Authors: Jeri Smith-Ready
Those weren’t the kind of thoughts Silina needed for her ritual, but Rhia couldn’t help it. Serenity came and went, fickle as the sun on a cloudy day. At least the voices had stopped completely, either out of respect for the moment or fear that her strength might resurge.
The door opened, and Marek returned, looking even more troubled than when he had left. Alanka squeezed Rhia’s shoulders and moved aside for Marek, who settled behind her again.
A woman appeared at the door. Coranna.
Rhia’s eyes shed tears she didn’t know were left inside her. She wanted to scramble out of bed and fall into her mentor’s arms.
Coranna’s face softened. She moved like liquid silver to Rhia’s side and placed a cool, silky palm on her cheek. “I’ve missed you.”
Rhia couldn’t speak. Coranna moved aside, revealing a tall dark-haired man. Though Rhia had never seen him before, she reached for him as if by instinct, this honored and cursed cocarrier of the Aspect of Crow.
Damen stepped forward and spoke her name in a deep voice that soothed the ragged edges of her soul. “I’m glad to meet you,” he said.
“I’m glad you exist.” She took his hand as another contraction hit. His eyes bulged from the pressure of her fingernails into his palm.
“Hold on,” Silina purred, mopping Rhia’s brow. “After this contraction I’ll perform the spell.”
Blinded by the pain and pressure, Rhia couldn’t even acknowledge her. She wanted to cry out for her mother, but could only close her eyes and focus on the memory of her strong, gentle face.
When the wave passed, Rhia opened her eyes. The curtains had been drawn, and the sole light came from three candles around a deep bowl of water on a nearby table. Silina stood next to the table, staring into the space above the bowl. The candlelight created three dancing yellow spots in each of her hazel eyes.
A chant began low in the Turtle’s throat. She held her palms down over the bowl. The others watched, faces blank with the same calm that Rhia felt at the sound of Silina’s voice.
The water in the bowl moved—at first just a ripple, then a series of waves. Silina’s voice rose in timbre and volume. The water lapped faster against the sides of the bowl. The blood and water in Rhia’s body surged in response.
A tiny whirlpool formed in the bowl’s center, then grew until it encompassed every drop. The rushing liquid harmonized with Silina’s voice. She turned to face Rhia, who wanted to shrink from the immense power. Marek stroked her arms with strong, soothing fingers.
Silina held her hands apart as she approached. The space between her palms shimmered with liquid force, as if she had transformed the air itself into water.
She placed her palms on the underside of Rhia’s abdomen, over the place where Nilik lay. Silina’s chin tilted, and her young assistant joined the chant in a high, lilting voice. Rhia sank back into Marek’s arms, floating and soaring on the sound that flowed like water over and within her. Shivers of bliss entered the base of her spine and trickled to the tips of her fingers and toes.
Nilik shifted.
The two women continued the chant, and Rhia felt another swell of motion within her womb. She gasped as a wave moved
up,
in the opposite direction of the birth. It felt wrong, but she had to trust Silina’s Turtle Spirit.
Something slipped inside her, then sank into a place that felt right—and urgent.
“There!” After the ethereal chanting, Silina’s mundane speaking voice startled Rhia. The Turtle smoothed the skin over Rhia’s belly. “He’s ready when you are.”
“Thank you,” Rhia breathed.
Silina patted her leg. “Sorry, the hardest part’s to come. But now you can let your body do what it wants.”
What it wanted, very badly, was to expel the person it had carried for thirty-seven weeks.
The room cleared then except for Marek and Silina. A hundred people could have surrounded Rhia, for all she knew or cared. Her mind shut out all but the tiny space within. It reminded her of the day on the mountain when she had frozen to death, when the slowing rhythm of her breath became her whole world. The same peace draped over her now, even in the midst of heaving, rippling pain. But instead of the numbing lull that came between her and all sensation, Nilik’s birth planted her deep within her own body until nothing else existed.
It was the opposite of death.
As if from a distance, she heard Silina say, “And there’s half of him.”
Rhia craned her neck over her belly to see, but another contraction slammed her head back onto Marek’s chest.
“Not much longer,” Silina crooned. “Good, his arms are down. That’ll make the shoulders easy. There you go, little man. Nothing left but your beautiful face.”
