by A. M. Manay
“Sorry, Master. Forgot my own books,” she apologized in a bright voice, hoping he would sense nothing amiss.
“Go on and get them, then, silly girl,” Mikel replied, not meeting her eyes.
“See you in a few days, sir,” she called before turning her back to make haste.
Only after she was safely behind her chamber door did she pause for breath. She sat on her bed and stared at the wall, carefully considering her options, reflecting upon how she might employ this card she’d unexpectedly been dealt.
Oh, Brother Mikel. What are you playing at?
***
Silas heard rapid footsteps behind him as he approached his study after supper. He placed a wary hand on his wand. He removed it only after he had identified his pursuer.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Teethborn?” he asked, turning to greet her.
“I wanted to ask you for a favor, sir,” the girl began, slightly out of breath. They arrived at his study, and Hatch held open his door to allow her to enter ahead of him. “Thank you, sir.”
Hatch took his place behind his imposing desk, which was stacked with work, as usual. “What would you have me do, pray tell?” he asked.
“I wanted to ask if I could have permission to visit Lord Daved Jennin,” she ventured.
He looked up at her from beneath his brows and sighed. “Whatever for?”
“Because I feel sorry for him. I’ll just bring him some books and say hello. That’s all. I . . . I just know what it is to be alone.”
He pushed his ever-present skepticism to the side, choosing to react as though convinced of her sincerity. “Your kindness does you credit. But it isn’t a good idea. It will only make it harder for you if the king has his head,” Hatch explained patiently. He felt a pang in his chest in spite of himself at the thought of it.
“What does that matter, if I can make things a little more pleasant for him in the meantime?”
He nearly smiled. “It would be bad for your reputation. You might come under suspicion, taking mercy on a traitor’s son.”
“I’m already an outcast. You don’t really think I’m plotting with him, do you?” she retorted.
Hatch shook his head. “No. You may well be the most honest person within the walls of this palace. But others might use it against you. Contrary to popular opinion, mine is not the only voice to which our king bends his ear.”
“Please?” she pleaded.
He leveled a penetrating gaze at her plaintive face. “Very well. On two conditions. One, that you will report to me the content of your exchanges.” She nodded agreement. “The second is that if he tries to pass you a message, you will bring it straight to me. I will make it known that you are working for me rather than pitying a traitor.” Shiloh hesitated. “Those are my conditions, Shiloh. I know you are reluctant to add to the boy’s troubles. If you think the price too high, we can forget this conversation ever happened.”
“No, that isn’t it. I don’t think Daved would be so foolish as to give me a seditious letter.” Shiloh bit her lip.
“Then, what is it?”
Shiloh swallowed heavily. It looked like she was fighting indecision, but Silas sensed no conflict in her thoughts. She had made up her mind before she’d walked into his room. “It’s about the other person I bring books to, sir. I think Duchess Mirin may be sneaking letters out in her library books,” she confessed.
“I know. I have the librarian looking for them. He delivers them to me every so often. I do appreciate your forthrightness,” Hatch replied. Edmun taught her well, he thought. She knows when to throw someone over to improve her own position. Or she is genuinely loyal to the king. I suppose it could be a bit of both.
Shiloh collapsed against the back of her chair. Her relief seemed genuine. “Oh, thank the Gods. I was afraid Brother Mikel was in on it when I saw him searching the books yesterday. I thought I might faint when I saw him pull out that letter.”
Hatch kept his face carefully neutral. “I imagine you did. Did he notice that you saw him?”
“I don’t think so,” she replied. “I am quiet, and he doesn’t really notice what’s around him. He lives inside his head. Last week, he set his own robes alight and didn’t even notice me putting them out.”
Hatch barked a bitter laugh. “He has always been rather myopic. Tell me, what do you think of the Dowager Duchess? You didn’t feel enough sympathy for her to keep her secret?”
