Mother of All

by Jenna Glass

  Chanlix was in her bed, comfortably reclining in a generous nest of pillows, beaming as she held a small bundle in her arms. He could see nothing but the swaddling until Chanlix repositioned the bundle, showing him a scrunched up, tiny face with red cheeks and closed eyes.

  “Meet your daughter, Papa,” Chanlix whispered. If she was attempting not to wake the babe, she failed, and Tynthanal was struck dumb when he got his first glimpse of hazel eyes that looked like a miniature version of his own.

  Tynthanal put a hand to his heart, his chest tight with emotion—not least of which was longing to take mother and child both into his arms and hold them close to him for hours on end. His eyes stung, making him blink, and he couldn’t have spoken even if his mind were capable of coming up with words.

  Chanlix’s eyes, too, were shiny with suppressed tears. “I do wish I could let you hold her.”

  He forced himself to breathe and tried to shake loose the knot in his throat. “So do I,” he rasped, drinking the babe in with his eyes. “She takes my breath away.”

  Chanlix stroked a finger over their daughter’s cheek, her face alight with the same reverence Tynthanal was feeling. “Mine, too,” she said.

  He couldn’t help reaching a hand toward the image, touching the baby’s face and wishing he could feel what he was sure was deliciously soft skin against his fingertips. “We have a daughter,” he said, shaking his head in wonder.

  “So we do,” Chanlix affirmed. “And we’d best go about naming her, as I’m already tired of calling her ‘the baby.’ ”

  Tynthanal managed a half-hearted chuckle, though it was hard to laugh when he was feeling so overwhelmed. “I presume Alys told you that Kailee and I are agreed she is Rah-Tynthanal.”

  Chanlix nodded. “She did, though I never had much doubt of that.”

  “Have you thought about what you would like to name her?”

  “I’ve been toying with the idea of Tynel—naming her for you and for my late mother, with whom I was very close as a young girl.”

  “She’s already Rah-Tynthanal,” he reminded her. “You needn’t name her for me twice. Perhaps you should consider Chanel instead.”

  Chanlix rolled the name around a couple of times, saying it with differing inflections, then shaking her head. “No. I want to be reminded of you when I say her name, and I will not be saying ‘Rah-Tynthanal’ very often.”

  Tynthanal managed a grin that felt a little more genuine than his previous laugh. “You never know. She may turn into a mischief-maker, and you may be one of those mothers who addresses her child by her full name when scolding.”

  Chanlix returned the grin even as she demurred. “Our daughter will be a perfect angel who never needs scolding. I still like Tynel.”

  Tynthanal wondered if perhaps he should defer to Chanlix’s preference—after all, it was Chanlix who would have the raising of her—but he decided to make one last try. “It is lovely that our daughter should have a piece of my name and a piece of your mother’s; however, you and I made her together. You deserve to be honored in her name, as well.”

  Chanlix frowned and said the name “Chanel” again, still looking dissatisfied with it.

  “How about Chantynel?” Tynthanal suggested in the spirit of compromise.

  He could tell at once from the flare of light in her eyes that Chanlix liked it. She looked down at the babe in her arms, who was already drifting back into sleep.

  “What do you think, dearest?” Chanlix whispered. “Would you like to be called Chantynel?”

  The babe opened her eyes for just the briefest moment, and Tynthanal laughed.

  “There,” he declared. “She already recognizes it as hers.”

  Chanlix dropped a gentle kiss on their daughter’s head, then turned her attention back to him. Their eyes met, and Tynthanal was struck with such a pang of longing he could hardly bear it.

  “How I wish I could be there with you,” he said, his throat tight with emotion.

  Chanlix blinked rapidly, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Me, too,” she rasped. “But you are needed in Aaltah.” She dabbed at her eyes with a corner of the baby’s blanket. “And you have a wife.”

