Unclean

by A. M. Manay

  One of the Vestals, she concluded.

  The guard shoved her through the door, and Shiloh knelt on the rug. She waited, heart pounding.

  “Enough of that. Come, sit next to me.”

  Shiloh pulled her eyes up from the floor. A middle-aged woman dressed in red sat on an ornate chair. She patted the footstool next to her, and Shiloh crossed and sat. Korra, Shiloh thought. This must be Vestal Korra.

  “You are wondering why you are here,” Korra observed.

  “Yes, Holy Mother,” Shiloh replied.

  “It was a trick sneaking you away without Fenroh noticing,” she admitted. “The Purifier and I are, shall we say, at odds.”

  Shiloh cast about for a reply. She settled on, “Oh?”

  “Over you,” Korra added, “among other things.”

  “Oh.”

  “I want you to be the next Vestal,” Korra explained, “when Veena dies.”

  “Brother Fenroh told me that he does as well. Or, at least, he dangled that prospect before me,” Shiloh replied.

  “Yes, he wants credit for bringing you here. For bringing your power to His Holiness. He wants you to be beholden to him. I, naturally, would far prefer your being beholden to me,” Korra shared with a shark’s smile. “Fernoh’s way is the stick. He breaks people. He enjoys that. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  Shiloh swallowed heavily and gave a nod.

  “I prefer the carrot. I prefer loyalty to fear. Now, doesn’t that sound better?” Korra said.

  “Yes, Holy Mother,” Shiloh replied, allowing the Vestal’s patronizing tone to roll off her back.

  “One of my men will be leaving you gifts from time to time. Do not flaunt them, and remember from whence they came,” Korra directed.

  “Yes, Holy Mother.”

  “Now, when Veena dies, which will be before the autumn comes, unless I miss my guess, Vestal Hestoh will object to your appointment. She likes being the youngest, and she has an aversion to your kind. His Holiness may not be keen himself. You are not to his taste, and he likes to keep Hestoh happy. Because she is to his taste. And you are not a virgin, which is less than ideal. As senior Vestal, however, my word will carry weight. But in return for my word, I must know that your loyalty will be to me, and not to Fenroh.”

  “I could never be loyal to Brother Fenroh,” Shiloh declared, all her hatred for the man hot enough to make her cheeks flush.

  “Good. I thought not.” Korra smiled again. “Now, here’s the thing, Shiloh. If you are not elevated as the next Vestal, your prospects for long-term survival are . . . abysmal. His Holiness may give you to Esta, who will then kill you. Or he may give you to Fenroh, and then I will kill you. I can’t very well let you live to be used against me later, now, can I?”

  Shiloh’s heart caught in her throat.

  “So,” Korra continued, as casual as could be, as though she threatened murder every day. “I advise that you do nothing that would imperil your rise. No conspiring with other prisoners. No secret love affairs. No impertinence in the presence of your betters. No angering Fenroh. No loss of control. No behavior that would give His Holiness pause about choosing you. Do I make myself clear, child?”

  “Yes, Holy Mother,” Shiloh whispered.

  “That’s a good girl. I think you and I will get on famously.”

  “Listen, Silas, I’ve seen something.”

  Kiven looked more alarmed than Silas could remember ever seeing him. “What is it?”

  The chief minister paced, eyes wide. “The Citadel in ruins, glowing with magic.”

  “Ha! Good,” Silas declared. “That would be the mercy of the Gods. It might even make a believer of me.”

  “Not if it means a war is coming,” Kiven countered. “And not if the innocent are inside when it falls.”

  “A fair point,” Silas allowed. His heart caught at the thought of Shiloh trapped in such a collapse. “Have you told the queen?”

  Kiven shook his head. “There is more. I saw Fenroh wearing a Patriarch’s miter.”

  “But that is impossible. The Patriarch is chosen in infancy by the Vestals. Fenroh can’t inherit his father’s title,” Silas protested.

  “Perhaps he does not take the title. Perhaps only the trappings,” Kiven suggested. “In any case, more power for Fenroh is not something I relish contemplating. But to warn against him, against his ambitions, when he is so close to the queen . . .”

