White Blood Page 2

  She didn’t know how long she huddled there. Others came and went around her. She heard screaming, and shouting, and agitated voices. At length the rain slackened, and stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

  Someone tugged at her sleeve. “Girl, come. They’ve opened up the church to shelter those who’ve lost their homes. You can get dry there, and warm.”

  She shook the kindly stranger off. “No. I haven’t lost my home. I’m sure it’s fine. It’s not in the part of town that burned. It’s not!”

  “If you’re sure.” He still sounded concerned, but Maryn stared at his feet until he left.

  She had to get home. She had to find Edrich. Frilan would be so hungry. Her breasts hurt, hot and heavy with the milk that should have gone to feed his greedy appetite. Siwell would scold her. The midwife had warned her not to go too long without nursing; that she would risk clogging up her breasts with blockages or developing a fever. Maybe that’s what was happening now. Maybe that’s why she felt so odd and disoriented.

  Maryn struggled to her feet. She needed to nurse Frilan. That would heal the ache in her breasts and clear the fog from her mind. Once she held him in her arms, everything would be fine again.

  Many obstructions blocked her path, where beams or stones or whole walls had fallen into the street, but she picked her way around them. A number of people were making their way through the devastated area, but she ignored those who called out to her. She climbed over the smoldering remains of an ox-cart. The corpses of the oxen smelled like the great public roasting pits on a feast day. The landmarks that usually guided her through the maze of narrow, twisting streets were altered almost beyond recognition. The sign for the free public privies at the dyer’s hung askew by one nail, the dyer’s wall half fallen in. But enough remained for her to find her way.

  Her street was all wrong, though. She was sure their house was around here somewhere. It should be on the east side of the street, but all the buildings there were empty, smoking shells, doors and windows gaping like eye sockets in a row of skulls.

  Maryn stood looking blankly at an empty doorframe that was at once familiar and horribly strange. She started as a voice hailed her. “Miss?”

  She turned to see a soldier. By his uniform he was one of the garrison the king kept at the small fortress in the northern wall. “Miss, I’m sorry, but you’ve got to leave. We’ve got orders to clear everyone out. There’s looters abroad. Not that there’s much left for them to steal.”

  Maryn shook her head. “I’ve got to find my house. I must have got turned around; I thought it was here, but this can’t be…”

  The soldier hesitated. “I’m not supposed to—Oh, here, where was it?”

  “Nedry Street.”

  “This is Nedry.” He poked with the butt of his spear at the rubble in the doorway. “Do you recognize anything?”

  Maryn shook her head. “I’ve got to find my husband. He was asleep when I left, with my son. Maybe that’s my house over there.” She pointed far to the north, where untouched structures were just visible in the failing light.

  “No, Nedry doesn’t go that way. I think you found the right place. The sleeping loft was in the back?” He peered into the cavernous shell of the building. “It’s all collapsed back there.” He looked at Maryn’s stricken face, and his voice softened a little. “Lots of people were trapped. No one had any warning; it spread blocks before the first bell sounded.”

  He worked his way into the ruins. Maryn was drawn to the doorway but could not bring herself to step through. She watched as the soldier poked through the scorched, sodden piles. “This is no good. I tell you, miss, you’re going to have to—Wait. Here’s something. Do you recognize this?”

  He pulled a limp scrap of fabric from under a fallen beam and picked back through the rubble toward Maryn, holding it out. She took it, unthinking, and spread out the crumpled folds.

  A face stared up at her, blotched by the plague, mouth open in a soundless cry for mercy. Across the raveled edge of the scrap ran a woven spatter of blood, still dull red in places though most of it was charred and blackened.

  Maryn stared at it. “No…” she whispered. She crumpled the fragment of tapestry in her fist. “No!” She flung it away from her. “I’ve never seen it before. It’s not his; it’s completely different. You’re wrong, this isn’t my house. I’ve got to find Edrich. Frilan will be crying for me…”

  Her legs buckled underneath her and she sank into a huddle. The soldier put his hand on her shoulder in rough sympathy. “I’m sorry, miss. But this is the place. If they were here, they must be—”

  Maryn clamped her hands over her ears and screamed, trying in vain to block out the soldier’s words.