  He closed his eyes in pain. “I have grown…very fond of Kailee,” he said, “but it’s time to give up the pretense that my feelings might ever rise to the level of love. You are and will always be the wife of my heart.”

  “Don’t say that,” Chanlix replied. “For all our sakes, you must try to love the woman you’re married to. Pining does none of us any good.”

  He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Feelings don’t care whether they’re doing us any good or not. But I will try to put the bitter ones aside for now,” he said, fixing his gaze on the sleeping baby. “We have a daughter, and she is beautiful and perfect. Let us both focus on that joy.”

  Chanlix forced a brave smile, as did he. But as sweet as the joy of seeing little Chantynel nestled in her mother’s arms was, the bitterness and pain remained a constant undertone long after they said their farewells.

  * * *

  —

  Draios brushed a stray crumble of ash from the front of his doublet as he continued to peruse the charred remains of the letter one of his spies had retrieved from the hearth in his father’s office. A great deal of it had been eaten away by the flames, but the parts that had been spared were tantalizing.

  It was the third such letter he’d gotten his hands on in these last few weeks, and he was almost grateful for his brother’s machinations, which had forced him to return to the palace every night instead of sleeping with his fellow postulants in the temple’s dormitory. If he’d resided at the temple, he might never have known these letters existed, much less endeavored to get his hands on them. He shivered at the thought that perhaps the invisible hand of the Creator was at work, making a seeming setback into a triumph.

  There had been almost nothing left of the first two letters, except for the surprising fragment of signature on the second. Draios had believed his cousin Delnamal was dead, and it both intrigued and infuriated him to find that such was not the case.

  This third letter had been rescued from the flames far earlier, so that there were whole paragraphs intact in places, even if it was still frustratingly incomplete.

  What he knew for certain was that Delnamal was alive, living in seclusion with his mother in the countryside, an “honored guest” of King Khalvin. He could also piece together his cousin’s claim that he had gained some sort of extraordinary power that he believed would allow him to retake his kingdom—and perhaps even undo the effects of the Curse. Delnamal believed his power to be a gift from the Creator, although inconveniently, the section of the letter explaining the nature of this power had been eaten away.

  It was an outlandish claim, to be sure. Especially when one considered Delnamal’s reputation, which was hardly that of a man of faith. From what Draios had heard of his cousin, Delnamal was a gluttonous, intemperate buffoon of a man with the temperament of a spoiled toddler. But though Draios could not have said why, something about the fragments of the letter he could read resonated with him and struck him as sincere.

  Draios put the scrap of paper down on his desk, brushing more ash from his clothes and hands. Then he sat and began painstakingly reconstructing every mark he could make out onto a fresh sheet of parchment so that he might read and study the contents without making quite so much of a mess. The exercise did not gain him any new insights into the message’s content. Nor could he figure out why his father seemed to be ignoring what could potentially be information that was of vital importance both to Khalpar and to the rest of the world. But Delnamal wouldn’t be writing so many letters if he were getting any satisfaction out of the king, nor would he still be hidden away in the countryside.

  With a grunt of annoyance, Draios pushed away from his writing desk. His mentor a
t the temple had given him an assignment to write a treatise on filial duty as defined by the Devotional, meant to be delivered first thing in the morning—an attempt to ensure Draios lived the life of a devoted postulant even when away from the temple. He hadn’t started it, yet he was too distracted by the intriguing promises of Delnamal’s letter to set his mind to the task. He likely had a sleepless night ahead of him, but he was not unused to such, as he regularly performed voluntary fasts and overnight prayer vigils to demonstrate his devotion to the Creator.

  It was possible, of course, that Delnamal was a lunatic. But even so, if there was the slightest possibility that he had the power to undo the Curse, surely it was worth hearing him out! Draios had first set his sights on becoming a priest mainly—he was ashamed to admit—because he’d hoped to impress his famously pious father. But if his father was ignoring Delnamal’s letters, then it seemed to Draios that perhaps his own piety had now outstripped his father’s.

