by A. M. Manay
“Sounds dreadful,” Markas said with a dramatic shudder. “We’ll do our best to care for you the next time it happens. We have excellent healers.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your kindness.”
“I do my best to make sure each student who arrives here knows that she is welcome. You may be a somewhat extreme case, but many of our halfbood students have had difficult lives out in the provinces, as you might imagine. Some of our lords hold all their children close, legitimate or not. Others ignore their bastards utterly and throw their mothers into the gutter. This place is quite a lot to take in for those unaccustomed to life among the nobility.”
He picked up a sheet of paper and a pen and began to make some notes, murmuring aloud as he went. “Let’s see . . . Master Jonn does have room for you in his tutorial. He’s our most skilled healer. Master Hatch also wants you to train and test with the aspiring knights, and what Silas wants, he usually gets. We don’t usually allow girls to train for combat, but in your case, I suppose, given your barrenness, we can make an allowance . . . We also have open seminars a few times a month for those interested in exploring topics outside of their own concentrations. Any interest in Transfiguration? That is this week’s offering.”
Shiloh shook her head. “Not really,” she confessed.
“Scrying and farsight?” Markas asked. “I believe that is coming up on the schedule.”
“Brother Edmun refused to teach it to me, so I don’t know if I’ve any gift for it.”
“Ha! Probably afraid you’d learn all his secrets, along with the fact that he was always hopeless at farsight. Now, what are we doing with you in the afternoons?” he asked absently.
“The Matron said I could help in the Library and the Temple.”
Markas looked up at her and nodded with visible amusement. “I bet she did, the old bat. Next she’ll have you scrubbing floors and currying horses.”
Shiloh snorted a laugh. “It’s all right, really. I love books, and I love Temples.”
“Fair enough. I’ll let them know to expect you.” The headmaster stood decisively. “Let’s get you to the armory. And find out just why my brother refused to tell me your element.”
***
In the deepest basement of Greenhill Palace, far beneath the Great Hall, sat the armory. Racks of weapons greeted their arrival: swords, shields, lances, bows, arrows, axes. Row after row marched alongside them as they walked, until, at last, Shiloh and the headmaster came to the wand shop. They there discovered that Silas Hatch had preceded them. Of course. Shiloh stifled a sigh.
“Shall we?” Hatch asked, bowing and gesturing toward the door.
“Now, remember,” Markas cautioned, “You may not wear nor carry a wand in the presence of the king and queen. Only their personal guard and members of the Order of St. Stex may do so.”
Shiloh nodded. Whatever the Order of St. Stex is . . .
A short, round man stood and greeted them with apparent irritation, his bald head shining in the lamplight.
“Damn it, Silas, I told you I’m working on that project as fast as I can, but these things take time!”
“That’s not why we’re here, Frank. We have a new student to equip, Shiloh Teethborn. Shiloh, this is Brother Frank Fingersborn, Royal Armorer.”
The priest finally noticed Shiloh and fairly leapt in shock. “Elder above, is she—”
“Hexborn, yes,” Silas interrupted, his patience obviously in short supply.
“My, my. Well, has she ever been tested?” Frank demanded, smoothing out his brown robes.
“My brother Edmun did, I’m sure, but he refused to divulge the results to me,” Markas reported, a tinge of hurt in his voice. “Nor to Silas, I understand.”
“Edmun? Edmun taught her?” Frank asked, looking upon Shiloh with a touch more respect. “Well, I assume he told you, at least,” he said to her. “Out with it, now, my child.”
Shiloh took a deep breath. “All four,” she confessed. “I tested equally positive for all four elements.”
“I knew it!” Markas crowed, throwing up his hands. “Edmun always had the best secrets.”
Frank burst out laughing. “Don’t be ridiculous! He must have had a defective set. They do need to be recalibrated regularly. Many people don’t appreciate how delicate—”
“I’m fairly certain that Edmun Courtborn, the greatest wizard in three generations, understood how to calibrate a sodding sorceroscale,” Silas stated flatly. “Test her again, if you insist, but get the hell on with it. And mark my words: you’re going to need to break out the steel.”
