by Patty Jansen
By the skylights, what would she do? She would have expected at least some support from the family.
Her memories from yesterday were so distorted, she had trouble to tell what was real. It had to have something to do with the stuff the Chevakians had used to knock her out.
She knew that she’d suddenly awoken to a sharp pain, that she had jumped off the stretcher, because she could not possibly push out a child while on her back, that the Chevakians—and what were they doing here anyway?—had tried to stop her. That it was much too late for all of that, because she could feel the child drop into position between her legs.
She thought she’d run from their grasping hands before they could put her back on that table. She was in a strange room with no memory of how she’d ended up there. She’d opened a door—which turned out to be a cupboard—got in, shut the door and crouched in the corner. She remembered that overwhelming feeling of pressure. Unable to do anything else except push that damn child out. And push, until she was short of breath.
She remembered reaching down there and her hand meeting something slime-covered that wasn’t any body part she recognised. And panic, and that overwhelming urge to push. This thing was happening to her and she had no way to control it.
She clearly remembered that the Chevakians yanked the door open and she was standing there, leaning against the back wall of the cupboard. They tried to pull her out. She screamed at them. What was it with these people trying to interfere with a woman giving birth? They backed off. She felt the burning pain of the head crowning, knelt down in that pitch dark cupboard, and reached for the child down there where she couldn’t see. In the palace, other women would do this for the mother, like she had done for Myra. Usually, there would be a group of women sitting around the birthing mother, chatting and offering drinks and words of courage, ready to pass along the items the midwife asked for. These Chevakians were men and had no idea what to do, they didn’t offer any help. They just watched.
She remembered, as the child came out and she tried to get hold of it, reaching awkwardly around her belly, grabbing something that felt like the child’s shoulder. The skin was rough, and the bones were too sharp and poked at the skin. The little arm came free and felt not-so-little anymore. It flapped. A gust of air wafted past her thighs wet with birth fluids.
She’d been scared and shivery with panic, but could do nothing except what her body told her to do.
But by the time the child was out and she’d sunk down on the floor, and the Chevakians shone a light into the cupboard, the thing in her arms was just a baby.
A girl.
The Chevakians brought blankets, and helped her out of the cupboard, dripping blood everywhere. They chatted and seemed happy. A woman brought a cold drink. Loriane sat on the bed when the babe squirmed in her arms and opened her eyes. They were nothing like she had seen before. They were blue and she looked at her. Normal newborns didn’t look. Their eyes were hazy, black and barely open. They were certainly not bright blue. And as she watched, the babe’s nails became like little kitten’s claws, digging into Loriane’s skin. Her chubby little shoulders became less chubby, the limbs grew ad extended into large leathery wings—
A demon creature.
She shouted and grabbed the child by the throat, pushing it into the mattress.
The Chevakians rushed to stop her. Everyone in that room was shouting.
She remembered the feel of the child’s skin under her hands, and that the soft neck grew in size and roughness even as she was trying to throttle it, and that the arms grew into huge wings, that she lost her grip, and that the demon-like thing grew and hissed and pushed her onto the floor. And that the two Chevakians, and some other people, had tried to restrain it. She remembered the vicious slashing of claws, spraying blood, screams. Hiding under the bed, on her knees, while blood dripped onto the floor. The demon-like creature prowled around the room, ripping up everything in its path. It hissed and slashed and growled. And then it charged straight at the window, smashed it and disappeared into the yard.
After seeing the bodies on the floor, she’d run out through the broken window, to hide in some other part of the house and waited . . . and waited, shivering and bleeding, her back against a cold wall.
That was where the kind Chevakian had found her. And he was the only one who had been nice to her all day, even though she couldn’t understand him and he couldn’t understand her.
Loriane finished her tea and had another go at getting out of bed, slowly. First, he legs over the side. Then sitting on her knees. The pad against the bleeding felt thick and wet between her legs. She would have to change that. Then, one foot under her, her hands on the side of the bed. She pushed herself up. By the skylights, her muscles hurt.
But she didn’t feel dizzy this time.
Very carefully, she padded to the window, which looked out onto a courtyard surrounded by a stone wall. On the other side, she could see into a neighbour’s yard with neatly-clipped hedges and statues and a bench where a child had left some toys. Wind whipped the bushes and blew leaves around the paving. Nothing moved; the curtains of the house were closed.
She ran her hands along the window frame, but didn’t understand how it opened, if it opened at all.
She opened a few cupboard doors. There were blankets and pillows inside, but no clothes. Did this man really live here by himself?
One of the doors had a mirror on the inside. She lifted the night gown and wished she hadn’t. Her belly was floppy, with a skin flap hanging down from below her navel, and wrinkled and cris-crossed with bruises and angry red marks. At least she didn’t have a husband who had to pretend that she was pretty.
She’d had ten children, and where were they now? Where was Isandor? She couldn’t imagine anyone having survived in the City of Glass.