  How he wished he could simply talk to his father about the letters, but he knew only too well that he could not. If he admitted to having spies in the palace—and using them to gather intelligence from the king’s private offices…

  It was all Parlommir’s doing, Draios was sure. The crown prince’s piety was no more than skin deep, and yet their father respected him—and listened to him—as he never had Draios. There was no doubt in Draios’s mind that Parlommir was well aware of Delnamal’s presence in their kingdom, just as he was no doubt privy to the contents of the letters. And because Parlommir cared only for the venal world of politics, he would not feel the pull that Delnamal’s claim had inspired in Draios.

  Draios felt as if the Creator himself had reached out through the words in that letter, calling him to action. Touching the fragments of the burnt pages caused his heart to race with excitement and longing.

  There was a reason this letter had come into his hands, and that the fire had not entirely consumed it. Draios felt in his heart that he was meant to find it, and that he was meant to rectify his father’s error in ignoring it.

  Obviously, the best way to gain a true understanding of what Delnamal could do would be to go visit the man in person—which would also allow Draios to get a feel for his cousin’s sincerity and commitment to the cause. However, such a visit would be…difficult to engineer. He could not very well ask his father’s permission when he wasn’t even supposed to know Delnamal was alive. Nor could a first-year postulant be granted permission to put aside his duties for the two or three days he would need to make the round trip.

  His mind still buzzing with thoughts and half-finished plans, Draios forced himself to pull out a parchment and an ink pot so that he might write his assigned treatise. But when he was finished, he vowed he would spend the rest of the night performing a prayer vigil. By the Creator’s will, his night of prayer would lead him to the answers he needed.

  * * *

  —

  Ellin had met Mother Zarend once before, when she’d dismissed both her trade minister and the woman he had appointed abbess before her. It had been a shocking breach of propriety that had caused some of her royal council to reach for their smelling salts at the inconceivable notion of a queen setting foot within the walls of the Abbey. However, she’d been unwilling to approve a replacement for the former abbess—who, with the trade minister, had found ways to coerce her abigails into working the pavilion without triggering the creation of women’s Kai—without first meeting and speaking with the woman.

  This second visit to the Abbey was certain to evince more hand-wringing and worries about her maidenly honor, but now at least she was a married woman. She had no doubt one or more of those fine gentlemen would take her aside to remind her that it was beneath her dignity as a queen to associate with the ruined women of the Abbey. And, as she had done before, she would ignore them.

  Mother Zarend was a plump woman of perhaps sixty who had somehow, miraculously, held on to her spirit and her sense of optimism through more than two decades of Abbey life. Ellin had liked the woman enormously from the moment she’d met her, and she heartily approved of the changes she had instituted in the Abbey. As she was led through the hallways toward the abbess’s office, Ellin heard the occasional echo of laughter, and even the air felt somehow less oppressive. She hoped that was reflective of reality rather than being a figment of her fanciful imagination.

  The young abigail who’d been leading her through the maze of hallways to the abbess’s office was clearly flustered and nervous, and Ellin realized—way too late—that she should have sent word she was coming and reassured everyone that she did not bear bad news. Surely every woman who’d caught sight of her—or heard murmurs of her presence—worried that some calamity might befall the Abbey, though Ellin hoped she’d established at least a modicum of trust by dismissing the former trade minister and the cruel and greedy woman who’d been abbess before.

  Ellin’s conviction that she should have sent word ahead was strengthened when she was shown into the office and saw the alarm in Mother Zarend’s usually sparkling eyes. Ellin was now nearing the end of the second year of her reign, and she was still occasionally caught off guard by the fact that her power made her intimidating.

  Ellin smiled warmly as the abbess greeted her with an elegant bow. “You are looking well, Mother Zarend,” she said, hoping the warmth of her tone and smile would put the woman at ease in a way that mere words would not. “And I cannot tell you how pleased I am with how the mood of the Abbey has changed under your guidance.”