  “Is also not something you relish contemplating?” Silas finished for him.

  “Exactly.”

  “But it you say nothing, and it happens, then what good are you to the queen? What is the point of having a seer for a Chief Minister if he never sees anything useful?” Silas warned. “Others who want your position will use it against you.”

  “You see why I am so agitated!” Kiven replied.

  “Perhaps you tell her about seeing the ruins but suggest that it is a metaphor,” Silas offered. “For, I don’t know, a lack of devotion among the nobility or something. That seems like something that would play in our current climate of religious hysteria.”

  Kiven nodded, somewhat mollified. “That might work.” At last, he sat across from Silas. “Have you seen anything worth noting, with your little . . . devices?”

  Kiven’s mouth twisted with distaste. Silas knew Kiven disapproved of his use of mirrors to see events far and wide. That particular bit of magic was condemned in one line of scripture, and Kiven took scripture extremely seriously. Scripture was why Kiven was secretly opposed to the Patriarch in the first place, as the position heading the church universal was a later invention.

  “One of the Vestals is dying, but you already know that. Jonn is still alive and whole—caught sight of him briefly the other night.” Silas bit at a hangnail. His foot twitched. His eyes darted unnaturally. “You’re going to have to learn some mirror magic one of these days, Kiven.”

  “You seem . . . I am sorry it has been so long since you have had a visitor,” Kiven apologized. “Daved has been in the Wood, and I have been watched too closely.”

  Silas smiled bleakly. “Is my mental decline that obvious?”

  “Solitude has broken many men,” Kiven replied.

  Silas smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  “I’m not quite broken yet.”

  “One of the guards slipped this into my pocket,” Hana told Shiloh and Bluebell. “He said to ‘give it to the cripple’ and that it was ‘from a friend in red’ and not to let anyone see it. What is going on?”

  Shiloh reached out and took the small box. “It’s medicine. One bottle for pain, one for cough, one for fever, one for nausea, one for infection. From Vestal Korra.”

  “Why is Vestal Korra sending you gifts?” Hana asked.

  “She and Fenroh are fighting over me, evidently,” Shiloh explained. She sat down heavily on her bed.

  “I’ll hide it inside the mattress,” Bluebell offered. “That way we’ll have it safe for the next time you fall ill.” She seemed not at all surprised, but her mouth was grim.

  “Maybe it’s good,” Hana said. “They won’t let you die if they think you’re useful.”

  “But whichever one wins, the other is going to try to get rid of me,” Shiloh countered.

  “At least Korra gives you presents. That’s more than you get from the Purifier,” Hana pointed out.

  “Somehow, I suspect her gifts don’t come free,” Bluebell replied. “Korra can be ruthless as anyone. She was during the war, at any rate.”

  “Back at Greenhill, I thought it was difficult having to be so careful to stay on the right side of the Hatchet. But this place . . .” Shiloh shook her head. “It makes Greenhill look like a spring picnic.”

  “Silas Hatch, even with his strong stomach and talent for violence, is motivated by the cause of protecting the kingdom,” Bluebell said. “He is not one to destroy out of mere malice or personal greed. But Fenroh, Hestoh, Korra, Vinsen—they care nothing for the health of the church, for the souls of the
faithful. They simply want more. More wealth, more power. Veena used to keep them in line, for the most part, but as she declines . . . They all position themselves for their personal advantage, everyone and everything else be damned. They bring out the worst in each other.”

  “How do you know all this?” Hana demanded.

  Bluebell rolled her clouded eyes. “What do you think we do up at Mount Tarwin, in between dealing with pilgrims? We watch the important people. We get to know them better than they know themselves. Otherwise, how would we have survived all these centuries under our own rule? How could we have protected the Mount of the Gods from every venal idiot to wear the crown or the miter?”

  Hana held up her hands in surrender. “I’m sorry! I never thought about it before.”

  Bluebell cocked her head to the side. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Shiloh,” someone whispered as she hurried down the hall.

