Page 170 of Given to the Black King

Iona’s heartbeat is steady. Breath deep. No pain through the bond. The room is warm. Fire banked correctly. Shutters fastened. Water within reach. Knife beneath my pillow. Two guards outside. Vess somewhere on the roof because she has become convinced birth can be assisted by surveillance.

Nothing is wrong.

The child kicks a third time.

“Hunger?”

Iona makes a sleepy sound.

The bond carries an image before she opens her eyes.

Strawberries.

Of course.

“You’re awake,” she murmurs.

“No.”

“You’re speaking to my stomach.”

“It spoke first.”

Her eyes remain closed.

“What did it say?”

“Strawberries.”

“That was me.”

“I know.”

“Then why blame the baby?”

“The baby has stronger negotiating leverage.”

She laughs softly and then winces.

I am upright.

“Where?”

“My back.”

“How much?”

“The usual amount.”

“There should be no usual amount of pain.”

“Torgan.”

“I will get the healer.”

“You will not wake six women because I slept crooked.”

“Four women. Two men.”