“This has already been decided, Marcus,” Kara interrupted. “Even before the birth pains started, this was the path. If I live through the day, you will bring her back to me. If not, there is no one else I can trust with her safety. Or with the raising of the true heir to the throne.” She held out a hand. “Dagger.”
One was handed to her.
Half clad, Kara sat on the edge of the bed and nicked her left palm. Blood welled on her pale flesh.
The healer made a soft sound of protest; Kara gave her a cynical look. “As if it matters now.”
Someone handed her a small glass phial. She held it beneath her injured hand, letting the blood fill the glass. “Know what I know,” she recited. “Feel what I feel. See what I have seen and known. See what comes within this day.” Kara stared at Vren but he doubted that she saw him; her eyes were wide and slightly unfocused. “I give these memories freely unto you and to those you so choose.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “Quickly now.”
The phial was stoppered with cork and wax and placed in his hand as a healer bandaged her wound. Holding the babe tight, Vren managed to tuck the phial away securely as all the women, even the healers, started to armor and arm themselves, preparing for battle.
Queen Kara’s voice was muffled as her chain shirt was eased over her head. “Wellan extended his hand in peace to those poisonous Wyverns,” she said. “Brought them to court, treated them with honor.”
Someone brought out the chain leggings, but she shook her head. “No, the weight will be too much. Just the leathers.”
They pulled her to her feet. She paled for a moment, none too steady. But after a breath she nodded and was aided into the trous. To his horror, he caught a glimpse of blood on the bandages between her legs before they were covered up.
She stepped into her boots as another knelt to lace her in.
Kara looked him in the eye. He knew that expression. One who sees death approaching and has thrown caution to the winds. “And for his efforts to please, to placate, they turned on him, bringing this war, this civil war, this bloody, vicious, wasteful war.” Her women tugged at her, fastening buckles, armoring their Queen. “There’s no hatred worse than that between bloodkin,” she finished.
A warrior approached, knelt, and held up her sword. Kara took the weapon and buckled it on. “Are we ready?”
“Aye,” came the chorus. The others nodded, donning their helmets. They started filing past him, bowing their heads to the babe as they passed.
Kara was last, and she moved close, looking at her daughter. She gently drew one finger down the infant’s soft check. The babe stirred in Vren’s arms but did not waken.
“Forgive me, child.” For the first time, Vren saw Kara’s pain. “For I have brought you into a world of fire and blood and treachery and now must leave you. Such was never my intent.” She cupped her babe’s cheek in her hand. “Blessings upon you, Xylara, Daughter of the Blood, Daughter of Xywellan and Kara, Warrior Queen.”
The tent flap closed behind her before he could say a word.
Horns pealed with rallying cries.
Vren looked down into the tiny face of the babe as the enormity of what was happening hit him. A babe. None of his training had prepared him for this. Be the wind, be the shadow, be the blade, certainly, but an infant? Where could he take her? How would he feed her? Doubts and fears flooded him. He looked down at Dust, hoping she had some idea—
The vore was staring at a corner, ear perked forward.
A young woman sat there on a stool, pressed into the tent wall, out of the way. She had golden brown skin and a sprinkle of dark freckles around her brown eyes. The tangled coils in her black hair trembled, her face filled with resignation and terror. She too had a babe in the crook of one arm, its skin a paler version of hers. The other hand held a trembling blade, poised as if she meant to defend herself.
Vren was speechless for a moment, then it hit him. “Wet nurse,” he whispered.
“Aye,” came the barest whisper in return. “I am Amari of—” Her voice cracked and she stopped. “It matters not.” She tightened her grip on both the babe and the blade. “Kill us, please.”
Vren stared at her.
“I am no warrior and the Queen had enough to worry on.” She gulped, her dark brown eyes wide. “You must save her,” nodding to the baby in his arms. “Save the hope of Xy.” She took a ragged breath.
“But if you would—” she choked on her words. “I cannot kill him,” she whispered, looked down at her own babe. “And I would not wait for what must come.” She flipped the blade over and held it out to him, hilt first. “Please, have mercy. Don’t leave us alive for them to ravage.”
More horns sounded, pealing strong and clear.
Vren hesitated. Alone, he’d slip away with none the wiser. But the needs of the child in his arms outweighed his own.
“Can you keep up?” He moved closer to her, ignoring the blade. Dust whined, facing the tent flap, keeping watch.
Amari blinked at him as if not understanding his words.
“I will try to save you both,” Vren said. “But if you falter, I will leave you behind.” She was in skirts, true, but they were simple enough not to impede her much, and looked warm.
