The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars 3)

Anne left, and he retreated to regroup, to suffer, to struggle as had Liath when she labored with all her strength to bring forth a blessing. Liath might yet die. Blessing might yet die.

But not if he could help it.

He leaned against the corner of the hut, exhausted, drained, catching his breath. The baby nestled against him, still and silent, so small.

Meriam emerged and saw him. “Liath is sleeping.” She shrugged. “I don’t believe she will die, Prince Sanglant, but it will be a long time before she is well. But I fear there is nothing you can do to save the child if you cannot coax it to take the goat’s milk.” Then she walked away, not with triumph but with a sigh, a practical woman who has read the signs and is sorry at the pain she sees in the world.

But he was something else. He saw Jerna slip to the door, waiting for him to enter. He saw her truly for the first time in days, it seemed; he had been so preoccupied and she was just one among the many creatures fluttering around, things he hadn’t the energy to take careful note of. She had fully taken on the likeness of a woman, a face composed in some strange way of all the faces of the women here in Verna: Zoë’s kissable mouth, Meriam’s sharp cheekbones, Anne’s regal nose, Venia’s broad and intelligent forehead, and Liath’s hair falling like water to her waist, clear enough that he could see through it to the curtain hanging down over the door that led into the interior. She had taken on the shape of a woman, the gracious curve of ample hips with a modest veil of mist concealing her womanly parts, stout arms and a handsome neck, and breasts as bountiful as any nature had endowed woman with, full and ripe, leaking a clear fluid.

aid nothing.

Blessing stirred and whimpered, head turning to the side, rooting at his breast, but he had nothing for her. Ai, God, he was so angry at that moment, feeling the tiny body cupped between forearm and chest that he could have lashed out and strangled this regal woman who regarded him with the cool stare of an empress surveying that which ought to be beneath her notice; ought to be, but is not, because he had piqued her by guessing the truth. He had pierced her smooth shell, and now he knew Liath’s secret.

Ai, Lady! He knew Liath’s secret, and he knew triumph. What was Queen Adelheid’s lineage compared to this? Henry would have to approve of the marriage now. Indeed, Henry surely would welcome this match, his own line bred and sealed with that of the dead Taillefer, greatest emperor the Daisanite world had ever known. If Henry sought for legitimacy beyond brute force to restore the Holy Dariyan Empire, this child was the one who would give it to him.

“Help me save my daughter,” he said, and this time his voice broke. He knew Anne would interpret it as weakness and would seek the soft opening so that she could plunge the dagger in. He understood at that moment as he faced her that she was always and had always been waiting to kill him. She was just more subtle than the rest.

“No,” she said.

“Have you no heart at all?” he demanded. “Were there no bonds of affection in your youth? Ai, Lord, who raised you?”

“A woman named Clothilde.”

“St. Radegundis’ handmaiden.” He recognized the story, although it was not at all clear to him how St. Radegundis’ lost child had managed to create a child in its turn.

“It is true Clothilde acted as Queen Radegundis’ handmaiden, but in all ways and in all her actions she was the loyal servant of Biscop Tallia. She did what had to be done, to face the greater threat. And I will do what has to be done, just as she taught me.

“How does letting this child die aid you in your cause?”

“Because she is your child, Prince Sanglant. She is blood of your blood, and I am sworn to see that your blood never again flourishes on this Earth. They have nurtured their strength out in the aether, where they exist closer to the Chamber of Light, from whence all strength flows. They mean to return to this world and rule it with a hand of iron and with their gruesome sacrifices. They mean to obliterate the Light of the church and blanket the world in the darkness of the Enemy, for they are creatures of the Enemy.”

He shook his head irritably. “Liath once told me that the Lost Ones were born of fire and light, and that if they are tainted by darkness it is only because all things that exist in this world are tainted by darkness. How am I any worse than you?”

“You are their creature, Prince Sanglant,” she said coldly, “and Liath is mine.”

“She is your daughter! Surely she means more to you than just a tool!”

“All of us are only tools, Prince Sanglant, but some of us are agents of God and some are agents of the Enemy. Do not ever believe that a child born of your kind will be welcome on Earth as long as I and my people are here to stop you.”

He had known despair once, and bitterly. He knew it now.

Anne left, and he retreated to regroup, to suffer, to struggle as had Liath when she labored with all her strength to bring forth a blessing. Liath might yet die. Blessing might yet die.

But not if he could help it.

He leaned against the corner of the hut, exhausted, drained, catching his breath. The baby nestled against him, still and silent, so small.

Meriam emerged and saw him. “Liath is sleeping.” She shrugged. “I don’t believe she will die, Prince Sanglant, but it will be a long time before she is well. But I fear there is nothing you can do to save the child if you cannot coax it to take the goat’s milk.” Then she walked away, not with triumph but with a sigh, a practical woman who has read the signs and is sorry at the pain she sees in the world.

But he was something else. He saw Jerna slip to the door, waiting for him to enter. He saw her truly for the first time in days, it seemed; he had been so preoccupied and she was just one among the many creatures fluttering around, things he hadn’t the energy to take careful note of. She had fully taken on the likeness of a woman, a face composed in some strange way of all the faces of the women here in Verna: Zoë’s kissable mouth, Meriam’s sharp cheekbones, Anne’s regal nose, Venia’s broad and intelligent forehead, and Liath’s hair falling like water to her waist, clear enough that he could see through it to the curtain hanging down over the door that led into the interior. She had taken on the shape of a woman, the gracious curve of ample hips with a modest veil of mist concealing her womanly parts, stout arms and a handsome neck, and breasts as bountiful as any nature had endowed woman with, full and ripe, leaking a clear fluid.

It seemed for an instant obscene, against nature. But then Blessing mewled and stirred in his arms, and he didn’t hesitate.

“Jerna,” he said softly, coaxing her forward, because she was a flighty thing; they all were, those who labored as servants at Verna under the strict rule of Sister Anne, she who was willing to watch her own granddaughter starve.

But he would fight for his daughter until his last breath.

“Jerna,” he said, and she flowed toward him, not a woman but something other, something trying to become a woman. This act might mark her forever, separate her from her kin, who did not walk on Earth but rather in the air, below the Moon. This act might mark Blessing forever, for how could he tell what nourishment she might in truth be receiving from an aetherical creature who dwelt closer to God than did humankind and who was composed of a different proportion of elements? But he had to try it.