by Morgan Rice
Rea ran. Gasping for breath, she twisted and turned through the alleys, looking for shelter. Heaving, in horrific pain, she did not know how much farther she could go.
She finally found herself exiting into the village proper, with its elegant stone houses, and she glanced back with dread to see they were closing in, hardly twenty feet away. She gasped, stumbling more than running. She knew she was reaching her end. Another labor pain was coming.
Suddenly there came a sharp creak, and Rea looked up to see an ancient oak door before her open wide. She was startled to see Fioth, the old apothecary, peek out from his small stone fort, wide-eyed, beckoning her to enter quickly. Fioth reached out and yanked her with a grip surprisingly strong for his old age, and Rea found herself stumbling through the door of the luxurious keep.
He slammed and bolted it behind her.
A moment later the thumping came, the hands and sickles of dozens of irate villagers trying to knock it down. Yet the door held, to Rea’s immense relief. It was a foot thick and centuries older than she. Its heavy iron bolts did not even bend.
Rea breathed deep. Her baby was safe.
Fioth leaned over and examined her, his face filled with compassion, and seeing his gentle look helped her more than anything else. No one had looked upon her with kindness in this village for months.
He removed her furs as she gasped from another labor pain. It was quiet in here, the gales of snow brushing the roof muted, and very warm.
Fioth led her to the fire’s side and laid her down on a pile of furs. It was then that it all hit her: the running, the fighting, the pain. She collapsed. Even if there were a thousand men knocking down the door, she knew she could not move again.
She shrieked as a sharp labor pain tore through her.
“I can’t run,” Rea gasped, beginning to cry. “I cannot run anymore.”
He ran a cool, damp cloth across her forehead.
“No need to run anymore,” he said, his voice, ancient, reassuring, as if he had seen it all before. “I am here now.”
She shrieked and groaned as another pain ripped through her. She felt as if she were being torn in two.
“Lean back!” he commanded.
She did as she was told—and a second later, she felt it. A tremendous pressure between her legs.
There suddenly came a sound that terrified her.
A wail.
The scream of a baby.
She nearly blacked out from the pain.
She watched the apothecary’s expert hands, as she went in and out of consciousness, pulling the child from her, reaching out with something sharp, cutting the umbilical cord. She watched him wipe the baby with a cloth, clear its lungs, nose, throat.
The wail and scream came even louder.
Rea burst into tears. It was such a relief to hear the sound, penetrating her heart, rising even above the slamming of the villagers against the door. A child.
Her child.
He was alive. Against all odds, he had been born.
Rea was dimly aware of the apothecary wrapping him in a blanket, and then she felt the warmth as he placed him in her arms. She felt the weight of him on her chest, and she held him tight as he screamed and wailed. She had never been so overjoyed, tears gushing down her face.
Suddenly, there came a new sound: horses galloping. The clanging of armor. And then, shrieks. It was no longer the sound of the mob shouting to kill her—but rather, of the mob being killed itself.
Rea listened, baffled, trying to understand. Then she felt a wave of relief. Of course. The noble had come back to save her. To save his child.
“Thank God,” she said. “The knights have come to my rescue.”
Rea felt a sudden burst of optimism. Perhaps he would take her away from all this. Perhaps she would have a chance to start life over again. Her boy would grow up in a castle, become a great lord, and perhaps she would, too. Her baby would have a good life. She would have a good life.
Rea felt a flood of relief, tears of joy flooding her cheeks.
“No,” the apothecary corrected, his voice heavy. “They have not come to save your baby.”
She stared back, confused. “Then why have they come?”
He stared at her grimly.
“To kill it.”
She stared back, aghast, feeling a cold dread run through her.
“They did not trust the job to a mob of villagers,” he added. “They wanted to make sure it was done right, by their own hands.”
Rea felt ice run through her veins.
“But…” she stammered, trying to understand, “…my baby belongs to the knight. Their commander. Why? Why would they want to kill it?”
Fioth shook his head grimly.
“Your knight, the baby’s father, was murdered,” he explained. “Many moons ago. Those men you hear are not his own. They are his rivals. They want his baby dead. They want you dead.”
He stared back with a panicked urgency and she knew, with dread, that he spoke the truth.
“You must both flee this place!” he urged. “Now!”
He had hardly finished uttering the words when there came the crash of an iron pole against the door. This time it was no mere farmer’s sickle—it was a professional knight’s battering ram. As it hit, the door buckled.
Fioth turned to her, eyes wide in panic.
“GO!” he shouted.
Rea looked back at him, terror-stricken, wondering, in her condition, if she could even stand.
He grabbed her, though, and yanked her to her feet. She shrieked in pain, the motion pure agony.
“Please!” she cried. “It hurts too much! Let me die!”
“Look in your arms!” he cried back. “Do you want him to die?”
Rea looked down at the boy wailing in her arms, and as another smash came against the door, she knew he was right. She could not let him die here.
