White Blood

by Holder, Angela

  “I think so.” Maryn sighed. “I should be getting back to the nursery. Madam Semprell will wonder if she comes back and finds me still with you.”

  “Yes.” Litholl glanced at the door to the bedroom. “I wonder if Voerell is asleep yet, or if she’d like to visit a moment with Barilan before you leave.”

  Maryn ducked her head over the sleeping Barilan and stirred his blond wisps of hair with her fingers. Though she and Litholl were alone in the solar, she dropped her voice almost to a whisper. “She won’t. Even if she’s awake. She never looks at Barilan any more than she has to. I don’t know why she hates him so much. I guess it’s different when you’re a princess. I guess your children don’t matter to you the same way they do for everyone else, not as babies, not as people. Just as heirs, a way to fulfill your duty, to secure your family’s power.”

  Litholl frowned at Maryn, her brow creasing. “Do you believe so? I think you’d be surprised if you could learn what is in Voerell’s heart. She would never confess to me, or anyone, but I’ve seen the same thing often enough among highborn women to have a fairly good idea. I would venture to guess that Voerell loves her son deeply. She longs to do what any serf or servant woman thinks nothing of, and gather her child close, and nurse him, and give him all her devotion. But the constraints of her position prevent her from indulging her desires to their full extent, and Voerell is not one to do anything by half measures. So she withdraws even from the small amount of contact she might have, in order to shield herself from the pain of having to give over the one she loves into another woman’s arms.”

  Maryn frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. If she cared about him at all, wouldn’t she want to spend as much time with him as she could? At least hold him occasionally. She acts like she can’t stand having him around.”

  The midwife smiled wryly and shook her head. “When does the heart ever make sense? Just believe me, Voerell must endure her own pain at her son’s touch. Not as physical as yours, perhaps, but real enough. And I’m afraid there is no ease for her trouble as straightforward as correcting a misplaced latch. She would do well to learn from your willingness to endure pain, in order to give Barilan what he needs.” She sighed. “I’ll speak with her. No, of course I won’t tell her you said anything. But this state of affairs is not healthy for anyone.”

  Litholl subsided into silence. Maryn was just as glad she had dropped the subject. It still seemed obvious to her that Voerell cared very little for Barilan, no matter what Litholl said.

  She eased Barilan into her lap and tied the drawstring of her shift. Life would be so much better now, if the new latching technique continued to work, and her nipples healed as Litholl had promised they would. She gathered Barilan into her arms and rose, giving the midwife a quick impulsive embrace. “Thank you so much.”

  “Call for me if you need anything else.” Litholl led Maryn out of the solar and through the bedroom to the main entrance of the princess’s suite. Quietly, they bid each other farewell.

  As Maryn nodded to the guards and eased the heavy wooden door closed behind her, out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw the curtains of the bed ripple, and a pale flash as of a hand withdrawing. But when she looked again, all was still, and she was sure she must have been mistaken.

  Seven

  Voerell stopped in the hallway outside her brother’s quarters and swept a last critical gaze over her family. Duke Whirter passed her inspection, but her lips pinched when Maryn turned Barilan out to face her. “It’s still not right. Why won’t it sit straight?” Voerell tugged at Barilan’s lace;-;edged cap. She sighed. “That’s a little better, at least.”

  Maryn could see that the princess’s intervention had pulled the cap down over one of Barilan’s ears, which had gotten folded under the crisp fabric. He batted at the offending garment. Maryn scowled at the back of Voerell’s head as the princess turned away. She attempted to get Barilan’s ear unstuck as unobtrusively as she could. The cap ended up more crooked than before. Maryn hoped Voerell wouldn’t notice.

  Litholl must have spoken to Voerell as she had promised, for in the month since the midwife’s visit the princess had made sporadic attempts to interact with her son and participate in his care. More often than not the efforts proved clumsy and intrusive. Sometimes Maryn wished Voerell would resume her former distance and leave Barilan to those who knew what they were doing.

