White Blood (6 page)

The guard took the letter and examined the seal. “Wait here.” He stepped into a small guardhouse beside the gate. After a few minutes he returned. “Stand aside, please, Miss. Madam Coewyn will send word when she’s ready.”

Maryn obediently moved away from the gate and pressed herself against the wall. Traffic flowed in and out the gate: servants, tradesmen in wagons piled high with goods, and once a troop of men;-;at;-;arms. The guards stared straight ahead when they weren’t dealing with others seeking entrance. Maryn waited as the sun crept higher in the sky. She longed to go to one of the vendor’s stalls she had passed and buy a mug of ale to moisten her dry tongue, but she didn’t dare venture away from the gate lest she miss her summons. How long would she have to wait? What if something had gone wrong, and the Royal Stewardess never sent for her? Or worse, told her to go away? Maybe the position was already filled. Or maybe, despite Siwell’s reassurances, she would consider Maryn unworthy of consideration.

Finally, well after the bells had rung the fourth hour, a boy of perhaps thirteen years, in a bright blue uniform with a plumed velvet hat crooked on his head, ran up from within the palace grounds. He jerked to attention before the guard. “Madame Coewyn says to send her in, sir.”

“Very good.” The guard turned. “Miss—Oh, there you are.” He frowned at Maryn, and she fell back a step from where she had crowded eagerly close. “This page will escort you to the Royal Stewardess.”

“Thank you,” Maryn managed to get out, almost faint with relief. The page saluted and dashed off at nearly as rapid a pace as he had come. The guard cleared his throat, and the page halted, sheepishly waiting for Maryn to catch up before setting out again, slow enough for her to keep up this time.

They passed through a busy courtyard and entered a wing of the palace. The page led her through long corridors until they reached a door that opened to a spacious office. Shelves lined one wall all the way up to the ceiling; they were stuffed full of bound volumes and loose sheaves of paper. Wide windows in another wall admitted generous light. In front of them stood a large, imposing desk, its surface covered with neat stacks of documents. Behind it, a woman dipped a quill in a pot of ink, blotted it, and made a few precise strokes. She was perhaps fifty years old, with steel gray hair fixed in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, all her movements sure and controlled.

Maryn’s guide said, “Madame Coewyn? Here she is.”

“Ah, good.” The Royal Stewardess set down her pen and regarded Maryn. “Come in; sit down. Boy, go find the Royal Sorcerer and ask him to attend me.”

The page nodded and left, banging the door shut behind him. Maryn perched on the edge of one of the chairs that faced the desk. Madame Coewyn picked up and unfolded a sheet of paper Maryn recognized as her letter of introduction.

“Midwife Siwell Narila has recommended you for the position of wet nurse to Princess Voerell’s child. I’ve read over your history. You do have several qualities in your favor. I am impressed that you seem to be entirely free of entanglements. All of the other women I am considering have impediments of some sort. We can deal with milk-ties if we have no other choice, but it is much preferable if that is not necessary.” She held Siwell’s letter up to catch the light, adjusted its distance from her eyes, and squinted. “She says your baby died in a fire?”

Maryn flinched, and struggled to suppress the memories roused by the stark words. She tried to make her voice steady, but it came out a squeaky whisper. “Yes, ma’am.”

Coewyn looked at her sharply. “There can be no question your milk was at fault, then. He was healthy and thriving up to the time he was killed?”

This time Maryn did not trust her voice. She nodded.

“Hmm.” Coewyn pursed her lips. “The midwife explained to you the significance of the fact that you have nursed no other living child? Nor shared your milk with any other? I must stress that your honesty in this matter is non;-;negotiable. If you are lying, we will find out, before the prince tastes one drop of your milk, and you will be punished.”

Maryn stared at her clasped hands. “I understand, ma’am. I’m telling the truth.”

“Good.” Coewyn set the paper down briskly. She opened a drawer in her desk and drew out a small round mirror. She passed it across the desk to Maryn. “Let’s see what you have to offer.”

Maryn took the mirror and blinked at it stupidly. It filled her palm. The glass was smooth and clear, reflecting her face sharply. She was startled to see how young she looked. She didn’t feel young.

“Go ahead.” Coewyn scowled at her.

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do.”

Coewyn gave a gusty sigh. “Your milk, girl. I need to test your milk. Squirt a bit onto that mirror.”

