by A. F. Dery
Thane watched her and commented at normal volume, “You’ve barely touched that, it’s not even half gone and no one has come to refill it for you. Would you like something else?”
“No, thank you, my lord,” Kesara said, but she slanted a pointed look at his own plate.
“Ah, but you already know, if you take a moment to think about it,” Thane said with a tight-lipped smile. “I can’t begin to guess why you aren’t enjoying the wine this evening.”
“I need my wits about me, sharp and clear,” Kesara murmured back. “I can’t let myself be dulled by wine tonight. Something is going on, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. I have been listening to Malachi half the evening now-”
“Do not speak to me of him now, Kes,” Thane said, a little more loudly than he intended. He saw a couple of curious faces turn his way and he dropped his voice again, busying himself with his own full goblet. “I am finding it difficult enough to keep myself together, with the two of you at the same table, in the same room.”
“He does not look at me with malice. He does not look at me at all, or at his wife’s Mirror,” Kesara sipped at her wine and added, “But he does look at you, and his eyes are sad when he does.”
“That’s nice,” Thane said curtly. “More than his eyes will be sad by the time I’m through with the bastard.”
“I don’t think everything is as it seems with him, my lord.”
“And I respect your opinion, but not here, not now. Too many ears,” Thane muttered this last behind his goblet as he feigned drinking from it. He gave a slight nod of his head towards Lord Jarel, who was looking towards them with curiosity clearly writ on his sharp features.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Kesara nod in understanding, or acknowledgment, or submission; he couldn’t begin to say which. He regretted he could not hear her out now, but there was too much, far too much going on in his head at the moment.
Will this evening never end?
He was answered when he heard a sharp gasp from farther down the table, followed by a dull thump.
“Maggie!” Malachi cried, reaching for his wife. The woman was still upright, however, looking stricken, with a hand pressed to her belly.
Kesara surged to her feet and had rushed down to the other Mirror before Thane could think to prevent her. He stood himself and made his way over. The haggard Elsbeth was in a heap on the floor, her eyes rolled back into her head and not quite closed. Thane noted with disgust that the lesser noble seated next to her must have moved quickly out of the way to allow her to fall like that, otherwise she never would have made it to the floor with the limited space. Kesara knelt next to the woman and pressed the back of her hand to the ashen cheek.
Thane heard another gasp and looked up, seeing Lady Malachi clutching her belly, almost doubled over.
“Call my physician to attend her,” he heard the High Lord telling a servant from the head of the table. “Edmund, do you need help moving your wife somewhere more private?”
“N-no, my lord,” Malachi stammered. He was the picture of distress as he turned back to his wife, his face white as chalk, his eyes wide. “Maggie, what’s happening? What’s wrong?”
“It..it hurts again, it comes and goes,” Lady Malachi said weakly. “It’s nothing like before…it’s worse!”
Kesara glanced up at Thane, gave him a knowing look, mouthed the word “labor.”
“What of the Mirror?” Thane asked her. Kesara gave a little shrug.
“It’s too much for her, obviously. She can’t take it all, so it must be bleeding through.”
“But will she be all right, Kes?”
“Oh, probably,” Kesara said, looking a little startled by the question. “We’re made for this, you know. I’m not sure when she will come around, though.”
Lady Malachi let out a low moan as her husband lifted her, staggering a bit with the effort. Under ordinary circumstances, Thane would have remarked at it; now he suppressed a shiver at the despair in the other man’s eyes.
“She must really be having problems,” Thane muttered. The pregnant woman’s low keening troubled him. “It’s always like this with women, though, isn’t it?”
Kesara gave him an unreadable look, but didn’t answer. One of the High Lord’s guards approached them. “I’ve come to collect the Mirror and take her back to Lord Malachi’s quarters.”
“She will be seen to?” Thane asked him, but the guard’s only reply was a blank look and a “My lord?” before he picked up the unconscious Mirror.
“Properly speaking, there’s nothing wrong with her, my lord,” Kesara reminded him gently, rising to her feet. She hesitated, then said, “It’s good of you to be concerned, though. But it’s misplaced. Lady Malachi is in for a difficult night. I doubt she would have been here tonight if she were supposed to be delivering this soon.”
That thought struck him, along with the despair in Malachi’s eyes. Kes must be right, it must be early.
“That’s terrible,” he said bluntly. “Babe will probably be born dead.” He thought of his innumerable tiny siblings, buried out in the woods beyond the gates of the Keep, where the sight of the little stones marking their graves would be shielded from their mother’s wild eyes.
Thane noticed for the first time that half the table was staring at them, following their conversation with rapt faces. He swept a dark glower across them and they quickly looked away, then proceeded to murmur loudly amongst themselves about this latest bit of drama. He sighed, infinitely weary of them and their foolishness and this maddening place.
The High Lord called the table to order and assured them that the Lady Malachi was being seen to by his own personal physician. He dismissed them to the anteroom again and signaled for the servants to start clearing away the table.
“What is next?” Kesara asked quietly, but she looked distracted somehow.
