The shelter was complete. Pinioned to the four stakes was a blanket that acted as a roof; a larger blanket was laid across the grass beneath; and a third blanket was rolled up against a boulder, sandwiched between the stony surface and Sigeas’s mother’s back. She seemed exhausted and years beyond her age. As Sigeas observed her, he decided that he would postpone their eastern migration for a day, no matter how fervently she debated with him. With his hand on the hilt of his sword, he trudged to the opposite side of the tall rocks and gazed out at the western grassland, toward Harvidol. After a while he leaned against a boulder and watched, mesmerized, as the distant flames of the city’s fire licked the cooling air. Then the thoughts returned to him. The images of the burning city and dying citizens returned to him. And though he had not seen it, he imagined the red-bearded, black-caped man forcing his mother onto the ground. He attempted to press it out of his mind, but it fired back at him with greater intensity. He should have stopped him. He should have stopped all of them. He should have altered his footwork and slain his second opponent, and struck the king down an instant later. There was no punishment too gruesome for what they did. They deserved to die.
He tore his sword from his sheath and plunged it into the earth, then collapsed onto the grass and began to weep. He wept until the faint sea breeze turned his tears into frosty darts, and at this time he raised his eyes and noticed that that last sliver of the sun’s light was disappearing behind the mountains.
“Thought-evoking, isn’t it?” his mother asked from across the boulders.
He wiped the tears from his cheeks and made an effort to compose himself. “What—what is thought-evoking?”
“The Eternal Flame of Harvidol,” she replied, the drowsiness of her voice carried on the wind. “In the year one hundred twenty, Crel the Wizard, the protector of Emlenor, cast a powerful spell outside of Harvidol over wood transported from the magical Laindren Forest. The spell took him a month to conjure. A fire arose from the wood, small at first; but as time passed, it became larger and larger. Five hundred years after its creation, it died. But not long after, it rose up from the ashes of the wood. Thus, it is believed that every five hundred years, the flame reignites. Crel cast this spell to honor the five hundred people of the Koritsu tribe who died while traveling through Glaciath in the winter.” The drowsiness of her voice departed, and she began to speak as one reminiscing. “The Koritsu were a pure, righteous people who started out as a small band of like-minded, moral men and women; but as time passed, their group grew larger and larger. They traveled through Glaciath while seeking a homeland, though they never found it. All but a few Koritsu perished, but the good that they displayed lives on with the Eternal Flame of Harvidol.”
Sigeas set his back against the boulder nearest him. “The Koritsu died while traveling through Glaciath in the winter? Why do you want to live here if it gets that cold?”
A low sigh escaped his mother’s lips. “Even though it’s near the coast, Ai-Tizuj has some of the finest weather in Emlenor. And you missed the point of the story.”
“No, Mother,” Sigeas replied, hugging himself and staring at the fire. “I didn’t.”
During one of their biweekly lodgings at a roadside inn, early in their journey, Sigeas overheard a small caravan of armor-clad men talking amongst each other in the dining room. They spoke of the fall of Faseton, exchanged fables of Pavius’s latest campaign against the country of Sorj, stated their caravan’s objective (to observe the leaders of Dolcinth and discern whether they were favorably, unfavorably, or neutrally disposed toward Thalnon), and discussed the possibility for improvisation in their mission. They were not to harm the citizens of the villages they inspected, even if they were caught; but in Pavius’s document of orders, there was no prohibition of violence in the empty regions apart from the cities. It was at this point in the conversation that the men lowered their voices, and Sigeas alerted his mother of their purpose. She heeded the news and directed their route toward Dolcinth’s coast the following morning, informing her son that the country did not hold a prominent coastal city.
Three months later, the family drew near to the border between Dolcinth and Glaciath. It was midday, a time ripe for traveling; but Sigeas’s mother was beginning to find that her body wearied quickly and often. They rested beside a stream that slithered toward the blurred eastern coast. The young man helped his mother sit on a puff of grass atop a balding dune, and he plopped beside her. While they sat in silence and took sips from a rigid waterskin, Sigeas scanned the territory around them. He always feared and anticipated the appearance of a Thalnion caravan on the horizon; he feared for his potential failure to defeat his enemies, and anticipated the brawl so that his thirst for vengeance might be sated. Not a soul drew his gaze, but to the northwest, he espied a fortified city with granite buildings.
