedraggled group some much-needed cheer as their horses struggled through the deep snow.
“There’s a pub with an inn. I am told it is comfortable enough, compared to most,” Shiloh informed Silas. “You and your men should be able to get a warm bed and a decent meal, anyway.”
“Yes, I know it. I'll pay for a room for you, as well,” Silas hastened to assure her. “They are expecting us.”
Shiloh shook her head. “They'll never let me in.” She pointed to her hair, peeking out from her hood. “The best I can hope for is the stable. They might not notice I'm hexborn if I duck in there straightaway, as long as I hide the arm under my cloak. If they make me as Unclean and see us together, they might not let you in, either.”
Silas shook his head. “I think you underestimate the effectiveness of my reputation in obtaining cooperation.”
“I think you underestimate how superstitious and ignorant my fellow Teethtrash can be,” she countered. “They will lose every other paying customer if I walk through their door. Mountain folk do not break bread with the Unclean.”
“The cleanliness statutes were outlawed nearly five years ago, during the Reforms,” Silas protested.
“They keep to the old ways up here. The Reforms have not yet taken root, as I’m sure you are more than aware.”
“The innkeeper works for me,” Silas countered.
“One of your many sources of vital information, I presume? If he’s valuable and you want him to keep working for you, you won’t force me on them. I’ll be fine in the barn,” she declared. “The horses keep it warm.”
“Miss Teethborn—”
“Master Hatch, even if they let me in, they’ll be muttering and staring and spitting in my food. It simply isn’t worth it to me. Respectable people do not want me in their company, and I am willing to oblige them.”
She pulled at the horse’s reins, and the animal followed her happily toward shelter. She hobbled, sore from so much unaccustomed riding. The stable boy paid her little mind, anxious to get all the mounts tended so he could find his own supper, and he soon disappeared. Shiloh, too exhausted to do more than eat a handful of nuts from her pack, found plenty of clean straw up in the loft and curled up in her cloak, aching and weary to the bone.
Her rest was soon interrupted. “I thought you at least deserved some hot food,” Hatch called from the floor below. He climbed one-handed up the ladder to the hayloft, his dark hair popping up over the rail.
“Thank you, sir,” Shiloh replied as she sat up. She reached out to take the offered bowl and wooden spoon.
“I'm reasonably certain they didn't spit in it,” Silas added.
“Gil all right?” she asked after gratefully gulping down a few bites.
“He's fine. Already deep in his cups. He's probably claiming he slaughtered a whole tribe of Feralfolk by now,” Hatch answered. Shiloh stiffened. “Forgive me. That was thoughtless. I did not intend a swipe at you.”
Shiloh remained silent. She put down her spoon, her appetite suddenly gone.
“Feralfolk are the enemies of all civilized people. You committed no crime when you killed them. As far as I’m concerned, we ought to pay you a bounty. And as long as you pose no threat to the throne, you have nothing to fear from me,” Hatch insisted. His words were reassuring. His tone was not.
“Why would I pose a threat to the throne?” she asked, forcing herself to look him in the eye.
“Edmun fought for Alissa in the war. Perhaps he filled your head with treason. Perhaps you are his final act of rebellion,” Silas proposed. “The Teeth came out for her as well. You see why there might be . . . concern about your possible loyalties. That, coupled with your unusual level of talent, makes you of interest to a man in my position.”
Shiloh shook her head. “The Teeth fought for the Usurper because they were drafted by their lord. Old Blackmine’s press gangs came through every town. More than half the men who left never came home. Losing that much has a way of turning a people against a queen. Losing that much has a way of turning a people against war altogether, of making them love stability above all things.
“The landfolk of the Teeth are loyal to King Rischar. They're about as likely to rebel as they are to kill their own young for supper. As for me, Brother Edmun taught me the price of war and the value of peace. So did my father’s screaming nightmares. So did my defects of birth and my nights of agony. And, yes, so did the night I killed the Feralfolk,”
she declared, voice breaking. “Besides, the king is anointed by the Gods I was brought up to revere and obey. His person is sacred.”
“I’d wager that’s more than you generally speak in a week. Did you practice that pretty speech?” Silas asked with a smile Shiloh couldn’t quite read.
“No. If you think I'm a threat, why am I still breathing? Why are you bringing me to court, to the Academy?”
“For the same reason we bring anyone to court: because we think your presence there will be of use to king and country.”
“And are you ever wrong in your assessments, Master Hatch?”
“Not for long, Miss Teethborn. Not for long.”
***
“Have you ever seen a ward like that one, Uncle Silas?” Perce asked over his wine goblet, the third he’d gulped down. “One that shoots the weapon back at them? One that lets curses through in one direction and not t’other?” he hiccupped.
Silas shook his head. “No. No, I have not.” He took a small sip of his own wine, his first goblet.
“And she cast it with a Gods-damned icicle!” Perce continued. “What could she do with a proper wand? An icicle, for the Gods’ sakes!”
“Yes, Percy, I was there,” Silas replied, betraying his dwindling patience.
“So, she must be a water witch, then, right?”
“I have another theory,” Silas countered, but did not elaborate. His drunken nephew seemed not to notice.
“I mean, it really makes you wonder who her parents were, doesn't it? She's not some hedge witch’s whelp, is she? Somebody powerful spawned that girl.”
“I would advise against pursuing that line of inquiry,” Silas cautioned. “Nothing good can come of it.”
“But, the mother must have been a powerful mage. Not some country nun who couldn't curse her way out of a burlap sack,” Percy continued, words slurring. “Otherwise, the girl wouldn’t be all defective and powerful at the same time.”
Silas sighed. “What did I just say? Listen to me carefully. We are going to maintain that she is the daughter of the late and traitorous Gilroy, Lord Blackmine and Sister Fienn Cartwright, a nun who was a spy for the king’s side during the war. She died a few years after the end of the fighting, so there is no one around to contradict the story. Convince yourself to believe that. Sell the story to anyone who asks. If anyone seems inclined to investigate, tell me immediately. Am I clear, Perce?”