by A. M. Manay
“Jane,” she called hoarsely, the effort almost beyond her strength. Shiloh struggled to reach the bell on her bedside table and succeeded only in knocking it onto the stone floor. The noise was enough to bring her maid to the door.
“Oh, my lady!” Jane cried in distress. She dropped to her knees next to the bed. “Whom do I call, with my lord Northgate away?”
“Brother Charls for a start. Then go to the monastery,” Shiloh ordered. “Bring Sister Dora. What does the mark look like? I can’t see a blessed thing.”
Tentatively, Jane pulled the linen from her mistress’s chest and peered down at her, swallowing convulsively. “A bit like a hammer, my lady,” she offered uncertainly.
“Or a pickax?” Shiloh asked. “Could it be a pickax?”
“Aye, that’s it, my lady!” Jane replied with relief. “A pickax. What does that mean?”
“Wainroh’s Curse,” Shiloh said. “I’ve had it once before. It’s not such a bad one, really. Tell Charls to bring some Tincture of Downbark from my stores, and the Comfort Potion. I don’t think we need trouble the Mother Superior after all.”
“Yes, my lady,” Jane replied, then leapt to her feet.
The pounding of her steps as she ran down the corridor beat painfully upon Shiloh’s eyes and ears, and a single tear escaped, sliding across her cheek and down her neck. She swallowed the rest of them, fighting the urge to pity herself.
If only Silas were here. Some marriage this is turning out to be.
Notice of Annulment. Silas hoped his grinding teeth were not audible. “And they plan to tell me when?” he managed to ask. “Before or after they clap me in irons?”
“I don’t know,” Kiven admitted. “My visions of your forthcoming doom are not dated for our convenience.”
“I appreciate the warning,” Silas told the Academy’s Master of Farsight. His eyes burned hot. He stared at the paper, irritated that it did not catch flame with the heat of his displeasure. “I feared this was coming when the Patriarch brought back the Cleanliness Laws.” He closed his eyes and opened them again. “I had a month of happiness with her. I suppose that was more than I deserve.”
“It was foolish to fall in love with her, though I can hardly fault your taste. I would not consider this development a positive sign with respect to your long-term safety. Yours or hers,” Kiven pointed out, unnecessarily.
“I know that, Kiven. I’m not an idiot,” Silas snapped. “Esta probably has my shackles already picked out.”
“Well, then, do forgive me for trying to help you,” Kiven retorted, easily affronted as ever.
Silas sighed. “I’m sorry, Kiven. I appreciate your help, truly. Will Shiloh be permitted to return to school, at least?”
Kiven shook his head. “She’s ordered Headmaster Markas to declare her graduated. Her Grace is frightened that the girl’s power grows too great. The thousand acres Shiloh healed in the Frontier, her work containing the fever, her handling of the incident with the Gernish raiders—it’s all fueled the queen’s paranoia. The Patriarch is only too willing to encourage her fear.”
“The Gernish Raiders? She and her men killed a half dozen wandless thieves. It was hardly anything to be frightened of,” Silas protested, throwing his hands into the air. “It was barely even worth notice. And the fever? Was Shiloh supposed to let it spread? Thousands would have died.”
“I know, I know,” Kiven replied. “But the tales are growing in the telling. Shiloh is becoming known as a defender of the common folk. And that won’t do with a weak queen on the throne.”
“Then what is Shiloh to do? Take holy orders and stay on at the monastery at Northgate?” Silas asked. At least there he could see her and know she was reasonably safe. His lips pressed together until they almost disappeared.
Kiven shook his head. “Rumor has it that Patriarch Vinsen has sent some of his priests north to fetch her.”
Silas felt his stomach turn to ice. “To make her join the Elder’s Order? To force her to serve him?” he asked.
Kiven swallowed grimly and placed a hand on Silas’s shoulder. “I’m not certain what the Patriarch intends. But I fear that would be the best of the possible outcomes.”
The End of the Rope
“Well, look who the cat dragged in!” Jonn exclaimed, leaping to his feet to embrace his childhood friend. “Silas Hatch, all grown up!”
