by Matthew Cook
Within minutes, I heard a scream from ahead, and redoubled my pace. By the time I reached my children, they already had a third man down, his body lying half in the stream. Ribbons of blood threaded the clear water, issuing from a dozen gashes. The horned sweetling was burdened with his former companion's sword, the blade driven clear through its chest. It ignored the inconvenience. Its thorny limbs held him face-down in the water.
"Turn him,” I whispered. “I do not want him to drown."
The sweetling flipped him, and the man gasped for air. When he saw me, saw my black eyes, he began to cry. Inside, the blood lust growled like a cat, a sound almost perfectly mirrored by my sister.
I walked to him and pressed my mouth to his, then allowed the blood magic to drive deep into his body. His screams were silenced by my hungry mouth. A second later, his life came up in a hot flood, spurting past my lips. The stolen vitality was like a bolt of liquid fire. I threw back my head, the blood sheeting down my chin and breasts, and laughed.
"Come,” I ordered, dropping the empty shell. I rose, my body made whole once more made by the man's sacrifice.
The sweetlings followed, falling in behind me.
I knew that Urik and the last man were still out there, somewhere. I headed downstream.
Soon, the sound of splashing reached me. They were not trying to be quiet. Their confidence made me grin.
Fools, my sister purred. They should run.
"It's too late for that,” I whispered, and sent my children forward. I strolled down the stream, as fresh screams and shouts filled the air. I heard blades scraping on bone spurs, then the flat snap of a bow.
I stopped. The thrumming was repeated, as the archer let loose with a second shaft.
I hurried forward, into a clearing. The sweetlings, both of them, had the fourth man down, their limbs rising and falling like threshing tools, gathering their harvest of rent flesh and blood. The man twitched beneath them, curled tight around his vitals.
Across the clearing stood Urik, Marcus's hunting bow in his hands. They were shaking, and his shot missed the sweetling by feet. It ignored him, intent on ripping its former compatriot to shreds.
"Why?” I asked, and Urik looked at me. He dropped the fresh arrow he was pulling from his quiver. His eyes went wide in his lean face as he took in my blood-smeared body, my blacked eyes.
"I ... you killed Marcus,” he said.
"He killed my sister. He deserved death."
"Not like that,” he spat. “What you did...” he shivered.
I stood, impassive, as my children finished with the fourth man. Urik watched the process, his horror-filled eyes wide. My sister was right: he should have run.
When his struggles stopped, I opened my third eye, whispered the command to his shade. My third sweetling pulled from its fleshy prison a moment later, joining his brothers. With each birth I felt a small part of me diminish, drained by the effort of compelling the fallen soul.
I looked at Urik. His eyes, when they met mine, were still full of the same defiant rage and apocalyptic love as I had seen before. Even facing the explicit threat of the triplets, he did not run. A thought came to me.
"You wanted this,” I said. “You sought me out because you knew that doing so would be your death."
He began to stammer a denial, his face reddening, as I remembered it did when I caught him in some lie. A profound sadness filled me.
Of course he desired death, my sister whispered. You took everything from him. His friend, his wife: everything that made him important, leaving behind a broken, used up thing. Making such half-formed horrors is your one true calling.
The words cut deep, sawing across the cords of my raving bloodlust, bringing me back to myself. Urik dropped the useless bow and quiver, then sank to his knees.
"So end it,” he said, resigned. “Whatever you've become, the woman I married ... the woman I loved ... is every bit as dead as Marcus."
"You're wrong,” I said, calling back my sweetlings. “I live, and love, despite your best efforts to kill me. To twist me into some pale ghost of the woman I was."
My children came to heel, arraying themselves behind me. They stirred and hissed; they could feel my rage, and my sister's. They hungered to rip, and tear, and destroy, anything that might harm me.
Kill him! My sister screamed. Kill! He does not deserve life!
I walked to Urik's side, reached down and stroked his rough cheek. I tried to remember a time when I was happy with him, when things were different, but no memory came. Still, I had made a vow, sworn in the sight of the gods.