On a top shelf in the cupboard, she found a box that contained coloured books with pictures. Children’s books, with simple pictures of everyday objects, and words written next to them. She supposed that those letters said house, and those ones mother. She spent some time leafing through the book and made a decision: if Dara and Ontane weren’t going to help her, she’d learn to say what she needed in Chevakian herself.
* * *
By the time Loriane had finished inspecting every item in the room, no one had come and she had heard nothing outside, so she decided to go for a walk. The nightgown was gossamer thin, but in the bathroom she found a towel or some sort of cloth to wrap around her lower body so that anyone she met wouldn’t see her bandages and floppy belly through the fabric.
The corridor on the other side was familiar to her—she had been taken this way last night. If she remembered well, the main area of the house was to the right, down a flight of stairs.
The door to the room next to hers stood open. Inside stood a large bed with fine silky sheets rumpled and hanging off the side. A man’s shirt lay on the floor and a couple of mis-matched shoes stood half under the bed.
She hesitated near the door, both embarrassed to see this and eager to tidy the room up. One of the people killed had been a woman who had been kind to her yesterday, someone who was probably a housekeeper here. Maybe the younger, unfriendly woman was a daughter who hated having to do this work as well as trying to cope with her loss.
She continued down the corridor and came to the staircase, where her footsteps echoed in the cavernous hall. A huge metal structure with lots of oil lamps hung from the ceiling. She counted twenty-one lights. The stairs themselves were made from a white polished stone with carved railings. A mosaic in different types of stone, depicting a man riding an animal of some kind took up most of the floor in the hall.
By the skylights, and she had thought that the large hall in the palace in the City of Glass was a display of splendour. Just how rich were these Chevakia
ns?
The sound of voices drifted from downstairs, so Loriane descended the steps and remembered the way to the kitchen.
Inside, she found Myra washing dishes. Sounds of hammering came from elsewhere in the house.
Loriane sat down at the table, thankful that Myra’s parents weren’t here.
Myra gave her a scrutinising look. “You’re feeling all right?”
“Yes.” This insistence on asking about her wellbeing was getting annoying. She’d given birth to ten children. Why should she not be all right?
Except with this one, there hadn’t been a happy father taking the child away, and she’d received no money. The child had just . . . vanished and was out there to threaten everyone, wild and dangerous. Except no one would believe her.
“Where are your parents?”
“Ma is cleaning the room we were in yesterday, and Da is in the garden.”
“The Chevakians let you do work?”
“They’re busy fixing up the mess from yesterday. It’s the least we can do.”
Loriane nodded.
“Do your parents speak any Chevakian?”
“Not much. Just a few words.”
That was still better than Loriane. That annoyed her to be dependent on someone else to make herself understood. “You speak some Chevakian.”
“Only a very little bit.”
“Better than your parents.”
She shrugged. “I guess . . .”
“Could you teach me?”
“I don’t know that much either. Most of the things people say I don’t understand. They speak so fast.”
“That’s more than I understand.”
“True.”
There was an uneasy silence. Loriane looked at her hands.
“Myra, your parents don’t believe me, right?”
She turned away from the washtub, and shrugged. “I guess not. It’s hard for them to believe that something like that could exist.”
“Do you believe it?”
Myra’s eyes met hers, direct. “I believe you’re a good woman, Mistress Loriane.” Which was not an answer, but close enough.
She sighed and went back to her washing up. “My parents, and everyone in Bordertown, was scared of Tandor. He paid us, but no one understood why.”
Loriane nodded. That was pretty much the deal with Tandor.
“We, the Imperfect kids, thought he was the best thing ever. He brought us presents and sweets. He let us have parties, and boys. He also showed us all these old books. We thought he was weird.” She paused to tip the water out of the tub. “Anyway, some of those books showed winged creatures. We asked about them, and he said they were real. He said they were powerful, and he also said that they were on our side.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know, mistress Loriane. I really don’t know. I thought his talk was boring. I wished I’d paid better attention. He was clearly trying to tell us something, but I have no idea what it was, and if he meant that winged creatures were going to take over, I somehow prefer the Eagle Knights.”
Loriane nodded.
There were voices in the hall outside the kitchen, and the sound of footsteps.
A woman’s voice, not familiar.
Then the door to the kitchen opened and the cranky housekeeper Merni came in, together with a woman Loriane hadn’t seen before. She had white hair and a face lined with age, but walked straight in the manner only someone of high birth can. Like the nobles in the City of Glass. In fact, she was very much like the nobles of the City of Glass, down to the richly embroidered robe that was surely too warm for the Chevakian climate.
She advanced into the kitchen and turned to Loriane. Her eyes were dark blue.
“You’re the Pirosian?” she asked.
It clicked in Loriane’s mind. This was Tandor’s mother.
Loriane returned the woman’s stare. What business did she have asking questions like that? You’re the Pirosian? As if that was all that mattered about her.
