She Dies at the End

by A. M. Manay

  “You’re a falconer?” the jester asked, smoothing down his smock and keeping well clear of beak and fang.

  “Not exactly. We’re just friends.”

  Honey picked at her hair, seemingly scolding her.

  “I know; I look ridiculous,” Shiloh agreed with the bird. “I’m so glad you found me. But you’re going to tear up my dress, and I haven’t any money for another. Now that I can find my way out here, I’ll try to come out every day and see you, all right?” Seemingly mollified, the bird took to the sky once more.

  Shiloh resumed her walk, with Verjell by her side. “Have you been here a long time?” she asked, glancing sideways at her gray-haired companion, who seemed much more relaxed with Honey gone.

  “Oh, yes. I came here as a lad, before the king and most of his siblings were even born. I gave King Rischar daily piggyback rides when I was young,” he confirmed.

  “How did you wind up at court?” Shiloh inquired.

  He looked down and smiled. “My parents were part of a traveling circus. A master here saw me doing tricks and procured me. I was, perhaps, eight or nine years old? I’m not really sure.”

  “Are you happy here?” she asked.

  Verjell looked at her in surprise. “A clown is always sad, Miss. What about you?”

  Shiloh shrugged. “I am not unhappy,” she allowed. “But it is hard to adapt to so much change, so quickly.”

  “Speaking of change, I think the weather is about to chase us inside,” Verjell warned.

  Shiloh felt the first raindrop on her cheek, and they rushed back toward the palace. Before they parted ways, Verjell bestowed one last bit of wisdom upon her.

  “People like us can survive a great many changes, Miss Shiloh, but only if we keep our eyes and ears open and our mouths closed,” he warned.

  Shiloh nodded. “You sound a lot like my old teacher, Brother Edmun.”

  Verjell grinned. “Who do you think gave me that same advice, after he bought me from my parents?” he asked. With one last wink, he disappeared around the corner.

  ***

  “Master Jonn, do you know if there has been any research into reclaiming the Deadlands?” Shiloh asked. She had stayed behind at the end of their tutorial in order to inquire. Jonn Gateborn seemed to know a bit about everything, though his focus was, of course, on the treatment of maladies both magical and biological.

  He looked up at her from his desk and smiled. “That is a very interesting question, young lady. As it happens, it’s been a pet project of mine for some years. What prompts your interest in such a fruitless effort?”

  Shiloh looked at her shoes and considered lying, but then decided against it. “I, uh, accidentally killed some land back home, in the mountains. Just a small patch, about twenty or thirty feet in diameter.”

  Master Jonn raised his eyebrow. “That must have been some curse.”

  “It happened during a Feral attack,” she explained tersely, hoping that her tutor would not press her further.

  He eyed her for a long moment before replying, “I can let you borrow my notes, if you promise to return them by next week. To be honest, I could use another person’s insights. I’ve never made much progress.”

  “Thank you!” she exclaimed, beaming.

  Jonn smiled as he opened his desk drawer. “You are most welcome. I haven’t had many students curious enough to voluntarily take on extra work.”

  Pleased as punch, Shiloh made her way to the Lesser Hall to eat. Daved had finally stopped telling her to sit somewhere else, and they even, on a good day, exchanged words.

  “You need to eat, my lord,” Shiloh told him, sliding onto the bench across from the morose boy.

  “Not hungry,” he countered.

  “You’re losing weight,” she admonished. “Whatever happens with your family, starving yourself won’t do you much good.” Daved just shrugged.

  She heard a commotion near the door and turned her head to investigate. A pack of women streamed through the door, chattering away. “What are they doing here?” Shiloh asked.

  Daved gave them a listless glance. “Queen Zina has begun her confinement,” he explained. At Shiloh’s baffled look, he elucidated further. “When a queen nears her child’s birth, she goes into seclusion with a chosen few of her closest ladies and the royal midwife. She is kept in a quiet, dimly lit room until the baby arrives, utterly isolated.”

  Shiloh’s eyes revealed her skepticism. “That is ridiculous.”

