At least she moved farther from Reothe with every step. Pleased with herself she bathed her sore feet in the stream, rubbing the dirt and blood from her cuts. It was so refreshing that she would have liked to strip off and bathe her aching body but she didn’t dare. They would start looking for her soon.
Slipping into the water, she waded upstream to hide her scent from her trackers. A wide, deep pool lay before her. As she stood debating whether to go through or around, the oddest sensation gripped her. The baby’s head ground down to her pelvis. She could almost feel it grating on the bones, wedging itself deep. Her knees sagged and a trickle of fear floated up through her body. The baby must not come now, not when she needed to escape her pursuers.
She set off. The water was warm and so clear she could see the large, round boulders on the bottom. It was soothing and cleansed her gritty skin. When the water reached her chest she began to swim.
The first pain overtook her midway in deep water. It was so overpowering she could barely keep her head above the surface. Terror gripped her.
At last the pain slipped away, uncurling its tendrils from her body with a lover’s reluctance. A burst of energy took her swiftly to the far side of the pool.
First births were generally long. Of course there were exceptions. One woman she knew had gone into labor and delivered within an hour, another had endured three days. There was no way of knowing.
She stood dripping on a rock, trying to work out her options. How far could she travel? How long did she have? The next pain rolled in like a summer thunderstorm, inexorable and intense.
Imoshen rode it. When it retreated, leaving the afterimage of its fury imprinted on her mind and body, she faced the truth. The baby was coming now. It could not wait for a better time or place.
She thought longingly of the painkiller tucked safely in her saddlebags. So much for thinking ahead. But now she had to find somewhere safe and warm. From the speed and force of the contractions she knew it would be a short, violent birth.
She also knew that the more she moved, the faster the baby would come, but she couldn’t stay out here in the open. Driven by necessity, she set off upstream looking for shelter.
There was no way for her to measure the passage of time other than counting, so she took to counting between each pain and the duration of the pain and placing all these numbers in a convenient place in her head to keep track of the birthing process. It helped to think she was in control of at least one thing.
Rounding a curve in the rock wall she stared, dismayed. She had stumbled into a hot spring, a place redolent of the Ancients. The pools held steaming water and mist hung over the narrow ravine.
Imoshen was desperate. She did not want to use a place that belonged to the Ancients.
Suddenly another contraction wracked her. They were getting harder to ride. A silent, growing terror told her that soon she would be swamped, drowned by the sensation. From experience she knew there was a point where the body took over and the mind simply had to go with it. She wanted to be safe before that point came.
Walking on rocks warmed by the hot pools, she made her way into the mist-shrouded ravine. Her damp clothes had begun to dry, but now they clung to her. A shiver shook her.
Was that a cleft in the rocks? Imoshen picked her way over slippery stones to investigate. It was the entrance to a cave. Suddenly she felt an increase in pressure and her waters broke, flooding her legs with hot fluid. Her knees almost gave way. She wanted to cry out, but bit back the sound.
Trembling, barely able to walk, she felt her way into the cave. It grew lighter and opened into a natural cavern with a central pool. A shaft of sunlight poured in through a gap in the rocks above. Steam shimmered on the water’s surface. It was a beautiful place. A good place.
Imoshen felt the tightening of her muscles, a sharp clenching as if she was about to cough. Already? She panted, fighting the urge to push. Picking a spot where she could rest her back against the rock, she stripped off her sodden breeches and sank to a crouch ready for the work of birthing.
That was when she saw the creature standing in the mist, aglow with light. It was a child who was neither male nor female, the child with the ancient eyes.
Imoshen would have screamed but the urge to push gripped her. She caught her breath and went with it. The baby’s head moved. There was barely time to catch her breath before the urge came again. She felt the baby move again and guessed that its head was emerging. Her skin was stretching impossibly.
Panting, she looked up. The ancient creature was still there. Not threatening, just watching.
Once more her muscles contracted. She felt her skin tear as the bloodied head emerged into her hands. By feel she searched for the cord. It wasn’t around the neck.
She gulped a breath and went with the last contraction. She had intended to maneuver the infant, easing first one shoulder then the other, but her body wanted to be rid of it. The force of the push tore her further as the shoulders emerged.
Panting, she looked up. The creature was watching intently.
Then the baby’s body came, slithering out at her feet into her hands. Stunned, she stared at the baby boy, hardly able to believe he was her son, very much her flesh and blood. The cord pulsed with life. For now they were still one.
He writhed in her hands, his little head turning, black hair plastered to his head.
Alarm pierced her. The Ancient was still observing her.
She had to get out of here.
Imoshen lifted the baby to her chest and chewed through the cord, pinching it closed. She could not risk using her healing gift in case it drew Reothe, so she tied the cord off with a strip of material.
The baby sucked in a breath and exclaimed to the world. His mouth opened and his arms splayed out, fingers spread. Imoshen laughed.
Six fingers.
Pride stirred her. He was more T’En than True-man.
Would he ever stop yelling and look at her? She wanted to see his eyes. The hair was all Tulkhan.
Stupid man. He should have been here to greet his son. Imoshen frowned as another contraction took her. The afterbirth. It was not as painful as the baby.