“I don’t . . . it’s not that I enjoy getting anyone into trouble, but there’s something about her, the way she looks at me. I don’t like it.” Shiloh shook her head. “Besides, I owe my loyalty to the king first. And as far as I can tell, she is just some noblewoman making trouble for pride when she could leave here in wealth and safety any time she likes. And if she and the Patriarch had their way, the Reforms would be revoked, and the Unclean would have to go back to wearing purple patches on our clothes and bells to warn of our approach.”
Silas stifled a smile. Her clear-eyed practicality made him suspect the child was rather a kindred soul. Given Edmun’s outsized influence on both of their lives, it seemed only fitting. He dashed off a note for Shiloh and pulled out a stick of red wax. After affixing his seal, he passed the paper to her. “That will get you in to speak with Daved for ten minutes per day. No more.”
“Thank you,” she replied, smiling. “I should sleep better tonight. I feel calmer now that I’ve gotten to speak with you.”
I’m glad one of us does, Silas thought acidly. Aloud, he merely replied, “I’m glad to hear it. Have a pleasant night, Shiloh. Stay out of trouble.”
Only when the door had latched firmly behind her did his face betray his dismay.
Oh, Brother Mikel. What are you playing at?
Chapter 8
Selfishness and Spite
“Shiloh, have I ever told you where the Cleanliness Laws came from?” Edmun asked. “And why the Unclean are rendered clean inside the walls of a consecrated Temple?”
“No, Master,” the seven-year-old replied, looking up from the floor of their own Temple. She was halfway through scrubbing it.
“They’re not from scripture,” he began, continuing to dust the altar. “Well, you already knew that, since you’ve read the Tarwah cover to cover,” he said proudly.
Shiloh beamed, then returned to her work, ears open.
“The tradition dates to the first Patriarch, the story goes, before he was even called the Patriarch. When he was just a priest growing in power and in following. There was a woman he desired. She had the falling sickness. She loved another, and the Patriarch was enraged. He declared such women Unclean and forbade them from marrying anyone. Declared that such people were only clean inside his Temple, hoping that would force the object of his desire to come to him.
“And to make his aims less obvious, he added to the list of ways to become Unclean until most anyone with an affliction qualified. And this list appealed to people, and the idea caught fire, because most people need someone to look down upon.
“The Cleanliness Laws were born out of lust and selfishness and spite, poppet. Remind yourself of that when the other children scorn you and their parents cast signs.”
Shiloh nodded. “The Gods don’t think I’m Unclean at all,” she concluded.
“That’s right, poppet,” Edmun agreed. “That first Patriarch did manage to get a little truth into his self-serving machinations, which is that the Gods welcome all into their house. The Gods can make use of even a bad man, you see, without him even realizing it.
“And if there is one thing you can count on in this world, poppet, it’s that the powerful seek to manipulate the weak in body, spirit, or mind in order to get what they want. That goes for Gods and for people, both.”
***
“You know, Lord Daved, I had expected you might run,” Silas confessed, “after King Rischar put you out of his privy chamber weeks ago.”
They sat in Daved’s
cell, which was quite comfortable by prison standards. The weather had turned cold and foggy, so a fire burned cheerfully in the grate. There was a bed with decent linen and heavy blankets, and a small table with two chairs. The boy’s books sat in neat stacks on the table, courtesy of that morning’s delivery from Shiloh. A notebook stood open, next to pen and ink. The boy had been working on an essay for Master Jazpar, Silas noticed. That’s to his credit.
Daved shrugged and looked away. “Where would I have gone? My father didn’t send me any word of where to go, nor did my brothers.”
“I know,” Silas replied. “I’ve been reading all your letters for many months.”
Daved shot him an angry glare but quickly dropped his gaze. “You would have just had me followed anyway. And then it would have been my fault if any of them got arrested.”
The boy picked at a piece of fuzz on his breeches. Silas made a mental note to have someone polish Daved’s boots. They were getting scuffed.
