Thunderlord

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Alayna tried her best to comply. The muscles of her pelvic floor kept trying to wring themselves into knots. She could not draw a proper breath, and she could keep her eyes closed, no matter what. She squeezed her brows together until they threatened to go into spasm.

  “Heavens, child, I meant to relax, not to tighten every muscle in your face.” Jerana smoothed the space between Alayna’s brows just as another spasm began.

  “It hurts!”

  “Yes, chiya, I know. Such is the lot of women everywhere. Dimitra, fetch me tincture of golden-flower from the herb room, the same of valerian. And motherwort, if there is any.”

  “Is that safe?” Dimitra added something Alayna could not make out.

  “It is the lesser of the ills she must contend with.” Jerana’s clothing rustled as she got to her feet. She was giving instructions, something about hot water and plenty of towels, wine warmed to the temperature of blood—

  There had been so much blood.

  Someone held a cup to her lips. The rim clinked against her teeth. The smell was acrid. She tried to push it away, but her hands were caught and held, and the next moment she needed, needed to scream, and warm, bitter wine flooded her mouth. She swallowed convulsively.

  “Again,” said Jerana.

  The fumes stung her nostrils, but the inside of her mouth had gone numb, and she could hardly taste the next swallow, or the one after that. Her body rebelled, or perhaps it was yet another agonizing spasm. This one, however, did not build to a peak as had the ones before. It lifted her so that it seemed some other woman lay on her bed, blood soaking into layer after layer of toweling, heart beating light and fast like that of a snared bird.

  It’s too late, she thought, but could not summon the energy to care.

  “She’s coming around.” The voice was light, feminine, young. Shayla?

  “Summon the leronis.” Dimitra. “And send word to Lord Scathfell.”

  Alayna tried to open her eyes. They felt gummy, as if she had cried herself to sleep. Have I been ill? And then she remembered.

  “My lady, if you’ll permit me.” Dimitra ran a damp cloth over Alayna’s lids, loosening the crusts. “How do you feel?”

  Alayna’s body felt heavy, as if she had lain abed with fever for a tenday. “Please,” she whispered, “tell me.”

  Dimitra stood beside the bed. She looked weary, as if she had not slept in days. “You were pregnant, vai domna, four or five tendays gone. The leronis could not be entirely certain, although she examined the discharge.”

  Tears stung Alayna’s eyes, her body responding to what her mind could not comprehend. “Does my husband know?”

  “My lady, you have been abed for three days, with maids in and out. How could he not? He’s been pacing the halls, demanding news every hour. Not even Dom Ruyven could calm him down. But the leronis advised him as soon as you were out of danger.”

  The door swung open and Jerana entered, sat on the bed, and took Alayna’s hand. “Chiya, you are awake at last. You slept for a long time, even after the effects of the sedative herbs wore off. After an ordeal like yours, the body craves rest, so I did not want to wake you too soon.”

  “Is that why I feel so weak?”

  “I will answer you, but only a question or two. Then I need to monitor you. Understood? Then, no, it is not the prolonged sleep that makes you feel weak, but the amount of blood you lost.”

  “With the baby?”

  Jerana’s face closed up. “Yes.”

  “But—”

  “Two questions is enough. Lie still now. And you, Domna Dimitra, make sure I am not disturbed, not even by Lord Scathfell.”

  “Very well,” came Dimitra’s reply from somewhere by the door.

  Jerana folded the bedding down. Alayna closed her eyes and tried to breathe evenly. She felt a feather light touch here and there—between her brows, then on her breastbone, then below her navel. She thought she also felt a slight disturbance in the air as the leronis ran her hands up and down, barely skimming Alayna’s body. How long this went on, Alayna could not have said. She grew drowsy, then fidgety. Finally Jerana gave a sigh and said, “That’s enough. Clearly, you’re well enough to find it difficult to lie still.”

  Alayna sat up. “I can have another babe?”

