by A. M. Manay
King Rischar’s hearty laughter interrupted her ruminations, drawing her eyes back to him.
I hope, for all our sakes, that she does not disappoint him.
***
It took two hours and a great deal of wine for Silas to calm the king enough for him to sleep, so keen was his anxiety about his baby’s imminent arrival. The midwives had indicated that it would be many hours yet. First children were often slow to arrive.
When Silas finally returned to his study, the hour was late. Nevertheless, he found Shiloh sitting on the bench outside the door, rubbing her hook. As he approached, she jumped to her feet, her face troubled. He could guess the reason for her visit, and for her unease. He sighed inwardly, held open the door, and gestured for her to precede him.
Barely was the door closed behind them before she began to speak, pacing in front of his desk. “I thought you said that Brother Mikel was working for you. But now I hear he’s been arrested!”
“Surely you knew that was a possibility when you broached the subject with me yesterday,” Silas replied, struggling to keep hold of his patience. Why does everyone always have to come to me to deal with their troubled hearts? Why do I have to spend my time assuaging everyone else’s guilt when I have plenty of my own?
“Yes, but . . . I was so relieved when you said you already knew,” she protested.
“Unfortunately, the good librarian was deceiving me. The letter you saw him remove, he sent with a messenger instead of turning it over to me. He confesses that it was not the first time. The king appreciates your help in uncovering his deception, as do I. My mistaken trust in Mikel could have been disastrous. I trust you enjoyed dining with new companions this evening?”
“Yes, of course I did, but I never meant to benefit from . . . Well, maybe I did, a little. I just feel so bad about, I mean, if you hurt him—”
“Don’t,” Silas interjected. “Mikel’s sins belong to him, as do mine to me. With his treachery, he brought this upon himself. You may feel sympathy for him in his suffering if you wish. I do. But you did what was necessary to protect the king and the kingdom. He was assisting in a treasonous conspiracy whose first goal is the murder of our sovereign. We cannot afford another civil war, Shiloh. We haven’t recovered from the last one.
“You should be proud that you were clever enough and brave enough to do your part in preventing such a catastrophe. That you have thereby also strengthened your own position is something you will need to learn to accept if you have any hope of navigating your new life here. Make peace with it. It is not my job to soothe your conscience. Now, if you please, I still have work to do before I can catch a ferry to the Claw, assuming no one else in the palace needs me to play nursemaid tonight.” At the look on her face, he realized that his voice had been louder and harsher than he’d intended.
Shiloh swallowed. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t be wasting your time with my foolishness,” she said softly. Before he could reply, she had ducked out of the door.
“Gods damn it,” he swore. The last thing I need to be doing is alienating that girl. She needs to trust me.
He leaned forward, resting his weary head in his hands. In the silence of his study, the day’s chatter echoed through his tired mind, punctuated by Mikel’s screams. He thought about the morning to come, wondering whether it would be a day of celebration or one of disappointment. If the latter, he could expect to spend the whole day attempting to bolster the king’s spirits, redirect his anger, and restore his optimism.
Please, dear Gods, let it be a boy. I am too damned tired for a girl.
***
A bell began to peal, and Shiloh looked up from her task of replacing the candles in front of the Youth’s shrine. Father Charls caught her eye.
“The baby must be born,” he explained. “If there are five, it’s a girl. For a boy, it rings ten times.”
After the fifth peal, silence reigned. Charls sighed heavily.
“The king will be quite disappointed, I take it?” Shiloh asked.
“Extremely,” the priest replied. “After all, if you had dissolved your marriage and upended the church universal in pursuit of a legitimate son, you might be rather frustrated by receiving another daughter instead.”
“The Queen is so young, though. She’s only a few years older than I am. She has time,” Shiloh protested.
Charls nodded. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, child, but our sovereign is not a patient man.”
***
“She is beautiful, Your Grace,” Silas told Queen Zina. And it was true. The princess was as lovely as a newborn child could possibly be. If only that were enough.
