by A. M. Manay
They passed another priest in the corridor. The older man half-bowed to the boy, greeting him with, “Brother Fenroh.”
Silas raised his eyebrows. “You’re someone important’s son, I take it, honored brother?” he asked Fenroh.
The boy grinned savagely. “Only if you consider a God to be important.”
Silas followed Fenroh out toward the barracks, cursing Edmun silently for sending him on this mission. The Patriarch’s compound made his skin crawl, and his creepy son was probably planning to stare at Silas the whole time he ate, as though his every bite was suspect.
As they entered the courtyard, his host stopped short. A group of guards stood in a circle, laughing and tormenting a woman. They shot hexes at her bare feet, forcing her to dance to avoid their sting. At the sight of Fenroh, the guards came to attention.
“What is this about?” Fenroh asked, his voice somehow both silky and sharp.
“She stole from the collection plate at the temple out by Wilsar Creek, honored brother,” one of them explained with a bow.
“Is this true?” Fenroh asked the unfortunate creature.
“No, I would never!” she protested. Tears had carved lines through the dirt on her face. If she stole, it was because she was starving, Silas thought, taking in her bony shoulders and ragged clothes.
Fenroh looked at the guards, eyebrows raised. “Brother Tytoh caught her red-handed,” one of them offered.
That seemed to be enough for Fenroh. Silas stepped back as the boy drew his wand. A curse crackled, and Silas heard the crunch of bone an instant before the screaming came. Fenroh holstered his weapon and continued across the courtyard as though nothing had happened, the woman’s broken body lying on the uneven stones.
She continued to scream, all her limbs bent unnaturally. Blood gurgled in her throat. The guards did nothing, neither to help her nor to put her out of her misery. Sighing, Silas drew his own wand and flicked it at the doomed woman, who stilled at once under the fatal curse.
Fenroh looked back at him, head cocked sideways.
“I have a headache,” Silas claimed. “And she was loud.” But his casual words did not hide the disgust in his eyes.
The chapel down the corridor from the Script Shop was too beautiful to belong in the Citadel, in Shiloh’s opinion. The final resting place of the tower’s builder, Brother Elton, it happened to be situated such that one of the great steel spirals that wound around the tower crossed its exterior wall. Whoever had designed the room had decided not to cover it over with stone or plaster, and it gleamed in a diagonal gash across the wall. The lanterns reflected off of it in a rainbow of colors, nearly making up for the lack of windows in the small prayer space. Shiloh didn’t really mind the dimness. It gave her eyes a break from the bright light of the Script Shop.
Today, the wizened old priest who oversaw the chapel was absent. He had grown accustomed to her daily appearance in his domain and largely ignored her even when he was present.
When Shiloh was done with her prayers, she still had a few minutes of her break remaining. Wriggling her fingers, trying to dispel the cramps from the morning of continuous writing, she crossed the room to the exterior wall. Curious, she reached out her hand and pressed it against the steel.
She staggered, overwhelmed by the magical power pulsing through the metal. She could feel the tower as though it were a part of her, as though it were her own wand. Frightened, she snatched her hand away as though she had burned herself. Indeed, her palm was bright red for a moment before fading back to pale pink.
As she stood there trembling, she could see words scrawled across the steel in an angular hand:
Steel to Raise
Steel to Raze
The only hope I take to my grave
The words faded so quickly that she almost wondered if she had imagined them. Listening for footsteps, praying she would not be caught, she crossed to the small plaque that marked Elton’s grave. It, too, was made of steel. Trembling, she reached out a single finger and pressed it against the metal. The plaque released from the wall, swinging silently on a hinge to reveal a tiny chamber.
Her heart pounded in her ears as she reached into the hiding place and removed a tiny roll of parchment. Hearing footsteps in the hall, and knowing she was due back at her desk, she yanked up her sleeve and stuffed the parchment into the socket of her hook. She closed the cabinet and ran across the chapel. She had just hit her knees in front of the Mother when the chapel attendant entered. She traced a circle on her forehead, bowed to the priest, and walked swiftly back to the Script Shop.
