Children of Fire (3 page)

The Burning Moon,
Nyra thought, panting in and out with short, quick breaths as she fought to control her contractions.
An ill omen.

There was a sudden thrust of pain deep within her and she screamed aloud.

“Don't push!” the midwife yelled from down between her legs.

Nyra could hear the fear in her voice. She could feel hands down there; grasping, wiping, turning. She wanted Gerrit; wanted to feel his strong fingers enveloping her own, hear his whispered reassurance. But the women had sent him out partway through the birth.

One of the assistants rushed up to change the cloth on her head. She could see the horror on the teenage girl's face.

It's not always like this,
Nyra tried to tell her.
There's not always this much blood, this much pain. It's not always like this—just for me.
But instead she screamed as she was ripped apart from the inside yet again.

“Now!” the midwife screamed, “Push now, Nyra!”

And she did, pushing even though she could feel herself being rent asunder. The world dissolved into a veil of blind suffering, and suddenly she understood the final warning of the hag in the woods. Now she knew the true toll exacted by the power of Chaos.

She heard the wailing cry of her son being born, the midwife's shouted, desperate orders, the hurried rush of the assistants to save the mother, and at last Nyra wept. Wept at what she had seen, at what she finally understood. Wept with joy and sorrow and terror at the price of her son's life, even as her world went dark and her own life oozed out between her legs in an ever-expanding pool of blood.

The baby girl coughed once, spewing forth a ball of phlegm and blood that had blocked her breathing. She choked. She gasped. And then she began to cry. Her screams ripped through the heavy silence of the room at the back of the Golden Circlet, and Methodis muttered a quick prayer of thanks to the New Gods that the child had survived what the young, malnourished mother had not.

The little girl was strong; stronger than he would have imagined possible, given the circumstances of her birth. Had he believed in such things he might have called it a miracle … or a tragedy.

Her mother dead, the father unknown,
the healer thought.
Only seconds old, and she's already alone in the world.

He tied off the cord and handed the newborn to the terrified scullery girl who had been pressed into service as his assistant here in the back rooms of the pleasure-house. Like the dead mother, Methodis didn't recognize her. She must have been one of Luger's newest catches.

“Use the soft cloths to wipe the child clean,” he explained slowly. “Be very gentle. Then wrap her in the blankets.”

The wide-eyed girl nodded, gingerly taking the tiny baby's squirming form in her outstretched arms. She glanced down at the mother lying in a bed usually reserved for more carnal pursuits, then snatched her eyes away from the corpse's torn, bloodstained midsection.

“What about Ilana?” the serving girl asked in a trembling whisper.

Methodis wondered briefly if the serving girl had known the mother well. Had they perhaps been friends?

“Leave her to me. I will clean her up and arrange for a proper burial. After I speak with Luger.”

Methodis made no effort to clean himself up before going to speak to the owner of the establishment. He wanted Luger to see everything: the blood smeared on the front of his smock, the gore covering his hands and arms all the way up to his elbows where he had reached in to rip the child free of the dying mother's womb. He left a crimson handprint on the handle of the door as he pulled it open.

Luger was leaning casually against the wall in the corridor beyond. His one good eye momentarily went wide, but otherwise he showed no reaction to the doctor's gruesome appearance. As always, the ugly scar and the empty socket staring back from the left side of Luger's face reminded Methodis of that night nearly two years ago when he had stitched the knife wound closed in this very same hallway. He had known better than to ask Luger about the fate of the customer who had inflicted the injury.

“I heard that baby crying, so I know it's alive,” Luger said, then spit a wad of chewing leaf onto the floorboards. “Didn't think the whelp would live. Not being born under the Burning Moon.”

For the past week the sky above Callastan had been dominated by a full moon the color of fresh blood, an incredibly rare phenomenon not seen since the days of the Purge over twenty years ago.

An old saying sprang unbidden into Methodis's mind.
Children born under the Burning Moon are touched by Chaos.
There were many, the doctor knew, who would consider the little girl cursed.
As if she doesn't have enough problems already.

“How 'bout Ilana?” Luger demanded, interrupting the healer's thoughts. “How's she doing?”

Had Methodis been speaking with the scared serving girl in the back room he would have chosen his words to soften the blow. But he wasn't about to make the same effort with the pleasure-house's despicable owner. “She's dead.”

“Dead? First the stupid wench gets herself pregnant, and then you let her die on me? You know how much she cost?”

Luger was no longer leaning against the wall, but was standing at full attention. His six-and-a-half-foot frame towered over the doctor's slight form.

