Moons' Dreaming (Children of the Rock)

by Krause, Marguerite

  Dinner arrived, platters and bowls and baskets and jugs, in the arms of three more servants. Palle hurried through the door in their wake. “Dear cousin! It is a pleasure to see you again!”

  “And you, cousin.”

  In truth, Damon saw little to please him, and less to respect, in the self-proclaimed King of Dherrica. Palle wore his thin, brown hair long and tied back from his face, in the fashion of a guard, but the conceit ended there. The rounded torso, the hint of a double chin, and the shortness of breath with which he greeted Damon suggested that he devoted most of his time to enjoying the privileges of his position, and none to such tedious matters as swordsmanship, or any other physical exercise.

  Damon had no illusions about his own skill with a blade, and no interest in improving it, either. Warrior kings like Hion, or the over-active Sene of Sitrine, were relics of the past. A king did not have to take up a sword with his own hands. That’s what guards were for. Damon knew the strengths and limitations of those who served him as intimately as his mother knew the traits of each horse she so carefully raised and trained. Captain Dael was his sword, keen-edged, strong, designed for public displays of heroism and the committing of mighty deeds. Palim was his dagger, just as deadly, and suited to the quick, silent thrust. Like any weapon, they demanded strength in the hand that wielded them. For that reason, he would never allow himself to sink into the self-indulgent softness that had trapped Palle.

  Palle prattled on about inconsequentials—the weather, last autumn’s harvest—while the servants set the table and finished making the room comfortable. As far as the servants, and everyone else in Bronle, were concerned, Damon was the younger son of a minor Shaper family with holdings somewhere near the Rhenlan border. In Rhenlan, the only person who knew of his secret visits to the king of Dherrica was the invaluable Palim. Dael would have been worried for his safety. After all, the princess of Dherrica had died during her visit to the court of Rhenlan. Hion would not be concerned for his safety, because it was clear that Palle offered no threat. The man couldn’t even capture his own nephew, despite numerous opportunities provided by Pirse’s regular appearances throughout the kingdom. Hion would have objected only because he would want to be in charge of their dealings with Dherrica, and Damon had no intention of permitting that. Palle belonged to him, not to his father.

  Damon’s guard stepped into the corridor after the last of the servants and closed the door behind him, leaving Damon alone with Palle. The king said, “I understand the need for discretion, my lad, but don’t you think you’re taking it a bit too far?” He cast a disdainful glance around the sitting room. “Especially at this time of year. It takes hours to get the chill out of these rooms.”

  “You are too considerate, Your Majesty.” Damon seated himself at the table and took a sip of wine. He had no intention of ever giving Palle advance warning of his arrival. Even now, his guards, both Rhenlaners who had grown up close enough to the border that they could pass as Dherricans, were taking advantage of their surprise arrival to gather all the latest news and gossip from the stables and guard barracks. If Palle had time to prepare for his visits, who knew what he might do? At the least, he might give away the fact that his young visitor was someone more important than a lowly cousin. At the worst, with time to plan he might get some inconvenient ideas, and that Damon could not allow.

  “How fares your father, and the beautiful Queen Gallia? They are well, I trust?”

  “Never better,” Damon replied. He had spent a tedious afternoon with his mother at her beloved Horse Fair. Long enough to flatter her with praise of her herds, and confirm her continued disinterest in the business of running the kingdom. As for Hion, although he hid it well, his weakness grew with each passing season. The fact of Hion’s illness, however, was a secret that Damon had shared with no one, not even Palim. He most certainly would not mention it to Palle.

  “And what of your family, Your Majesty? What news of the prince?”

  A grimace crossed Palle’s face. “Really, Prince Damon, I do not think it proper that you share your respected title with my lawless nephew. Pirse gave up all status and position with his cowardly attack on my dear sister Dea.”

  “If there is any truth in the tales that reach Rhenlan, many Dherricans consider Pirse more hero than coward.”

  “The misplaced gratitude of ignorant sheep herders. Those mountain villages are so isolated, the people are impressed by any idiot who can lift a sword without chopping off his own hand.”

