Chapter Thirty
In the Palace of Xy
Riven had forgotten how exhausting and exhilarating butchering could be.
It had taken some time, but during the preparations for the Summer Solstice, he’d finally gotten into a rhythm that continued even after.
Every morning he was up in the dark, clattering down the stairs and into the yard, where he took up the stunning hammer or the knife. His hands were sore to start but learned calluses swiftly from wielding the blades. Legs strengthened too.
Even better, he got lost in the work, focused on the precision of cutting flesh from bone, the smooth slice of the hide from the meat. There was peace to be found there, silence forming in his thoughts as he grew stronger.
Every morning he pulled power from the deaths of cows and pigs and chickens. Nothing compared to a human, mind, but still, death and blood and power. Magic from a forbidden source, but for a long time now, he’d known how to hide what he was doing.
He’d learned it early, working in his father’s yard, when the first traces of magic were coming into his awareness and the slaughter was happening all around.
Riven’s reserves were building; the familiar feel of magic coursed through him every afternoon as he trudged back up the stairs to his chambers to change, bathe, and eat.
Witless clucked over him, bringing lunch and messages from the Bondmaidens as to when they would appear.
Some afternoons, they were not available, and he’d work the floor or chalk out the matrix from his notes or simply sit and memorize the chants.
But most days, one of the Bondmaidens would come, bearing the scroll box.
More often than not, it was Nora.
Riven’s heart always gave a little jump when she walked through the door. Not just because of the promise of bed games. But also because she was the most fun, with her sharp wit and sharper tongue.
Every once in a while, he’d stop what he was doing, take a sip of kavage, and steal a long look at her. Not just with mage sight, to study the bond. But to see how her hair gleamed as she smiled at the sharp knives in her hands.
At night, after they had exhausted themselves in the most pleasant of ways, she’d murmur against his skin and he’d stroke her arm, their legs intertwined as the sweat cooled on their flesh.
Perhaps this intimacy was not of her choosing, but Riven no longer cared. He knew the Queen was using their relationship to keep him obedient and loyal. Maybe he was using it too, to convince Satia that he would obey her and cast her spell.
Riven tightened his arm around Nora as she slept. There was a slim chance that this was real, that under the golden, puppet threads of the bond he saw flashes of the real Nora while they loved. Free, unfettered, able to express herself from within the prison of the Bond.
He didn’t want it to end. This life, filled with security and power and Nora; it was as seductive and addictive as it was meant to be. As it was designed to be. Yet he knew full well that if Satia ordered it, Nora would walk away from him.
Or kill him.
Riven stared at the ceiling, watching the moon glow through the curtains. For one brief moment, he let himself consider casting the spell.
It was just one more casting, after all. Yes, it would cost a life, and the babes would be enslaved, but that hadn’t harmed Satia or her maidens. He could do it, stay here with Nora, and then start down the road to redemption.
He ached with the wanting of it.
All it would take was one more casting, one more life—
One more pull on the bottle.
Riven sighed, seeing the lie lurking in that line of thought. The horrible logic that bore no truth.
Uncle Stancil’s face appeared in his mind’s eye.
Pain and shame washed over him and Riven let the illusion, the fallacy, go.
No. He would not cast the spell. There was time yet, to find a way, to figure out how to—
Nora snapped awake, her head jerking up. “I must go,” she blurted, and scrambled from the bed, reaching for her dress.
“What’s wrong?” Riven asked, propping himself up on his elbows.
Nora’s fingers shook as she laced up her bodice. She froze for a long moment, her face locked in a grimace.
Alarmed, Riven invoked mage sight, to see the cord coiling and seething, vibrating all along its length as it trailed out of the room.
“It’s time,” Nora gasped, and she was out the door.
Riven dropped back onto the pillows, puzzled, then turned onto his side to hug Nora’s pillow and inhale her scent. He had time yet, before he’d need to be awake. He drowsed for a bit, smiling at the memory of the night, wishing for a bit more sleep before the day started.
The baby’s first cry rang out, healthy and strong.
“A son, a healthy son,” Plumestra, the midwife, announced as she held the new, precious life in her bloody hands. The noble ladies gathered around burst into cries of congratulations as the child wailed again.
Mira closed her eyes in relief, sagging against the bedpost, feeling her own exhaustion for the first time. Her hair dripped with sweat, her hands were covered with bodily fluids, but overall her feelings were of joy, a sense of wonder at the birth—
“I’m lying in my own filth,” Satia moaned from the bed. “See to me this instant.”
Three Bondmaidens surged forward, ready with clean linens.
“Don’t bother,” Plumestra announced cheerily as she handed the babe to the waiting wet nurse. “We’re not done.”
“Not done?” Satia asked sharply, trying to lift up on her elbows.
“We will inform the King,” the oldest noble lady said.
“And see that the child is cleansed for the presentation.” The gathered women all bowed toward the bed before eagerly leaving the birthing room behind the wet nurse, who was making cooing sounds at the babe.
Nora and Caris followed as well, watchful as always.
“The afterbirth, your majesty,” Plumestra reminded her. “We have to be sure you are cleaned out and ready for the next one. Keep your legs splayed.”
