Self-Made Scoundrel (6 page)

The air seemed heavy and hot and he was having trouble breathing. He wondered how Jerila felt, how great her pain must be and if she was thinking about the lies she was bringing her child into and if it made it hurt more. He wondered if she wanted Ceric or if she hated him now, wishing he was birthing instead of her. Dershik remembered the nights he had slept alongside her, the discomfort she felt, the feel of something moving beneath her stretched skin, all alien joints with a mind of its own. Most of the time he had slept in a chair and let her have the bed. He would probably let her and the baby have the bed once she was able to leave the birthing room. Another scream came from the room and the hair on his neck stood up as his imagination filled in what was happening.

The watch went by in a blur. His father came back, dressed in house clothes which made the setting even more tense. Dershik asked one of the lampers if he had his cards on him and if they could play. Every time another moan came from the room they would look up but they were helpless to do anything else but stare and wonder and pray. Ceric looked as if he might throw up so Dershik had him dealt in. It took the priest three games to finally understand the rules and he lost fifteen blueies in the process before refusing to play again.

“How about you? Would you like to play?” Dershik asked his father. The Baron had been watching them whole time and everyone but Dershik was too busy counting and timing the sounds coming from the room to notice the Baron’s disdain. His father just narrowed his eyes at him and turned away. Someone brought up filled buns and he managed to eat one savory and one sweet roll while he waited. The moans died down and people expected the door to open and the seal to be broken, but no priestess came to the door. Dershik eventually laid on an empty bench, most of those who had been waiting around leaving to sleep or tend to their duties. Ceric sat at his head, hands in his lap and as Dershik nodded off he could hear him praying quietly under his breath.

A hand on his shoulder roused him from a dreamless sleep, the sounds from the room making him bolt upright on the bench. People ran to get others as the cries and encouragements of women came through the door. Dershik pushed past those there and put his ear against the door, careful not to touch the rope making up the seal. He could hear the voice of the midwife and Jerila grunting, groaning and Sister Kiyla praying loudly, all of the noise finally punctuated by the small, lusty cry of a baby. Dershik stepped back from the door as if a shock went through him, turning to the crowd with a grin on his face. A cheer went through the room and more people poured in, all hoping to get a glimpse of the newborn who would be Baron one day. Ceric came up alongside Dershik, some of the color having returned to his face. There was the sound of a lock being undone and then a creak as the door was opened, the midwife appearing at the door with a knife in her hand.

She cut the rope sealing the door and put an arm around Dershik’s shoulders, ushering him into the birthing room while everyone else hung back, waiting. Dershik gulped as he looked inside, curious as to what he would see within.

The room was dim and it smelled of sweat and blood. A servant filled a lamp with scented oil to clear the air and the heady aroma of the flowers and resins mixing with the human odors was strange. Piles of cloth were being put into a bundle, stained pink and red and brown. A strange chair with no true seat to it sat in the middle of the room. Dershik saw Jerila laying in bed, her face sweaty and peppered with red dots but smiling. Her light eyes looked weary but she smiled at Dershik as he approached, all the women in the room watching.

“Here he is,” Jerila said. Dershik saw the baby, its smushed face pressed up against Jerila’s breast, its mouth sleepily trying to nurse. A hint of strawberry blond hair sprouted from his small head. He could only stare at him, hands at his sides, not sure what to do. Sister Kiyla laughed, pouring a glass of beer.

“Take him from her so she can have a drink,” Sister Kiyla said. Dershik looked to her and noticed how old she appeared. Silver strands ran through dark brown hair and wrinkles framed her eyes. Dershik pressed his lips together, wondering how to take the baby. Jerila smiled as she unlatched the baby from her breast and wrapped him in the yellow and blue blanket specially made for the child. Dershik reached out and she placed the babe in his hands.

He was so little, so loose-jointed. His skin was a mottled pink and white and pale eyelashes and brows barely showed on his face. One tiny fist sneaked out from the various blankets, jerking clumsily as the baby tried to control its limbs. Dershik cradled the boy in his arms and sucked in his breath as the infant opened its eyes, deep blue and watching. Ceric’s eyes. The baby’s real father was outside the door, waiting to see him. Dershik made sure the blankets were wrapped around the baby tightly so it wouldn’t catch a chill and he walked to the door.

