by A. M. Manay
“It’s better if I was in on it?” Shiloh interjected in a hoarse voice, struggling to prop herself up on her elbows. “You are a strange man, indeed. Somebody help me sit up, please. I’m well awake now.”
Jonn rushed over to assist her. Shiloh looked balefully at Hatch. “Go ahead. Do whatever you came here to do,” she told him.
He looked down at her from his considerable height. “Did you know there was going to be an attack at the princess’s dedication?”
“No,” she replied. “Of course not.”
“Do you know the man who perpetrated it?” he asked.
“No. I did not recognize him.”
“How did you know it was about to happen?” he demanded. “How did you know to intervene?” Hatch took a seat on the stool Jonn had earlier placed beside her bed.
“I felt the curse building behind my back. I turned to look, and he had a wand drawn. I knew none of us were permitted to have them, so I—”
“Wait. What do you mean, you ‘felt the curse building’?” Hatch interjected.
She looked at him, confused. “Dark magic has a . . . feeling. A presence. Like the way you can feel the heat from a fire even if you’re not looking at it. You can’t feel it, when it builds on a wand, or if it permeates an object? I’ve always been able to.”
“On an object that has been ensorcered, sure, if the magic is very strong,” Hatch replied, shaking his head in unison with Master Jonn, “but I’ve never heard of anyone being able to feel magic about to be cast.”
“Well, I do,” she insisted. “I felt it. I turned. I jumped to get in the way. It was all I could think of to do. It happened so quickly.”
“Did you know what curse it was before you jumped? Did you know you had some immunity to it?” Hatch immediately demanded, eyes sharp, not giving her so much as a moment to think.
“No. It just felt . . . bad. Very, very bad,” she responded, a bit flustered. “There wasn’t time to try to figure out what it was.”
“Why? Why did you endanger yourself, risk your own death? After all, the queen subjected you to public cruelty. Why save her and her daughter? Did you conspire with the assassin and then develop reservations? Did you hope to gain some advantage at court?” Hatch probed, merciless. “Did you wish to impress the king? Was it a suicidal impulse, an attempt to go out in a blaze of glory? Why did you do it, Shiloh?”
“I leapt because he was pointing his wand at a baby! What is the matter with you?” Shiloh cried. She began to cough, tears filling her eyes at the resulting pain.
“Enough, Silas,” Jonn declared, his voice soft but resolute.
The healing tutor strode to the other side of Shiloh’s bed and held a cup to her lips. She could taste the bitter Comfort Potion in the water. The spasms of pain eased, and her thoughts and vision began to grow fuzzy. Shiloh turned her head to the side, avoiding the sight of Hatch’s face. She heard him stand to leave and could no longer control her tongue.
“Why are you so obsessed with why I did the right thing? Shouldn’t you be asking why no one else did anything at all? Shouldn’t the king’s guard have been watching the crowd? Don’t they have wands? Don’t they have eyes? Did anyone down on the floor leap to their defense? Or did you all cower and run?” Shiloh asked, the words slurred, her sense of tact obliterated by the potion and her anger.
When Hatch reached the door, she added, “You flatlanders, you call us Teethtrash, and you mock our poverty, but at least we protect our young. What the hell kind of an evil place did you drag me to, Hatch?”
Hatch turned, offered her a wordless half bow, and slipped out of the infirmary, his coattails trailing behind him.
***
“He must have had handlers. There must be a mastermind behind this. This Brother Jakeb . . . he does not have the mental capacity to have planned this himself. He is more than a bit touched. The guards who were assigned to watch the balcony have been isolated and are awaiting questioning to determine if their failure to spot him was caused by honest error or by malice,” Hatch reported.
Around the council chamber sat most of the men closest to Rischar: Lancis Beckett, Earl of Blufeld, Lord of the Vine; Jasin Gray, Duke of Kepler, the young Lord of the Fist; Ashlee Cramer, Earl of Penfield, Lord of the Flats; Garrett Barclay, Duke of Lockland, Lord of the Claw, and the Castellan, Gordan Courtborn, the king’s bastard half-brother and oldest friend.
