Chapter Twenty-One
It took Iris a full day to recover.
She’d had a little warning of the Bonded’s rage, barely enough to hide in some brush and curl into a ball before the full agony hit.
Whatever had set off the Bonded, the pain had been the worst she’d ever felt, harsh and virulent. She’d no doubt she would have fallen if she’d been mid-stride. As it was, she just curled up tighter and tried to keep breathing. When the agony released her, its sudden absence left her gasping.
She managed to get to her pack, get her blankets and huddle under them, keeping every inch covered, trying to stop shivering. Never before had the Bonded lashed out like that, leaving her gasping and feeling bruised in every bone. The others had to have suffered as well; Iris had no way of knowing what shape they were in. Alive, hopefully.
It didn’t help her recovery that her shelter was no more than a thick bush and she couldn’t risk a fire. The rain had cleared at least, and thought the sky was heavy with clouds, there was no wind.
Long before she was ready, the bond pulsed. The sense of urgency returned, the push at the back of her throat like a terrible thirst.
Iris forced her tired, aching muscles to move. The Bonded wanted this, so it had to be done. Iris had only one purpose now, far from her Bonded: to hunt.
So be it.
Except that she had lost the trail.
She found the hut quick enough, but there was just a trace of their presence in the dirt around the fire pit. No ash in the fire, but two rabbit pelts buried in the woods a distance away, starting to rot
She bit her lip; she could not return to the Bonded with failure.
She walked a spiral pattern with the hut at its center, moving slowly, looking for any sign, taking her time. Rushing would only cause her to miss something.
It was sunset of the next day when she found a bit of fur snagged on a branch. The last dregs of light showed her a footprint and a faint paw print.
She looked up to orient herself. She’d knew from the Bonded’s maps that they were roughly half-way to Swift’s Port. But the signs were pointing north.
What was to the north?
Frustration welled up, but with the last of the day gone there was nothing she could do.
Iris made a rough, cold camp then and crawled under her blankets, impatient for daylight. With her armor loosened she could tuck her hand within and rub the ridges of her scar, trying to relax enough to sleep.
She closed her eyes and pictured the Bonded’s maps. Swift’s Port, with its deep harbor, the great river delta beside it, the swamp between Old Soccia and the area known as…Athelbryght.
Athelbryght. One of the oldest ancient Baronies, right up there with the Black Hills. Known for its farming, its wine, and its old trade routes, not much more than goat paths into the mountains. Trade routes that once had led to the fabled Kingdom of Xy but now ran only to the borders of the Wastes.
The Wastes, where none but the marcusi dared tread.
Iris pressed her lips together and glared into the darkness. It made sense for her quarry to flee to Athelbryght. From there, they could take the mountain pass to the Wastes, the perfect place for the marcusi to hide a child of the Blood.
Athelbryght was also the home of the vore pack, ruled by the Chosen, who bore the birthmark of the Dagger-Star.
Iris shifted in her blankets and bared her teeth to the night sky. The Bonded was wary, more than wary, of the vore. Iris wasn’t sure if the Chosen would aid the marcusi, but the vore would.
The trail was growing cold and she dreaded failure. She pressed her fingers to the ridges of her scar, feeling her heart beat below. The ache returned, a longing for the others, a painful desire tugging her back.
But the Bond pulsed with the urge, the need, the mission, until her focus narrowed to her goal.
She could do this. It would be hard. Athelbryght was a settled area, of roads and towns and farms untouched by the battles that had raged. Come the morning, she could pick the trail back up. They’d make mistakes, and she could push herself to move faster. Once the marcus reached Athelbryght, she could find a way to send a message back.
She could do this.
She would do this.
A yawn caught her by surprise, making her jaw crack. She puffed out a breath and shifted in her bedding, getting as comfortable as she could. Dawn would come, and she would track, and find them, and kill them.
But first sleep.
“Do we have to do this now?” Avice demanded as she walked beside Mira on the crowded streets of the Stews. “We should not be leaving her side.” Even with the Palace guards before and behind them, it was rough going, dodging people and refuse in the streets.
