“You don’t remember feeling ill, Greta?”
“Well, yes, but I...”
“We were all quite concerned. I mean, my goodness, it was nearly six weeks before you were able to get out of bed!”
Greta blinked, her rheumy eyes unfocused, film covering them. Zenobia refrained from shuddering.
“I thought it had only been a few days.”
“Oh Greta,” Zenobia paused and sighed, “Although I can certainly see how you might have thought that. But it was weeks and weeks. Perhaps you need more rest. Here, drink this.”
She gently placed the cup of tea she had prepared for the old woman. Her finger drew a glyph that hung for a moment in the air, twisting and wet, before sliding down the inside of the teacup and disappearing within the dark liquid.
That would buy her a week of peace, possibly more. It was a powerful dose, and considering the old woman’s age and condition, she was tempting fate. She watched the old woman as she sipped at the tea, her old face still brooding and confused.
A handful of minutes was all it took for the tea to take effect. Greta convulsed, slipping from her seat, with Zenobia instantly at her side, calling out for help.
She hid a sigh of relief as two of the house staff lifted the old woman in their arms and carried her out.
No, Greta would not be a problem.
A week later, in the darkest hours of the night, Zenobia slipped out of a side door, her belly rippling with contractions. She gasped as the sharp twisting pains shot through her. The dappled horse stood in the corral, his back bare of any saddle. Zenobia never used such contraptions. She preferred the smooth hide between her legs. Here, far from any neighbor, she lived as she wished. She had been riding daily, preparing for this possible outcome for weeks now.
She slid the plank that covered the opening to the corral to one side. The horse huffed softly, his breath steaming the night air, visible now that the moon was full and high overhead. He sidled closer to the fence and Zenobia climbed up onto it beside him before slipping one leg over his flank.
The maneuver was difficult, and made worse thanks to the frequent contractions. She had so little time, but she knew she could do it. She leaned forward, sliding the rest of her body into place, breathing through the pain, and whispered a command only the horse could hear. He nodded, tossing his head, and exited the corral, heading into the valley to the east at a steady pace.
The first rays of sunlight were stealing across the desolate land by the time they arrived at the tiny isolated cabin. There in the window a lamp shone, the flame flickering and dancing as the Santa Ana winds forced their way through the cracks. Zenobia tethered the horse and made her way to the door, her teeth gritted as another strong contraction hit. It wouldn’t be long now.
“Senora, you came by yourself? All this way?” The woman was in her mid-30s, but looked older. Her hair was streaked with gray and her mouth already showed deep weathered lines. It seemed that the land here was not kind to women, no matter their profession.
Zenobia ignored the midwife. The pain was excruciating now and her water had broken seconds before, coursing down her leg and the side of the horse as she had slid off of him and collapsed in a clumsy heap on the ground, bruising her hip. Now as the next contraction hit, so soon after the first, she knew her labor could be measured in minutes. “It’s time, the baby is coming.”
She could see everything was prepared. The woman had followed her instructions to the letter. In the corner was a chubby, full-breasted young woman, still in her teens. She was tucking in the corners of a sheet that fit over a narrow bed. Her eyes never met Zenobia’s and her hands twisted in nervousness over her deflated, yet still-protruding belly.
Zenobia’s eyes closed in concentration and she fought the urge to squat there on the threshold and begin to push. Just a few more steps. She tottered to the bed and the midwife put her arm out to support her weight, slowly lowering Zenobia onto the edge of the bed.
“Mas almohadas. Date prisa!” The midwife snapped at the girl. The girl skittered away to the opposite end of the small cabin, reaching into the cabinet on the wall for more pillows. The older woman reached for Zenobia’s skirts, pulling them up as Zenobia groaned in pain.
“Ah Senora, your water has broken. Such a risk for you to ride the horse here!”
“Dolores, please stop. The baby is coming, I need you to...” Her thought broke as the contraction continued, intensifying. She screamed then, and bore down. Her stomach rippled.