“Now, wait just a minute, Hatch,” Gordan blustered. “My men are the finest fighting wizards this kingdom has produced in decades.”
“Be that as it may, Hatch has a point,” Lord Penfield countered, rolling his eyes. “They failed to spot the threat. They failed to counter the threat. If it weren’t for the girl . . .”
“Are we sure the girl wasn’t involved somehow? Knew about it in advance and got cold feet, perhaps?” Lord Lockland asked, his hawkish face a match for his personality.
“I questioned Shiloh quite sharply. She was not part of this conspiracy,” Hatch declared.
“You’re sure?” Lockland countered.
“I’m sure. She was in a great deal of pain, and potion addled at that. She had no ability to deceive,” Hatch replied. “She is genuinely shocked at the very idea that someone would attempt something so monstrous.”
“Of course she wasn’t involved!” the king proclaimed, seemingly affronted by the attack on his new favorite. “A sweet, innocent country girl like that! It beggars belief.”
“She is Edmun’s little prodigy, after all,” the Lord Blufeld pointed out. “Perhaps she is your traitorous bastard brother’s last attempt at revenge, Your Grace,” he suggested.
“It seems to me more likely that she is his penance, Your Grace,” Hatch countered, not looking at his father. “She nearly died. She suffers greatly. Perhaps we should take her sacrifice at face value.”
“So, who is behind this priest, then?” Gordan asked.
“I have investigators out trying to piece together his recent movements. He was carrying a passport under a false name. It shows that he crossed the Gernish border six days ago. We’re checking inns along the King’s Road. Maybe someone spotted his handlers or someone else with whom he met. He also carried a suicide note of sorts. It’s quite rambling and difficult to follow, but he repeatedly mentions the Patriarch, The Dowager Duchess, and the Usurper,” Hatch described.
“My former wife and my dead sister, both?” Rischar sputtered.
“Indeed, your grace. The man seems to have a morbid fixation on your royal person. The real question is who made use of that fixation,” Hatch confirmed. “Lord Redwood seems the most likely to choose to strike at this time, given the arrests of two of his sons in the last few weeks, and given the amount of time the priest must have spent crossing the Wood from Gerne. But all possibilities shall be carefully examined.”
The king seemed to have reached his limit. “I must check on my wife and daughter. Keep me apprised, gentlemen,” he ordered, then stalked out of the chamber.
Accusations immediately began to fly.
“This is your failure, Hatch!” Gordan erupted.
“I told you months ago that the dedication would be a likely target of the king’s enemies,” Hatch replied calmly. “The fact that you refused to follow my recommendations regarding security is well-documented, Gordan. I have it in writing, in fact. Would anyone care to look at the letters? I can have copies made for everyone.”
Gordan’s florid face took on an even more alarming shade of magenta.
“My lords, if any of you has heard from Lord Redwood recently, now would be the time to share that information,” Hatch suggested.
“How dare you suggest that any of us is consorting with that traitor!” Lord Kepler cried, taking to his feet in righteous indignation. Jasin’s face glowed red with anger.
“Calm yourself, boy,” Lord Lockland replied, rolling his eyes. “He’ll think you protest too much. Master Hatch has a suspicious turn of mind. I got a
note from Redwood last week, asking after Daved. Looked like it was posted in Gerne. Nothing useful in it. I’ll send it to you regardless.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Hatch replied with a bow. “Anyone else?” Heads shook around the room. “How about Mirin, the Dowager Duchess? Did she sneak any of you messages, hidden in the laundry or some such foolishness?”
“I got one,” Lord Penfield confessed. “Or, rather, my wife did. Seemed to be about Lady Esta needing to have some dresses made. I’ll pass it along to you. Maybe it was a code, but my wife couldn’t make heads or tails of it if it was.”