What in the Gods’ names just happened? she asked herself as her pen began to cross paper once again. What is written on that parchment?
And more importantly—does Fenroh know about any of this?
If you have discovered this letter, you are also a wielder of steel. Perhaps you, like me, are a prisoner of this place. I hate to wish that upon you, but I would hate more if a steel wizard were part of the Elder’s Order.
I am almost done building this monstrosity, this monument to pride and greed and misapplied religion. I know they will kill me soon after my so-called penance is complete. I have even built my own tomb in anticipation, which you have just found. They grant me that much honor for my labor. And after five years of supervising the construction of this Citadel, death will come as a relief.
You might ask why I have built this tower, if I hate it so, if I know they will kill me anyway. I have loved ones. I do not wish for them to suffer on my account. And then there is my pride. I wanted to see if I could do it, if my wild drawings could become real. And I wanted to see if I could manage to achieve revenge from beyond the grave. Not the noblest of motives, I admit. I hope the Gods will forgive me. I hope you will, too, whoever you are.
You see, the Holy Father insisted that I use magical steel rather than ordinary steel when I created his new palace in the sky. Such waste! He wanted his tower to be taller than any ever built, either before or in the future. He wanted his tower to be the most extravagant, as befits a living God. But the consequence of such greed is that this place is more than a building. It is also an instrument capable of unparalleled creation or unimaginable destruction, should another wielder of steel come along and discover its potential.
It’s up to you, whoever you are. You could use this monstrosity to save the world or to destroy it. To give to the world or to enrich yourself. I leave it in the Gods’ hands and in yours. I have to believe that the Lords of Heaven have allowed this place to be constructed for a reason, that my downfall and suffering have some meaning or purpose. To do otherwise would make this even more unbearable than it already is.
And whatever you do, I beg of you—when you are finished, knock this place to the ground.
I pray my faith in the Gods and in you is not misplaced.
Your doomed brother,
Elton Southborn
“We have to destroy this,” Bluebell declared.
Shiloh had just whispered the contents of the letter in her ear. Hana sat next to them, reading it with her mouth agape.
“How?” Shiloh whispered. “There’s no fire to throw it in.”
“I can do it,” Hana replied. “Tomorrow, in the candle shop. We have huge fires under the wax pots.”
“You must be careful,” Bluebell urged.
Hana rolled her eyes. “Obviously,” she retorted. “What am I, an idiot?”
“Am I really the first person to discover this message, do you think?” Shiloh asked.
“You’re the first Brynish steel wizard in three hundred years,” Bluebell pointed out.
“But Fenroh almost could wield steel,” Shiloh said, “Or so I heard from the royal armorer.”
“Almost wouldn’t cut it,” Bluebell asserted. “Elton would have made sure of that.”
“Maybe Fenroh suspected there was a message but couldn’t quite get at it. Maybe that’s why he brought you here,” Hana suggested.
“All the more reas
on to destroy it quickly,” Bluebell replied.
Shiloh worried at her bottom lip. “What does it even mean?”
“That you can get us out of here, I hope,” Hana replied.
“But how?” Shiloh demanded.
“That is the question,” Bluebell answered.
“Lady Mosspeak, this work is unacceptable,” Master Rikkoh declared. “You’ll have to stay late and do it again.” The sun was going down, and the prisoners had hurriedly finished their final lines and begun filing out the door to return to their cells. Only a few of them remained on their stools.
Shiloh’s head swiveled. She saw the fear in the woman’s eyes, and her heart pounded.
“Yes, Master,” the noblewoman managed to say, lips trembling.
Breathing deeply, Shiloh rose as though to turn in her work. Instead, she tipped her ink bottle over with her hook and cried out with mock alarm.
“Oh no,” Shiloh cried tearfully. “All my work, ruined. I’ll have to stay to do it over.”
Rikkoh’s head snapped up, and his eyes narrowed. “You stupid cripple!” he erupted.