  Fenroh had sent her on an errand, carrying warrants to a priest about to set forth to make more arrests. The task made her stomach churn.

  Shiloh turned to find Master Jonn beckoning her into an alcove. She embraced him fiercely, then stepped back, lips trembling.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It’s all my fault they brought you here. They know you helped me with the Deadlands.”

  Jonn shook his head. “They’d have brought me anyway. My friendship with Silas is too well known, and my lack of attention to my spiritual practice known just as well. Besides, Gernishmen don’t trust surgeons. Have they hurt you?”

  She shrugged. “By omission, mostly. The Purifier doesn’t let Sister Riah help me much when the pains come. I’ve been struck a time or two. You?”

  He shook his head. “No. They have me doing scut work in the infirmary. Can’t do anything more useful without a wand, but Sister Riah is kind enough to me.”

  “Do you know anything of how Silas fares?” Shiloh asked. She bit the inside of her lip.

  “They had him in Mirin’s old rooms,” Jonn shared. “No screams from there or anything of the sort. I think she’s trying to bore him to death.” He managed a weak smile.

  Shiloh let out a ragged breath. “I suppose it could be worse.”

  Jonn smiled crookedly. “I’m afraid it could always be worse.”

  “Look, there is a Feral they recently brought to the Pit. They whipped him terribly. I fear he’ll die,” Shiloh whispered.

  Jonn shook his head. “I don’t know what I can do. Sister Riah keeps the potion cupboards locked up tight.”

  “I actually have a vial of potion that might help him. If I get it to you, can you sneak it to him? Does she ever send you down there?”

  “There are a few condemned prisoners whom Riah sends medicine. They want her to keep them alive long enough to be executed.” Jonn shuddered. “I cannot imagine a more wretched place. And if he suffers, it might be kinder to let him go. Why does he matter to you, Shiloh? I thought you hated Feralfolk.”

  She pressed her lips together. “I’m the reason he is here,” she confessed. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes. “It’s complicated.”

  Jonn softened in the face of her distress. “I’ll try. Hide the bottle behind that lamp in the morning, and I’ll fetch it.”

  “Please be careful,” she begged.

  “You do the same.”

  “I think that’s enough for today,” Fenroh proclaimed.

  Shiloh looked up from her desk to see that night had long since fallen while she’d been busy transcribing a letter. Ugh. I missed supper. Again. It was the third night in a row. He seemed to be trying to starve her. At least there were no interrogations today. No screaming.

  She stood up on stiff legs. A knock sounded at the door, and one of her fellow penitents entered with a tray of food for the Purifier. The smell of it made Shiloh’s mouth water.

  “I shall bid you goodnight, then, honored brother,” Shiloh forced herself to say, and began to cross the marble floor.

  “Wait,” Fenroh directed. The servant stiffened in alarm. “No, not you,” he clarified irritably, waving his hand in dismissal. The girl with the food left her burden on his desk, then slipped out the door as quickly as she could manage.

  “Yes, honored brother,” Shiloh replied, turning to face him, swallowing her sudden flash of anxiety.

  “Take this. You can eat it at your desk,” he told her. He pointed to a bowl of soup and dropped a spoon into it. Careful not to touch the rest of his food, lest she render it Unclean, Shiloh carried it to her chair.

  “Thank you, honored brother,” she said, then bent her head to pray over the food.

  “It isn’t fake, is it? Your devotion,” Fenroh observed.

  Shiloh glanced up, then quickly back down again. “No, sir, it isn’t.”

  She lifted the first spoonful to her mouth, and it was all she could do not to moan. The soup was thick with lentils and barley, laden with hunks of spiced chicken. She hadn’t tasted anything prepared with such care since she had left Northgate Castle. She forced herself to go slowly, fighting her hunger.

  “How long have you known of your parentage?” Fenroh asked, then took a bite of his pheasant.

  Shiloh’s food turned to ice in her stomach. Of course, there is a price for the soup. How could I not have seen that coming?

  “Not long,” she replied. “Perhaps a year. Brother Edmun never told me.” She took another bite, determined to enjoy the food in spite of the interrogation.