“Many thanks, my lord,” Hatch responded. Seeing no further admissions on the horizon, Hatch drew the meeting to a close. “We must all keep our ears to the ground, my lords. There are several parties who seek to disrupt the peace and tranquility of this kingdom. I think you would agree with me that all of your interests, both financial and patriotic, are served by preventing them from being successful. Shall we meet again this time tomorrow?”
Nods circled the room.
“Splendid,” he replied, mouth twitching in an approximation of a smile.
So help me, if any of you were involved in this madness, I shall butcher you with my own hands.
Chapter 10
I Never Should Have Opened that Box
“Why did you fight on the queen’s side during the war?” Shiloh asked. The nine-year-old had chosen her moment carefully, after plying her teacher with fresh berries and warm scones.
Edmun raised an eyebrow at her and narrowed his gaze, as though he knew exactly what she was doing. Nevertheless, he answered her. “You must not call her ‘the queen.’ You must say, ‘The Usurper,’ even though it was Rischar who stole the throne that was rightfully hers. Even though it’s a damnable lie, you must always call her ‘the Usurper.’”
“The Usurper,” she repeated obediently.
“I fought for her because the throne was rightfully hers. Because she would have made a far better ruler. And because I loved her,” he replied. “She was my baby sister. Half-sister.”
“How is it that you are so much older?” Shiloh asked, refilling his teacup.
“Old King Jerroh sired his first child at fourteen and his last at sixty-four. There were a dozen of us altogether who survived infancy, though only Rischar, Markas, Gordan, and I remain.”
“Do you regret it? Fighting for her side in the war?” Shiloh asked.
He smiled a crooked half-smile. “I regret many things I did during the war. I regret many things she did. But I do not regret choosing her side of it.”
“Some of the children say that she is still alive among the Feralfolk, that she faked her death. They say she steals children at the new moon and drinks their blood,” Shiloh told him.
“Some of the children are idiots,” Edmun replied. “I sawed Alyssa’s head from her corpse myself and put it in a gilded box, after Silas Hatch killed her in her bed.”
“I’m sorry, Master. That’s awful,” she replied. She placed her tiny hand on the back of his gnarled, spotted one. He turned his palm up and gently squeezed her hand in return.
“It was, rather,” he allowed. “But not as awful as continuing the war would have been.”
“Is that why you tell me that I must be loyal to King Rischar, even though you hate him?”
Edmun nodded. “A mediocre king is the price we pay for peace, for the healing of the country. Someday, you will go to court, to the Academy. And when you are grown, when you gain influence by virtue of your remarkable gifts, you will work to keep the ship of state from taking on water whilst it has a fool for a captain. Like my old and beloved student, Silas Hatch, does, murderer though he may be. That is your duty to Bryn. To me. To the Six Lords of Heaven. You must never forget that.
“And all the while, you must pray that Rischar’s heir has more sense than he does.”
***
Two days had passed since Shiloh had taken the curse meant for the royal family. Her pain was much reduced, and her thoughts were beginning to clear. The orange glow of the setting sun was no longer a dagger stabbing at her head. Jane arrived in the infirmary with a bowl of soup for her, then stopped short.
“Miss Shiloh, you’re bleeding!” she cried, hurrying to her mistress’s bedside, the soup tray now forgotten on the windowsill.
“What? Where?” Shiloh replied, feeling around for injury. The maid pulled gently at the shoulder of her nightdress, uncovering what appeared to be the finest of cuts in the skin just below her left collarbone, the lines swerving and intricate, painting a picture of a bolt of lightning hitting a tree. A purpling bruise grew around the lines.
“It looks like some kind of hex mark,” Jane stammered, “Is that what it is, miss?”
