White Blood (8 page)

Voerell drew a deep breath and sank into her squat. Her face flushed red, and she opened her mouth in a wordless cry. Litholl leaned forward. A burst of fluid splashed into the straw at Voerell’s feet, and Maryn caught a glimpse of a dark round shape between Voerell’s legs.

“Just one more should do it,” Litholl said. “Here, your Highness, you can put your hand down and touch his head if you like.”

Voerell shook her head. She kept her eyes scrunched closed, and breathed in great ragged gasps. Her arms clung tight around the necks of the ladies;-;in;-;waiting on either side, until Maryn feared she might strangle the poor girls.

After a long moment of waiting, the contraction came. This time Voerell was silent. She pressed her lips together in a fierce line and bore down until she went white. Litholl reached up, and a small wet form slid from Voerell’s body into the midwife’s waiting hands.

Voerell sagged into her ladies’ arms, shaking. Servants hurried to bring Litholl clean soft cloths. The midwife wiped the baby’s face. The small mouth opened and gave a thin wail. Dark eyes blinked and tiny fists waved.

Litholl smiled and displayed the child to Voerell. “Look, princess, you have a son. Milecha has a new heir.”

Voerell opened her eyes just long enough to scan her child and see that Litholl’s words were true. Then she turned away. “Give him to the nurse,” she ordered hoarsely. “Help me over to the bed. I want to lie down.”

Litholl’s brow creased. “Wait, your Highness. I must cut his cord, first, and you must deliver the afterbirth. Are you sure you don’t want to hold him for a moment?”

“I’m sure. Do what you must quickly.”

Litholl frowned, but she nodded, and looked around. “Where’s the wet nurse?”

Maryn was so caught up in watching events unfold that it took a moment before she realized they were talking about her. She jumped to her feet and rushed to the midwife’s side. “Here I am.”

Madam Coewyn appeared at her elbow. “You must be extremely careful with the prince,” she cautioned. “Let Madam Litholl wrap him up first, and hand him to you.”

An offended retort, that she knew very well how to hold a baby safely, sprang to Maryn’s lips, but she bit it off. Litholl intervened. “She won’t drop him, Coewyn. Yes, I’ll wrap him, though you’ve got it so warm in here he’s more likely to overheat than take a chill.” Litholl deftly swaddled the crying baby in a length of soft white fabric.

She beckoned Maryn to approach within the span of the cord that still bound mother and child. Maryn had to crowd close to Voerell’s side, though she shrank back to avoid touching the princess more than necessary. Voerell kept her eyes closed and her face turned aside. Without ceremony, Litholl deposited the babe in Maryn’s arms.

The warm soft weight roused intense, painful memories. Just so had Frilan felt, when Siwell set him in Maryn’s arms. Just so had his cries ceased as he nestled against her chest, curious eyes opening to survey the world. Just so had his head turned, lips moving in eager search.

Maryn froze, caught between longing and revulsion. This child felt so much like Frilan. But Frilan was dead, and a part of Maryn had died with him. This alien babe sought to force it back to agonized life. He wanted to usurp the place that would always, only, ever belong to Maryn’s own lost child. She ached both to gather him close to her body and hurl him violently away.

Instead she held him stiffly, as Litholl pushed aside the folds of cloth to gain access to the place where the thick, whitish;-;purple cord sprang from his belly. The midwife’s expert fingers bound a short string around the cord near his body. Litholl’s ceremonial knife was plain undecorated steel. She used it to sever the cord; a spatter of dark blood drops flew out and splashed over the baby’s wrapping and Maryn’s sleeve.

“I’ll take care of that in a moment. Don’t go anywhere until I’ve made sure you’re both thoroughly cleansed.” Litholl turned back to Voerell. “Your Highness, do you feel any more contractions yet? The afterbirth should be ready to pass soon.”

Maryn stepped back from her uncomfortable proximity to the princess, who continued to steadfastly ignore both her and the child. The baby squirmed in Maryn’s arms. Reflexively she gathered him close, but she could not seem to think clearly enough to understand what to do next. Coewyn fixed her with a hard stare. “Well, girl? The poor thing’s hungry; nurse him.”

No!
Maryn wanted to shout.
He’s not mine! I don’t want him!
For a moment she felt a tremendous urge to dump the babe in Coewyn’s arms and run, out of the palace, out of Loempno, back home where she belonged.

