The wind cut like a sword. It ripped the door out of her hand and wrestled with her as she fought to pull it shut again. Snow mixed with sleet lashed her face.
She almost gave up and fled back into the house, but she was not one to quit once she had begun. She crossed the yard, blinded and buffeted by the gale, and dived into the warmth and relative quiet of the barn.
The boys were in the loft, pitching hay down for the cows and the horses. Valeria found Titus outside the mule’s stall, kneeling in the aisle. He had uncovered Rodry’s armor and propped the shield against the wall. Now he was unwrapping the standard.
It was a heavy, awkward thing for one pair of hands. Valeria lent him hers. He did not order her away. They unfurled the banner together, uncovering the eagle and thunderbolts of the Valeria.
Titus smoothed it, then touched the standard with its tokens of bronze and steel and gilded lead. “I fought in some of these battles,” he said. “That one there—that’s Morrigu, where we broke the back of the Mordantes and took half the Calletani royal line hostage.”
Valeria brushed the token with a finger. It was silver, not steel, she realized—a disk as large as her palm, stamped with an odd, angular bird perched on top of a skull.
“The high king wore that as an amulet,” her father said. “That’s the raven of battles that always brings victory. We took it that day, with its owner’s head. The emperor had the skull cleaned and sheathed in gold and sent back to the tribe.”
“That was a great gesture,” Valeria said.
“Artorius was good at that.” Titus angled a glance at her. “You’ve learned a thing or two since you left here.”
“I’m still Valeria,” she said.
“You’ll always be Valeria,” Titus said. “I like your young man.”
That was not as abrupt a change of subject as it might have seemed. “I don’t know if he’s mine,” she said. “He’s not a tame creature.”
“He’s yours,” Titus said. “He looks at you the same way your horse does.”
“Sabata isn’t my horse, either. I belong to him.”
“Yes,” Titus said. “It goes both ways. When his eyes are on you, he doesn’t see anything else.”
“Is that a good or a bad thing?”
“If he doesn’t break your heart, it’s good.” Titus began to roll up the banner again, carefully. “There’s enough of that in the rest of life—and death.”
“I wish Rodry hadn’t died,” Valeria said.
Titus paused in rolling up the standard. He was blinking rapidly.
He had looked the same to Valeria for as long as she could remember, foursquare and weathered, with flecks of grey in his tightly curling hair. He was shorter than her mother and much broader, and famously strong. As he liked to say, he was built to last.
Even so, he was not a young man. He must be as old as the emperor had been. He was much older than Morag, Valeria knew—Morag’s family had taken a long time to forgive their daughter for running off with a centurion old enough to be her father.
Valeria never had asked exactly how much older he was. He was just Papa, as immutable as the earth and as solid to lean on.
For the first time she understood that he was human. It was a deep shock, deeper in its way than her brother’s death. One’s father was supposed to be a lofty and forbidding figure, not an aging man in a barn aisle, mourning the loss of his firstborn.
Valeria stopped waiting for him to come to her. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly.
He was stiff at first. Men did so hate to be seen for the fragile things they were. Then he relaxed little by little. His arms closed around her and tightened.
She let go first. Titus held her at arm’s length. “We thought we’d never see you again.”
“Did you think I was dead?”
He shook his head. “No. Just lost to us.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have written a letter. It was just—”
“Anger’s a hard one to get over,” Titus said. “Your mother’s been regretting what she did since she found the root cellar empty and you gone out of reach. She honestly thought it was for the best.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Valeria. “Mother was never sorry for anything in her life.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” her father said. “She loves you more than she loves herself. If she’s hard on you, it’s because she’s afraid for you. She’s seen you flying so high—but the higher you go, the farther and harder you can fall.”
“I’m scared, too,” Valeria said, “but I can’t give it all up for that.”
“Nor should you,” Titus said. “But try to be a little more understanding of your mother. She’s only doing what mothers do.”
