White Blood

  White Blood

  by Angela Holder

  Deore Press

  Houston, Texas

  For everyone who has nursed or tried to nurse a baby, especially the seven women who founded La Leche League.

  One

  Maryn snuggled Frilan against her body and guided her breast into his mouth. His hungry wails cut off, replaced by eager sucking. Maryn bent her head until the silky strands of her son’s hair tickled her nose and cheeks and breathed the musky scent she found so irresistible.

  The straw mattress crackled as Edrich rolled over and curled around her. Maryn pressed her back into his solid warmth. “I’m sorry we woke you.”

  “I don’t mind.” He reached over her to stroke the curve of Frilan’s shoulder. “I’ll need to be up soon, anyway. I’ve got to get working on the tapestry at first light, if it’s going to be done in time.”

  She twisted around as much as she could without disturbing Frilan’s nursing. It must be close to dawn; she could make out the familiar profile of her husband’s beaked nose and bushy eyebrows. “I thought you had plenty of time. Princess Voerell isn’t due for weeks yet. And won’t it be three months after the prince is born before the heirship ceremony?”

  Edrich shrugged. “The town council’s been pressuring me. They sent another messenger yesterday, asking how soon it would be ready.” He was quiet for a moment. “And I have to redo the section with the tower again. I can’t seem to get it right.”

  Maryn bit back an impatient rebuke. The woven tower had looked fine to her each of the three previous times Edrich had ripped it out. But she knew better than to argue. His perfectionism was what made him such a gifted craftsman.

  When the tapestry was finished and presented as the town’s gift to the prince who would soon be born, all of Milecha would recognize Edrich’s talent. Orders would pour in from nobles and wealthy merchants. She wouldn’t be able to spin enough yarn to keep up with the demand. Coins would pour into their coffer, until they could laugh and wonder how they had ever scraped by on the small and rapidly dwindling amount it now contained.

  She sighed. “I was hoping you could watch Frilan for an hour or two, while I take the wash down to the river. We’re almost out of clean diapers.” Frilan released her breast and rooted for more. She scooped him onto her chest and rolled them both over. The baby nestled between Maryn and Edrich as she helped him find her other nipple.

  “I don’t think I can spare the time. Unless you want to go now? It’s earlier than I thought. It will be at least two hours before the light’s good enough.”

  Maryn hated the thought of leaving their warm bed and venturing into the chill spring dawn. None of the other women would be at the washing place so early, and she would miss the friendly chatter that made the work go quickly. But it was much easier without Frilan. The older women handled the task easily with their latest babes slung on their backs, but in the six weeks since Frilan’s birth Maryn had not yet learned that knack.

  “All right. As soon as he goes back to sleep.”

  Maryn twined her fingers with Edrich’s and closed her eyes. She nearly drowsed off again before Frilan’s sucks slowed and her nipple slid from his slack mouth.

  Edrich’s deep slow breaths indicated he was asleep as well. Maryn tucked his hand around Frilan and slid out from under the covers as quietly as she could.

  In the darkness she pulled on her skirts and laced her bodice over her shift. She scooped up the basket piled high with dirty diapers and backed down the narrow ladder from the sleeping loft. Pausing by the hearth, she lit a candle at the banked coals and placed it in the lantern, then headed for the door.

  She had to stop, though, to hold up the lantern and admire the tapestry. Only the top few inches, with the sky and the palace that was giving Edrich so much trouble, remained to be woven. The main scene was complete, and she caught her breath as always at the magnificence of Edrich’s vision.

  In the foreground stood Lord Hoenech, ancestor of the expected prince. His hands were raised in a magical gesture, brilliant scarlet blood fountaining from a gash across one palm. Azure bolts of sorcerous energy radiated in every direction. Victims of the plague, their skin blotched with purple boils, crowded around him. Their gaunt faces were just beginning to transform from despair to incredulous joy, as they felt the effects of the healing magic that would cure them at the cost of Lord Hoenech’s life.

  Because of Lord Hoenech’s sacrifice, his son was acclaimed as king, for the former dynasty had all perished in the plague. King Froethych could not fail to be pleased with this reminder of how his family had come to the throne, and consider it a fitting gift for his grandson.

