by Callie Bates
Demetra nods. “We still have time.”
She turns away to a table where she’s set out several jars of dried herbs. She uncorks one, letting a faint horse-like smell into the room, and spills a measure of light-colored, chopped, dried roots into a mortar. With practiced swiftness, she crushes them with the pestle. “This will slow the contractions. It will help your body to heal, and carry the baby. You’ve gone into premature labor; I’ve seen it in other women. It can be stopped.”
“I’ve been singing,” I say hoarsely. “To the child. To my body.”
Demetra glances at me. “Perhaps that helped you through. How long have you been having cramps?”
“Since…” I try to remember. “Sundown?”
Her eyebrows lift, though she quickly schools her expression into professional neutrality. “That’s quite some time. Your magic must have helped you mitigate the pain and maintain the pregnancy.”
I nod. “I sang…”
But I’m swaying with exhaustion now, and Demetra gestures me to be silent while she works. It’s a relief simply to be quiet, watching her. She mashes the roots into a fine powder, then empties it into a small pan that’s been heating on the hearth, stirring it briskly. She hands it to me. The smell of honey and horse almost overwhelms me. I choke it down fast, though it scalds my tongue; I hardly taste the honey-and-herb mixture.
Demetra nods, satisfied. “I’ll make you another dose in a few hours. Lie down, if you can, on your side. And…it might help to keep singing.”
I look at the other pallet. “But Rhia…”
“We will take care of Rhia,” Demetra says firmly. “You need to take care of yourself, and your child.”
My back still aches, but I sense that if I don’t obey, Demetra will force me to lie down. So I settle on the bed, tucking a pillow between my legs. The pallet is softened with a feather mattress and I feel as if I’ve stumbled upon a cloud; or perhaps this is what paradise is like. Exhaustion reaches up out of my bones. Teofila comes over, frowning a little. I hardly feel the weight of the blankets as Demetra tucks them over me.
But I force my eyes to stay open a little longer, while Demetra and Victoire turn Rhia onto her stomach. Long enough to see the angry, red, weeping wheals on her narrow back. Long enough to see Rhia swallow the draught of the medicine Demetra makes up for her, and for her to fall asleep while Demetra leans over her, touching her fingertips to the whip marks. Near sleep, I think I hear the sound of Demetra’s magic, cool and comforting, soothing the ache of Rhia’s wounds, though she can’t close them over entirely. She and Victoire begin the painstaking process of cleaning and bandaging Rhia’s back.
Teofila stays beside me, a firm, warm presence. “Don’t leave,” I whisper.
She squeezes my hand. “I won’t. I won’t leave you, Sophy.”
There’s a noise at the door, and Alistar comes in. He crouches on the other side of my bed, so close his breath stirs my hair. I turn and try to speak, but he just smooths my forehead. “Hush.”
They are both here, and I’m safe. I hum a little, to the baby, and sleep claims me.
* * *
—
“SOPHY.”
I open my eyes. The little room is dark, the fire banked. I’ve been asleep in the same position so long my arm and hip are stiff. There’s a twinge in my stomach. My back still aches, but the cramps have faded.
“Sophy?” The whisper comes again, from the other pallet.
I lift my head. “Rhia?”
“You’re there.” Her voice is high and breathy with relief.
“Yes.” I reach out. The beds are just close enough for my fingers to reach her blankets. She fumbles her hand to mine and hangs on tight.
“I’m here, Rhia,” I whisper. “We’re safe. We’re safe.”
A wordless animal noise comes from her. She squeezes my hand once more, then lets go, burying her face more deeply in the pillow.
I tuck my hand back against my heart. Perhaps we are not completely safe but just for now, here in the dark, warm and dry, I will us both to believe it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I wake again too early, before dawn, startling out of a dream that my father struck me so hard I fell to the floor and a girl with fair hair came running to rescue me—and he struck her, too. I lie rigid, listening for the reassuring sound of Rhia’s breathing. My mouth is dry, and the child flutters once in my womb. It’s my mother I’m seeing in my mind’s eye, my shining mother with her brilliant hair and her winsome smile. My mother, who fought for the man who threw me down and ordered me executed. She lay with him, this man whose anger is so old and frightening I feel it even now in my marrow.
