The Bone Doll's Twin (6 page)

“As you say,” Rhius replied softly.

Giving Rhius a last brotherly thump on the shoulder, Erius went to the bed and kissed his sister gently on the forehead.

The sight made the blood pound in Arkoniel’s head as he thought of the swordsmen in the hall below. This usurper, this killer of girls and women, might love his little sister enough to spare her life, but as the Lightbearer had shown, that forbearance did not extend to her children. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor as the king and his councilors swept out, imagining how differently this little drama would have played out if Erius had found a living girl child here.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Arkoniel’s knees turned to water and he sank into a chair.

But the ordeal was not yet over. Ariani opened her eyes and saw the dead child Nari held. Pulling herself up against the bolsters, she held out her arms for it. “Thank the Light! I knew I heard a second cry, but I had the most awful dream—”

The nurse exchanged a look with Rhius and Ariani’s smile faltered. “What is it? Give me my child.”

“It was stillborn, my love,” Rhius said. “Let it be. Look, here’s our fine son.”

“No, I heard it cry!” Ariani insisted.

Rhius brought little Tobin to her, but she ignored him, staring instead at the child the nurse held. “Give him to me, woman! I command it!”

There was no dissuading her. Ignoring the soft cry of the living child, she took the dead one in her arms and her face went whiter still.

Arkoniel knew in that instant that Lhel’s magic could not deceive the child’s mother the way that it had the others. Twisting his mind to see through her eyes, he caught a glimpse of the strips of skin Lhel had cut from each child’s breast and sewn with spider-fine stitches into the wound left on its twin, just over the heart. With this exchange of flesh, the transformation had been sealed. The girl child would retain the semblance of male form for as long as Iya deemed necessary, just as her dead brother had taken her form to deceive the king.

“What have you done?” Ariani gasped, staring up at Rhius.

“Later, my love, when you’re rested—Give that one back to Nari and take your son. See how strong he is? And he has your blue eyes—”

“Son? That is no son!” Ariani cut him off with a venomous glare. No amount of reasoning prevailed. When Rhius tried to take the dead child from her, she lurched
from the bed and fled to the far corner of the room, clutching the tiny corpse against her stained nightdress.

“This is too much!” Arkoniel whispered. Going to the frantic woman, he knelt before her.

She looked up at him in surprise. “Arkoniel? Look, I have a son. Isn’t he pretty?”

Arkoniel tried to smile. “Yes, Your Highness, he’s-he’s perfect.” He touched her brow gently, clouding her mind and sending her once more into a deep sleep. “Forgive me.”

He reached for the little body, then froze in fear.

The dead child’s eyes were open. Blue as a kitten’s one moment, the irises went black as Arkoniel watched and fixed accusingly on him. An unmistakable chill radiated from the little body, slowly spreading to envelop the wizard.

This was the cost of that first breath. The spirit of the murdered child had been drawn into its body just long enough to take hold and become a ghost, or worse.

“By the Four, what’s happening?” Rhius rasped, leaning over him.

“There’s nothing to fear,” Arkoniel said quickly, though in truth this tiny unnatural creature struck fear to the core of his heart.

Nari knelt beside him and whispered, “The witch said to take it away quickly. She said you must put it in the ground under a large tree. There’s a great chestnut in the rear courtyard by the summer kitchen. The roots will hold the demon down. Hurry! The longer it stays here, the stronger it will grow!”

It took every bit of courage Arkoniel possessed to touch the dead child. Taking it from Ariani’s arms, he covered its face with a corner of the wrappings and hurried out. Nari was right; the waves of icy coldness pouring from the lifeless body grew stronger by the moment. They made his joints ache as he bore it downstairs and out through the back passage of the house.

The moon watched like an accusing eye as Arkoniel placed his cursed burden at the foot of the chestnut tree and mouthed,
forgive me
once more. But he expected no forgiveness for this night’s work and wept as he wove his spell. His tears fell on the little bundle as he bent to watch it sink down into the earth’s cold embrace between the gnarled roots.

The faint wail of an infant came to him on the cold night air and he shuddered, not knowing if it came from the living child or the dead one.

