“What can’t wait?”
“The Princess Regent,” Carroll replied, and now, as he turned into the torchlight, Christian realized that his friend’s face looked pale and sweaty, almost sick.
“The Princess Regent is in early labor, and it’s gone bad.”
Chapter 31
THE VICTORY OF SHIPS
The Red Queen of Mortmesne valued the Tear sapphires highly, though no one has ever known precisely why. The two jewels were passed down from Raleigh to Raleigh, in a ritual as detailed as it was ultimately meaningless, and despite their superstitious history, everyone—historians, the people, even the Raleighs themselves—thought the sapphires mere baubles, well-preserved trinkets of a decaying house. The Glynn Queen’s reign demonstrated clearly that this belief could not have been more wrong, but the question remains: just how powerful were these jewels? How instrumental to the development of the Tearling as we know it today?
No one can say, save those who were in the room.
—Red Queen, Black Queen: Roots of the Glynn Empire, Jessica Fenn
A caesarean. It’s the only way.”
“A what?” Carroll asked, feeling foolish. He had been a Queen’s Guard for nearly five years, a period of ongoing tutelage and testing that dwarfed the training for any other job in the Tearling. But here, in the birthing chamber, he knew nothing. Elyssa had been screaming for half the night, and Carroll had learned to appreciate these little lulls. It would not be long before the screaming started again.
“A caesarean,” the doctor repeated, and then, not unkindly: “We will have to cut the baby out.”
“You can do that?” Lazarus asked, and Carroll felt sudden relief, that Lazarus knew no more about birth than he did. None of them had been ready; the Princess was not supposed to go into labor for another six weeks, at least. But it was here now, and Carroll found himself wholly at a loss.
“I have done it many times,” the doctor replied impatiently, “and we must act now. The Princess Regent is hemorrhaging, and the baby is in distress. If we delay longer, we may lose them both.”
“Will the baby survive?” Niya asked. She was kneeling at the side of the bed, clutching Elyssa’s hand. “Born this early?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” the doctor replied tersely. “But I promise you, the baby will not survive in there.”
Carroll turned to Lazarus, who looked helplessly back at him. Both of them would rather have been anywhere else, but Carroll, as Captain of Guard, could not escape, and he had brought Lazarus along, less out of a wish for his company than from the knowledge that Lazarus was the only one whose choice would not arouse envy among the rest of the Guard. Being present at a royal birth was no small thing, or at least that was the way they saw it, the men who were not in this room, who had no idea what it entailed.
At least a dozen lamps had been set around the bed, highlighting everything in grisly fashion: bloodstained sheets and torn linens. Elyssa’s belly seemed almost impossibly huge beneath the sheet. The screaming had been bad, but there had been worse to contend with, much worse: the Princess babbling, talking to people who were not there, cursing in a voice that was not her own. Father Timpany had wanted to perform an exorcism, but Carroll had forbade him; a good thing too, for Niya looked likely to murder the priest every time he came near the birthing bed. At times Elyssa seemed almost herself again, the princess Carroll had known and respected in the old days, before the witch had come. But then she would lapse back into the present, her eyes as cold as chips of diamond.
I am the Captain of Guard, Carroll told himself again, as though repetition could make the thing real. Certainly nothing else had worked. On his last leave, Carroll had even tracked down Barty in the Gut, seeking advice, or validation, or perhaps forgiveness; he didn’t know. But the former Captain had been dead drunk, in no mood for talk. For Carroll, the weeks since Barty’s expulsion carried all the clarity of an early-morning dream, and now the dream had crossed fully into nightmare.
“Lady Glynn!” Elyssa screamed suddenly, her voice like broken glass. “Lady Glynn, help me!”
She arched in anguish, rolling dangerously near to the edge of the bed. Niya grabbed her shoulders, holding her down.
“Captain?”