“What about you?” she moaned, realizing. “They will kill you, too.”
He nodded with resignation.
“I have lived for many sun cycles,” he replied. “If I can delay them from finding you, to give you a chance for safety, I will gladly give up what remains of my life. Now go! Head for the river! Find a boat and flee from here! Quickly!”
He yanked her before she had a chance to think, and before she knew it he was leading her to the rear entrance of his fort. He pulled back a tapestry to reveal a hidden door carved into the stone. He leaned against it with all his might and it opened with a scraping sound, releasing ancient air. A burst of cold air rushed into the fort.
Barely had it opened than he pushed her and her baby out the back.
Rea found herself immersed in the snowstorm, stumbling down a steep, snowy riverbank, clutching her baby. She slipped and slid, feeling as if the world were collapsing beneath her, barely able to move. As she ran, lightning struck an immense tree close to her, lighting up the night, and sent it crashing down too close to her. The baby screamed. She was horrified: never would she have believed that lightning could strike in a snowstorm. This was indeed a night of omens.
Rea slipped again as the terrain grew steep, and this time she landed on her butt. She went flying, and she cried out as the slope took her all the way down toward the riverbank.
She breathed with relief to reach it and realized if she hadn’t slid all this way, she probably could not have made the run. She glanced back uphill, shocked at how far she had come, and watched in horror as the knights invaded Fioth’s fort and set it ablaze. The fire burned strongly, even in the snow, and she felt an awful wave of guilt, knowing the old man had died for her.
A moment later knights burst out the back door, while more horses galloped around it. She could see they’d spotted her, and without pausing raced for her.
Rea turned and tried to run, but there was nowhere left to go. She was in no condition to run, anyway. All she could do was drop to her knees before the riverbank. She knew she would die here. She had reached the end of her rope.
Rea reached out and prepared to shove the basket into the calm river’s waters. If the current caught it, it would float away from here. Somewhere down river. How far, and for how long, she did not know. But some chance of life was better than none.
Rea, weeping, leaned down and kissed her baby’s forehead. She leaned back and shrieked with grief. Hands shaking, she removed the necklace from around her neck and placed it around her baby’s.
She clasped her hands over both of his.
“I love you,” she said, between sobs. “Never forget me.”
The baby shrieked as if he understood, a piercing cry, rising even above the new clap of thunder and lightning, even above the sound of approaching horses.
Rea knew she could wait no longer. She gave the basket a push, and soon, the current caught it. She watched, sobbing, as it disappeared into the blackness.
She had no sooner lost sight of it than the clanging of armor appeared behind her—and she wheeled to find several knights dismounting, but feet away.
“Where’s the child?” one demanded, his visor lowered, his voice cutting through the storm. It was nothing like the visor of the man who had had her. This man wore red armor, of a different shape, and there was no kindness in his voice.
“I…” she began.
Then she felt a fury within her—the fury of a woman who knew she was about to die. Who had nothing left to lose.
“He’s gone,” she spat, defiant. She smiled. “And you shall never have him. Never.”
The man groaned in anger as he stepped forward, drew a sword, and stabbed her.
Rea felt the awful agony of steel in her chest, and she gasped, breathless. She felt her world becoming lighter, felt herself immersed in white light, and she knew that this was death.
Yet, she felt no fear. Indeed, she felt satisfaction. Her baby was safe.
And as she landed face-first in the river, the waters turning red, she knew it was over. Her short, hard life had ended.
But her boy would live forever.
*
The peasant woman, Mithka, knelt by the river’s edge, her husband beside her, the two frantically reciting their prayers, feeling no other recourse during this uncanny storm. It felt as if the end of the world were upon them. The blood red moon was a dire omen in and of itself—but appearing together with a storm like this, well, it was more than uncanny. It was unheard of. Something momentous, she knew, was afoot.
They knelt there together, gales of wind and snow whipping their faces, and she prayed for protection for their family. For mercy. For forgiveness for anything she may have done wrong.
A pious woman, Mithka had lived many sun cycles, had several children, had a good life. A poor life, but a good one. She was a decent woman. She had minded her business, had looked after others, and had never done harm to anyone. She prayed that God would protect her children, her household, whatever meager belongings they had. She leaned over and placed her palms in the snow, closed her eyes, and then bent low, touching her head to the ground. She prayed to God to show her a sign.
Slowly, she lifted her head. As she did, her eyes widened and her heart slammed at the sight before her.
“Murka!” she hissed.
Her husband turned and looked at it, too, and both knelt there, frozen, staring in astonishment.
It couldn’t be possible. She blinked several times, and yet there it was. Before them, carried in the water’s current, was a floating basket.
And in that basket was a baby.
A boy.
His screams pierced the night, rose even above the storm, above the impossible claps of thunder and lightning, and each scream pierced her heart.
She jumped into the river, wading in deep, ignoring the icy waters, like knives on her skin, and grabbed the basket, fighting her way against the current and back toward shore. She looked down and saw the baby was meticulously wrapped in a blanket, and that he was, miraculously, dry.