  Tonight, for instance, she’d have been much happier if she and Barilan were spending a quiet evening in the nursery as usual, instead of accompanying Voerell and her husband to a private dinner with Prince Carlich. But the princess had insisted on taking Barilan with her. Maryn had no choice but to follow her orders, even though it meant upsetting Barilan’s routine. At two and a half months, he was finally settled into a predictable pattern of eating and sleeping. This late night would disrupt his rhythm so much it might take days for Maryn to get him back to normal.

  But Voerell was trying, and Maryn did her best to view her efforts as charitably as she could. Even when they made her own job harder.

  Whirter smiled at Barilan and put a hand on his wife’s arm. “He looks fine. Don’t fret so. Your brother won’t notice what he’s wearing.”

  “Carlich notices everything.” Voerell tugged at her close;-;fitting bodice and smoothed her skirt. “I should have known better than to try to wear this yet. My belly is still round; everyone will be saying I’m pregnant again.”

  “Let them. Perhaps by the time it makes a difference, it will be true.”

  “Perhaps.” Voerell fussed with her skirt again, patted her braids, and gave a final glance at Barilan. She squared her shoulders and took a breath. “Very well. I’m ready.”

  After a brief conference between their guards and the ones at the entry to Prince Carlich’s private quarters, the doors swung open and their party was formally announced. Carlich waited to greet them, all smiles and enthusiasm for his sister and her family. “Come in, come in, have a seat. You look lovely, Voerell. And can this possibly be Barilan? Look how much he’s grown! You’d better watch out, Whirter; he’s going to be as big as Father by the time he’s a page.”

  Carlich ushered Voerell and Whirter into his sitting room. Maryn trailed behind. She was accustomed enough now to life in the palace that being in the presence of royalty no longer intimidated her the way it had at first. She still got nervous, but as her fear faded it was replaced with curiosity. Who were these people, so far above her, yet to whom she was inextricably bound through her attachment to their youngest member? Were they truly a breed apart, as she’d always believed, specially blessed by the Holy One and set above common humanity? Or, as seemed more credible the longer she was around them, were they simply folk like any others, just richer and more powerful?

  She took up a position behind the elegant couch where Voerell settled. Her duty was to remain unobtrusively nearby, keeping Barilan happy and quiet, ready to present him the instant his royal mother, father or uncle expressed a desire to interact with him.

  For the moment Barilan was content, looking at the strange surroundings with wide eyes, and Maryn’s task was easy and tedious. Carlich, Voerell and Whirter settled into a pleasantly trivial discussion of palace gossip and the latest news of city and realm. Servants bustled about, offering wine. Maryn let her gaze wander around Carlich’s quarters. The room was as casually elegant as the prince himself. All the furnishings were extremely well made, but without excessive ornamentation. A starburst of swords and daggers decorated one creamy yellow wall. Forest green drapes framed wide windows that looked out over the city, where the golden glow of sunset had faded to streaks of orange and purple across the sky.

  “Are you sure?” Carlich’s voice wasn’t loud, but his sharp tone drew Maryn’s attention.

  “Quite sure,” Whirter said. “King Froethych confirmed it to me this afternoon so I could get to work on the security arrangements. He’ll make the formal announcement tomorrow.”

  Voerell shook her head ru
efully. “Marolan will be delighted. He’d resigned himself to not meeting Dolia until just before the wedding. Now he’ll have a whole month to get to know her.”

  Maryn’s interest stirred. All the palace servants gossiped ceaselessly about the upcoming wedding and the arrival of the Wonoran princess. The news that she would be arriving earlier than expected would be received with excitement. The information might even be enough to buy Maryn a measure of acceptance into their ranks. She listened attentively, hoping she might hear more that she could share.

  Carlich sat back in his chair, sipping at his goblet. “You’re right. Marolan will be beside himself with joy. He might even smile.”

  Voerell laughed. “Oh, Carlich, don’t be so hard on Marolan. How would you like it if you’d been betrothed since you were nine to a girl you’d never met? I think he’s handling the matter far better than I’d be able to. I was nervous enough before my wedding, even though Whirter and I had known each other for years.”