Weak, useless vows sworn under duress, she spat. The words meant nothing. You have already broken their most cherished laws. You are beyond them.
The blood magic sang inside of me, threading its obsidian melody through my sister's words. It would be so simple.
"Go,” I breathed. “Go, and never seek me out again. If we ever meet again, then one of us will surely die."
Urik blinked up at me, and suddenly there was the man I remembered. Weak. Indecisive. Pathetic. The thought of tasting his blood, of raising a child from his flesh, sickened me.
"Go!” I thundered, my bellow shattering the allure of the music. The cry woke an answering hiss from the sweetlings.
Urik flinched as if I had slapped him. Then he was running, the sweetlings at his heels, nipping and biting. His thrashings faded, slowly, as he fled.
I bent and picked up Marcus's bow. Before that moment, I had never taken a trophy.
Chapter Fifteen
I am dreaming.
Unusual for me, that. My sister used to have such vivid dreams, visions of elegant people and far-off places. Most mornings, meeting her at our shared garden wall, she would tell me of them, describing every small detail of every phantasm she had met that night. Myself, I seldom saw anything in the black between sleep and waking, or if I did, I forgot.
But now, I dream.
I am in my mother's house, surrounded by her things. The proud clock; the threadbare rug; the good silver that we never used, winking in its locked cabinet. The house is quiet but not still. Somehow I know that there are others here with me. I look up the stairs; somewhere above me, a baby cries. I start up, surprised to find that I am a little girl again. The steps seem weirdly tall to my child's legs.
The crying comes from the last room at the end of the hall. My old room. Our old room. A woman's voice speaks softly, soothingly, the words indistinguishable.
I pause with my hand on the knob. What if she does not want to be disturbed? Mother was always so adamant that polite young ladies did not interrupt adults when they were busy, and I want so badly to be good.
The sound of the baby's happy gurgle decides me, and I open the door. Inside, our old room is empty. All the toys I remember: the dollhouse with the tiny, gilt furniture; the shelf of porcelain figurines; the hobby-horse beneath the window overlooking the yard; all missing.
The beds and wardrobe are gone as well. Nothing sits on the polished wooden floor save a single rocking chair. In it, a woman with long, pale hair sits, a babe at her breast.
I come around, and look into her emerald eyes. They are white, not black. Certainly not black. She looks down at the babe, a warm smile spreading across her lips, then bends to brush a kiss across his forehead.
He is a chubby little thing, all pale, waving limbs and perfect, pink skin. His pudgy fists grasp a strand of her hair, holding it tight, like a charm.
She cannot see me. This does not disturb me; I am happy to simply watch the exchange between mother and child, to witness this most intimate embrace.
"Kirin,” I hear my mother say, as she walks down the hall, “do you need anything?"
"No, mother, I'm just fine,” she replies. “We're just fine, aren't we?” she whispers to the child. He smiles back at her, the plump nipple still in his mouth.
A wave of vertigo sweeps over me. Is this really Kirin? Or is it myself? I know that what I am seeing never happened. Kirin s
eldom visited my parents after Vanessa, her daughter, was born, and Mother never got around to having Father clean out our old room.
I decide that it does not matter. The look of placid, calm love on the woman's face, mine or my sister's, makes all such concerns trivial. The babe's eyes close, slowly, until he is sleeping, his lips still working fitfully at the breast. Kirin's face, my face, is filled with such love. It makes my heart ache, even as it swells.
I lie down on the boards as weariness sweeps over me. Warm sunlight spills through the open window, the golden beam alive with dancing dust. I wish then that I never had to leave this room, to end this moment. To keep that woman in the chair, the babe in her lap, forever.
I wake to the smell of clean hay and animals.
I lie, staring at the roof beams above, tears stinging my eyes. I want to close them, to try to return to that moment, but I know it is gone.
I sigh and roll onto my side. I see Lia, lying on a pallet opposite me, her back to the rough wood wall. Seeing her there, her cheek pillowed on her hands, reminds me of just how young she is. Little more than a child.