“We need to do it now, while she is agreeable,” Mira said. “Who knows how long this mood will last or when another tantrum will come upon her?”
Avice had no answer for that.
They moved on. One of the leading guards kept peering at the buildings to the left and right. The street grew narrower and the road rougher until he finally stopped. “Here, lady. City Watch said she was here.”
Mira stepped up smartly and rapped on the door.
It was opened by a man who looked a bit worse for wear, his hair all ruffled. He stared at Mira. From behind him, Avice heard the wail of a woman in pain.
“The midwife, Plumestra. Where is she?”
The man blinked and opened the door wider to show a family gathered by a hearth, every chair and bench filled. “She’s in with me wife,” he said, gesturing to a door, and before anyone could say anymore, Mira sailed past them all and into that room.
Avice ordered their guards to remain outside before she followed.
There were women only here, one at each side of the bed, one in the bed, laboring in pain, and another at the end of the bed, her hands deep in the woman’s body.
“Plumestra?” Mira asked.
“Aye,” the midwife grunted, clearly intent on her work. Her brown hair, streaked with gray, was plastered to her forehead. She gave the newcomers a look, then rolled her eyes. “I can already tell you are from some arrogant noblewoman, thinks she’s the only pregnant woman for miles.”
The woman in the bed wailed and flopped down, the women beside her wiping her forehead and offering encouragement.
“Nobles,” Plumestra snorted as she leaned in, her hands getting deeper. “They won’t follow advice, expect miracles, and forget to pay. Demanding or stupid or both. No, don’t push,” Plumestra warned the woman. “Catch your breath and give me a chance to shift the babe.”
Avice winced. The room was over-warm and smelled of blood, sweat, and feces. The
poor woman’s legs splayed wide, her belly heaving. No effort at modesty here, that was certain.
All for a squalling mite that latched to a tit. Avice looked away.
Mira, however, was fascinated. “Breech?” she asked, getting closer.
“Aye.” The midwife eyed her. “How much experience have you?”
“I have attended three births,” Mira said.
“Three, eh?” Plumestra shook her head. “Then roll up those fancy sleeves and aid me. This one’s decided feet first works just fine.”
Mira shed her cloak without another word and started on her sleeves.
Avice lost patience with all of them. “The Queen requires your services,” she announced over the woman’s panting. “Immediately.”
“I refused Queen Kara, who wanted me at her beck and call in the field of battle, what makes you think I will serve Queen Satia?” Plumestra removed one bloody, muck-covered hand and reached to guide Mira’s. The wailing grew louder. “Feel its head?”
Avice decided to focus on a spot on the wall. “The Queen bears the heir to the throne and demands your service.”
“So that’s how it’s to be? Now? With my hand up this lady’s womb?” Plumestra snorted. “Let me guess, I’m to drop everything and rush to her bidding or she’ll lop off my head.” Her attention shifted to Mira. “Now have a care, we shift gently, you see? But we needs be swift as well, for the fluid’s gone and this one needs to be breathing. You push, I’ll pull.” She lifted her head to the woman on the bed. “Anstra, you just breathe now. Bear down only when I tell ya.”
Avice pressed her lips together and waited.
It didn’t take long, with Mira and Plumestra working together. There was shouting and pushing and what all, and then the screams of a naked, female infant pulled from the belly.
“Healthy lungs,” Plumestra said as Mira beamed. The babe was handed off to one of the waiting women as the other cut the cord, saying the ritual prayers. Plumestra wiped her hands. “Now the work’s not done, Anstra. Catch your breath and we’ll work on the afterbirth. In the meantime,” she turned and glared at Avice.
“That was amazing,” Mira bubbled as she watched the babe cleaned and placed on her mother’s breast. She wiped her hands and rolled down her sleeves. “A new, precious life.”
Plumestra’s face softened, but hardened again as she caught a glimpse of the bondmark on Mira’s wrist. “And who do I have to thank for bringing me to the attention of the Queen?”
“Guildmaster Forterran,” Mira spoke before Avice could stop her.
“Well, I will have to thank the Guildmaster for his thoughtfulness,” Plumestra said. “But my answer’s still ‘no’. Find one of them that serve the nobility and leave me to my own.”