  “That remains to be seen, although I could not find the cause of the miscarriage. It lies beyond my skill, but more often than not, no reason is ever discovered. Take heart, for most women who suffer such losses go on to have perfectly healthy children. But you must not try for another pregnancy until your body has fully restored itself. You lost a great deal of blood.”

  “But—how will I—I mean, my husband expects—”

  “He will have to wait, just as he would if you had delivered a live birth,” Jerana said with a touch of acerbity. “But do not worry. When your bleeding stops, it will be safe for you to resume relations. I will prepare a tea for you to prevent conception.”

  Too overcome to speak, Alayna hung her head.

  Jerana patted her hand. “It will be easier if you do not share a bed for a time. I will speak to Lord Scathfell to make sure he understands these measures are for your welfare and the health of the children you eventually will bear him. If he has complaints, he must take them up with me.”

  Alayna did not feel like eating until Sadhi brought her a bowl of beef broth with some thinly sliced toast. When she asked for more, Sadhi looked uneasy and said that the leronis—she lowered her voice, as if Jerana had sorcerous powers and might be listening from anywhere—had permitted only a little light food. It had, after all, only been three days.

  Three days. She had barely suspected she might be pregnant and now she was not.

  She slept. The moment her eyes opened again, she drank more broth, then slept again. Each time, the light slanted at a sharper angle through the windows, and with each awakening, the feeling of numbness lessened. She felt sad but not sad enough to weep.

  Finally, she opened her eyes to a room lapped in shadows, lit only by the single candle and the light of a fire. Echoes of dreams clung to her, bits of her old life at Rockraven, of Kyria screaming, of the moment when Dimitra told her that Francisco was married. She wandered through a deserted castle—not this one, but some place she had never been—looking for something or someone with an urgency that bordered on terror. Rarely had she been so grateful to leave the world of dreams.

  From the other side of the outer door, she heard a man’s voice, muffled by the thickness of wall and door. “Hello?” she called.

  A moment later, the door swung open. In came Gwynn, carrying a tray, which he placed on the table within easy reach. He sat on the bed beside her and took her hand. His fingers tightened on hers, and she felt a slight tremble. A long moment passed, one in which Alayna realized that he was at a loss for words.

  “I’m so sorry,” she cried.

  He drew a breath like a sob, without sound. Something wordless and overwhelming flooded up inside him. She could see it in his eyes, her strong, strong husband adrift on helplessness and loss and fear. Then his face closed around the raw emotion of the moment.

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, feeling utterly inadequate to address the depth of what she had just seen in him.

  “As am I. But Jerana assures me that we can have other children. I must be patient. The most important thing is that you will recover. In the meantime, we must think of something to cheer you up, something to look forward to. What if, as soon as that harridan Jerana has released you from your bed, we go down to the stables and pick out a nice, gentle horse for you? When you are able and the weather permits, you may explore the valley with a suitable escort.”

  “I should like that very much. I cannot tell you how dreary it has been, being cooped up. I suppose I will have to wait months and months for the weather to be mild enough.”

  “Ind
eed not. Although you would not think so now, to look at the ice and drifted snow, the worst of winter is already past. Before you know it, the passes will begin to open.”

  Spring—and then summer, with warm afternoons and wildflowers on the slopes, if Scathfell were anything like Rockraven.

  “As soon as it is possible to travel, I will send a messenger with a note of thanks to Aldaran for the rryl that has given you so much pleasure. Does that make you happy?”

  As Alayna lay back with a tender smile, she thought that he must have been very worried to now seek to please her in this way.

  By the time Jerana released Alayna from bed rest and allowed her to venture outdoors, the snow was already beginning to melt in the warmth of midday. The icy crusts froze again every night, but slowly and surely, the snow receded.

  Alayna returned to Gwynn’s bed and felt strong again, strong enough to bear another babe. Only the tea Jerana brewed for her prevented it.