Silas smiled, relieved to be recognized and welcomed. “I finished university in Estany last year, and now the king’s offered me a job.”
“Has he, really? Then welcome back to Greenhill Palace,” Jonn replied. “I thought I’d never see you again. What’s it been, ten years?”
“Almost,” Silas agreed, thinking back to the night the war had begun, the night he’d run off with Edmun to join Alissa’s fight. “The robes don’t suit you, Jonny,” he teased.
Jonn rolled his eyes and looked down at his brown priestly garb. “Tell me about it. I didn’t have a choice, of course. I tried telling the bishop I’m a heretic, but that didn’t go over too well. At least I still get to be a healer, and no one seems to care that I don’t know the words to half of the prayers.”
“Just move your mouth with the others, and you’ll be fine,” Silas joked.
Jonn looked Silas up and down, taking in his severe black coat and trousers. “It’s the bar for you, then?”
“Indeed,” Silas confirmed.
“It isn’t fair.” Jonn sighed. “You don’t have to dress in a sack the rest of your days.”
“That’s what you get for wanting to use your gifts to actually help people,” Silas teased. “You could have studied the law instead.”
“No, thank you. I’ll take the robes and the blood,” Jonn retorted. “What’s the king got you doing?”
“Finance and real estate,” Silas replied.
“Sounds exciting,” Jonn teased.
“Oh, somehow, I doubt my duties will stay confined to that sphere.”
Shiloh sat in her pew at the front of the Temple, contentedly listening to Brother Charls recite the closing prayer. The room was full. It was the first time everyone in the community had been able to worship together since the fever had begun. When the bells rang out, signaling the end of the service, she followed Charls out into the chilly morning air. The rest of the congregation followed after her, the buzz of conversation filling the courtyard of the Temple complex.
Those voices fell silent when three figures in gray appeared on horseback. The villagers pulled away from them, eyes full of suspicion.
The Elder’s Order, Shiloh realized, chest tightening. Why would they come here?
One of them dismounted and approached. “Shiloh Teethborn?” he asked in a heavily accented voice. His eyes swept over her purple clothes, and his mouth twisted in disgust.
“Hatch,” she replied warily. “My name is Shiloh Hatch.”
The cleric smirked. “Not anymore, it isn’t.” He handed her a roll of parchment. “Your marriage has been annulled by order of the Holy Father, Patriarch Vinsen, may he be blessed.”
A wave of gasps swept over the crowd.
“She ain’t Lady Northgate no more?” one brave soul ventured to ask aloud.
“No,” Shiloh replied softly, her eyes scanning the page and brimming with tears that she quickly blinked away. “It appears I am not.”
“You are to come with us,” the strange priest declared. “You and the priest called Charls Rangeborn.”
“Are we under arrest?” Shiloh demanded.
“He is,” the priest replied, lip curling. “You are summoned by the Holy Father for questioning.”
“What is Brother Charls charged with?” Shiloh asked, voice cracking.
“Heresy and apostasy,” the priest spat, “among other things. Where is the priest?”
No one moved or breathed a word, though Charls stood ashen-faced a few yards behind Shiloh, hidden in the crowd. It was plain that the Patriarch’s men had no idea what their quarry looked like.
The leader gave his companions a look, and the burlier one grabbed a villager and began beating him with a stick. The other took up his wand and pointed it at the crowd to keep them from intervening.
“Enough,” Charls declared, stepping forward. “I am Brother Charls.” Shiloh could see his hands shaking at his sides.
Before Shiloh’s horrified eyes, the strangers clapped her friend in irons, dragged him from the courtyard, and threw him roughly into a windowless, wooden carriage. Only when he had disappeared did she have a moment’s fear to spare for herself.
“Can you ride, cripple?” one of them asked.
Heat flashed in Shiloh’s eyes. “I can. Am I permitted to pack a bag?” she managed to ask.
“Be quick about it, filth,” the largest man snarled.
Shiloh strode quickly into the castle proper, fingernails digging into her clenched palm. Gare and Lill ran after her, with Jane hot on their heels.
