Hexborn (The Hexborn Chronicles Book 1)

by A. M. Manay

  Shiloh shook her head. “No, I didn’t. Sorry, I shouldn’t tease you. No horns. No tail. No fangs nor claws. Just a bad arm, and I get sick some nights.”

  “Well, then what do folks make such a fuss about it for? Before the Reforms, it was allowed some places to get a priest to kill the poor things in the cradle, for the Babe’s sake! Now, Miss Shiloh, is there anything else you’ll be needing for the room?” Jane asked. The task of storing Shiloh’s meager belongings had not taken long.

  Shiloh looked around thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I could get a small prayer cupboard?” she asked, grateful for the change of subject.

  Jane cocked her head and smiled. “I know a lad who’s a novice priest, helps keep the Temple up. I’ll ask him if he knows who to ask. I’d wager we’ve a few to spare. None of the new queen’s ladies seem much interested in staying right with the Holy Family, truth be told. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, I’ll help you get back to the Lesser Hall so you can get something to eat. When you’re done, ask one of the ushers to show you to the Headmaster’s office. He’ll be expecting you at two o’clock,” Jane told Shiloh.

  Shiloh nodded.

  Jane leaned in conspiratorially. “Don’t you worry, miss. He’s a soft touch,” the maid confided. “Not near the grouch the Matron is.”

  “Thank the Gods for that,” Shiloh replied. They headed out together and Shiloh glanced at the ominous barred door blocking the way up into the Dark Tower. “Why do you suppose she stays in such a dismal place?” Shiloh asked. “The former queen, I mean?”

  “Fancies herself a martyr, she does,” Jane replied. “Says if she agrees to the divorce, her husband will be condemned to eternal hellfire for unrepentant adultery. Claims she’s going to save him from the evil clutches of his new wife or die trying. Master Hatch thinks it’s more like to be a queen’s pride.” Jane shook her head and then scolded herself. “But I speak too freely.”

  “Hmm,” Shiloh replied noncommittally. “Are the stories true? About the Dark Tower?”

  “Yes, as far as I know, miss. The windows are all bricked up, just like in the story. It makes my skin creep to climb the stair; it surely does.”

  Soon, they were standing before the open doors of the Lesser Hall.

  “Thank you for everything,” Shiloh hastened to say before the girl ran off.

  Jane looked surprised at the courtesy. “You’re most welcome, miss!” she tossed off, then ran to attend to her next assignment.

  Shiloh looked into the hall and cocked her head to the side in confusion. The hall was half empty, and the only people in it were children much younger than she. A few servants walked around with trays of food. A bored looking young man stood next to the door, apparently supervising.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she began. “Is this where they serve the midday meal?”

  “Yes,” he replied, rolling his eyes at her idiocy.

  “Then where is everyone?” she asked.

  “The maids and young gentlemen eat dinner with the king and queen, in their chambers or in the garden, though the queen often skips meals, when she isn’t expecting. This is just for the children.” The footman eyed her. “And the rejects.”

  “I see. Where should I sit, then?” she asked, squaring her shoulders at the unsurprising news that the Matron had been setting her up for embarrassment.

  He shrugged. “Wherever. I’d stay away from the kids if I were you. Snot-nosed little twerps, the lot of them. Plus your being a freak and all. Might scare the little blighters.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement.”

  She looked over the room once again and saw one older boy sitting alone. He looked almost her own age, perhaps a few years younger. She strode purposefully in his direction, feigning a confidence she did not feel. By the time she had approached the long table where he sat, her courage had evaporated, and anticipating certain rejection, she perched uncertainly at the other end, as far from him as possible. He seemed to take no note of her. He simply stared morosely at his plate, which was full of uneaten food.

  A servant approached Shiloh, and she gratefully received the plate he offered her. “Pardon me, but do you know who that is?” she quietly asked the young boy.

  “Everyone knows who that is, ma’am,” he whispered. “That’s Lord Daved, the youngest son of the Earl of Redwood, Lord of the Wood.”

