“No.”
“Yes,” Maximilian said softly. “It is what sometimes happens, Ishbel, when a man and a woman lie together.”
She glanced at him. “I’m sorry. I’d just not thought…a child…no.”
“Ishbel…” He slid his hand over her belly, and she flinched. “Oh, for gods’ sakes, Ishbel, what is wrong?”
“Everything,” she whispered, then lay down and rolled away from him, and would not speak to him again.
CHAPTER SIX
Pelemere, the Central Kingdoms
Maximilian was surely irritated with her, at her reaction to the news of her pregnancy. Ishbel could understand why, but she had been so shocked, so appalled, so terrified, that she’d been unable to act any other way. By the Serpent, to have that little surprise dropped on her, on top of the horror of the ring.
Pregnant.
A child.
In her body.
She lay on the bed, Maximilian sleeping beside her, the fingers of one hand fluttering down to her belly, as if she could feel already the turmoil the child was about to create in her life.
She’d not considered the possibility of a child after the night Maximilian had come to her. Why should she? She should not be able to conceive. She had lost her ability to conceive the day she’d been inducted into her position as archpriestess of the Coil when she’d surrendered her reproductive ability to the Great Serpent in return for the blessing of his power. Since then she’d virtually forgotten she had a womb.
The only time she’d thought about her inability to conceive had been when StarWeb had been haggling the marriage contract and had insisted on the clause regarding a pregnancy being a required condition for ratification of the marriage. Ishbel had wondered then what excuse she might give Maximilian for her lack of ability to bear a child, and had thought that at least it might give her an excuse to get out of the marriage.
But, no, she’d conceived within the first hour of meeting the man.
It made her angry, mainly because she felt so out of control. Everything she had done as archpriestess of the Coil had been so ordered, so sure.
Now…
Ishbel lay her hand more firmly on her belly. The growing baby would surely disturb the Coil…and this, on top of the shock of the whispers.
Oh, Great Serpent, how could this happen? What should I do?
She must rid herself of the baby. Ishbel had no idea how to do this, but she knew women could manage it. She’d heard they took herbs. All she’d need to do would be to find someone to procure the right herbs and she could—
Suddenly Ishbel went rigid on the bed as the atmosphere in the chamber thickened.
She jerked her head over to look at Maximilian.
He remained asleep.
Then, her heart pounding, Ishbel very slowly turned her head to look at the side of the bed.
A great darkness was coalescing on the floor, at midpoint between the door and the bed.
Ishbel tried to control her breathing, tried to center herself, tried above all to calm herself so that she might be fit to greet the Great Serpent.
Very slowly the darkness resolved itself into a massive coiled serpent. It appeared to be made of the darkness itself, its scales so black they were more suggestion than reality, but glimmering here and there with faint rainbow colors as the serpent twisted in the dim lamplight.
The Great Serpent coiled about itself for a minute, then reared its head up so that it loomed over the bed.
Ishbel could not move, nor drag her eyes away from the enormous head that hovered above the bed. She’d been in the presence of the Great Serpent before, of course, but only rarely, and only when she’d been in control of herself and of the situation.
Not ever lying in a bed, with a man, and with a baby in her belly to corrupt the Coil.
The head moved, weaving back and forth, its forked tongue flickering out of its mouth as it tasted the night air. Its eyes were great dark holes with flashes of fire glimmering in their depths.
“Greetings, Great One,” Ishbel said, making the sign of the Coil over her belly.
The Great Serpent ignored her. Instead its head wove ever closer to Maximilian, who lay fast asleep on the other side of the bed. It dipped low, then ran its glistening forked tongue slowly up Maximilian’s body from his feet to his shoulders.
Ishbel stared wide-eyed, sure that Maximilian would wake.
But he slept on, his chest rising and falling in deep, slow breaths, unaware of the serpent’s tongue coiling so intimately about his body.
The Great Serpent suddenly reared its head up, now directing its full attention to Ishbel.
It lowered its head once more, and ran its flickering tongue slowly, slowly, up Ishbel’s body, until it coiled about her belly.
Do not disturb the baby.
“Yes, Great One,” Ishbel whispered.
Do what Maximilian wants.
“Yes, Great One.”
Wash with the tide for the time being. That will please me, and accomplish what I need.
“Great One, the whispers—”
Ishbel, just…wash with the tide. The whispers cannot harm you. Do not allow them to drive you from this man.
“Great One, please, how long must this marriage last? How long before I can go home to Serpent’s Nest?”
The Great Serpent regarded her carefully for long moments before he answered.
You shall be home within a year, two at the most, Ishbel. It is not long to wait.
Ishbel relaxed in relief. A year, two at the most. She would manage.
“As it pleases you,” she whispered.
The serpent’s tongue flickered once more; then suddenly the chamber was free of its presence.
Later, when Ishbel slept, she once more dreamed of the Lord of Elcho Falling, standing in the snow, his back to her, then slowly becoming aware of her presence, his head turning, turning, turning, and then the torrent of despair and pain that engulfed her world as he laid eyes on her and opened his mouth to speak.