“There is only so much I can do under these conditions,” Methodis said, struggling to keep his voice calm and even. He knew the consequences of arousing Luger's temper. Yet remembering the bruises and welts covering the mother's body made his own anger difficult to control. “I am not trained to deliver a child in the back of a Callastan whorehouse.”

“What the hell did I pay you for if you couldn't even save her? I ought to take what she cost out of your fee!” Luger spat once more on the floor and took a step forward, casting a dark shadow over the healer. “Gods' blood, I should be charging you for this visit! She was one of my best girls before she got herself swollen with that damn child!”

“You should have come for me sooner!” Methodis shot back, voice rising as his own rage bubbled over. “You waited too long. You let her bleed out. Trying to save yourself a few coins cost that girl her life!”

The healer took a defiant step forward, narrowing the distance between them to mere inches.

“Or maybe,” Methodis added through clenched teeth, “you shouldn't have beaten a pregnant woman in the first place, you bastard!”

Luger moved so quickly that the smaller man didn't even have time to react. He scooped the healer up and slammed him against the wall, knocking the air from the his lungs. He pressed his face in close enough for Methodis to smell his acrid breath and squinted his one good eye.

“Nobody talks that way to me in my house, little man.”

He held the healer pinned to the wall for several seconds to emphasize his point, then released his grip and stepped back. Methodis dropped to one knee, gasping for breath. It was some time before he could stand upright again.

“You said the baby's gonna live?” Luger asked, as casually as two men making conversation in the market square. A fuse quick to fire, a mind quick to forget, they often said of Luger.

“The child will live, though I can't take credit for that. A little girl. She is a few weeks early, by the look of her. But she's a fighter. Don't worry, I'll take care of her.”

“You?” Luger asked incredulously. “Why should you take her? I'll get a wet nurse to feed the brat, and I've got a dozen girls here to look after her.”

The offer caught Methodis momentarily off guard. “You … you will raise this child? But why?”

“Because she's mine, damn it.”

Methodis was stunned. The owner of a pleasure-house did not sleep with his girls. It simply wasn't done. It wasn't just bad business; it was seen as a sign of weakness. Luger's ruthless reputation was well known and hard-earned; the thought of him and one of his own girls was almost inconceivable.

“You're the father?” Methodis mumbled in confusion, still trying to wrap his head around the concept.

Luger gave a derisive snort.

“I'm not the father, you stupid dolt. I don't let my dick lead me around. No good can come of breeding my own whores! But I bought the mother, so the child is mine. I
own
her.”

Suddenly it was all clear. Luger was the same vile and disgusting creature he had always been. At his core he was a businessman looking to recoup his expenses. To him the girl was an investment for the future. He had called the mother—Ilana—one of his best girls. No doubt he figured the daughter would take after her in beauty. In time she could earn as much as the mother in the back rooms of the whorehouse. More if Luger was depraved enough to rent her out before she reached her womanhood.

But for all the sins and vices widely available in the port city of Callastan slavery was still technically not legal. With the image of the babe struggling—and somehow succeeding—to draw her first painful breath outside the womb still fresh in his mind, Methodis made a sudden and rash decision.

“The body of the mother must be taken away for burial. The constables will be curious as to what happened to her.”

Luger shrugged. “A hard childbirth under a cursed moon,” he said by way of explanation. “If they don't buy that, I'll kick them a couple of coins to look the other way. Plenty of dead whores in this neighborhood.”

“They will also ask about the child,” Methodis pressed. “What happened to her; who plans to care for her? They might be curious as to why a man who is not the father claims ownership of the girl. Do you really want to tell them you bought Ilana?”

Smooth as silk a small knife appeared in Luger's hand. He rubbed the flat of the blade along his own chin as if in deep thought.

“Are you threatening me, Methodis? Do you really think you're so valuable to the people of this neighborhood that I won't kill you where you stand?”

The doctor chose his next words carefully.

“It's hard to find a healer willing to work in a district as close to the docks as this one. Before you kill me you better have a replacement in mind. You're not the only one who has regular need of my services. The other tavern owners in the district might become very angry with you.”

“Their anger can be soothed with silver,” Luger countered, a dangerous glint in his eye.

“All this for one girl?” Methodis asked. “Think of the time and expense of raising her. Is it worth it? Hardly sound business.”

An expression of uncertainty crept across Luger's face, though the knife continued to trace its menacing path across the stubble of his chin.

“And how will this look in the neighborhood?” Methodis added, playing his final card. “You claim you aren't the father, yet you seem unnaturally obsessed with this child. If you keep her there will be questions. Whispered rumors of how Luger couldn't keep his hands off one of his own girls.”