She is only a few years younger than you, my sister reminds me. She may even be older than you were when you married Urik.
"It's not just her age,” I whisper back. “Up until now, she's led a sheltered life, filled with family and school. She knows little of the real world."
Well, she knows now, doesn't she? she asks. I nod, remembering that Lia has helped Ato deal with the sick and the wounded in the hell of the mercy tent. Has tended the dead. Whatever she is now, I know that she will never be young again.
In the delicate, blue light that precedes the dawn, her skin and hair are pale beacons, shining like snow. She frowns, her brows drawing down, as something in her dream troubles her, then turns over.
I rise, wincing at the tenderness in my breasts as I sit. It has lasted for days. As soon as I am upright, a wave of nausea ripples through my belly.
I hurry from the stall, doing my best to be quiet. Others have taken shelter in the barn, many still slumbering on their rude beds of hay, and I do not wish to disturb them. Soon enough they will be submerged in the new day's share of pain and hardship; let them float in dreams for a bit longer.
As soon as I am outside, what little is in my stomach comes up in a heaving rush, spattering the wooden walls. I crouch in the acrid stench, miserable, until the spasms subside.
"Kirin?” a voice asks, behind me. “Are you unwell?"I turn to face her, a wry smile on my face, unexpectedly embarrassed. “I'm fine, Lia. Just a bit under the weather."
"Well, no wonder. You have had a rough few days. As have we all. Come, we should find something to eat,” she says, offering me a helping hand.
The sickness has driven away the last lingering sensations of peace that followed me from the dream. I am fully awake now, fully in the world, submerged in its stink and squalor. I wish I could crawl back into my nest of soft hay. Could close my eyes and return to that sunny, warm room.
We walk through the waking camp, threading our way between the tents and wagons scattered about the yard. The smells of smoke and cooking porridge waft on the breeze. The aroma wakes fresh echoes of roiling sickness in my stomach.
"My nurse always used to say ‘The fevered need feeding',” Lia says, oblivious to my discomfort. She looks at me. “Do you have a fever?"
"I'm not sure. I don't think so,” I manage to say, swallowing down the desire to vomit. “I can't afford to be sick just now."
We come to a freshly rebuilt fire, ringed by refugees. An iron cook pot hangs over the flames, tended by an aged goodwife in an apron. When she sees me, she waves me forward, to the front of the line.
Several people greet me, genuine warmth in their voices, as I get my breakfast. Many thank me for my help, or for helping their loved ones. I make promises to check on some of those needing bandages changed.
Finally, Lia hustles me away, two bowls in her hands, telling the people that I need to eat. We find a wagon, and sit on the back. Looking at me, she laughs.
"What?” I ask, taking my bowl. At the sight of the porridge, my stomach roils slowly, but I eat anyway. Food should not be wasted.
"Your face,” Lia says, answering my question. “It must have been a long time since people were actually appreciative of your skills."
I shrug. All that is in the past. If the people turn on me again, or if Ato finds some new charge of witchery to level at me—I will deal with it then.
Lia watches me struggle with the food, frowning a bit. I gag when I bring a fresh bite to my lips, and her eyes go wide. “How long have you had the sickness?” she asks, nodding towards my barely-touched breakfast. She is smiling now, practically beaming.
"A few days. Don't worry, I never get sick for long. It will pass.” Her radiant grin disarms me; it is so at odds with everything that has happened. I wonder what I have said to evoke it. Mentally, I shrug. Who can know why young people do what they do?
"Oh, it will likely pass, worry not,” she says, oblivious to my look. “My sister-in-law was sick to death in the mornings for nearly four months with her first. But it passed, eventually. After, she felt wonderful."
"Her first what?” I ask.
Lia gives me a long look, her smile changing to an expression of confusion. “Why, with her first child, of course. I am very excited for you, Kirin. Tell me, who is the father?"
I cannot reply. All I can do is sit, mouth opening and closing, my chest moving air into my lungs, mechanically, despite the growing weight pressing down on them. It feels heavier than a mountain, crushing me down.