“I imagine you must hate me, my lord,” Hatch offered. “And that is perfectly fine. It is only natural for a young man in your situation to hate someone for his fall from grace, and you must not hate your king or your father. So, that leaves me. But I wish to assure you that neither I, nor your sovereign, harbor any ill will against you. Your father’s unfortunate sins are his alone. I only hope, for your sake, that we are correct that your involvement in his treason has been minimal.”
“My father is not a traitor!” the boy countered, but it sounded rote to Hatch.
“Alas, there is ample evidence that he is. My network of informers is vast, my lord. It spans not only our fair country, but also several others besides. Your father has been making some very unfortunate decisions. He plots with the Patriarch and the leaders of Gerne. He sent one of your elder brothers to Estany, where he has, alas, been arrested after attempting to enlist its ruler in your father’s cause. The grand duke has no desire to antagonize King Rischar, it seems, at least not this week. I begin to suspect Lord Redwood even plots with Mirin, the Dowager Duchess.”
“Why would he do that? He cannot stand her,” Daved argued.
“Your father has no claim to the throne on his own. But to place Esta on the throne and to rule as her regent . . . that is almost as good as being a king. And, certainly, Esta would need a husband. And your father has an ample supply of marriageable sons. And if something were then to happen to little Esta . . . one could well imagine the country turning to a strong man for leadership, couldn’t one?”
As Daved listened, he began to wither. Silas could see that the boy found his logic persuasive.
“What do you want from me?” the boy demanded. “I’m twelve years old, for the Maiden’s sake. I don’t know anything that you don’t already know,” he protested, his adolescent voice jumping from one register to another with a loud crack.
Silas looked at the child with sympathy. “I want your honesty. Do you have personal knowledge of the conspiracy? Did you overhear them planning or discussing any of this, perhaps when you were together for the summer solstice?” When Daved failed to answer, Silas continued. “There are no witnesses here, Daved. No one is here to take notes. This whole conversation never happened, not officially. Do you understand? Your father will not know what you tell me today. Only our king will hear of your words.
“I am, quite frankly, trying to find a way to save your life and to spare you pain. I may even be able to help whatever is left of your family keep at least some of its holdings when all of this is through. But if I’m to be able to do that, I need you to tell me if you ever heard your father or brothers speak against King Rischar. Please, child. There is no one coming to save you. Not your father. Not your brothers. Not your uncle. You must save yourself.”
Daved swallowed heavily. Finally, tears in his eyes, he gave a single nod.
“Good man. Tell me what you heard,” Silas prodded.
Daved bit the inside of his lip. “My father was talking with my middle brothers, Hank and Jakar. He said that no child of Queen Zina could be a true heir, that their marriage was invalid, that the Reforms are false.”
Silas nodded. Redwood was not the only nobleman whose fealty to the reconstituted Church of Bryn was questionable. There were many who still looked to the Patriarch on the sly, refusing in their hearts to accept the king’s divorce from Mirin or his governance of the church.
Daved continued. “He said . . . he said that Gerne would never respect the succession if the throne did not go to Esta, since her mother is from Gerne. My father said . . .” Daved pressed his lips together, obviously fearful.
“Do not be afraid to tell me. His words will not be held against you,” Silas promised.
“He said,” Daved whispered, “that he would not be surprised if Queen Zina’s child is not even the king’s own. He said that the king is unmanned.”
Silas raised an eyebrow. Accusing the king of being an impotent cuckold . . . that spoke to an enmity that went beyond a lord’s mere greed for power. Was Redwood still not over that episode with the king and his wife? She’s been dead for years.
“With whom is our fair queen purported to be frolicking?” Hatch asked, pressing on.
Daved shrugged. “All the young men of court write her poems. Her grace likes to be the center of attention.”
“Fair enough. But your kinsmen made no particular allegation along those lines? Named no names?”
Daved shook his head.
“Did you hear anything about troops from Gerne? There is a long border with that land under your family’s protection.”
