The guards swung the door open and Coewyn entered, Maryn at her heels. No one noticed. The spacious room held many female servants, and a number of well;-;dressed ladies clustered to one side, but everyone focused on the two women by the hearth.
A tall young woman, her loose silk dressing gown draped over the swell of her belly, leaned on a plump older woman. “Gallows, Litholl, you didn’t tell me it would be this bad! I can’t take this much longer. Not if it gets worse.”
The midwife brushed back a strand of sweaty hair that had escaped the laboring woman’s braids. “Remember what I told you, your Highness. Surrender to the sensation, don’t fight it. Accept it, allow it to sweep over you and do its work.”
The princess glared at the midwife. “Surrender? Would you counsel one of my brothers to surrender to the foe that drove a sword into his gut? Don’t say that again.”
The midwife remained unruffled. “As you wish, your Highness. You must choose your own way to deal with your trial. Come, walk with me a bit more. It will help your child descend and hasten the birth.”
“Anything to get this over with,” the princess growled. She pushed Litholl away and drew herself upright.
Madam Coewyn stepped forward. “Excuse me, your Highness. I’m sorry to interrupt, but you asked me to inform you when I had chosen a wet nurse. This is Maryn Loesella of Ralo. Maryn, Princess Voerell.”
Maryn sank into a deep curtsy. She wasn’t sure what she had expected of the princess, but she knew she hadn’t pictured anything like the fierce, angry woman in front of her. Although perhaps she was judging her unfairly. Labor could bring out strange sides of a woman. Her own mother, when Maryn had been present at her siblings’ births, would grow tearful and afraid as her labor progressed, quite unlike her usual stoic, confident self. Maryn hoped the princess was just experiencing a similar temporary shift in mood. Otherwise, working for her could be most unpleasant.
Voerell’s eyes brushed over Maryn without focusing. “It took you long enough. But you made it in time. Barely. Gallows, I hope it’s barely! Oh, curse it, Litholl, here comes another one.” She turned back to the midwife, fear in her eyes and voice.
“You’re doing wonderfully, your Highness. Relax and breathe.” Litholl demonstrated, inhaling slowly and sighing the breath out. Voerell tried to follow suit, but her face twisted into a grimace, and she let out a stream of profanity.
Coewyn took Maryn’s arm and pulled her to the side, where a velvet;-;upholstered bench stood on scrolled gilt feet. “Wait here until you’re needed. It won’t be long, if the midwife is right. I hope so. The way Voerell carries on, you’d think she fancies herself the first woman to feel a little pain giving birth.” She bustled off toward the ladies;-;in;-;waiting. The group of young noblewomen clung to each other, watching the princess with fearful eyes. “Come, come, make yourselves useful. Her Highness will be fine. You and you, go help the midwife. And you, have the servants build up the fire. We can’t have the prince taking a chill.”
Maryn sank down onto the bench. Voerell trudged in a slow circle around the room, pausing occasionally to lean on one of her ladies and give loud voice to her discomfort. Maryn wished there were something she could do to help ease the princess’s misery. During her labor with Frilan, Siwell had given her much the same advice. Maryn had found that when she was able to induce her taut muscles to go limp it really had made the pain more bearable. But Maryn was sure that if Voerell resisted listening to her midwife she would never pay heed to a lowborn stranger.
She had been so innocent back then. Just like the princess, she had been overwhelmed by the agony of her body. Now she knew far worse pain existed. Pain that no relaxing would ease, that would not fade away if only she endured long enough. She longed to go back to that day, when all she had to suffer were the simple pangs of labor.
The hours wore on. Voerell lay down on the bed for a time, but grew restless and rose again to resume her heavy shuffle on Litholl’s arm. The fire blazed high in the hearth, warming the room until the heat was stifling and Maryn could hardly breathe. Large wet patches blotched the princess’s silk robe, and beads of sweat formed on Litholl’s forehead.
Maryn shifted on the bench and stretched her stiff back. Her breasts were beginning to feel full again. Soon she would have to seek permission from Coewyn to go back to her new quarters and get her bowl. Voerell’s cries were duller now, edging toward exhaustion. The midwife still appeared unworried, but fear stirred in Maryn’s gut. What would happen to her if the birth did not go well? If the baby, or Holy One forbid, Voerell herself, did not survive? She tried to remember what Coewyn had read from the contract. Maybe they would at least pay her way back to Ralo.
