Children of Fire

by Drew Karpyshyn

  “All this for one girl?” Methodis asked. “Think of the time and expense of raising her. Is it worth it? Hardly sound business.”

  An expression of uncertainty crept across Luger’s face, though the knife continued to trace its menacing path across the stubble of his chin.

  “And how will this look in the neighborhood?” Methodis added, playing his final card. “You claim you aren’t the father, yet you seem unnaturally obsessed with this child. If you keep her there will be questions. Whispered rumors of how Luger couldn’t keep his hands off one of his own girls.”

  Luger snarled and hurled his knife into the ground at the doctor’s feet. “I don’t lay with my own whores!”

  Methodis glanced down at the blade embedded an inch deep in the wooden floorboard, still quivering from the force of the throw.

  Looking up into Luger’s one glaring eye he said, “I will take the mother’s body away for burial. And I will take the child with me when I go.”

  “The little bitch is yours,” Luger hissed as he turned away and stomped down the corridor.

  The doctor breathed a sigh of relief before returning to the back room. Methodis was surprised to see that the child had stopped crying. The serving girl was gently rocking the babe back and forth in her arms, pointedly facing away from the mother’s body on the bed.

  At the sound of his approach the girl spoke. “You’re going to take her away from all this? The baby, I mean? Take her somewhere safe?”

  “You can hold her for a while longer,” Methodis said gently. “I have to clean up the mother.”

  “She was from the Western Isles,” the serving girl whispered. “Her name was Ilana. She told me it meant ‘lucky.’”

  Methodis nodded. He’d noticed his patient’s olive skin and almond eyes when he’d first arrived to help birth the child.

  In silence he cleaned the body and wrapped it in a funeral shroud so the authorities could take her. He removed his blood-soaked smock and rinsed his hands and arms clean in the basin.

  The girl was still rocking the baby in the corner. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she turned to face him. After the briefest hesitation she held the child out to him. “Have you … have you picked a name for her yet?”

  “Sciithe,” the doctor replied after a moment. “It means ‘spirit’ in the Old Tongue.”

  A hint of a smile passed over the serving girl’s lips, though her eyes were moist with tears.

  “She’s got spirit, that’s for sure. Good-bye, brave little darling.” She did her best to wrap her tongue around the unfamiliar sound of the foreign name, but couldn’t quite manage it. “Good-bye, Scythe.”

  Methodis didn’t have the heart to correct her.

  Chapter 3

  Roland sat nervously, his large frame supported by a sturdy wooden chair outside Madam Wyndham’s private quarters. From time to time he would shift his position by leaning forward, clenching and unclenching his heavily callused hands in helpless frustration.

  For nearly ten years now he’d been working for Conrad Wyndham. In the beginning he’d been hired for his blade—a retired soldier to provide extra security for merchant caravans on the long trips to foreign lands. Over time, however, his employer had come to trust Roland with far greater responsibilities, such as supervising the manor staff, overseeing the stables, and securing the safety of the master’s home and kin during his long absences on business.

  Yet there was nothing Roland could have done to protect against this. Birthing was woman’s work, and once he’d sent a servant to summon the midwife there was little else he could do but wait and worry.

  The crimson orb that hung in the sky that night only fed his fears. He wasn’t a superstitious man by nature, but sitting here helpless forced his mind to conjure up all the old wives’ tales he heard over the years. The Burning Moon’s a harbinger of dark times. Withered crops. Two-headed calves. Plague and pestilence. Stillborn children.

  An hour ago he’d heard Madam Wyndham’s screams of pain coming from the bedroom, each shriek causing his muscles to tighten involuntarily and his hand to twitch toward the short sword at his belt. He had thought nothing could be worse to bear than the sound of those screams … but he had been wrong.

  The midwife must have given Madam Wyndham something to ease the pain, because the screams had changed to low moans before eventually stopping completely. In the ensuing silence Roland’s mind had run wild, conjuring up terrifying images of everything that could have gone wrong. Several times he’d stood up and marched over to the door, determined to burst in just so he could know what was happening. Each time he’d stopped himself and returned to his chair, aware that any interference by him would only make the midwife’s job harder.