Hours later, she slid onto the horse, her belly sore from the contractions and empty of her child. Now came the task of hiding in plain view. She had spent the past few hours holding Conor. He was tiny, far smaller than her first son had been. But then she had been so certain of the girl that she had to be carrying that she hadn’t had to starve herself and hide an ever-burgeoning belly.
“He is so very tiny, Senora. But do not worry, Maria has plenty of milk. She will feed him until he is fat and round. Don’t you worry.” The midwife had reassured her as Zenobia bore down and passed the placenta in one last great gush of gore. In the corner, Maria had stared at the baby with a mixture of longing and desperation. It was the second hardest thing Zenobia had ever done, leaving Conor in that girl’s arms. But it had to be done.
The dappled horse smelled the coppery scent of blood on her. She had washed her body afterward and changed into a fresh set of clothes, but the stallion could still smell it. His eyes rolled, but he held still as she mounted, and soon they were heading back to the ranch. The rays of the sun lit the early evening sky in a myriad of reds and blues as the ranch drew into sight. Figures came running.
“Protectorate! I was ready to send a search party out for you.” Her foreman, his face and arms reddened from the hot California sun, held the horse’s mane in his large hand. “You have been gone all day! And in your condition...”
Zenobia arched an eyebrow. “My condition?” Honestly, Robert.”
Robert had the decency to look embarrassed. “My apologies, Protectorate Saronica.”
His keen eyes flitted down to her belly, and Zenobia resisted the urge to look as well. She had practiced weaving the spells for months. First those showing a smaller belly, hiding the taut roundness of it these past few weeks. And now, the spell to push it out beyond what it now was. Hiding the emptiness would take work as her uterus contracted back to its normal size.
All would be well as long as she played the part. Just your average run-of-the-mill pregnancy. Nothing to see here.
She just had to keep it up for six more weeks and then sneak the girl Maria back in with Conor. His tiny size would work to her advantage. In six weeks he would be larger, but not that much larger. A carefully placed spell or two, and no one would be the wiser if she were to have suddenly gone into labor in the middle of the night. No time to call for help. After all, she had given birth before and second children often came quicker than expected. Her baby boy would be “born” on Old Lammas. Not a Bram, not a danger, no need for him to die.
She had it all worked out, every contingency planned for.
Except for one.
Eight weeks later, after the “birth” day passed and the girl had handed Conor back over to her, sobbing quietly, Greta had proved to be the failure point in Zenobia’s carefully crafted plan.
She had chosen the old woman purposefully. Her mind eroded and broken by the dark visions of impending disaster, she should have been the perfect choice. Breeding Protectorates were always assigned far-seers to help mitigate any potential disaster of a Bram being allowed to survive his birth.
We are so afraid of our sons, so fearful that they cannot be contained, that we are forced to murder them. Zenobia had never questioned it. Not until after she held her firstborn child in her arms and was ordered to end him. Doing that, taking that step, and living with it afterward, was what had changed her mind. Never again. When the Arbre Genealogic had again sent Jacques to the estate, Zenobia had not welcomed him. Barely a year had passed. She c
ould not imagine risking birthing a son on Litha or Yule again.
Trust a Beshuzer to woo her. Damned if they hadn’t sent him on purpose.
Njerez men had a fraction of the power of most women, but in Jacques it manifested as the perfect mix of empathy and sex appeal. And one thing led to another.
“Protectorate, I must speak with you.” Greta’s small, hunched form filled the doorway. Her clouded eyes stared unblinkingly, seeing nothing. Nothing in this realm, perhaps.
Zenobia rose from her desk. “Greta, come in, please come in.” She felt her heart rate increase. “Would you like some tea?” The morning air held a chilly nip. Soon the sun would warm the land and the chill of night would be a mere memory. The Santa Ana winds had taken a rather uncharacteristic break two days before, and the air was still. Zenobia’s breath fogged out, and her thoughts turned to Conor. He lay under a warm blanket, peacefully sleeping in a crib in the corner.