Helpless, Carroll turned back to the doctor. There was no treachery here; this man had already birthed two generations of Raleighs, and despite a distant Mort ancestry, his loyalty was unimpeachable. This was a choice for Elyssa to make, but Elyssa had lapsed back into semiconsciousness. Niya placed a wet cloth on the Princess’s forehead, her face oddly blank, as though she cared for a stranger.
“Mace?” Carroll asked, fighting to keep the edge of desperation from his voice. “What do you think?”
Lazarus looked from the doctor to Elyssa, then shrugged. “I say yes. What do we know of babies, or doctoring? Let the man do what he thinks best.”
“And what if we lose the baby, or the Princess?”
“Then we hang.”
The words were said without emotion, and even here, in extremity, Carroll could admire Lazarus for this quality: supreme detachment in the face of death. If the time ever came, Lazarus would do the right thing, even if his own life hung in the balance. Carroll was sure of it.
“Niya?”
“Yes,” she said, without hesitation. “I’ve heard of this procedure; they do it in the brothels, when the baby will not come timely.”
“Well, then—”
“You have not consulted Mother Church.”
Carroll started; he had forgotten that Father Timpany was in the room.
“Perhaps we should consult Thorne,” Father Timpany continued. “The albino might have some insight, or—”
“No,” Niya said firmly, before Carroll could answer, and to his surprise, Lazarus joined her.
“She’s right. The witch shouldn’t be allowed within a mile of the Princess Regent, or the baby.”
Father Timpany frowned, and Carroll cursed inwardly. The priest was Thorne’s creature, for certain, just as every emissary from the Arvath seemed to be these days. Carroll had not needed Niya, or Lazarus, to tell him that the priest’s advice could not be trusted, but the conversation would surely get back to Thorne.
“Time!” the doctor said tersely, filling a syringe. “Make a decision!”
“Do it,” Carroll replied, as though the words were not his own but someone else’s, speaking through his mouth. “Do what you must.”
“I will put the Princess Regent under,” the doctor said, moving swiftly to the bedside. “But you will need to hold her, all the same. The pain will be great, perhaps great enough to cause her to move. She must not.”
Carroll pinned Elyssa’s left shoulder, Niya her right, while Lazarus took her legs. The doctor injected her, and almost immediately Elyssa began to quiet.
“Linens,” the doctor muttered to the two midwives. “All you have. And get the needle and thread ready.”
“This is ill-advised,” Father Timpany muttered as the midwives scurried about the room. “Perhaps we should pray.”
“Pray away, Father,” Lazarus growled. “And tell us if He answers. There’s a first time for everything.”
Father Timpany paled with anger, but he did not quite dare to reply. He had to be here; it was one of the Keep Priest’s many ceremonial functions, to certify the birth of the royal heir. But Lazarus had made no secret of his disdain for the Arvath, and even the priest seemed to understand the delicacy of his position in this room, for he turned and stormed back to the corner. Timpany feared Lazarus; they all did, even Carroll himself at times. Sometimes he believed that he and Lazarus were becoming friends, but just as often he wondered whether the fighter was even capable of friendship. He had civilized significantly since coming to the Keep, but there would always be something in his dark eyes that warned other men away, kept him apart.
“We will begin now.”
The doctor knelt over Elyssa, but Carroll found that he was unable to watch; he stared at the blue coverlet instead. Lazarus would keep an eye on things, Lazarus, who had seen all of the world’s horrors and found a way to live with that sight. Lazarus could stand and watch the end of the world.
He would have been a better Captain, Carroll thought, even though he—
But then Elyssa’s right shoulder heaved beneath his hands, and Carroll was forced to bear down, pressing so hard that he knew he would leave bruises. At the foot of the bed, Lazarus was straining as well, his scarred hands gripping Elyssa’s shins. Niya cursed as she wrestled with Elyssa’s shoulder, her face sheened with sweat.
“Hold her, damn it!” the doctor shouted.
Elyssa groaned, a soft sound that seemed to come from miles away. The room suddenly smelled of blood. Carroll shut his eyes, concentrating all of his will on holding Elyssa still.
Mum said I was too soft for the Guard.