  “Too isolated to be reached by normal guard patrols, I gather.”

  “The royal guard protects every town and village in my kingdom, no matter how small or how distant from Bronle!”

  “I never meant to imply otherwise. And of course they can’t protect the villagers from Pirse, because the villagers refuse to recognize him as a danger.”

  “Exactly! On top of that, it’s too easy for one man to elude a troop of guards, especially in the winter. When he comes north in the spring, away from the aid of his village dupes, we’ll have a better chance to catch up with him.”

  “So you said last year—and the year before that, and the year before that.”

  “Pirse is a clever, dangerous opponent. Trust me, my dear Damon. You would not find it an easy matter to deal with him, were you in my position.”

  “Of course not, Your Majesty. I meant no criticism. However, my offer of assistance stands. Say the word, and I can send a dozen troops of guards to aid in your next hunt for your nephew.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Well, at least you may rest assured that if I ever find that Pirse has set foot outside of Dherrica, by my vow, he will be hunted down and killed like the lawless Abstainer he is.”

  “Abstainer he may be, but I would prefer him captured, not killed.” Palle passed his hand over his high forehead, wiping away a sheen of sweat that was not caused by the young fire on the hearth. “When a ruling Shaper commits such a heinous crime, he should be judged before the law readers and his own people.”

  “Not that it is even an issue,” Damon said. “Your border patrols will never permit Pirse to enter Rhenlan.”

  “Exactly.”

  Palle refilled Damon’s wine glass and deftly turned the conversation away from the troublesome Pirse. Damon allowed himself to be distracted, at least for the moment. He would not argue with Palle about the competence of his border guards or the inaccessibility of Dherrica’s mountain villages. Damon knew, even if Palle didn’t, that if Palle were king in more than name he could have inspired the Keepers of Dherrica to locate and capture Pirse within the first half-year after Dea’s death. Even without the cooperation of the outlying villages, Palle’s guardsmen should have been loyal enough, and competent enough, to catch up with Pirse at least once in the past almost-four years.

  Instead, for some reason that Damon did not yet completely understand, Pirse remained free. Rumor said that he protected villagers against Abstainers during the harsh mountain winters, which could explain his popularity among the Keepers. Damon had heard nothing to suggest that Pirse did not spend all of his time within the borders of Dherrica, but it didn’t hurt to raise the suspicion in Palle’s mind.

  Every spring, Palle said that he was going to bring Pirse to justice, and every spring he allowed the fugitive prince to slip through his nets. Why? Perhaps Palle had less control over his guard troops than he liked to pretend. Did they fail to obey Palle’s orders to capture the prince—or did they refuse? The other possibility was that Pirse’s continued freedom had something to do with his role as dragon slayer. Damon knew all the tales about dragons and the deadly danger they represented, and believed about half of them. Rhenlan, however, was rarely visited by dragons. Damon had never seen one. Yet they seemed important to Palle, important enough that he let Pirse live, even though that weakened his authority as king. Did Palle know more than he was telling Damon?

  Damon leaned his elbows on the table, and turned the conversation to th
e subject of dragons.

  * * *

  “You’re daft,” Doron insisted.

  “I’m not arguing, am I?” Pirse replied patiently.

  She gave him credit for the patience. Everything else he had done appalled her. “What if there’d been an early blizzard? You of all people should know better than to risk the high roads so soon after midwinter—and the pass from Larch Valley at that!”

  Because he was sitting behind her on the bed, she couldn’t see his face. His fingers continued to knead the back of her neck. “I had to be here.”

  “Then you should have come earlier.”

  “Well, it’s done. I’m here. Don’t get yourself in a dither.”

  “I do not dither.”

  She intended to say more. Instead, she had to inhale with the beginning of another contraction.

  “Don’t push yet,” warned the Brownmother who sat at the foot of the bed.

  Doron nodded, panting a little, lost in the contradiction of having to try to relax her muscles while the very center of her body insisted otherwise. Finally, the incredible tension eased and the contraction faded away.

  “All right?” Pirse murmured in her ear.

