Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

6

The birth of a baby was joy and peril together, for the little one's spirit was weak and unformed; its mother, utterly drained by her pregnancy. Thus, the scurry... The calling for healers and family; the setting of powerful wards. Otherwise, something fell and chaotic might enter that fragile new child.

Alfea's pangs were not false. She had gone into sudden labor; sometimes stretched out with her back arched, sometimes curled nearly double. Early, but not dangerously so, according to the Tarandahl family healer. There was not really time to shift Alfea, but she clutched at Val's brocade robe, gasping,

"Outside, please, Van… Bean needs... needs the sky."

He stroked the damp blue-purple hair off her forehead, nodding. Turned to Sylvia Healer, saying,

"We'll move her out to Mum's garden. My lady calls for the sky, and sky she shall have."

"Yes, Milord," responded the cross-elf… a shy redhead with whom he'd once had a brief, joyful fling. "As long as the wards are set and the watchers in place, indoors or out matters not."

Working together, Val and Sylvia moved Lady Alfea outside to the garden, using spells to lift her and ease the pain of travail. Valerian tore off his robe and cast it aside. More flexible now in just breeches and shirt, he knelt down to sit on his knees and his heels, not quite touching the mosaic patio. Lady Alfea was settled so that her head and torso rested against his thighs. They clasped hands and she gazed up at him; no longer in pain, but a little afraid.

Grandmother Alyanara set the wards herself, pacing the figure as she called on the Tarandahl guardian spirits and She-of-the-Flowers. The goddess manifested as a soft, spring-like breeze, wafting a swirl of pale blossoms.

Lerendar took up a sentry post at the north of that newly drawn sigil; blade and fish-spear ready in either hand. Granddad stalked the perimeter, having sent Keldaran and Elisindara to safety. He blazed with Firelord's might, no longer quite Galadin. The tattoo shone clear through his clothing and armor, flickering heart's-blood red.

His sword keened aloud like a hive of assemblers, glowing painfully bright. All of this, Valerian took in with an elf's skill at following multiple threads. Trusted his family to handle basic protection. His task was here, and equally vital.

"Courage, Fina," he said softly. "You'll finally meet little Bean."

Somehow or rather, her ugly small dog had got in through the wards, and now wheezed its way up to Alfea's side. Val let it stay. She released his hand briefly, caressing the dog and murmuring,

"Hullo, Pudgy. I'm so glad you're here, too!"

Meanwhile the healer set up a magical screen, hiding what happened below from Alfea and Val. For his own part, the young elf-lord kept talking, keeping his wife's mind occupied with this and that. Foolishness, most of it. The sort of nonsense that tender young couples are prone to. Made her laugh a few times with private jokes and fond memories, while subtly lending her strength. Little Bean was demanding, and drew on her, hard. Val made up the difference, keeping her conscious and calm.

"Boy or girl, do you think?" Alfea wondered. She wasn't in pain but could feel all the twisting and motion inside of her.

"Mmm… I'll say… female. Too many males in this family, already. Surely Bean has more sense than to add to the glut."

Alfea giggled, then gave a sudden sharp gulp, squeezing his hands white-knuckle tight.

"That… that one was very strong, Van. But… I shall say boy." (Though she secretly longed for a girl.) "And… if Bean and I win, we shall all sail to the arch for a picnic on Sea-Horse."

Val smiled, not minding those half-crushed fingers.

"I see your sailing trip and raise you a child's Crown-Game set, made of… oh… mithral, amber and pearl."

He'd been trying to teach her to play, and a new set (for Bean, of course) would be useful.

Then Alfea shuddered, closing her eyes as a last, awful spasm rocked her slight form. There was nothing to fear, he told himself. No gap through which darkness might enter to claim their young child. The healer was skilled, his family was present, while Val poured his own heart-strength and manna into Alfea and Bean. Not a thing had been left to chance.

As he sent his own life-force into her trembling body, Alfea strengthened again. She opened her eyes to look up at him. Then, half out of her mind, the beautiful air-sprite gasped,

"I loved you back then, too… I thought… you were so kind to us… Beanie and me… and then you found Pudgy."

(Which was true. Sort of. He'd won the bow-legged monster at Serrio's fair. Had immediately thrust it onto his cooing young bride.)

Valerian smiled again. His hands were too numb to squeeze back, but he teased her a bit, saying,

"That was then. Now, I shall only be third in your heart, behind Master Pudge and Little Bean. You shall have to pencil me in for engagements. 'Twoday, first watch, second candle-mark, brunch with What's-his-name.' "

She giggled, relaxing as that final great spasm receded.

"Silly," she teased in return. "It's What's-his- face."

Then… they both heard it at once… came a new sound; the fussing cry of a baby. They could not yet see their child but detected a flurry of sudden activity. The birth cord was cut by Lady Alyanara, wielding a bright little knife and all of her strongest spells, making two lives from one.

Next, the baby was cleansed and blessed, wrapped up in fresh linen and shimmering cloth-of-dawn.

"A little maid," announced Sylvia, handing their infant over the screen. "She has chosen the path of her mother."

Alfea reached weakly for Bean, smiling and crying at the same time. Valerian held the baby so that his wife could look into her red and blinking small face. She looked like an unfolding bud, he thought; still crumpled and rosy. Her hair was a mix of wispy blonde curls and pale golden down. Her ears were quite pointed… and she was hungry. Very. Now. Feed. (Like a newly hatched griffin, he thought.)

He guided the baby to her mother's breast, then summoned the tiniest spark of holy flame. Looked like a pale red star at the tip of his forefinger. Touched it to the top of his daughter's head, giving her over to Firelord.