As was the custom, he placed a hand to support the baby’s head and neck and lifted the child slowly over his head, for all the people into the room. “A boy,” he announced, trying to shout it but holding back, feeling suddenly awkward. The people cheered loudly, which promptly startled the baby. The baby cried out, over the shouts which made everyone cheer even more, slapping each other on the back. Dershik saw his brother and smiled nervously, holding his nephew close to him as his brother lowered his eyes and nodded. The ritual done, he took the crying baby back into the room.

The baby’s crying sounded louder in the smallness of the room and Jerila sat up and reached out her arms, taking the baby from him. As soon he was with his mother he quieted down, nuzzling against her and soon suckling once more.

“He’s got a lusty cry,” the midwife said, beaming happily. Her blood-stained apron had been removed, her homespun brown dress and red belt setting her apart from the others in the room. “It’s a good sign, means he’s strong. He’ll make the family proud, that’s for sure.”

“He’ll need a strong name,” Dershik said. “I’ve got a few ideas.” He nodded at Jerila. “I should go and see to the household. Arrange for the naming ceremony. Do you…need anything?” He looked to Jerila hopefully, feeling awkward yet again.

“Be sure to answer anyone’s questions about the baby,” Jerila said, giving him a look saying much more.

“And have bone broth and bloodroot salad brought up, rare meat as well.” The midwife put her hands on Dershik’s shoulders and directed him out of the room gently. “Go on, you can come back later.” Dershik stumbled into the throng of people still hanging around, some of them exchanging money for bets they had made regarding the baby’s sex. Dershik laughed as Little Hilik came up to him and handed him five blueies. He had told Dershik it would be a girl.

“Aren’t we supposed to carry the new father to the feasting hall?” Dershik tried to hide his true feelings, wishing to forego the tradition. But everyone started shouting and before he knew it, people were grabbing his legs and lifting him up. The midwife shouted for them to leave, and soon Dershik found himself being carried awkwardly through the hallway, down two flights of stairs and through another hall, everyone singing and trying to touch him in hopes his virility would rub off onto them. Dershik wished for a quick death. Maybe they would drop him and he would hit his head on the floor. But he made it to the feasting hall safely and was finally set down before the seat of honor, plates of steamed and roasted grains already set on the table. Long strings of sausages were piled up in bowls and everyone shouted and sang. Dershik mouthed a ‘thank you’ as his brother poured him a glass of sweet barley wine.

People placed bets on the name of the baby, trying to guess what letter it would start with and Dershik drained his glass. He tapped it and someone filled it again, which he promptly drained. Someone set a plate of food in front of him, slapping him on the shoulders and ruffling his hair. When someone asked if he needed anything he simply relayed the request for meat and bloodroot to be sent to the birthing room on his behalf. When Dershik looked over at his father, the man only looked amused, allowing his oldest son his time in the light.

Dershik ate and answered questions about the baby, which weren’t many. Who did he look like more, what color hair did he have, what color were his eyes, was he heavy? Soon the musicians started to play and dishes of salads with colored eggs were put out. He drank another glass of wine and picked at his grains and sausage, the grease from the meat starting to congeal on the plate. Ceric didn’t seem to have much of an appetite either, drinking only herbal tea. When someone asked Dershik to join in a dance he politely refused, nursing a glass of spirits mixed with heartberry juice as the people spun round and round.

Whether to spite him or encourage him, his father got up and actually sang. His father was well known for his singing voice, so when he climbed on the platform and asked the band to play “Three Are the Aspects of Love,” a shout went up and the people banged their fists on the table, making the plates jump and a pitcher overturn. “Don’t mind Dershik,” his father called over the crowd. “He’s just saving his energy so he can give his son a sibling once Jerila comes out of the birthing room.” His father raised his glass to Dershik, who slowly sank in his chair, his face burning with embarrassment. Ceric sat there, still as a stone.