“Fine, fine, fine,” Frank acquiesced, hands raised in surrender. He lifted the hinged counter and beckoned them to come back into the workshop proper.
The walls were lined with locked cabinets that reached the high ceilings. There was a section for wands from each element: earth, air, fire, and water. The earthen wands were made of polished stones and minerals in all colors, textures, and strengths. The air wands were hollow tubes made of various materials of every description. The fire wands were made of particularly flammable materials. For this reason, they required frequent replacement as they were consumed, so Frank kept a large stock. The water wands were composed of hygroscopic substances that attracted and held water, either drawing it from the atmosphere or from a good soak. Green wood and sea sponge were popular choices for those who preferred natural materials, while the less particular or more modern enjoyed various hydrated salt crystals and artificial substances concocted by clever potions experts over the centuries.
The testing took but a moment. As before in her early childhood, all the globes responded to Shiloh’s call. Now, of course, she was older and more powerful, and she had much more control. She couldn’t resist showing off a little bit, and the spheres danced gracefully before she guided them back and nestled them gently into their velvet case. It was all she could do to resist the temptation to buzz Master Hatch and muss up his mop of black hair.
“I stand corrected,” Frank admitted into the echoing silence.
“The steel wands, Frank,” Silas prodded.
In the back of the shop, beneath an old rug and an inch of dust, sat a battered black trunk. Frank reverently brushed it off, and he called Silas to help him lift it onto the work table. A shining inlay upon the lid depicted five birds of prey. The armorer removed a ring of keys and found the one he needed.
“How many do you have?” Markas asked.
“Just the one,” Frank replied. “The rest have been parceled out over the years. The only one I have left is an antique. Brother Elton of the Southlands only made five steel wands, or so the story goes. He used one himself. Three went to King Davos the Greater, and their remains lie buried with him these hundred years or more. This is the last. There is a steel-wielding wandmaker down in Dessica who has quite a large stock of them, I hear. We could send for one of theirs if this wand is too powerful for her.”
“Somehow, I don’t think that is going to be a problem,” Silas replied. “You’ve never tried to make one, Frank?”
“I’ve experimented, with the help of a blacksmith. Didn’t go well. How do you think I lost all my hair?”
“What happened to the smith?” Shiloh asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Frank replied with a shudder. “You really have to be a steel caster yourself to make a proper go of it, I think.”
Shiloh bit her lip as Frank fussed with the lock. The suspense was killing her. Silas twitched beside her, seemingly equally impatient.
“Ah!” Frank cried in triumph, and he pulled open the creaking lid.
Nestled in wood shavings sat a single gleaming wand of steel. The handle was intricately cast in the shape of an owl, the wand’s shaft grasped in its talons and ending in a point slightly duller than an ice pick. Shiloh had never seen anything nearly so elaborate among Edmun’s extensive wand collection.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
&
nbsp; “Elton was the greatest wandmaker that ever lived,” Frank replied. “We’ll not see his like again.”
“Go on, then,” Silas urged, and Shiloh obeyed.
“Oh!” she gasped as she lifted the weapon. The connection was palpable. The metal felt like an extension of herself, warm and alive and powerful. She almost thought she could feel the ore in the earth, the fire in the forge, the air in the bellows, the water in the quenching barrel. The steel felt right in a way she had never experienced with Edmun’s wands. It was almost enough to make a hexborn girl feel . . . whole.
“I think it likes her,” Silas remarked, deadpan, his unblinking eyes focused upon her glowing face.
Markas laughed with delight. “Amazing! To see a steel-wielding wizard in our own time. And a hexborn bastard at that. Remarkable!”
Silas rolled his eyes. “Let’s not go overboard, Markas. It’s not as though she’s the only one in the world. Vreeland has three of them on the payroll, for heaven’s sake.”
“Only because their court is more inbred than a litter of racing dogs,” Markas retorted. “All of them have the bleeding sickness.”