Daughter. He had a child. An entire new person, formed of himself and his air-sprite wife. Alfea wanted no nursemaids. She intended to raise and feed Little Bean, by herself.

(…for seven long years, without Valerian, for he would be going to Karellon. There, he would serve in the Imperial Honor Guard; very far from all that he knew and loved.)

Later, when Alfea and Bean had been moved to their rooms, Val went out to the garden, wobbling like a colt from exhaustion. It was well past noon, and the day had grown chilly, but he hadn't the strength to summon warm clothes. Stood there in a shirt and breeches, shivering; watching hawks and griffins train, high overhead.

Lerendar met him out on the patio, pulling bread, cheese and fruit from his faerie pockets (packed full, for his brother was famously always prepared).

"Thank you," grunted Val, around a big mouthful of bread.

Lerendar laughed at him.

"I know what it's like," said his older brother, who'd stood watch for the full three hours, just as Val had done at the birth of Zara.

"Lando, I've a request to make of you," started Valerian, after draining his brother's magical wine flask. Again. "I have to leave in the spring…"

"Guard duty," said Lerendar, nodding. As Father's first heir, he'd not been sent off, but somebody had to go.

"Exactly. Alfea and Bean will stay here, where they are safe and defended. I would like to ask you to look after them, please."

Lerendar shifted his stance, seeming a little disturbed.

"I cannot move up here, away from my own woman and child, Valno," he said. "They're…"

"No need," Val assured him, starting on more bread and cheese. He was very much drained, still, but too proud to sit down. "Fina and Bean will… with your permission… move in with you and Beatriz. Zara would probably love to play with a baby, and Bea can help Alfea with mother-tasks. She will not engage nursemaids, either, so she'll need all the guidance Bea can offer."

Lerendar grinned at him, swinging from gloom to cheerful relief in that brisk, sudden way of his.

"Of course, we'll help," he said, reaching over to muss the top of Val's head. "I'll ask, first, for the look of things, but I'm sure that Bee will say yes."

Quite how he got there, neither Val nor Lerendar saw, but all at once Lord Galadin stood at their side. Weary, but very alert. Reached for some of Lerendar's hovering food before remarking,

"That went better than it had any right to, considering the chaotic outburst we'd just cleared up."

Val and his brother exchanged wary glances, wondering how to respond. Both of them bowed respectfully. Then,

"That's very true, My Lord," ventured the younger Tarandahl. "But, it was a good thing that everyone was already there when Alfea's travail began."

"Right. How about the whole story, this time?" said his grandfather. "I am not seeking evidence against your mother, Boy, but if there is any chance that something was released, this soon after Longest Night, I need to find and destroy it."

Val cleared his throat nervously.

"Sire… Mother did nothing wrong. She… was just scrying my thoughts to learn more about the druid."

"That grubby wood-elf?" asked Galadin, making a sandwich of… pretty much everything.

"Yes, Granddad. Him. I wanted advice, because he had made some troubling statements… so I went to Mother."

"Hmm…" grunted their grandfather. Maybe thinking. Possibly just with his mouth full. Then, "Go speak with him, and leave open a passive link. I will not listen so much as scry for intent. Did your mother sense anything wrong?"

Valerian considered, then shook his head, no.

"She said that he is more powerful than he chooses to let on, and that…" (carefully, with this next bit) "...there is much I cannot, or choose not, to see."

And that, somewhere, some shade of himself was utterly lost and alone. Paralyzed.

Galadin drummed the fingers of one hand against his tooled leather sword belt.

"I see. A light word to her, through you, Valerian. Stop. There will be no further spell-craft from her until after the baby comes, or I will have her locked into dream-state. Understood?"

Val inclined his head miserably; stuck with the job of bearing bad news.

"Yes, My Lord. I will tell her."

His grandfather's gaze remained stern for a few heartbeats longer. Then, the high lord relaxed.

"I welcome the birth of my latest great-grandchild, Valerian. This should be a day of celebration. Let us be certain it is."

Galadin clasped his grandsons' shoulders, leaving the barest hint of a link in Val and Lerendar, both. Then, lifting his hand in salute, he stepped back and faded away.

The Tarandahl heirs looked at each other. There could be no open discussions, now. Not with their grandfather possibly listening in.

"Tell you what," said Lerendar, after a moment. "I'll go to Mum and deliver Granddad's message. You go turf up your druid and have that talk. The sooner we get our charges handled…"

"...The sooner we're free. Makes sense," agreed Val. Then, as a fresh, worried thought struck him, "Is there anything special I need to be a good father?" he asked.

Lerendar pondered that one for a moment, finally replying,

"I think the best way to love your kid is to love their mother, whatever comes up. Bea will age. Mortals do. I can slow that, not stop it completely… but I know where my heart belongs, and I am content."

…And he'd throw the high seat away with both hands, as a consequence. Val impulsively hugged his brother, swearing,

"I am going to Karellon, Lando. There, I shall do something of such consequence as to earn His Majesty's favor, and a boon. I shall ask that mortal consorts be given full rights and entitlements, so that you can inherit Ilirian, without losing your family."

For a heartbeat or two, Lerendar seemed unsure what to say. Then…

"That is a noble offer, and you have my thanks, just for wanting to try, but don't risk yourself or stir up any trouble at court, Valno. Just come back in seven years, safe and well. We don't need anything else."

Val took a deep breath, saying one thing while plotting another.

"When," he protested, "have you ever known me to do something rash?"