Birth: A Novella Read online

  Roger also knows how my mind has wandered, but he has no resentment. He restrains his companion with the lover’s intuitive mental touch. “That was probably not meant to be,” he says of the brief affair I had hoped to instigate. “But you weren’t wrong to wish for it. Dominic is my friend—I’m certain of it now. And I hope you will be, too. Dominic is fortunate in his wife. May I be half as lucky when I marry.”

  I look to see how Tariq is taking this unexpected benevolence, and sense only love, his devotion to Roger and his developing affection for his adoptive father. “Dominic is fortunate in his son as well,” I say. “We can choose wisely sometimes.”

  “We can indeed,” Roger says. They move to go, Tariq leading the way to Roger’s waiting entourage of guards.

  I turn back to where I left Dominic sitting, but he’s standing close behind me, shaky but upright, still cradling Jana in his arms, concealing his eavesdropping by a simple mental shield. “That was a very touching scene,” he says with something of his old sarcastic manner.

  “Yes, it was,” I say, deciding to brazen it out. “Lord Roger is a generous man.”

  “More than you know,” Dominic says. “He made me a full colonel, jumped me two grades in rank.” He points to the collar of his dress uniform, a small iron badge in the shape of a chevron. “On one condition: that I stay at Aranyi until autumn.”

  I don’t know whether to say I’m glad or sorry.

  Dominic’s face softens. Be very glad, he says. It means we’ll be together all that time, at home.

  ***

  When Roger and Tariq showed up a day or two after the Midwinter festival had wound down, Dominic and I were unprepared but grateful for the company. They had brought their own guards and body servants, so our small household wasn’t overworked, and they soon settled in, becoming, as I had hoped, a buffer between Dominic and me in our troubled relationship. Seeing Dominic and Roger together made me aware, more than from watching a fencing match, that Roger was an adult, that Dominic’s memories of his desire for the adolescent were just that—memories.

  On his side, Roger seemed unlike himself, playing the tease, smiling invitingly at Dominic one moment, acting cold and formal the next. He was testing things, I think, toying as much with himself as with Dominic, to see if he was ready to grant the favor now that he could not when younger. To me he was polite, almost sweet. Pregnant and uncomfortable, not on the best of terms with my husband, I was an object of sympathy, much as I had been over a year ago, rushing into something far more complicated than I had anticipated—the crypta test before ‘Graven Assembly.

  “‘Gravina Aranyi,” Roger would say, “let me help you.” To stand, to sit, to fetch something or call someone. It was through those encounters, the offering of his hand, the converging of our telepathic auras, that he learned what he had already guessed, that I intended him for Dominic as a peace offering. Roger’s eyes narrowed when he picked it up the first time. He could not be pleased at such a cavalier disposal of his body and integrity, but he came, eventually, to see it as not so different from his own feelings.

  When he learned that I was doing this, in part, as fulfillment of the wife’s duty to choose a companion for her husband, he laughed. You know I can’t become Margrave Aranyi’s companion, he thought to me. I am pledged to my own dear companion, and there is my position as the acting Viceroy. And what of Stefan Ormonde?

  I know, I said. Only until I am safely through this birth and my husband can convince Stefan to return.

  Roger noticed the girl whom Dominic had been with at Midwinter. She was very much in evidence these days, blithe and chattering and laughing, obedient to Dominic’s order not to wear my dress at Aranyi, but full of her own importance, having lost her virginity to the master, hoping she had conceived—thank the gods that did not happen. She knew not to boast of that night, but she began to wear her hair like a woman’s, coiled over her neck and held in place with combs, and she went willingly each morning to help her mother in the kitchen instead of having to be called indoors from playing with the other children, as she used to. She had become an adult, she felt, and would behave like one.

  “So that’s how it is,” Roger said. He understood that I preferred a worthy substitute; a lord, not a kitchen maid. And in any event a man was more a counterpart to Stefan than to me.

  When Dominic proposed the ride, the day I went into labor, Roger accepted, telling Tariq the truth. There could be no lies between so gifted a couple. But when Dominic suggested resting the horses in the barn, Roger had almost changed his mind again, until Dominic took his hand and the communion flowed between them, and love so long bottled up, wine turned to vinegar, was let out and allowed to breathe.

