“We only have two legs,” says First Son of the Third Litter. A different small one snickers.
“What is your name?” he asks the snickerer.
The small one flinches Never a good sign. But after all, not all these will survive, nor should they. Some will never grow beyond a reliance on brute strength and swift running. It is those who observe, learn, and think who will thrive. Who will rule.
“Third Son of the Sixth Litter,” says the snickerer. “There are four legs also. Three is between two and four, but there is no creature with three legs.”
“Is there not?” He frowns at the hatchlings, yet after all they are a handsome looking group, not the biggest he has ever seen, but he does not have girth and breadth to give them. He has given them something more valuable. “The third leg is your brother. Two legs only, if you stand by yourself. But if you stand with others, then you cannot easily be knocked down.”
caught the corner of a linen band as the tiny body struck the floor. Cloth pooled around it in loops and heaps. He swooped down and grasped at it with a gasp of dismay.
It gurgled. Its lips smacked and pumped. It squawked out a feeble wail, then hiccuped.
Would it name itself? First Son? Fourth Child? Nay, it was a helpless human infant, doomed to many years of childhood, not ready to run and fight within a pair or three years after its birth. It was so tiny and feeble! No wonder the Eika thought that humankind were soft.
The nurse ripped the baby out of Alain’s hands, pulled down the front of her bodice, and put the baby to her breast. It rooted for a moment, then got hold and sucked.
Such an uproar ensued that he had to grab the collars of the hounds and hold them to stop them from biting as folk swarmed, yelled, cried, gesticulated. The crowd surged in and out, right and left, until Sabella’s ringing voice brought order and soldiers herded companions, attendants, and courtiers out.
“This way,” said Captain Lukas, appearing at his side as if he had never left. “Come now, I pray you.” He said the words urgently. His frown had a storm cloud’s menace. Alain went along because it was easier to and because the sight of that infant’s face troubled him. So quiescent. It had seemed to hit the ground so hard, but that was God’s mercy, surely: some substance had clogged its breathing and the shock had jarred it loose. Newborns were such fragile creatures. Weiwara’s twins—how could he forget them? The smaller one had been born, likewise, too weak to draw breath on its own. What had happened to that baby? Had it survived the great weaving or been consumed by the tempest? Had Adica known the spell would doom those she loved? Had she gone forward despite that knowledge?
He would never know.
“Wait here,” said the captain, opening a door. Alain went gratefully into a dim room and sank down onto a bench. The tears caught him by surprise. He missed Adica so badly. The hounds licked him, leaned on him, pawed at him, and at length lay down on his feet being too big to settle in his lap as they wished to do. At length he calmed, lifted his head, and measured his surroundings.
This chamber housed a noble’s luxurious furnishings: a fine burnished table and benches; two silk-covered couches for reclining and conversation; a backless chair that could be folded up and easily carried; tapestries on the walls; and a cold hearth. It was too dim to see the scenes woven in the tapestries. A single candle burned, fastened into a brass holder fixed onto the left of a sloped writing desk. Someone had abandoned a sheet of parchment, half inscribed with words he had lost the knack of reading. There he saw regnant, a word he knew because it also appeared in the Holy Verses. Below that he recognized “a strong driving wind” like to that mentioned in the story of the Pentekoste, and then a series of sevens: seven towns, seven days, seven portions of grain, seven nobles whose names he laboriously puzzled out. They were all Salian or western border lords, it seemed: Guy, Laurant, Amalfred, Gaius, Mainer, Baldricus, Ernalda. The page bore no illumination. It was written in plain ink in the common script used by Lavastine’s clerics when they wrote up contracts and cartularies. The inkwell had been stoppered. Untrimmed quills lay in a box resting on the level top of the desk beside a closed book. All the shutters were closed. The chamber had the moldy smell of a room that hasn’t been aired out all winter.
With some effort he pulled his feet out from under the hounds, which had the guile to rest heavily by not resisting him. A side door opened when he turned the handle. He stepped out onto a walk along the battlement wall. It was raining, cold, and miserable, an unrelentingly gray day. The clouds hung lower than ever. The main part of the town could not be seen from here. The river ran at the base of the bluff. There seemed no obvious exit from this narrow stone court, only a pair of low doors in the wall that most likely concealed a necessarium.