  When the door finally opened and the midwife emerged Roland leapt anxiously to his feet. She was a stout woman of middle age, with plain looks and a serious demeanor. Around the village it was said she had delivered over a hundred infants in her career. Roland could see that her apron was covered with blood, and the sober expression on her face confirmed his worst fears.

  “I’m sorry,” the midwife said in a low, steady voice. “The child was too weak. She’s gone.”

  Roland sat back down heavily in his chair and leaned forward, clasping his head in his hands. Sir Wyndham would be back on the morrow’s eve. How could Roland tell him that his daughter was dead?

  With a deep breath and a shake of his head he managed to pull himself together enough to sit up straight. In a voice thick with grief he asked, “What of Madam Wyndham?”

  “I gave her something for the pain. She’s asleep now, but she will live,” the midwife replied brusquely as she removed her stained apron and stuffed it into a thick leather satchel she had set by the bedroom door on her arrival. “But she will never birth again. The sickness that took her child has left her barren.”

  “The Burning Moon,” Roland whispered, not even realizing he was speaking aloud. Even so, the midwife heard him and replied.

  “Don’t blame this on curses and magic,” she muttered wearily. “Blame it on the fever.”

  Chagrined at his own foolishness, Roland nodded in acceptance of her more logical explanation. Celia Wyndham was not the first woman from the village to lose her child this month—not since the outbreak of pestilence had spread into their province. Yet this tragedy had still caught Roland unprepared. Some part of him had hoped that here in the manor they might be spared, as if illness and death would somehow recognize rank and privilege.

  He watched silently as the midwife picked up her satchel and went back into the bedchamber, moving with a well-practiced efficiency. Through the half-opened door he could see her packing up the ointments, potions, and salves she had brought with her. It was bad luck for a man to touch the birthing medicines, so he made no move to help as she gathered up the vials, wrapping each one in cloth before placing it inside her satchel.

  “What did Madam Wyndham say?” Roland finally called out to her, his sense of duty obligating him to shift his focus from the tragic death of his liege’s daughter to the continued well-being of his wife. “What was her reaction when … when you told her.”

  “She doesn’t know.” The midwife’s reply from the bedroom was distracted; she was concentrating on making sure she didn’t leave any of her wares behind. “The pain was too great, she begged me for something to help her sleep through the birth. She won’t awaken until the morn.”

  “Was it a difficult birth?” Roland asked, his brow furrowing.

  “No worse than normal,” she answered, emerging from the room and setting her satchel on the floor with a soft grunt. In her free arm she cradled a small bundle of clean white blankets. “Some women are strong, they can bear the pain. Others …” She trailed off with a shrug.

  Celia Wyndham had a quick temper she would often unleash upon her servants, but she would never be mistaken for a strong woman. Her whole life she had been sheltered from the harsh realities of the world. Yet Roland was troubled
that she hadn’t even wanted to be awake for the birth of her first child.

  He rose to his feet as the midwife crossed the room, extending the bundle out toward him: the child, wrapped in swaddling clothes.

  “She might want to see the child when she wakes,” the midwife explained.

  The little girl had been cleaned, Roland noticed as he took the bundle from her. Yet her face was the color of ash; it was obvious she was dead. Staring down at the infant’s corpse he felt compelled to ask another question. One he had no right to ask.

  “I’ve heard the birth is more difficult if the mother cannot help,” he began, choosing his words carefully.

  The midwife nodded, then turned and walked slowly back over to her satchel to make a final accounting of the contents.

  “Sometimes the mother can push or hold until I am ready,” she admitted.

  Satisfied that everything was safely packed away, she pulled the drawstrings shut and hoisted the bundle up over her meaty shoulder.

  “Sometimes it can make a difference.”