  What does that old woman know about marriage and children, anyway? I feel perfectly well. There’s no reason to wait any longer, and Gwynn so wants a son. And so do I.

  Without a word to anyone, she began dumping the tea into the chamber pot.

  22

  After looking over the horses in the stable, Alayna decided to stick with the tall, strong bay that she had ridden all the way from Rockraven. Although originally a soldier’s horse, the animal had tolerably easy gaits, far better than those of the stag pony on which she’d learned to ride, and seemed grateful to carry such a light burden.

  To begin with, she kept to the stable courtyard under the watchful eye of the head groom. Either the poor man had forgotten she’d ridden all the way from Rockraven or else was terrified of his master’s wrath, should she topple to the ground. Alayna allowed herself to be cosseted. At last, even the head groom admitted that she was a good enough rider to venture past the courtyard, and she was allowed to go down to the valley.

  Two of the junior officers, neither of whom she knew and neither of whom would make the slightest conversation, accompanied her. Aldones only knew what Gwynn had said to them or what dire fate awaited them if she came to any harm, so she contented herself with making comments to her horse about the weather and the quality of the grass. She would much rather have had Francisco’s company, as on that first approach to the castle, but he must be far away, exiled. She would never find out if they could have been friends, now that she was married, too. If he had been only a dream when she had no other prospects, he had been a kind-hearted dream.

  One day, as Alayna was returning to the castle, a rider came galloping up the road. He must have ridden hard and fast, for his horse was lathered with sweat. His cloak flapped behind him like enormous wings. She thought he wore livery but could not be sure.

  Aldaran? In response to Gwynn’s note of thanks?

  On her arrival, she handed the bay’s reins to the head groom and headed for Gwynn’s presence chamber, where the guards outside the door would not let her pass. She thought of several choice things to say to them and then thought better of it. If she wanted to convince the lord of the castle that she was a worthy councilor, one who ought to be included in any news, then she had better behave like one.

  “Very well,” she told them, “I shall respect my husband’s prerogative of privacy. When he emerges, would you be so kind as to inform him of my interest?”

  They bowed to her but offered no assurances. Alayna lifted her chin and swept off to her chambers. Dimitra met her there, hands primly clasped at her waist, a slight frown furrowing her brow. There were dark circles around her eyes.

  “Any news, my lady?”

  “I saw a rider come up the valley, but I didn’t get a good look at him. I wonder where he came from.”

  “From King Allart Hastur himself.” Dimitra helped Alayna out of her jacket and then bent to ease off her riding boots. “The whole castle’s abuzz with it.”

  “All the way from Thendara,” Alayna exclaimed. “And before the passes are fully open. The errand must be urgent.”

  “Do you know what it’s about, my lady? Not another war, I hope.”

  “I’m afraid I know no more than you. I will wear the gray tunic, if you please. When Lord Scathfell is at liberty to speak with me, I intend to be ready.”

  “And the moonstone pendant, vai domna?”

  “Yes, that will do very well.”

  When Alayna studied her reflection in the mirror, she thought, I might not always feel like it, but I look like a proper Lady Scathfell.

  A knock at the door announced a page with a request to join Lord Scathfell in his presence chamber. With Dimitra a step behind, Alayna headed in that direction with the greatest speed consistent with a lady’s decorum. They arrived to find the messenger standing before Gwynn, who sat, very straight and regal-looking, on his throne-like chair. Alayna tried to read his expression, but it was impassive, giving away nothing. Guards, many more than usual, stood at attention, and Ruyven watched from the side.

  The messenger was a slight man, small enough not to overburden a horse on a long, hard ride. He did not turn at her entrance but remained facing Gwynn, so that she could not get even a glimpse of him. She offered her husband a formal curtsy, so that no one—in particular, this messenger from the powerful Hastur king—might fault the dignity of Scathfell.

  “Thank you for coming so swiftly, my lady wife,” Gwynn said. “Messenger, repeat what you just related to me.”