Luger snarled and hurled his knife into the ground at the doctor's feet. “I don't lay with my own whores!”

Methodis glanced down at the blade embedded an inch deep in the wooden floorboard, still quivering from the force of the throw.

Looking up into Luger's one glaring eye he said, “I will take the mother's body away for burial. And I will take the child with me when I go.”

“The little bitch is yours,” Luger hissed as he turned away and stomped down the corridor.

The doctor breathed a sigh of relief before returning to the back room. Methodis was surprised to see that the child had stopped crying. The serving girl was gently rocking the babe back and forth in her arms, pointedly facing away from the mother's body on the bed.

At the sound of his approach the girl spoke. “You're going to take her away from all this? The baby, I mean? Take her somewhere safe?”

“You can hold her for a while longer,” Methodis said gently. “I have to clean up the mother.”

“She was from the Western Isles,” the serving girl whispered. “Her name was Ilana. She told me it meant ‘lucky.'”

Methodis nodded. He'd noticed his patient's olive skin and almond eyes when he'd first arrived to help birth the child.

In silence he cleaned the body and wrapped it in a funeral shroud so the authorities could take her. He removed his blood-soaked smock and rinsed his hands and arms clean in the basin.

The girl was still rocking the baby in the corner. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she turned to face him. After the briefest hesitation she held the child out to him. “Have you … have you picked a name for her yet?”

“Sciithe,” the doctor replied after a moment. “It means ‘spirit' in the Old Tongue.”

A hint of a smile passed over the serving girl's lips, though her eyes were moist with tears.

“She's got spirit, that's for sure. Good-bye, brave little darling.” She did her best to wrap her tongue around the unfamiliar sound of the foreign name, but couldn't quite manage it. “Good-bye, Scythe.”

Methodis didn't have the heart to correct her.

Roland sat nervously, his large frame supported by a sturdy wooden chair outside Madam Wyndham's private quarters. From time to time he would shift his position by leaning forward, clenching and unclenching his heavily callused hands in helpless frustration.

For nearly ten years now he'd been working for Conrad Wyndham. In the beginning he'd been hired for his blade—a retired soldier to provide extra security for merchant caravans on the long trips to foreign lands. Over time, however, his employer had come to trust Roland with far greater responsibilities, such as supervising the manor staff, overseeing the stables, and securing the safety of the master's home and kin during his long absences on business.

Yet there was nothing Roland could have done to protect against this. Birthing was woman's work, and once he'd sent a servant to summon the midwife there was little else he could do but wait and worry.

The crimson orb that hung in the sky that night only fed his fears. He wasn't a superstitious man by nature, but sitting here helpless forced his mind to conjure up all the old wives' tales he heard over the years.
The Burning Moon's a harbinger of dark times. Withered crops. Two-headed calves. Plague and pestilence. Stillborn children.

An hour ago he'd heard Madam Wyndham's screams of pain coming from the bedroom, each shriek causing his muscles to tighten involuntarily and his hand to twitch toward the short sword at his belt. He had thought nothing could be worse to bear than the sound of those screams … but he had been wrong.

The midwife must have given Madam Wyndham something to ease the pain, because the screams had changed to low moans before eventually stopping completely. In the ensuing silence Roland's mind had run wild, conjuring up terrifying images of everything that could have gone wrong. Several times he'd stood up and marched over to the door, determined to burst in just so he could know what was happening. Each time he'd stopped himself and returned to his chair, aware that any interference by him would only make the midwife's job harder.

When the door finally opened and the midwife emerged Roland leapt anxiously to his feet. She was a stout woman of middle age, with plain looks and a serious demeanor. Around the village it was said she had delivered over a hundred infants in her career. Roland could see that her apron was covered with blood, and the sober expression on her face confirmed his worst fears.

“I'm sorry,” the midwife said in a low, steady voice. “The child was too weak. She's gone.”

Roland sat back down heavily in his chair and leaned forward, clasping his head in his hands. Sir Wyndham would be back on the morrow's eve. How could Roland tell him that his daughter was dead?

With a deep breath and a shake of his head he managed to pull himself together enough to sit up straight. In a voice thick with grief he asked, “What of Madam Wyndham?”

“I gave her something for the pain. She's asleep now, but she will live,” the midwife replied brusquely as she removed her stained apron and stuffed it into a thick leather satchel she had set by the bedroom door on her arrival. “But she will never birth again. The sickness that took her child has left her barren.”