“Oh, leaping Youth on a horse!” Shiloh swore with an anger tinged with fear. “I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me, given recent events. Ring for Master Jonn, please. Then get anything that they took from the pocket of my dress before they threw it out. And please grab me a mirror. I can’t really get a good look at it. Maybe it’s one I’ve had before, and I’ll know it, know what to do before it gets bad.”
Jane grabbed a mirror and held it up with trembling hands. Shiloh’s heart sank when she looked upon the glass. She shook her head. “I’ve never seen that one. And I know an awful lot of hex marks,” she sighed. Before she could come up with a plan to suggest, a seizure overtook her. The mirror fell to the floor, shattering loudly. Her body convulsed, and all went black.
***
Hatch knew he must look a fright, and he didn’t much care. He hadn’t had more than an hour’s sleep in two days. He’d been interrogating prisoners nonstop, some more forcefully than others. When people spoke ill of Hatch, this was the man they pictured: haggard and cruel-eyed, in the midst of hurting men he had known for years.
He staggered back toward his office from the High Tower, desperate for sleep, bowed by his work. Every person he met in the hallways cleared out of his way without a word, a single glance at his face enough to convince even the most hardy souls to steer clear . . .
Except for Jane, who stood resolutely in his way. She panted and held her side, as if she’d been running.
“Later,” he growled, moving to push past her.
“Begging your pardon, Master, but it cannot wait. I would have interrupted you even at the top of the High Tower, but, thankfully, here you are.”
He glowered down at her, but she merely pressed her trembling lips together and tilted her chin up.
Hatch sighed. “What?” he demanded, holding tight to his temper.
“It’s Miss Shiloh, she’s . . . there’s this mark on her shoulder, and blood, and she’s having fits, and I don’t think Master Jonn rightly knows what to do—”
He turned before she could finish and began to run for the infirmary.
“Fetch my green notebook!” he yelled over his shoulder. “And a change of clothes.”
A line from Scripture rose to the surface of his mind as he took the stairs two at a time.
For the child born with the mark of magic cruel shall know no peace in the land of the living, and the babe shall pay for the sins of the mother, knowing not when the debt shall come due.
***
Silas walked straight into a whispered conference between Master Jonn and the Headmaster in the infirmary’s foyer.
“Markas, I haven’t the slightest idea,” Jonn confessed, the distress clear in his face.
“Slightest idea of what?” Silas demanded. The other two men stepped back in alarm.
“Maiden and Youth, you look terrible, Silas!” Markas cried.
“Thank you, Headmaster. Observant as always,” Silas retorted. “Have you identified the curse in question?”
Both men shook their heads. Silas shoved past them and into the hospital proper. Shiloh lay on her side, her back to the entrance. She was covered in sweat, her nightshirt clinging to her skin. One of the queen’s
maids-in-waiting sat with her, wiping her forehead. Hatch couldn’t recall her name, a girl from some quite minor branch of an important family. The girl turned at his approach, her eyes widening.
Shiloh turned as well, lifting her head with obvious effort. She had a stick in her mouth; it was completely covered with bite marks. He tried to remember where he’d seen it before.
It was in her pocket when she came to my house. I remember Lill clucking at me while I searched through her things. Oh, Gods, she keeps it on her for when the pains come, he realized, his cold heart breaking in spite of itself.
Despair came over Shiloh’s face. She pulled her blanket over her head, as though in an effort to hide from him. Does she hate me as much as that? That she doesn’t even want my help when she is in agony?
The girl stood. “I . . . I don’t think she wants you here, Master Hatch,” she stammered.
“That much is evident, even to me,” he replied. “Who the hell are you?”
“Penn Warwick,” she replied.
“Ah. The Gate’s niece,” he recalled. “Well, Miss Warwick, if you don’t want your friend to suffer or die unnecessarily, get out of my way. My patience today has already been well exhausted.”
Penn remained where she stood, pale and shaking, but resolute. The women. It’s always the women who are hardest to scare, he sighed to himself. He drew his wand. “If she dies, so do you. Move,” he ordered, biting each word.