In a flash, he was at Shiloh’s side, flailing at her with his cane. Shiloh fell to the floor, protecting her head with her arms as his blows rained down.
“Master!” Lady Mosspeak protested. “Please! You’ll kill her! Please, she . . . she does twice as much work as the rest of us! You’ll fall behind without her!”
“Get out,” Rikkoh snarled at her.
Lady Mosspeak hesitated, but Shiloh peered through her arms and caught the woman’s eye, giving her an upward nod to urge her to take the escape. The woman ran.
“You think I don’t know you did that on purpose?” Rikkoh hissed, giving Shiloh a swift kick. “Why would you want to protect that rich pig of a woman, you stupid, filthy girl?”
“You were going to rape her,” Shiloh accused, eyes burning with anger for every woman that ogre had ever touched. She could feel her lip beginning to swell. Her stump screamed in pain, and tears rolled down her face, but her voice was steady. “Like you’ve done to so many others. Do you deny it?”
“Of course, I was! That’s all she’s good for, the useless slag. And if I get to take something from that traitor Mosspeak, so much the better!” Rikkoh admitted without shame. “You think I wouldn’t touch you because you’re hexborn, and you’re right enough about that. But there are plenty of other ways to hurt a girl.”
“And I imagine you know quite a few,” came Fenroh’s voice from the door, smooth and sharp as a blade. “Did I just hear you confess to violating your vows, dear brother, along with the penitents?”
The blood drained from Rikkoh’s florid face. Shiloh pulled herself to her feet and took an unsteady step back, clutching her arm against sore ribs.
Gods above, I never thought I’d be happy to see that man.
Fenroh spared her a brief glance. “Can you make it to the infirmary on your own?”
“I think so, honored brother,” she replied, sniffling.
“Go,” he ordered her.
Shiloh limped into the corridor as quickly as she could manage. She’d made it two steps down the staircase when she heard a curse ring out behind her, and a scream.
Shiloh smiled, blood on her teeth.
By the time Shiloh made it back to her cell, she had missed supper. She was in the middle of telling the tale to Hana and Bluebell when Lady Mosspeak appeared in the doorway.
The woman held out a yeast roll she must have purloined from the dining hall. Shiloh took it gratefully and bit into it. “Thank you, my lady.”
“Why did you do that?” Lady Mosspeak asked. “Why protect me?”
“I knew what he was going to do to you,” Shiloh replied, exchanging a quick glance with Hana. “I couldn’t just walk out and leave you there with that troll, my lady. Besides, your lord husband and I have been in battle together. I respect him. If I get out of here, how could I ever face him if I just let that monster violate you and did nothing at all about it?”
“Please, call me Keelie. I’ve been here long enough that I don’t feel like the duchess of anything anymore,” Keelie replied with some heat.
“I’m Shiloh, as you might remember from our sea voyage together. You must know Hana from before. This is Bluebell,” Shiloh replied with a smile. Lady Mosspeak nodded her greetings and took a seat next to Hana, twisting her skirt in her slender hands.
“I was afraid he would kill you!” Lady Mosspeak fretted. “He was so angry.”
“He might have come close, but he was interrupted,” Shiloh replied with a savage grin. “Brother Fenroh even heard him confess to his little predilection for rape. I don’t think the Grand Purifier was pleased that Rikkoh was breaking his sacred vows. Not that he cares that we suffer, but vows are vows.”
Hana snorted a laugh. “Well, maybe that creep is good for something after all.”
“Do you think Rikkoh will still be there tomorrow, when we go to work?” Keelie asked, brow furrowed with worry. “Gods, how will we bear it? He will be so vengeful!”
Shiloh took a deep, careful breath, ribs protesting. “I don’t know,” she finally confessed. “I never know what fresh hell tomorrow will bring.”
“How many?” Silas asked young Daved.
“Seventy-six,” the boy replied, voice cracking. “They executed seventy-six on Lordsday. Priests, mostly. Allies of King Rischar. They killed the old archbishop, even.”
“It won’t stop there.” Silas sighed. “These purges take forever to burn out. By the time they’re done, they’ll be down to some milkmaid novice who sneezed too loudly at worship.”