The celebration was for the birth of the child, not for Dershik himself so eventually he was able to excuse himself. The music was raucous and when it seemed it couldn’t get any louder, he pushed himself out of his chair, ready to make his exit. The room spun as if it was joining in the dance itself and he took a few breaths before he pushed the chair back, grabbing a half full pitcher and hitting Ceric on the shoulder with his hand. “I can’t take this anymore,” he said, carefully making his way out of the hall and toward the staircase. If Ceric responded, he hadn’t heard it. Anything his brother would have said could only make him feel worse.

Dershik clutched his stomach and leaned over, vomiting on the first landing. The sound of digested food hitting stones and the smell made him heave again, emptying his stomach of its contents. “I’m all right,” he said, in the off chance anyone was around and watching, waving imaginary onlookers away before he walked up the steps. He took them carefully, knowing a great uncle had died on these steps, too heavy with drink. He was an uncle, wasn’t he? Not a father. Not that anyone knew it, anyone besides himself and Ceric and Jerila. Maybe he should have tried harder, harder to get Jerila to like him, harder to dissuade Ceric from her. But he didn’t. He hadn’t wanted to. It seemed wrong.

Dershik found the second landing and almost exited but remembered his room was on the third floor. As he took the first step he heard the familiar sound of kissing, squinting in the low light to see who was up ahead. A young man came down the stairs from around the corner, averting his gaze from Dershik and another young man followed, tying his trousers. Dershik just shrugged and called after them. “Don’t slip. I got sick on the stairs.”

The third floor was found, all the windows open to let in fresh air and moonlight, a half moon already making its way west. Dershik stared at the moon and put a hand over his heart, drinking from the wine jug in honor of the Goddess. Where was his sign? Where was the answer he needed? Where was his room? The hallway seemed impossibly long all of a sudden. His door had a maned bear in a cave on it, he reminded himself, feeling stupid. It had been affixed to the door after he and Jerila had taken their vows. Another lie. He found the door and pushed it open.

The room was as tidy, the way he preferred it now Jerila’s items were all put away or moved to the birthing room. His items were all in their drawers or chests, the sheepskin rug freshly washed. He pulled his boots off and set them neatly at the foot of the bed, pulling off his socks. The floor was cold so he just crawled up onto the bed and sat there, pulling his dagger out and flipping it over and over in his hand as he held the jug, sipping from it occasionally.

He didn’t know how long he sat there on the bed, playing with the blade and sipping wine. Eventually he finished the jug and he managed to set it on the floor without falling off the bed. He began nursing a pitcher of water, knowing he would regret it later if he didn’t. Even drunk he handled the dagger skillfully, the metal warming in his hand. It warmed to him. It cut true. It kept his secrets and didn’t foist any more secrets on him.

A knock came at the door and Dershik hid the dagger at his side, eyes wide. “What is it?” he called, trying not to slur his words. He expected it to be Ceric or if the Goddess hated him, his father, bidding him to return to the festivities below. Instead a female voice came through the door. It was Cira.

“It’s me,” she said. It was obvious she wanted him to hear but didn’t want to shout. Dershik blinked in the dark and wondered if he should put his shoes back on before he remembered she wanted him to answer her.

“Oh,” he started. He found a quilt and covered his feet, not sure why he did it but finding it necessary all the same. “Uh, come in.” Dershik managed to make it a statement and not a question. It was a breath before the door opened and Cira’s form filled the doorway, the priestess opening the door only enough to enter the room. The door closed with a thud behind her.

“You’re sitting here alone in the dark.” Cira held her hands together in front of her, clasped. Her hair was loose, the way she’d been wearing it lately. Dershik swore he smelled her sweet perfume already, moonflower incense and spices. It made him bite his lip.

“You know me. Not one for parties. Especially if I’m the guest of honor.” He smirked and shrugged, taking a sip of water from the jug. Cira walked across the room slowly, her eyes wandering over the furniture and decorations. She’d never been in here before. Not since Jerila moved in.

Cira sat on the edge of the bed and Dershik found himself shifting away from her, wondering what she was doing here. She took the pitcher from him and sipped from it, her brows furrowing as she swallowed. “This is water,” she laughed, looking at him. Even in the dark, her grey eyes looked so pale.