  Mother Zarend regarded her with what Ellin would term cautious optimism. “I have done very little,” she said modestly. “I have merely followed the guidelines that you set for me.”

  Ellin clucked her tongue. “We both know the myriad—and often twisted—ways guidelines can be interpreted. After all, Lord Creethan was supposedly following my guidelines, too.”

  Mother Zarend’s nose crinkled with distaste. She had been well past the age when she might be expected to work the pavilion when Creethan had been trade minister, but the woman had already been terribly protective of the younger abigails who had suffered under his cruel policies. Policies that the former abbess had tolerated and condoned without a hint of remorse.

  “Every woman in this abbey is grateful to you for putting an end to it,” Mother Zarend said. “Even those of us who were not coerced into working the pavilion suffered to see our sisters so abused.”

  Thinking about the policies Lord Creethan had instituted made Ellin’s blood boil even now. The man—with the abbess’s help and approval—had systematically tested the bounds of women’s Kai, trying to find a way to force the abigails to work the pavilion without generating Kai. The two of them had discovered that offering “rewards” for women who worked the pavilion neatly sidestepped the issue. Those “rewards” consisted of such things as beds and adequate food and time to rest.

  Mother Zarend started to speak, then hesitated.

  “Go on,” Ellin prodded. “You may speak freely with me.”

  The abbess licked her lips nervously. “I’m sure there are many in this abbey who are at least mildly alarmed by your visit. We are well aware that the Abbey’s earnings have decreased now that fewer abigails work the pavilion, and—”

  Ellin cut her off hastily. “That is not why I’m here,” she assured the older woman. “I was well aware of the effect my orders would have on revenue.” She had urged the new trade minister to raise the prices for the potions produced by the Abbey to try to offset some of the loss, but knew that it wasn’t enough to make up the difference.

  Mother Zarend sighed in relief.

  “If you don’t mind, we should probably sit down,” Ellin said. “This is unlikely to be a short conversation.”

  Mother Zarend blushed, her golden complexion too light to hide it. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty! Where are my manners?”

  Of course
Ellin had not meant her suggestion as anything like a rebuke of the abbess’s manners, and she reminded herself for what felt like the twentieth time today to be more sensitive in her communications.

  When they were comfortably seated before a modest fire that nonetheless dispelled the chill, Ellin decided to broach the subject of her visit without preamble.

  “I’ve had an unusual request from the Prince Regent of Aaltah,” she said. “He is in need of a seer, and the Abbey of Aaltah apparently has no seers in residence.”

  “In need of a seer?” Mother Zarend asked in evident confusion. “I’ve never heard of someone being in need of one.” The abbess’s eyes narrowed, and she demonstrated the quickness of her wits. “Surely if he was in need of the services of a seer, he would have first asked his sister to provide one. I can accept that Aaltah does not presently have any seers, for its Abbey is very young. But surely some of the abigails who are now in Women’s Well have the necessary skill.”

  “They do,” Ellin confirmed. “But the task he requires the seer for is dangerous, and Princess Alysoon is reluctant to risk any of the seers of the Women’s Well Academy.”

  The abbess’s air of suspicion strengthened. “But you are not so squeamish about risking the life of an Unwanted Woman?” she challenged.

  “Of course I am,” Ellin said, trying not to feel hurt by the accusation. “I’m certainly not ordering anyone to accept the risk, and Prince Tynthanal has no interest in doing so, either. He is looking for a volunteer. And if someone from our abbey were to volunteer, Princess Alysoon has agreed to grant her a place in the Women’s Well Academy.”

  Mother Zarend’s eyes widened, and she sucked in a quick, startled breath. No woman who entered the Abbey did so of her own free will, and no woman who entered the Abbey thought to escape it save through the ultimate escape of death. Princess Alysoon had chosen her lure wisely.