  Maryn’s thoughts faltered. The Royal Sorcerer had worked scrying magic, and proclaimed that Princess Voerell’s child would be a boy. But what if he was wrong? Under the law of Milecha, a girl could not be made heir. The heirship ceremony would be canceled. The painstakingly prepared gifts would be stored away against the hope that someday Princess Voerell or one of her brothers would produce a boy child. All the months of work Edrich had invested in this tapestry would be wasted. It had been a great honor for him to be chosen over all the other weavers in Ralo to make the town’s gift, but the town council had not offered payment. He and Maryn would have to scramble to make and sell more of the rugs, blankets and simple tapestries that had previously provided their livelihood before their meager savings ran out.

  She shrugged off that worry. Of course the scrying was correct. Even the smallest drop of blood contained powerful magic, and the Royal Sorcerer was deeply learned in the spells required to safely control it and turn it to useful purposes. He would not make a mistake in so important a matter.

  Maryn resettled the laundry basket on her hip and slipped out the door. The air was crisp enough to make her shiver, although it would likely be hot by afternoon. Or maybe her shiver was for the dark emptiness of the narrow cobblestone streets. She couldn’t help but imagine what might lurk in the deep shadows that made the familiar way seem sinister. She told herself not to be silly. But when she opened the little postern gate in the town wall and set off down the path that led to the river, her fears were harder to dismiss. Everyone knew the trees and tangled undergrowth that lined both sides of the river were home to all manner of wild beasts, to say nothing of the specters and ghouls that favored such places. Maryn traced the sign of the noose around her neck for protection.

  The birds were just starting to twitter when Maryn reached the washing place. She would need to hurry if she wanted to get back before Edrich and Frilan woke. She sat down on one of the scattered boulders to pull off her shoes and stockings, tucked up her skirts, and waded out into the cold shallow water with her first armful of diapers.

  By the time she rinsed out the last large linen square and spread it on a convenient branch, the light was bright enough to sparkle on the rippling water. Maryn began to gather the damp diapers into the basket. She’d hang them up in the little yard at home to finish drying, and to let the sun bleach out the last stubborn stains.

  Pain lanced up from the sole of her foot. Maryn cried out and hopped to sit on the closest boulder. Bright droplets of blood stained the sharp rock she’d stepped on and splashed on the ground. She snatched a clean diaper and pressed the damp cloth to the wound.

  The slice wasn’t deep, but all that blood would have to be dealt with quickly. Out here specters would soon catch the scent and flock to make a meal of it—and her, too, if she wasn’t careful.

  Maryn took a deep breath and called to mind the familiar words. She used them frequently, whenever she needed to clean up after some minor mishap like this, as well as when she had cleansed her monthly blood before she became pregnant with Frilan. Only in the past few days had she stopped need
ing them to cleanse the flow of blood that had followed his birth. But the spell the Holy One had given for his people’s protection was powerful, and holy, and not to be spoken lightly.

  Once she was sure her mind was suitably composed, Maryn began the chant. The words were in the ancient language, but she knew roughly what they meant. The first section was a prayer to the Holy One, praising him and asking for his protection. After that came the words that released the blood’s power, burning it up harmlessly so it couldn’t be used for any evil purpose.

  As Maryn recited the crucial words, she spread the crimson-smeared cloth across her lap. A vibration began deep in her bones and traveled through her body, until her teeth rattled and a buzz like swarming bees filled her ears. At the climax of the spell, each patch of blood—on the cloth, on her foot, and on the ground—erupted into a blaze of sparks. For a moment they swarmed in the air like blue fireflies. Then they died away, until all that was left were a few smudges of sticky, powerless residue.

  The cut on her foot no longer bled. It only hurt a little as Maryn rinsed her foot and the diaper in the river and pulled on her stockings and shoes. The sun was well up. Edrich would be impatiently waiting for her so he could get to work. Frilan would be getting fussy, ready for another nursing.