  “So why is he eating here with us, instead of attending the king or his father?” she whispered back.

  “The king is right cross with his da, miss. Trouble afoot up north. Kicked the poor lad out of his chamber, his grace did. Soon enough, the Hatchet will come and drag him to the High Tower, if I don’t miss my guess.” The servant looked at her stump, and then at her hair. “You look like you got problems enough of your own, if I may be so bold, miss. Might want to sit someplace else on the morrow, lest he taint you with his own.”

  “Thanks,” Shiloh replied. “What’s your name?”

  “Gerry, miss,” he replied. “Got to get on with it, miss.” he said with a shy smile, then ran off to the next table.

  Shiloh ate quickly, as had always been her habit when at home facing down a long list of chores. Every so often, she spared a glance at Daved. The tow-headed boy never looked up.

  As she stood to leave, she caught sight of a tear falling upon his uneaten bread.

  Chapter 5

  A Potentially Explosive Combination

  “This is one of Blufeld’s bastards, then?” Edmun asked. He sat with the Father Superior of St. Elbin’s Monastery. “I do hope he’s cleverer than the others. The Lord of the Vine seems to have aspired for quantity over quality.”

  Silas stood silently, staring straight ahead. He was afraid to so much as scratch his nose, terrified of ruining his chance to go to court. Tall and broad for a 10-year-old, his shoulders tested the strength of his threadbare jacket.

  “Oh, he is,” Father Jerald replied wryly. “Too clever by half, this one. Quicker than all of my teachers. More powerful, to boot. Nearly killed his stepfather a few years back, before we got hold of him. He’s mastered all we’re capable of teaching him here. He belongs at the Academy.”

  “Well, I do hope the stepfather had it coming.”

  Jerald laughed. “I imagine he did. Notorious drunk.”

  “Silas, is it?” Edmun asked, finally turning his attention to the object of the discussion.

  “Yes, Headmaster,” Silas replied, sounding calmer than he felt.

  “It will not be easy for you at court, especially at first,” Edmun warned him. “You know not the ways of noblemen, and you will not be permitted to fight your betters when they insult you. They will mock you for being poor, for being illegitimate, for being from the outer provinces. You will have to swallow it, like the rest of us bastards. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Headmaster,” Silas replied, nodding.

  “Here, you are a big fish in a small pond. There, you may no longer be the most gifted student,” Edmun continued. “Even if you are, you will have to take care not to seem too superior to the bluebloods. Conceit will not go over well in such circles.”

  “Yes, Headmaster.”

  “His element?” Edmun inquired, turning back to his fellow priest.

  “Fire, with a sizable splash of water,” Jerald reported.

  “A potentially explosive combination,” Edmun observed.

  “His control is quite good for a boy of his age,” Jerald assured him. “There have been no serious accidents, even with intermediate wands. He’s ready to visit the armory.”

  “He is diligent?” Edmun asked Jerald.

  “Very. He is the hardest working student we’ve had in many a year, and the most gifted. He’d be wasted as some backwater priest. Make him into a barrister or a tutor.”

  “Very well,” Edmun proclaimed with a shrug. “Send him before the equinox. I’ll save him a
place.”

  Silas permitted himself a small smile.

  ***

  Silas strode into the king’s study, papers in hand. He was disappointed, but not surprised, to see that the queen had preceded him. Whereas Mirin had largely confined her attention to her own affairs, Queen Zina had her fingers in every pie.

  Silas couldn’t fault Zina’s intelligence. She was clever, knowledgeable, and often insightful. Unfortunately, she was also greedy, stubborn, unkind, impatient, and arrogant. Her pregnancy had only increased those tendencies. Silas hoped, for her sake and the kingdom’s, that the child would prove to be a boy. He did not anticipate that Zina would react well to Rischar’s disappointment should he find himself with another daughter.