F
or all their power, these Orëska wizards are very stupid. And arrogant
, Lhel thought as Iya urged her down a back stair and away from the cursed house.

The witch spat thrice to the left, hoping to cut the bad luck that had bound them together all these weeks. A real storm crow, this wizard. Why hadn’t she seen it sooner?

Lhel had scarely had time to finish the last stitch on the living child before the elder wizard was urging her away. “I’m not finished! The spirit—”

“The king is downstairs!” Iya hissed, as if this should mean something to her. “If he finds you here, we’ll all be spirits. I will force you if I must.”

What choice did she have? So Lhel had followed, thinking,
Be it on your head, then.

But the further they got from that house, the more it weighed on her heart. To treat the dead so brutally was a dangerous affront to the Mother, and to Lhel’s craft. This wizard woman had no honor, to abandon a child’s spirit like that. Arkoniel might have been made to listen, but Lhel had long since realized that he had no voice in the matter. Their god had spoken to Iya and Iya would listen to no other.

Lhel spat again, just for good measure.

L
hel had dreamed the coming of the two wizards for a full month before they’d appeared in her village: a man boy and an old woman who carried a strange burden in a bag. Every divination she’d done as she awaited their arrival indicated that it was the Mother’s will. Lhel must
give them whatever aid they asked. When Iya and Arkoniel did finally arrive, they claimed that a vision from their own moon god had brought them to her. Lhel had taken this as an auspicious sign.

Still, she had been surprised at the nature of their request. Orëska must be a pale, milk-fed sort of magic, indeed, for two people possessed of such powerful souls not to have the craft to make a simple skin binding. Had she understood then the true depth of their ignorance, she might have tried to share more of her knowledge with them before the time came to use it.

But she hadn’t understood until it was too late, until the moment her hand had faltered, letting the boy child draw his first breath. Iya would not wait for the necessary cleansing sacrifice. There was no time for anything but to complete the binding and flee, leaving the angry new spirit lost and alone.

L
hel balked again as the city gate came into sight ahead of them. “You cannot leave such a spirit earthbound!” she said again, struggling to free her wrist from Iya’s grasp. “It grows to a demon before you know it, and then what will you do, you who couldn’t bind it in the first place?”

“I will deal with it.”

“You are a fool.”

Iya turned, bringing their faces close together. “I am saving your life, woman, and that of the child and her family! If the king’s wizard caught so much as a whiff of you we’d all be executed, starting with that baby. She’s all that matters now, not you or me or anyone else in this whole wretched land. It’s the will of Illior.”

Once again, Lhel felt the massive power coursing through the wizard. Different Iya might be and possessed of unfamiliar magic, but there was no question that she was god-touched, and more than a match for Lhel. So she’d let herself be led away, leaving the child and its
skin-bound twin behind in the stinking city. She hoped Arkoniel had found a strong tree to hold the spirit down.

T
hey bought horses and traveled together for two days. Lhel said little, but prayed silently to the Mother for guidance. When they reached the edge of the highlands, she allowed Iya to give her into the care of a band of caravaneers heading west into the mountains. As they parted, Iya had even tried to make peace with her.

“You did well, my friend,” she said, her hazel eyes sad as she took Lhel’s hands. “Stay safe in your mountains and all will be well. We must never meet again.”

Lhel chose to ignore the thinly veiled threat. Fishing in a pouch at her belt, she drew out a little silver amulet made in the shape of a full moon flanked on either side by slender crescents. “For when the child takes woman form again.”

Iya held it on her palm. “The Shield of the Mother.”

“Keep it hidden. It’s only for women. As a boy, she must wear this.” She gave Iya a short hazel twig capped on both ends with burnished copper bands.

Iya shook her head. “It’s too dangerous. I’m not the only wizard to have studied your ways.”

“Then you keep them for her!” Lhel urged. “This child will need much magic to survive.”

Iya closed her hand around the amulets, wood and silver together. “I will, I promise you. Farewell.”