  Two

  Once Maryn started screaming, she couldn’t stop. She resisted the gentle pressure of the soldier’s hands on her shoulders, and curled into a tighter ball. But he was persistent, and at length her shrieks subsided to ragged sobs. She kept her head bowed and her eyes squeezed shut, but allowed him to lift her to her feet and lead her away.

  She heard his voice, a dull rumble. “I found this one in the ruins. Poor girl, she lost her family; she’s out of her wits with grief. What should I do with her?”

  Another voice, weary and gruff. “Take her to the church. Nothing else we can do.”

  Maryn shrieked again to drown them out, but her throat hurt too much to keep it up for long. None of this was real. It couldn’t be. Any minute now she would wake up from the nightmare.

  After a while there was a smooth stone floor, and candlelight, and a blanket around her shoulders. They let her stop walking. She sank to the floor, wrapped her arms around her knees, and buried her head.

  “This one’s not hurt, but all she does is scream.”

  “Leave her alone. She’ll get over it. We’ve got much worse to deal with.”

  After that there was merciful peace. People came and went all around, but they ignored Maryn, and she ignored them. She scooted over to where a wall met the floor and curled up with a wad of blanket under her head. Sleep was good. If she slept, she could wake up, and Edrich would tease her that she’d let a silly dream upset her…

  “Maryn? Maryn, dear, is that you? Wake up, child. I’m sure I can find you a warmer spot somewhere.” The voice was familiar and comforting.

  Maryn stirred and cracked her bleary eyes. “Siwell?”

  The midwife crouched beside her and helped her sit up. Her arm brushed Maryn’s breast; Maryn cried out in pain.

  “By the Holy Orphan, child.” Her experienced hands exploring Maryn’s hard, swollen breasts were gentle, but agonizing. “Where’s your little one? How long has it been since you nursed him?”

  “I don’t know!” Maryn slumped into Siwell’s arms. “I left Frilan with Edrich, in bed. I couldn’t find them; everything was burned. They tried to tell me that was my house, but I know they’re wrong. That wasn’t Edrich’s tapestry. They’re lying to me, trying to make me think Edrich and Frilan—”

  Maryn broke into frenzied sobs. Siwell held her close and rocked, humming and stroking her hair.

  At length Maryn’s wails quieted to shaky breaths, broken by hiccups. Siwell gave her a few minutes more before speaking. “I’d let you rest, but we must do something about those breasts. I won’t let you come down with milk fever if we can help it. Have you taken milk from your breasts by hand before?”

  “A little. And I’ve milked cows and goats plenty of times.”

  “It’s not quite the same, but close enough. Let me go find a container you can use.” Siwell hurried away.

  Maryn put her arms around her knees again and rocked. Agony hovered around the edges of her mind. It threatened to pounce on her and rend her apart, like a pack of stray dogs tearing the last shreds of meat from a bone.

  To hold them at bay, she focused on the soaring panels of stained glass that adorned the church’s high walls. The colors were jewel bright; Edrich would have bargained with the Vulture himself to obtain dyes s
o vivid. The story of the Holy One’s life was told in a series of scenes that ringed the building. Directly opposite her was the depiction of one of her favorite episodes, when he had transformed a single drop of blood from his finger into a feast for a hungry crowd.

  Siwell dropped to her side with one of the wooden bowls the healers used to capture blood. It was polished to a glossy shine and ornately carved with sacred symbols. She pressed it into Maryn’s hands.

  Maryn drew back. “I couldn’t. Wouldn’t it be sacrilege?”

  Siwell shrugged. “Just don’t let the priests see. I don’t think it’s inappropriate. Milk’s a lot like blood. White blood, some call it. It has its own power. Now, let me show you what you need to do.”

  Though Maryn’s shift was stiff with the milk that had leaked from her overfull breasts, it wasn’t easy to coax more out. But Siwell was a patient instructor. She showed Maryn how to position her fingers well back from her nipple, behind the edge where darker skin met fair, and first push back in toward her chest, then roll down and out. Maryn doubted at first that the awkward motions could work, but after a few attempts she managed to produce a dozen thin white streams, and felt the relief of eased pressure.

