by Tina Daniell
Without saying a word in her own defense, Kit had resumed rubbing the baby. Bone-tired, she despised the tears pooling in her eyes. She bent her head close to the baby, refusing to look up.
“Talk about morning burials,” the stocky woodcutter said at last, “isn’t welcome at a birthing. I’d say you two are about even.” His words carried a quiet authority. His face was impassive.
Kit kept her eyes on the baby, but inwardly she exulted.
“Well!” Grumbling to herself, Minna quickly moved around the cottage, throwing her belongings unceremoniously into her bag. She dangled a pouch of aspenwood leaves and threw it conspicuously on the bedside table. “I’ll check back tomorrow!” she snapped, before flouncing out the door.
Kit looked up finally when she heard the latch click. She and Gilon exchanged a rare smile.
Gilon hastened over, peering anxiously first at Rosamun’s bed, then at the cradle, then at the infant in Kit’s arms. The look on his face blended pride with confusion.
“Twins, is it twins? How is Rosamun? How are they doing? What can I do to help?” Plaintively he gestured with his big, clumsy hands.
“You have to go out and get some goat’s milk, right away,” Kit advised. “Minna said it was the only thing the babies could drink, and I think we have to credit her on that one. Then we have to wake Mother—”
“Just a minute. Just a minute,” Gilon interrupted, still anxious. “I don’t even know about my children. Are there two?” he repeated. “Twins?”
“Yes, two boys.” Kitiara surprised herself by saying it with as much satisfaction as if she were the mother.
Again Gilon walked over to the cradle, beaming down at his first born, who was beginning to stir. Then he came to Kit, who continued to rub and comfort the second infant.
“Shhhhh,” she cautioned. “This is the weaker one.”
Outside, it was dark. Inside, the only light came from the dying fire. Hurriedly, Gilon lit two oil lamps, which cast huge, dancing shadows on the cottage walls.
“We had a hard time of it,” Kit confessed, covering up her relief that it was over with a matter-of-fact tone. “Mother lost a lot of blood. I think she’ll be all right. The first baby, he’s strong. But this one, he will have to be watched closely.”
Gilon moved to Rosamun’s bed and tenderly sat next to her, taking her hand. Her face was drained of all color. She lay still, breathing shallowly. When he brushed her forehead with his lips, she didn’t stir. Baby sounds of grunts and snuffles drew Gilon away from his wife’s side to the cradle.
“I’d better go get that milk before we have a rebellion on our hands.” He pulled on his jacket, then came to stand next to Kit, putting his hand on her shoulder. Kit reacted hesitantly. She and her stepfather rarely touched. Gilon gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before turning to leave on his errand.
He paused at the door. “Rosamun and I had decided on Caramon as the name if we had a boy,” he told Kit, almost apologetically. “It means strength of the vallenwoods. It was my grandfather’s name. A good name, don’t you think?” After a pause, he smiled and added, “But we’re going to need some ideas for the other boy. Why don’t you see if you can think of a name to help us out?”
Pleased as a kender at a county fair with being asked to participate in the naming, Kit felt the color rise to her cheeks. She replied solemnly that she would give it some thought.
Gilon returned with the goat’s milk to find Kit jiggling one infant in her arms and using her foot to rock the cradle, whose occupant had started issuing piercing, hungry-sounding cries. He made two bottles from slender jars fitted with the skin from the teat of a dead ewe. Picking up the squalling baby Caramon, the new father held him as he sucked at the bottle vigorously.
Kitiara wished her charge were half as energetic. She had to coax the second-born twin to take the nipple, and he had a difficult time keeping milk down. Breathing seemed to sap most of his energy. What with spitting up and fussing, Kitiara worried that he barely seemed to get any of the milk into his system at all.
Eventually, both infants drifted off to sleep. Kit was still holding the smaller one. “I have a name,” she ventured.
“And what do you recommend?” Gilon asked, matching Kit’s serious tone.
“Raistlin.”
“Hmm. Raistlin,” Gilon repeated. “I like the sound of it, Raistlin and Caramon. But what does it mean?”