Or did she?
I sit up in bed, one hand plucking at my throat, feeling for a locket that isn’t there. My body is still trembling with the exhaustion of a few hours ago. I remember standing in a kitchen like this one, north in Caeris, beside Ma in a circle of Caerisian rebels. Someone spoke of the true king, and Ma turned on him.
We’re fighting for our own freedom, she said fiercely. For our right to speak our language and keep our own customs. We’re not fighting for any king, no matter his pedigree.
I remember my own sting of shock, that she would speak against Euan Dromahair. The others must have felt it as well, because one said, Didn’t care for the king when you met him, eh, Mag? And I startled again, with a child’s naïveté, because though I knew Ma had met the king, it had never occurred to me that she might have anything but the deepest respect for him.
She never spoke of him. Never told me stories about him; never gave me the slightest glimpse of the man who had fathered me. I was left to imagine their union had left no particular feeling; my mother’s complete disinterest in my father’s existence meant that I both was curious about him and dismissed his importance. At least, until I learned he was Euan Dromahair—but by then it was too late to pull the stories out of her. She was already gone.
What did Finn call him? A cold, nasty bastard.
I clamber out of bed and wrap a blanket around my shoulders. A hollow ache lingers in my stomach—the cramps, though improved, are still not gone. I wonder whether I’ll have to endure this the rest of the pregnancy. Quietly, so as not to wake Rhia, I pad out into the kitchen.
Teofila is standing there, the teapot in her hand, as if she heard me rise—as if, somehow, she knew.
“Are you—” she asks.
“I’m better.” I lower myself onto a stool, hugging the blanket tight around my sore lower back. I can’t quite look at her, even when she silently fills a cup with tea and pushes it over to me. The steam gently touches my face.
Teofila says nothing at first. She settles herself at the table, her shoulders hunched. For the first time, she looks old.
“Ma never talked about him.” The rim of the cup blurs. It’s hard, even now, to speak of Ma; to remember the force of her, her love so large it seemed as if it could lift me, as if it could save me. “I never knew if they were—in love—or…”
“Your mother loved a lot of people,” Teofila says. “Euan was not one of them.”
I blink at her. She looks levelly back at me.
“Mag Dunbarron was more than a beauty,” she says. “Men were attracted to her—everyone was attracted to her—because she had that…brilliance about her.”
“She was a force of nature.”
Teofila nods. “Do you know why she went to Ida with Ruadan?”
“Because she was serving in his household, I thought.”
“Well, she was.” Teofila laughs shortly. “In more ways than one. They were having a dalliance, Sophy, your mother and Ruadan. He was in love with her, and he found her completely impossible at the same time. They argued constantly. It was the source of all sorts of gossip, the lord and his fiery housemaid. Then he came to my concert, and met me.” Teofila’s
mouth softens. “I’d been warned about him, but even so, I couldn’t resist.”
“You knew he was having an affair with my mother?” My voice is high. Shocked.
“He broke it off for me. He was a romantic, Ruadan was, and he gave his all to everything.” Teofila gives me a wry glance. “I wasn’t jealous, if that’s what you’re wondering. She let me know on no uncertain terms that she was glad to be rid of him, and that I was making a mistake letting such a callous bastard into my life.”
Despite myself, I utter a laugh. Somehow, in all the years of living at Cerid Aven, it had never occurred to me that this was how Ruadan knew Ma—in all the ways a man knows a woman.
“So she went and found herself a prince instead,” I say hollowly.
“No, Sophy.” Teofila’s mouth tightens, and so does my heart. She leans heavily forward on her elbows. “Your mother loved other men, and women, too. But not Euan Dromahair. She did not love him at all.”
