Unclean

by A. M. Manay

  Silas snickered.

  “They’ve raised the prices on both your heads, by the way,” Keegan added.

  “How flattering,” Silas said. “Try not to be too tempted to collect it.”

  Shiloh sat down to her supper at a communal table down in the meadow, mulling over Keegan’s words. It wasn’t a feast like the week previous, but the provisions were generous and smelled divine. Her appetite fled, however, when Bluebell sat down across from her.

  You must act normal, she told herself. Silas said that I need to act normal in public.

  “Good evening, Bluebell,” she managed, pasting an artificial smile on her face.

  “Good evening, Shiloh,” the seer replied, her eyes sad. “The food smells good.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  Bluebell bent her head to get closer before softly apologizing. “I am sorry, Shiloh. I don’t expect you to believe me, but I tried to protect you as best I could. And I do genuinely care for you and Hana both. The friendship was not feigned.”

  Shiloh nodded. “I’ll try to believe you. But probably not tonight.” She lifted an acorn cake to her mouth and took a bite. She barely managed to get it down before she was overtaken by a wave of dizziness. She put her hand to her forehead. “Oh, Gods, have mercy,” she mumbled.

  “Shiloh?” Bluebell asked. “Are you all right?”

  “Not likely,” Shiloh replied, her words slurred. She slumped over sideways, her head hitting the bench with a thump.

  Bluebell leapt to her feet. “Silas!” she yelled. “Jonn! Somebody! Help!”

  Jonn ran up, Silas right behind him.

  “Something’s wrong,” Bluebell said, unnecessarily.

  Jonn stretched her out on the bench. “I need some light!” he cried.

  Silas pulled his wand and lit the lantern hanging over the table.

  Jonn pulled up Shiloh’s tunic, revealing a livid bruise on her stomach. “I don’t recognize this mark,” Jonn stammered. “Do you, Silas?”

  Silas, wide-eyed, shook his head. “I—It looks familiar, but I don’t remember,” he answered. He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth. “I can’t remember.”

  A crowd began to gather. Jonn listened to her chest, then pressed gently on her belly. Shiloh came back to her senses with a cry of anguish.

  “I’m sorry, Shiloh,” Jonn apologized. “Somebody hold her still. I have to examine her.” He continued to palpate, each touch drawing a desperate whimper from the patient.

  Jonn then waved his wand and chanted for a long time. Finally, smoke gathered in the air above Shiloh, resolving into an image of her innards. Silas could make no sense of it, but he could understand the despondent look on Jonn’s face well enough.

  “Whatever the curse was, it has ruptured her spleen,” Jonn declared. “She’s bleeding internally. I have to operate on her, remove it, before she bleeds to death.”

  “How many times have you done that before?” Silas demanded, grabbing his friend by the arm.

  “Many,” Jonn replied in a steady voice. “And under much worse conditions. I need you to hold yourself together, Silas. If these people have any sort of library, you need to find out what curse this is. We don’t want it moving on to destroy any organs she can’t do without.”

  By now, Keegan had arrived, along with two lads carrying a stretcher. “Chief, do you have a proper hospital tent?” Jonn asked.

  Keegan nodded. “Gret, show him,” he ordered his wife.

  “How about a library?” Silas asked.

  Keegan shook his head. “It’s very limited. Barely a few dozen books. You’re not going to find anything there about any obscure curses.”

  “Let me examine her,” Bluebell suggested.

  “The hell I will,” Silas snarled.

  “I might be able to see what curse it is,” she pointed out.

  Silas regained control of his temper and nodded curtly.

  Bluebell laid her hand gently upon Shiloh’s head and closed her clouded eyes. She began to chant softly in Vree. Silas cocked his head, searching his memory for where he had heard that curse before.

  “The battle at Crimson Hill,” he murmured. “I remember now. But there is no countercurse,” he despaired. “Never has been.”

  “Use the one Shiloh used on the Deadlands,” came Hana’s worried voice from behind his back. “It’s supposedly all-purpose.”