  Whirter grinned at her. “What? I thought you told me you’d been pining for me since you were Dolia’s age, and begged your father to make the match.”

  “You know what I mean.” Voerell gave him a playful swat before sobering. “But she is only sixteen. I hope they’ll be able to be happy together, or at least not too miserable. And I hope the treaty with Wonora will make it all worthwhile.”

  Whirter nodded. “Those new trade provisions are going to bring great wealth to Milecha. What, Carlich, don’t you agree?”

  Carlich leaned forward in his chair and fixed Whirter with a calculating stare. The intensity of his reaction struck Maryn as odd. Whirter had done no more than echo the common wisdom she’d heard voiced by everyone from the youngest pages to Voerell’s highborn ladies;-;in;-;waiting. “In fact, I do have reservations about the treaty. That’s one of the reasons I invited you to dine with me tonight; I hoped we might discuss them.”

  “I’m willing to discuss whatever you like.” Whirter shrugged. “But you’ll have to work hard if you hope to persuade me there’s anything wrong.”

  Barilan chose that moment to grab at Maryn’s ear with a cheerful babble, and she missed Carlich’s next words as she disentangled his fingers from the strands of hair he’d pulled loose from her braids. She offered the baby a knuckle to gnaw on, trying to catch what Carlich was saying. None of the chambermaids or kitchen girls would care about details of the treaty, but tales of discord within the royal family would be worthy of their notice.

  “—listen with an open mind.” Carlich turned to Voerell. “I’ll need both of your support if I hope to have any chance of persuading Father and Marolan to hear me.”

  “You know you can always count on me, Carlich. But whatever you think you’ve found must be troubling, indeed, if you think you can get Father and Marolan to consider the treaty as anything other than a gift from the Holy One himself.”

  “From the Vulture, more likely,” Carlich muttered. At Voerell and Whirter’s quizzical looks, he put on an expression of determined cheerfulness and waved away their concern. “But that’s much too weighty a subject to tackle before we’ve eaten. If you’re ready, let’s move to the table and enjoy our repast. Afterwards I’ll share my thoughts with you.”

  He rose, and ushered Voerell and Whirter into the next room, where servants bustled around a long table spread with many silver dishes. Maryn followed, shifting Barilan to her other shoulder and stretching her tired arms as unobtrusively as possible.

  Steam rose from platters, and the smell of roasted meat and rich spices drifted in the air. Maryn breathed the delicious scents wistfully. Semprell had warned her to eat earlier, so she wasn’t hungry. But her meal had been the plain fare provided for the servants, while the banquet spread before her was surely the same food that graced the king’s table.

  Barilan squirmed and made fretful noises. Maryn bounced him and patted his back as she took her position behind Voerell’s chair. It quieted him momentarily, but she could tell he wouldn’t stay happy for long. As soon as the nobles were absorbed in their meal, she unfastened her shift and positioned Barilan to nurse.

  She paid close attention as he latched on. The first time was too shallow, so she detached him and tried again. Better, but still not quite right. Maryn treasured the sensation of nursing without pain too much to let herself get lazy and allow Barilan to use anything except perfect technique. Finally, the third time, her nipple went deep enough into his mouth. Maryn relaxed. Now that her nipples had healed as Litholl had promised they would, nursing Barilan was a pleasure. Her life as his nurse was all she could ask for. She was almost happy. As happy as it was possible for her to be, after—

  The pain of her loss, never far away, swept over her. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply as images of Edrich and Frilan filled her mind. It was the only way she’d found to cope on the frequent occasions when some stray thought triggered a fresh outbreak of grief. Surrender to it without fighting, the way Siwell had taught her to respond to the pains of labor. Like those, after a time this pain eased, and she could focus again on her surroundings.

  Voerell and the others continued to ignore her and Barilan as they ate. Maryn’s feet grew sore and her back stiff, and her arms ached with Barilan’s weight. Why had Voerell even bothered to bring her son along? To show off her perfect little family to her brother, Maryn supposed, though Carlich had so far given no sign that he was any more interested in the baby than Voerell was. Only Whirter occasionally glanced at Barilan in Maryn’s arms and smiled.

