She Dies at the End

by A. M. Manay

  Deniss glared down at her. “Don’t bother coming back for the next session, Shiloh.”

  Shiloh looked up at him, incredulous and hurt. She’d done everything he’d asked of her and excelled, even though he’d singled her out. Was there no pleasing the man?

  The old soldier grinned and winked. “Practicing here is a waste of time for you. I’m going to have to train you like I do the real knights,” he exclaimed, then clapped her on the back, nearly knocking her to the ground. He laughed uproariously. “I’ll set something up with the riding master. You fight well enough on foot, you ought to learn to fight on horseback. You should have seen their faces, child! The little lords had to pick their chins up off the floor! I was afraid to put any of the purebloods in with you, for fear you’d humiliate him and make an enemy for life!”

  Shiloh couldn’t stifle a giggle of her own in the face of his glee.

  Master Deniss flicked his wand, and the equipment began putting itself away. He laughed his way out the door, shaking his head all the while.

  ***

  Silas did not enjoy other people's suffering; he simply knew that it was sometimes necessary to cause it. He did possess a fascination with the dark arts, and the skill and power to employ them, but he rarely took pleasure in the pain the curses produced. It was the power that appealed to him, and what the power could achieve. Even if the person was strong enough to refuse to speak aloud, pain and fear opened up the mind, allowing Silas to dig through thoughts, looking for treasure. He had never admitted to having this ability to anyone but the king and Edmun, though many likely suspected it.

  The Siblings’ War had left much of the kingdom devastated. Silas had done what had been necessary to end the war, and he damned well wasn't going to let anyone start another one—not the Feralfolk, not the Patriarch, not Lord Redwood, and certainly not Mirin.

  How many people have already suffered and died on the altar of that woman’s stubborn pride? he asked himself, shaking his head. And now another man was about to join them.

  He continued to climb the spiral staircase in the center of the High Tower, stair after stair after stair. The interrogation room was all the way at the top. Silas often mused that only powerful sorcery could have built such a high tower all those centuries before. If only the sorcerer in question had thought to create some kind of moving staircase while he was at it. On the other hand, he supposed it was fitting.

  Torture, perhaps, ought to be inconvenient.

  At last, panting more than he would like to admit, he reached the black oak door. He waited until his racing heart had slowed before knocking. The guard opened the door, then stepped back against the wall, his face impassive.

  Along the curved walls hung various frightening implements. They were mostly for show. After all, a wand was all that Silas Hatch required to do his dirty work. A single window ran floor to ceiling, closed with a heavy shutter. Sometimes the wind would whistle through the cracks loud enough to make a man long to cover his ears. The wailing sound it produced could be heard as far as the courtyard, adding to the tower’s fearsome reputation.

  The object of Hatch’s ire was already present, bound to a heavy chair that was bolted to the stained stone floor. A small desk and an upholstered chair sat opposite the prisoner. The edge of the floor held an ominous drain. The erstwhile librarian was already shaking. It would have been enough to break Hatch’s heart if he weren’t so furious with the man.

  “Mikel,” Silas began softly, “would you like to tell me why you’ve been betraying your king? Not to mention, lying to me? I’ve respected you since I was a little boy, for the Gods’ sakes!”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mikel sputtered.

  “You are helping Mirin, the Dowager Duchess of Estany, smuggle messages out of this palace,” Hatch countered, voice sure.

  “I’ve turned over a dozen letters to you, just as you asked!” the man protested, voice trembling.

  “Three days ago, you received another letter, hidden in one of her books. And yet, I have not seen it. I am puzzled. Enlighten me, Mikel.” Hatch leveled a cold stare at the librarian. He removed his wand and set it upon the desk. “Just how many letters from her have you failed to turn over? What did they say? To whom did you send them? How many of the ones you gave me were fake, meant to deceive the crown?”

  The librarian simply shook his head, as though fearing to trust his voice.

