Vengeance of Dragons (Secret Texts) (29 page)
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When no one followed the Dragons out of the inn, both of them rose and walked toward the front door. “Home, or watch their backs, then?” the one said.
“Watch their backs. I didn’t see anyone, but they might have been waiting outside.”
So they’d been planted to find anyone who was following the Dragons. Kait’s job, but in reverse.
She smiled. They were going to fail. Dùghall had planted telltales on Grita, Crispin, and Domagar when he fell. The telltales were tiny Falcon talismans that he’d made and shielded—when they touched the skin of their targets, they were absorbed, and for the next week—or two—they would connect the three Dragons to three viewing glasses that Dùghall had fashioned. Ry and his lieutenants could watch the glasses, see where their targets were going, and trail them without ever coming near them. Their targets would lead them to the Mirror—or to people who
would
lead them to the Mirror. Either way, they moved closer to their objective. And neither the Dragons nor the people they’d hired to guard them would know that they were being watched. Not even magic would betray the presence of the talismans—created with only the energy of their creator, formed with pure intent to cause neither pain nor harm but merely to report their location and surroundings, they would leave no trace of their presence for even the most sensitive of observers.
would
lead them to the Mirror. Either way, they moved closer to their objective. And neither the Dragons nor the people they’d hired to guard them would know that they were being watched. Not even magic would betray the presence of the talismans—created with only the energy of their creator, formed with pure intent to cause neither pain nor harm but merely to report their location and surroundings, they would leave no trace of their presence for even the most sensitive of observers.
Kait handed a bronze coin to the tavern girl as a tip and strolled out of the doors. She turned left, heading for Three Monkey Road and the Furmian Quarter down by the harbor. The air smelled especially sweet, the sun welcomed and comforted, the whole of the world offered her a joyous embrace. She was on the hunt, and her heart beat faster and her breath came quicker and life felt better than it did at any other time.
She caught up with Ian and Hasmal near the harbor, as they were entering the Merry Captain, which was a hostel frequented by well-off travelers and seamen from some of the richer ships. She spotted her target leaning against the wall across the street from them. She found her own hiding place and watched him. The spy waited until they were inside, then crossed the street, stepped into the Merry Captain, and moments later came back out, a satisfied smile on his face. So he’d checked to see that they were registered there, and had discovered that they were. A room had also been reserved there for Kait, in the name of Chait-eveni, in case the spy had the presence of mind to ask after her. She had never been in her room and never would be, but it was there all the same. Paid through the next three weeks.
He scurried right by her, head up but eyes forward instead of searching the crowd. He never caught a glimpse of her. She fell in behind him, staying well back. He was clearly in a hurry, but she kept pace while still managing to appear that
she
wasn’t hurrying. Longer steps, a slower stride, and a studied air of relaxed interest in everything that went on around her.
she
wasn’t hurrying. Longer steps, a slower stride, and a studied air of relaxed interest in everything that went on around her.
He led her by the shortest route straight to the gates of Sabir House. He gave his name and was promptly admitted. She decided to wait for a while, mingling with the street vendors that sold their wares just outside the gates and with the customers that bought them. Maybe he would come back out again and she could track him further, to a place that would tell her something she hadn’t already known—because now she knew only what she had known all her life: Trouble came from Sabir House.
29
D
anya fought back the scream. Pain turned the world red; she closed her eyes tightly and locked her muscles and held her breath, but that only made it worse. The baby felt like it was ripping its way out of her with teeth and claws, fighting to birth itself. She could see the little animal in her mind. It would be a monster like her, scaly, with a mouth full of fangs, with hideous spikes at its joints—a nightmare, a beast that would devour her entrails, then claw her belly open and swallow the two midwives who crouched beside her, holding her back up and helping her to squat.
anya fought back the scream. Pain turned the world red; she closed her eyes tightly and locked her muscles and held her breath, but that only made it worse. The baby felt like it was ripping its way out of her with teeth and claws, fighting to birth itself. She could see the little animal in her mind. It would be a monster like her, scaly, with a mouth full of fangs, with hideous spikes at its joints—a nightmare, a beast that would devour her entrails, then claw her belly open and swallow the two midwives who crouched beside her, holding her back up and helping her to squat.
