Glancing up at Lady Eyslk's pale, slack face, the midwife added her prayers to those of the monks. The young woman had been in intense labor for many hourglasses. That and the amount of blood she'd lost had killed many a new mother. Was she strong enough to come back, or would she continue on a downward spiral?
“Tell the monks to pray harder. I am doing all I can, but she needs more.”
Drysi inserted another piece of moss, then stood and stretched her back. Numb with fatigue, she walked to a stand, poured water into a basin, and washed her hands and arms. Then she went back to check the little one.
The newest Rogoth lay comfortably on her mother's belly, cord still attached. The loreteller's wife began sponging off the mucus and blood while cooing softly at the babe. “She is strong and hungry. Do we let her nurse? With all the bleeding, you want to pull the afterbirth now, or wait a bit?”
The midwife pondered. Nursing helped the mother expel the afterbirth. But in Lady Eyslk's case, more bleeding would be sure to follow. Drysi checked her bag. Only three moss pads were left. From Lord Tellan's face on the road, she had not dared ask to go home and replenish her supplies.
She eyed the mother. Lady Eyslk's color was some better. Her breathing was rapid and shallow but already slowing down. The young mother was doing better than expected at this point. The monks' prayers must have been helping.
The servant lifted the lady's head and brought the mug to her lips. Eyslk swallowed, then opened her eyes. “Is it all right? Is my baby healthy?”
“Yes.” Drysi breathed easier. “You have a fine, healthy girl.” She made her decision. “Let it nurse now.”
The loreteller's wife placed the babe at Eyslk's breast, then showed the new mother how to place a finger to keep the little one's nose free to breathe.
“Rhiannon. If it was a girl, it was to be Rhiannon,” Eyslk whispered, watching her daughter nurse with vigor. “I am sure your lord father and the others are anxious to see you,” she finished weakly before closing her eyes and resting back against the pillow.
“Be not in a hurry, m'lady,” the loreteller's wife said. She placed both hands on broad hips and sniffed. “It does them good to wait until we allow entrance. As soon as you pass the afterbirth, we will sponge both you and Mistress Rhiannon clean and change the sheets. I will help you into a fresh gown and brush your hair. You dab on some perfume. Only then will it be proper for Lord Tellan to behold his lady wife and daughter. The monks can come after him.”
The afterbirth came out easily and in one piece. Drysi tied and cut the cord. Only two moss pads were needed to stop Eyslk's new bleeding.
Drysi begin packing her supplies while the servant and the loreteller's wife made ready. This was Drysi's third time attending a noble birth. Labor brought women mercilessly to level ground. It was the same for all: a womb and a babe demanding to be born. And in the struggle to bring new life into the world, Death hovered over every bed, noble-born or commoner.
Tonight Death had almost won. But her skill and the monks' prayers had beaten him back one more time.
The women finished their ministrations to mother and babe. Drysi waited patiently. She had learned it was best to wait until after the father saw the new oneâespecially a first-timer like Lord Tellanâbefore mentioning her fee. Although they were of noble status, the Rogoths were not wealthy. Even so, Drysi felt certain Tellan would give her beyond the normal amount.
Besides, she always found it interesting to watch fathers and their firstborn. With a girl some were openly disappointed; others were smart enough to try and mask it. Most were awestruck, girl or boy.
Tellan Rogoth came into the room walking on air. He stopped at the bed and gazed at Eyslk. As the two regarded each other, Drysi doubled the amount she had planned to ask.
Lady Eyslk's eyes shone as she presented her babe. “A fine, healthy girl, my lord husband. Rhiannon de Murdeen en Rogoth, Clan Dinari.” Tellan received his daughter awkwardly, then held her out in midair as if examining a new tunic.
Drysi smothered a snort. Typical.
“Tsk, m'lord.” The loreteller's wife stepped up. “Hold her thusly. Babes need warmth and closeness.” She soon had him cradling his daughter to his chest.
Then it was the loreteller's turn. He had entered with Tellan but remained by the door until now. The Rogoth loreteller was a short stump of a man; his wife easily made two of him. He wore the multicolored vest of his office, a well-recognized garment that allowed loretellers to move unchallenged throughout the Land, inviolate even in the midst of battle, to chronicle the history of the six clans.