  “I have been racking my brain, Mikel, trying to come up with a reason why you would choose Mirin over your king. Your king, who gave you the very post you have craved since childhood. Your king, who kept you from the front lines during the war, in respect for your formidable mind and your delicate constitution, thereby saving your wretched life. What could she possibly have promised you? I would have thought you the last man I know who would be susceptible to bribery, but here we are. Of course, it would not be the first time Mirin took advantage of a man’s weakness.”

  Silas spread his hands wide, stood, and picked up his wand. He slowly began to make his way around the desk.

  “Silas, you don’t need to, please—” Mikel protested.

  “I’m ever so glad to hear it,” Silas replied, perching on the edge of the desk, his wand leveled at Mikel’s forehead. Flames now danced along its length, chasing one another in a magical race without end, inches from the poor man’s skin. “We’ll start with an easy one. How many? How many letters have you smuggled out for Mirin?”

  Mikel stared for a long moment at his interrogator’s blazing wand. “Six,” he finally whispered.

  “Good man,” Silas replied. He flicked his wand, and the flames disappeared. Mikel jumped in his chains at the movement, crying out in anticipation of a pain that did not come. “Now, let us continue.”

  ***

  Shiloh again stayed behind at the end of tutorial. Master Jonn had been kind enough to set a workbench aside for her in his laboratory. A dozen tiny ceramic pots sat in a neat row, ready to be labeled with the date of treatment and the method to be used.

  “I only brought one jar of dead earth with me,” she told the healing master.

  “Not to worry. I’ve got barrels,” Jonn assured her. “I make the stewards haul some back from the Vine and the Wood when the summer progress heads that way. They think I’m mad.”

  “They’ll eat their words if you ever figure it out,” Shiloh replied. “Edmun told me the Deadlands cover thousands of square miles. If they can be reclaimed . . .”

  Jonn winked at her. “If they can be reclaimed, we’ll be heroes. But that is a mighty large ‘if.’”

  “Your notes say you’ve already tried Jalar’s Poison Remedy?” she asked.

  “Aye, both formulations. And I added fertilizer from the gardeners for good measure. I was able to get sprouts, but they would die within hours. They’d turn crimson and shrivel up black as pitch,” Jonn confirmed. “Now, last month I read that a man named Hadrian, who teaches at the University of Vert in Estany, claims to have invented an all-purpose countercurse. It’s well-described in the literature, but I haven’t been able to get it to work on so much as a child’s hex. Of course, I’m a much stronger potioner than I am a spell caster. Such is the mixed blessing of wielding a water wand.” Jonn eyed her appraisingly. “You, on the other hand, little miss steel wand . . . you should give it a go.”

  “Do you have the paper?” she asked eagerly. An all-purpose countercurse could come in quite handy the next time she became ill. And if it really did work on people, who’s to say it might not work on soil, with a few adjustments?

  “Sure,” he replied, looking over his messy desk with a touch of despair. “Somewhere. I’ll dig up the translation for you.”

  “The original is in Estan?” she asked. Master Jonn nodded. “You can give me original,” she told him.

  “You speak Estan?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Brother Edmun taught me. Gernish, too. He insisted it would come in ha
ndy. My accent is probably atrocious, but I can read it well enough,” she assured him.

  “My, my. Remind me never to underestimate you. Old Edmun gave you the education of a princess,” Jonn replied.

  He said it with a smile, but something in his eyes made Shiloh uneasy. It wasn’t until she’d left him, research paper clutched in her hot little hand, that she identified the healer’s look.

  Fear. It was fear.

  ***

  Rischar raged, striding across his study in great steps, his boots rattling everything in the room. Silas waited patiently, relieved that Zina was not present to rile him up further. He gave thanks for whoever had come up with the tradition of confinement.

  “I was a good husband to her!” Rischar cried. “It is not my fault that the Patriarch’s dispensation did not find favor with the Gods.” Rischar was rather adept at self-justification.

  “Undoubtedly, Your Grace,” Silas replied, his voice mild, giving no evidence of his bemusement.