  Daved managed a weak smile. “I’m sure the crown will take your opinion under advisement. It’s only a tradition of many centuries.”

  “In the Teeth, women work until they can’t. And even then, their friends and loved ones are in and out all day to keep them cheerful, bringing news and treats, so they don’t become sad and bored.”

  “This isn’t the Teeth,” Daved pointed out.

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  Penn approached their table. She appeared to be about to sit with them when she was diverted by a sharp call from Lady Hana. “Penn, what in the world are you doing, foolish girl? Are you blind? We are sitting over here!”

  Penn gave Daved and Shiloh an apologetic look before obediently turning around to rejoin the other maids-in-waiting.

  “You know, I used to wish I might marry her,” Daved admitted.

  “Lady Hana?” Shiloh blurted, nearly choking on her food.

  “Oh, Gods, no! I’m only the fourth son. She’s too lofty for me to have a chance. Besides, she’s a harpy. I meant Penn,” Daved explained. “She’s the only nice one of them all.”

  “Oh. Why don’t you wish it anymore?” Shiloh asked.

  He shook his head. “I’ll make no marriage now, not with the king’s disfavor. He has to approve all marriages among the nobility.”

  “Really?” Shiloh chewed thoughtfully. “I knew bastards like me needed a dispensation, but I didn’t realize you lot had to get his permission.”

  Daved nodded. “We are not so free as you might think.”

  Shiloh studied the courtiers. “Wait, a lot of them are close to my age. Why don’t I ever see them studying or carrying books to their tutors?”

  “Most noblemen and women drop out by fifteen or sixteen. They reach the limits of their abilities, or they’re simply lazy. The men just want to spar, ride, and hunt. And the girls are afraid that if they become too powerful or too knowledgeable, no man will want them,” Daved explained.

  Shiloh shook her head before activity once again drew her attention to the door. Four of the king’s guard stomped past the usher, ignoring him utterly, making a beeline for Daved.

  Daved closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Finally. I was getting sick of waiting,” he sighed. “Thank you for your kindness,” he told Shiloh, managing a sincere smile.

  “Wait, my lord, what’s happening?” she demanded, watching in horror as Daved stood and stepped away to face the guards. She took to her own feet, heart pounding.

  “Daved Jennin, by the order of the king, you are placed under arrest,” the lead guard declared.

  “What is the charge?” Daved asked, voice cracking and hands shaking.

  “Misprision of Treason,” the man replied, taking the boy’s arm.

  “He’s just a boy, though,” Shiloh protested softly, eyes wide.

  “It’s all right, Shiloh,” Daved replied. “I’ve been expecting it. It was only a matter of time.”

  The whole room watched in silence as the guards marched him away. As soon as the door closed behind them, the place erupted in discussion.

  Shiloh retook her seat, her knees having gone weak. As she stared at Daved’s uneaten meal, she half listened to the voices surrounding her.

  “I heard his oldest brother was stopped at the northern border,” Hana shared. “Had a letter from his father asking the King of Gerne for support for a rebellion.”

  “Well, I heard that his father was trying to broker an unapproved m
arriage for himself, with the crown princess of Vreeland,” another girl countered.

  “I heard that he was trying to broker a marriage for Esta,” someone piped up.

  “Poor Lord Daved,” Penn said softly, “alone in the High Tower. I hate to think of it.”

  “Rebels get what they deserve,” Hana declared, no hint of pity in her voice. “He belongs to the Hatchet, now. If Daved knows anything, Hatch will find it out. Though there might not be much left of Daved when he is through.”

  ***

  Shiloh gnawed at the inside of her lip as she headed toward the Temple for her afternoon of labor. She briefly wondered what the other girls would be doing with their empty afternoons, until she realized that she didn’t actually care. She enjoyed her two work assignments, though she would never admit that to the Matron. She liked being busy, and she liked the Temple.