Voerell halted in front of Maryn and bent over, moaning. Maryn noticed a different quality in her voice. Interspersed with her moans were low, throaty grunts. Litholl looked closely at Voerell’s face, while the two ladies;-;in;-;waiting exchanged anxious glances.
When the contraction passed, Voerell pulled herself up and frowned at Litholl. “I felt something different that time. I had to push; I couldn’t stop. Is that all right?”
“Yes, your Highness.” A new brightness tinged Litholl’s voice, though her calm assurance never wavered. “It won’t be long now.”
Voerell nodded. Her voice held a note of steely determination. “Good. Let’s get this done.”
She braced her feet and stood panting until the next pain. As her ladies clung to her arms, Voerell bent her knees into a squat. She put her head down, and her face twisted into a grimace of effort.
“Gently, your Highness,” Litholl cautioned. “Let your womb do the work; it’s quite capable. You’ll only wear yourself out trying to make it go faster.”
“I’ll do as I please,” Voerell said, her eyes closed, breathing hard.
“Yes, your Highness. Whatever you say. Would you like me to get my birthing stool? Or perhaps you’d be more comfortable lying down.”
“No! Just be quiet and catch the thing when it comes out.”
“Yes, your Highness.” Litholl gestured for the servants to bring fresh straw and spread it at Voerell’s feet. She crouched and pushed the hem of Voerell’s robe aside to examine her. With a nod, she settled on her heels to wait for the next contraction.
Before long it came. Voerell squatted again, giving a series of fierce, angry grunts. Maryn scooted to the end of her bench and leaned over to see past the ladies;-;in;-;waiting who crowded close, eager to catch the first glimpse of the new prince. She hadn’t expected to care so much. Voerell’s labor aroused intense memories of Frilan’s birth. Painful as they were, she found she treasured them. And the excitement of the imminent birth caught her up, just as it always had when she’d been present for her siblings’ births. She waited, as breathless as all the other women in the room, for the miraculous moment when new life would enter the world.
Litholl watched Voerell, hands loose in her lap. When the princess subsided into exhausted gasps, she spoke quietly. “Your bag of waters is bulging, and I could see the top of your baby’s head. All is well.”
Voerell nodded, her eyes closed. She slumped against her lady;-;in;-;waiting, who supported her mistress stoutly despite her look of dismay. It’s all right, Maryn wanted to assure her. The midwife said all was well. Maryn well remembered the feeling graven on Voerell’s face, of dazed and weary numbness. She had been sure, between contractions, that the task was impossible, that there was no way she would be able to muster the strength for one more push. And yet, when the waves of need came, they overpowered all her fear and exhaustion. She had thrust with all her might, over and over, as long as it took, until Frilan slid into the midwife’s waiting hands and Siwell placed him in her arms.
Voerell drew a deep breath and sank into her squat. Her face flushed red, and she opened her mouth in a wordless cry. Litholl leaned forward. A burst of fluid splashed into the straw at Voerell’s feet, and Maryn caught a glimpse of a dark round shape between Voerell’s legs.
&nbs
p; “Just one more should do it,” Litholl said. “Here, your Highness, you can put your hand down and touch his head if you like.”
Voerell shook her head. She kept her eyes scrunched closed, and breathed in great ragged gasps. Her arms clung tight around the necks of the ladies;-;in;-;waiting on either side, until Maryn feared she might strangle the poor girls.
After a long moment of waiting, the contraction came. This time Voerell was silent. She pressed her lips together in a fierce line and bore down until she went white. Litholl reached up, and a small wet form slid from Voerell’s body into the midwife’s waiting hands.
Voerell sagged into her ladies’ arms, shaking. Servants hurried to bring Litholl clean soft cloths. The midwife wiped the baby’s face. The small mouth opened and gave a thin wail. Dark eyes blinked and tiny fists waved.
Litholl smiled and displayed the child to Voerell. “Look, princess, you have a son. Milecha has a new heir.”