“Oh, nothing really. I mean, I don’t know for sure. I must have heard it somewhere.”
Kit didn’t tell Gilon that Raistlin was the name of the hero in the made-up stories Gregor sometimes told her at bedtime. Most of Gregor’s stories were true ones about himself, or epic legends of the fabled figures of Krynn. But there was one tale he liked to tell that Kit believed her father had made up. Its installments went on and on, and Gregor had never finished telling it, probably because there was no ending. And because he had left.
The Raistlin of her father’s stories was not the bravest or the strongest warrior, but he was clever and had a will of iron. Over and over he used his wits to best superior opponents.
If Caramon’s name meant strength of the trees, Raistlin’s would stand for cunning and will power, Kit thought.
Gilon pondered the choice. Once again he roamed to Rosamun’s bedside. Kit’s mother had yet to open her eyes. He realized that it might be some time before Rosamun could voice an opinion. Gilon smiled at Kit as he uttered his verdict.
“Raistlin … I think that will do nicely.”
An hour or two later, Kit was still by the hearth, holding Raistlin, while Gilon was just finishing the long, involved job of giving Rosamun a sponge bath, then changing her bedding and clothes.
The town watch had called midnight long ago. Out the window, Lunitari, the red moon, had risen high in the sky. It shared the night canopy with Solinari, which was in its arc of descent. Sitting up with Raistlin by the fire, Kit must have dozed off. She woke with a start when the baby Raistlin drew a particularly harsh breath.
“Time to give Mother her tea,” Kit said, so tired she slurred the words.
Gilon, sitting on the edge of Rosamun’s bed, looked over at the girl and suddenly realized how exhausted she was. Her stepfather took Raistlin and sent her off to bed.
Kit’s legs felt so heavy she could barely climb the ladder that led up to her bedroom above the rear of the common room. It was really just a small space she had fashioned for herself in the grain storage loft tucked under the roof of the cottage.
Behind burlap sacks full of grains and other dry goods stood her cot and small dresser. The single window, low under the eaves, offered a splendid view of the crisscrossing vallenwood branches. In the summer, Kit could look out and feel like she was floating on a cloud of leaves. She endured the extra summer heat and the coldness under the eaves during the winter because of the luxury of privacy her loft space afforded her in the cramped cottage.
Once she got up to her room, Kit went to her dresser and pulled it away from the wall, then felt behind it for the hidden shelf.
Carefully, Kitiara drew out a worn piece of parchment. Unrolling it, she gazed at an ink drawing of what she knew to be the emblem of a Knight of Solamnia. In the pale stream of moonlight that came through her window, Kit saw hawk talons, an arrow, and an eye-shaped orb.
After some minutes, Kit re-rolled the parchment and put it away. She fell onto her cot, clothes and all, and collapsed into a deep sleep.
That first night, Caramon slept peacefully in his cradle. Gilon kept Raistlin on the bed, tucked in between him and Rosamun, hoping their body warmth would help the baby. Kit never heard the many times her stepfather rose in the night to care for his beloved wife and newborn twins.
The following day, Gilon was preparing a pot of porridge over the fire and Kit was holding Raistlin in one arm while attempting to give a bottle to Caramon in the cradle, when someone knocked on the door. Without waiting for an answer, Minna entered with her sister, Yarly.
Yarl
y was a younger variation of Minna—every bit as short, stout, and starchy. Both of them were wearing their aprons, and Yarly’s hair was swept under a headpiece. Obviously she had been instructed by her sister to say little or nothing. They both looked cross, but Yarly had a thick, protruding lower lip that even in the best of circumstances made her look sullen.
Minna pointedly ignored Kit and bestowed only a cool nod on Gilon as she crossed the floor to Rosamun’s bedside, with Yarly in tow.
Rosamun had yet to regain full consciousness, though today she slept more comfortably and breathed more easily.
“How are we doing?” Minna asked while feeling and prodding Rosamun’s stomach.
“Not so well,” Gilon responded with obvious concern. “She still has a fever, and she hasn’t even really opened her eyes. She’s too weak to eat.”