Yes, she had said so. Carroll had not remembered those words in years, for his parents were dead. But now he wondered whether any of them were hard enough for this business. Long moments passed, a seeming eternity, until the doctor said, “There.”
When Carroll finally worked up the courage to open his eyes, he found the doctor holding a tiny, bloodstained bundle.
“A girl,” the doctor announced, passing the bundle to one of the midwives. “Clean her and get her warm; I will inspect her shortly.”
The two midwives huddled over the new princess, unwrapping the cloth. Father Timpany moved in that direction, and almost immediately Niya left Elyssa’s side to shadow the priest. Carroll looked to the doctor, saw the flash of a needle piercing bloodied skin, and turned quickly back to Elyssa, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully again. Her eyelids fluttered, as though she were dreaming, but that was all.
“The Princess Regent?” he asked the doctor.
“She should be fine,” the doctor muttered, intent on his task. “Some blood loss, but not terrible. She will have a scar.”
“Doctor!” one of the midwives screamed. “The baby! She’s not breathing!”
Carroll jumped to his feet.
The doctor cursed. “The Princess must be stitched. I cannot come now.”
“What do we do?” Carroll demanded, feeling shards of panic drive into his brain as he peered over Niya’s shoulder and saw the small, still form lying there. Even Elyssa’s death seemed a better outcome than this. “Doctor, what can we do?”
“Nothing,” the doctor said. “The stitching must be done, or the Princess Regent will bleed out. I am working as fast as I can.”
“Give her to me.”
Carroll jumped. The voice had come from the head of the bed, so weak that it was barely more than a whisper. He turned and found Elyssa lying awake, her green eyes filled with tears.
“Niya. Give her to me.”
“Highness?” Niya asked. “Is it you?”
“It’s me. Give me my baby.”
“No!” a voice shrieked, and Carroll jumped again. This voice, too, had come from Elyssa, but it was not her voice, nor even a woman’s voice at all . . . thick and guttural, almost a bark. As Niya reached for the girl, the midwife moved to block her, but Niya shoved her out of the way and gently lifted the tiny form.
“No!” that thick, dreadful voice screamed from Elyssa’s mouth. “No! No! No!”
The baby still wasn’t breathing. Her blood-reddened skin had begun to darken to a bruised purple. As Niya approached the bed, Carroll saw that Elyssa was clutching her sapphire, trying to pull the chain over her head, struggling, almost flailing at it, as though restrained by invisible hands.
“Mace,” Elyssa whispered. “Help me. I give you permission. Take it off.”
After a questioning glance at Carroll, Lazarus leaned down and helped Elyssa pull the chain over her head. As it came off, more dreadful growls issued from Elyssa’s mouth, threats and curses. In the corner, Father Timpany crossed himself and closed his eyes, clearly praying.
“Don’t you dare, you bitch!” Elyssa’s mouth howled. “Don’t you dare!”
“I will!” Elyssa screamed back. “I will! I will! I will!”
She held out her arms, silently begging for the baby. But Carroll, utterly unsure now of what was real, or right, put out a hand, warning Niya back.
“Carroll,” Niya murmured, tears in her eyes. “It’s her. Really her. Look.”
Carroll looked, and saw what Niya saw: beneath the pain-shriveled face, the old Elyssa, the princess he remembered, the girl who used to joust with Barty and write long treatises in support of the poor. She was here now, entirely here, and so he moved out of the way, allowing Niya to deposit the tiny creature into her arms. Elyssa stared at the baby for a long moment, tears working down her cheeks.
“My daughter,” she whispered. “I see now. I see what we were waiting for.”
She held up the necklace in one trembling hand.
“There is no time, Kelsea Raleigh,” she said. “This is all we’ll ever have, and you will never see me again. But you will perhaps remember this moment. This one gift. I give it to you.”