But her home no longer existed. There was nowhere she belonged. She had come all this long way for just this purpose, and she found her pride would not let her fail now, not before Coewyn’s coldly judging eyes.

Maryn clutched the prince close and walked back to her bench. She angled her body away from Coewyn’s gaze and pulled down her shift. Drawing a deep breath, she forced herself to look fully at the baby in her arms, as she had not yet quite dared to do.

He wasn’t much like Frilan, after all. He was nearly bald, only a few short wisps of fuzzy blond gracing his head, in contrast to Frilan’s thick shock of dark hair. He was stockier, his face much rounder and his limbs thicker. His skin had flushed bright pink, though his lips were still a dusky shade of purple. They opened in soundless groping, and his hand came up to open and close in front of his face. It clenched into a fist, and found its way to his mouth. He sucked fiercely for a moment before his arm twitched and tore his hand away. He burst into a heartbroken wail.

A warm flood rushed into Maryn’s breasts. A few drops of milk leaked from the exposed side. She closed her eyes, swept by fresh grief, but also an overwhelming desire to put this lost, helpless infant to her breast and nurture him.

It would be all right. She could do this. He wasn’t Frilan, but he needed her. Maryn shifted the prince into the crook of her arm and maneuvered his mouth toward her nipple.

He took a while to catch on. At first he wouldn’t open his mouth wide enough, and his hands kept getting in the way. Maryn knew Coewyn was watching them, and felt flustered and rushed, but she did her best to ignore it. Finally she managed to get her breast into the prince’s mouth. His sucking was painful, but she could deal with that for the moment. Later, when they were alone, Maryn would work harder to get him latched correctly. Right now she was just happy he was nursing. Coewyn would see that she could do this job, after all. She looked up and met the Stewardess’s gaze, jutting her chin out.

Coewyn nodded curtly. “Very good. See that he gets plenty.” She watched for a few more minutes, nodded again, and went off to speak with Litholl and Voerell.

Maryn’s nipple stung, and she shifted around, trying to find a more comfortable position. It had hurt in the early days with Frilan, too, she remembered. She didn’t think it had been quite so bad, but maybe she had just forgotten. The prince must be getting milk; she could hear the little gulps as he swallowed. It felt surreal to have a strange child there instead of Frilan’s familiar face.

To distract herself from the pain and her confused emotions, she watched Litholl. The midwife finished seeing to Voerell and tucked her into bed. She went around the room, located each place blood had splashed or dripped, and cleansed it. Blue sparks bloomed, and buzzing rattled in Maryn’s teeth.

When she finished with the pile of straw heaped in the place Voerell had given birth, Litholl came to stand before Maryn. She gazed at the nursing prince. The midwife looked weary, but she glowed with warm satisfaction, and to Maryn’s eyes seemed remarkably little affected by her hours of hard work. Just the effort of cleansing all that blood would have exhausted Maryn several times over.

“Is all well? He seems to have taken to you nicely.” Litholl sank to the bench next to Maryn with a sigh.

“Oh, yes. He’s very eager.”

“No undue discomfort?”

“No,” Maryn lied. She didn’t want to admit any weakness, when the other woman was so strong and skilled. She shifted the baby in her arms and tried not to wince as his mouth pinched.

Litholl nodded. “If any problems develop, feel free to send for me.” She heaved herself to her feet. “Let me go ahead and cleanse the two of you.”

She launched into the words of the ritual. The vibrations of the magic thrummed in Maryn’s bones. Blue sparks haloed the prince’s skin where the blood of birth had smeared it, and erupted from every spot where droplets had splattered or Maryn’s milk had leaked. He squirmed and broke away from Maryn’s breast with a squall of discomfort, before seizing her nipple again with renewed and painful vigor. Litholl brought the spell to a close, and the fire died. “There. All safe now. You’ll want to bathe him after a bit, but let him get his fill first.”

Madam Coewyn bustled up. “Are you finished, Litholl? The princess is asking for her husband. If everything is taken care of I’ll send for him.”

Litholl glanced around. “Yes, I think so. Go ahead. And I’m sure the king will wish to greet his grandson and heir as well.”

“Of course.” Coewyn nodded frostily to the midwife and strode off toward the door to confer with a page.

Only a few minutes later the doors swung open again to admit a tall, dark;-;haired man. He hurried to Voerell’s bedside. “Are you all right?”

Voerell pushed herself up from the pillows and threw her arms around him. “I’m fine, Whirter. We did it. We have a son.”