  “And yet she betrays me by conspiring with my enemies!” the king fumed.

  “Indeed, sire,” Silas confirmed.

  “How did you discover this?”

  “Shiloh Teethborn reported seeing Brother Mikel remove a letter from one of the books the Dowager Duchess had borrowed. He didn’t turn it over to me, so I knew he was withholding something,” Silas explained. “He’s been passing me decoys the last several months.”

  The king’s eyebrows shot up. “Shiloh . . . is that the little hexborn lass?”

  Silas nodded.

  “Ha!” the king exclaimed, slapping his knee. “I knew she had heart when she danced with the fool. Did you see the look on Zina’s face when she didn’t crumble? Oh, she made me laugh. What a spitfire!”

  Silas smiled. “She has, thus far, proved to be both impressive and faithful.”

  The king’s countenance turned dark once more. “And just how did my false wife enlist the librarian?” Rischar asked.

  “Apparently, the idiot is in love with her,” Hatch replied, shaking his head. “She began by writing little notes to him a year ago, praising his intellect, asking him to choose books for her personally. She then claimed she feared for her life and for your daughter’s as well. Told him he was the only one who could protect them, that she would be eternally grateful, and he was so brave and strong, and such like. Then she started small with her requests. Asked him to get word to her sister that she loved her and wished her a happy nameday. Innocuous things. She built up gradually to actual treason. Eventually, Mikel helped get messages to the Patriarch, the Grandduke of Estany, the crown prince of Gerne. This last letter was to Lord Redwood.”

  “What did it say?” Rischar demanded.

  “Mikel doesn’t know. It was in code,” Silas replied, allowing some of his frustration to color his voice. “The Duchess is smart enough to know he’d talk if caught.”

  “Well, press him harder, man!” the king ordered. “Break the treasonous bastard.”

  “I did. My ears are still ringing from the screams. I’m sorry, sire, but the wretch really does not know. I do think we can hazard a guess. But we may not have to. I’ve sent people after the messenger. He only has a few hours on my men. They will catch him up.”

  Rischar clapped him on the shoulder. “Excellent. You are the only one I can count on, Hatch.”

  Silas bowed, demurring, “It is my honor to serve.”

  “What about young Daved? You haven’t frightened the poor lad too much?” the king fretted. “Gods help me, I always liked him. He reminds me of his mother, Gods rest her soul.”

  Silas swallowed a laugh. Daved’s late mother had been one of Rischar’s favorites years before. They’d carried on for the better part of a year. He imagined that fact played no small role in Lord Redwood’s perfidy.

  “No, sire. Our conversations have been friendly. He has a well-appointed cell. I think he can be persuaded to cooperate with the prosecution of his father. Especially if Your Grace allows him to retain his father’s title and some of his land once his brothers are out of the picture. The other lords will go along with a conviction,” Silas assured his king. “We can begin the trial in absentia as soon as Lord Rockmore and Lord Speckley arrive.”

  “And what is the delay?” Rischar asked.

  “Weather in the Range, and Lord Rockmore has the croup,” Hatch reported.

  The king paced once again, now more irritated than angry.

  “How such a knave is so blessed with sons that he is willing to sacrifice the youngest, and I am cursed with none but a bastard!” the king complained.

  “Naught to do but trust in the Gods’ timing, Your Grace,” Silas soothed. “The Gods will reward your steadfastness in the end, I am certain. Your theologians share my confidence, I assure you.”

  Someone hammered on the door. Hatch crossed to open it, eyebrows raised. Young Lord Kepler burst in, eyes shining.

  “Forgive my intrusion, Your Grace,” Jasin panted. “The Queen’s pains have begun!”

  Chapter 9

  War Is Ugly

  Silas stood on the edge of a battlefield, frozen. Dead and wounded littered the ground, visible here and there when the light of a torch fell upon them, carried by the men tasked with finding anyone who was still breathing. He saw precious few being carried back to the hospital tents.