Rhia tried not to tense. The hardest part was yet to come, and if it didn’t go quickly…
Marek smoothed back her hair. “Ready for us to call in Coranna and Damen?”
She nodded. Crows attended every passage from one world to another, no matter the direction. Attending a birth was one of their sweeter duties.
She closed her eyes to rest for a few moments before the final effort. When she opened them again, Coranna and Damen stood near the door, along with Silina’s assistant.
As her body moved with what she hoped would be the last contraction, the Crows began a soothing chant of welcome, Coranna in a smooth contralto and Damen in a bass so beautiful Rhia would have wept if she’d had the breath. She bore down hard but felt nothing move below.
“Hold on.” Silina’s mouth tightened. “The head’s not coming. Stop pushing for a moment.”
“I can’t stop!” She wanted to throttle Silina. “Just make it happen. Please.”
“We have to be careful. Stay calm. Only push when I say.”
Marek held Rhia, whispering calm encouragement, and a distant part of her marveled at the strength he’d found within himself. Rhia focused on her breath and tried not to panic.
Until she heard it. Crow’s wings.
Nilik was dying.
“No!” She clawed at the air as if she could fight off the Spirit with her own hands. “You won’t take him from me!”
Damen’s voice faltered. He heard it, too, Rhia realized. Coranna, however, kept as steady as ever.
The wings grew louder in their approach. Soon it would be too late.
“Now!” Silina cried, and Rhia drew on strength that flowed from nowhere and everywhere at once.
With a final effort, she gave her son a chance at life, and he slipped into Silina’s hands.
“Good,” the Turtle said. Rhia knew that the flat tone was not an understatement. He hadn’t survived…yet.
“He’ll be all right,” Marek whispered. “He has to be.”
Zelia entered and reached for the baby, who was eerily silent. Rhia had attended enough births to know he should have cried by now.
“Give him to me,” Rhia said.
“We have to revive him.” Zelia wiped Nilik’s face, swabbing the inside of his nose and mouth.
“Revive him here.”
The healers exchanged a quick glance, then Zelia placed Rhia’s son on her stomach. His glassy half-open eyes stared at her.
Rhia reached inside herself and found one last bit of strength. The strength to see.
As the healers rubbed Nilik’s chest, Crow soared, waiting. She held her breath.
The wings faded, and she grabbed Marek’s hand. “He’s going to live. He’s—”
She was interrupted by a loud gurgle as Nilik took his first halting breath. His chest heaved and a moment later a scream ripped his throat.
Rhia laughed with all her breath at the ear-numbing sound. Marek’s head fell onto her shoulder, and she felt his tears drip down her breast.
Perhaps she was too exhausted to prevent what happened next, or perhaps she forgot not to look. As she watched her son clutch at life, her mind’s eye opened a little, and in the next moment, she flung it wide.
The vision sucked her into a tunnel of time, longer than any she had traveled through before, though its journey lasted a moment. She came out the other side on a sandy beach, where waves surged green and white.
And red. The water receded, its foam tinged with blood, then flowed in again to lap the heels of a man facedown in the wet sand. A scarlet rivulet ran from under his bare chest and long, light brown hair. The hilt of a sword lay near his outstretched hand. His body was slim, like that of a young man.
Too young.
Nilik would never grow old.
She screamed at him to get up, to run, to live, but her shriek held no sound.
The vision turned as black as Crow’s breast. The weight on her stomach disappeared, and she fell unconscious as she reached for the son who wasn’t there.
The sunlight still spotted the wall when Rhia awoke, so she knew little time had passed. Marek appeared next to her bed as soon as she opened her eyes.
“Thank the Spirits.” A bundle in a white blanket filled his arms. “How do you feel?”
She reached for the bundle. “Is he—”
“He’s fine. There were a few scary moments right after he was born, but he’s alert now.” Marek’s lips twitched. “And hungry.”
She sat up, wincing. “He’s not the only one.”
Marek laughed. “I’ll see if I can get you some bread. But first, may I present Nilik, officially the most beautiful baby in the world.”
Rhia held out her arms, which shook from exhaustion. Marek placed the bundle on her, one end in the crook of her left elbow.