She returned a mock bow. “I am very well, thank you.”
“You are the Pirosian.” The woman’s gaze went to her belly, and her eyebrows rose. “Where is the child?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”
In a few steps, the woman stood in front of Loriane and grabbed her chin. “Where is the child?”
“Why do you want to know?” Loriane swiped her hand away. She was not a naughty child. “Please don’t touch me. The child is contracted to a man called Yanko in the City of Glass.”
“The child is my son’s.”
“Can’t. He’s got no dick and no balls.”
“Rude language doesn’t suit a simpleton like you. Where is the child?” The grip of her hand tightened, and she now also held the front of her nightgown. For her age the woman was surprisingly strong. Loriane struggled to pull away, but didn’t want to yank too much for fear she’d rip the nightgown that belonged to the kind Chevakian man. They had already wrecked so much in his house.
“I don’t have to tell you or give you anything. I don’t recall Tandor ever speaking of you.”
“You’re a Pirosian whore, that’s why. What my son has to say is of no concern of yours.”
“Stop insulting me, and leave. The child is mine and I don’t see why I should tell you where it is.”
The woman said something in Chevakian, and a hulk of a man whom Loriane hadn’t noticed entering the kitchen came forward. He grabbed her shoulders and pinned her to the wall with one hand while holding a dagger under her chin with the other.
Loriane yelped.
The grumpy housekeeper stood in the door that the man had left open, yelling at someone in the hall. Myra just stared.
Tandor’s mother pulled a medallion from under her clothes. On it was depicted a creature the size of an eagle, but with wings of skin. Loriane had seen this creature before, on the cover of one of the books Isandor was fond of reading. It was the crest of the Thilleian house, the dacon. She’d always tucked those books away quietly, without commenting on them.
“Does this look familiar to you at all?”
“Uhm . . .” Loriane said. The tip of the dagger pricked in her skin. “I’m not going to tell you, and you can’t kill me, because then no one can tell you.”
“You insolent—”
People ran into the kitchen.
“Keep your head down, Mistress Loriane!” someone yelled near the door. Dara.
A blur in a brown shirt—Ontane—shot through the kitchen, knocking the guard half off his feet. He stumbled back. The dagger clattered onto the floor. Ontane scrambled to pick it up.
“You idiots. You don’t know what you’re playing with!” Tandor’s mother held up the medallion.
Clearly, it gave off light or power of some kind, which Loriane couldn’t see. Dara shouted.
Myra clapped her hands over her eyes.
In the corridor, the housekeeper screamed.
Loriane glared at the woman. “That thing can’t harm me. I can’t see icefire, and it has no effect on me.”
“Me neither,” Ontane said, brandishing the dagger. “I be fed up with this darned sorcery. You are going to leave Mistress Loriane alone. Or you will have to deal with me.”
The guard clambered to his feet, clutching his shoulder with one hand. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. He took the woman’s arm and together they left the kitchen. When they had gone, Ontane shut the door and stuck the dagger in his belt.
Dara and Myra stared at him with wide eyes.
Loriane whispered, “Thank you.”
“I protect
my women, even though they don’ always deserve it and don’ appreciate it.” He glared at Dara, who glared back at him. “There be no use in freedom, woman, unless we get rid of all self-righteous idiots, not jus’ the ones we disagree with.”
Chapter 12
* * *
CARRO DIDN’T DARE mention the visions to his father, or the figures he had seen made from fire at the time when he and the hunters had been trying to get back to the City of Glass, before they knew about the explosion. Heck, he didn’t know himself what was real and what was a vision, and his father wouldn’t like it if he heard that his son saw things. Carro was still waiting for the punishment he would inevitably receive for failing to meet his father’s expectations.
So he trudged off and went to find Farey and Jeito in the dorms. Nolan, already aware of the task ahead, followed silently.
Under the jealous eyes of a few fellow Knights, who stood guard in the courtyard and who had been cooped up in the farmhouse for days, they went to the stable. The eagles started protesting as soon as he entered wearing riding gear—they had probably heard the tinkle of the metal rings the moment he’d left the farmhouse.
They, too, had been inside for days—to stop Chevakians in balloons seeing them—and didn’t like this situation. They stood in semidarkness in the musty smell. They were all snapping at each other, and hissed at Carro as he walked past. His own eagle bent its head low down, spread its wings and fanned out its tail feathers, a strange mating behaviour that the females displayed if they were begging their riders for food or attention.
Carro scratched the animal on the head and untied the leather straps of the head gear. The bird jumped up and flapped huge wings. The giant wing feathers brushed Carro’s hair. A couple of other birds squawked. Carro’s eagle hissed.
A stable boy scurried out, but Carro whistled hard and the birds calmed. In a very pleasing way, it surprised him. It seemed he had learned, even though the hunters still thought him a clumsy fool.