“Mothers and lovers,” Valeria said with a heavy sigh. She hugged him tightly but briefly, then pushed herself to her feet. There were still stalls to clean and cows to milk.
The crooked-horned cow was lowing her discomfort. Valeria set to work with bucket and stool.
She heard the door blow open at the end of the barn. A blast of cold air set loose straw swirling and roused a squawk from one of her brothers.
“Valeria!” Murna shrilled. “Mama wants you!”
Valeria thought of pretending not to hear, but that had never worked in her family. She rose with a faint groan. “Come here and finish milking the cow.”
Murna groaned, too, but she took Valeria’s place on the stool.
“What does Mother want me for?” Valeria asked her.
Murna looked up from the cow’s side. “Caia’s having a baby,” she said.
“What, now?”
Valeria saw the start of Murna’s nod. She did not wait to see the rest.
Sixty
Morag was in the stillroom in the smaller barn, filling her midwife’s bag with packets and vials. Valeria had brought her mother’s heavy cloak from the house, and one for herself—the old legionary’s cloak she had worn every winter since she grew as tall as her father.
“She’s having this baby early,” Morag said as she fastened the bag tightly and wrapped herself in the cloak. “I was sure we’d have another half month at least.”
It was as if Valeria had never been away at all. She dug in her heels. “Mother, I can’t stay here and be a wisewoman.”
Morag regarded her in what seemed to be honest surprise. “Did I ask you to? You were never particularly focused, but you had wonderful hands. We may need them. If there’s another reason for this than the baby’s impatience—”
“I’ll go,” Valeria said. “I just need to be sure you know. As soon as the roads clear, I’m going back to the Mountain. That’s where I belong.”
“I know that,” Morag said. “Are you coming?”
Valeria wound the cloak tighter around herself and pulled up the hood. Morag nodded, took a deep breath, and forayed out into the storm.
Valeria had been out in storms as bad, on similar errands with her mother. She had never been out in worse. She had to trust to Morag’s sense of direction—she was deafened and blinded by the wind and snow.
Something loomed up in front of them. After a blank moment she recognized it as a cloaked human figure—then as Kerrec.
He did not say anything, but turned and went on in front of them. The air behind him was notably quieter, the wind less overwhelmingly strong. As Valeria’s mind came back into focus from the confusion of the storm, she felt the tingle of the working.
Kerrec was full of surprises. It made sense enough if she remembered her lessons—everything he was doing was part of a horse mage’s power. But she had not realized how much there was to it, or how useful some of it could be.
It was still a hard road, whipped by wind and drifted with snow. Sometimes they had to stop and cling to one another, waiting out a particularly powerful blast. Valeria’s feet went numb. Her face felt like a block of ice.
Wellin Smith’s house stood on the edge of the village. A huge oak tr
ee stood in front of it. In the summer people brought horses or mules to be shod in its shade.
There were still leaves on the branches, though the wind was ripping them to tatters. The door of the smithy was unbarred, the smithy deliriously warm. A brawny boy was tending the fire.
“Upstairs,” he said when he recognized Morag. He took no particular notice of the others. They were cloaked, plastered with snow and ice and barely recognizable as human.
Valeria had never been in the smith’s house before. The stair in the back of the forge led to a surprisingly large and luxurious space. There were carpets on the floor, and one wall was painted with scenes from a harvest festival. The table in the middle of the room was longer and heavier than the one in Morag’s kitchen, with chairs drawn up to it. A silver wine service glimmered at one end.
Caia had married even better than Valeria thought. Valeria was happy for her.
It would not matter how rich she was if she did not survive this birth. Morag shook the snow from her cloak and spread it on the bench in front of the hearth, where a fire was burning strongly. Kerrec and then Valeria quickly did the same, then followed Morag through a doorway and up a short stair.
The bedroom had its own hearth, burning applewood with its sweet scent. Wellin Smith’s bulk seemed to fill the room, but in front of Morag he shrank into a frightened boy. “Mother-in-law! Thank the gods. How did you know we needed you?”