“Mother, do you see that? What city is that?”
She glanced over her right shoulder, though it was obvious that she did not need to look. “That would be Eclam, my son.”
“Eclam?” His eyes widened, and he turned his attention to the city again, as if to assure its existence. “Wait, you mean, the Eclam?”
“Yes, the Eclam,” she replied, her voice hesitant. “You know, I think I could go on another—”
“Why are we sitting here when Eclam is a league’s walk away?” Sigeas’s entire body adopted an animated quality, and his normally droning voice became lively. “Eclam is the city of the Birthender Mages. We can go there, Mother, and you can rid yourself of that wicked thing in your stomach!”
“Wicked thing?” Her eyebrows furrowed, and she set a hand on her stomach. “Wicked? How can you judge this baby so quickly, Sigeas?”
He turned to her, astonished. “How can you not? Mother, a wicked man destroyed our town. His people wrecked our home and knocked me unconscious. And he took advantage of you. There is no good in him; there is only a lust for control. He got everything he wanted, Mother, including you. And now you are carrying his baby. If you go to Eclam, you can get rid of this reminder of him, once and for all. I’ve heard that the spell they cast does no harm to the mother.”
“So you would destroy this child’s life, simply to spite a man?”
“Of course not!” Sigeas stood and began to pace. “This baby, he can become like the man who did this to you. He can murder, and steal beautiful memories, and dominate as many women as pleases him. If Pavius fails to accomplish his purposes in his campaign, then this baby of yours, Mother, can continue in his stead. He can become more evil than his father ever was.”
“Or,” his mother said, rising to her feet with some difficulty, “or, the child can save the nations. The child can reverse everything that Pavius has done. The baby can grow to be a hero, and can bring hope to the hopeless. My child can refuse to walk the path of the wicked king, and can become a model of compassion and love. These are possibilities as well.”
“Why would you take a chance, Mother?” Sigeas’s eyes were now frantic, and his gesticulations emphasized. “With such an evil father, how could he be anything but evil? Even though you’re a great mother, malice runs in Pavius’s blood. I’m not sure this baby, your son, can resist something like that.”
The woman shook her head, and a grin came to her lips. “You refer to the baby as ‘he,’ though you do not know the gender yet.”
“That’s of no matter.”
She looked at him closely, as if seeing into the deep canals of his thoughts. “Is it of no matter? You’re certain?” She waited for a response, but her son continued to pace, avoiding her eyes. “Sigeas, would you leave me?”
He halted at these words and turned to her again. “What?”
“A simple question, really. Would you leave me, if trouble beset us?”
“Mother, I would never leave you. Why would you ask that?”
She approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes, fixed with seriousness, met his. “That is how I know that this baby does not have to be like Pavius.” Tears squirmed to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, creating a trail in the sand plastered against her skin. “At a difficult time in our lives, your father left me. He had many commendable attributes, and I loved him; but he was also selfish. And he left when he found the trials of our lives too taxing. You have your selfish moments, Sigeas, but you are naturally a selfless person. You protect others, and you help when you can. And you do not flee when misfortune comes, but rather, you defend those assaulted by it.”
Sigeas blinked, awed by the revelation of his father. “Father left you?”
His mother wiped her eyes. “Come. The day is young, my son. We will speak of this another time.” She stepped down the side of the dune and continued south, toward Glaciath. Her son, now in a stupor, took one last look at Eclam before following her path.
All light from the sun had disappeared, and Sigeas shivered. He stood and dislodged his blade from the earth, then sheathed it and looked again at the Eternal Flame. It continued to mesmerize him and draw him toward thought and memory; but then, in an instant, there was a flash and it disappeared. He was taken aback by the abrupt blackness, and so he rounded the stones and found his mother drifting into sleep in the shelter, sitting before a small fire she had made while he was away. He sat beside her and said, “Mother, the Eternal Flame just vanished.”
She nodded, her eyes overlaid with a web of sleepiness. “Crel cast his spell in the year one hundred and twenty.” She roused herself by shaking her head and propping herself higher against the blanket. “The fire disappeared and returned in the year six hundred and twenty. This is the year one thousand, one hundred and twenty.”
“I didn’t think of that,” Sigeas admitted, baffled. “Either it’s coincidental that we’re here, or someone above wanted this to happen.”
His mother chuckled. “Indeed.” She stared into the dark of the night, and then looked at her son. “I’m going to give birth soon, you must know.”