“Gathalorra,” one of the midwives shouted to Danya, “you must not fight the birthing. Breathe, and let the baby come. Shejhan, pull her forward. She’s leaning too much on her tail and it’s blocking her.” The senior midwife, whose name was Aykree, turned away from Danya and did something at the hearth. She said, “I’m making a steaming potion for you that will ease your labor. It will be ready in a few moments, and then the pain will not be so severe.”
The pains had started two stations earlier. Danya, prepared by the midwives for what would happen, had not been frightened. They’d told her she would hurt, and she had hurt. They’d told her that her belly would tighten, and it had tightened. They’d shown her how to breathe, and they’d taught her the mind exercises they used to control pain, and she had used them, and she thought she was doing well. The pain had been bad, but not as bad as the torture of the Sabirs; she had controlled it, and she had been proud.
But in the last half a station it had gotten worse. She hadn’t been able to keep it under control. She had cried out, had wept, had growled and begged for relief. And now—
Now she hoped only that she would die quickly, before the monster inside exploded out of her, flinging the tattered remains of her body in all directions. She prayed for quick death, but the gods who had abandoned her to the Sabir Wolves did not listen to these prayers, either. She sobbed and shouted and swore, and the pain battered her, then receded briefly, then battered her again, each time getting worse, each time leaving her more frantic and more frightened and more hopeless. It would not quit, and she could not make it quit, and the only way to be through with it was to have the baby. And now she knew that having the baby would kill her. Nothing survivable could hurt so much.
The touches of a thousand strangers reached inside her head and tried to offer her comfort, tried to assure her that she would survive and that her baby would be special and that she was not alone—but they were the same strangers who had bound their spirits to the damned unborn creature months earlier, and who had tried to invade
her
mind as well with their false kindness and their platitudes. She’d shielded herself away from them, but now she was too weak and in too much pain to maintain a shield. So they were all over her.
her
mind as well with their false kindness and their platitudes. She’d shielded herself away from them, but now she was too weak and in too much pain to maintain a shield. So they were all over her.
The midwives were doing something that she couldn’t see. They were rattling things, and poking at a fire. She could hear water boiling.
Then Aykree was at her side. She sounded like she was speaking through a tunnel when she said, “That contraction has stopped. I want you to move on your hands and knees, and put your face near this.” Aykree and Shejhan pulled Danya onto her knees and dragged her face toward a steaming cauldron that they’d moved onto the board floor in front of her. The steam stank of herbs and rotted meat and the bitter musk of civets. “Breathe deeply,” Aykree said. They draped a blanket over her head and the cauldron, and the steam filled her nostrils and she gagged.
“Keep breathing it. It numbs the pain.”
Abruptly, she vomited, which left her feeling better. She inhaled more of the steam, and her anguish receded a bit further. So she sucked in the stinking steam greedily, and felt a delicious lassitude invade her entire body. She started to let herself fall backward, but the two midwives pulled her onto all fours again. “Don’t quit. Keep breathing it. Deep. Deep! Deep breaths.”
Deep breaths? Why? The pain was gone. She didn’t want to expend the effort. She suddenly felt wonderful—her mind was clear of the red haze of pain, and her muscles no longer fought against each other. She didn’t need any more of the wonderful steam.
“Did we give it to her too soon?” Shejhan asked. She sounded like she was half a world away. “Did we stop her labor?”
“No. She’ll keep going. This will just relax her enough that she’ll leave off fighting her own body and let the child be born.”
Then the next labor pain began. That ripping, tearing anguish started at the top of her belly and seared its way downward, and she sucked in the steam with the desperation of a drowning woman offered air. She wanted to yell again, but she couldn’t do that and draw the steam into her lungs at the same time. She gasped, and trembled, and only at the height of the contraction, when the pain overwhelmed even the numbing drug she breathed, did she cry out.
Then that contraction subsided, and once again she felt good.
“How close is the baby?” Aykree asked.
Danya listened with disconnected interest; she felt as if the two midwives were discussing someone she might have known once. Shejhan said, “I can see the top of the head. We have to tie Gathalorra’s tail out of the way, though, or I’ll never be able to guide the baby out. She nearly killed me with it that time, thrashing the way she was. Here . . .”