She examined him more closely and was astonished to see a gold pendant around his neck, two snakes circling a moon, a dagger between them. She gasped; it was one she recognized immediately.
She turned to her husband.
“Who would do such a thing?” she asked, horrified, as she held him tight against her chest.
He could only shake his head in wonder.
“We must take him in,” she decided.
Her husband frowned and shook his head.
“How?” he snapped. “We cannot afford to feed him. We can barely afford to feed us. We have three boys already—what do we need with a fourth? Our time raising children is done.”
Mithka, thinking quick, snatched the thick gold pendant and placed it in his palm, knowing, after all these years, what would impress her husband. He felt the weight of the gold in his hand, and he clearly looked impressed.
“There,” she snapped back, disgusted. “There’s your gold. Enough gold to feed our family until we’re all old and dead,” she said sternly. “I am saving this baby—whether you like it or not. I will not leave him to die.”
He still frowned, though less certain, as another lightning bolt struck above and he studied the skies with fear.
“And do you think it’s a coincidence?” he asked. “A night like this, such a baby comes into this world? Have you any idea who you are holding?”
He looked down at the child with fear. And then he stood and backed away, finally turning his back and leaving, gripping the pendant, clearly displeased.
But Mithka would not give in. She smiled at the baby and rocked him to her chest, warming his cold face. Slowly, his crying calmed.
“A child unlike any of us,” she replied to no one, holding him tight. “A child who shall change the world. And one I shall name: Royce.”
PART TWO
CHAPTER FOUR
17 Sun Cycles later
Royce stood atop the hill, beneath the only oak tree in these fields of grain, an ancient thing whose limbs seemed to reach to the sky, and he looked deeply into Genevieve’s eyes, deeply in love. They held hands as she smiled back at him, and as they leaned in and kissed, he felt in awe and gratitude that his heart could feel this full. As dawn broke over the fields of grain, Royce wished that he could freeze this moment forever.
Royce leaned back and looked at her. Genevieve was gorgeous. In her seventeenth year, as he was, she was tall, slim, with flowing blond hair and intelligent green eyes, a smattering of freckles across her dainty features. She had a smile that made him happy to be alive, and a laugh that put him at ease. More than that, she had a grace, a nobility, that far outmatched their peasant status.
Royce saw his own reflection in her eyes and he marveled that he looked as if he could be related to her. He was much bigger, of course, tall even for his age, with shoulders broader than even his older brothers’, a strong chin, a noble nose, a proud forehead, an abundance of muscle which rippled beneath his frayed tunic, and light features, like hers. His longish blond hair fell just before his eyes, while his hazel-green eyes matched hers, albeit a shade darker. He’d been blessed with strength, and with a skill with the sword that matched his brothers’, though he was the youngest of the four. His father had always joked that he had fallen from the sky, and Royce understood: he shared not his brothers’ dark features or average frame. He was like a stranger in his own family.
They embraced, and it felt so good to be hugged so tightly, to have someone who loved him as much as he did her. The two of them had, in fact, been inseparable since they were children, had grown up together playing in these fields, had vowed even back then that on the summer solstice of their seventeenth year, they would wed. As children, it had been a deadly serious vow.
As they’d aged, year after year, they had not grown apart as most children do, but only closer together. Against all odds, their vow turned from a childish thing to something stronger, solemn, unbreakable, year after year after year. Their lives, it seemed, were never destined to grow apart.
Now, finally, unbelievably, the day had arrived. Both were seventeen, the summer solstice had arrived, they were adults now, free to choose for themselves, and as they stood there, beneath that tree, watching the sun rise, they each knew, with giddy excitement, what that meant.
“Is your mother excited?” she asked.
Royce smiled.
“I think she loves you more than I, if that is possible,” he laughed.
Genevieve’s laugh reached his soul.
“And your parents?” he asked.
Her face darkened, just for a flash, and his heart fell.
“Is it me?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“They love you,” she replied. “They just…” she sighed. “We are not wed yet. For them it could not come soon enough. They fear for me.”
Royce understood. Her parents feared the nobles. Unwed peasants like Royce and Genevieve had no rights; if the nobles chose, they could come and take their women away, claim them for themselves. Until, that is, they were married. Then they would be safe.
“Soon enough,” Genevieve said, her smile brightening.
“Are they relieved because it’s me, or because, once wed, you’ll be safe from the nobles?”
She laughed and mock hit him.
“They love you as the son they never had!” she said.
He caught her arms and kissed her.
“Royce!” cried a voice.
Royce turned to find his three brothers striding up the hill, in a large group, Genevieve’s sisters and cousins climbing up with them. They all held sickles and pitchforks, all of them ready for the day’s labor, and Royce took a deep breath, knowing the time for parting had come. They were peasants, after all, and they could not afford to take an entire day off. The wedding would have to wait for sunset.