  “How did you find out?”

  “I met Keegan, briefly, when we were escorting the queen to Fountain Bluff last winter,” Shiloh carefully explained. She left out the part where Redwood had threatened to tell the world, and Hatch had divested him of his head to protect her secret. Not so secret anymore, apparently.

  “And how, exactly, did that unfold?” Fenroh asked. He buttered his bread.

  “Not well,” Shiloh admitted. “I nearly killed him.” Hatch had been forced to talk her down, in fact. She’d almost lost control.

  “And yet, Keegan sends a man here to his certain death, to give you a message about a rescue,” Fenroh replied, staring her down. “I find that curious.”

  Shiloh’s heart began to pound. “So do I,” she said firmly. “As far as I’m concerned, I had one father, and he was murdered by Feralfolk. I have no interest in knowing Keegan.”

  “He seems to have an interest in you. And what of your mother? Does it bother you that Silas Hatch killed her?” he asked after a long pause.

  “She’d have killed me if he hadn’t,” she replied, “and I have little love for her. But yes, it was . . . troubling when I found out who bore me.”

  “You weren’t happy to find out you’re a secret princess? Isn’t that what all little girls dream of?” Fenroh said, eyes full of mockery.

  “Not particularly, honored brother,” she replied. “I knew it was more a danger than a blessing.” She swallowed the last bite of soup. She realized with a start that her fingers felt a little numb. The spoon slipped from her hand and fell into her lap.

  “You didn’t want to claim your birthright?” he pressed.

  She shook her head, still staring at her hand. “No. All I wanted was to be able to study and to be left alone. I wanted to be a professor and a healer, or a librarian. That’s all. That’s all I wanted. All I want.” Why couldn’t you people just leave me alone?

  Fenroh changed the subject, but not for the better. “Are you enjoying Korra’s gifts?”

  Shiloh closed her eyes. “I wondered if you knew,” she replied.

  “Of course, I know. Has she asked for anything in exchange?”

  “Not yet,” Shiloh replied.

  “Tell me when she does,” he commanded.

  She nodded, looking down at her hand. The numbness had spread nearly to her wrist. She tried to close her fingers, but they wouldn’t obey her.

  “What did you do?” she whispered. “You put something in the soup.”

  He crossed the room with rapid strides.
“I did not,” he claimed, kneeling down beside her and pulling on a pair of leather gloves before venturing to touch her. “You’re bleeding,” he observed, no hint of concern in his voice.

  Shiloh looked down and saw a growing spot of crimson on her shoulder. Before she could react, Fenroh grabbed the sleeve and yanked. The sound of tearing fabric prompted a cry of protest from Shiloh, but Fenroh was untroubled by it.

  “Benn’s Hex,” he determined, wiping away the blood with his handkerchief and peering intently at Shiloh’s skin. “One of your mother’s favorites, as I recall. She used it to great effect in the Battle of the Southlands. It’s characterized by numbness in the hands and a growing sense of mortal terror. Men dropped their weapons and ran screaming in panic, only to be mown down like grass. I don’t use it much, myself. It tends to make prisoners a little too incoherent for it to be useful in extracting information.”

  Fenroh tossed the handkerchief into the fire and smiled a terrible smile. “This should be an interesting evening for us both.”

  “You’re holding up better than I would have expected,” Fenroh observed, fascination and disappointment swirling in his tone. “There’s usually a lot more . . . noise. From the screaming.”

  “I’m somewhat accustomed to being afraid,” Shiloh managed to whimper. She shook from head to toe, drenched in sweat, her heart pounding so hard that her pulse was visible in her neck, but she hadn’t entirely lost her dignity. Yet.

  “I want to go to the infirmary, honored brother,” she declared with as much firmness as she could muster.

  “I don’t think that is necessary. You’re in no mortal danger,” Fenroh protested.

  “Then I want to go to my cell,” she argued.

  “But you’ll keep all those other poor women awake, Shiloh,” Fenroh countered with exaggerated patience, as though she were a recalcitrant child. “No, I think you’re better off staying here with me.”