“More being talked at until our ears bleed while everyone gets drunk as lords,” Thane said with false cheer. “Come along, Kes. Only another hour or two, and we will make our escape.”
But when the time came to make that escape, Kesara hesitated in the corridor just outside of the High Lord’s tower. Thane almost didn’t notice that she had stopped, but something in the bond pressed at him disquietingly and he turned to her, finding that she was still standing near the door.
“I can’t come with you right now,” Kesara said when he walked back to her, her voice barely audible.
Thane stared at her, stung. “We can talk this over, Kes, please give me a chance…”
“It’s not what you think, but I don’t have time just now,” Kesara said. Agitation. That was what the bond was telling him, but once again, he wouldn’t have needed the bonding to notice the way she kept looking everywhere but at him, the uneasiness in her posture.
“Did you want a room somewhere else? Is that it?” Thane asked uncertainly. “I will provide you with whatever you need, only tell me, Kes.” His heart was suddenly beating very fast and he didn’t know why his throat felt so tight. He thought perhaps he should have drunk some of the ale after all.
“No, I just…I have to go,” she said distantly, and he had the strange, sinking sensation that somewhere in her mind, a door was being slammed, a decision had been reached, and he had no say in any of it, no knowledge of what was even going on in her head.
As if confirming this realization, she immediately strode off purposefully down the other side of the corridor. He watched her take the entrance to the servants’ floor without looking back, while he cast about desperately in his mind for something to say, something to do, to stop her, to convince her, but he could think of nothing, nothing but a growing, terrible, untouchable ache in his chest that turned sharp as a knife with the click of the door shutting behind her.
CHAPTER FIVE
Malachi thought he must be in hell. Hell, as he understood the term, was a place of unending darkness and misery, the pit into which souls that the gods had forsaken were cast to endure torm
ent without limit and outside time, and this certainly seemed an apt enough description for what he was experiencing. He felt he could barely breathe for the darkness oppressing him now, that there was simply no room left in his body for air when the suffocating clench of despair had him in its ruthless grip.
And if he was in hell, he couldn’t imagine where his Maggie was. She lay screaming and writhing on the bed in their room while the High Lord’s personal physician examined her with capable hands and a brisk manner. The Mirror- that damned, worthless Mirror!- lay like a corpse across a couch that was pushed against the wall opposite the bed. She had not stirred, to Malachi’s notice, since one of the guards had carried her in.
The journey to the High Lord’s Court had been grueling, but uneventful. The Mirror had looked progressively sicker with each passing day, and there had been no escaping her. She claimed it was too difficult for her to help Margaret from as far away as another carriage, so she had occupied the same one as he and Margaret, affording them no privacy, her increasing sickliness grating on them both.
And then, of course, they had been obliged to bring her along even to meet with the High Lord. There had been one private meeting already, and the High Lord’s ire, even veiled as it was with his typical, almost exaggerated sense of courtesy, had been plain. Malachi had not been looking forward in the least to the next such, inevitable meeting, and the subject of Eladria and his earlier, rash letter about the same had not even arisen yet.
Now those worries were miles from his mind, miles and years and every conceivable measurement of space and time. All there was now was Margaret, screaming like he had never heard a human being scream, then slumping in evident, pale faced exhaustion until the next rush came and took her away to some mysterious nightmare-place that Malachi was incapable of breaching.
He knew that women knew pain, and that babies came with it, but nothing had prepared him for this. His hands shook and sweat dripped down his back. He would have done anything to make it stop, anything short of making Margaret stop, but he was utterly powerless and felt it keenly. He wavered like a madman between wanting to do violence to something and wanting to do violence to himself. If he could have wept and keened with his wife, he would have.
“It’s too early, Edmund, it’s too early,” she was weeping now, clinging to his hand. Her fingers felt clammy and weak.
“It will be all right, Maggie,” he tried to say soothingly, but his voice came out choked.
“It is early,” the physician agreed as he covered Margaret’s legs with a blanket, “but I think there are two, and they usually don’t stay in as long.”
“Two? Two of what?” Malachi asked, ready now to do violence to this infuriating man.
“Two babies,” the physician replied in a tone that clearly indicated he didn’t think much of Malachi’s intelligence.
“Two?” Margaret echoed with wonder in her voice, her eyes wide. Then suddenly she moaned, again clutching her belly.
“It is a small wonder she has had a difficult time. It will only be getting harder, I’m afraid. Her pelvis is narrow, and that would be difficult with only one babe,” the physician went on. “We shall just have to wait and see.”
Malachi wanted to ask if there was any real chance that one or both or all three of them would live through what was happening, but he didn’t dare in front of Margaret, nor did he dare try to lure the physician away, in case something happened at some critical moment. He looked again at Margaret, who was gone from him again, her fingernails biting into his flesh.
“What can we do?” he asked instead when the rush had passed, his voice hoarse.
The physician finally donned a look of sympathy. “We just have to wait, my lord,” he repeated. “There’s no way of predicting the outcome of these things until it happens. I will do everything I can for her, by order of my Lord.”
“And you’ve…done this before? With two babies, I mean?” Malachi asked. Margaret was staring at him, looking as dazed as he felt.