“The Burning Moon,” Roland whispered, not even realizing he was speaking aloud. Even so, the midwife heard him and replied.

“Don't blame this on curses and magic,” she muttered wearily. “Blame it on the fever.”

Chagrined at his own foolishness, Roland nodded in acceptance of her more logical explanation. Celia Wyndham was not the first woman from the village to lose her child this month—not since the outbreak of pestilence had spread into their province. Yet this tragedy had still caught Roland unprepared. Some part of him had hoped that here in the manor they might be spared, as if illness and death would somehow recognize rank and privilege.

He watched silently as the midwife picked up her satchel and went back into the bedchamber, moving with a well-practiced efficiency. Through the half-opened door he could see her packing up the ointments, potions, and salves she had brought with her. It was bad luck for a man to touch the birthing medicines, so he made no move to help as she gathered up the vials, wrapping each one in cloth before placing it inside her satchel.

“What did Madam Wyndham say?” Roland finally called out to her, his sense of duty obligating him to shift his focus from the tragic death of his liege's daughter to the continued well-being of his wife. “What was her reaction when … when you told her.”

“She doesn't know.” The midwife's reply from the bedroom was distracted; she was concentrating on making sure she didn't leave any of her wares behind. “The pain was too great, she begged me for something to help her sleep through the birth. She won't awaken until the morn.”

“Was it a difficult birth?” Roland asked, his brow furrowing.

“No worse than normal,” she answered, emerging from the room and setting her satchel on the floor with a soft grunt. In her free arm she cradled a small bundle of clean white blankets. “Some women are strong, they can bear the pain. Others …” She trailed off with a shrug.

Celia Wyndham had a quick temper she would often unleash upon her servants, but she would never be mistaken for a strong woman. Her whole life she had been sheltered from the harsh realities of the world. Yet Roland was troubled that she hadn't even wanted to be awake for the birth of her first child.

He rose to his feet as the midwife crossed the room, extending the bundle out toward him: the child, wrapped in swaddling clothes.

“She might want to see the child when she wakes,” the midwife explained.

The little girl had been cleaned, Roland noticed as he took the bundle from her. Yet her face was the color of ash; it was obvious she was dead. Staring down at the infant's corpse he felt compelled to ask another question. One he had no right to ask.

“I've heard the birth is more difficult if the mother cannot help,” he began, choosing his words carefully.

The midwife nodded, then turned and walked slowly back over to her satchel to make a final accounting of the contents.

“Sometimes the mother can push or hold until I am ready,” she admitted.

Satisfied that everything was safely packed away, she pulled the drawstrings shut and hoisted the bundle up over her meaty shoulder.

“Sometimes it can make a difference.”

“But Madam Wyndham wanted to sleep,” Roland muttered through clenched teeth. A moment later he added, “A mother should fight for her child!”

The midwife only shrugged, noncommittal. “Sometimes it makes no difference. I've seen the sickness take four children since the last moon. Two of the mothers died as well. If the madam had stayed awake to suffer through the birth she might be dead now, too. And it might not have saved the child in any case.”

Somehow this offended Roland even more. “So it's all just chance? The whim of the Gods?”

The midwife's reply was matter-of-fact. “Life and death are intertwined.” She sighed, weary from the night's long labor, tired of answering questions that had no real answer.

“The sickness takes some and spares others. There is no rhyme or reason. Four nights ago the fever took the smith's apprentice—as strong and strapping a lad as any in the village.”

Roland had met the smith's apprentice; he knew she spoke the truth. But as he clutched the cold, gray child to his chest the midwife's simple wisdom offered no comfort.

“His wife is with child, too,” he muttered, remembering a bit of gossip he'd heard from one of the chambermaids.

“That's the cruelest jape of all,” the midwife countered, shifting from one foot to the other as she adjusted the weight of the satchel on her shoulder. She was clearly eager to be on her way, but she wasn't about to offend Roland by departing without proper leave. “Two nights ago the widow gave birth to a daughter. Then the fever took her, too.”

Roland shook his head, numbed by the seemingly endless list of sorrow and suffering. “Another dead child.”

“Not the child,” the midwife answered, a hint of annoyance in her voice. “The mother. The mother died. The child survived.” The midwife clucked her tongue. “Fate can be cruel. Not even a day old, and already an orphan.

“Most would say that child is cursed,” she added, half under her breath. “It's a wonder I found anyone willing to take her in.”