Greta shuffled into the room, one crabbed hand clutching a shawl around her thin, bowed skeleton. Until ten years ago, she could well have been mistaken for a woman in her early seventies. The Zradce far-seers lived a long time, but they courted madness with each premonition they experienced. Zenobia was surprised that Greta was sane at all after the sights she had seen. The old woman made her way into the expansive room and sank into a chair. “No, no tea.”
Zenobia sat down across from her. “What is it you needed to speak with me about, Greta?”
The old woman stared at her, the sightless eyes, clouded and rheumy, focused on her as if they were able to see clearly. “I know what you have done, Zenobia.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Greta.”
“I am old, but my mind is not gone.”
“Of course not. But I fail to understand what you mean.”
The aged woman’s voice hardened, “Do not play games with me girl. I know you gave birth to that boy on Litha. I know what he is.”
Zenobia felt her heart skip a beat. She had made sure that the girl and the midwife would never tell anyone. The money had kept them quiet and the poison had made sure they didn’t change their minds. She was safe, her son was safe. No one, save the old woman in front of her, had any suspicion.
“You know the law, Zenobia. The child cannot be allowed to live. No Bram may be allowed to live. It is too dangerous.”
Zenobia let a long moment slide between them before she said, “I will take him to Outro Mundo before his twenty-first birthday. This world will remain safe, his magic will be contained.”
The old woman cocked her head. “It can’t be done. Only a Protectorate can pass between the World walls.”
“Yet I have done it, Greta.” Zenobia smiled, “Yesterday, I passed through the World walls with Conor in my arms.”
“It isn’t possible.” Greta said, shaking her head.
“Yet, I did it.” She allowed a note of steel to creep into her voice. “I can and will keep my son. He will grow up here, in this world. And when the time comes, before his powers vest, I will take him through the World walls, where he will inherit his birthright.” Zenobia reached forward and grasped Greta’s bony hand. It was cold, the old woman’s skin paper-thin. “We did not always kill our male children, Greta. Once, before we found ourselves thrust upon these alien shores, we allowed our Bram sons to rule the World with us, manipulating time and space. We were powerful, and we were free.”
“And what would you have me do?” Greta asked.
“Say nothing. Trust me. I will take him there long before he ever manifests. It will be safe. This world will be safe, and Conor can grow up to embrace his powers in our home world, where his abilities are not a threat to this world or to us.”
Greta pulled her hand away. “What you ask of me, Protectorate. It is...”
“Just consider it, Greta. Please. He is my son. He isn’t a threat.” Zenobia kept her voice calm, non-threatening, but she could see the future written plainly on Greta’s face even as the old woman spoke.
“I’ll...consider it.”
“And you will tell me when you have come to a decision?”
“Of course, Zenobia.” The old woman hesitated, “I do know how difficult this is. My cousin, she is a Strega. She mourned her son for years afterward. It is not easy living here, in this human world. Such sacrifices we must make.”
Slowly the woman levered herself into a standing position, the curve of her back pronounced, the long years so evident upon her bony frame.
Zenobia knew it then. There would be no warning, no answer. Once Greta left this room, her freedom, and her son’s life, would be measured in hours. At most, days. She watched Greta hobble out, slow. Zenobia stood as the woman began to head for the wide stone steps that led down to the main level of the house.
The ornate iron railing, the smooth stone...
Nine months later...
“He’s quite handsome, Zenobia, congratulations! I am sure that Marta was disappointed he wasn’t a girl and born on Litha, though. By the Goddess, but that woman can be difficult to deal with.” The younger woman sighed, shifted the sleeping toddler in her arms, and sat down next to her. Zenobia smiled at her young friend.
“Analeigh, so good to see you! And this must be Castor, yes?” The little boy, born on Ostara in late March was twice the size of her son. His round, chubby face was framed by black curls and Castor held his mother’s shirt in a plump little fist. “My goodness, I fear I am underfeeding Conor, or waiting for a growth spurt that should happen any day now. Such a difference!”
“Oh, enjoy it while you can,” Analeigh laughed ruefully, “What I would give for Castor to be that small again!” She shifted the boy in her arms, and stretched gingerly. “He was born on Old Lammas, wasn’t he? That’s my birth day as well. It seems you will have someone to care for your fields before you know it.”