“Yes, but I will admit it was some time ago, before I was hired by the High Lord,” the physician said. “Still, it is not likely one of the peasant midwives from the outlying country could do any better. Ignorant as they can be, they’re as apt to hurt as to help with their silly superstitious ideas.”
Malachi only grunted, knowing so little about it himself. He tried to gently squeeze Margaret’s shaking fingers in reassurance.
“It will be all right, my love,” he repeated, looking into her frightened eyes.
“If I may have a word, my lord?” the physician glanced pointedly at the door.
“Are you certain it would be wise to step away?” Malachi asked in a low voice.
“These things take time, even with one babe. It will be fine.”
Malachi squeezed Margaret’s fingers again as she reluctantly released his hand. “You’ll tell me what he says,” she whispered. He gave her a tight smile and followed the physician just outside of the bedroom and into the sitting area, drawing the door closed behind him.
Malachi studied the man’s face as though divining the secrets of life from it. He was an older man, probably old enough to be Malachi’s father, but his eyes were clear and his hands steady, his expression sober.
“My lord, I must tell you that it doesn’t look good,” the physician said bluntly.
Malachi sighed. “Yes, I could figure that out all by myself, thank you.”
“It will be a roll of the dice whether even one of the children lives, being born so early,” the physician continued. “And it is not terribly likely that your lady will survive their birthing. Her health seems generally good, but as I said before, her pelvis is narrow, and at least one of the babes is positioned badly. That is a large part of what is causing her such distress right now, and it will only be getting worse as her rushes grow closer together.”
“Is there nothing we can do to improve her chances?” Malachi asked desperately.
“I will what I can,” the physician answered mildly. “But at this point, I simply do not know.”
“Are you sure it would not help to bring in a midwife or two to assist you? I will get you whatever you need,” Malachi said hopefully.
“You can do as it pleases you, my lord, but I do not think it would be helpful. On the contrary, it could be a distraction,” the physician replied stiffly.
Malachi suppressed a sigh. “If there is anything you need, anything I can do…”
“Typically, men are not present when children are born, my lord. Excepting, of course, if they are attended by a physician,” the physician said with a dry little chuckle. “It would perhaps be best if you waited out here, found something to occupy yourself. Your anxiety will only make it worse for your lady, and there’s not anything you can do for her anyway. I will keep you apprised of what happens.”
Malachi lifted an eyebrow, eyeing the older man skeptically. “I will stay with her as long as she wants me there, sir,” he said tersely. “I am responsible for this disaster, I will be with her…to the end, if that’s what it is to be.” It was hard to get those last words out: they stuck in his throat, threatening to choke him, and he looked away quickly as he felt his eyes sting. “Now if that is all.”
And he returned to Margaret’s side without another look at the physician, who followed him in with an audible sigh of irritation that made Malachi want to turn around and strike the man.
Not until Maggie has come through this, Malachi told himself, taking his wife’s hand again.
“What did he say?” Margaret whispered. Tears were still trickling down her face from her last rush.
“Men are not typically allowed in the birthing room unless they are physicians,” Malachi said, forcing a lightness he didn’t feel into his tone. “I told him I would remain as long as you want me here.”
Margaret gave a wan smile. “Thank you, Edmund. It means a lot to me…but when it gets worse…I do want you to go…I don’t want you to remember me the way I’m going to
be, soon. I want you to remember me like I was before all this happened, when we walked through my garden in the spring, when we were free.” And as though compelled against her will, her gaze jerked towards the still Mirror and back again to him.
It does feel like a prison, like a cage and shackles, this Mirror business, Malachi thought bitterly. Even if she dies, we will not be alone together, and I dare not send the creature away lest her final moments be even more wracked with pain than they will be already. We will have this mirror’s reflection as a reminder before our eyes of all that Margaret suffers without knowing it, every moment, whether we can bear it or not, whether it is her last moment or not!
“I will stay until you send me away, my love, and I will remember you as you ask whether I leave or remain,” Malachi said quietly, touching her face. “There is nothing in this world that could be as beautiful to me as you are, no matter what comes.” There was more he wanted to say, but he could not force out the words. He trembled with the effort of appearing composed, of pretending strength he didn’t feel anywhere inside of him.
Margaret’s lips quivered as she forced a smile, and then another rush swept her away.
It was only moments after that storm had calmed when the Mirror on the couch finally stirred. She was shaking and started to dry heave, and in that moment, Malachi despised both her and himself; her, for being what she was, and himself, not being able to feel sympathy even in such a moment as this. He forced himself to look away, to look back at his beloved wife, to think of other things, but it was in the midst of these efforts that there was a rapping at the outer door. He heard the footsteps of a servant going to answer it, though he couldn’t recall there being any in their rooms when they arrived there. Another thoughtful ‘gift’ of the High Lord, no doubt, Malachi thought grimly.
There was a murmur of voices, then the servant- indeed, one of the High Lord’s- appeared cautiously in the doorway. “Forgive the intrusion, my lord, but there is someone here to see you,” the servant said, bowing.