Mira went wide-eyed, clearly startled. They were not in a position to accept a “no.”
Something the Guildmaster had said clicked in Avice’s head. “A charter.”
Plumestra turned back, an eyebrow raised.
“A guild charter,” Avice repeated, pleased that she’d caught the older woman by surprise.
Plumestra’s eyes narrowed. “I suspect Guildmaster Forterran mentioned that as well?”
Avice nodded. “And I’ll not pretend I have the authority to offer it. But Queen Satia does.”
“And she might,” Mira piped.
“I see,” Plumestra said slowly.
One of the older females swaddled the babe and took it into the outer room. Cries of joy and delight greeted her.
“I’ve three women I’m tending the next day or so,” Plumestra said. “When I’ve time and if there are no other calls, I will come to the palace.”
“Ask for Mira,” Mira offered, but Plumestra had already turned back to the woman on the bed, reaching to pull on the dangling birth cord. “Now push, girl. Let’s get this done.”
“Oh,” Mira was fascinated, but Avice snatched up her cloak and pulled her from the room and out to the street.
“Stand guard,” Avice ordered the guards. “Wait for the midwife Plumestra and keep her under guard. See to it that she reports to the palace tomorrow.”
“As you say, Lady,” the guard acknowledged. “But it’s growing late, and this is not the best part of town. Do you want us to escort you back?”
“We can see to ourselves,” Avice said. “Come, Mira.” She headed down the lane, out of patience with midwives and babies. An altogether messy business.
“I wanted to watch,” Mira said. “Did you notice that her belly turned flaccid? After the babe was out?”
“Don’t mention that to the Queen,” Avice strode on. The shadows were growing longer, and there were no street lamps in this part of town.
People were moving about, closing up shop, heading for their homes. There was enough traffic that they had to press against walls in some places, to avoid the crowd. At one such place, a man stepped out of the shadows in an alley and blocked their path.
“Ladies.” He bowed, his smile wide. A gold tooth gleamed in his grin.
“Out of our way,” Avice demanded as she moved to walk past.
The man shifted, blocking her once more. “Now, Bondmaiden Avice, don’t be like that.”
That focused her attention.
“And Bondmaiden Mira.” He bowed to both of them.
“What do you want?” Avice demanded, searching the shadows for others. As far as she could determine, he was alone.
“I’ll not waste your time, ladies, but get straight to the point. My master wishes to give your mistress a gift.”
“What gift?” Avice took a step into the alley, reaching into her skirt slit for one of her daggers.
“This,” The man kicked a large bundle of rags on the ground. It moaned.
Mira stepped forward and realized a man sprawled there, emaciated and smelling of vomit.
“And what does our mistress need with a wreck of a man?” Avice asked.
The gold-toothed man smirked. “A wreck he surely is and addicted to letheon. Still, blood mages be hard to come by.”
Avice went still, but Mira tilted her head with a frown. “Blood mage? This?”
“Aye,” Gold tooth flashed his grin again. “A piss poor one, truth be told, but beggars can’t be choosers, now can they?”
“The price?” Avice asked.
“Let’s say ‘good will’ and let that rest for another day.” The gold disappeared as he grew serious. “We help each other. Queen gets her way and we have disposed of a…problem, shall we say? In the future, perhaps we can deal again.”
“And if I refuse this gift?”
There was a shrug as the man faded further back into the shadows. “Leave him to die, it’s no matter to me.” His chuckle came from even further away, “But then what will your Queen do for a blood mage?”
Rapid steps raced off and they were left with an empty alley and a wretch at their feet.
Mira had him by the wrist. “His heart beats strong,” she said with a wrinkled nose. She reached for an eyelid. “But he’s drugged to be sure.”
“And no knowing if it’s voluntary,” Avice scowled. “Or if he truly is a blood mage.”
“What’s to be done?” Mira asked.
“Not for us to decide,” Avice flung her cloak over the mess, hoping it would wash clean. She wrestled the man up and heaved him over her shoulder. “It’s for the Queen to say.”