  “She’s the only one who’s ever made it work,” Silas protested.

  “Can’t hurt to try,” Hana countered, laying a hand on his arm. “Maybe you can spare her the need for surgery. Or increase the chances she survives it.”

  “Come with us and start chanting,” Jonn ordered. “We need to get started. Someone find Riah and bring her to the hospital. I could use some help when I cut her open.”

  Bluebell screamed and leapt away from Shiloh, her hand flying to her chest.

  “What?” Silas demanded. “What did you see?” He took her by both shoulders and shook her like a rag doll.

  “Seven nights,” Bluebell whispered. “She will suffer for seven nights.”

  For the first time in weeks, Shiloh sat outside the hospital tent, enjoying the evening sunshine. Silas had carried her out to where he’d set up a cushioned chair for her. Beside it sat a little table with some food and a bouquet of flowers in a gourd.

  Every night for a week, a different curse had struck her, boiling up out of her body, the legacy of her mother’s mistakes. It was the worst attack she’d had in many years. The trials she had endured at the Citadel had finally made known their toll on her health.

  She remembered only bits and pieces. The first night, with the surgery and blood loss, had weakened her so much that she’d barely been conscious for days afterwards. Jonn had kept her sedated much of the time after that, so that her body could rest, but the pain had snuck through anyway, poisoning her dreams and sapping her strength.

  When, at last, a sunset came without accompanying disaster, she’d awoken to find Silas sobbing into her bedclothes with relief. He had refused to leave her side the entire time, or so Jonn and Hana told her.

  “It’s getting cooler,” she murmured.

  Silas smiled at the sound of her voice. She still spoke but little. Conversation exhausted her. “Yes, it is. Autumn strengthens its grip.”

  He held a bowl of broth to her lips. She drank deeply, and he smiled again. “Your appetite is returning.”

  “Finally,” she replied. “Do you think I could have one of those acorn cakes? With jam?”

  “We can try a couple of bites, make sure it stays down,” Silas proposed happily.

  He fed each bite to her by hand, and she kissed the tips of his fingers.

  “Thank you,” she told him.

  “My pleasure,” he replied with a grin.

  Shiloh studied the enormous rocks that enclosed the valley and sighed. “No chance now of our escaping abroad before winter sets in,” she said. “Not that my heart was really in that idea.”

  “No,” Silas agreed. “You can barely walk five paces on level ground with help, much less undertake a journey in rough country.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes.

  “For what? None of this is your fault.”

  “That I’m so much trouble,” she replied, lips trembling.

  Silas pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away her tears. “I’ll have no more of that nonsense,” he scolded. He pulled a flower from the gourd and tucked it behind her ear.

  Shiloh wiped her tears with her sleeve and accepted another bite of cake and sip of broth. “Gret made this?” she asked. “It’s good.”

  “Yes,” Silas confirmed, “from a deer Keegan took down. She says she’s going to make me a coat from the leather.”

  “Sounds like she finally likes you,” Shiloh teased.

  “Well, she can’t have me,” Silas said. He looked down at the now empty bowl and plate. “A few more days eating like this, and I think Jonn might let you ou
t of his sight.”

  “Lords, I hope so. I’m sick of this tent,” Shiloh sighed.

  “Are you up to trying a walk?” Silas asked.

  Shiloh nodded, and he helped her to her feet. Slowly, they began a lap around the hospital tent. Shiloh could hear the comfortable domestic sounds of the villagers at suppertime. “Any news from outside?” she asked.

  Silas shook his head. “I think they sent out a raiding party yesterday. Maybe when they return, they will have some news. Barr went with them, and Henrik.”

  “Any local gossip, then?” Shiloh asked. She tried not to think about what kind of havoc the raiders might be wreaking in the villages of the Teeth.

  “Hana has started training with the hunters,” he informed her with a wry smile.

  “Ha!” Shiloh laughed, leading to a painful fit of coughing. She pressed against the incision on her stomach that Jonn had so skillfully made and mended. “Just a twinge,” she assured a worried-looking Silas.