“Yes, she is,” Zina agreed. “We shall call her Loor.” She smiled, but her eyes looked tired.
“A lovely name, Your Grace.”
“Is he terribly disappointed, Master Hatch?” she asked.
Hatch’s brow furrowed in surprise at Zina’s atypical vulnerability. “He has every confidence you will one day bear a son, Your Grace. He will fall in love with Princess Loor. It is only a matter of time.”
Zina nodded. “Yes, of course. How are the plans for the dedication proceeding?”
“All is in readiness, Your Grace. The archbishop is having the cathedral prepared as you instructed.”
“Will his grace be coming to see her today?” Zina asked. To Hatch’s horror, he saw a tear in her eye.
“Of course, Your Grace,” he assured her, not knowing if it was a lie. “He is merely giving you a few hours to recover.”
“When the princess is old enough to move to the nursery at Fountain Bluff, Lady Esta must accompany her,” Zina insisted, turning away from him to gaze out of the window.
“I am aware of your position, Your Grace. There is new pressure I can bring to bear on the Dowager Duchess,” Hatch assured her.
“There had better be,” Zina replied, eyes hard.
Ah, now, there’s the queen I remember, Silas thought. She sounded almost human, there, for an instant. A momentary lapse, I’m sure. He bowed, catching one last glimpse of her sharp, sour expression.
Ah, the joys of motherhood.
***
“I hear the whore had a girl,” Mirin remarked. “I shall pray for her.”
Hatch looked down at the former queen. “You should pray for Mikel. The king intends to execute him for treason the day after Princess Loor is dedicated.”
Mirin clucked. “It is unwise to get blood on one’s hands so soon after such a sacrament. It is an insult to the Gods.” She then coughed for nearly a minute. Silas almost felt sorry for her. The damp tower was doing her constitution no favors.
“The blood is on your hands, Your Grace. And perhaps you should spare some of your prayers for yourself. You enticed a weak man to treason. We have his written confession.”
“A man will say anything when he is being tortured, Master Hatch,” Mirin retorted.
“We have the letter,” he countered. “The one you gave him last week, to send to Lord Redwood. It is in your own hand. It is enough to condemn you. The Lord Prosecutor is prepared to begin your trial after the Winter Solstice.”
“He wouldn’t dare!” Mirin replied stoutly, but fear was beginning to show in her eyes. “My husband would never subject me to such an insult. I am no traitor. Everything I have done, I have done for the kingdom and for my husband.”
“Then I assume you will mount a vigorous defense,” Silas replied, voice mild, then waited for the fear to do its work.
“Is there an offer coming, you swine?” Mirin finally spat, dropping all pretense of civility.
“His grace, the king, is prepared to spare you the indignity of trial and to offer you a full pardon for any ill-advised acts you may have committed in a state of emotional turmoil, if you agree to take up residence at the Three Trees Estate, and if you agree to send Lady Esta to the castle at Fountain Bluff, to the royal nursery, as part of Princess Loor’s household,” Hatch replied.
“Agreed,” she finally hissed. “Now get out of my sight.”
Hatch bowed and obliged her. He could still hear her coughing all the way down the stairs.
***
Shiloh had never been amidst such an enormous number of people. The National Cathedral stood less than a mile from the palace, but the procession moved so slowly that it was taking hours to cover the ground. The streets were lined with spectators, kept to the edges by the king’s guard. Shiloh, of course, walked well back, far behind her betters.
To her pleasant surprise, she found herself caught up in the joyful spirit of the day. People were cheering and singing, waving banners, drinking ale. Children ran screaming through the crowds, along with vendors and pickpockets. It was almost enough to make her ignore all those who pointed at her and cast signs or clutched charms as she passed them. Penn was kind enough to walk with her, pointing out landmarks and identifying important people.
Upon her arrival at the cathedral, she was directed to the balcony with the other half-bloods, parting company with Penn, who joined her family on the main floor. It was a long climb, but it was rather a relief to be above most of the crowd. No one wanted to be too close to her, so she had a sizable gap on every side. For once, she was grateful to be Unclean.