“The Patriarch’s son tested positive for all four,” Frank pointed out. “He used to brag about it constantly.”
“Yes, but Fenroh wasn’t ever able to control a steel wand, no matter how many of them his holiness ordered from abroad,” Markas countered. “Old Master Winn refused to let him touch this one. They kept exploding in Fenroh’s hand. He was strong in all the elements, but the poor boy’s fire was out of balance with the others.”
“That’s not the only thing about him that’s unbalanced,” Silas muttered.
Shiloh looked down at her prize, wishing she could show it to Edmun. Hesitantly, she asked, “How much does this cost?” She was possessed of a sudden fear of losing the treasure for lack of ability to pay.
Hatch shook his head. “It’s a gift. From the king. The first one always is. It is yours as long as you are in his service.”
Shiloh nodded, much relieved.
“I ordered her a belt and sheath some weeks ago. Has it arrived?” Silas asked Frank, who quickly fetched a case from a nearby shelf. Fine green leather soon circled Shiloh’s waist, and the sheath fit the wand as though it had been made to order. Shiloh supposed it may well have been. Not much seemed to surprise Silas Hatch.
“Thank you, Master Hatch,” Shiloh said softly, then resumed staring in wonder at her new wand.
“Let’s see if she can do anything with it,” Silas proposed. “To the firing range.”
Shiloh could tell that it wasn’t a suggestion. She followed the men back out through the armory and down a dimly lit passageway that seemed to go on for days. She took care not to stumble on several sets of shallow stairs.
“How far is it?” she finally asked.
“Far enough,” Silas replied with a twitch of a smile. “The range is deep within the hill upon which the palace complex sits. Wouldn’t want any explosions to damage the building and its occupants, now would we?”
“I suppose not,” Shiloh allowed, wondering just what kind of fireworks Hatch was expecting.
At last, the party arrived in a cavernous chamber, their footsteps echoing. Magical lanterns lit the space nearly as brightly as the sun outside. Shiloh squinted. Walls, floor, and curved ceiling were made of pale gray stone. At the far end, she saw targets. Some were simple bulls-eyes, while others were life-size models of armored soldiers and cavalrymen, complete with model horses.
“Destroy that,” Hatch ordered, pointing at one of the model soldiers.
Shiloh looked at him with the scolding expression of a librarian peering over a set of spectacles.
“I don’t have much practice with casting curses, Master Hatch. Do you have one you’d suggest?” she asked, her voice sweet and her eyes hard.
He snorted with disbelief. “Let’s go with combustion,” he replied. “I’m fairly certain you can manage that.” Shiloh tensed visibly at that reminder of the Feral blood on her hands.
“As you wish,” Shiloh replied, jaw clenched. She planted her feet, sighted the target, pointed her wand, and hummed.
Markas and Frank jumped when the faux knight exploded into a fireball that took out two of his adjacent artificial comrades in arms and threatened to spread even further.
Shiloh flicked her wand with studied ease. The fire died as quickly as it had begun, leaving only blackened husks behind. “Is that sufficient unto the day, Master Hatch?” she asked, her voice clipped.
“Stupendous! Simply marvelous, my dear!” Markas enthused. “Jonn will be so excited to have a student of your caliber.”
“I . . . I . . .” Frank stuttered, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to say. I think I might be in love.”
“Satisfactory,” Hatch replied, shaking his head at the reactions of his companions. “I suppose we’ll keep you.”
Shiloh loosed a cold smile. She turned her back to the men and began crossing the length of the range in rapid strides, finally enough used to her long skirts that she managed to do so without tripping herself. She could hear someone following. She didn’t have to look to know it was Hatch.
When she arrived at the objects she’d just destroyed, she pointed her wand and began to hum again. The damage she’d created immediately retreated, char marks disappearing, limbs reassembling themselves. By the time she’d stopped, the only signs that anything had occurred were a whiff of smoke in the air and a crooked helmet on the knight’s wooden head. The men behind her were struck silent. She turned to face them.
“I prefer fixing things to breaking them, Master Hatch,” she declared sharply. “For future reference.”