  Siwell kept her under a watchful eye until she was sure Maryn had mastered the technique. “I suppose you should drink it. I don’t think milk attracts specters, but no use taking chances, and you’re too tired to work the releasing ritual safely. Besides, you’ll be lucky if you get much decent to drink for a few days.”

  Maryn nodded her understanding. The bowl was nearly full already. She raised it to her lips and sipped. It was sweeter and lighter than the milk from cow or goat. The taste took her back to her own childhood, when she had climbed into her mother’s lap and drunk deeply of the rich warm liquid. Whatever scrape or bruise or fit of temper troubled her was forgotten as she snuggled safe, and all was again right with the world. Tears came to her eyes at the memory, and she had to struggle to swallow the last few mouthfuls.

  Siwell delicately probed Maryn’s breast. “That’s much better. Get the other side as well, now.” She hesitated. “No need to take much; just until you’re comfortable. You’ll need to cut back a little at a time, as a weaning child does, to let it dry up gradually.”

  Maryn wanted to protest, to exclaim that of course she couldn’t let her milk dry up. Frilan needed it. But she was so tired. No matter how hard she tried to keep believing this was all a horrible dream, she couldn’t anymore. Everything was too real. Her breasts hurt, the floor was hard and cold beneath her, the air reeked of smoke, and the sobs of her fellow refugees rang in her ears. The truth was still too terrible to face, but she knew. Frilan would never need her milk again.

  She grunted and went on drawing the milk from her breast in long, rhythmic strokes, trying to get the maximum amount with each effort, before repositioning her fingers and pressing again.

  “No, wait. I just had a thought.” Maryn glanced up, startled by the change in the midwife’s voice. Siwell gave her a searching look. “Go ahead and get as much out as you can, for now. There will be time enough later to cut back. But there’s something you might be interested in…” She rose. “I must go help the other healers. Until I get back, don’t nurse any other babies, if someone should offer, or ask for help.”

  That was an odd instruction. Surely there were babies orphaned by this disaster, or separated from their mothers. Why wouldn’t Siwell want her to help them? Not that Maryn wanted to. Under normal circumstances she’d be glad to nurse any child in need, but right now she couldn’t even think of letting some other child take Frilan’s place.

  Once she had drained both breasts, she drank the last of it, set the bowl aside, and did up the tie of her shift. She set her back against the wall and stuck her legs out in front of her. All around were other refugees from the devastation. Some of them huddled together in tight little groups, but many, like Maryn, sought solitude for their distress. Near the altar where Siwell had gone healers moved among the wounded. Blue sparks flared often, and a nearly constant dim echo of the buzzing emanations of magic came up through the polished stone of the floor.

  She closed her eyes and tried to think about nothing. Eventually the numb emptiness that had gripped her earlier returned. Later she sank into fitful sleep.

  When she woke, the noon bells were ringing. Robed brothers and sisters of the abbey moved among the refugees, offering coarse brown bread trenchers with meager scoops of lentil pottage. The fare was a significant step down from even the modest meals she was used to, but she was so hungry she didn’t care. She made the food last as long as she could, breaking off tiny bits of bread and chewing until nothing was left but the gritty residue of the millstones.

  With her energy restored by rest and food, it was much harder to steer her mind away from dangerous thoughts. She jumped to her feet and went in search of some task to occupy her attention.

  The healers were too deeply absorbed in their work to notice her. She stood for a moment, watching them. Victims of the fire lay everywhere. Maryn had to avert her eyes from their raw burned flesh. A healer chanted as he untied a blood-soaked bandage from around a deep cut on one woman’s arm. The blood erupted into a fountain of blue fire, and the woman’s moans subsided as the gaping edges of her wound drew together and began to scab over.

  Two brothers pushed past Maryn, bearing on a stretcher the still form of a large, well-muscled man. One side of his face was a blackened ruin. Though he wore the leather apron of a smith, something about the dead man’s heavy build and the lank blond strands of his soot-streaked hair reminded her suddenly and forcefully of Edrich. She had to sink her teeth into her lower lip to keep from screaming.