  Silas stood patiently while the happy couple discussed the plans for the unborn child’s dedication, arguing over whether to dedicate the prince to the Father or to the Elder, and how the renovations of the royal nursery were proceeding. He noticed that they avoided even discussing the possibility that the new arrival might be a girl. In a few weeks’ time, Zina would enter her confinement. He thought that the break from her would do them all some good.

  Finally, the royal couple turned their attention to him.

  “Back again at last, eh, Hatch?” the king greeted him heartily, with a merry clap on the back. Silas was pleased to find him in such good humor.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” he replied, bowing deeply to each of them in turn. “I’m most pleased to be back in your company.”

  “Well? What news?” King Rischar asked.

  “The girl in question is remarkably gifted, as reported,” Silas replied. “She has been most cooperative. We should soon know more about her abilities. She will be matched with a wand this afternoon and begin classes tomorrow.”

  “But is she loyal?” Rischar demanded.

  Silas nodded. “I believe she is. She proclaimed as much to me, and I sensed no deception. I have many eyes upon her. If there is any indication that she poses a danger, we will know immediately.”

  “Just how deformed is she?” the king asked, looking vaguely nauseated.

  Zina shuddered theatrically. “Keep her far away from our presence,” she ordered. “We can afford no upset in our delicate condition.”

  Silas heaved an internal sigh but kept his voice clear of judgment. “She is merely missing her left forearm and hand. Otherwise, she is middling fair.” He knew better than to call another girl pretty in the queen’s presence.

  “Your Grace,” he continued, turning to Rischar and handing him several pages of parchment. “I’ve received a letter regarding Lord Redwood that I would commend to your immediate attention.”

  The king began to read, Zina bending over his shoulder to scan the page herself.

  “If this is true, it is treason!” Rischar bellowed.

  “Aye, Your Grace,” Silas agreed, calm as ever.

  “You should lock away his son,” Zina declared. “Show his father what happens to the disloyal.”

  “I would suggest that we wait, Your Grace. The moment we act, Lord Redwood will know that we have a source among his inner circle,” Silas cautioned. “Moreover, if he feels his scheme has been exposed, he may flee the country with his other sons. In exile, in Gerne, they would be a constant thorn in Your Grace’s side.

  “But if we allow him to feel secure in his scheming, we may find an opportunity to draw him out, or to expose the betrayal of others. If he feels secure enough to attend your child’s dedication, for example, we may even be able to arrest him without incident or expense. The boy, Daved, can be snatched up at any time. He is never left alone. We are intercepting his letters, which may provide additional intelligence. Waiting a few more days to shut the boy up in the High Tower costs us nothing, and may gain us a great deal.”

  Rischar pursed his lips, thinking over his aide’s advice. “Very well,” he finally agreed. “We shall watch and wait. For now.”

  ***

  Shiloh stood in the headmaster’s receiving room, biting at her lip, waiting to be called back to his study. His assistant, a sallow young man with an unfortunate chin, eyed her with a suspicion bordering on disgust. The boy disappeared briefly through the door, then returned, beckoning her to enter, mouth still twisted in disapproval.

  “Good afternoon, Headmaster,” she said softly to the wizard’s back as the heavy door closed behind her. He seemed to be looking for something on a crowded and messy shelf behind his desk.

  “Good afternoon, my dear,” he replied cheerfully as he turned to greet her. “I’m Markas Courtborn. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for some time.”

  When she caught sight of his face, her heart leapt into her throat; her hand flew to her mouth to prevent a cry from escaping.

  “Oh, I am sorry. I have given you a terrible start!” the man scolded himself, swiftly approaching Shiloh and ushering her into a chair. “Didn’t my brother tell you about me?”

  “Brother Edmun did tell me about you and his other siblings. He somehow failed to mention, however, that the two of you were identical twins,” Shiloh managed to reply.

  “Identical in appearance, opposite in temperament,” he grinned. “Our sainted mother said that I got all the cheer and that he got all the brains.”