“I suppose that’s fortunate for me,” he replied, bowing slightly but never taking his eyes from her face.
“Yes. I suppose it is.”
***
Supper is in the Great Hall, Shiloh repeated the Matron’s words to herself. The usher will tell you where to sit.
Shiloh could see immediately upon entering the difference between the proper nobility and their bastard offspring. Their clothing was newer, more luxurious, more revealing. Accessories were abundant. The hats were particularly outlandish to Shiloh’s mountain eyes. The seating arrangements provided another delineation. The most favored sat closest to the dais that held the high table. They sat in proper chairs with backs and cushions. The children and the bastards had hard benches farther removed from their sovereign. All this she’d absorbed in one breath’s time.
The usher looked her up and down, raking her with a skeptical eye. Even he is dressed better than I am. Finally, he pointed and walked her to an empty spot in a dim corner. The others at the table were small children. They stared at her openly. Inwardly, she heaved a sigh.
She heard a commotion up front, and they all stood to greet the entrance of the king and queen. She sank into a reasonably graceful curtsy, and after a long moment, the room grew loud with the sounds of chairs scraping the floor and people resuming their seats.
Shiloh turned her pink eyes to the royal couple. She could scarcely believe that she was in their presence. The king was a large man, broad of shoulder. In his middle age, he still held fast to a thick mop of red hair only beginning to show gray. His neatly trimmed beard was similarly sprinkled with silver. His pale blue eyes seemed to her of a cast that could quickly turn from mirth to menace. His fair skin was peppered liberally with freckles.
Next to him sat his wife, at least thirty years his junior and enormously pregnant. Hatch’s sister hadn't been lying about the queen’s taste. Queen Zina’s gown was ostentatiously bejeweled. Her dark hair dripped with pearls. When her face was turned toward her husband, her brown eyes were merry and her mouth turned up in happy admiration. When Rischar’s gaze was elsewhere, a general attitude of displeasure made itself visible in the lines of her pink face.
Back in the far corner, they waited for what seemed like an age for their betters
to be served. At last, the servants filled their plates. She could hear grumbles around her. Shiloh thought the children mad. She had never seen good food in such abundance. She ate happily of dishes she'd never even heard of, much less ever tasted. She was careful not to drink too much wine, accustomed as she was to spring water and milk at supper.
The queen clapped, and servants began clearing dishes and moving the tables in the front with practiced speed. Before Shiloh could wonder what was happening, a band had assembled to the left of the dais and begun to play. Ladies-in-waiting and gentlemen of the chamber began to dance, wheeling in and out in complicated choreography. Shiloh found it beautiful, though the music was not to her taste. She wondered how much time they spent practicing the dances.
Thank the Gods I'm not one of them. I'd be lost.
When the first dance was finished, a jester came forward, tumbling and telling jokes Shiloh could not quite hear. They must have been amusing enough, as they provoked gales of laughter.
Someone rang a bell, and quiet descended. The queen’s voice rang out loudly. “Master Hatch, we are told we have received a new student. A mysterious foundling from the Teeth. An abomination most . . . unusual.”
Shiloh’s heart stopped. Her meal turned to ice in her stomach as heads swiveled in her direction.
Hatch stood from his seat just in front of the dais and bowed. “Yes, Your Grace. Miss Shiloh Teethborn will begin her studies tomorrow.”
“We would see a dance from the Teeth,” the queen declared, mouth smiling and eyes cruel. “We wish to be entertained.”
Oh, no. Gods preserve me.
Shiloh sat frozen. “Go,” one of her tiny table mates hissed. “You can’t keep her waiting, you idiot!”
The words broke through her shock, and she stood, heart now thumping in barely concealed panic. She managed to make her way to the open space in front of the dais, legs moving of their own accord. With the distinct feeling that her body was not her own, she curtsied deeply, then walked swiftly toward the band. Titters and whispers spread through the crowd, rustling like animals in the underbrush. Open derision followed, and her ears flushed scarlet. She tried to block out their words. She’d heard them all before.