Morag did not answer that. She pushed him aside as if he had been no bigger than Gwynith, and bent over the bed. Valeria, from near the door, could see her sister’s dark hair in an uncharacteristically untidy braid, and hear her quick, light panting.
She was not screaming, which rather surprised Valeria. She would have taken Caia for a screamer.
Morag spoke without looking away from Caia. “Wellin, go down to the forge and make yourself useful. Eat on the way, if you can. It’s going to be a while. First Rider, can you boil water? I need these packets brewed into tea. Valeria, help me undress her.”
Kerrec took the packets Morag handed him and followed the smith out of the room. With the men gone, Morag stood a bit straighter and breathed a little easier. She folded back the coverlets—muttering at their number and heaviness.
Caia was drawn into a knot around her pregnant belly. She was conscious, but she was so lost in fear and pain that she did not even realize her mother was there. She was swaddled in three layers of linen shifts, with more laces and ribbons and furbelows than Valeria had seen since the last time she helped Briana dress for a state occasion.
Morag shook her head at the foolishness of it all and set her hand to the first of many laces. Together she and Valeria got Caia out of her stifling clothes and laid her naked on a fresh sheet.
Caia unfolded while they did that, and came to herself a little. “Mama?”
“Yes, child,” Morag said with the brisk matter-of-factness that had soothed many a terrified new mother.
“I fell down cooking breakfast,” Caia said. “It came so fast. Is it supposed to be that fast?”
“Sometimes it is,” Morag said. “What were you doing cooking for yourself? What happened to Brigid?”
“Her mother is sick,” said Caia. “It was just supposed to be for a day or two. I didn’t expect—”
“Neither did I,” Morag said. “Here, sit up. Valeria, the folded linen from my bag, please.”
That unfolded into a much plainer shift than the ones Caia had been wearing. Just as they smoothed it into place and laid Caia down again, Kerrec appeared with a pot and a stack of cups. He had brewed the tea—perfectly, Valeria happened to notice.
Caia squinted at him. Then she peered at Valeria. “Valeria? I’m not dreaming you, am I? And who is that?”
“You’re not dreaming,” Valeria said. “That is Kerrec.”
“Who is—”
“First Rider,” Morag said pointedly, “a cup of tea, if you please.”
He poured it obediently and held it to Caia’s lips for her to sip. She was staring at him as if she had never seen a man before.
“If you say ‘pretty,’” he said, “I’ll be forced to retaliate. And you, madam, are beautiful.”
“So are you,” she said in a tone more fit for a dream-dazzled girl than a wife in childbed. “Wherever did she find you?”
“In a hedgerow,” he said.
The cup was empty. He lowered it. Her hands caught his.
The pains struck just then. Her fingers clamped tight. His breath hissed, but he did not pull away.
“Good,” Morag said as if to herself. “Don’t move.” She lifted the shift and reached up beneath.
Caia gasped but did not scream. Morag’s face emptied of expression. She was searching with more than hands. Magic hummed in the room.
“It’s backside first,” Kerrec said. “You’ll have to turn it.”
Morag raised her brows. “You’re a midwife, too?”
“I can see.”
“Can you?” Morag wasted no time in amazement. “Well, then. Tell me exactly what you see.”
Kerrec nodded. His eyes closed. Valeria, focused on him, saw the patterns forming and re-forming around him. Her eyes followed them downward from his hands through Caia’s body.
She caught her breath. It was like looking through a smoky glass. She could see the beating heart and the intricate tracery of veins, the glistening curves of organs and the white scaffolding of bones.
There was the baby, tiny and complete, curled in a tight ball as if fighting the compulsion to be born. It was a boy—Caia would have her wish after all—and he had magic. It glowed in him like an ember.