  They resumed their walk. “She’s also had three marriage proposals and declined them all.”

  “I bet she has,” Shiloh replied, smiling.

  “I think Jonn is sweet on Riah,” Silas said.

  “Is she amenable? Or does she still consider herself a priestess? Does he care about his own vows to the church?” Shiloh asked.

  Silas shook his head. “I’m not sure about her. Jonny was forced into the priesthood, like many of our kind. He’s had women before, in secret.”

  They stopped and looked up at the stone formation that was shaped like half of a great cupola. The Feralfolk called it Hood Rock because it reminded them of the shape of a hood pulled over the back of a person’s head.

  “You’re a good husband, Silas,” she told him.

  “I don’t know about that. A good husband would have fled with you to Estany the moment he’d gotten word of Rischar’s death,” Silas protested, “instead of running into a snare and leaving you to fend for yourself.”

  “I was angry about that, as you well know,” Shiloh confessed. “But you are who you are. You could never make that choice. To be honest, I’m not sure I could, either. Edmun pounded that sense of duty into our heads when we were young enough that there is no yanking it out.” She slumped against his shoulder.

  “We should get you back to bed,” Silas suggested.

  As they turned to enter the tent, Bluebell ran up to them, panting. Both Shiloh and Silas eyed her with distrust but waited for her to have her say. Hand pressed to her side, the soothsayer struggled for enough breath to deliver her news.

  “I’ve seen Esta dead!”

  Royal Blood and Feral Bone

  “Did he try anything along the road?” Edmun asked, handing Silas a cup of tea, which he took gratefully.

  Silas nodded. “Of course. He asked me to help him escape, promised me riches, and then when I declined, threatened to out me as Mirin’s agent.”

  “So, he did know?”

  Silas nodded.

  “Interesting. Mirin must really trust him. He could know more information of value to us,” Edmun replied. “Then what happened?”

  “I told him that I might as well kill him, then. I reminded him that Mirin would be none too pleased with him if he endangered her most valuable spy. I told him I’d help him where I could but not at the cost of my mission. He agreed to keep quiet,” Silas reported.

  “Excellent. An excellent start,” Edmun praised him. “We’ll give you some more chances to earn his trust, then slowly start working him for information.”

  “He makes my skin crawl,” Silas confessed. Edmun handed him a hunk of cheese, and he bit into it.

  “You and me, both,” Edmun replied. “He is a dangerous boy with cruel tastes. The Patriarch and Mirin are foolish to keep him so close. It’s like keeping a pet tiger. Beat him or coddle him, either way, he’s going to bite you in the end.”

  “I need to sit down for this,” Shiloh declared. Silas guided her back to her chair and turned to face Bluebell.

  “And why should we believe a word from you?” Silas inquired, eyes cold as ice.

  “Do you want to hear what I saw or not?” Bluebell shot back, unapologetic.

  “Go ahead, Bluebell,” Shiloh said wearily. “Before I nod off.”

  “I had a dream this afternoon. I saw her in her coffin,” Bluebell began simply.

  “Where? When? How?” Silas asked.

  “The near future. She barely looks a woman grown, and Fenroh and Westan are unchanged. The how, I know not. I saw her lying in state in the cathedral in the City. If I can gather the appropriate herbs, brew the potion properly, I can delve more deeply into the vision.”

  “How? We have nothing that belongs to Esta for you to use,” Silas retorted.

  “I do,” Bluebell countered. “I stole a ribbon from her gown when she visited the Citadel.”

  “And when were you going to share that fact with the rest of us?” Silas demanded.

  “When it became pertinent,” Bluebell replied, “which it just did.”

  “Brother Jonn is a good potioner,” Shiloh said. “Why not ask him to help you when he returns from supper?”

  “Agreed,” Bluebell replied, and she strode into the tent to await the healer.

  “You trust her?” Silas whispered.

  Shiloh shrugged. “Why would she lie about this?”

  “To draw you out of hiding, or Loor, perhaps,” Silas replied.

  “I can’t imagine Fenroh would want Loor on the throne,” Shiloh countered.