  “I’d rather be dyeing wool.” Lifting skeins of wet wool in and out of vats never tired her as much as the last few hours had done.

  “You’re doing fine,” Brownmother Seildon said with a smile for Pirse. “One more like that and I think we’ll be ready to get to work.”

  “Good,” Pirse said. “The sooner we finish the sooner we can all have something to eat. I know I’m getting hungry.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Doron snapped. His patience she could live with. His determination to be cheerful was another matter.

  “Of course not,” the Brownmother agreed. “Dinner should be the last thing on your mind, Your Highness.”

  “Sorry.”

  Deprived of one reason to be annoyed, Doron transferred her attention to the woman who had arrived with Pirse. Brownmother Seildon was pleasant enough to look at, perhaps older than herself, certainly plumper and much shorter. In the warmth of the house she’d removed her black robes long enough to shed several layers of woolen tunics and trousers. Then she’d resumed her robes, rolled up her sleeves, convinced a still astounded Doron to allow herself to be examined, and sent Pirse to bring in extra firewood with the pronouncement that the baby would be born before the day was out. Doron had fumed quietly for an hour as Seildon and Pirse bustled about, moving her bed, foraging in her cupboard, and generally disregarding her venomous glares. She had almost worked herself up to throwing them both out, falling snow or no falling snow, when she felt her water break. She must have made some sound of surprise, because Seildon took one look at her and ordered her to bed.

  After that she lost her desire to be alone. Seildon’s confidence and obvious experience was rather comforting. She fixed a hot drink for Doron that dulled the labor pains to manageable aches. Pirse obeyed the instructions she gave him immediately and without question. He’d spoken to Doron of Raisal and Rhenlan and the fact that Brown and Redmothers were still relatively common there. Still, she had never expected to meet one. She certainly hadn’t expected him to bring a Brownmother directly from Garden Vale, a student of Greenmother Jenil, just to midwife her. Juniper Ridge had several women skilled in midwifing. She’d intended to call one of them. What if they thought she didn’t trust them?

  “That’s another thing,” she complained aloud. “If you’d come a day later, you would have missed the birth in spite of everything. What would have been the use of your foolishness then?”

  Although she’d meant the words for Pirse, Seildon was the one to reply. “Call the journey dangerous, but not foolish. Even if we had been delayed I don’t believe it would have made a difference. The child would have waited for us.”

  “Indeed?” Pirse sounded skeptical, which delighted Doron.

  Seildon remained unperturbed. “Indeed. The gods speak to Dreamers, you know.”

  Another contraction swept through Doron, gripping her body as tightly as the confusion that gripped her mind. She kept forgetting this child would not be like her. Or like Pirse. Trying to forget. She didn’t know how to raise a Dreamer child! Pirse said there was nothing to worry about, that children were children, but Doron had heard enough tales to know that Dreamer children required special training. Bending of power, they called it. Dreamers had to be taught the laws of magic. Pirse said such training was years away. Far off it might be, but the moment was there, waiting for her, for this child she had yet to meet. This child, who was presently doing her best to burst into the world.

  “Are you comfortable?” Seildon asked. Doron looked up in disbelief, only to discover that the Brownmother was looking past her, at Pirse. “You have to be braced to support her.”

  Pirse shifted very slightly behind her. “I’m ready.”

  “Good. With the next contraction, Doron, you push.”

  The contraction began an instant later. Doron lost track of everything except the demands of her body. At some point Seildon shifted from the bed to the floor, and knelt close between Doron’s legs, offering encouragement. Doron wasn’t sure whether the encouragement was for her or for Pirse or for the baby. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the need of the baby to be free.

  Doron was able to rest for a moment after the head emerged. She relaxed her crushing grip on Pirse’s hands. He bent his head to peer at her face, and gently brushed a few damp strands of hair from her forehead.

  Another flurry of activity and it was over. Seildon lay the naked baby on her stomach and draped a blanket over them both while they waited for the afterbirth.

  “Her eyes,” Doron whispered. “She’s looking at me.”

