Part 9 (1/2)

Tosher shrugged towards the stairs. ”End of the hall,” he said. ”Mind the hole...”

Rhys nodded and made his way up the stairs. The la.s.s was still at his heels.

”Do you have a name?” he asked.

”Old Nance used to call me Moth,” she said.

”Moth?” Rhys repeated.

”On account of she says I flitter about like one.” Moth smiled.

”Moth,” Rhys said, and remembered the old saying about their attraction to flames. Then pushed it aside.

The upper floor reeked of blood and at the far end, the wretched whimpers and moans of a woman in pain filled the air. Rhys raced towards the end of the hall, mindfully stepping around the aforementioned hole, just as the door opened and women came bustling out. Rhys recognized them as two of Tosher's older wh.o.r.es. They wore worried faces under their thick cowls of greying hair.

”Oh, Brother Rhys,” one of them said. ”We was starting to wonder where you be. She's not doing well at all, I fear...”

The smell hit Rhys before he even entered the chamber, a certain stench that accompanied infection. Oh Brother, no, he thought and rushed on in. Lena lay on the bed, bolstered by birthing pillows. There was a great deal of blood, but no sign of a child. Two more women clutched Lena's arms, and Lena bit hard on a bit of wood wound with thick leather. She writhed back and forth.

”It don't seem to want to come,” the wh.o.r.e added.

Rhys hurried across the room. Blessed Brother! There was no reason for so much blood.

”It's not coming out right,” one of the women said.

Indeed. As Rhys examined Lena, he could see toes. Horns, the babe was coming out breach. ”How long has she been in labor?” he asked.

”Since midmorning,” the oldest wh.o.r.e said.

”Midmorning?” Rhys said and glared. ”Why was I not summoned earlier? The child is likely dead!”

”She's never had trouble before ,” she retorted. ”I birthed her last one myself...”

Rhys shook his head. ”Hot water and fresh linens, if you have such a thing,” he said, and began to draw herb packets from his satchel. Fretfully, he cleared a s.p.a.ce on a small sideboard and opened each packet in turn. The wh.o.r.es returned with the required items, and after pouring some of the water off into a cracked mug, Rhys washed his hands. He set some of the herbs to brewing in the small cup and hurried over to the bed.

The light was not as good as he would have liked now, but he was certain that the toes on that tiny foot looked blue. With careful fingers, he worked his way around the limb. Lena continued to writhe and moan. Rhys felt like slapping her into silence, but knew it would do no good. So he probed until he was sure the babe was not wrapped in its cord. It was not in a good place for him to turn it around, so he was forced to take hold of the limbs and pull. While the women squawked encouragement at Lena, he dragged the baby free.

A boy and it was not moving. Frantically, Rhys cut the cord, cleared the little mouth and rubbed the small chest. When that did not work, he upended the child, attempting to get the baby to draw a breath... but it would not, and Rhys felt hope abandoning him like a tide.

”Give him to me,” Moth said, suddenly at his side.

Rhys looked at her face and saw a peculiar mask of calm. Her eyes were luminous; and dark as eclipses and she held forth her hands, He saw that she had made an attempt to clean them, for water ran tracks through the filth of her arms.

”Please, give him to me,” she said.

His instinct was to push her away, but there was something in that look that he could not ignore. Swallowing, he placed the child in her outstretched arms. She drew it to her breast and closed her eyes...

Rhys felt the power of the G.o.d Diancecht as it flowed into the room and bathed both the girl and the child with a golden light. His own breath stopped in his throat as he watched her stroke the newborn's chest. Was that the light, or did those small ribs rise and fall? A pitiful little cough and then an infant's wail filled the room.

The wh.o.r.es rushed forward with cries of joy and took the child to clean it. Lena gasped for air between sobs and laughter.

Only Rhys had yet to breathe. He stared at Moth who looked down at the stains of blood and mucus now mixed with the filth of her robe. Then quietly, she looked up at him. ”Was that the right thing to do?” she asked.

Oh, Blessed Brother, the child is a True Healer! Rhys thought. All his life, he had prayed for such power, and been denied, and now here was a wh.o.r.e's daughter blessed with the gift he had coveted for so long.

”Did I do it right?” she asked again. ”It felt right... and I stopped being sick when I did it.”

”Sick?” he repeated.

”Aye, every time I get around someone who's bad off, I feel sick,” she said. ”And sometimes, the sickness goes away if I touch them, and they usually get better. Was it right?”

Right? he thought. Of course, it was right you silly little gyte. The Blessed Brotber is telling you there is a need and... But the look on Moth's face a.s.sured him that she would not understand such a tirade. And why should she? The girl had never been trained. He was willing to bet she couldn't read or write.

Rhys sighed and nodded, looking back at the bed. Lena cooed over the lad now wrapped and cleaned, and she smiled and shoved one of her t.i.ts into his mouth. Slowly, Rhys gathered his herbs and glanced at the brewing cup. It had been a sedative for the mother, in case everything went wrong. He picked it up and drained it into the reeds at his feet. Then quietly, he headed for the door.

Moth followed as though not sure what else to do. Rhys climbed down the stairs where noise continued to ring.

”What is it?” Tosher called.

”You have a son,” Rhys said and continued on his way. Behind him, congratulations flowed. He left Tosher's Hole, eager for the air of the night.

On the streets, he realized Moth was still following him, but now she looked about with unease at the shadows.

”Aren't you afraid of the Swallowers?” she asked.

”The what?”

”Them black things that come out of the shadows and swallows you,” she said.

”They're called Darklings,” Rhys said. ”They rarely come into cities anymore, and besides, they don't like light.” And to prove it, he whispered, ”Solus.” The warm glow of magelight drove the shadows away. Moth hurried up beside him, looking relieved to have the light. ”So where is your home?” he asked.

”Where's yours,” she said and ducked her head. ”I belong to you now...”

”Child, you don't belong to anyone,” Rhys said and started on.

”Can I still come with you?” she ventured. ”I've no place else to go.”

Rhys merely nodded. He had no intention of leaving her on the streets. Liam would probably find her, and she'd be back under his unworthy thumb.

He took the path back to his shop, drew out a key and unlocked the door. Inside, the smells of the herbs wafted with their familiar odors ... a scent he loved. Moth slipped in behind him as he stood for a moment, breathing the sweet air. Her warm odor overwhelmed his nose.

”You need a bath,” he said. ”And perhaps some fresh clothes.”

”All right,” she said, and before he could even close the door, she started to disrobe...

”No! Wait, not here!” he cried and quickly shut the door and drew the shutters. ”Go in there!” He pointed towards a curtained niche.

Reluctantly, she obeyed, still stripping off her clothes. Rhys took a deep breath to gather his wits, then rushed about to fetch a few items. Lavender in her bath would make her sweeter. He found some old clothes of his own, still wearable, and thrust those at her, along with a towel. She sat in a comer, wrapped in the towel as he quickly used magic to heat the water of her bath. He threw in the lavender and glanced over at her.

”Now get in and scrub every part of yourself,” he said.