  Perhaps it was best, as things turned out, that my contractions interrupted, that the fulfillment was less than perfect on both sides. Through my communion with Dominic, I know that he and Roger are free now to be friends, lovers only in the sense of caring for each other, offering respect and mutual support. Dominic will serve Roger, lord to overlord, through duty and affection both, and Roger knows he can count on Dominic to uphold his rule, here in Aranyi and in ‘Graven Assembly. If Roger has lost a sexual partner, he has gained something more valuable: a powerful ally whose backing will be certain in any crisis.

  ***

  Jana turns a bright shade of red and begins to howl. I snatch her out of Dominic’s arms and put her over my shoulder, patting her back and crooning to her. “It’s only gas, Amalie,” Dominic says.

  There’s a late arrival, the sound of barking dogs. Friendly—it’s someone they know. Stefan forces his way through the narrow entrance, fighting upstream against the outward surge of Roger’s departing entourage. When Stefan gets too close, Tariq shoulders him aside. “Make way for Lord Roger Zichmni, cadet,” he says in a voice that has a hint of rough music underneath the velvet baritone. He’s much stronger than he looks, and more formidable.

  Stefan bridles at the brusque command, reaching automatically for his sword before backing off and bowing as his brain registers the name of the acting Viceroy. When Stefan lifts his head, he and Roger are face to face, sizing each other up, the rivalry and sexual antagonism unmistakable. There’s no doubt that as soon as he has seen Roger, Stefan knows what has occurred between him and Dominic, and that Roger knows he knows.

  Roger laughs. “Cadet Ormonde,” he says, “have I your permission to leave?”

  Stefan blushes at the indirect snub, nods and tries to laugh. “My lord,” he says. He shakes his head, unable to think of a proper response. “Please, my lord, accept my apologies—” But Roger is already gone.

  Hoping that nobody witnessed the humiliating scene, Stefan scans the crowd in the hall, sees me standing beside Dominic, and heads in our direction. Better get it over with, he’s thinking, none too subtly. Dominic follows the young man with his eyes, the look on his face familiar. It’s the softened yet intently focused regard of the lover seeing his beloved, a look I have had from him myself so often I had come to think of it as his habitual expression, until living in Eclipsia City taught me how rare it was.

  “We heard the news at Ormonde,” Stefan says to me when he reaches us, ignoring Dominic. He studies the red, squalling face with interest. From a large family himself, he’s unperturbed by Jana’s screaming. “She looks like her father. And she has his voice.”

  Dominic edges closer to Stefan, tries to embrace him and kiss him on the lips, as if nothing has happened. “I missed you, Cadet Ormonde.”

  Stefan doesn’t respond. He doesn’t reject Dominic, but he’s unyielding to Dominic’s touch, not smiling. “No, you didn’t,” he says, sounding like the sixteen-year-old boy he used to be. “Major Aranyi.”

  Dominic touches a finger to Stefan’s cheek. “Colonel Aranyi,” he says, pointing to his collar. “I’ve been promoted.”

  Stefan flushes with anger. So that’s how it works, he says in communion. All you have to do is suck the Viceroy’s dick. He stammers an apology to me, know
ing I overheard, turns away and starts to move toward the entrance again.

  Dominic holds onto his hand, won’t let him go. It’s not that easy, he says, trying to joke Stefan out of it. I had to fuck him, too. One hand falls naturally to caress the young man’s buttocks. Still no response. Dominic sighs. “Take proper leave of Lady Amalie,” he whispers. “Then you can tell me exactly what you think of me.”

  Stefan remembers the messages he’s been charged with delivering. “My parents send apologies for their absence; my mother is not in condition to travel. But they join with me in congratulations on the healthy child. May the gods bring you many more, and a son next time, with luck.” It’s the traditional wish for the mother of a daughter.

  “Thank you,” I say, “but no thank you. One is plenty.” Jana is still crying fitfully. She needs to be changed; after a week, the smell is as familiar to me as my own. I scan the room for Isobel.