In a deep, rich voice Loreteller Girard intoned: “On this date, thirty days before the summer solstice, in the year twelve hundred and one after the Cutting of the Covenant, was Rhiannon de Murdeen en Rogoth born into the Rogoth kinsmen of Clan Dinari. Be it known to all that, I, Loreteller Girard, am a witness to that fact and find her a well-formed babe with no blemishes or defects.”
Girard held out his hand. Tellan removed his clan dagger from the sheath at his waist, placed it the loreteller's hand, and then held out his daughter's right foot. Girard made a small nick in the babe's heel; she promptly wrinkled her face and vented her disgust at the whole affair. Girard took a sheet of parchment and pressed it to the bloody heel.
“I will finish this by the noon meal, m'lord, and have it in the Annals for your inspection.”
Rhiannon's wail stilled abruptly upon her return to Eyslk's breast. Drysi was about to step forward when the monks came traipsing in, four of them. She bit back an exasperated sigh. What were Keepers of the Covenant doing here anyway? In all her years, this had never happened. It had been a long, demanding night: two babes delivered safely and a good hourglass's travel to home yet ahead. She ground her teeth. If these monks started one of their interminable ceremonies, they could keep Tellan tied up well past dawn.
But no, the black-robed Keepers simply crowded respectfully around the bed. Three of the four looked in their late teens or early twenties. The fourth was older, late thirties perhaps. Tall and broad of shoulder, he had huge hands with the longest fingers Drysi had ever seen. The younger three took turns praising the babe and Lady Eyslk with a familiarity that bordered on family. The older monk remained quiet with a patient smile on his lips. He kept eying the bedroom door, giving Drysi the impression he was as eager to leave as she was.
Suddenly, the older monk's placid demeanor changed. He stepped back from the others, frowning fiercely. His eyes darted between the other three monks and then rested on the one closest to Lady Eyslk at the head of the bed. The younger monk's mouth hung open, and he had an unfocused gaze.
Drysi waited, but when nothing happened, she shouldered her bag and moved toward Lord Tellan. He stood away from the bed next to the loreteller, beaming withâ
“Thus saith the Eternal!”
She froze in astonishment, as did everyone else in the room.
The young monk reached down and gripped Lady Eyslk's hand. Face aglow in religious fever, he spoke again:
“Have I not given my word,' says the Eternal, âthat my covenant of peace will remain? Did I not say through my prophet these words: For the mountains shall depart and the hills be removed, but my kindness shall not depart from thee, neither shall this covenant of my peace be removed?'”
The monk raised his other hand to the ceiling. The long sleeves of his black robe slid back to revel a well-muscled arm. “Thus saith the Eternal! âThis babe at the breast will be a Protectoress of the Covenant. She will be a tool in my hands to strengthen it and return its fullness to the Land while bringing the Mighty Ones and their creatures to heel again.'”
The moment passed, and the expression on the young monk's face returned to normal. Wavering slowly, he lowered his hand and looked around sheepishly.
Several voices started together, excited.
But then another voice rose. “No! No!” overrode all else. “This will not be!” The older monk's voice was deep, liquid. It sent a bone chill through Drysi.
The monk surged at Lady Eyslk and seized the babe from her breast. “She must die!”
He swung the little one high above his head, but before he could do more, the other three monks swarmed him. They grappled around the bed with the crying babe still held high. Then the struggling mass fell back onto the bed on top of Lady Eyslk. The side railing broke with a loud crack, tipping everyone to the floor.
The young monk who had given the prophecy wrenched the babe free and came scrambling out of the pile, only to be jerked back by the outstretched hand of the older monk, who kept babbling: “No! No! Must die!”
Tellan flew into the melee. With obvious effort he pried away the crazed monk's hand, then lifted both his newborn and the young monk holding her and carried them to the far side of the room. He set them down and then whirled with dagger in hand.
The demented monk shook off the other two and rose menacingly to his feet. Eyes pulsing red, he glared past Tellan to the babe and spoke with a calm certainty that sent fresh chills down Drysi's spine.