  The messenger did not so much as glance in Alayna’s direction. He had been standing with feet apart, but now a change came over his posture so that his very character appeared to alter, and she realized that his training had included not only memorization of words but of the delivery of the man who had originally spoken them. One of her brothers—Hjalmar, most likely—had spoken of such messengers and called them Voices. They were said to be capable of relaying several hours of speech without altering the phrasing or emphasis. She had thought Hjalmar invented them, but seeing this man before her take on the appearance of quite a different person, she no longer doubted.

  “Allart Hastur of Elhalyn, King of the Domains . . .” and a whole host of titles, “ . . . sends greetings to Gwynn-Alar, Lord of Scathfell, and requests the pleasure of his presence at his court in Thendara, and that of his wife and any of his household whom he chooses, for this Midsummer Festival season. Accommodations will be provided in Comyn Castle.”

  If Alayna had not been on her best, most formal behavior, her jaw would have fallen open. King Allart Hastur was inviting—or commanding?—Gwynn—and her!—to appear before him and his court in Thendara? It was a most extraordinary and unexpected message. She hardly knew what to think of it. An honor or a trap? Or the chance she’d never hoped for to enjoy the delights of a great city, music and dancing and she knew not what else. But she must not let the prospect cloud her judgment. Her gaze sought out her husband, but if Gwynn were annoyed or affronted, he gave no sign. In fact, he appeared to be amused.

  “What say you to a summer journey to the Lowlands?” Yes, Gwynn was definitely amused.

  “Such an undertaking must be carefully considered,” she said.

  “There you have it,” Gwynn addressed the messenger. “I thank you for your trouble. You must have had a hard journey, for snow yet lies heavy on the mountain passes.” He beckoned to one of the guards. “This man will show you to a hot meal and a bed. Be as a guest in this house until I have determined what answer to make.”

  The messenger’s expression shifted, and his shoulders sagged. The fatigue of the trail showed clearly in his bearing. Murmuring thanks in a voice quite unlike the one he’d used for King Allart’s message, he bowed to Gwynn and then followed the guard from the chamber.

  Gwynn waited until the doors had closed behind them. “Ruyven, come with me. You, too, Alayna, for this concerns you.” Without looking back, he led the way to the men’
s parlor. Once seated in the center of the room, with guards posted outside the doors, they could not be easily overheard.

  It seemed that nobody, least of all Gwynn, had any forewarning of such an overture. “I’ve had no dealings with the Hastur lords or anyone else in the Lowlands,” he said, frowning.

  “But only a generation ago, your father made alliance with the king’s late brother, Damon-Rafael,” Ruyven pointed out.

  “To his sorrow,” Gwynn replied.

  “I hardly think that association recommends us to Allart,” Ruyven went on in an even, reasonable tone. “Damon-Rafael tried to usurp his throne, after all.”

  “If the Hastur lord has not menaced Scathfell for all these years, why would he do so now?” Alayna asked.

  Gwynn’s frown deepened. “Feuds are easily begun but difficult to mend. I will not say impossible, for nothing is certain except death and next winter’s snows. If Allart Hastur now schemes to get me to walk willingly into his clutches, he will be mightily disappointed.”

  Alayna tried not to think of the balls and concerts she would miss. She was a married woman, the lady of a great castle, not some light-minded flutterby.

  Ruyven made a sound like a snort. “It is hardly logical that Allart would avenge the brother who tried to assassinate him and, as I understand the story, marry his widowed queen.”

  “These people are not like us,” Gwynn said. “They’re Lowlanders. You never know what to expect.”

  “Or they may be perfectly reasonable, honorable people, despite their customs,” Ruyven said.

  “I wonder—” Alayna began. “I wonder if he would have specifically invited a woman if he intended—” to capture and slay you “—less than royal hospitality?”

  “Unless he means to end the lineage of this family for all time,” Gwynn said grimly.