True to her training, she checked that it was intact. She had no intention of dying of child-bed fever. The Aayel’s T’Enchiridion remained in her saddlebags but she did not need it to say the right words. Imoshen shivered. She would have to find a safe place to bury her son’s afterbirth then say the words to bind his soul. But for the moment she let herself rest, leaning her head against the rock wall. It was so good not to be in pain.
Yet even as she crouched there cradling the hot, slippery body of her baby, her gaze never left the Ancient. What did it want? Was it merely observing because she had entered its sacred place? She felt a grim smile part her lips. Surely enough blood had been spilt to satisfy it.
Birthing was a messy business. She would have liked to wash herself and the baby in the warm pools but the presence of the Ancient oppressed her. Collecting the afterbirth and her clothing, she rose to her knees and then to her feet. She felt reassured by the warm bundle of life in her arms. Keeping a watch on the creature, she headed for the cave’s entrance, walking carefully across the smooth rocks because her center of balance had changed.
Suddenly the Ancient began moving. Making no overt threat, it rose from the water’s surface to the rock, its feet never touching the stone. It positioned itself between her and the patch of daylight.
Imoshen hugged her son to her chest, heart pounding so violently she thought she might be sick. “Keep away!”
The voice was hers, but she’d never heard it sound so feral, so full of contained violence. It frightened her.
The Ancient said nothing.
Imoshen glanced around the cave. The only other way out was through the hole in the roof directly over the hot pool. It would have been an impossible climb even without the baby in her arms. She had no choice.
Though she could feel the power of the Ancient rad
iating like heat from an oven, she forced herself to step nearer, edging sideways in an attempt to slip past.
It shifted to block her and extended its arms, palms up.
A moan escaped Imoshen. “You cannot have him!”
The ancient creature lifted a hand indicating the afterbirth.
Imoshen gasped. She could not condemn her son to life without a soul. At best he would be a heartless killer, at worst dead within a day. “No. The soul must be bound to—”
In her head she heard the Aayel reciting the T’Enchiridion. Only they were not the words of birth, but the opening of the death calling. She forced them from her mind. The last thing she needed now was to call the Parakletos. But she understood the Ancients’ message—they would either take her son’s life force or his soul.
It was her decision.
If the Ancient had asked for her own life she would have given it willingly, but she could not bring herself to part with her child.
Tears blinded her as she handed over the afterbirth.
The Ancients had claimed her son for their own. In life he would be theirs to call on.
Tulkhan glanced up at the lookout’s signal. It was just on dusk and the cooking fires were going strong. The smell of rich stew hung over the half-built fortress.
“What is it?” he yelled.
“You’d better come and see.”
He didn’t like that tone. Something had startled the watch.
Tulkhan strode past the nearest campfire. He was careful to hide any trace of fear. His men had to believe in him. It had seemed so simple when he believed in himself. But all the rules had changed since he had taken Imoshen’s Stronghold and now he doubted everything, his own decisions most of all.
Springing lightly up the ladder he climbed onto the lookout tower. The knuckles of his right hand hurt where he had injured them working wood.
Looking down he saw Imoshen. She stood there in one of his shirts, hugging something. His heart soared. She had come to him ready to renounce Reothe. Tulkhan’s first impulse was to let her in. But he checked himself. There was no horse, no sign of companions.
It could not be Imoshen. It was a trick. Reothe baited him with the illusion of Imoshen. The attack he had been expecting had begun.
“Should I open the gate, General?” the watch asked.
“No. Prepare for attack. That is not my wife.”
“You fool!” Imoshen cried. “I am tired and hungry. I have walked a day and a night in bare feet through the ravines to bring you your son. Let me in!”
He had to grin. That certainly sounded like Imoshen.
“Who knows when my son is due, Shape-changer.”
“Babies come when they are ready. If I don’t get some food soon, I will drop!”
Tulkhan stared at Imoshen’s upturned face, torn by his need to believe she was really there and the sheer impossibility of her appearance. How could it be Imoshen? She was back in the palace. She would not have come to him without attendants. In fact, he had expressly forbid it. That made him smile—forbidding Imoshen to do something was not going to stop her.
Still, he had to be sure. “How did my mother die?”
“She died alone from fever without anything to ease her passing. Now let me in, General.”
It was Imoshen. Only she called him General in that fond, exasperated tone, and only she knew his secret guilt about his mother’s death. “Open the gate.”
Tulkhan turned and sprang lightly down the ladder, even as his men opened the makeshift gate. He darted through before it was fully open and swept Imoshen off her feet.
“Careful, you’ll hurt the baby!” she warned.
He glanced down, seeing a small face, its mouth opening to launch a cry. He was shocked even though Imoshen had said she carried the babe.
“Shut the gate.” He marched across the campsite, Imoshen in his arms, a squalling infant in hers. His men stopped their tasks, mouths agape. Those nearest strained to see.
“Put me down. He needs to be fed,” Imoshen urged.
He let her slide to the ground by his fire. There were a hundred questions to be asked, but the baby demanded precedence, its tiny arms windmilling with frustration. That shock of dark hair stood straight up.