  He closed his eyes and saw the fireballs flying through the sky. He saw the men falling to blade and to curse like a field of grass being mown for hay. His ears rang with explosions and screaming. The ground beneath his feet was hard and black and dead, where the night before there had stood a fertile farm growing wheat already a foot high. The power of the magic that had been cast that day swept over him like a wave—terrifying and, he would only later admit to himself, exhilarating. The destruction they had wrought both fascinated and repelled him.

  “Silas,” Edmun said, walking up to stand beside him. “Silas! You are needed,” he told the horror-struck boy, grabbing him by the arm. “Are you all right, son?”

  Silas emerged from his reverie with a jump of surprise. “I . . . I don’t know. Today was . . . Do you have any idea how many people we killed today? How many I killed?” he whispered.

  Edmun placed a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders. “War is ugly. I know. This is the first time you’ve seen it. It is real for you, now, for the first time. But you’re strong. You did well. You earned the respect of the men and of the officers. I’m proud of you. You have one message to carry tonight, and then you can rest.”

  “How can it be worth it, though? What can possibly be worth this?”

  “Rischar is a selfish, vain, foolish man. To stand by and let him claim a throne that is not his, when my father designated Alissa as his heir . . . we’d be condemning this land to a misrule lasting decades. You know that, Silas. Some pain now to spare our people greater pain later—that is why we do this.”

  Silas nodded. “Right. Right,” he managed, shaking his head as if to knock his doubts out of his ears.

  “That’s a good lad. Now, come with me. We still have some work to do before we sleep.”

  ***

  The Great Hall buzzed with anxious murmurs as courtiers began to arrive for supper. Shiloh had earlier heard one of the servants say that Queen Zina was in labor. As she passed through the door and began to make her way back to the corner, an usher interrupted.

  “Begging your pardon, Miss Shiloh, but your seat is this way.”

  Startled, Shiloh turned to look at him. He bowed and indicated that she should follow. Moments later, she found herself sharing a table with several of the tutors and the king’s bastard son Jaym, Lord Wheatley. Master Frank, the wandmaker, nodded in greeting. Jazpar Fistborn, the elderly tutor of alchemy, merely narrowed his eyes in her general direction. Master Jonn arrived at the same moment and took the seat next to Shiloh.

  Lord Wheatley grinned. “Looks like you’re moving up in the world, Shiloh. I heard that my fathe
r, his grace, thinks you’re a pip,” Jaym told her.

  “Does he, my lord? I wonder why,” Shiloh replied, working to hide a sinking feeling in her chest. She could think of only one thing she’d done in the previous day that might have drawn approval from the crown.

  Jaym shrugged. “Dunno. The Hatchet was with him a long time this afternoon.”

  “Where’s Brother Mikel?” Master Jonn asked. Looking down at her plate, Shiloh tried to hide her growing dismay at the librarian’s apparent absence.

  “Arrested,” Master Jazpar intoned, then banged his cane against the flagstones for emphasis. “Saw them dragging him down the corridor before dawn.”

  “Arrested? But why?” Master Jonn asked.

  Master Jazpar shrugged. “He’s always been squirrelly. Maybe it’s to do with Lord Redwood. His boy’s locked up, too.”

  “Have you hear anything, Lord Wheatley?” Master Jonn asked Jaym.

  Jaym shook his head. “No, sir. Shiloh, can you help me with my studies after supper? I don’t understand the treatise Sister Fern wants me to read.” Master Jazpar rolled his eyes.

  “Of course, my lord,” Shiloh replied, grateful for the change of subject.

  The food arrived, and everyone began to eat. Shiloh struggled to find an appetite, but she didn’t want to draw attention by leaving her plate full. Besides, Edmun’s admonitions always rang in her ears. Eat well. You need your strength. You never know when the next attack will come.

  The king seemed to be celebrating, eating heartily and gulping down one goblet of wine after another. Shiloh prayed he wasn’t getting ahead of himself. Childbirth is a dangerous thing. And even when it goes smoothly . . . there is no guarantee he will get the son he desires.