The ceremony was lengthy, and she could barely hear the priests. She found her mind wandering until the choir began to sing the recessional. As she opened her mouth to join in, something made the hair rise on the back of her neck. She felt a pressure building behind her. Magic. Dark magic.
She turned in alarm to see a man on the riser above her own clutching a wand, his eyes fixated on Loor, Rischar, Esta, and Zina as the royal family processed slowly down the aisle to the cheers of the crowd. With everyone jostling for a look at the new princess, no one else seemed to have noticed anything amiss.
Shiloh opened her mouth to scream an alarm and leapt in front of the man just as a curse left his wand. She felt the hex collide with her chest, tossing her well above the railing.
Time seemed to slow. She watched her silk slipper fall from her foot and glide through the air, ribbons trailing behind. Pain spread through her torso as she plummeted toward the aisle dozens of feet below.
Mercifully, she lost consciousness before she met the marble floor.
***
“How in the Father’s name did someone get a wand inside?” King Rischar howled. The head of the king’s guard cowered before him.
About a dozen of the king’s men stood in the cathedral’s rectory. Zina and her favorite ladies sat together in the corner, trembling with shock. Esta and the baby had already been spirited away under heavy guard.
Twenty people had been trampled in the panic before the Knights of St. Stex, being the only powerful wizards with wands inside the building, had regained control of the terrified crowd.
“I do not know, Your Grace,” the man stuttered.
“I do,” Hatch offered grimly. “The guards at the basement door were replaced. One of the priests just found their bodies in the crypt.”
“And the man who dared attack my wife and daughters?” Rischar demanded.
“He is currently being transported to the High Tower under heavy guard. My own men. Master Jonn believes he will live long enough to be interrogated,” Hatch reported. “He’s evidently a priest named Jakeb Flatsborn. He refused to agree to support the Reforms and fled across the border two years ago, after spending several years in prison. One of the bishops recognized him when they hauled him out.”
“Sent by the Patriarch?” Rischar asked.
“Possibly. We should know more once I speak with him,” Hatch replied grimly.
“And the girl?” Lord Penfield asked.
“She lives, barely,” Hatch replied. “Jonn has stabilized her enough to take her back to the palace for further treatment. Only the Gods know how she’s still breathing. She bore the full brunt of the assassin’s curse, which we have not yet identified. And then she hit the marble hard enough to break whatever was still in one piece.” He shook his head. “Jonn says that she may never awaken.”
“The old women used to say the hexborn have some immunity to curses cast by their mothers whilst they grew in the womb,” the elderly Lord Blufeld offered in his gravelly voice, roughened by decades of pipe-smoking and drink. Neither he nor Silas gave any visible sign of their kinship. Blufeld had accumulated so many bastard offspring over the years that he barely knew any of their names.
“If she lives, she will be rewarded handsomely,” the king declared. For a moment, he seemed almost overcome with emotion. “For a crippled child to risk her very life for crown and country, with no wand to protect herself . . .”
“An inspiration for us all, Your Grace. Let us hope the tales are true, that she may experience your generous kindness,” Silas replied.
And answer a few questions from me.
***
Shiloh heard voices, muffled and far away, as though she were under water or being smothered by a blanket. She struggled for breath, each gasp a battle against the pain that filled her chest. She tried to cry out, but all she managed was a whimper. Evidently, that was enough, for a voice grew closer.
“Easy, Shiloh. You’re safe in the infirmary,” a soft voice told her. A long moment passed before she could identify it as belonging to Master Jonn.
Shiloh forced open her eyes, then snapped them immediately shut, wincing at the pain that lanced through her head.
“Photophobia,” Jonn pronounced, running to close the drapes and block the late afternoon sun. “A common side effect of the spell I used to mend your bones. The charms sewn into your linen broke the fall enough to let you survive it, but there were still a dozen fractures or more.”
“What curse was he using?” she managed to whisper, eyes firmly shut.