“You seem to forget where I live, my dear Ana,” Zenobia laughed. “The only thing to grow there are cacti and sagebrush. It is a barren place compared to this lush paradise.”
Conor shifted, his eyes opening, blinking in the filtered sunlight. He peered up at the tree above them, a small bit of drool dribbling from a lip. Several teeth had been fighting their way through in the past two weeks and he had been cranky all morning.
“I was so sorry to hear about Greta,” Analeigh added, bouncing her son on her knee, “Such a terrible end. It is hard to believe she would have celebrated one hundred and twenty five years on Samhain.”
“Oh yes, it was horrid.” Zenobia leaned over Conor, her fingers threading in his fine baby hair, moving a lock of it from his eyes. “To tell you the truth, I have nearly fallen down those steps several times over the years, and Jacques very nearly did the other day as well.”
Analeigh’s eyes lit up, “Ah, Jacques is back so soon?” A smile danced over her lips.
Zenobia sighed, “You know how the Arbre Genealogic is. Marta hid her disappointment well, but insisted on sending Jacques to me on Ostara. We are nothing but breeding stock to them.”
Analeigh’s eyes tracked down to Zenobia’s stomach. She was showing, and Eryka, Greta’s daughter, was due at the estate any day now. She would verify what Zenobia already suspected.
“Do you know yet?” Analeigh asked, a hopeful look in her eyes.
“No, but I’m sure this one is a girl. And she will be born on Yule.” Zenobia allowed her lips to curve into a small smile, “The Arbre Genealogic will have the future Protectorate they are so insistent upon. And as for me? I will be left in peace.”
Analeigh laughed, “From what I have heard, Jacques isn’t that bad.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be one to kiss and tell.” The two women shared a laugh and held their young sons. Zenobia breathed a sigh of relief. Her secret was safe. Her son was alive. She felt the tiny girl inside her kick then. A flutter of fairy wings now, the next Protectorate of Outro Mundo. Her fingers smoothed her son’s dark hair and breathed in his clean baby smell.
Interested in reading mor
e? You can access more information on the Kapalaran Universe, and learn more about yours truly by visiting my website at http://christineshuck.com.
Acknowledgments
No book is written alone, or in a vacuum.
I am endlessly grateful for my friends – they have provided me with everything from laughter, love, feedback, ideas, patience, and their time during the writing of this book and others. In all moments, I am surrounded by their love and support.
For my dear friend Kerrie for her endless support and an amazing abundance of Yapping Mommy Playdates.
I am also thankful for my former teachers at ILS – Kate, Dori, and Rachel – for allowing me to pursue my passion for writing in a unique and unusual manner in the mid-80s. And especially for Rachel, who directed me to her brother, Michael Lagunoff, a virologist and professor at the University of Washington. His knowledge and advice on viruses were invaluable. However, any errors or inconsistencies on viruses and their transmission are entirely my own.
For my amazing husband David, who is the dog to my cheetah. You keep me sane. You are amazingly patient and supportive, I can’t imagine loving anyone the way I love you. Thank you too for listening to me read the book out loud – this helped with edits immensely!
For my Emily, each day I spend with you is a joy.
A huge thanks to Dorri Partain who works at the Northeast News and was kind enough to turn my chaotic thoughts into a small news snippet for the book.
To Nicole Hosier, thank you for your medical knowledge. I needed a lady who knew the lingo and you delivered!
To Kurt Cross, who was taken from us far too soon. I am grateful for the years I knew you – you and Dan are some of the kindest people I have ever known.
And everyone else. You know who you are. Or you should.
About the Author
Christine lives in an 1899 Victorian with far too many pets, smack dab in the middle of Historic Northeast Kansas City.
During the warm months, you will inevitably find her working on her half-acre fledgling urban farm - weeding, and expanding her herb and vegetable gardens. In the colder months you will find her inside, painting, creating art, installing curtains and planning her garden for spring. At all times you will find her writing, thinking about writing, or concocting new story ideas.
Gliese 581 Page 34