  “Any one of them might have decided Loor is more useful dead than alive, or that they want her in hand instead of at large.”

  “But Bluebell knows I won’t be able to travel for months. What would be the point to saying something now?” Shiloh asked.

  “Good point. But I still don’t trust her.”

  Silas sat in the darkness of the front room of Shiloh’s house, his magic mirror in his hand. It showed only his own face, as it had each time Silas had opened it at the appointed hour since they had arrived at Freehold. Each quarter moon, at midnight, he watched the mirror, waiting in vain for Kiven to appear.

  His face disappeared, and Silas sat upright, so surprised that he nearly dropped the precious object. His surprise only grew when not Kiven but Daved appeared in the glass. That does not bode well for Kiven’s health.

  “Lord Redwood,” Silas greeted him in a soft voice, hoping the lad was somewhere safe from eavesdroppers. “It is a pleasure to see you.”

  The boy was beginning to look more a man; a hint of a moustache graced his upper lip. His eyes, however, were far older than his face, reminding Silas of how Daved had looked when he’d been locked up for his father’s crimes.

  “Thank the Gods it worked! I won’t ask you where you are. I don’t want to know. But I must tell you that Kiven’s been arrested,” Daved reported. “He managed to send me this before they came for him, with a coded note that told me how to use it. It took me several tries, but I apparently have the hang of it now. How is Shiloh? Are you with her? May I speak with her?”

  “She is . . . in the hospital. She’s going to be fine. She misses you. What’s this about Kiven?”

  “What happened?” Daved demanded, voice cracking. “Was it bad?”

  “It was, but she will recover,” Silas told him, patience beginning to fray. “At the third quarter moon, when we speak again, she may be home and able to talk with you. Now, what happened to Kiven?”

  “He fell out of favor. They were furious about your escape, the Citadel’s destruction, and Loor’s disappearance. They thought he should have foreseen those events. Between that and how incensed the queen was over her failed pregnancy, he was doomed. Besides, Westan is trying to isolate Esta from any voice but his own, I think. They accused Kiven of stealing from the treasury, which is obviously a false pretext. Kiven would never do that.”

  “No. No, he would not,” Silas replied, worried about his successor but relieved that Kiven’s connection to
him had, evidently, not yet been discovered. “What else can you tell me? Do you know if Fenroh is questioning him?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been mostly in the Wood. We’ve had terrible wildfires this year,” Daved explained. “I’ve been out on the lines with the men all summer, missed most of the summer progress.”

  “That’s good,” Silas said, nodding his approval. The boy’s voice was rough from the smoke. He was beginning to sound like a man, too. “Your people will remember that.”

  “I hope so,” Daved replied with a sigh. “Fenroh seems to be focused on building his new order. He took a dozen children from a monastery here last month. Their parents have heard nothing from them, nor has the monastery. He’s forbidden them letters, or any other outside contact.”

  “The better to enthrall them,” Silas muttered.

  “Probably. Rumor has it he’s teaching them dark magic, but I don’t know how much credence to give the stories,” Daved continued.

  “Oh, I’d believe it. During the war, he led a group of marauders,” Silas said. “They terrorized the villages until they were finally caught. Arson. Murder. Torture. Kidnapping.”

  “Gods above,” Daved replied. “That’s all we need. Marauding child priests conditioned to obey Fenroh.”

  “It will take time for him to train them up. At least there is that. Tell me, who is governing the Frontier? Did they return my lands to you?” Silas inquired, worried about the region he had briefly governed after his ascent to the nobility.

  “Ha! No. Esta has given your lands to a Gernishman named Vorren. He’s a close ally of Westan’s, naturally. He’s chopping down too damn many trees. And he’s a brute besides. Your landfolk are pouring down into the Wood to get away from him. And they’re singing Shiloh’s praises all the way, in whispers,” Daved answered.

  Silas snorted. “Good. Be kind to them, if you would. Someday we may need them to fight to chase Vorren back to Gerne with his tail between his legs. What are people saying about the events at the Citadel?”