  She took a deep breath and tried to calm her racing heart. She could see now that they were not the same man. The headmaster had a little more flesh on his bones and color in his face than his brother had possessed. His hair and beard were cropped shorter, his eyes happier. The resemblance in their features, however, was uncanny. She wasn’t sure if seeing that familiar face made her feel happy or sad. She was most definitely grateful that he, unlike nearly everyone else in the palace, seemed happy to see her.

  Markas shook his head. “He always did like to keep something in reserve, Edmun did.” He sat down in the chair next to hers, pulling it forward as though they were old friends settling in for a chat. “Like you, for instance. I had to hear about you from Master Hatch, who is most interested in finding out more about you.” His face turned serious. “It can sometimes be dangerous to attract the interest of Silas Hatch.”

  “So I gather, Headmaster.”

  “Well,” he said, pressing his hands down on his thighs. “Down to business. We need to plan your course of study, so I need to know what you already have learned and where your interests and abilities lie.”

  “Before your brother died, he gave me this letter for you. I haven’t read it, but I assume it includes details about my previous work,” Shiloh replied, handing him a thick envelope.

  “Excellent,” Markas replied, tearing into the package with enthusiasm. His face turned sorrowful as he skimmed the first few pages, and he set them aside. Shiloh supposed they’d contained a more personal message.

  “He had you using his spare wands for practice, before he died?” Markas asked, peering over his spectacles.

  “Yes, Headmaster.”

  “Lucky your element is earth. Otherwise, how could he have taught you once you got past the basics?” Markas asked.

  Shiloh shifted uncomfortably. There was a glint in the headmaster’s eye and a twitch in his lips that told her that he suspected the truth about her.

  “It was lucky that his wands worked for me, yes,” Shiloh replied, not wanting to lie.

  “My brother seems to think you belong in an advanced tutorial despite your having just arrived here. It is highly unusual to wait so long, you know. Most of our students are eight or ten years old when they arrive. We don’t want them learning bad habits or sloppy form at the monasteries. But, given my brother’s generally sour disposition and demanding nature, I think, based on his effusive praise, that I can assume that you are skilled enough to swim in deep waters,” Markas mused aloud.

  “I hope so, Headmaster.”

  “It sounds like he was quite fond of you,” Markas added.

  “I think so. I loved him very much,” Shiloh confessed.


  “I’m glad someone did, all these lonely years,” Markas replied, smiling sadly. “Though I would be careful to whom I admitted love for a traitor.”

  He read quietly for a few minutes, then set the letter aside. “What kind of magic interests you most, Shiloh?”

  “Healing magic, Headmaster,” she replied without hesitation.

  He smiled. “A girl after my own heart. I taught healing many years ago, when Edmun was headmaster. No interest in dark sorcery, then? That was my brother’s expertise.”

  “Only insofar as I am interested in learning to combat its effects, sir,” she replied. Her nose wrinkled. “My . . . condition has given me both a healthy respect for the dark arts and a deep loathing for violent curses.”

  “I imagine it would,” he replied, nodding. “I imagine it would. It is remarkable that you have survived to maturity. I have heard of one case like yours, in Vreeland. That boy lived to be forty years old, or so I read.”

  “How did he die?” she asked. The look on the headmaster’s face made her regret her curiosity.

  “Suicide,” he replied.

  She looked down. “That I would believe,” she admitted.

  “How often do the attacks come?” Markas asked in a gentle voice.

  She shrugged. “It varies. Once I went a whole year. But there have been times that it’s happened every few weeks, for months on end. Last winter was bad. My father died and . . . well, the loss seemed to set things off.”

  “Was Edmun successful in combating the incidents?”

  “Somewhat. Chanting the countercurse reduces the pain, but first you have to identify the exact curse used, which is not always easy if the mark is unclear. My illness has certainly inspired me to learn a great deal about the particular details of many hexes and their marks. Comfort Potion helps, but it’s expensive, and the dosing is difficult.”

  “True enough. Especially for a girl of your size. It would be easy for you to drift off and stop breathing if you weren’t sufficiently monitored,” Markas concurred.