  Stefan is surprised at my odd remark, and interested enough to forget his anger. “Don’t you want to give Dominic a son?”

  “Dominic has a son. Two, actually,” I say, remembering Lady Melanie’s natural-born son, reminding myself as well as Stefan. I have to look up to him now; he’s taller, more filled out, and we’re no longer the perfect fit of that Midsummer dance we shared. Seventeen is a long way from sixteen-and-a-half.

  “Yes, but I mean his trueborn son,” Stefan says.

  “Amalie is speaking for both of us,” Dominic says. “At our age we need to regroup after a battle before charging into the next.”

  “But you’re younger than my parents! And my mother’s expecting her twelfth child in the spring.”

  Dominic winces involuntarily and I laugh, shaking Jana, whose crying intensifies by the octave and the decibel. My husband manages to put one arm around Stefan without provoking a duel, and pretends to slap his face. In a voice unsteady with laughter, Dominic says, “In this house, cheri, I suggest you keep such fascinating observations to yourself.” I notice, wishing I hadn’t, how fragile Dominic still is.

  Isobel appears at my side. She’s been invaluable this past week, one of Magali’s many great deeds, finding this competent, cheerful young widow who likes to work, loves children and seems to have the strength of two, maybe three plow horses. “I’ll change her, my lady,” she says, scooping Jana out of my arms before I can demur. We’re comfortably past that point, after a week in which getting out of bed has been my greatest accomplishment. Isobel grins at Stefan. “Welcome home, Master Ormonde. We did miss you at Midwinter. Just a bunch of old trolls, begging your pardon, my lord.” She winks at Dominic, knowing she’s safe from his sharp tongue. He likes her bold highland speech, just as he enjoys my coarse Terran outbursts.

  Stefan smiles nervously at the woman’s open interest—ten years his senior, buxom and ruddy, her thoughts unambiguously sexual. He’s remembering the disappointing festival at home, the young girl he chose to see what that was like, the first time for both, clumsy and too quick, painful for her, unsatisfying for him. Next time, he thinks, a married woman, someone safe, not this one who’d sink her teeth in like a starving wolf and never let loose…

  Dominic’s protection is still valuable. “Hands off, Isobel,” he says. “I may be an old troll, but I hold my own.”

  Isobel laughs. She can’t read, but everyone who lives here knows the words of the Aranyi motto, I hold my own, carved into the stone battlements above the entrance. “Fair enough, my lord,” she says over her shoulder as she carries Jana off. “And if you’re an old troll, the gods help the rest of us.”

  Berend hovers in the background, watching and waiting to see which way Stefan will turn. There’s an ache in Berend’s thoughts, a yearning expression on his face that’s a visible translation of Dominic’s emotions. I can feel it myself, a longing for something unattainable, like the poor on Terra, the advertising constantly flaunting another kind of life before them, the knowledge of its existence souring any enjoyment of what they have.

  Dominic is swaying like a skyscraper in a gale, his face lined and white. I look around, sending my thoughts to Stefan to help, sorry for Berend but choosing the way I must. Stefan stands oblivious, and I wonder if he’s shielding his mind out of anger or is simply no longer attuned to his former lover’s being.

  I’ll be fine, Amalie, Dominic says, hating to show any infirmity in front of Stefan.

  It’s Ranulf who helps Dominic to a chair while Stefan, shocked out of his own resentment by the change in his powerful companion, is left on his own as people continue to press their congratulations on us.

  “Welcome home, Master Ormonde,” Berend says. “We missed you at Midwinter.”

  “Hello, Berend.” Stefan has a ready smile for an old friend, his manner easier than with Isobel. “It’s good to be back, although I may not be staying.”

  ***

  Later that day, during the siesta, which Dominic is actually using to rest, I ask Stefan to sit with me in my room while I lie propped up in bed to nurse Jana. Katrina chaperones us; settled in a well-cushioned armchair, she dozes off early in my account of recent events. At the end, as I express my gratitude for Roger and Tariq’s act of healing, Stefan scowls. “I should have been here.”