“Mmmmm. The poor thing lost a lot of blood. She’ll get better, I warrant, though it could be weeks before she’s well enough to care for her new babies. Don’t worry about the eating. Just be sure she drinks a lot of the medicinal tea I left with you. And be sure she’s not disturbed by any wild playing,” Minna added, with a meaningful glance in Kitiara’s direction. “I would move her into that small room there, if I were you. Give her a little peace and quiet.”
At that moment, Kit, trying to juggle the two infants, looked more like a harried homemaker than a potential troublemaker. She turned her back on Minna, shielding baby Raistlin from the midwife’s prying eyes.
The room Minna pointed to was the only other room in the cottage besides the common living space. Branching off the north wall, it was a small space that had been used by Rosamun periodically over the years as a place to work on the sewing she sometimes took in to make extra money for the household. Gilon saw the wisdom of Minna’s advice, and assented with a nod.
“You know my sister, Yarly, don’t you? She’ll be checking in on Rosamun for the next few days so I won’t have to bother you with my opinions. After that I reckon you can get by on your own.”
Minna had sidled over so that she could peek around Kitiara’s shoulder at Raistlin. Kit turned so that she faced her, staring fiercely at the meddling midwife. Pointedly Minna looked down at the frail baby, sniffed sympathetically, then cast a glance over at the robust one contentedly sucking on his bottle in the cradle.
Raistlin’s complexion was still pale, his grip on life hardly secure. All morning Kit had tried not to think of what Minna had said about weak-spirited second babies.
“Hmph,” said Minna, turning away
Pulling Gilon aside, she brought something out of her bag. Briefly, she showed him how to fashion a leather sling that would hold one of the babies next to his body while freeing hands for another chore. After that, Minna said a brusque good-bye, and she and Yarly went away.
“Well, now,” said Gilon, after an inconclusive moment of silence. “It was nice of her to stop by.”
Kitiara muttered something under her breath in response.
“And this is a handy contraption,” Gilon added good-naturedly, holding up the leather sling. “Let’s see if we can fit it onto you.”
For the next three weeks, Kit wore the sling constantly, using it to keep Raistlin near her at all times. The baby’s breathing improved, but still it was not strong or steady. At any given moment, Kit might have to drop everything to rub the bottoms of his feet in order to stimulate his breathing and circulation.
Most nights, Kit dropped fully dressed into bed, stone tired. Most mornings, she woke up still wearing Minna’s sling and ready to take Raistlin out of Gilon’s tired arms and begin the routine again.
On the morning of the first day of the fourth week, Kit woke up realizing she had overslept. Jumping out of bed, she climbed down the ladder and looked around. Caramon was kicking energetically in his cradle, but Raistlin was still sleeping, curled up in another wooden cradle that Gilon had hurriedly carved and assembled.
Kit glanced in the direction of the small adjoining room and saw that her mother, too, was still asleep. Rosamun had remained bedridden since her difficult childbirth, barely stirring on most days, unable to speak on many others. She had to be watched as conscientiously as Raistlin. Turn your head for a minute, and Kit’s mother would be sitting straight up, eyes open, wailing in fright. She had begun pointing to things nobody could see and speaking absolute gibberish.
Next to her big bed was a straw pallet on which Gilon usually slept. It had become his job to make the cups of strong tea that sometimes helped calm Rosamun. Even with the soothing tea, however, there was no telling how long one of her wild trances might last. Kit’s stepfather looked at his wife more and more sorrowfully these days, for the gentle woman he had once loved had been replaced by an unpredictable stranger.
Today his pallet was empty, and Gilon had already gone. In the weeks since the twins were born, he had been staying home from the forest too much. The household could ill afford the loss of his income as well as of the meager sums Rosamun earned from mending and sewing. Kit had insisted to Gilon that she was more than willing to devote herself to taking care of the twins if he went back to work.
With Caramon, the job was easy. As long as you didn’t let his diaper get too wet, he was fine. Loud, restless, perpetually hungry, but fine.
Raistlin was a different story. Kit had to watch him closely, be alert to his breathing and coax him to eat. The young girl found that those tasks were not nearly so exhausting as the time she spent thinking of the infant, willing Raistlin with all her might to grow stronger.
