Had she been convinced of her danger that time she heard him speaking with the heir to Ruckward, his son by his first wife, referring to Lyndafal as, “The woman, Lyndafal.”
She had heard him use that same tone in speaking of a mangled dog that had had to be put down. “The bitch, Runner.” In his mouth it was a knell. It had chilled her. She had told herself she was being foolish. She had told herself she was simply imagining things. Pregnant women did imagine things!
Then, only then, the vision had come, herself lying on dry soil, her cheek pressed into the grit, the sun burning the skin of her back, her head tipped down so she could see the gush of blood soaking into the soil. Near her, a circle of men, passing her little child among them, talking in low voices.
And from somewhere near, her husband’s voice, aware but untroubled, in that same tone of detachment.
“So. It is done.”
And a strange voice answering. “Congratulations on your ascension, Solven. It has been well done. And here is another who will be candidate for you . . .”
Lyndafal had wakened with the dream fully in her mind. She had taken no time to consider its meaning. She had not been dead in the dream, her child had not been dead, but the tone of it had been enough. If death was not present, it was not far off. She knew an absolute truth with a part of her mind that was not accessible to reason. She either accepted the warning her vision had given her or she ignored it at her peril.
If the dream had not been enough, the following day might have warned her, for on that very morning Solven had begun wooing her anew, hugely pregnant as she was. He had apologized for having been distracted. He had apologized for having neglected her. His hand had patted her cheek, had stroked her arm, his eyes sought hers with pretended love, and she had seen the lie squirming there like a leech, seen it, and known it for what it was.
He had purred at her. “I’ve arranged for us to have a trip, dear love. When this baby is born, we’re going to the resort in Bliggen. I’ve heard wonderful things about it!”
Though she was weary with the weight of the unborn child, she tried to sound normally interested and unafraid. “But the baby, Solven. The baby will still be nursing, and you know what the covenants have to say about nursing. A mother must nurse her own child for a whole year.”
He could scarcely argue. It was part of the covenants, one of the amendments added by the Tribunal during their years on Haven. A child receiving noble nature and noble nurture was fit to assume the noble title. Breast milk was one of the three female sacraments—resignation, bearing, nurturing—bestowed by the mother upon the female child.
Solven had merely smiled tenderly. “No problem, sweetheart. We’ll take the baby with us.”
That day she had called Dora to her, whispering into her ear, putting the letter into her hand, together with money and a promise of an equal amount when the letter was delivered. Dora would find a messenger, and even if the letter was intercepted, there was nothing in it to condemn her. It was written in a personal code mother and daughter had used and refined for years, one that conveyed meaning through idle phrases of chitchat.Well, Mama, soon I will be out of danger, as I’m due the tenth. Soon after, we’re leaving here. It would be fun to go on a sailing boat, across past Ramspize to Poolwich, but we’ll probably travel by road, down through Bliggen . . .
The message concluded with some jotted figures, 9 royals 1, 5 royals 1, 4 royals 2, 9 royals 2, and 3 royals 1, totalling 29 royals 9.Please, Mama, send me thirty royals to buy special somethings for Evalene for her birthday! Hidden in this brief missive was the message:Danger. Tenth. Leaving here. Sailing boat. Ramspize.
The day before she left she had received her answer: Thirty royals and the coded message,Meeting you. Watch for a fire.