“Next one?” Satia sagged back on the bed. “I’d rather ahhhh—” gasping as Plumestra pushed down on her lower belly.
“Everyone says that,” Plumestra said. “Perfectly normal.”
Mira wasn’t so sure. She moved slower to the bed, taking Satia’s hand in hers to offer comfort.
Satia made a face and pulled away violently. “Stop that,” she demanded, naked and sweating against the sheets, glaring at Plumestra. “I’m done. Leave me alone, don’t touch me.”
Mira tensed, feeling the need to obey, yet knowing this needed doing. “It has to come out, Bonded,” she whispered. “Be patient. It can take up to an hour—”
“Patient?” Satia’s eyes were wild, dark pits in her exhausted face.
“Fine. You bitched and moaned the entire time until delivery, why should I expect anything less now?” Plumestra took hold of the birth cord. “I am going to pull on it. Push on her belly, Mira.”
Avice stepped to the other side of the bed, wiping the Bonded’s sweaty forehead with a cloth. “I’ve clean sheets and scented towels,” she said, softly, drawing Satia’s attention. “We will see to your comfort when this is done, I swear to you.”
“That was disgusting. I ache all over,” Satia fell back against the pillows, then raised her head to snarl Plumestra. “Aren’t we done with this?”
Plumestra was focused on her work. “Almost there,” she said.
“I’m tired,” Satia whined, “and I want you to stop now.”
“Yes, yes,” Plumestra said absently. “Threaten to have me executed. That always makes you feel better.
Mira and Avice exchanged worried glances.
There was an odd, squishy sound. “There we go,” Plumestra seemed very satisfied. Mira watched, fascinated, as a bloody mass gushed into her hands. “It appears whole and unbroken,” Plumestra added as she briefly inspected the mess before wrapping it in a cloth. “This can be burned.”
Satia frowned, looking at her stomach. “It’s not flat,” she whined.
“Perfectly normal,” Plumestra was cleaning her hands with a wet cloth. “You just had a baby, and that changes your body.”
Satia scowled.
“If you want a flat stomach after a birth, then keep walking as you have been doing,” Plumestra said conversationally. “And no sweets.”
The sount of trumpets and increasing noise from outside the doors warned them of the King’s approach.
“Oh, can’t that man wait,” Satia grumbled as she struggled to sit up. “Make me perfect.”
Mira moved fast, wiping her own hands clean before spreading a bright white sheet over the nasty bits. Avice arranged Satia’s hair and plumped up her supporting pillows, fashioning the perfect picture of exhausted motherhood.
Plumestra moved back by the hearth, getting out of the way.
The trumpets sounded again and King Xyrath burst in through the door, the babe in his arms swaddled in white silk, a wisp of black hair visible on his tiny head.
“Beloved,” Xyrath cried out, a huge smile on his face as varies nobles and councilmen piled in behind him, though Caris and Nora stayed the closest.
“My King,” Satia smiled, looking elegantly wan and tired.
“A son,” Xyrath said, sitting at the foot of Satia’s bed.
“A son, beloved. An heir to the throne and all that I could hope for.” With quick fingers, he unwraped the silk swaddle, laying the babe bare.
“Ten toes, ten fingers. Perfect in every way,” Xyrath exclaimed his delight with a huge smile. “And the birthmark. Perfect.”
“Birthmark?” Saita asked.
Mira shared a look of confusion with the other Bondmaidens.
Xyrath ignored his wife, lost in admiration of his son. He gathered up the naked child in the blanket and turned toward the balcony doors. “All shall witness this presentation.”
Nora and Caris swiftly opened the doors for him.
Xyrath stepped out, golden in the sun. “Behold,” he boomed to the crowd in the courtyard, lifting the naked babe toward the sun. “My son and heir.” Xyrath’s voice rang out, strong and proud, carrying over all who stood in rapt attention. “Xykeir, Son of Xy, and bearing the mark of the Chosen!”
Cheers rose, and the Temple bells started to ring.
Satia, smug and satisfied, relaxed into the pillows.
The noise drew Riven’s attention while he was deboning a pig carcass. It sounded like every bell in Edenrich was pealing.
“Back to work and mind your blades,” Kenda barked. “Word will come soon enough.”
Sure enough, the kitchen door burst open before he’d drawn more than a few additional breaths and one of the cheese-maids burst through. “The courtyard, all to the courtyard, the Queen has given birth!”
Kenda cursed, but nodded, and started everyone running to the courtyard. Riven found himself swept up in a crowd of servants and nobles alike, all standing shoulder to shoulder, looking up to the Royal chambers.
King Xyrath stepped out onto the balcony, holding a small bundle in his hands and raising it high. “Behold my son and heir,” Xyrath’s voice rang out, strong and proud, carrying over all who stood in rapt attention. “Xykeir, Son of Xy, and bearing the mark of the Chosen!”
Everyone burst into cheers; they were laughing and clapping each other on the back.
Riven plastered a smile on his face, cheered with the rest. But deep within, he shivered.
Time was no longer on his side.