  At the thought, a warm rush flooded her breasts. Maryn pressed her forearms firmly across her chest to ease the sensation and prevent her milk from leaking. She’d soaked her shift and bodice several times before Siwell, her midwife, had shown her that trick. When the feeling passed, she gathered up the basket, piled the last of the diapers into it, balanced the lantern on top, and set off toward home.

  On her way up the path, Maryn smelled smoke.

  She smiled at the warm, homey scent. Her arms were still cold from the frigid river water. It would feel good to build up the fire in the hearth and warm herself. She’d put on a pot of porridge to cook and she and Edrich would enjoy breakfast together before he lost himself in the demands of his weaving.

  The smell kept getting stronger. Odd. It wasn’t so cold that everyone in Ralo should be stoking their hearthfires high. And there was a strange, bitter note underlying the familiar scent. The voices beyond the gate were louder than they should be. Maryn shaded her eyes from the glare of the risen sun and peered through the trees. Beyond the wall, over the town’s rooftops, a thick black cloud billowed into the sky.

  The postern gate flew open, and a man carrying a bucket burst through. He rushed past Maryn without a glance, down the path toward the river. Maryn started forward, but more townspeople crowded through the narrow gate and shoved her aside. She tried to fight her way through, but someone knocked her arm, and the basket of diapers flew from her hands.

  The bells from the church tower jerked into life, clanging in wild discordant peals. Maryn scrambled to retrieve the scattered cloths, as men and women, many carrying buckets or tubs, pushed past her.

  A large woman grabbed Maryn by the shoulder. “Forget your wash; what will it matter if the whole town burns?” She thrust a bucket into Maryn’s hands and gestured urgently toward the river.

  Maryn’s heart raced. “What’s happening? Is there a fire?”

  “Is there—Of course there’s a fire, girl, wake up! Half the south quarter is burning!”

  “The south quarter?” A sick, hollow feeling lurched in Maryn’s stomach. “That’s where I live.”

  “You’d better pray your home escapes. Not many will, I fear.”

  Maryn stepped back, the bucket falling from her numb fingers. The woman cursed and lunged to grab it. “I’ve got to go home! I left my husband there, my baby…”

  “By the Rope and Gallows, girl, you can’t help them now. Save by—” She tried to press the bucket on Maryn again, but relented when Maryn could only stare at her, horror-stricken, her clenched fists pressed to her mouth. “Look, child,” she said, her voice a trifle softer, though still harsh. “We’re all doing the best we can. They’ll send for a sorcerer; maybe we’ll be lucky and one will get here in time. Or maybe Priest Vinhor will be able to do something. Until then, all we can do is bring up water. Get to it, girl, for your loved ones’ sakes.”

  Maryn gaped at her. She turned and gazed in the direction of her home, past where a line of townspeople was forming, passing full buckets from hand to hand. A thick haze hung in the air, and she heard a dim roar like distant drenching rain. Maryn shook, her thoughts fragmented, whirling in every direction. She had to get home, scoop up Frilan from the bed and run…

  She pushed past the woman, ignoring her angry shouts, and fought her way through the gate and into the crowded streets. When packed bodies blocked her way, she kicked shins and dug her elbows into sides until her path cleared. The smoke grew thicker, choking her, and heat beat against her face, but she didn’t stop until she rounded a corner and came in sight of the fire.

  Buildings blazed, orange flames leapt high into the sky, black billows poured forth. Even so she tried to press on, but one of the structures that leaned out over the street collapsed in an explosion of sparks and ashes, blocking her way.

  Maryn ducked into a side alley and ran, trying to find a path around, but every street she tried ended in a wall of fire. Finally she found a spot that seemed passable. Townsfolk with buckets had quenched the worst of the flames, reducing them to a ruin of ash and shimmering coals. Maryn put her arm over her face and plowed forward. But even weakened, the fire was far stronger than she. Fumes seared her throat and burned in her eyes. Sobbing, she surrendered to the driving waves of heat and stumbled back. A gust of wind swirled around her and whipped the blaze to ravenous new life.