Ishbel rose in the morning, putting the dream from her mind, washed and dressed with the aid of a maidservant, then stood looking at the ring on the top of the cabinet.
“You need not wear it for the moment,” said Maximilian, coming up beside her, “if that is what you wish.”
Such profound relief washed over Ishbel that she gave him a brilliant smile. “Thank you.”
“We do need to talk about the rings though, Ishbel.”
“Later,” she said.
“Yes. Very well. Later.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Margalit, the Central Kingdoms
Rilm Evenor was one of the three most important chiefs in the Outlands. For the past fifty-three years he had led the Evenor tribe and had for twenty-eight of those years also sat as High Chief on the Outlands Council, which governed the region. He was a strong man, of impeccable character and fair judgment, and there were few people within the Outlands who looked on Evenor with anything other than the deepest respect.
Evenor was also the Outlands’ best war general. The Outlands had not been at formal war with any of its neighbors in over one hundred years, but there were always the niggling border territory issues with Pelemere and Berfardi. The Outlander tribes were largely nomadic for eight months of the year, and claimed the right to travel the pastures to the west and north of the Sky Peaks—rights to which Pelemere, Hosea, and Berfardi strenuously objected. There had been skirmishes every few years—nothing more than a few hundred men pitted against each other in a forgotten mountain pass or on barren pastureland—but Evenor’s real military experience and renown had been in aiding the Outlands’ northern neighbor, Viland, with their ever-present Skraeling threat.
Every few years, if their numbers had built up sufficiently that their normal feeding grounds could not support them, the Skraelings tended to drift south in small groups of twenty or so. They would attack outlying villages and farmsteads, making off with small animals and the occasional
human child or small adult. They fed on fear and terror as much as they did on flesh, and all the northern nations loathed them. The Vilanders were well used to dealing with the creatures, but Viland was a small nation, and their men were out on whaling ships for long months of each year, and Evenor and his tribal army from the Outlands were welcome allies.
This year was one of the few Evenor was actually spending in the Outlands. He was growing older now, and had taken up residence in a town house in Margalit. Normally he hated the city, preferring a tent brittle with hoarfrost under frozen skies, but one of his daughters was unwell, and he had thought to spend the coldest months of the winter with her.
Evenor might be old, but he was still a strong man, and a cunning one, as well as experienced.
Thus it was that he was the first of the household to realize the presence of intruders. He rose from his bed silently, not disturbing the girl who slept next to him, and stole down the great central staircase of the house.
At the foot of the stairs he took a heavy walking stick from a rack, hefting it in his hand.
There were stealthy movements to his left, in the main reception area, and the very faint glow of a light.
Thieves, Evenor thought, who did not expect him to be in his daughter’s house.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped quickly into the reception room…
And stopped in surprise.
A slightly built man stood in the center of the room, hands folded before him, his eyes downcast. He looked up as soon as he realized he had company.
“Ah,” the man said, “Rilm Evenor. I’m sorry to disturb your night like this.”
“Who are you?” Evenor had stopped several paces away. “How did you get past the guards?”
“Your guards shall be here soon enough,” said the man, “but not soon enough to save your life, I am afraid.”
Evenor moved. There was no time or reason for words now. He lunged forward and slightly to the right, striking out with the walking stick.
He didn’t make it more than a pace.
A man loomed out of the shadows behind Ba’al’uz—Zeboul, the most trusted among the Eight. He swung a great wooden pole between his hands, stepping around Ba’al’uz and smashing it into the front of Evenor’s throat the moment before Evenor struck Ba’al’uz.
Evenor crashed to the floor.
Ba’al’uz had not once flinched.
The remaining brothers moved out from the gloom, where they’d been hiding.
“Are his guards coming?” whispered Ba’al’uz.
“Yes,” said one of the Eight, “they have awoken in their barracks and grabbed their weapons. They will be here within a moment. Will we be safe?”
“Yes,” said Ba’al’uz, and looked down.
Evenor was choking to death, unable to get air down his windpipe. One hand clawed desperately at his throat, the other scrabbled about uselessly for the stick that had rolled away when he’d fallen.
Ba’al’uz murmured words whispered to him earlier by Kanubai, and within the moment he and the Eight were cloaked in dark power.
Footsteps sounded outside, and then eight or nine soldiers burst into the room just as Evenor gave a final gasp, his body arching in a death spasm.
The soldiers stopped momentarily, assessing the situation.
They saw their commander, apparently dead on the floor.
They did not see Ba’al’uz and the Eight.
Instead they saw, and would swear to this for the rest of their lives, Baron Allemorte of Pelemere and a mixed force of armed men from Pelemere and Hosea.
“Tell your damned council,” said Allemorte, stepping away from the body, “to stay out of lands that don’t belong to them.”
Then, suddenly, strangely, Allemorte and the foreign soldiers were gone.
Evenor’s men would recall later that they’d had a bitter battle with the murderous invaders, a battle they’d fought long and hard, but that Allemorte and his band had finally managed an escape.
Residents in the houses adjoining Evenor’s daughter’s house would also report seeing the armed men escape down the street.
