White Blood (2 page)

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 smoke, 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.

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

O
nce 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 so 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.