L
hel stayed with the caravan for three days, and each day the black, cold weight of the dead child’s spirit lay heavier on her heart. Each night its cry grew louder in her dreams. She prayed to the shining Mother to show her why she had sent her here to create such a thing and what she must do to make the world right again.

The Mother answered, and on the third night Lhel danced the dreamsleep dance for her guides, seducing
away just enough of their thoughts to remove any memory of her and the supplies she took with her.

Guided by a waning white sliver of moon, she threw her traveling sack over her horse’s neck and turned back for the stinking city.

I
n the uneasy days following the birth, only Nari and the duke attended Ariani. Rhius sent word to Tharin, sending the captain on to the estate at Cirna to keep him away a while longer.

A silence fell over the household; black banners flew on the roof peaks, proclaiming mourning for the supposed stillbirth. On the household altar, Rhius set a fresh basin of water and burned the herbs sacred to Astellus, who smoothed the water road to birth and death and protected new mothers from childbed fever.

Sitting at Ariani’s bedside each day, however, Nari knew it was not fever that ailed the woman, but a deep sickness of heart. Nari was old enough to remember Queen Agnalain’s last days and prayed that her daughter was not afflicted with the same curse of madness.

Day after day, night after night, Ariani tossed against her pillows, waking to cry out, “The child, Nari! Don’t you hear him? He’s so cold.”

“The child is well, Your Highness,” Nari told her each time. “See, Tobin is in the cradle here beside you. Look how plump he is.”

But Ariani would not look at the living child. “No, I hear him,” she would insist, staring around wildly. “Why have you shut him outside? Fetch him in at once!”

“There’s no child outside, Your Highness. You were only dreaming again.”

Nari spoke the truth, for she’d heard nothing, but some of the other servants claimed to have heard an infant’s cry in the darkness outside. Soon a rumor spread
through the house that the second child had been stillborn with its eyes open; everyone knew that demons came into the world through such births. Several serving maids had been sent back to Atyion already with orders to keep their gossip to themselves. Only Nari and Mynir knew the truth behind the second child’s death.

Loyalty to the duke guaranteed Mynir’s silence. Nari owed allegiance to Iya. The wizard had been a benefactress to her family for three generations and there were times during those first few chaotic days when only that bond kept the nurse from running back to her own village. Iya had said nothing of demons when Nari agreed to serve.

In the end, however, she stayed for the child’s sake. Her milk flowed freely as soon as she put the dark-haired little mite to her breast, and with it all the tenderness she’d thought she’d lost when her husband and son had died. Maker knew neither the princess nor her husband had any to spare for the poor child.

They must all call Tobin “he” and “him” now. And thanks to the outlandish magic the witch had worked with her knives and needles, Tobin was to all appearances a fine healthy boy child. He slept well, nursed vigorously, and seemed happy with whatever attention was paid him, which was little enough by his own folk.

“They’ll come ’round, little pet my love,” Nari would croon to him as he dozed contentedly in her arms. “How could they not and you so sweet?”

A
s Tobin thrived, however, his mother sank ever faster into a darkness of spirit. The bout of fever passed, but Ariani kept to her bed. She still would not touch her living child, and she would not even look at her husband, or her brother either, when he came to call.

Duke Rhius was near despair. He sat with her for hours, enduring her silence, and brought in the most
skilled drysians from the temple of Dalna. But the healers found no illness of the body to cure.

On the twelfth day after the birth, however, the princess began to show signs of rallying. That afternoon, Nari found her curled in an armchair next to the fire, sewing a doll. The floor around her was littered with scraps of muslin, clumps of stuffing wool, snippets of embroidery silks and thread.

The new doll was finished by nightfall—a boy with no mouth. Another just like it followed the next day, and another. She did not bother to dress the things, but cast each aside as soon as the last stitch was tied off and immediately began on another. By week’s end half a dozen of the things were lined up on the mantelpiece.

“They’re very pretty, my love, but why not finish the faces?” Duke Rhius asked, sitting faithfully by her bedside each night.

“So they won’t cry,” Ariani hissed, needle flying as she stitched an arm to a wool-packed body. “The crying is sending me mad!”