Danya felt her tail being lifted and bound to the central post of the house.
They could see the head? Interesting. She wondered what it looked like.
“Have her push with the next one,” Shejhan said. “She’s ready.”
And Aykree leaned under the blanket and said, “With the next pain, hold your breath and bear down. It’s time for the baby to come out.”
Well, that was good. She still vaguely recalled that once the baby came out this ordeal would be over. She tried to imagine what that would be like, but she couldn’t. She had been like this forever.
She could form one question coherently, though. “Will it hurt worse?”
“Gathalorra, when you have come this far, pushing feels better than not pushing. You’re ready, and if you let it, your body will take care of you,” the midwife said.
Then the pain slammed into her again, and the blissful haze in which she’d basked ripped away. Once again the world was real and harsh and drenched in red. Aykree said, “Now. Hold your breath and push the baby out. Push. Push!”
She closed her eyes, and tensed her belly, and pushed against the agony of being ripped apart. Things shifted inside of her. The unborn monster moved. She could feel her progress suddenly. She could feel her burden growing less.
“Good! Good! Harder!”
She gasped, took another quick breath, held it, pushed again. She was winning. She was getting rid of the thing.
The pain exploded without warning; ten times—a
hundred
times—worse than it had been before. She collapsed forward onto her elbows and screamed and flailed and wept, and heard something else begin to wail as well.
hundred
times—worse than it had been before. She collapsed forward onto her elbows and screamed and flailed and wept, and heard something else begin to wail as well.
She became aware of the midwives shouting at her—yelling above her screaming. “You’re almost done! Gathalorra!
Gathalorra!
Listen! The head is out. Push again and you’ll be finished!”
Gathalorra!
Listen! The head is out. Push again and you’ll be finished!”
The unbearable urge to push was building inside her, unstoppable, inescapable, and all she could feel was mute, anguished astonishment. Again? She had to do that
again
?
again
?
She couldn’t . . . and yet, the next contraction hit, and she did. More pain—pain so terrible it seared and enveloped and overwhelmed. Then, as suddenly as it had overtaken her, it was gone, and the most wonderful feeling of warmth flooded her body. No pain. No pushing. No red haze. She was still alive, while in the background, even the thin, ragged wail ceased.
Silence.
Release.
Shejhan said, “You have a boy-child.” She sounded doubtful.
Danya didn’t care whether she had a dog-child. She was done. Done. She was freed of the thing that had invaded her body. She could hear its cry begin again—fragile, punctuated, but stronger. She wanted them to take the little beast away, but instead they were rolling her onto her back, onto cushions on the floor, and propping her up, and pressing the thing into her arms and against her chest.
She stared at it, and time stopped. The baby moved in her arms, stopped crying, and stared at her gravely. Her baby.
Her
baby.
Her
baby.
Not it. Him.
She stared at him.
The world held its breath, and sounds, only loosely bound by gravity, spun away. In the silence, she stared into her son’s eyes, and he stared into hers. He wriggled, blinked, blinked again.
Not a monster at all.
Not like her. No claws, no scales, no spikes, no teeth.
She felt swallowed tears burning their way down the back of her throat; her vision blurred as her eyes filled with water.
Her son. Her
human
son.
human
son.
His bottomless blue eyes regarded her intently; his soft rosebud mouth made a tiny round soundless O. He had five tiny fingers on each hand, five tiny toes on each foot, a soft body with perfect legs and perfect arms. A perfect human baby, and he was hers. The Sabirs had twisted her, they had twisted everything about her, but they had not managed to twist her son.
She gently pressed one scaled, taloned finger into the palm of his hand and his fingers wrapped around it. He held on to her tightly and looked into her soul, and his love, the love she’d fought off and denied throughout her pregnancy, overwhelmed her. He was her gift. He was her reward for all the suffering she had endured. He was wonderful.
She put him to the nipple that protruded from her scaled breast, and he sucked. While he sucked, he looked at her. His free hand clenched and unclenched, but with his other hand, he held on to her finger.
Shejhan said, “He doesn’t have any scales. Or any tail. Or claws. He looks . . . tender. Will he get them later?”
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