  She’d always loved the simple Temple in her village, with its roughly carved wooden statues and ancient, peeling icons. And this Temple . . . this royal Temple was magnificent. Arches supported the vaulted ceiling from which elaborate magic lanterns hung in many colors. The lanterns depicted famous stories from Scripture: the Birth of the Babe, The Great Drought, The Elder in Disguise, The Courtship of the Mother, the Maiden’s Courage, the Father’s Ax.

  Each deity had a large side chapel of his or her own, each lavishly decorated in a different style by artisans who had come from all corners of Bryn. Prominent saints had small alcoves scattered in between. An elaborate tableau behind the main altar depicted the entire Holy Family. In front of them sat the ark containing the most ancient copy of the Tarwah, the sacred Scriptures, on scrolls so old that no one dared so much as breathe on them.

  Shiloh struggled to center herself as she crossed the threshold. The smell of the candles and incense calmed her breathing, as did the ritual of washing her hand and hook with holy water, but they could not ease her worry for Lord Daved.

  “You are troubled,” Brother Charls observed. A middle-aged man of rather average appearance, the priest’s brown hair edged to gray over his ears, and his waist was just beginning to thicken with age. Smile lines around his eyes reminded Shiloh of her Da.

  Shiloh nodded. “They arrested Daved Jennin.”

  Charls nodded. “This is not a surprise.”

  “No. But, still . . . why don’t the other students seem to care? They’ve known him their whole lives, have they not? And, yet, all he is to them is someone to gossip about?”

  “There is a bit more to it than malice, I’m afraid,” the priest countered.

  Shiloh sighed and followed Charls down the main aisle, past the benches and icons and statues and into the workroom behind the main altar. She waited for him to explain.

  “Some of it is their fear of being thought guilty by association if they show him sympathy,” Charls explained. “Some of it is simply denial. If they pretend that Daved deserves his suffering, they can pretend that they, themselves, are safe. The truth is, every child at court is a hostage for his parents’ good behavior, and any mistakes by their parents can cast them into danger at the snap of a finger.”

  Shiloh looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?” She began working the water pump to fill a large tub.

  Charls smiled at her naïveté. “Do you think that the king who started the Royal Academy did so out of the goodness of his heart? Or out of an affection for children, or a respect for scholarship?”

  “No, of course not. I thought he started it to keep all the decent magicians on his payroll and under his control,” she retorted.

  “That, too,” Charls allowed. “But for this king, especially, the children are not merely magical servants to the crown. They are insurance. Keeping a throne is harder than winning it. Knowing his offspring are at court makes a powerful man think twice before crossing his sovereign. All of the students know this, but they pretend not to. It’s easier that way. Lord Redwood knows that his machinations put young Daved in grave danger, yet he undertakes them anyway. Perhaps he has decided that his three grown sons are sufficient and that the fourth may be sacrificed.”

  “Is he really as ruthless as that?” Shiloh asked. Charls cocked his head to the side in a half shrug. “That’s just . . .” She shook her head. “In the Teeth, we’re poor as dirt and pig ignorant, but at least people love their children.”

  “There are those of high birth who tell themselves that love is for the poor,” Charls replied. “They tend to realize that they are mistaken only when it is too late.”

  “Is there anything we can do to help Daved?” Shiloh asked after Charls had finished blessing the water. Together, they carried the heavy tub toward the Elder’s shrine. It was that statue’s turn for a ritual bath.

  Huffing slightly, Charls responded, “Not really. You can do nothing to exonerate his family. You might, perhaps, be able to make his imprisonment more comfortable. Generally, prisoners are permitted books. They might let you speak to him through the door of his cell. However, you run the risk of drawing more of Master Hatch’s attention than is safe.”

  “I already have plenty of his attention,” Shiloh admitted.

  “I imagine you do,” Charls allowed. “Just know that in this place, to be kind to a person in disfavor is to take a risk. You may be low enough on the ladder that your sympathy will not be noticed, but . . .”

  Shiloh nodded, and she and the priest began to wash the idol. Charls chanted prayers, and Shiloh sang along. The statue of the Elder was androgynous, its gender made ambiguous by age. It was believed that the wisdom of the ancient came to both men and women, so this aspect of the divine was thought to encompass the range of gender.