  It felt to Maryn as if many hours passed, although the peals of church bells across the city drifted in through the windows only once. Finally the last of the frothy confection of creamed berries vanished from the crystal bowls and the feasters settled back in their chairs with sighs of replete pleasure. Voerell sipped a cup of steaming tea, while Carlich shared a bottle of spirits with Whirter.

  “All right, Carlich.” Voerell set down her cup and crossed her arms. “You’ve kept us in suspense all through the meal, though I must say it was a pleasant distraction. Now tell us what terrible secrets you’ve discovered in Marolan’s marriage treaty.”

  Carlich swirled his glass, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid. “I suppose I must. All I ask is that you don’t dismiss my concerns out of hand. Give everything I say due consideration before you make up your mind.”

  “Of course. Gallows, you make it sound so ominous! I scarcely think anything in the treaty can be that bad. To hear you, you’d think Father had signed away Milecha’s sovereignty along with Marolan’s hand.”

  “He may have.” Carlich met Voerell and Whirter’s startled looks squarely. “I’ve had the scribes prepare a copy, so you can see for yourselves. I’ll have it brought to the other room; we might as well get comfortable while we talk.”

  Carlich summoned a servant and spoke to him in a low voice. Maryn trailed after Voerell, back to the sitting room. She felt just as curious as the princess and her husband looked, but she kept her eyes downcast. Barilan, full and happy, wiggled in her arms and made cheerful noisy comments to the room at large.

  Whirter came and reached for his son. “I’d like to hold him for a while.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Barilan stretched eager arms to his father as Maryn passed him over.

  Whirter settled on a soft couch and balanced Barilan on his knees. Voerell seated herself stiffly next to them, while Carlich took a sheaf of closely written parchment from his servant and perched on the edge of a large upholstered chair at right angles to the princess and duke. Maryn took her usual position behind Voerell, but she edged to the side enough that she could see everything that was happening.

  Carlich riffled the pages in his hands. “I suppose I first began to have concerns about three years ago. We had just beaten back the Hampsian incursions across the border. Whirter, you remember.”

  Whirter nodded. “A costly battle.” He toyed with Barilan’s grabbing fingers.

  They must be talking about the summer Maryn had
turned fifteen. Fearful rumors had swept the land then, how the warlords of Hampsia, the large and powerful country to the northeast, would conquer them, slaughtering any who resisted and enslaving the rest to their pagan gods. Lord Negian had answered the king’s call to defend Milecha, taking Maryn’s father along among his levies. Father had been gone until the first snows, leaving the rest of the family to bring in what meager harvest they could without his labor. He’d returned with a limp and an angry red scar across his thigh.

  Carlich nodded. “It was my first command. My men acquitted themselves well; Father rewarded me by allowing me to accompany him and Marolan in the negotiations to end hostilities. I was supposed to be quiet and observe, but of course there were a few matters I couldn’t help but express my opinion about.”

  “Of course,” Voerell agreed wryly.

  “In particular I was deeply impressed by some of the feats of sorcery I’d seen the Hampsians perform on the field. They accomplished things with gestures unlike anything we could do with incantations. I was eager to learn their techniques. I tried to persuade Father to offer to send me for a year to the Hampsian court, as a gesture of goodwill. But he wouldn’t hear of it; wouldn’t even put the offer on the table. We could have won some valuable concessions in exchange, too.

  “I was furious, and I insisted on knowing why he was so opposed to the idea. He tried to put me off with a lot of nonsense about how I was needed in Loempno, how he didn’t want me influenced by Hampsia’s pagan ways. But finally, when I kept badgering him, he looked at me.” Carlich drew back his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and made his voice a fair imitation of King Froethych’s round tones. “He said, ‘Son, you should be looking west, not east. In a few years when your brother marries the Wonoran princess, there will be no place in Milecha for the kind of sorcery they practice in Hampsia.’”