“You did it, dearest.” Whirter held her close a moment more, then released her. “Where is he? May I see him?”

“Of course. Nurse, bring him here.”

Maryn jumped to her feet. The prince came off her breast and wailed. She tugged her shift up and moved him to her shoulder. Coewyn scowled and reached for the baby, but Maryn bounced him and patted his back, and he quieted. She carried the baby over and held him out toward Voerell. “Here he is, your Highness.”

Voerell looked away. “You take him, Whirter.”

Her husband eagerly accepted the small wrapped form into his arms. “He’s so small.” He stroked the baby’s pale downy fuzz of hair with the tip of one finger. “He’s beautiful.”

The baby peered at his father. His face scrunched and reddened, and he wailed. Whirter pulled his hand back, an anxious frown creasing his brow. “What did I do?”

“Nothing. Babies cry. Even princes.” Voerell waved at Maryn. “Take him back and quiet him. But stay close; my father and brothers are on their way.”

Whirter reluctantly surrendered the child to Maryn. She tried to rock him against her shoulder, but nothing would soothe him. At length she put him to her breast again, trying the other side this time. He seized her nipple and sucked urgently. It hurt, even more than before, but she dared not take him off to disturb the princess and her husband with his complaints. She stood by the bed, cradling the baby’s slight weight in her arms, and focused on Voerell and Whirter.

“Are you sure everything went well? You seem upset.” Whirter sat on the edge of the bed and took Voerell’s hand in his.

“Yes, yes, it was fine. It was harder than I expected, is all.”

“Not so hard you don’t want to do it again, I hope? You’ve always been so eager for children. Just think, next time it might be a daughter for you to pamper and coddle and teach to be a princess.”

“Instead of a son for you to train as a soldier and take off to war?” Voerell waved Whirter’s protest silent. “No, you know I’m proud to see the men I love stand strong to defend Milecha’s borders. I will do my duty to the kingdom and the Sompirla dynasty, and bear as many children as I am able. But better sons, I think. I would not wish a daughter to have to go through this—”

Voerell’s voice broke and she turned away. Whirter gathered her into his arms, and after a moment of resistance, Voerell buried her face in his chest. She shook with muffled sobs while Whirter stroked her braids. “Shh. It’s all right. I’m sorry, what was I thinking, rushing you to think about another so soon. We’ll take as long as you need. I didn’t realize it was so terrible for you.”

Voerell pushed back and scrubbed her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. “No, it’s not that—”

She broke off as a commotion sounded outside the door. “Gallows, it’s Father. Quick, Whirter, how do I look? I don’t believe I let myself get all weepy. Are my eyes red? Coewyn, grab the robe there, and help me put it on. I suppose I don’t have time to fix my hair.”

She struggled into the heavy embroidered robe and arranged herself more gracefully on the pillows. Whirter chuckled and patted her hand. “You’re perfect, dear. They won’t be looking at you, anyway.”

Instead of calming, Voerell scowled deeper and turned on Maryn. “Isn’t he full yet? My father will want to hold him, and I won’t have him acting the squalling brat for the king.”

In fact, the prince had slowed his nursing to an occasional light suck, and came off Maryn’s breast easily. He regarded her with quizzical dark eyes as she shifted him to the crook of one arm and did up the tie of her shift with trembling fingers. The king! Coming here! Of course he would want to greet his grandson, but Maryn had not quite registered until now the fact that she would be standing in the presence of her monarch in just a few moments. She brushed at the skirt of her crisp blue servant’s uniform and adjusted the swaddling fabric around the prince.

The door swung open. Guards stationed themselves to either side.

The face of the man who entered was familiar to Maryn from the profile imprinted on every coin, though it was considerably older and rounder than the handsome young ruler portrayed there. King Froethych was tall and broad, with thick shoulders that had once been muscular but now had softened. He was dressed in resplendent layers of velvet and satin, closely embroidered with gold and silver threads. On his thinning hair rested the crown of Milecha, its distinctive hammered gold curve rising above his brows. He strode across the room and spread his arms wide in greeting. Voerell bowed her head, and Whirter sank to one knee.

All the servants and ladies;-;in;-;waiting, along with Coewyn and Litholl, also knelt. Maryn dropped to her knees just quickly enough to avoid being caught the only one standing. She ducked her head over the baby in her arms and looked sideways to see what was happening.