“He’s mine!”
“Of course he’s yours!” Imoshen muttered, struggling to unlace the shirt one-handed.
“You can’t feed him here. My men will see!”
“I’ll feed him where I please. He’s hungry, and if your men don’t like it they can look away. Besides, they were all babies once!”
Tulkhan saw the anger in her face but he also saw the exhaustion. “Very well.”
“I don’t need your permission!” Her fingers caught on the laces and she cursed, fumbling to undo a knot.
When Tulkhan took his son from her, the boy yelled so indignantly that he had to grin. He was unmistakably a Ghebite. Let Reothe try to claim him now! He turned and held the child out for his men to see. The naked bundle struggled in his hands, screaming lustily. A ragged cheer broke from his men.
“If you’re quite finished?” Imoshen had knelt by the fire at his side.
He handed the baby to her and she leaned against the wall of the building behind them. Instinctively Tulkhan stepped between Imoshen and his men to shield her from their gaze. He could not help but watch as the baby turned its face to her breast, mouth open. Without any guidance from her it latched onto her nipple, sucking vigorously.
How could it be so little, yet know what to do?
“My feet,” Imoshen whispered. “And food.”
He knelt to look at her feet. They were covered in blood and mud. “How did you get here in this state?”
“I walked. I’ll have some of that stew. I don’t care if it’s not ready.” She kept talking as he ladled out a serving. “To escape from Reothe’s people I had to leave my boots and horse behind.”
“What? Reothe had you abducted from the palace? How?”
“I was on my way here. Some bread too.” She accepted a bowl of stew, scooping up the sauce with the hard bread. The baby remained tucked in the crook of her arm and both of them fed with absolute concentration.
“How long since you last ate?” Tulkhan asked.
“Evening, three days ago. This one was born yesterday just after dawn.” She tore at a piece of bread with sharp white teeth, chewing vigorously. “I was coming to warn you. You won’t like this but I did a scrying. I saw you fall defending this fort. I came to warn you that Reothe’s going to attack.”
This was what he wanted to hear, proof of her loyalty, and yet perversely he found himself wondering if she had planned this with Reothe so she could open the fortress from within when his back was turned.
“You don’t believe me.” Imoshen’s voice sounded weary and indignant. “Why do I bother?”
He stared across the fire at her. There were bruised circles under her eyes and her gaze shimmered with unshed tears. As he watched they rolled down her cheeks, glistening in the firelight.
Before he could stop himself, he crossed the fire circle to kneel before her. He used his thumbs to brush the tears from her face.
She twisted her head to be free of his hands.
Tulkhan rubbed his jaw, feeling the bristles of the beard he hadn’t bothered to remove since leaving T’Diemn. “If the scrying says I’m going to die here, what difference can warning me make?”
She shrugged. “Scrying is not an exact science. I told you that before. I am here and the baby has been born, so things are not exactly as I foresaw them in the scrying. It was one possible path and now we are on another, hopefully one which will not lead to your death. Here, hold this.”
She gave him the half-eaten bowl of stew and changed the baby to the other breast. The babe protested vehemently but settled down when he found a fresh nipple.
Tulkhan had to admire his son’s single-mindedness.
“My food.” Imoshen held out her hand. “This is a good spot for a fortress
, but we are vulnerable to attack right now. If I were Reothe I would make a clean sweep and be rid of us altogether.”
Tulkhan tried to concentrate on what she was saying. He had trouble discussing tactics with Imoshen in this situation. A Ghebite woman would never discuss such things with her husband, let alone do it while breastfeeding his son. Females were considered unclean while they were making milk, as they were when they were bleeding or pregnant. Even their normal places in the temples were forbidden to them at these times, when the priests claimed they became channels for evil spirits because of their inferior souls.
“General, are you listening to me? I didn’t come all this way to die in a surprise attack.” Imoshen fixed angry eyes on him.
Tulkhan concentrated on her features. Imoshen was not a channel for evil. He had seen too many different religions fail to save people to have faith in the teachings of Ghebite priests.
“Do you have people posted outside the fortifications ready to give the alarm?” she asked.
He nodded.
She looked down tenderly. The baby had fallen asleep with her nipple in his mouth. “Can I have a blanket to wrap him in?”
He took out his own blanket and laid it on the ground. She wrapped the baby and picked him up, then held him toward Tulkhan.
“What?” What was he supposed to do with a baby?
“Hold him. I want to get clean and treat my feet, then find some more clothes.”
Gingerly Tulkhan took the sleeping bundle. Imoshen called for warm water and spare clothes, then climbed the central tower.
Tulkhan sank beside the fire, feasting his eyes on his two-day old son. Who would have thought? So much black hair and such perfect little features.
The baby gave a whimper, his hands splaying wide.
Tulkhan blinked and caught one little palm, the baby’s fingers closing around his finger, holding on tightly.
Six fingers.
His son was half Dhamfeer. How could he not be?
Tulkhan tried to withdraw his finger. The baby’s hold tightened. The boy was a determined little thing. The General felt a surge of pride. His son had not taken the full year from conception to birth but he was still half Dhamfeer. So be it.
DARK DREAMS Page 33