Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [154]
“Yes, go on!” Joram wanted to grab her up and cradle her in his hands, so precious did she seem to him.
The Druidess stared into the fire, clucking and chirping to herself, jabbing at her beak with her claw until — suddenly, raising her head — she looked straight at Joram.
“I was right,” she said shrilly, her voice ringing through the room. “I was right.”
“Right? What do you mean?”
“Born dead, of course!” The Druidess clucked. “The babe was born dead. Strange it was, too.” The old woman’s eyes took on an eerie glint; her shrill voice softened to a whisper of pleasurable horror. “The babe had turned to stone inside the mother! Turned to stone — just like the father! I never saw the like before,” she said, twisting her head up to peer at Lord Samuels and see the reaction she made. “Never saw the like! It was a judgment.”
Joram’s body stiffened. He might have been the babe — or the father.
“I don’t understand.” His voice cracked. Lord Samuels, in the background, made a motion, but Joram did not look up or take his eyes from the old Theldara’s face. He had ceased to tremble; nothing moved within him, not even his heart.
The Theldara made a gesture with the clawed hands as of pulling an object forth. “Most of ’em limp as cats, poor things, when they’re stillborn. Not this one, not Anja’s child.” The Druidess scratched at each word with her hand. “Eyes staring into nothing. Cold and hard as rock. It was a judgment on them both, I said.”
“That can’t be true!” Joram didn’t recognize the sound of his voice.
The Druidess stuck her head out, her beady eyes squinting, her claw shaking at him. “I don’t know whose mother’s son you are, young man, but you’re not Anja’s! Oh, she was mad. There was no doubt.” The birdish head bobbed. “And I see now that she did what we always suspected — stole some poor child from the nursery for the unwanted and pretended it was her own. That’s what the Duuk-tsarith told us when they questioned us, and I see now it was true.”
Joram could not respond. The woman’s words came to him as in a dream. He could neither speak nor react. From the same dream, he heard Lord Samuels ask in a stern voice.
“The Duuk-tsarith? This, then, was investigated?”
“Investigated?” The old woman crowed. “I should say so! It took them to force the dead babe from Anja’s arms. She had wrapped it in a blanket and was trying to make it nurse, warming its feet. When we tried to come near, she shrieked at us. Long talons grew from her fingers, her teeth turned to fangs. Albanara, she was,” the Druidess said, shivering. “Powerful. No, we wouldn’t get close. So we called the Duuk-tsarith. They came and took the dead babe and cast a spell over her to make her sleep. We left her, and it was that night she escaped.”
“But, then, why aren’t there any records of this?” Lord Samuels pursued, his face grave. Joram stared at the Druidess, but his eyes held no more life in them than the stone child’s.
“Ah, there were records!” The Druidess clucked indignantly. “There were records.” Her clawed hand made a fist the size of a teaspoon. “We kept very good records when I was there. Very good indeed. The Duuk-tsarith took them next morning, after we discovered that Anja was gone. Ask them for your precious records. Not that they’ll matter much to you, poor lad,” she added, looking at Joram pityingly, her head cocked to one side.
“And so you are certain that this young man” — Lord Samuels nodded at Joram, his gaze one now of sorrow and concern more than of anger — “was stolen from the nursery?”
“Certain? Yes, we were certain.” The Druidess grinned, and she had no more teeth in her mouth than a bird has in its bill. “The Duuk-tsarith said