  “But Madam Wyndham wanted to sleep,” Roland muttered through clenched teeth. A moment later he added, “A mother should fight for her child!”

  The midwife only shrugged, noncommittal. “Sometimes it makes no difference. I’ve seen the sickness take four children since the last moon. Two of the mothers died as well. If the madam had stayed awake to suffer through the birth she might be dead now, too. And it might not have saved the child in any case.”

  Somehow this offended Roland even more. “So it’s all just chance? The whim of the Gods?”

  The midwife’s reply was matter-of-fact. “Life and death are intertwined.” She sighed, weary from the night’s long labor, tired of answering questions that had no real answer.

  “The sickness takes some and spares others. There is no rhyme or reason. Four nights ago the fever took the smith’s apprentice—as strong and strapping a lad as any in the village.”

  Roland had met the smith’s apprentice; he knew she spoke the truth. But as he clutched the cold, gray child to his chest the midwife’s simple wisdom offered no comfort.

  “His wife is with child, too,” he muttered, remembering a bit of gossip he’d heard from one of the chambermaids.

  “That’s the cruelest jape of all,” the midwife countered, shifting from one foot to the other as she adjusted the weight of the satchel on her shoulder. She was clearly eager to be on her way, but she wasn’t about to offend Roland by departing without proper leave. “Two nights ago the widow gave birth to a daughter. Then the fever took her, too.”

  Roland shook his head, numbed by the seemingly endless list of sorrow and suffering. “Another dead child.”

  “Not the child,” the midwife answered, a hint of annoyance in her voice. “The mother. The mother died. The child survived.” The midwife clucked her tongue. “Fate can be cruel. Not even a day old, and already an orphan.

  “Most would say that child is cursed,” she added, half under her breath. “It’s a wonder I found anyone willing to take her in.”

  Roland stood before the door of the small, thatch-roofed hut. He was soaked from his journey; the hut had been built on the farthest edge of the town, and the rain of the midnight storm was coming down in heavy sheets. Still, Roland hesitated before knocking on the door. It wasn’t the lateness of the hour that gave him pause; he suspected the woman inside would still be up—she was a creature of the night.

  It was his own doubts that stayed his hand. This plan was madness … but he couldn’t bear the thought of telling Sir Wyndham his child was dead. Gathering his resolve, he raised his fist and knocked hard upon the door. A minute later it swung open to reveal the small, slight form of Bella, the village witch-woman.

  “Who comes to my door in the dead of night?” she demanded in a thin whisper, her ice-blue eyes squinting to see him through the darkness of the storm.

  Roland knew her mostly by reputation. Bella rarely ventured from her home during the day, and living up at the manor house he’d never had reason or occasion to seek her aid before. He’d seen her once or twice on the streets, but never up close. He was surprised at how small she seemed without her cowl and walking staff: barely over five feet tall.

  Some in town called her the white witch, and it wasn’t hard to see why. She had long, silver hair, and her skin was so pale it looked as if she were carved from alabaster. Her plain features were creased with faint wrinkles, though the lines gave the impression of wisdom rather than age. She appeared to be in her early fifties, though if legends were true she was at least two decades older.

  She carried a newborn infant, clutching the pink-skinned little girl hard against her chalky bosom with one wiry arm. The babe was naked, and Bella wore only a threadbare tunic, open at the top to expose her breast. The little girl in the witch’s grasp sucked hungrily at the teat.

  Roland didn’t want to imagine what foul arts allowed the witch’s breast to flow with milk. Suppressing a shudder at the sound of the babe’s suckling, he pulled his gaze up to meet Bella’s eye. Keeping his voice level he said, “I work for Sir Wyndham.”

  Bella pursed her lips together and her cold eyes narrowed. “Madam Wyndham, you mean.” She made no effort to hider her contempt for Conrad’s overly pious wife. “It’s too late for her. Her child is dead, and I can do nothing to bring it back.”

  She tried to slam the door in his face, but Roland was too quick for her. Jamming it open with his foot he pushed his way inside.