Voerell opened her eyes just long enough to scan her child and see that Litholl’s words were true. Then she turned away. “Give him to the nurse,” she ordered hoarsely. “Help me over to the bed. I want to lie down.”
Litholl’s brow creased. “Wait, your Highness. I must cut his cord, first, and you must deliver the afterbirth. Are you sure you don’t want to hold him for a moment?”
“I’m sure. Do what you must quickly.”
Litholl frowned, but she nodded, and looked around. “Where’s the wet nurse?”
Maryn was so caught up in watching events unfold that it took a moment before she realized they were talking about her. She jumped to her feet and rushed to the midwife’s side. “Here I am.”
Madam Coewyn appeared at her elbow. “You must be extremely careful with the prince,” she cautioned. “Let Madam Litholl wrap him up first, and hand him to you.”
An offended retort, that she knew very well how to hold a baby safely, sprang to Maryn’s lips, but she bit it off. Litholl intervened. “She won’t drop him, Coewyn. Yes, I’ll wrap him, though you’ve got it so warm in here he’s more likely to overheat than take a chill.” Litholl deftly swaddled the crying baby in a length of soft white fabric.
She beckoned Maryn to approach within the span of the cord that still bound mother and child. Maryn had to crowd close to Voerell’s side, though she shrank back to avoid touching the princess more than necessary. Voerell kept her eyes closed and her face turned aside. Without ceremony, Litholl deposited the babe in Maryn’s arms.
The warm soft weight roused intense, painful memories. Just so had Frilan felt, when Siwell set him in Maryn’s arms. Just so had his cries ceased as he nestled against her chest, curious eyes opening to survey the world. Just so had his head turned, lips moving in eager search.
Maryn froze, caught between longing and revulsion. This child felt so much like Frilan. But Frilan was dead, and a part of Maryn had died with him. This alien babe sought to force it back to agonized life. He wanted to usurp the place that would always, only, ever belong to Maryn’s own lost child. She ached both to gather him close to her body and hurl him violently away.
Instead she held him stiffly, as Litholl pushed aside the folds of cloth to gain access to the place where the thick, whitish;-;purple cord sprang from his belly. The midwife’s expert fingers bound a short string around the cord near his body. Litholl’s ceremonial knife was plain undecorated steel. She used it to sever the cord; a spatter of dark blood drops flew out and splashed over the baby’s wrapping and Maryn’s sleeve.
“I’ll take care of that in a moment. Don’t go anywhere until I’ve made sure you’re both thoroughly cleansed.” Litholl turned back to Voerell. “Your Highness, do you feel any more contractions yet? The afterbirth should be ready to pass soon.”
Maryn stepped back from her uncomfortable proximity to the princess, who continued to steadfastly ignore both her and the child. The baby squirmed in Maryn’s arms. Reflexively she gathered him close, but she could not seem to think clearly enough to understand what to do next. Coewyn fixed her with a hard stare. “Well, girl? The poor thing’s hungry; nurse him.”
No! Maryn wanted to shout. He’s not mine! I don’t want him! For a moment she felt a tremendous urge to dump the babe in Coewyn’s arms and run, out of the palace, out of Loempno, back home where she belonged.
But her home no longer existed. There was nowhere she belonged. She had come all this long way for just this purpose, and she found her pride would not let her fail now, not before Coewyn’s coldly judging eyes.
Maryn clutched the prince close and walked back to her bench. She angled her body away from Coewyn’s gaze and pulled down her shift. Drawing a deep breath, she forced herself to look fully at the baby in her arms, as she had not yet quite dared to do.
He wasn’t much like Frilan, after all. He was nearly bald, only a few short wisps of fuzzy blond gracing his head, in contrast to Frilan’s thick shock of dark hair. He was stockier, his face much rounder and his limbs thicker. His skin had flushed bright pink, though his lips were still a dusky shade of purple. They opened in soundless groping, and his hand came up to open and close in front of his face. It clenched into a fist, and found its way to his mouth. He sucked fiercely for a moment before his arm twitched and tore his hand away. He burst into a heartbroken wail.