“What does it mean?” Lill asked, eyes frantic.
“Nothing good,” Shiloh replied shortly. “We must assume Silas has been cut out of things. Probably arrested. Or worse.”
Lill cried out, hand to her mouth.
“You could run,” Gare suggested. “We could stall them.”
Shiloh shook her head. “Too late. They’ll burn the village to the ground if I disappear. I won’t have my people dying for me.”
They arrived in her bedchamber. Shiloh pulled saddlebags from under her bed and began to pack, with Jane’s help. Her healer’s kit Shiloh gave a quick once over, making sure that the potions and ointments she needed most often were well stocked and sealed. Linen and warm socks went next, then gloves and wool leggings, a set of riding clothes, a brush and small mirror, her portable prayer altar.
She turned to Gare and Lill. “Gare, you may need to take Lill somewhere to hide her. They may not yet realize she’s Silas’s sister, but when they do . . .”
Gare nodded, grim-faced.
“I need to change clothes. Gare, perhaps you could pack a few things for Brother Charls? And please pack me a bag of dried food for the road.” Gare bowed and disappeared into the corridor.
Jane and Lill went to work on buttons and fastenings, and Shiloh soon stood clad in only her linen. To the undergarment she started to pin every protective charm she had. Her hand was shaking too badly; Jane took over the third time Shiloh pricked herself.
Tears in her eyes, Shiloh looked down at the jewelry box where she kept her treasures. Her former husband had given it to her as a wedding gift. It had been decorated in gold filigree with depictions of the scars she bore, the evidence of the suffering she endured as one hexborn. She placed her wedding ring inside.
After what I’ve borne, the Patriarch and his men cannot hurt me. She repeated it silently until she almost believed it.
A few minutes later, feeling slightly calmer, she stood clad in leather and wool, in the practical garments she’d ordered for her role as a knight before Rischar had died. She’d had them made in greens and browns, but she’d turned them purple when she had received the edict restoring the Cleanliness Laws. A tarnished bell dangled from her wrist, the same bell she’d worn as a small child.
I wonder if they’ll bury me with it on, so I won’t dirty up the other corpses without their being aware of my approach.
“Please keep my jewelry box somewhere safe for me. If I live, I’m going to want it back,” Shiloh told the women, at which point Jane burst into sobs.
Shiloh took her maid’s hand and gave it a squeeze but continued her instructions without pause. “If you have saved any correspondence from Silas, burn it. They may have men search the castle for evidence against us. You must have them watched as they do, lest they plant something incriminating. Gare needs to finish the repairs to the wall as soon as possible. I don’t know who will take over lordship of the Frontier, but please help him as best you can, especially if it is Daved Jennin, Lord Redwood, who is my dear friend. You can trust him. I love you both. Please be careful.”
A blur of hugs and promises ended too quickly, and Shiloh found herself standing beside Ruby outside the castle gates. The hulking wagon that held Brother Charls loomed before her as she mounted her horse. Villagers lined the road, which she found humiliating until she realized how angry they looked. The gray-clad priests had noticed their hostility as well; all three stood with wands drawn.
“What are we supposed to do without our lady, eh?” one of the young men shouted.
“And her poor priest!” someone added.
A rock flew through the air toward the men in gray, thrown by she knew not whom. Shiloh flicked her wand and the rock crumbled to sand.
“Enough of that!” she ordered. “Don’t give them a reason to hurt you. They are here by order of the Patriarch. You must obey the Holy Father, even when it is painful to do so, as it is painful for me to leave you now. Listen to Steward Gare and the Mother Superior of the Monastery, and whatever lord is appointed to oversee you. And please pray for me, for Lord Northgate, for the Holy Father, and for Queen Esta. I will, of course, continue to pray for you. Please do not forget that I loved you.”
The leader of the priests eyed her appraisingly, a touch of respect in his eyes, along with something else Shiloh could not identify. “Give me your wand,” he ordered.