  Supposing he had been, I think. I would not have invited Roger and Tariq to visit. Would Stefan’s gift alone have been strong enough to save us? I’m caught in a momentary, after-the-fact panic I don’t wish to betray. With Stefan ambivalent, ready to go whichever way is less dishonorable, I dislike manipulating him. Or rather, I know how ultimately futile it would be for me to choose. He’ll do what he wants once he’s sure what that is, and no false decision made before then will be binding.

  “Dominic said you were the one to break with him,” I say.

  “I was,” Stefan says. “But he didn’t waste much time before finding someone else.”

  “That was my brilliant idea,” I say, already weary of rehashing my less than inspired notion. “Honestly, I wrote the invitation myself, let Lord Roger know what I was planning. And it was only once. And it didn’t work out.”

  It occurs to me that Dominic has changed, in the time since we met, from merely accepting my small, female form, in thrall to the communion between us, to actively desiring it. He selected that girl of festival night for her looks, because in his mind now my size and shape signify the true love of communion. Perhaps there is something of the same association for him with Stefan and the stable boy, finding a more satisfying substitute for love in a partner who at least physically resembles the absent beloved. Appearance can be duplicated more easily than communion, and can be abandoned without regret when the original is once again available. From now on, I tell myself, I will let Dominic choose his own companion.

  Stefan listens intently, hearing the thoughts that continue after the words trail off. When he speaks, his response surprises me. “I think you love him more than me. I mean, more than I love him.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “And maybe, because I’m older, and a woman, and just had his child, it’s only natural that I should. But you must love him a little, or you wouldn’t be here now.”

  “Yes.” Stefan acknowledges the possibility. “But sometimes I think it’s just that I was flattered, Margrave Aranyi wanting me, a younger son with no land or title. And then in Eclipsia City I saw what that amounted to. When he was always going to dance halls, it just seemed like all he wanted was whatever asshole was available. Literally.”

  He sits quietly after his bitter words, watching Jana suckle. I’ve been pressing my breast with my fingers; Jana drinks in such gulps my milk doesn’t flow fast enough. I want to reach for his hand, attempt some form of communion, wondering if he’ll allow it.

  “You swore an oath to Dominic, didn’t you?” I ask. “A serious, binding oath.” I pause, pretending to collect my thoughts, so he won’t suspect I’ve been planning this speech from the beginning. “You know, he wouldn’t have let you swear it if he didn’t value you. If you were nothing more to him
than a body for sex, he wouldn’t have called you his companion and asked you to be his second at our wedding.”

  Stefan nods, mulling it over, still at the age where love and sex and marriage are impossible to distinguish as separate acts and entities. “I guess I should take it as a compliment,” he says, “that you picked Lord Roger to be my substitute.” He doesn’t feel honored. He’s worried that he can’t measure up to so illustrious a rival.

  “You should be very proud,” I say, straight on, the answer he hadn’t looked for. “And grateful. Don’t you see? Dominic’s wanted him for years. Lord Roger Zichmni. If they had never come together it would have grown into an obsession. You’d never measure up to that. You’d feel like the second wife to a widower whose first wife died, young and beautiful and perfect, on their wedding night.”

  That makes him laugh. “What should I do, then?” he asks.

  “Be honest with yourself. You must decide whether you love Dominic enough to forgive him—and me. And you must be fair to Berend.”

  “Oh, he’s harmless,” Stefan says, the first selfish statement I’ve ever heard from him.

  “But you’re not,” I say. Does he truly not know how handsome he is, what an attractive package he makes, youth and beauty, good manners and background, all wrapped up in a cadet’s uniform? “Berend’s in love with you, or thinks he is. You must put him out of his misery one way or the other. If you’d rather be with Berend, go back to Ormonde and meet him on neutral territory. But if you’re going to stay here with Dominic, don’t screw around.” I can feel my words seeping into his thoughts, giving rise to the novel idea that even Dominic may need consideration in affairs of the heart. I never believed it was Stefan who took the initiative. Now I’m not so sure. “Why did you break with Dominic?”

  He answers me honestly, as I’ve requested. “I couldn’t live like that, with the two of you so angry with each other, fighting all the time.”

  “That’s it?” I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. “Not because of any serious trouble between the two of you?”