Roland stood before the door of the small, thatch-roofed hut. He was soaked from his journey; the hut had been built on the farthest edge of the town, and the rain of the midnight storm was coming down in heavy sheets. Still, Roland hesitated before knocking on the door. It wasn't the lateness of the hour that gave him pause; he suspected the woman inside would still be up—she was a creature of the night.

It was his own doubts that stayed his hand. This plan was madness … but he couldn't bear the thought of telling Sir Wyndham his child was dead. Gathering his resolve, he raised his fist and knocked hard upon the door. A minute later it swung open to reveal the small, slight form of Bella, the village witch-woman.

“Who comes to my door in the dead of night?” she demanded in a thin whisper, her ice-blue eyes squinting to see him through the darkness of the storm.

Roland knew her mostly by reputation. Bella rarely ventured from her home during the day, and living up at the manor house he'd never had reason or occasion to seek her aid before. He'd seen her once or twice on the streets, but never up close. He was surprised at how small she seemed without her cowl and walking staff: barely over five feet tall.

Some in town called her the white witch, and it wasn't hard to see why. She had long, silver hair, and her skin was so pale it looked as if she were carved from alabaster. Her plain features were creased with faint wrinkles, though the lines gave the impression of wisdom rather than age. She appeared to be in her early fifties, though if legends were true she was at least two decades older.

She carried a newborn infant, clutching the pink-skinned little girl hard against her chalky bosom with one wiry arm. The babe was naked, and Bella wore only a threadbare tunic, open at the top to expose her breast. The little girl in the witch's grasp sucked hungrily at the teat.

Roland didn't want to imagine what foul arts allowed the witch's breast to flow with milk. Suppressing a shudder at the sound of the babe's suckling, he pulled his gaze up to meet Bella's eye. Keeping his voice level he said, “I work for Sir Wyndham.”

Bella pursed her lips together and her cold eyes narrowed. “Madam Wyndham, you mean.” She made no effort to hider her contempt for Conrad's overly pious wife. “It's too late for her. Her child is dead, and I can do nothing to bring it back.”

She tried to slam the door in his face, but Roland was too quick for her. Jamming it open with his foot he pushed his way inside.

“How do you know about that?” he demanded. “The midwife only delivered the child an hour ago!”

He was a tall man, thick through the chest and shoulders. He towered over Bella. But the tiny, silver-haired woman glared up at him unafraid before turning away and letting her free arm drop indifferently from the hut's door.

She headed to a small crib in the corner, glancing back over her shoulder to speak in a sinister whisper. “I see things. I know things. I have
power.
”

“Then you know why I'm here,” Roland said, ignoring the implied threat in her voice.

He followed her inside, closing the door behind him. The single room that made up the whole of the domicile was lit with a lone candle on a back wall near the crib. It kept the small hut warm, but most of the room was cast in dark shadow. He could just barely see shelves on the walls cluttered with numerous jars, and there was a small table piled with an assortment of bottles and vials in one corner. Things floated inside the glass, suspended in translucent fluids. In the gloom he couldn't make out enough detail to identify them … not that he would have wanted to, anyway.

“I don't know why you're here,” Bella admitted, speaking softly as she put the babe down in the crib and wrapped her in a soiled, stained blanket.

She laced up the front of her tunic before turning back to face him, much to Roland's relief.

“The things I see are not always clear,” she explained. “Only death is always easy to understand.”

“You knew Madam Wyndham's child would die?”

Bella nodded once.

“Why didn't you tell anyone?”

“Would she have listened to me?” she countered.

“You don't seem upset that a newborn is dead,” Roland noted. He was angry, but he kept his voice quiet so as not to disturb the child.

“I had nothing to do with that!” she snapped, keeping her own voice low. “There is a plague upon this province. Children die!”

Her reaction was understandable. Bella was well respected in the town, but she was also feared, even by those she used her arcane powers to help. Celia Wyndham was a vocal supporter of the Order, and an outspoken critic of Bella and her ilk. It wasn't out of the question that she might try to blame her child's death on the witch-woman … if Madam Wyndham ever found out her child had died.

“I know how that child came to you,” Roland said, getting to the heart of the matter with a slight nod toward the crib.

“And what of it?” Bella demanded, her voice defensive. “I offered to raise the child, teach her the ways of my craft.”

“Why?” Roland wanted to know. “The child is cursed. Born under the Burning Moon.”

Bella snorted. “Cursed? A word used by the fearful and ignorant! The child is blessed. She is
strong
!”

“She has the Gift?” Roland guessed, the pieces starting to fall into place.

The witch refused to answer his question. “Who else would take her in but me? Better to let her die an orphan?”