Struggling to control both fury and fear, Shiloh held out her wand of steel. It gleamed in the sunlight, and the leader took an eager step toward her and reached out to take the treasure. Before he could grab it, however, Honey swooped down from the sky and snatched the wand from his mistress’s hand. The priest drew back his own wand to knock the falcon out of the air, but Honey was too quick for him, and he disappeared behind the castle walls with her spoils.
Shiloh swallowed a laugh, then gave Ruby a nudge and trotted past her traveling companions. “Are you coming, honored brothers?” she asked over her shoulder, with careful nonchalance.
After that, she didn’t look back.
They were a talkative bunch once on the road, and they evidently hadn’t considered the possibility that Shiloh spoke fluent Gernish. She listened attentively to their gossip, careful not to react to any of the hateful things that poured out of their mouths.
Their names she learned quickly. The leader was called Brother Fenroh. The big man who had insulted her in the courtyard was Serben, and the mousy one was Lerris. There was also a boy driving the cart, a young novice named Jivan, who said not a word. Shiloh winced every time the cart bounced over a rut in the road. Charls would be a mess of bruises before sunset, she feared. She hoped the winter sun hadn’t made the air too stifling inside.
“We could sell her horse at the next town, make the Unclean up-jumper ride with the condemned,” Serben suggested.
Fenroh shook his head. “The queen wants her locked up but unharmed, and His Holiness will be unhappy if she arrives damaged. We have plans for her, and her health is frail. Besides, I wish to observe her.”
“What could he possibly want her for?” Lerris asked. “I thought he was just going to drown her with the others.”
“You saw her steel wand, fool,” Fenroh retorted. “Unclean she may be, but she has power. Rischar certainly found her useful enough. The Holy Father wants me to break her to the bridle so we can use her talent to secure his kingdom. The queen has locked up her best weapon for spite, and she has let the Patriarch have her second best in the person of this creature. This is a tremendous opportunity for our order. Once Esta is married to Gerne, you will see things in Bryn begin to change. We will all finally have what we have earned.”
Shiloh’s heart sank at Fenroh’s implication that Silas was imprisoned, but she serenely rode on, an oblivious look plastered on her face.
“You don’t think he’s going to make her one of us, do you?” Serben asked.
Over my dead body, she silently pledged.
“It is not ours to question,” Fenroh scolded. “Perhaps her suffering has brought her closer to the Gods.”
Lerris
snorted in reply.
“I overheard the queen telling His Holiness that the girl is devout, at least. And in the Temple, you would do well to remember, she is more than clean enough for the Patriarch’s purposes,” Fenroh declared.
“Sounds like Fenny is as sweet on the freak as His Holiness is,” Serben laughed. The laugh ended in a cry of pain when Fenroh drew his wand and knocked his fellow cleric clean off his horse and into the drainage ditch by the side of the road. Shiloh turned to look, wary at the sudden violence.
“Mind. Your. Tongue,” Fenroh hissed. “You insult me, our vows, and the Holy Father himself.”
Serben held up his hands. “Youth above, Fenroh, I was only kidding.”
“Get back on your horse,” Fenroh spat. “There is no time to waste on foolishness. His Holiness wants all of the Purification expeditions back at the Citadel by the end of next week, and we have the farthest to travel. The first executions of the disgraced priests are slated for just after Solstice, and I do not intend to be the one to hold up our master’s schedule.”
Mud-spattered and sulking, Serben hauled himself back into his saddle. “What are you looking at, weirdling?” he snarled at Shiloh in barely intelligible Brynish. His accent was thicker than City fog.
Shiloh affected an innocent look of confusion. “Forgive me, honored brother, but I didn’t understand you. Did you say something important?” She turned back around and drew a deep breath, willing her heart to cease its pounding.
“You’ll understand well enough when we throw you into the Pit,” Serben said, “along with everyone else who needs to be purified.”
When, at last, the sun began to set and they stopped to make camp, Lerris let Charls out of the wagon to relieve himself. As the priests set up their tents, Shiloh managed to get close enough to Charls to offer him a few words of comfort. As she had feared, he looked battered and green around the gills. She slipped him a handful of dried fruit and nuts, which he hid in his pocket.