“No, he said nothing about using men from Gerne. He doesn’t trust their king, not really. He said he might try to use Feralfolk,” Daved confessed.
Hatch pushed back his chair and leaned back, taking in that surprising bit of information. “Feralfolk? Are you sure?”
“That’s where Hank went, to try to parley with the Feralfolk leader.”
“What would he offer them in exchange?” Silas asked, leaning forward, eyes focused sharply on Daved’s own.
“Gold. And part of the Teeth, for their own country.”
They sat in portentous silence for a moment, until Silas clapped Daved on the shoulder. “I think that is enough for today. Thank you, good sir. The king appreciates your loyalty. I’ll come visit you again tomorrow. Don’t forget to eat.”
As the guard locked the door behind him, Silas looked back through the bars at the boy. Daved remained motionless, slouched in his chair, shoulders bent beneath far too heavy a burden. Silas shook his head, then looked up the staircase. He feared his next conversation would be far more unpleasant.
***
“Personal combat,” Master Deniss intoned dramatically, as he did at the beginning of each training session. “It is a wizard’s most important skill.” He turned abruptly, glaring at the entire group from beneath his bushy brows as if daring them to argue the point. “And to cause injury or death with his wand is the most serious burden a wizard can place upon his very soul.”
Shiloh couldn’t argue with him there. She could still smell the Feralfolk burning every time she closed her eyes to go to sleep.
No one else in the firing range seemed to be taking him very seriously. Dozens of bastards and lordlings attended knight’s training each week, from those who would rule and command armies down to those who would staff the guard or serve as fighting priests. Many young men who had dropped out of every other course of study continued to pursue this discipline well into young adulthood. There were very few women among them, and none of them purely of noble blood, of course.
“Today, you will be sparring,” Deniss declared. An excited murmur ran through the room. “Some of you, I will deem good enough to continue with group training. A very few of you will impress me enough that I assign you to individual instruction with one of our knights. Most of you will turn out to be good for nothing but cannon fodder.”
Master Deniss waved his w
and, and pads stored against the walls began to lay themselves out on the floor, arranged in squares a dozen yards on a side. He waved his wand again, and magical latticework appeared around the edges of each sparring ring, to prevent curses from going astray.
“Six pairs will go at a time. Protective gear on everyone, if you please! I don’t care how tough you think you are. That goes for you, too, Lord Kepler,” he ordered. “When you aren’t up, watch closely. Look for strengths and weaknesses that you can use to improve your own skills.”
Shiloh was among those chosen to begin. Master Deniss paired her with an enormous boy named Gasper. One of the Duke of Mosspeak’s bastards, he had a bit of a reputation as a brute. She eyed him carefully as she put on her robe and helmet. They’d been infused with protective magic to reduce the chances of any of them managing to kill someone.
“Why I gotta be with the little girl?” Gasper groused.
“Because I said so,” Master Deniss barked. “Bow. And begin!”
Defending against Gasper was no challenge. He telegraphed everything, and his repertoire of curses was limited. He cast a half-dozen hexes. None even came close to breaching her wards.
“Stop stalling, girl,” Deniss scolded. “You’re holding back. Don’t be afraid to strike.”
Shiloh swallowed heavily and obeyed, sending a volley of closely spaced curses at her opponent, who promptly went flying into the barrier, crumpling to the ground.
“That’s the spirit! You still with us, Gasper?” Deniss asked, pulling the boy to his feet. Gasper swayed, eyes crossed. “All right, who else fancies a go with the little girl?” Deniss grinned.
One after another, they entered her ring. No one paid any attention to the other squares, including the students sparring within them. After a while, every student had his eyes on Shiloh. By the time class was over, she’d defeated each of the half-bloods in the room. Some of them were more of a challenge than others, but none could match her knowledge or her power. Deniss dismissed the class, and Shiloh stood panting as the students departed, sweat pouring down her face. She holstered her wand and removed her helmet, pressing her hand against a stitch in her side.