  Voices shouted. Hands grabbed her and dragged her away from the conflagration. A man hurled the contents of a bucket into the flames, the splash of water vanishing instantly in a hiss of steam. He thrust the empty bucket at Maryn and turned to seize another from the woman next to him. The woman snatched the bucket from Maryn’s hands and sent it back down the straggling line of townspeople.

  Maryn wanted to keep running, to search until she found some miraculous passage through or around the raging furnace to her home. But she knew it was hopeless. Only one small means to defy the fire was open to her.

  She fell into line, accepting a heavy filled tub from the woman. She staggered under its weight. Water sloshed out and soaked the front of her shift and bodice. She barely managed to pass it on to the man without dropping it. He cast its contents into the heart of the blaze.

  After that, Maryn’s world narrowed to a needle-sharp focus. Take the full vessel from the woman on the left, turn, pass it to the man on the right. Take the empty container from the man, pass it to the woman. Keep the water level, don’t let it spill. Keep the rhythm going, don’t let it falter.

  She labored for hours, with only rare brief pauses to wipe sweat from her brow and blink stinging smoke from her eyes. Her arms grew heavy and her back cried out in pain. Water drenched her clothes and soot blackened them. Several times the heat of the approaching flames drove her and the others back, but they always reformed their line and kept the buckets moving.

  Someone made their way down the line, passing out loaves of bread and hunks of cheese. Maryn stuffed the offered food into her mouth. She must keep up her strength. She snatched a drink of the murky river water as it passed, grimacing at the foul taste. But nothing mattered except the battle against the ravening beast that devoured Ralo’s buildings with licking yellow tongues and jagged orange teeth.

  The muscles in Maryn’s arms screamed as she accepted yet another heavy tub. She staggered under its weight and turned to pass it on. But the man next to her was frozen, staring into the sky. Maryn jammed the tub into his back. “Take it!”

  The man accepted it and set it down at his feet. He waved a quelling hand at Maryn. “Hush. Look. Something’s happening.”

  “No! We’ve got to keep—” But then Maryn saw.

  High above, the black pall of smoke swirled, blown by a wind sprung from nowhere. Other than s
moke, the sky had been cloudless all day, the merciless sun beating down, augmenting the heat of the fire. Now a towering thunderhead began to build, growing in minutes from a mere wisp to an enormous dome looming overhead. Blue lightning flickered around its edges, but no thunder sounded. A buzz started in Maryn’s heels and ascended to the base of her skull, intensifying until she felt as if all her teeth would fall out and her skull would crack open.

  The cloud grew dark. The light took on a green cast. A drop of rain smacked Maryn in the nose. Another struck her outstretched palm. The heavens opened and sheets of water plummeted down, streaming through Maryn’s bedraggled braids and sluicing into her eyes and down the back of her neck. She reveled in the flood, raising her hands in thanksgiving, until she had to duck her head again to keep from choking and drowning.

  “Sorcery!” the man cried, the excitement in his voice tinged with fear. Maryn understood his apprehension. It must have taken a huge quantity of blood to fuel so tremendous a spell. Far more than any sorcerer could spare of his own.

  But the man shook off his doubt, as rain poured down and the fire roared and billowed mountains of white steam. “Ralo is saved!”

  Someone flung her arms around Maryn, laughing and sobbing. The woman spun away, but Maryn grabbed a stranger in turn and embraced him. Everyone clung to one another in a riot of celebration and release.

  The deluge continued, cold and relentless. The crowd pressed forward, eager to see the fire swallowed up by the magic rain. Maryn went with them, down the street that led toward her home.

  The flames subsided beneath the pounding water, though in places they still flared, defying the downpour. Skeletons of buildings tilted at crazy angles or lay collapsed in steaming, hissing piles of rubble. Scorched plaster walls stood, empty shells encasing ash. The whole south quarter of Ralo was a black, sodden ruin stretching as far as Maryn could see.

  Maryn’s steps slowed until she halted, cold and soaked. She began to shiver. She could not seem to control her body; it shook in ragged waves that seized her more strongly every moment. She sank to the ground. Water flowed in the street. It pooled around her, muddy and foul, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.