“I do, Mother.”
“I know you don’t want this baby to live, but I’m giving birth soon, according to nature’s course. And I hate to ask this of you, but you’re the only one who can help me when the time comes.”
“I’ve wondered when you would tell me this,” Sigeas responded, his voice uneasy. “You’re right: I don’t want the son of Pavius to live. But I know birth is complicated, so I’ll help to make sure you survive the process. Just tell me what I need to do.”
“Very well. I pray that your memory aids you when it is time.” She then proceeded to explain his duty as a midwife, listing some details he had hoped never to hear, and others that filled him with a sense of relief that he was not a woman. They spoke late into the night, laughing at times, shuddering at others, and enjoying the company as the heavens became specked with stars of many hues and intensities. The moon, matron of the night, radiated icy silver as it clambered through the sky. As it neared its zenith, its round figure seemed to grow brighter and more prominent. Soon it would cascade through the navy sheet and fall behind the mountains, giving rise to the warm colors of dawn. The grasslands were layered with dew, and the land became so cold that Sigeas increased the size of the fire, and his mother put her support blanket to its primary use as warmth for herself and her son. Their conversation on midwifery ended, and so they folded some spare shirts and placed them beneath their heads in preparation for sleep. As they began to doze, Sigeas’s mother said, “Thank you for agreeing to help me, despite the way you feel about the baby.”
“You’re welcome, Mother,” he replied, drawing the blanket over his shoulders. “You try and sleep now; you need your rest. I love you.”
“And I love you, Sigeas. Sleep well.” She managed to find a comfortable position and fell immediately into slumber, followed closely by her son.
It seemed that his eyelids had just closed when his mother released a cry that startled him. He leapt from the blanket with his sword drawn. All was darkness beyond the fire, and there was no one to be seen. He remained in a defensive stance for a moment, peering into the darkness; when nothing caught his eye or ear, he turned to his mother, who had thrown the blanket aside and had her hands clenched against the bottom of her stomach. She breathed methodically, and her entire face was moist with sweat. Her hair was more tousled than usual, and her eyes had grown large in reaction to blatant pain. She stared at her son and nodded at him. “It’s time. The baby is coming soon.” She ground her teeth together so fiercely that Sigeas feared they might split to their roots. “Listen to me. Remember what I told you about your dagger?” He nodded. “Go!”
He grabbed their traveling bag, raced around the edge of the boulders, and tore a gnarled branch from one of the young trees nearby. He laid its tip in the fire for a moment, his feet fidgeting as his mother screamed again. When the branch had accrued a small flame, he left the camp behind and dashed to the southeast. She had told him of a stream wending between the hills somewhere in this direction, but he could scarcely see anything over a yard beyond his torch. He had gone some distance when his mother screamed a third time; the fact that she could be heard from this distance worried him. Any predator, man or beast, within a mile would not find it a difficult task to follow the trail of cries to the helpless woman. Sigeas’s heart drummed as he pictured some fiend coming upon her in the night, an image that sent him back to that evening nine months ago. He charged on, faster, until he heard a gurgling sound to his right. He whirled toward the din and nearly tripped over a cord of stones that lined one side of the stream. Then he sheathed his sword, knelt down, wielded his dagger, and dipped it into the frigid water. The current carried away the muck that had bonded to the blade; once it was clean, Sigeas took one of the few unused rags from his bag and further sanitized it with several meticulous strokes of the cloth. He rose, turned from the stream, and sprinted back toward camp.
Following the sporadic cries of his mother, and the route he had made in the previously untrodden grass, he found his way to the shelter. The woman had not been disturbed as he had feared; in fact, amidst her pain, she had managed to ready the surroundings, and herself, for the deliverance of her child. He fell to his knees on the blanket and cast the torch into the dew-covered grass; then he set his dagger well away from them, but within reach. He turned his attention to his mother, took a breath, and asked, “How long have you been like this?”
“About two hours before you awoke,” she muttered between her teeth. “It didn’t get very painful—until the moment I yelled. Short contractions here and there. But—they became longer.”
Sigeas sighed, closed his eyes, and nodded. “Yes, then it sounds like you’re ready. I hope you told me everything I need to know.” He looked at her face, red with strain, and his heart throbbed in sympathy. “You can do this, Mother. You’re strong. It’s time to have your baby.”
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