Cold bursts all over me. There’s a flitter in my stomach, and I feel a strange sound in the room—the ghost of a presence. Like my mother, watching us. All the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
“Did he…” I begin. The words stick in my throat. I can’t say them. Don’t know how to say them.
“He caught her in the back stairwell,” Teofila says flatly. “It happens, especially to maids. It shouldn’t, but it does, and no one ever does enough to stop it. Euan was one of those young men who’s silent. Not reserved, but resentful. Angry. He took what he wanted from whoever he could get it from, and your mother was no exception, despite her ferocity. Perhaps because she was so fierce. He wanted to subdue her. He tried. And she came to Ruadan, saying we should cut Euan’s balls off, that he was a vile cruel man. She showed us her bruises. She said Euan might forget her, but she would never forget him.”
“What did you do?” I ask with all the horror I feel.
“Do?” Teofila spits the word. “Do? What does anyone ever do to men like that? Your mother was a maid. He was a prince. Everyone looked the other way.”
“But Ruadan…” I feel sick.
“Mag urged him to drop his support of Euan. Find someone else to put on the throne. Your mother wasn’t the only woman Euan abused. He was notoriously cruel to all his servants, men and women alike.” Teofila’s hand closes into a fist. “Ruadan wouldn’t do it.”
I can’t speak. I taste bile at the back of my throat. Even after he struck me, even after he ordered my death, this is not what I expected, yet somehow, in the marrow of my bones, it rings ancient and true and real. It feels as if I have known the tang of this grief forever.
And Ruadan, who knew the truth about Euan, led a rebellion on the back of this monster. He drummed up stories about the king across the water; he created a dream of a better future for everyone in Caeris, when he knew what the “true king” was really like. My mind can’t stop circling around this small, heartbreaking fact. He knew. He knew, and he still used Euan. He used Finn, and Teofila, and my mother.
He used me. He used me not only for this, but in other ways. He forced me into a mold that no human being could possibly fit, that of a woman who sacrificed everything for her people, who put the greater good above all else. He taught me to be a rebel and, at the same time, a dutiful daughter who denied her own feelings when they became inconvenient.
Ruadan was the only father I had known, and I would always love him for that, and for the many kindnesses he showed me. But in some ways he took advantage of us all. I had just never allowed myself to see it so clearly before.
A cold fist seems to have closed around my heart. My hands are spread wide on the table. It’s hard to breathe. Still I feel as if the not-quite-sound lingers in the room behind me, an undeniable yet intangible presence. If it is my mother, if she is watching, I hope she knows I’m sorry. I hope she knows how bitterly my heart has cracked.
Teofila clears her throat. “Your mother still had her revenge.”
“What do you mean?” I say raggedly. “She fought for his damned rebellion and died nameless in the conflagration at Marose. She’s dead because of my—my—” I can’t say the word. “—Euan. Finn is dead because of him. Ruadan, too. Even the Butcher of Novarre, whom I never imagined I would mourn. All because of that man.”
“It’s true. But she had her revenge, nevertheless.” Teofila looks at me, her eyes both infinitely tender and infinitely sad. “She had you.”
“Me,” I say bitterly. The queen without a crown. Kicked off my throne by my own people.
“Mag made sure she had a lock of reddish-gold hair to prove you were Euan’s. She made sure Ruadan knew it, too.”
I look up at her. “And he? Euan. Did he know?”
Teofila presses her lips together. Quietly, she says, “She sent him a letter telling him of your birth. She suggested he acknowledge you.”
I feel myself freezing into place. Somewhere, a clock is ticking, too loud. He knew. All that time, when we were running for our lives, when my mother died in Marose, he knew. He could have sent for us; he could have brought us to Ida, and saved us.
He knew, and he didn’t care.
“He never wrote her back,” I say. “Did he? It didn’t matter to him. He didn’t care that he had another child. Finn was all he needed.” And look how Euan treated him.
But my mother endured what happened to her, and she remained strong. Perhaps she fought harder than ever because of it—because of me. Mag Dunbarron, who could set alight a room. My brilliant, bright-burning mother, who kept me alive even on the brink of her own ending.