Why, her first pregnancy, of course. Tell me, who is the father? Her words echo in my head, repeating over and over. First pregnancy. Father.
"Kirin? What is wrong? You are scaring me."
I jump from the wagon, my feet clumsy, and nearly stumble. “No,” I mutter, walking towards the nearest fire.
"That can't be right. I must have caught ill, what with all these people crammed together. This is just a sickness."
"Kirin?” Lia repeats. “I did not mean to pry. If you do not wish to speak of the baby I—"
"There is no baby!" I scream, whirling to face her. She stops, her eyes wide, mouth open. “There is no baby,” I repeat, shaking my head.
"But ... the morning sickness. And the nausea at food. It is just like when my—"
"I cannot have children,” I say, spitting the words like venom. “I was married, before. We ... I cannot have children like other women."
I had no trouble getting with child, my sister says. I can almost see the smug smile on her lips.
Has it never occurred to you that we are twins? That it might have been Urik's fault, not yours, that no child quickened in your womb? Women are never supposed to imply that a man is incapable, but you know that sometimes they are. Besides, you and Jazen Tor certainly had enough occasions to make a little one, did you not?
Her words, the unvarnished truth of them, stops me in my tracks. Lia says something, putting her hand on my shoulder, but I cannot hear her through the denials echoing through my head.
It cannot be, I whisper to myself. It must not be. Not a baby. Not mine. Not from my damaged, sorry womb. Not me. Not a baby. It must not be. It must not be.
But it is. You know it to be true.
I walk a few, faltering steps. I have lost all sense of direction. Me, a tracker. Lost and confused.
A pack of children run past, grubby boys and girls in tattered shifts, laughing at some game, their spirits unbroken by the misery about them. Pure, defiant joy is in their voices.
Then, without knowing how, I am kneeling in the mud, weeping, still protesting, pressing my face into Lia's chest as she holds me. She strokes my hair, whispering assurances, her confusion evident in every word.
All I can do is cling to her, like a shipwreck survivor holding fast to some piece of flotsam, struggling with all the strength I have to keep my head above the black tide.
My sister, for once, is silent.
* * * *
"So, you really did not know?” Lia repeats, for the dozenth time. I sigh, and Livinia, the midwife, chuckles.
"It's not uncommon to miss the signs the first time,” the older woman says, smiling. “And, to answer your question, yes, deary, you are most certainly with child. May Balasha, the Lady of the Wood, shower her favor upon you."
"Don't let the priests hear you say that name,” I say, automatically. “They dislike the competition."
The midwife snorts. “Let ‘em dislike it all they want. The people here know who I am, and know my skill. It'll take more than some blowhard in a homespun robe and an upstart, newcomer goddess to scare me.” She hawks and spits elaborately into the fire.I find myself liking this rangy old woman, with her cheerful blasphemy and coarse manners.
The three of us sit beside Livinia's fire. She has built it near the edge of the yard, where we can have a modicum of privacy. Blankets hang from ropes strung between a nearby tree and her wagon, creating a simple wall, hiding my body from curious eyes.
I straighten my clothes, not wanting Lia to see my scars, then laugh at my modesty. Livinia puts away the simple tools of her trade in her purse, chatting all the while.
"There are herbs you'll be wanting to gather; teas that will help with the morning sickness and the thinning of the blood that you may fall prey to. I can help you find them."
"I know them,” I say, distantly, my mind still mostly elsewhere.
"Kirin is a healer,” Lia says proudly, patting my shoulder.
Livinia nods, and pulls some dried plants from her satchel. “Of course she is. I'm not senile you know. Well, here's some to get you started, until you can gather more. Do you have a mortar and pestle?"
"No, I ... that is ... perhaps ... if I could borrow yours, goodwoman..."
"Of course, deary, of course. Whatever you and the babe need, just ask."
The babe. The concept is still so strange to me, so bizarre. I had been so sure that I was barren. That I could never know the joy of motherhood. So sure that my sweetlings were the only life that I could bring into the world—