“The Mighty One of the North rules here. Give her to him, and you will live and prosper. Refuse, and all in your house will perish with her.” Then the monk came single-mindedly for the babe. To Drysi's startled eyes, it seemed he grew in size with every step.
Bravely, the small loreteller dove and wrapped his arms around the monk's leg, only to be dragged across the wooden floor effortlessly before being battered aside with a sharp blow.
Then Tellan launched himself at the advancing monk. As the two came to grips, it seemed to Drysi that the floor trembled. The lord's dagger plunged into the other's body twice, but the monk, now looming a full head taller than Tellan, only shuddered at each blow while attempting desperately to dodge around to the babe, babbling over and over, “Must die. Must die.”
The loreteller's wife took the crying babe from the young monk. “Do something!”
The man gaped at the fight in the middle of the room. “This can't be happening. The Covenant prevents . . . ”
“You've read all those parchments! Help Lord Tellan!”
The man swallowed hard. Coming to his full height, he flung out an arm with a long finger pointing at the crazed monk and bellowed, “In the name of the Eternal, I bind you!”
Still grapping with Tellan, the monk spat, “You lack the power!” He jerked a hand free and dealt Tellan a blow that dropped the new father to his knees. The monk kicked him aside and, leaving a trail of blood on the hardwood floor, came again for the babe.
The young monk stepped in front. “I bind you and any power you draw from the Mighty Ones!”
The other's tread faltered as he spat, “Weakling! You understand nothing.”
The other two monks joined the fray. “We bind you! In the Eternal's name and the Covenant, you are bound!”
The wounded monk shudderedâand slowed.
The three continued the verbal fight. “We bind you! In the Eternal's name and the Covenant, you are bound!”
Tellan struggled to his feet. Dagger in hand, he reengaged, striking repeatedly. The monk seemed weaker, his intensity gone. After more blows, he sank to his knees. A low keening issued from his mouth, and a foul odor permeated the room. Then he crumbled prostate and lay still.
Tellan wavered, breathing hard. Then he sheathed his dagger and ran to the broken bed. “Midwife!” he bellowed in an agonized voice.
Drysi hurried over with a sinking feeling in her heart. Lady Eyslk lay crumpled half on the bed, half on the floor, the lower part of her gown soaked in blood.
“He was so strong,” one of the other monks said, “we couldn't help falling on her.”
Tellan cradled his wife's limp body in his arms. “Eyslk? Eyslk!” He stroked her face. “Don't leave me!”
Drysi took her one remaining moss padâbut it was too late. She looked at Eyslk's stilled face and glazed eyes and suddenly felt old beyond her years.
“I'm sorry, m'lord. She is gone.”
R
HIANNON
H
ER HOME WAS
a ruin.
Rainwater collected in cracks where the stone floor had buckled from intense heat. Faint tentacles of smoke rose from fallen roof beams, charred and blackened, the flames quenched by the heavy drizzle.
Rising above the acrid smell of wet soot was the odor of death. It wafted up through the early morning mist, clinging inside Rhiannon's nostrils and making her filly skittish. The horse gave a low snort and pranced sideways, reluctant to approach any closer. Rhiannon urged the filly forward, applying pressure with her left calf while pulling on the right rein. Her two younger half-brothers were having similar difficulty with their mounts.
Her father and his escort of three clan warriors reined in their horses at the waist-high stone fence that surrounded the structure. They sat silently, contemplating the destruction with grim faces.
Rhiannon eased up by the men and looked, stunned and uncomprehending, at what was left of the Rogoth hlaford, the dwelling of the kinsmen lord. She had been born here and lived all of her almost sixteen years here. Even with the sight and smell right before her, the fact of it was hard to grasp. The hlaford would be rebuilt, of course, but that did not dim the numbness of the loss. Losing irreplaceable keepsakes collected throughout her childhood hurt more than she would have thought.
For nobility the structure was modest, even for a clan as poor as the Dinari. Nestled on a knoll rising from the valley floor, it was a simple two-story structure sixty cubits in length and thirty wide. The ground floor was constructed of stone; timber beams and rough hand-hewn planks comprised the second story. And, to her stepmother's great pride, both levels boasted glass windows.