As she began making breakfast this day, Kit heard a slight noise and looked around. To her amazement, Rosamun was standing—wobbly, but standing—in the doorway of her room. If Kit hadn’t looked into her eyes, she would have thought her mother was fine. But Rosamun’s gray eyes were eerie, out of focus.
When Gilon returned home well before dusk, Kitiara greeted him at the door. They had agreed that upon his return Kit would be allowed an immediate escape from the confines of the cottage. Rather than sitting down to eat supper right away, the eight-year-old girl played outside until total darkness descended, usually practicing her swordplay with a furious intensity, as if cramming her childhood into a few short hours.
“Mother wandered around the cottage a lot today,” Kit informed Gilon this day as she got ready to leave. “I had to tie her to the bed at one point.”
Gilon raised his eyebrows in surprise, then looked into the small adjoining room. Wearing stained bedclothes, Rosamun was sitting in the rocking chair in the corner, moving her hands as if she were knitting, only she had no needles or yarn.
“I don’t know what the twins made of their mother, but she didn’t pay any attention to them,” Kit told Gilon with some satisfaction just before she shot out into the warm summer evening.
When the twins were six weeks old, Kitiara came home from her evening’s play to find Rosamun seated at the kitchen table, holding Raistlin and cooing down at Caramon in his cradle. While Gilon must have helped her to bathe and dress herself, Kit’s frail mother still looked like a wraith after weeks of illness. Yet her face was shining, as was that of Gilon, who stood nearby, observing the scene with proud pleasure.
Rosamun turned away from the twins when she heard Kit at the door and warmly beckoned her daughter toward her. She set Raistlin down in his cradle so that she could put her blue-veined hands on the girl’s sturdy shoulders. Rosamun attempted to pull Kit toward her, but her daughter held back.
“I want to thank you for all that you have done. Gilon says you have been … indispensable,” Rosamun said while gazing at the raven-haired young girl with a mixture of love and uncertain respect.
Kitiara looked down at the floor, confused by her own feelings of gratitude and resentment. As she started to pull away, Rosamun stood up and put her thin arms around her daughter in an awkward embrace. Kit held herself stiffly, then broke for the door the minute she felt her mother’s grasp loosen.
Rosamun sank heavily back into her c
hair, while Gilon hovered nearby, not knowing what to say. Rosamun’s eyes clouded with tears as she watched her daughter race back into the summer night.
“Your father would have been proud of you,” Rosamun whispered after Kit’s retreating figure.
Chapter 3
RED MOON FESTIVAL
———
Thanks to Gilon, there was always plenty of good, slow-burning oak ready to heap on the overnight fire. But the flames usually died down in the middle of the night, and especially on the worst, most forbidding nights, no one wanted to get up and tread across the cold floor to replenish the blaze.
Kitiara preferred to sleep in her own quarters, though they were farthest away from the heat. Up a ladder and divided from the rest of the cottage by a thin muslin curtain, the loft at least gave her some privacy. The price for that privacy could be a bit high. More mornings than not in the long winters, she woke up curled into a tight ball and shivering.
Gnomes had a saying about Solace winters, which were notoriously harsh: “Three layers not enough, and noses always stick out.” The winters seemed neverending, yet practically overnight, when everyone felt at the breaking point, spring would arrive, catching even the most vigilant of the Solace citizenry by surprise.
On this particular morning, twelve-year-old Kitiara was still sleeping. She wasn’t curled up—a good sign of the weather to come. In fact, she was stretched out luxuriously across her straw mattress. Her feet hung over the end of it, an indication that she was outgrowing her little nook. Her face in repose was childish, almost gentle, quite unlike the cool, practiced expression she had already adopted, if not always convincingly, as part of her armor against the world.
The softness evaporated as something blunt and unwelcome poked her in the side.
Out of Kit’s mouth came some rather imaginative muttering, and, without opening her eyes, she turned on her side against the wall, pulling the quilted blanket tightly over her. After a pause, the poking resumed, this time in the small of her back.