A warm flood rushed into Maryn’s breasts. A few drops of milk leaked from the exposed side. She closed her eyes, swept by fresh grief, but also an overwhelming desire to put this lost, helpless infant to her breast and nurture him.
It would be all right. She could do this. He wasn’t Frilan, but he needed her. Maryn shifted the prince into the crook of her arm and maneuvered his mouth toward her nipple.
He took a while to catch on. At first he wouldn’t open his mouth wide enough, and his hands kept getting in the way. Maryn knew Coewyn was watching them, and felt flustered and rushed, but she did her best to ignore it. Finally she managed to get her breast into the prince’s mouth. His sucking was painful, but she could deal with that for the moment. Later, when they were alone, Maryn would work harder to get him latched correctly. Right now she was just happy he was nursing. Coewyn would see that she could do this job, after all. She looked up and met the Stewardess’s gaze, jutting her chin out.
Coewyn nodded curtly. “Very good. See that he gets plenty.” She watched for a few more minutes, nodded again, and went off to speak with Litholl and Voerell.
Maryn’s nipple stung, and she shifted around, trying to find a more comfortable position. It had hurt in the early days with Frilan, too, she remembered. She didn’t think it had been quite so bad, but maybe she had just forgotten. The prince must be getting milk; she could hear the little gulps as he swallowed. It felt surreal to have a strange child there instead of Frilan’s familiar face.
To distract herself from the pain and her confused emotions, she watched Litholl. The midwife finished seeing to Voerell and tucked her into bed. She went around the room, located each place blood had splashed or dripped, and cleansed it. Blue sparks bloomed, and buzzing rattled in Maryn’s teeth.
When she finished with the pile of straw heaped in the place Voerell had given birth, Litholl came to stand before Maryn. She gazed at the nursing prince. The midwife looked weary, but she glowed with warm satisfaction, and to Maryn’s eyes seemed remarkably little affected by her hours of hard work. Just the effort of cleansing all that blood would have exhausted Maryn several times over.
“Is all well? He seems to have taken to you nicely.” Litholl sank to the bench next to Maryn with a sigh.
“Oh, yes. He’s very eager.”
“No undue discomfort?”
“No,” Maryn lied. She didn’t want to admit any weakness, when the other woman was so strong and skilled. She shifted the baby in her arms and tried not to wince as his mouth pinched.
Litholl nodded. “If any problems develop, feel free to send for me.” She heaved herself to her feet. “Let me go ahead and cleanse the two of you.”
She launched
into the words of the ritual. The vibrations of the magic thrummed in Maryn’s bones. Blue sparks haloed the prince’s skin where the blood of birth had smeared it, and erupted from every spot where droplets had splattered or Maryn’s milk had leaked. He squirmed and broke away from Maryn’s breast with a squall of discomfort, before seizing her nipple again with renewed and painful vigor. Litholl brought the spell to a close, and the fire died. “There. All safe now. You’ll want to bathe him after a bit, but let him get his fill first.”
Madam Coewyn bustled up. “Are you finished, Litholl? The princess is asking for her husband. If everything is taken care of I’ll send for him.”
Litholl glanced around. “Yes, I think so. Go ahead. And I’m sure the king will wish to greet his grandson and heir as well.”
“Of course.” Coewyn nodded frostily to the midwife and strode off toward the door to confer with a page.
Only a few minutes later the doors swung open again to admit a tall, dark;-;haired man. He hurried to Voerell’s bedside. “Are you all right?”
Voerell pushed herself up from the pillows and threw her arms around him. “I’m fine, Whirter. We did it. We have a son.”
“You did it, dearest.” Whirter held her close a moment more, then released her. “Where is he? May I see him?”
“Of course. Nurse, bring him here.”
Maryn jumped to her feet. The prince came off her breast and wailed. She tugged her shift up and moved him to her shoulder. Coewyn scowled and reached for the baby, but Maryn bounced him and patted his back, and he quieted. She carried the baby over and held him out toward Voerell. “Here he is, your Highness.”
Voerell looked away. “You take him, Whirter.”
Her husband eagerly accepted the small wrapped form into his arms. “He’s so small.” He stroked the baby’s pale downy fuzz of hair with the tip of one finger. “He’s beautiful.”
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