“I need your hands,” Morag said in her ear. “Rider, tell her—”
“I see it,” Valeria said. She whispered a Word that she had learned for calming horses. Caia sighed and relaxed and stopped trying to push out the baby.
Valeria reached up inside. It was eerie to see her hand passing through those translucent shapes, sliding up and around the baby and carefully turning him until he lay head down, angled as he should be to be born. He had stopped fighting. The Word acted on him, too, and mercifully so.
“Now,” she said to Caia. “Wake up and push.”
Caia wasted no time whining. She gritted her teeth and let instinct have its way.
Morag moved in past Valeria. Valeria was glad to leave her to it. She was feeling the aftereffects of strong magic, with light head and heaving stomach.
She found the privy behind the kitchen, a real room with heat from the chimney and running water. It was much simpler than what she had learned to take for granted in the school, but for Imbria it was the height of luxury.
She was grateful for it, as her empty stomach registered its objections to everything she had been doing to it. Eventually the spasms stopped. She washed her face in icy water, gasping and spluttering.
When she came out, she surprised herself with hunger. There was bread in a cupboard in the kitchen, along with a round of her mother’s sharp and savory cheese. She found a slab of beef in the cold cupboard, too—half-frozen in this weather—and a bag of onions and a barrel of cider.
She could do something with those. She hunted up a pot and a box of spices, raided the herbs drying in bunches along the ceiling, and came across a trove of dried fruits.
Caia was still in labor. Valeria left the pot simmering and went up to see. Kerrec had shifted until he was sitting on the bed with Caia in his lap, propped up against him. Morag sat by the fire, as calm as she always was when things were going as they should.
Valeria did not try to see inside. Even with bread and cheese in her stomach, she was a bit weak still. She trusted her mother to know when to worry.
Kerrec’s eyes smiled at her. He seemed quite at ease serving as a birthing chair.
Valeria could imagine what the riders would say. She perched on a stool beside him. Caia was resting, but woke as another spasm took hold of her.
This one was strong. Valeria laid a hand on the swell o
f her belly. “Cool,” Caia said. “That feels cool.”
Morag brought another cup of tea. Caia dashed it out of her hand. “I’m sick of tea! I want to have this baby!”
“Then have it,” Morag said.
Caia sucked in a breath and pushed until the cords sprang out on her neck and her face went crimson. “I…can’t…do it!”
“Again,” Morag said, merciless.
Valeria frowned. Caia was losing strength. Something inside her wanted to break. Valeria smoothed the pattern that tried to turn jagged and held it in place while Caia gathered herself for one last bitter fight.
Caia pushed as hard as she had ever pushed in her life. Valeria pushed with her. Kerrec fought the battle, too, and Morag refused to let her slacken. Then for the first time Caia let out a scream: a long roar of absolute rage.
A much shriller cry joined it, with the same horrendous temper and the same indomitable will. Morag raised her grandson into the light, wet and glistening and howling at the top of his substantial lungs.
Sixty-One
It was just as hard to birth a baby as it was to save the world.
Valeria helped Kerrec extricate himself from Caia. He was so stiff he could barely move, but he insisted on lifting Caia with the baby in her arms while the others spread fresh sheets and made the bed clean again. Then he laid her down. The only sign of strain was a slight catch in his breath.
Caia smiled up at him. “I was going to name him Titus,” she said, “but now I’m thinking—”
“Titus is a wonderful name,” Kerrec said quickly. “My grandfather’s name was Titus.”
“Oh,” said Caia. “Well, then. Maybe he can have two names. Other people do.”
“You want him to get above himself?” Morag asked.
“Why not?” said Caia. “He’s my baby. He can be anything he wants.”
Morag sniffed. Caia rocked her son and cooed to him, then looked up with an expression that made Valeria stop worrying about her infatuation with Kerrec. Wellin Smith was standing in the door, looming and hulking and trying not to do either. Caia loved to feast her eyes on a handsome face, but her husband, she simply loved.
Song of Unmaking Page 37