She gazed down into the face of her son, who already looked like his father, and felt one moment of perfect happiness.
Then she remembered. The vision yanked at her mind, as if longing to show itself again.
No. She closed her eyes at the sudden dizziness. He can’t die.
“What’s wrong?” Marek said.
Rhia felt her heart clench. She’d never kept a secret from Marek. But this one she could never share.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she said. “But his head will need to be round before we can proclaim him the most beautiful baby in the world.”
“Silina said that was normal, for the birth to misshape his head.”
“I know.” She smiled at him and realized that it wasn’t forced. Despite the vision, she was happy. “I was joking.”
“Oh. Right.” He scratched the back of his head. “I should get Silina now.”
“And some bread.”
“And bread. But I don’t want to leave you.”
“I promise I won’t fall asleep and drop him on the floor.”
He leaned over to kiss her softly, then kept his face close to hers as he whispered, “I love you.” He turned his head to Nilik. “And you, too.” After a quick kiss on the baby’s forehead and a squeeze of Rhia’s arm, he bid them a brief farewell, then left the room walking backward.
When he was gone, she tilted her head to the child. “I’ll never let anything bad happen to you.” She pushed the blanket down so she could attempt to feed him. “And we’re never going to the sea.”
She tracked her prey through the woods without a sound, careful to stay downwind of its flaring nostrils. It quickened its pace, hooves thumping over the carpet of soft, dead leaves. She ran, too, letting its footsteps cover the sound of her own.
Alanka had gotten used to hunting alone, especially now that Marek was preoccupied with caring for his son. Fatherhood suited him well, at least for these first two weeks. She’d never seen him so tired, nor so happy. It drew a sharp contrast to the rancor in the home she shared with Lycas and Mali, who had taken to parenting like fire takes to water. The past few days of snow and rain had kept Alanka indoors with the pair of cranky warriors and their new daughter.
The morning sun angled warm and mellow through the bare trees, painting the snow patches a pale orange. Her prey angled to the left, and she realized it was heading for a nearby meadow. She frowned, for it would see her out in the open. Time to move in for the kill.
Alanka slipped behind a wide-trunked hickory and waited for the animal to turn to give her a larger target. As it did, she slid an arrow from her quiver and nocked it against the bowstring. She aimed, then drew back an empty right hand in a pretend shot.
“Got you!” she yelled. “You’re dead!”
The golden horse snorted and wheeled. His tall blond rider spun in the opposite direction but almost held on to the nervous animal. At the last moment, he slipped and came crashing to the ground next to a fallen tree. Something snapped.
“Oh, no.” Alanka dashed toward the rider, spooking the horse further. He whirled toward the meadow and cantered away.
The blond man sat up, emitting a string of curses, some of which she’d never heard before. He yanked on his left leg, bent at an unnatural angle.
She scurried up to him, hands outstretched. “I’m so sorry.”
The man cut short his tirade. Large blue eyes glared under a heavy brow. “No,
I’m
sorry.”
“Why?”
He struggled to reach his boot. “Women shouldn’t hear those kinds of words.”
She almost laughed at the notion. “Are you all right?” she asked, then winced at her question. “Obviously not.”
His voice hardened. “Why were you hunting my horse?” He looked around. “Where’d he go? Keleos!”
“I’ll get him,” she said, though she doubted she could fetch an animal she had just frightened.
“Wait.” The man held up a hand and listened for a moment. From the meadow came a low whinny. “He says he’ll come back if you leave.”
“Oh.” She started to turn. “But don’t you need help?”
He leaned back on his hands and scowled at her. “You can help by going away.”
“But your leg is broken.”
“No, it’s not.”
She squinted at him, wondering if the fall had made him delusional.
His left foot shifted, drawing her attention. The cuff of his trousers had slipped up, revealing not skin but hard leather. “Oh! You must be—” Alanka pointed at him as her memory flailed for the name, which he declined to offer “—the Descendant who lives with Rhia’s father.”
He crossed his ankles, hiding the prosthesis. “Which freak aspect gave me away, the fact that I hear horses talking to me, or the fact that I have only one leg?”
She cocked her head. “I heard you had one-and-a-half legs.”