I wonder whether I would do the same for my own daughter, and I know without question that I would. I know that brilliant, raging love already.
Teofila reaches over and enfolds my hands in hers. I look at her, the woman who has been a mother to me, and I know she feels it, too. For me, for Elanna, for her grandchild as yet unborn.
Together, we will face anything my father attempts. For we are stronger than he can ever be.
* * *
—
A SHOUT ON the street startles me. There’s a sharp sound like breaking glass.
“What’s going on?” I rise, wrapping the blanket tighter still, and move to the window, ignoring the twinge in my back. Teofila follows me. People are streaming down the street, waving banners and loaves of bread. They’re exuberant. Cheering.
And moving in the direction of the palace. My gut clenches. The last time the people cheered this vigorously for me was when we claimed Laon months ago. I haven’t done anything to make them this happy since. Now they’re cheering like this for my father—with his dead, angry eyes and his cold hatred of us all.
Alistar emerges on the heels of the noise. He’s pulling a cap low over his eyes. “I’m going out there.”
“Someone might recognize you,” I begin.
He shakes his head. “I’ll be careful.” Swinging over to me, he boldly drops a kiss on my lips before marching out the door.
I hesitate, feeling the lingering cramps kneading through my gut and back. But if he’s going out there, I should, too. I was once the queen of this kingdom. I have a duty to see what’s going on—even with my body aching.
Before I can act, Juleane Brazeur comes into the room; she’s pulling on a coat. Victoire’s with her. They both seem rather tired. “We need to see what all the racket is about,” Juleane says, somewhat irritably.
“I’m coming, too.” The words burst from me.
“You’ll be recognized,” Victoire says impatiently. “And you were so ill last night—”
“I’ll take the risk. And I’m better now.” Though I can’t help grimacing with discomfort. I hope going into the city won’t bring on fresh cramps, but I suppose if it does, I can sing to my body until I get back here. That’s one advantage of being raised by Ruadan: I have learned to put my own needs last when I h
ave to. This time is no different. “I won’t be recognized if I put on a maid’s costume and cover my hair. Juleane, you said you sent your housemaid to the country, didn’t you? She must have left some of her clothes here.” Besides, Alistar’s out there, and I refuse to let him risk all the danger alone.
“She may have…” Juleane hesitates, glancing at Teofila, as if hoping she’ll dissuade me.
But Teofila says, “I’ll remain here with Rhia and Demetra. I’m more readily recognizable in a crowd of Ereni.”
Juleane purses her lips but nods. “We stay at the back of the crowd, and we do not draw attention to ourselves.”
“I think you’ll find I’m very good at making myself unnoticed,” I say.
She snorts, but simply guides me upstairs to the maid’s empty room. The woman did leave some items: a lace-edged cap, and a simple dress of dark yellow embroidered with white flowers. They’re fine clothes—probably she judged them too fine for the country. I dress quickly, struggling to close the front of the gown over my stomach. On the way out, I pause to glance at myself in a mirror. I feel a pang. My stomach rounds comfortably beneath my skirts, obvious. This is how I would have dressed every day as my mother’s daughter, if she had lived. My face looks simple, wholesome, framed by the white lace. I shiver.
“Sophy!” Victoire calls, and I follow her and Juleane out the door, wincing a little as I step onto the cobblestones. Each step seems to send a fresh pinch of pain traveling up my legs and back.
I pat my stomach. “Stay strong,” I whisper to the baby.
Perhaps it’s my imagination—or my own sheer stubbornness—but the ache seems to recede somewhat. I push myself to hurry after Victoire and Juleane. The main pulse of the crowd has already gone past, and we join up with a few stragglers who seem as bemused as we are.
“Why were they waving bread?” Victoire asks a woman wearing a pair of spectacles.
She shakes her head. “They think Euan is going to give them bread and open the ports again for trade. That’s why they’re celebrating.”