And when the Outlands Council, appalled, angry, and vengeful, investigated further, they discovered a trail of reports from innkeepers and road travelers from Pelemere to Margalit about Allemorte’s band, who had traveled to Margalit and then escaped along the main Outlands highway to the west.
Ba’al’uz and the Eight returned to their inn, tired but satisfied. They were not so fatigued that they did not take the time and effort to murmur a prayer of thanks to Kanubai for his aid.
Three days later, much recovered, Ba’al’uz led his Eight toward Pelemere and thence to Kyros, well pleased to see the numbers of armed men gathering in Margalit.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Pelemere, the Central Kingdoms
Ishbel tried her utmost to settle into her role as Maximilian’s wife. She thought of it only as a “role” and a pretense, not as any permanent reality, but ever since the appearance of the Great Serpent on her wedding night Ishbel did her best to accept her current situation.
She would wash with the tide, as the Great Serpent had commanded her. She would be whatever Maximilian needed in a wife, until the Great Serpent needed her elsewhere.
At least she did not have to wear the ring. Someone asked her a few days after the marriage why she did not wear it, and, while she hunted for an excuse, Maximilian stepped in smoothly.
“It fits poorly,” he said. “Ishbel’s finger is too slim. Once we return to Ruen I shall have it altered for her.”
He looked at her as he said this, and Ishbel gave him a small nod of gratitude.
She was lucky, she realized, that the Great Serpent had not required her to marry some fat, intolerant fool. Maximilian was very bearable.
Ishbel became used to the sexual side of their marriage far quicker than she had ever anticipated. She’d always thought that she would find a man’s touch and intimacies intrusive, perhaps even repulsive, but sharing a bed with Maximilian was neither of these. He made her laugh, he made her body thrum with unexpected sensation, and she found herself actually enjoying their intimate relationship.
What she did find difficult to accept was her pregnancy. That invaded, whereas Maximilian’s sexual attention did not. The baby represented a complete loss of control—over her body and over her future—that Ishbel found extremely disconcerting.
Besides, Ishbel’s life in the Coil had not prepared her in the slightest for a pregnancy. She had no idea what to expect, or what changes would occur in her body (apart from growing large and bulky, which she regarded with horror). She was not even too sure what were the early signs of pregnancy.
There was no one save Maximilian she could ask, or in whom she could confide. Garth Baxtor, with whom perhaps Ishbel could have talked, had left Pelemere on the day after her wedding to visit with a college of physicians in a town a few days’ travel to the north.
Maximilian, however, not to Ishbel’s surprise, had no idea what to expect either, and was faintly aghast that Ishbel was so unknowledgeable herself. She talked with him once about what she could expect, but received enough of a surprised and perplexed look that she didn’t pursue the matter.
“Garth will help you when he gets back,” said Maximilian, and Ishbel left it at that.
Meanwhile, Ishbel and Maximilian enjoyed the hospitality of Sirus. Sirus made Ishbel uneasy. He was old—at least seventy—but still hale and possessed of the whipcord strength of a man a quarter of his age. He was very tall and thin, and his head was crowned with an unruly mop of pure white hair over a hawk’s nose. Maximilian liked him, but Ishbel simply didn’t know what to make of the man. Half the time he appeared to be trying to make some very bad and crude jest, and the other half of the time he watched her with the silent, sharp eyes of a bird of prey.
Too sharp, and a little too intelligent, and Ishbel found herself either keeping conversation light, or avoiding the king’s company altogether.
Her new role as Queen of Escator she found almost as difficult as her approaching maternity. Ishbel just did not know how to act as a wife, let alone as a queen. Since the age of eight she’d been cloistered within Serpent’s Nest, undergoing strict training with the Coil. From the age of thirteen she’d been a priestess of the Coil, and from fifteen, archpriestess. There had been no time for the fripperies of womanhood; there had only been time and desire for the strict isolationism of the Coil. Now Ishbel felt as if she was floundering along, trying to work out the correct demeanor for both woman and queen, and trying to manage court etiquette and expectations. The only time she could relax was at night, with Maximilian, in their chamber.
He didn’t question too closely her lack of social skills and answered whatever questions she had, as well as guiding her throughout the day when he realized she struggled.
Ishbel knew she stood out like a sore thumb at Sirus’ court, but a week after her marriage (during which week Ishbel had tried to avoid every social gathering she possibly could) she was largely saved from the horrors of the court when Pelemere was thrown into turmoil by the news that the Outlands Council had formally accused Sirus—as well as Fulmer of Hosea—of the murder of Rilm Evenor via the hand of Baron Allemorte. The Outlanders were outraged, they were mobilizing for retaliation, and amid all the fuss Ishbel could fade into the background and keep to her room much of the time.
Sirus was furious that the Outlanders had the affront to accuse Baron Allemorte of the murder, let alone concoct numerous false tales of Allemorte’s ride from and to Pelemere for the murder, when Sirus had been entertaining Allemorte the entire time within Pelemere. There was a flurry of diplomatic activity and messages passed between Hosea and Pelemere. Maximilian spent some time cloistered with Sirus, but not too much. For the moment he wanted to remain as distanced as he could from the discussions: Escator could hardly afford to become involved in a war so far from home, and so far from Escator’s own interests.
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