“Oh.” Maryn groped at the tie of her shift. At least after all her practice of the past few days it was a simple matter to spray a generous splash onto the smooth surface of the mirror. She pulled her shift up and passed the mirror back to Coewyn, watching the Stewardess in surreptitious fascination while she retied her drawstring.

Coewyn tilted the mirror, studying the droplets of milk as they rolled across the surface. “Nice white color, clear, no spottiness or cloudiness.” She ran the tip of one finger through the middle of the puddle, intently observing the clear streak left behind. “A tad thin, but it will do.”

Her actions reminded Maryn of a herdsman evaluating whether he should purchase a dairy goat. The thought made her feel small and insignificant, but she shrugged aside the discomfort. That’s what the Royal Stewardess was doing, wasn’t it?

Coewyn set the mirror down on her desk. She took a cloth from the desk drawer, meticulously wiped the trace of milk from her finger, and murmured a brief phrase Maryn recognized from the blood;-;cleansing ceremony. The towel sparked faintly and Maryn felt a tiny buzz of power. Coewyn leaned back, set her elbows on the arms of her chair, and steepled her fingers. “Now, tell me about yourself, Maryn.” Maryn thought her tone sounded positive, even pleased.

Maryn obediently began a recitation of the basic facts of her life. Coewyn interrupted often with questions. She probed deeply into the most intimate aspects of Maryn’s experience, until Maryn found herself describing her physical symptoms upon her first flow of blood, and the fleeting attractions she had felt for various neighbor boys before her marriage. She blushed and stammered, but forced herself to answer as truthfully as she could manage.

“And your husband? Tell me how you met.” Coewyn looked at her expectantly.

Maryn’s voice faltered. She had barely spoken of Edrich since the fire. But if she was to have any hope of being chosen, she would have to answer, no matter how painful she found it. She forced the words past reluctant lips. “I was sixteen. Every day I would bring our family’s tithe of eggs to Lord Negian’s manor. One day Edrich was there, negotiating to buy fleeces from Lord Negian’s flocks. He saw me, and stopped the steward in the middle of their haggling to ask who I was…” The words flowed more easily as she went deeper into the dear memory. She found herself cherishing every tiny detail she could recall about Edrich, from the way his thick blond hair had fallen over his forehead, to the way he had clenched his hands behind his back so tight the fingers whitened when he finally worked up the nerve to approach her father. Coewyn listened with a little half-smile as Maryn rambled on about their courtship and wedding, almost forgetting that her words were being judged.

Coewyn leaned forward a bit. “So you came a virgin to your husband’s bed?”

The intrusive question shocked Maryn out of her momentary reverie. If anyone else had asked, she would have refused to dignify the question with an answer, but the Royal Stewardess held Maryn’s fate in her hands. “I—Yes, of course. But I don’t see what that has to do with my suitability to be the prince’s nurse.”

Coewyn frowned. “It has everything to do with your suitability. Don’t you know that the character of the nurse is transmitted to the child through her milk? I am charged to choose only someone of the highest moral fiber, the most impeccable reputation. So far nothing of what you have told me casts any doubt on your qualifications in that regard. Though if you are in the habit of indulging in such rude outbursts, I might have to reconsider that judgment. It will not do for the prince to acquire a defiant temperament.”

Maryn gulped. “I’m sorry, Madam Coewyn. I’ll tell you anything you want. I promise, I’m not rude or defiant. Of course you know best what to ask; I won’t question you again.”

Coewyn leaned back, satisfied. “Remember that. Now, tell me more about your relationship with your husband. How soon after you were wed did you conceive?”

Maryn was about to launch into a detailed account, desperate to give Coewyn whatever she might want, when the door opened. The page poked his head in. “Madam Coewyn, the Royal Sorcerer is here.”

“Ah, yes. Send him in.” She rose and beckoned for Maryn to do the same.

The Royal Sorcerer strode into the office. He was a tall man, and his rich burgundy robes swirled about him dramatically. He nodded graciously at the Stewardess. “What can I do for you, Coewyn?”

She returned his nod. “One more wet nurse candidate, Rogelan. I hope I haven’t put too much of a burden on you, with so many. But I do think this should be the last, as long as the scrying doesn’t show anything unexpected.”