“Milton’s Hex. The sign appeared on your stomach about an hour after you were struck,” Jonn replied.
“Well, that explains why it feels like my organs are made out of fire and acid. Isn’t Milton’s Hex supposed to be fatal?” she asked.
“Aye. And yet, here you are,” Jonn said. “We’re going to get a paper out of this. Maybe two. Truly, Shiloh, I am much relieved. You gave me a terrible scare.”
“The princesses? The king and queen?” she asked, suddenly frantic, trying to sit up. She collapsed back onto her pillow with a cry.
“They are fine. You took the whole curse. You’re a hero. Now, stop trying to move. You nearly died. You are a very sick young woman,” Jonn scolded. “Behave yourself.” He pulled up a stool and sat down next to her bed.
“The man who cast it . . . Why would he do that? What kind of monster throws Milton’s Hex at a newborn baby?” Shiloh protested.
“I assume Master Hatch is at work answering that question,” Jonn replied darkly. “Could be someone aligned with Mirin, or the Patriarch, or Lord Redwood. Could be Feralfolk. Could be some agent from Gerne. Thankfully, that is not my affair. I patched the wretched creature up and passed him along to the High Tower. Do you think you could keep down some water? I’ve mixed in a liberal dose of Comfort Potion.”
She nodded, and Jonn gently tilted her head and held a ceramic mug to her lips. She took several grateful swallows. Shiloh risked peering up at him, grateful to see that the room was now much more dimly lit.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” she said, her lips twitching in an attempted smile. The potion began to take effect, and the pain in her stomach now seemed to belong to someone else.
She looked down at herself and saw that she was dressed in a linen nightgown, not her own. “My clothes?” she asked, her voice slurring.
“We had to cut you out of them, I’m afraid. They were destroyed, anyway. There was quite a lot of blood pouring out of your mouth,” Jonn explained apologetically.
“Oh,” came her noncommittal
reply. The painkilling potion made it difficult to care about much of anything, for which she was rather grateful. “You must have seen my scars, then,” she mused aloud, that thought causing much less concern than would normally be the case.
Jonn cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes. It’s a wonder you survived your childhood.”
“Edmun said I must be very special. Chosen by the Gods for a purpose,” she offered, then covered her mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone that,” she whispered drunkenly, eyes wide.
Jonn laughed. “Well, I’m afraid the secret is out, after today. Everyone knows you’re special now.”
She started to laugh, but her body argued, sending bolts of pain through her chest.
“No laughing,” Jonn admonished her. “I just mended every last one of your ribs. Just rest, all right?”
“Yes, Master,” she replied, chastened.
She drifted for some time, dozing now and again. The room grew darker as the sun sank toward the western horizon. The sound of a door swinging open jolted her out of a half-sleep. She blinked her eyes several times, her head spinning.
“Has she woken?” Hatch demanded.
“Yes, she’s in and out of consciousness. Keep quiet, man, she needs her rest. She is barely out of mortal danger,” Jonn scolded.
“Was she really in mortal danger? Really and truly? What if she knew the curse wouldn’t kill her, because she knew her mother had given her immunity to go with her afflictions? What if it was some kind of elaborate charade, and she conspired with this devil of a priest to gain the king’s trust—”
“Are you daft, man? Listen to yourself. You see conspiracies everywhere,” Jonn countered.
“There are conspiracies everywhere!” Hatch proclaimed, throwing up his hands. Even he seemed to realize how he sounded, for he continued in a softer voice, “I’m sorry, Jonn. I just—I’m so tired, and this man is giving me so little to work with. I don’t know if he was mad before the crowd beat him half to death, but he certainly is now. He’s confessing to literally everything I bring up. I haven’t even touched him! I’m surprised he hasn’t claimed to be Alissa in disguise, or King Jerroh back from the grave. And the idea that the kingdom was almost brought down by a madman, and that the only thing that stood between us and ruin was a one-handed country girl with good timing . . . It rather makes all my own efforts seem for naught, don’t you think?”