He gaped at her, and she realized she’d doubled her blunder. “I mean,” she stammered, “there’s a difference, right?”
His mouth closed slowly, then transformed into a crooked smile that snagged her breath. “A difference of half a leg, to be precise.”
Alanka stood staring at him, then realized she was standing there staring at him. “Do you still want me to leave?”
He frowned at the meadow where the horse waited. Alanka could hear the impatient stamp of hooves. “Hand me that branch over there,” he told her.
Alanka stooped to pick up the dead limb he was pointing at, and realized he was watching her intently. He could be as dangerous as his Descendant comrades, liable to kill at the slightest provocation. She whirled on him, brandishing the limb.
The man put up his hands to defend himself. “What in the gods’ names are you doing?”
“What do you need this for?” she asked. “To knock me out when I’m not looking?”
“I need it to walk.” He lunged forward on his good leg and grabbed the branch. A splinter of wood bit her palm.
“Ow!” She sucked on the wound. “No need to get violent.”
“Violent?” He used the limb to hobble to the fallen tree trunk. “First you pretend to shoot me, then you nearly brain me with a piece of tree.” He heaved a sharp sigh as he sat. “You’re even crazier than the rest of them.”
“The rest of who?”
He waved the branch at their surroundings. “The Asermons. My lovely hosts.”
“I’m not Asermon. I’m from Kalindos.”
“You’re a termite?”
Her face heated. “We don’t appreciate that name.”
“It’s what the Asermons call you. You live in trees, right?”
“How dare they call us that, after we saved their village against the—against you. My Wolf brother, Marek, snuck into your camp to sedate your war horses. He was captured and almost killed. Does that sound like something a termite would do?”
The man had gone silent, his lower jaw jutting to the side. She felt a strange, strong desire to make him smile again. Then she looked toward the horse, back at the man, and realized what had happened.
“You were one of those cavalry soldiers, weren’t you? You couldn’t ride into battle and had to walk instead.”
He nodded. “As did my brother. It’s why he died. It’s why I was injured. Why I’m here now.”
“Oh!” Her memory clicked into place. “You’re the man from the hospital. The one Adrek tried to strangle.”
He examined her. “Are you the woman who stopped him?” She nodded with what she hoped was modesty, and his gaze lowered to her feet. “Then I am in your debt,” he said quietly.
“Not anymore.” She pointed to the spot where he’d fallen. “I could’ve killed you just now. So we’ll call it even.”
“No, I mean it. Among my people, if you save a person’s life, they owe you loyalty forever.”
She waved away the notion. “Fine. What’s your name?”
He looked up at her, eyes wide, as if she had surprised him. “Filip.”
“I’m Alanka.”
He gave a quick nod, then said, “Forgive me if I don’t get up to bow.”
“Kalindons don’t bow in greeting, anyway. We embrace.” His eyes widened further, and she held up her palm. “Don’t worry, I won’t hug you.”
He failed to relax, and she wondered if she should leave. Probably. She sat next to him on the trunk. “What does that feel like?”
“What?”
“The leg that’s not your leg. The fake one.”
“It’s—” He hesitated. “No one ever asked me that before, so I don’t know how to describe it.”
“Didn’t your healer ask you how it felt?”
“In a clinical way, yes. As in, ‘Does it still hurt?’ or ‘Does it still chafe?’ or ‘Do you still feel like burning it, then pissing on the ashes?’”
She laughed. “Do you?”
“Every moment.” He put on a grim smile, then opened his mouth as if to say something.
“What is it?”
“I have to take it off and fix one of the straps. It broke when I fell.”
“Let me help you.”
“No, I’d rather—”
“It’s my fault it broke.” She squatted next to him and grabbed his boot. “The sooner you fix it the sooner you can get your horse.”
He yanked his foot out of her grip. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Helping you take it off.”
“I have to undo the other strap first.”
“Oh.” She glanced at his thigh. “How?”
“I have to take off my trousers.”
She held his gaze but kept her tone light. “I can help with that, too.”
His face reddened, accentuating the short blond strands at his hairline, and she realized she was flirting.
Flirting,
as if she wanted someone, wanted anything other than numbness. Flirting was something the old Alanka did, the Alanka she could barely remember.