  She snatched at a passing sister. “Please, give me something to do. Anything, I don’t care, I just have to stay busy…”

  The sister patted her hand. “There, there, dear. You don’t need to fuss. We’ve got things well under control. You go lie down and rest, and stay out of the way.”

  Maryn grabbed the sister’s arms and shook her. “No! Give me something to do! I don’t want to lie around and—I want to help! You have to let me do something!”

  The woman stared at her, shocked, and tried to pull free. Maryn clung to her arms. The sister raised a frightened voice. “Brother Ohwich, help!”

  A large, stern brother was at their side in an instant. “What’s the matter? Girl, step back and settle down. We’ll have to put you out of the church if you don’t—”

  Siwell hurried up. “Maryn, child, I heard you shouting. It’s all right, Brother, I know her.”

  Maryn dropped the sister’s arms and stepped back, the looming dark wave of her pain threatening to crash over her. “Siwell, I just want to help…”

  “Of course you do.” Siwell turned to the sister. “Can’t you find the girl some useful task?”

  After a good deal more chiding from Siwell, a brother brought Maryn a mop and a bucket of water. She seized them and set about zealously scrubbing every exposed inch of beautifully inlaid floor. Some of the refugees cursed at her as she pushed them out of her way or dripped water onto their precious blankets. The healers were more welcoming of her presence, shifting cots and tables out of her way so she could remove the frighteningly large quantities of power-emptied blood residue and other less palatable body fluids. Maryn didn’t care how noxious the task was; it felt good to scrub the filth away and leave behind glistening clean floors.

  Near sunset she was going over the stretch of floor nearest the altar for the third time, certain there were still a few spatters of mud and soot she had missed, when Siwell came to fetch her. She took the mop from Maryn’s hand as she tried to push past to reach one more dirty spot. “Maryn, that’s enough. Stop now. Come, they’re bringing around dinner; I’ll sit with you while we eat.”

  Reluctantly, Maryn complied. Siwell frowned as they walked toward the spot by the wall where Maryn’s blanket lay. “Have you taken care of your breasts since this morning?”

/>   Maryn ducked her head. She had ignored the gradually increasing need. Her breasts felt full and sore again. “No.”

  “Do it now. You have to keep your supply up.”

  Maryn gulped and looked away. “What…what does it matter?” She rushed on, trying to keep ahead of the flood of misery that crashed in through the opened gate. “If Frilan…if I don’t need to nurse him, what’s the use? I might as well let them dry up. I’ll never…never…” She swallowed hard.

  “Sit down.” Siwell put her back to the wall and slid down with a sigh. She kept her gaze fixed on Maryn until she sank to the floor as well.

  Siwell leaned her head against the stone and closed her eyes for a moment. “Have you given any thought yet to what you’re going to do next?”

  Maryn stared at her. Next? What did that mean, anyway, besides the next spot of dirt on the floor, the next task she could beg them to assign her? Once she had thought effortlessly, without fear, about days and years to come, when they had stretched in peaceful happy abundance far into the hazy future. Now it was difficult to consider what even the next sunrise might bring. Only more misery, and greater danger of being overwhelmed by the fierce grief she must constantly struggle to control.

  Maybe she should just give up. If she stopped fighting the pain, would it destroy her? Would it drive her so far into madness she could lose all thought and feeling? Would it kill her, so her soul would be free to seek out Edrich and Frilan in the courts of the Holy One? Perhaps that was the best she could hope for. She couldn’t imagine that she might ever come out on the far side of this endless night of grief to anything resembling her former innocent contentment.

  Siwell looked at her, waiting for an answer. Maryn turned away. “No. Not really.” She tried, tentatively, to consider the practicalities, at least. Her home was lost. She yanked her thoughts back from the image of the scorched pile of rubble that seared the back of her eyelids. Was there anyone she could stay with? One of her friends, perhaps? The women she knew had been her neighbors, or the wives of Edrich’s Weaver’s Guild colleagues. Most of them also dwelt in the south quarter. They would be in the same straits she was, if any survived.