Did that mean the Stewardess favored her? Hope caught at Maryn’s breath and set her heart racing. But there still remained whatever mysterious test the sorcerer was going to perform. Maryn eyed him warily. She knew she had nothing to hide, but magic was dangerous and unpredictable, and she had always viewed those who wielded it with awe and fear.

“Not at all. I’m always happy to assist you. May I use your desk again?”

“Certainly. Here’s the sample.” She indicated the mirror on her desk and came to stand by Maryn.

Rogelan settled into Coewyn’s seat. After fussing for a moment with the exact position of the chair and the mirror, he drew a knife from a sheath at his belt. It was smaller than the common knives everyone carried to cut their food. The blade was polished to a brilliant shine, the hilt gold and set with precious gems. Rogelan laid it crossways on the desk, between him and the mirror that held Maryn’s milk.

The sorcerer set both his hands flat on the desk, to either side of the knife and mirror. He drew a deep breath. Taking up the knife in his right hand, he extended his left over the mirror, and began to chant in the ancient language of sorcery.

His rich bass voice intoned the invocation used at the beginning of every working. He pricked the ball of his left thumb with the point of the knife. A drop of blood welled out; he twitched his hand and it fell onto the surface of the mirror. The scarlet spread and mingled into the white puddle of Maryn’s milk.

The buzzing sensation of magic vibrated in Maryn’s bones. Setting the knife down, Rogelan picked up the mirror and swirled it, further mixing the blood and milk. He continued to chant; his incantation reached the end of the words Maryn knew and continued in unfamiliar cadences.

The liquid on the surface of the mirror began to steam, like water boiling in a kettle, though no bubbles disturbed it. More and more vapor poured from its surface and swirled into a dense cloud, shot through with a network of faint blue sparks. Rogelan set down the mirror and put out both hands. The cloud stayed confined between them, thickening. Maryn began to catch glimpses of shapes forming within. Vague and indistinct at first, they gradually resolved. Her own face first, just as it had appeared in the mirror, though drained of all color in the white mist. Then, fainter, and wavering a little even when they reached full resolution, two other faces. Maryn caught her breath and bit back a cry. There were Edrich’s beloved smile and bushy eyebrows. And there were Frilan’s plump baby cheeks and long lashes, and the unbearable sweetness of his bow-shaped lips.

Coewyn scowled at her, and Maryn choked down her sobs. She fixed all her attention on the cloud, to feast her eyes on the dear faces as long as possible.

Rogelan’s chanting went on. The faces in the mist held steady, nothing else appearing. Too soon for Maryn, the sorcerer lowered his hands. The shapes faded into indistinctness, and the mist began to disperse. When it was fully gone, Rogelan’s chanting shifted, and Maryn began to recognize some of the phrases again. The remnants of the pool of blood and milk burst into a fountain of blue sparks. The buzz, which had subsided into a background drone, crescendoed to a teeth;-;rattling throb before ceasing. The sparks died, until all that remained was the mirror, smudged with residue. Rogelan brought his spell to a close with a reverent intonation of the closing words, and fell silent.

Coewyn broke the silence first. “Well, girl, it seems you spoke the truth.” She turned to the sorcerer. “I only saw the three. Did I miss any faint traces?”

Rogelan examined the tip of his knife. There was a bit of blood residue, but he apparently detected no power left in it, for he wiped the blade on a cloth at his belt and sheathed it. “No, no traces. Just the three, and the two clearly passed into the next world. She’s free of kin-ties.”

Coewyn sighed, and for the first time since Maryn had entered her office seemed to relax. “That’s a relief. I’d been worried we were going to have to settle for that woman from Whito and pay off the friend to take her son out of the country. But there would always have been the possibility of something like what happened with that milk;-;sister of Marolan’s, and you remember what a mess
that
was.”

“Indeed.” Rogelan rose and moved out from behind the desk. “This girl will serve much better. Good work finding her.”

Joy and terror churned together in Maryn’s gut. It was going to happen. They were going to give her the job. She hadn’t believed it was possible, not really. In the back of her mind she had never stopped rehearsing the gracious words she would use to accept rejection and thank the Stewardess for her consideration. She had plotted the route from the palace to the merchants’ guildhouse; the coins to pay for her passage back to Ralo were safe in her purse. Becoming the prince’s wet nurse was only a dream. She had to go through the steps so she could say she had tried everything, before accepting her fate and going back to the miserable but familiar life of a serf. But now, impossibly, the dream was becoming real. What had she gotten herself into?