“I’m just joking.” She stood, backed up several paces and turned away. Then she smiled. “Unless you want me to.”
He wanted her to. In the name of all the gods or Spirits or whatever he could call upon for strength, he wanted her to. But the thought of this wild, beautiful girl seeing him
that way,
the thought of her trying to hide her pity or disgust, cooled his ache to be touched by a woman.
Barely.
“I’ll be fine,” he said to her back, and unfastened his trousers.
He had grown adept at maneuvering in and out of clothes, and he only had to push the waistband over his hips to reach the leather strap that held on his prosthesis. Within moments he had the hateful thing in his hands and was dressed again.
“You can turn around now,” he said.
Alanka came back to sit on the tree with him. She looked at the false leg without embarrassment. “It’s smaller than I thought it would be.”
Something a man always loves to hear.
He tried not to laugh.
“So how does it feel?” she asked. “You never told me.”
Filip held the prosthesis between his knees and examined the broken strap. “I had it adjusted because it was starting to hurt. It’s too loose now, so it slips under pressure. That’s why I fell off—I’m usually a better rider than that.” He glanced at her face, the edges of which were damp with sweat and dew. She was paying attention, but how long would her morbid curiosity last?
“Where did it hurt?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“When I’ve had boots that didn’t fit, sometimes they would just hurt my feet, but other times my whole leg and even my back would hurt if I wore them too long.” Her gaze flicked up to his face, and he tried not to stare into her dark, animated eyes. “Is that what happens to you? Does it hurt all over or just in one spot?”
Everywhere, he thought. Especially right now.
He cleared his throat. “Mainly there, on—on my—”
“On your stump?”
He took a sharp breath through his nose and nodded, not looking at her. Was there a single thought this woman didn’t utter out loud?
“I’m sorry about your brother,” she said. “Mine died, too.”
“I’m sorry. I mean it.” He unbuckled the broken strap so he could tie it in a knot. “You have no idea how sorry I am we invaded Asermos.”
“It’s not your fault. And I know you didn’t kill Nilo, because you wouldn’t be sitting here if you had. My other brother, Lycas—he’s a Wolverine, too—”
“I know Lycas.” His tongue hissed his enemy’s name.
“Oh, of course, through Tereus. Anyway, Lycas killed the man who killed our brother. There wasn’t much left of him afterward.”
“Much left of who?”
“Nilo’s killer.” She paused. “There wasn’t much left of Lycas after that day, either.”
“I didn’t get any kills in that battle.” He pulled hard on the ends of the strap to test the knot. “I never had a chance.”
From the corner of his eye he saw her rub her hands together, then fold and unfold her fingers into interlocking fists. “I did.”
Her voice was so soft he wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. “You did what?”
“Killed someone. That day.” She rolled the quiver of arrows between her hands. “Lots of someones, actually.”
“They shouldn’t let women on the battlefield.”
“I was behind the field. I was an archer.”
Filip wondered if she’d put the arrow in his own shoulder. “From such a long range, how do you know you killed anyone?”
“A platoon broke through and came after us.” Her shoulders hunched. “We had to shoot up close.”
She looked so shattered, so unlike the woman he’d met moments ago. “You killed to save your own life and those of your comrades. There’s no shame in that.”
“It’s not shame.” She blinked, and her voice’s strength restored. “Lycas is proud of me, and everyone here tells me what a hero I was, defending a land that’s not even mine.”
“It is heroic. It’s an honor to be a warrior.” Hearing his own words, he wanted to fling away the false leg. How could he speak of a warrior’s honor when he would never fight again, when he hadn’t had the grace to die on the battlefield?
“I don’t feel honorable,” she said. “I feel…nothing.” The corners of her mouth tilted down for a moment, then bounced back up. “At least not while I’m awake.”
“You have nightmares?”
“No. Yes. Sometimes. What about you?”
“My dreams are all good.” He hefted the prosthetic leg and thought, It’s life that’s a nightmare. He was glad he hadn’t said it out loud; it sounded melodramatic enough in his head. “I dream about home. I dream of running.”
“You can’t run with that thing on?”
“Not quickly. A bit of a trot, on level ground.”
“Can you dance?”