  Unlike the other idols, this one was unpainted, unadorned. There was no gold, no jewels, no silk clothing fashioned by noblewomen in opulent parlors. It had been carved in streaked gray marble and left to its natural appearance. This artistic choice was meant to represent the truth that time destroys all vanity.

  Shiloh had grown especially fond of this statue’s hands. They were so finely wrought that every vein and wrinkle and twisted joint seemed true to life. They made her think of Edmun’s hands working a mortar and pestle, his gnarled digits an impediment to neither his magic nor his knowledge.

  When they were finished, and they had poured the dirty water down the drain, Shiloh ventured another question. “Do you think Master Hatch will hurt Lord Daved?”

  Father Charls heaved a sigh. “Silas has a reputation for such methods, and a gift for it, in truth. But in my experience, he tries to avoid the use of torture. I think Daved’s age will protect him. And it is unlikely that his father has kept him apprised of the details of his plot. So, no, I do not imagine that Silas will seek to cause him pain. But it is entirely possible that the king will order his execution.”

  “But he can’t be more than twelve years old,” Shiloh protested.

  Charls looked down at her sadly. “Perhaps his father should have kept that in mind.”

  ***

  The next afternoon, Shiloh filled two baskets with books: one for Mirin and her ladies, and one for Daved. The librarian insisted on choosing the books for the former queen, but he allowed Shiloh to choose for her friend. She made some guesses about what a 12-year-old nobleman might enjoy reading. She’d also asked his tutor for a list of assignments and included relevant books, so that he might keep up.

  The High Tower was closer, so she went there first. The guards wouldn’t let her in without a note from Hatch, but they did agree to deliver the books to Daved. Shiloh made a mental note to pay the Hatchet a visit before her next shift in the library. She pressed on to make her next delivery.

  The guards at the entrance to the Dark Tower were now accustomed to her twice weekly visits. Their inspections had become rather cursory. She endeavored to spend as little time as possible with the king’s former wife. Mirin seemed always to be studying her every look and gesture. Shiloh assumed the woman was searching for fault, but Mirin ra
rely offered any words to accompany her examinations.

  Today, however, the dowager duchess had a question for the hexborn foundling. “Do you ever wish that they had killed you?” she inquired, just as Shiloh had reached the door to leave.

  Shiloh turned back, startled. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?” she managed to reply.

  “Given your . . . unfortunate condition,” Mirin elaborated. “Do you wish that your parents had ended your suffering on the occasion of your birth?”

  “No, Your Grace. Of course I don’t wish that they’d killed me,” Shiloh answered, biting her cheek in an effort to control her anger. “May I go?”

  Mirin waved a regal hand, and Shiloh escaped, feeling the woman’s eyes on her back all the while.

  Shiloh sucked at her teeth the whole way back down the stairs and across the palace to the library. She muttered to herself as she shelved books. She fumed as she repaired ripped pages. So irritated was she that she left her own satchel behind in the library office once she had finished. She caught the error just as she reached the library’s entrance.

  She walked swiftly back through the rows of tables, her light feet soundless on the heavy blue rug that ran the length of the aisle. She was about to step through the open door to the office when she stopped short.

  The librarian stood with his back to the entrance, hunched over the basket of books that Shiloh had brought back from the Dark Tower. He flipped through the pages, seemingly looking for something. His pose made the hair stand up on the back of Shiloh’s neck.

  “Ah, there you are,” Brother Mikel whispered, then stood straight. He withdrew his wand and slid it along the lining of the back cover of one of the volumes of poetry Shiloh had just returned. When he withdrew it, a single sheet of shimmering paper dangled from the tip of the wand. It glowed faintly blue with the magic left over from its concealment.

  Shiloh’s heart nearly stopped. She took several careful steps back. She had the distinct feeling that it would be unwise to be caught peeking at this particular moment. Only after she’d heard Mikel take a few steps and sink back into his squeaky chair did she sneak another dozen silent steps away and cough to announce her approach.