“Did you hear how they did it? They drowned them in the reflecting pool, in the holy water,” Daved recounted, aghast.
“I know. That’s the traditional method for heretics. It’s supposed to be a mercy, that to die by holy water washes them clean of their sin. They make the priests of the Elder’s order do it themselves, taking turns, to prove their commitment. Can you imagine? If to be a courtier you had to kill someone for the king, not in the heat of battle, but in cold blood, as some kind of display of fanaticism?”
Daved shuddered. “Is that what they’re going to do to Shiloh? Drown her? She’s never done anything wrong!”
“I don’t know,” Silas replied, biting off the words. “It depends on how paranoid the queen becomes, how much the Patriarch wants her alive, and which one will win when it comes to an argument.”
“Is that what they’re going to do to you?”
“Very likely, unless Esta prefers a more gruesome method. But they’ll draw it out for years first,” Silas said. “My suspicion is that she’ll keep me alive exactly as many days as Mirin languished in these rooms. Then maybe she’ll put me out of my misery. They can’t make treason stick to me very easily, so perhaps they’ll go with heresy.”
“Do you have any idea how Shiloh is doing?” Daved asked, running his hands through his hair again and again.
“She’s still alive,” he replied. He thought of telling Daved about her suffering the night they had denied her medicine, but didn’t wish to burden the boy. I can always tell him if I need to rile him up later, to be of use to me, he thought, then felt a wave of remorse.
“The wedding is next week,” Daved told him.
“So I heard. I should get them a gift,” Silas replied drily.
“He’s brought his whole court with him. Gernishmen everywhere, dressed in their reeking furs, treating everyone like dirt,” Daved complained. “They’re nice enough to me, because of who my father was, but they gossip worse than the girls. They take aim at everyone, thinking none of us can understand them, mocking the boys and talking about which girls they mean to dishonor. But I know enough Gernish to get the gist. It makes my blood boil.”
“It’ll be worse after the wedding. Now, they’re guests. Afterwards, they will have as much right to be here as you do,” Silas warned.
“Everyone is miserable. But the queen is overjoyed, besotted. S
o we all pretend to be happy,” Daved groused.
“How are your studies?” Silas asked.
Daved sighed. “Lonely. No Jaym, no Kepler. No Shiloh or Penn. I even miss Hana.”
Silas snorted a laugh. “Dire straits, indeed. But you must keep at it. Especially the fighting classes.”
Daved nodded. “I know. I don’t want to wind up like Jaym.”
Silas thought of the sweet boy who’d died the previous summer, killed in an ambush by those who’d sought to depose the king, his father.
“No,” Silas agreed, voice heavy. “No, you don’t want to wind up like Jaym.”
“He wants the hexborn girl.”
Shiloh’s head whipped around. A guard stood at the new master’s desk. Neeloh was as impatient and exacting as Rikkoh had been, but he was still a vast improvement. No women were asked to stay late these days.
“You heard him, Teethborn,” Brother Neeloh prompted her. “I hope you’re ahead of your quota, or you’ll have to work through supper.”
Shiloh growled inwardly but kept her face carefully blank. She followed the guard, willing herself not to start shaking. This time, instead of descending to the interrogation room, she was taken to Fenroh’s private study. It was situated high in the tower, on the floor just below the Patriarch’s residence. She was panting by the time they finished climbing the stairs. The brothers and sisters, she knew, had access to some sort of magical contraption that carried them aloft, but she was happy to take her sweet time.
Too soon, Shiloh stood in front of Fenroh’s desk. He made her wait for a long moment as he finished reading a letter before finally looking up at her with a broad smile that nearly made her shudder.
“Shiloh, I trust you’ve recovered,” he greeted her.
“Yes, honored brother,” she replied as evenly as she could manage.
His mouth twitched. “You’re still angry with me,” he declared, eyes amused.
An image of Charls flashed before her eyes, and she remembered how long the night had been, when she’d fallen ill. “Am I, honored brother?”