  “An alert, healthy daughter,” Seildon confirmed. “You should be very proud of yourselves.”

  Pirse reached over Doron’s shoulder to touch a tiny fist. “Should she be so small?”

  “She is not small,” the Brownmother said firmly. “She’s a perfectly normal-sized baby.”

  “Oh.”

  Seildon set the prince to work clearing away the soiled bedclothes and straightening up while she made Doron comfortable. As soon as she and the baby were clean and dry—admittedly a temporary state for her daughter—Doron snuggled the baby to her breast and contentedly closed her eyes.

  * * *

  The faint glow from the embers of the banked fire provided the only illumination in the sleeping loft. On the bed, a mound of blankets muffled the outlines of the sleepers. The black-robed figure materialized next to the fireplace. Cedar-scented smoke mixed unobtrusively with the other odors of the hearth. Leaning forward soundlessly, Morb peered at the tiny face beneath its cap of black hair. The mother, lying on her side with one arm crooked protectively over her infant, slept on. Behind her, the blanket moved. Morb straightened and disappeared.

  Outside, a row of three black-hooded figures leaned with various degrees of patience against the yard fence. The row became four. Sheyn and Keyn floated high above the treetops; their light sparkled on the snow. Aage’s teeth flashed in a quick, appreciative grin. “She’s going to be a beauty,” he told the other wizard.

  Jenil buried her hands in her sleeves. “You might give the child a decade or two to grow up.”

  “They should move to a warmer part of the world.” Morb shifted from one sandal-clad foot to the other. “Wherever the child is trained, it won’t do to have her snow-bound here half the year.”

  “Be honest,” Jenil said. “It’s the Prince’s mobility you’re worried about.”

  “The dragons aren’t going to stop coming,” Morb warned.

  Savyea glanced over at him. “You should have worn boots, dear.”

  “Too uncomfortable,” Morb grouched back.

  “Parenthood won’t make the Prince give up monster-slaying,” Aage said. “According to Sene, if anything, a wife and family will make him more diligent.”

  “More aware of the need
s of this village, certainly,” Jenil said. “No harm in widening his perspective.”

  They contemplated the silent house and its unsuspecting occupants for a long moment.

  Savyea spoke, voice warm with approval. “They named her Emlie.”

  “I’m glad,” Jenil agreed.

  “Well, time we all got back to work,” Morb said.

  One by one, the cloaked shapes, black as their double shadows, winked out of sight.

  Chapter 38

  Snow squeaked beneath Vray’s boots as she emerged from the river path onto the village square. The thinly clouded sky was bright, almost as white as the layer of snow that blanketed the landscape. The cloth cover of a mattress propped against an upended table was a conspicuous splash of color in the center of the square. A short distance to Vray’s right, at the edge of the square in front of the smithy, Jordy and his three archer apprentices stood in a loose line, facing the mattress.

  Vray paused. She had spent an entire morning trying to establish a chronological order for some of old Cannisi’s ramblings, and she longed for the comforting silence of lunch with Cyril. It was not the least bit amusing to find her route blocked by the makeshift archery range Jordy had set up just after the midwinter gathering.

  Today’s archery lesson seemed to be taking longer than usual. The only safe course would be to go around behind Jordy and his pupils. That would require exchanging at least a minimal greeting with the carter. Vray’s seething dissatisfaction intensified at the thought. She had managed to avoid him for nearly a nineday, mostly by making herself aware of his plans and then arranging to be elsewhere herself. So far he’d ignored her absences from meals, but she couldn’t guess how long such permissiveness would continue. Tob and Pepper were already annoyed with her, and Matti regarded her with wide, troubled eyes when she came down for her late breakfasts. Neither girl had asked for a bedtime story for the past three nights. Cyril, as always, seemed oblivious to the people around her.

  The rest of the village, as far as Vray knew, was equally unaware of any tension in the carter’s household. That would change, however, instantly and irretrievably, if she snubbed Jordy publicly. She didn’t want to become the focus of village attention. She wasn’t ready to be any kind of center of attention. It would serve no purpose.