  “How do you know about that?” he demanded. “The midwife only delivered the child an hour ago!”

  He was a tall man, thick through the chest and shoulders. He towered over Bella. But the tiny, silver-haired woman glared up at him unafraid before turning away and letting her free arm drop indifferently from the hut’s door.

  She headed to a small crib in the corner, glancing back over her shoulder to speak in a sinister whisper. “I see things. I know things. I have power.”

  “Then you know why I’m here,” Roland said, ignoring the implied threat in her voice.

  He followed her inside, closing the door behind him. The single room that made up the whole of the domicile was lit with a lone candle on a back wall near the crib. It kept the small hut warm, but most of the room was cast in dark shadow. He could just barely see shelves on the walls cluttered with numerous jars, and there was a small table piled with an assortment of bottles and vials in one corner. Things floated inside the glass, suspended in translucent fluids. In the gloom he couldn’t make out enough detail to identify them … not that he would have wanted to, anyway.

  “I don’t know why you’re here,” Bella admitted, speaking softly as she put the babe down in the crib and wrapped her in a soiled, stained blanket.

  She laced up the front of her tunic before turning back to face him, much to Roland’s relief.

  “The things I see are not always clear,” she explained. “Only death is always easy to understand.”

  “You knew Madam Wyndham’s child would die?”

  Bella nodded once.

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

  “Would she have listened to me?” she countered.

  “You don’t seem upset that a newborn is dead,” Roland noted. He was angry, but he kept his voice quiet so as not to disturb the child.

  “I had nothing to do with that!” she snapped, keeping her own voice low. “There is a plague upon this province. Children die!”

  Her reaction was understandable. Bella was well respected in the town, but she was also feared, even by those she used her arcane powers to help. Celia Wyndham was a vocal supporter of the Order, and an outspoken critic of Bella and her ilk. It wasn’t out of the question that she might try to blame her child’s death on the witch-woman … if Madam Wyndham ever found out her child had died.

  “I know how that child came to you,” Roland said, getting to the heart of the matter with a slight nod toward the crib.

  “And what of it?�
�� Bella demanded, her voice defensive. “I offered to raise the child, teach her the ways of my craft.”

  “Why?” Roland wanted to know. “The child is cursed. Born under the Burning Moon.”

  Bella snorted. “Cursed? A word used by the fearful and ignorant! The child is blessed. She is strong!”

  “She has the Gift?” Roland guessed, the pieces starting to fall into place.

  The witch refused to answer his question. “Who else would take her in but me? Better to let her die an orphan?”

  “The Order would have taken her.”

  Bella grinned at him, exposing pearly, too-perfect teeth. It was a joyless expression, a smile meant to mock him.

  “You know what the Order does to children who have the Gift?” she asked, baiting him. “They take their eyes!”

  It was true, in a fashion. The blind monks of the Order were a common enough sight across the Southlands. Yet it was also a lie. The Pilgrims were blessed with a mystical second sight that gave them complete awareness of the world around them; everyone knew they were not truly blind.

  “And what will you take from this child?” Roland asked, his voice rising slightly.

  He knew little about the ways of Chaos and magic, yet he feared the child might be used in some dark ritual, possibly to help the ageless woman keep the years at bay a little while longer.

  “I mean this child no harm,” Bella offered, as if sensing his thoughts. “She has power. Potential. But it will never be realized if she is given to the Order.”

  “I do not wish to turn her over to the Order,” Roland assured her.

  “The child is mine,” Bella insisted one last time. “Nobody wanted her. I took her in. I won’t give her up to the likes of Miss High and Mighty!” There was a long pause before she added, “Not without some type of … compensation.”

  By the time Roland returned to the manor the rain had stopped and the first faint light of dawn was coming up over the horizon, transforming the still-visible red moon to an eerie orange hue. Madam Wyndham was still asleep when he slipped into the room. The wet nurse—a sturdy, plain-looking young woman from one of the nearby farms who had given birth to her own child only a week ago—was waiting for him there.