She looped the chain gently around the baby’s neck. Carroll was never sure what happened afterward, only a flash of blue light, so bright that he was temporarily blinded . . . and then, mercifully, the enraged wail of a newborn. Elyssa fell back against the pillows, her arms going limp, and the baby would have fallen off the edge of the bed if Carroll had not leapt to catch her. He looked at Niya, at Lazarus, in consternation, holding the infant close, wincing as she screamed into his left ear.
“Nothing wrong with her lungs, that’s sure,” the doctor muttered. “Get her warm, now.”
Niya thrust some linens into Carroll’s hand. Without thinking, he wrapped the cloth around the infant, struggling to avoid the sapphire. The night seemed weeks long, but when Carroll glanced at his watch he found that only four hours had passed. How could that be possible? He felt as though they had all climbed the highest peaks of the Fairwitch, all in one go.
“Captain.”
The midwife Niya had shoved aside had crept close again, and now she timidly held out her arms.
“She needs to be bathed.”
After a moment’s thought, Carroll handed the baby over, and the midwife carried her to the small basin in the corner. The new princess screamed all the way through her bath, but once the midwives had swaddled her in clean linens, she quieted a bit, allowing the doctor to bend over her, examining her fingers and toes.
“Do we have a name?” Father Timpany asked.
“Princess Kelsea,” Carroll replied. “You heard it yourself.”
Father Timpany’s face darkened. “That is a pagan name. The Princess Regent was in extremis; you cannot possibly expect her to—”
“It’s the name she chose,” Lazarus announced, moving in to tower over the priest, who blanched. Carroll felt a sudden, absurd gratitude.
“But the Holy Father has commanded first news. I must get back to the Arvath.”
“Then go,” Niya snarled. “No one wants you here.”
“The Princess Regent is a faithful child of God,” Father Timpany remonstrated, ignoring Niya entirely. “She cannot choose a name so wrapped up with the filth of the Blue Horizon—”
“She can do what she likes, Father.” Carroll had never cared much for the priest, but now, seeing the deep fear in the man’s eyes, he understood: Timpany was frightened. Had it been Elyssa, raving like a woman possessed? No, Carroll thought not. The priest—the Arvath—had been promised something here, and it had not been delivered. Father Timpany was afraid to go home. Carroll turned back to Elyssa’s sleeping form on the bed, seeing her anew: the wan cheeks, the straggling blonde hair.
We couldn’t save her, Carroll thought. The Guard had hatched so
many plans among themselves: killing the witch, killing Thorne . . . Elston had even suggested enlisting help from the last of the Blue Horizon. But the witch was always in the way. In a mental blink, Carroll saw Barty lying on the balcony, his knee bent inward at an angle God had never intended. Who could fight against such power?
But we must, he thought. Thorne and his witch would not depart the Keep with the birth of the royal heir. Elyssa was lost, but now there was a child to consider.
“She named the heir, Father. It’s done. Go and tell His Holiness.”
Carroll turned away dismissively, beckoning Lazarus and Niya, both of whom followed him into the corner. Father Timpany did not depart, only huddled in an armchair and opened his Bible again.
“Mace,” Carroll murmured, keeping an eye on the priest. “I want you to stay with the new princess at all times. You will be her close guard, at least until we come up with something else.”
“Me?” Lazarus demanded. “What on earth for?”
“Listen to me,” Carroll said, keeping his voice low. He wondered where the witch was right now, whether she was listening. “That baby is the heir to the Tear throne, and the Princess Regent is . . .”
He broke off. Weak was what he had meant to say, but that wasn’t right. Since her mother’s poisoning, Elyssa had been squeezing the kingdom with a fist of iron.
“Not herself,” he finished.
“Am I being punished? Is this because of—”
“No,” Carroll said quickly. “It’s not because of the nobles, I swear to you. This is important, though I can’t tell you why—”
He stopped, realizing that he sounded half mad himself.
“Am I to change nappies as well?”
“No,” Carroll said, ignoring the bitterness in his friend’s voice. “Niya will do that.”
“What?” Niya demanded, just as outraged as Lazarus. “I’m no nursemaid!”
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